"Sherlock," said Mycroft. He was sitting on the sofa, calm and collected. "You've rebuffed my previous attempts at communication, so I've had no choice but to appear in person."

"Go away. I already told you that it wasn't up for discussion." Despite what he said, Sherlock made no motion to leave the room. "Save all your concern for the trial."

"I'm not disputing your desire for a trial."

"Well, you certainly didn't come here for a friendly chat."

"I merely wished to ask if you were going to be involved in a way that does not involve an investigation."

"It's a little early to ask if he's going to testify, isn't it? We're still waiting on more charges," John broke in. "There's not even a trial date."

"Are you happy you finally got your man? Is that it? That one great mystery even you couldn't figure out got solved?" Sherlock acted like he hadn't heard anything John said. "Who did you think it was?"

"I didn't think it was anyone in particular. If you're asking whether I'm pleased to see her arrested at last, I can't deny that." Mycroft continued to look at Sherlock. John suddenly felt very like a third wheel.

"You've interfered enough. Go away."

"I was only trying to -"

"Get out! Get out now! You're only making things worse!"

Mycroft headed for the door, not looking back. "I'll be in touch," he said before he disappeared from sight. Once he was gone, Sherlock slumped down on to the sofa, bee still under one arm. He breathed heavily, like he had just engaged in vigorous activity.

While John wasn't sure this was the best time to question Sherlock about the case, he felt that starting a conversation would at least prevent one of his silent moods. "K took Moira to her flat, like she did with Phillip. But she let Moira see where it was; she didn't tell her to keep her eyes shut the whole time. Why is that?"

"In most cases K can meet Her victims in a neutral place until She is satisfied with their ability to remain silent. However, She met Phillip in the course of Her work. One might be able to pass off a meeting in a public place as a chance encounter, but when a four year old boy who isn't your own child repeatedly comes to your workplace you need another option."

"He came to see her at work?" John wondered how little supervision a four year old child would have to be able to do something like that again and again.

"Of course. Phillip wanted friends. He wanted to be loved. Who would give that to him but Her?"

"But why keep it up even after she knows he's not going to talk?" John asked.

"Control. She relishes the control it gives Her over him. That way She controls his body, his friends, his mind, and even his sense of location." He sounded fatigued.

None of that was particularly surprising to John. K had already shown she was a great manipulator. For all he knew K found that control erotic. That disturbed him enough to change the subject. "Are you going to bring your bee up to your room?"

"Do you find it amusing that a grown man is pleased with a gift like that?" A typical Sherlock response.

"No. Moira's intentions were good and she was trying to reach out to you with that. You probably see it that way. And you did lose your first one. Even if you were really too old for it, I can see why it would be so upsetting to lose such an important part of your childhood." Every time John talked to Sherlock so directly about his past, he felt like he was constructing a conversation from cobwebs. "I would be pleased with it myself. She did that because she cares about you. That counts."

Sherlock still had not removed his arm from the bee. "I presume you had some sort of object like that as a child?"

"Yes. A dog, a bulldog."

"What happened to it?"

"Right before I left for uni I realized I didn't really need it, so I gave it and a bunch of other toys to charity." John hadn't thought about that toy in years. "Not that everyone does. Harry's still got the lamb she had as a kid. She's said she's going to be buried with it."

"And she's not joking?" Sherlock sounded like he didn't know whether to believe him or not.

"No. Last time I talked to her she was still sleeping with it. Lots of people have some old toy they cherish."

"Was that what broke up her marriage?"

John would have laughed, but one look at Sherlock made him realize that he wasn't kidding. "No, that was the alcohol. Clara said once she thought it was kind of cute, herself."

That seemed to stymie Sherlock; he looked confused as he sat there and digested that information. "I think I should bring this upstairs," he finally said. He headed up the stairs, bee tucked under one arm. Since he clearly needed time alone, John decided to give him some space. He half expected to not see him for the rest of the day. Almost every time he had an emotionally charged conversation with John recently he would flee once it was done. John stretched out on the sofa intending to watch telly for a while but the whirlwind of the past few days caught up with him and he only watched it for a few minutes before drifting off to sleep.

When he woke up, Sherlock was sitting in one of the chairs, violin in his lap. "I thought that you wouldn't be able to adjust to the sound," he said by manner of explanation as John looked him in the eye.

"It would've been fine. I've slept through worse," John reassured him.

"Lestrade rang while you were asleep."

"That soon?"

"Apparently he has been able to locate the four siblings that K fostered eight years ago. One of the boys now has a child and it came up in the medical record search." He sounded detached, but John suspected it was artificial detachment rather than the standard distance he usually placed between him and the victims of a case.

"Did he tell you anything else?" What John wanted to hear was that all four of them said that nothing had happened and K had been good to them. He also knew that was unlikely.

"Some basic information about them. There are three boys, identical triplets, and one girl. The boys are now eighteen and the girl is twenty. Their mother died ten years ago and their father took to drinking. He became violent when drunk. Almost a year after their mother died, they were removed from their home after an incident with the girl; one of her teeth was knocked out. After a year in care they found a cousin of the mother who took them in. The father had committed suicide while they were in care. She reported they frequently ran away from her home and all of them left the home as soon as they turned sixteen. The boy who has a child has gone through drug rehab and has a job. None of the others are currently employed; the girl lives in a hostel but the other two boys are apparently still on the streets." Sherlock managed to maintain the detached tone he had before until the last two sentences.

