AN: The story John tells is taken from Baby Doctor by Perri Klass.

John had no idea what to do; he merely stood speechless in front of the two of them. Sherlock seemed to have some idea, however, and put a hand on Phillip's shoulder. "Were you at the Yard today?" he said gently. Phillip nodded. "And they had you look at a lineup?"

"I almost didn't. I was going to say that I didn't know anyone there. But at the last minute I pointed to Her." His voice was still thick with tears.

"That was the right thing to do," Sherlock said reassuringly. It seemed like he had cast off his earlier melancholy to deal with Phillip.

"Are you sure they're not going to arrest me?" He quickly glanced at Sherlock before looking down into his lap again.

"What do you think you might be arrested for?" John asked. Phillip glanced up at him as if he had only just noticed he was in the room.

"They arrested Her for doing things," he mumbled, and looked away. Like with Sherlock, John could hear the capital letter in the word "her".

"She is an adult. You are a child," Sherlock firmly replied. His hand hadn't left Phillip's shoulder.

"I did it too," he quietly mumbled. "And Her flat... sometimes She had other people there. Little kids."

"Did you want to do anything to them? Did you see them and think about how good it would be to have sex with them?" Sherlock was amazingly calm. John had felt his stomach muscles clench as soon as he'd realized what Phillip was talking about, but Sherlock was acting like he had conversations like this every day.

"No. But She said if I didn't She'd call the Yard on me. Tell them I'd been doing things with Her too." He turned to look at Sherlock again, and tears were in his eyes. "There was one time where She had this really little girl with her and I was supposed to..." He seemed to check whether both of them knew what he meant, and when Sherlock nodded in understanding, he went on. "She - the little girl - was crying the whole time. After it was done I ran to the bathroom and threw up. I wanted to find something to take so I could die but all there was was soap and shampoo."

"Threats are force. It's not holding a gun to your head, but it's force." Sherlock echoed John's words of the day before. "What was She doing then?"

"Touching Herself. And She took pictures."

"Had She taken pictures before?" John found it eerie that both of them were putting capital letters into the same words. But of course they both understood the need for them.

"Sometimes," Phillip whispered. "I shouldn't have given you that address," he continued a second later like that was a perfectly natural segue in conversation. "I was at Her flat that evening and She was sleeping. Usually She's holding me so tight I can't move but this time She'd let go with one arm."

"Go on," Sherlock said after a minute of silence.

"I thought about that little girl and I realized I didn't know if she was still getting hurt. So I looked in her handbag and there was no ID but there was a receipt from a store in there. I wrote down the address and then once She left me back at home I went right over to your place." He turned so he was once again looking Sherlock directly in the eye. "I figured that even if I got arrested I'd know that other girl was safe."

"What did this girl look like?" Sherlock asked.

"It was a while, but she was African, I think. She had dark skin and dark hair in braids." From Sherlock's brief glance towards John he knew that Sherlock was aware that could have been a description of Jennifer Ogbeide -Bena. "She was really little, though. Not even old enough for infants school yet. Someone that little should be safe."

"You weren't that much older when you met her," John broke in, not using the capital letter.

"Is it still a crime if you sort of enjoyed it?" For once, Phillip wasn't staring at his hands or the floor. In fact, he was looking John right in the eye.

"Yes, it is," John responded without hesitation.

"Is it still a crime if you enjoyed it enough that you..." He broke eye contact. Sherlock squeezed his shoulder.

"If you mean 'enjoyed it enough that you orgasmed' then, yes it still is. And for the record, it doesn't mean you enjoyed it, because it's just a physical response." John was eerily reminded of the conversation he'd had with Sherlock a few days ago.

"But what if you liked it enough that you were thinking of Her, well, when -"

John could see where this was going and cut him off before he finished the sentence. "If what you're talking about is masturbating, that still doesn't mean you enjoyed it. That's just all the experience you've had with sex and it carries over. She is the adult here. Not you. Even if you demanded something from her when you first met, she has the responsibility to refuse. Legally you cannot consent."

"What if it's when you're dreaming?" Sherlock visibly shuddered when Phillip asked that, even removing his hand from his shoulder.

"Then I would say it's even less possible you liked it. In fact, it happens when you're not dreaming anything at all." Although this was the last time to think of something like that, John chuckled at a memory. "When I was still in medical school I was doing a rotation in A&E one night. It was cold and raining so the place was deserted. At around two in the morning, a man and a teenage boy show up. The man says he's his father and they would like to be seen. I ask what the problem is and the man says there's no problem. 'Then what are you doing here?' I asked. The father turns to the boy and says 'Go on, tell him.' By this point I'm wondering what's going on, and notice the boy's not looking me in the eye. There's a few minutes of awkward silence and finally the boy says in a hardly audible voice, 'Something came out of my penis when I was sleeping.' The father then says: 'There! Go on, tell him it's normal!' I stare in disbelief at the father, wondering what kind of horrible parent you must be if you drag your kid to A&E because you can't bring yourself to explain wet dreams."

Phillip, who had been watching him throughout the whole story, laughed once or twice before looking at his hands again. "I did tell Her, though. I was the one that did all that and She said it was good that She loved me or She'd have the police on me. And if She was the one that I did all of that to it would mean I wouldn't hurt anyone else." A flush spread across his face. "Once She said I couldn't help it, I was born with it. At least when I grew up I'd be able to make people happy."

"Born with what?" John asked. He couldn't figure out what Phillip was trying to say.

"A, um. It was something bad."

