The room was silent. Sherlock had curled himself up on the sofa again, and John was sitting at the other end, trying to figure out what to do with the information he'd just been given. He understood why Lestrade had apparently suggested Sherlock not work on the case any more; the personal connection could be turned on him by whatever solicitors K acquired. At the same time he knew Sherlock wouldn't quit. It suddenly occurred to him there might not be a trial at all, if Mycroft got involved. He remembered he had threatened K if she tried to leave the country and he hadn't been joking. "Will you let her go to trial?" he asked, breaking the silence.

"I will see Her on trial. I will see Her go to prison. I will see Her face when Moira and Phillip tell the court exactly what She has done with them." Sherlock sounded surprisingly matter-of-fact. "Mycroft will not have to intervene."

"Will you testify?" John wasn't referring to Sherlock's own history with K but rather what the conversation they had the day she had been arrested. In all likelihood whatever she'd done to Sherlock wasn't something she could be charged with anymore. Of course, it would still have to come out, if their conversation was brought up.

Sherlock turned to look at him and his face was ashen. "I... don't know." He started to shake.

"You're afraid of her." John wasn't being disparaging; he knew why Sherlock felt that way.

"My testimony would not be relevant," he continued, as though he hadn't heard what John said.

"Yes it would," John retorted. "At the very least you could tell them that she's doing the same things with Phillip she did with you, even to the point of telling him the same lies." Sherlock's eyes widened, and he looked away before curling up on himself. "That's why you tell people you're a sociopath, isn't it? She told you that you were a sexual psychopath just like she told Phillip." John didn't know for sure that was the case, but if Phillip had merely told him what he'd been called before he wouldn't have been so anxious about it. He'd even had the same sort of look on his face from when Phillip had mentioned he'd been made to abuse other children: a painful sort of understanding.

"Not relevant," he repeated flatly.

"Well, you're not. I don't care how many times she told you that was the case, it's not true. You care about Phillip. You care about Moira. You care about me. And you're certainly not some sort of sexual fiend. Even if you were, it wouldn't make a difference. She. Was. Lying. She told you that because if you didn't think you were the one in the wrong, if you even got the impression what she was doing was wrong, you'd still stay silent. Hell, none of the people who've talked about her said anything until you talked to them. That's a form of empathy." John had no idea if any of this was getting through, but he knew he had to try anyway.

"You're not going to testify." It was almost an accusation.

"Because until a few days ago I had no idea who this person was. I can talk about what happened when we went to her house, but other than that I can't say much. Even so, if for some reason they want me to testify I will."

"You're wrong. It's She who's right."

John hadn't expected the conversation to turn back in this direction, so he was momentarily speechless. "Bullshit. You care about me. And you've admitted you would be interested in pursuing a relationship with me but haven't done so because of the sex bit. I basically offered you that and you turned it down. So you're hardly some sex fiend who has to attack people to satisfy some urge. Even if you were, it wouldn't make a difference. She was the adult, you were the child." He realized that the last sentence was something he'd said several times already over the last few days. While he'd said it, there appeared to be no real way he could get through with it. In Sherlock's mind he'd been the bad one, not her. That thought was enough to open the floodgates, and before he realized what he was doing he sat on the other end of the sofa and started to sob.

Sherlock, for his part, had turned to stare at him. John could see him out of the corner of his eye, looking just as stunned as he must have when he'd realized who K was. "John?" he said after about a minute, sounding as bewildered as he looked.

John couldn't even think of a coherent response, so he went with his instinct. "I'm so sorry," he gasped out. "It's just all too much. Whenever you talk about her your voice just changes."

To his surprise, Sherlock rested a hand on his shoulder, like he had done with Phillip. "John?" he asked again, hesitantly, like that was all he could do.

"How could you have kept all that hurt in you for so long? You didn't tell anyone, ever. What made you keep quiet?" The tears were a little less frequent now, and while his voice was still thick he no longer had to gasp for breath after every word. "I know that you told your friend, but you didn't really tell him anything he hadn't guessed."

"I... I..." Sherlock turned away, although he didn't move his hand. "Please stop crying."

"Don't you hurt?" John asked in disbelief.

"It's... well... I don't know," he finally admitted. He looked ashamed.

While it seemed to be an off-the wall thing to say, John suspected it was the truth. Sherlock seemed to have dealt with the situation by putting it out of his mind; not precisely disassociation but more of an "out of sight, out of mind" scenario. If he didn't have to think about it, he didn't have to deal with the feelings that came with it. Of course, since the whole thing wasn't something you could neatly put away, it reached into all aspects of his life until he convinced himself he really didn't feel anything (which conveniently made her right about him). As a result, Sherlock was nothing but his intelligence - the very thing that made so many people avoid him. That also prevented him from having to make any new relationships where he might have to let his shields down. Now John had to try to chip through them.

"I can't stop thinking about Her," Sherlock said while still looking away.

"It's better than pretending she never existed, though. What she did to you won't go away if you don't think about it." John was matter-of-fact.

"Do you hate me?"

Out of all the things Sherlock could have said to him, that was one of the least expected. He turned to face Sherlock and from the look on his face John knew his expression was fierce. "What?" he said in complete disbelief.

"It's not unexpected if you do, of course. When She said you couldn't make me do anything, that was true." Sherlock spoke so rapidly that he seemed on the verge of hysteria. "I chose to keep going back there. I truly could have resisted if I disliked the sexual contact. If any of this came to light it would not be favorable to the case." Even as he said it he removed his hand from John's shoulder and shrank back against the end of the sofa.

"No, I don't hate you," John replied. What he wanted to do next was to refute his reasoning, but he realized he didn't have the energy to do so. "I'm going to make dinner. I'm willing to bet you haven't eaten anything today so you're going to join me for supper." He was seized with a sudden urge to give Sherlock a hug, or otherwise physically comfort him, but he knew that it wouldn't be received well. Instead he got up and headed towards the kitchen, trying to think of something he could make that would only take a few minutes. Almost all of the few things he could think of were unavailable due to lack of ingredients, so he gave up and just made up some pasta. When he gave Sherlock a plate he actually finished all of it, much to John's surprise. After that he remained curled up at his end of the sofa while John sat through an hour and a half of crap telly. John was glad he didn't have to go in again tomorrow. At least if he was at home he could keep an eye on Sherlock. The very thought that he had to "keep an eye" on someone that a few weeks ago he considered unwilling to show any sort of weakness was almost enough to make him start crying again. Wisely, John didn't do so until both of them had gone to bed.