"Anyone who knew them from before they were taken into care say they had behavior problems?" John asked.

"No. In fact they were all excellent students, but shortly after they were taken into care they dropped sharply. All of them later left school without finishing." There was no mistaking the disgust in Sherlock's voice. "Lestrade spoke to all of them briefly and they consented to be interviewed."

"And that's our job," John concluded.

Sherlock half-smiled. "That is our job indeed."

John looked at his watch and realized it was far past the time he usually ate supper. "I should make something to eat."

"Why don't we go out?" Sherlock said.

It occurred to John that they hadn't eaten out or gotten takeaway during this case at all, besides that awkward dinner with Lestrade. "If you want to." Come to think of it, even suggesting that they eat somewhere was strange for Sherlock.

"You're hungry."

"Yes, I am, but that doesn't mean I want to go out if you don't."

"If I didn't want to go out to eat somewhere I wouldn't have suggested it. Since when have you known me to do something I don't want to do just because someone else wants it?"

What Sherlock said made sense, but John still had a feeling that there was more to it than that. "All right. Just let me get my coat and wallet."

"Do you have a particular preference as to where you would like to eat?" Sherlock said before he could leave the room.

The stilted formality of the question made alarm bells go off in John's head, but he couldn't figure out why. "Angelo's is fine," he hastily replied before leaving the room.

When he came back downstairs Sherlock was still in the same position, like he hadn't moved at all. "Let's walk," he said as soon as he saw John.

That set off even more alarms. "Fine," he said. He couldn't think of a reason not to short of point blank questioning Sherlock's motives.

The walk seemed twice as long as it normally would be. Sherlock didn't seem like he was looking forward to the meal, but he didn't seem to be concerned about it. He seemed more resigned.

John wasn't sure if it was just that the owner considered them always welcome or its overall atmosphere, but he always enjoyed going to Angelo's. It had a warm, cozy atmosphere that was like a soft jumper you could wrap yourself in. The smell of Italian food was rich in the air, and he realized he was starving. Sherlock only glanced at the menu before putting it down, while John spent a few minutes before choosing a dish. "Wine?" Sherlock asked once he looked up from the menu.

"Why not?" John rarely drank to excess, but after all that had happened over the past few weeks getting drunk almost sounded appealing.

The wine turned out to be a very good idea, as Sherlock didn't appear to be interested in carrying on a conversation. Any time John tried to engage him in some line of discussion he would reply in monosyllables or silence. When John finally gave up Sherlock silently picked at his veal parmesan and sipped at what would turn out to be several glasses of wine. This unnerved John more than he thought possible, so he ate his fettuccini alfredo as fast as he could just so they could get back home.

In retrospect, it should have been very obvious. The whole bottle of wine was gone by the time they paid for their meals and left, and John had only had one glass. But the normally welcoming atmosphere of the restaurant had become cloaked with silence and all he could think about was being at home again. He would later think that in his own defense, Sherlock didn't seem drunk. He walked with the same loping strides he always used, and when he said, "Let's go," when John asked if he was ready to leave, his voice was the same as always. Even on the walk home nothing seemed amiss, so John couldn't have been more surprised when they were back at 221B. For as soon at the door was shut and locked, Sherlock pushed him up against the nearest wall and kissed him.

While John would never deny that he'd fantasized about this moment, in his fantasies it was a little different than now. One, in fantasy he was usually the one to start it, and second, in his fantasy Sherlock looked like he was enjoying himself. He certainly didn't look like that now; his eyes were closed and he looked like he was enduring something unpleasant. Despite being shorter, John was still stronger than Sherlock and it was easy to push him an arm's length away. "What do you think you're doing?" he said.

"Kissing you." Sherlock had opened his eyes, but the look on his face remained the same.

"I know that. Why are you doing this now? You've never wanted to do that before, and if you have you've never mentioned it."

"Don't you want it?"

"Only if you do as well. Kissing's not enjoyable for me unless the other person is enjoying it too." The fact he had to mention this to Sherlock was really the worst part.

Sherlock took several steps backward, like John's comment had burned him. "But I'm not normal!" he cried out. That statement, of all things, made John realize that he was drunk, and had deliberately gotten himself drunk. No other circumstance would make something like that come out. "I'm never going to enjoy it! Isn't it enough that I let you? I figured that with enough wine in me it wouldn't be so bad, but it's not! It would be worth it if it kept you here! I know you want sex, need sex, because you're not a freak like me. I can give that to you, I can kiss you, I can even just lie there and let you do whatever you want to me in bed, but you can't expect me to enjoy it and you can't expect me to want it, because I never will!"

Of all of the things John could think of that Sherlock might have said about the situation, that was not one of them. It was an admission that Sherlock wanted a romantic relationship, true, and a small part of him rejoiced at the idea. That small part, however, was accompanied by horror at both the idea that John would be okay with a partner enduring rather than enjoying sex and that Sherlock was willing to subject himself to such an arrangement. Shock must have showed on his face, because Sherlock paled and fled upstairs before John could formulate a response. He sat down on the sofa, suddenly feeling the need to get drunk himself.