"What he's trying to say is that She said he was a sexual psychopath." Both John and Phillip turned towards Sherlock. "And Phillip, you've already asked me these questions. Was there a reason you wanted to ask John as well?" Sherlock looked him in the eye.

"I wanted to see what he'd say," he replied.

"Because you were hoping he'd say no. That it wasn't a crime, at least not for Her, and that it was all your fault it happened." From the way Sherlock said it it was obvious he'd had those notions himself.

"Yeah," Phillip admitted in a low voice.

"Let me ask you this. If you had a friend like She was, one who talked to you and spent time with you, but didn't want you to have sex with them, would that be enough?" Sherlock's voice was soft.

"No."

"No? Why not?"

"It's stupid," he said, looking away.

"Even if it's stupid I'd still like to know."

"Well. Sometimes. When I'd spend the night at Her flat in bed with Her I'd think about how nice it was. And sometimes I'd, um, well, She liked me to do it too." His face darkened further. "I'd, um..."

Once again John was impressed with the way Sherlock was handling this. Normally he'd demand the person get to the point, but now he understood Phillip needed time. "You can tell me," he said, putting his hand back on his shoulder.

"I'd pretend that She was my mummy. Sometimes She would let me call her that." Phillip looked so mortified John wondered if he would just flee the flat and not return.

"And you would pretend She was your mother because?" Sherlock gently asked.

"My mum doesn't love me. With Her it might hurt or make you feel bad but She'd give you hugs too and let you sit in Her lap. Even if it hurt worse I'd have still put up with it because She was nice to me like other mums were." He leaned towards Sherlock, seemingly unaware of what he was doing.

While Phillip and Sherlock talked, John just stood there in silence. He didn't have the slightest clue what to say and at this point everything they were discussing was alien to him. Even so, a thought occurred to him. "When you were done with doing those things with her, did you feel good or miserable?"

Phillip, who was still leaning on Sherlock, snapped his head up to look at John. He looked surprised, like he had forgotten there was someone else in the room. "Bad," he said after a minute of silence. "I'd wish I could go wash myself off with acid. Even then I'd still ask. I'd crawl into Her lap and then I'd say 'Please fuck me.' If I didn't say please She'd remind me to do that. But I still did it so many times." He sounded despairing. "I hate myself."

At this point John figured that he shouldn't comment on that remark at all. "When exactly did she tell you that you were a sexual psychopath? And did you have any idea what that meant in the first place?"

"Little," Phillip said. "I think it was a little after we first met. I remember She had this blouse with flowers on it and I put my hand down it. Then She grabbed my wrist and said you had to ask before you did something like that. Because I hadn't She said She thought I couldn't control that part of me, and when I grew up I might attack people on the street. If I wanted to learn control I'd have to go to Her any time I felt something like that so other people could be safe." He paused. "When I got older She called me that more and more. She'd say I could barely wait for Her to take Her clothes off, and if I didn't learn some patience I'd be sent to jail. Since I was doing so much with Her. But She said She liked me so much She wouldn't tell them how bad I was so I could still be her friend. If I didn't want to come with Her to the flat or anywhere else She would ask me if I wanted to grow up to be a psychopath." Another pause. While he was still leaning on Sherlock he had gone back to looking at his hands. "You're right, I didn't know what that meant at first. But eventually I figured it out. That's why no one likes me."

John knew very well he couldn't say that wasn't true; while the reasoning was certainly flawed, he also knew Phillip had no friends at school and his mother clearly didn't care about him. "I like you," he finally said.

"I'm fond of you as well," Sherlock added. He turned to look Phillip in the eye. "Listen, Phillip. Go home. Get yourself some sleep. You can come back tomorrow and we can talk more if you would like."

"I didn't sleep at all last night," he admitted.

"Even more reason to get some tonight. Don't think about school now; you've got more important things on your mind. Come back tomorrow. Bring your flute and colored pencils." Sherlock produced a twenty pound note from somewhere. "The Tube's no good when you're this tired. Take a cab." Phillip took the money and stood up to leave. Sherlock stood as well and offered his hand. He was clearly expecting a handshake and looked surprised when Phillip grabbed him in a bone-crushing hug. Despite this, he hugged back. "Keep whatever money is left. Don't worry about it," Sherlock assured him. He nodded and left, closing the door quietly behind him.

For the first time in many hours, John was alone with Sherlock. John wasn't sure what he was going to say and was almost relieved when Sherlock's mobile went off. "Lestrade? I know you had Phillip over at the Yard today for a lineup. You've already searched the house? That was fast." There was a very long period of silence, and what little color there was drained from his face. "I see." His voice wavered. "No. Don't try to talk me out of it, either. I'm seeing this to the end." He disconnects and tosses the mobile on the sofa. His eyes were suddenly blank. "They searched Her house earlier today." He sounded tired.

"What did they find?" John asks although he's already half sure of the answer.

"Several forms of false identification, including one for Dana Lester. Almost fifty thousand pounds, hidden in various places. Magazines containing child pornography. Two computers, a desktop and a laptop, containing thousands of pornographic images and videos involving children." He shut his eyes. "And a very large collection of photographs of children in various sexual acts. Most of them are unknown, but several resembled Jennifer Ogbeide -Bena, Moira Aherne, and Phillip Rodgers. Lestrade was able to identify one other person from the photographs, and he felt I should not work on this case anymore."

"Because they were pictures of you," John said, feeling sick even though he had known what they were before he even asked.

"Yes," Sherlock replied, eyes still closed. "You're right."