John did not get drunk. He read a few chapters of a book and went to bed. He slept restlessly until early the next morning, when he crept downstairs only to be faced with Mrs. Hudson. She held up the morning's paper. K's picture was on the front, with the headline, "Is This A Bird of Prey?" in bold above it.

"This is about that case you two have been working on for weeks, isn't it?" she said matter-of-factly. Unable to speak, John just nodded. "He's not going to be happy when he sees this. I thought I'd better warn you." She clearly meant Sherlock. After several seconds of silence, she went on. "Has he told you much about what happened to him?"

"What are you talking about?" John decided to play dumb.

"Oh, don't do that. Sherlock didn't tell me anything, but I know, you know, and he knows. I've seen how he is with you and everyone else." She looked him right in the eye. "I might not know who did it, but someone like that woman made him not be able to trust anyone."

"How..." John couldn't make himself finish the sentence.

"Come downstairs. We'll have some breakfast and talk." Mrs. Hudson folded the paper under one arm and headed downstairs. John followed her. He wondered how long she had been up; there was water boiling for tea as well as scones and marmalade set out. "I'm an early bird, always have been," she told him. "You boys usually aren't up at this hour." She gestured towards a chair. "Sit down." He sat down and took a cup of tea. Mrs. Hudson sat herself down in a chair opposite him. "Have you ever thought about how much trust a child has?"

"Some," John said, not clear what she was getting at.

"Remember when you were a child. Did you ever doubt that your parents would serve you meals? Did you ever doubt they'd give you clothes to wear? Did you ever think they would seriously hurt you? Did you ever doubt their love for you?"

"No. Well, no if you don't count some teenage conflict," John admitted.

"Think of what it would be like if you didn't have any of those things," she said evenly. She continued to look him in the eye. She must have caught some flicker of suspicion, so she added: "No, I'm not talking about myself. Sherlock's the one who didn't have those things, or at least some of them."

"How do you know that?"

"Because that's how people like that woman -" here she gestured to the front page again - "work. Find a little one who doesn't have something they need and give it to them." She paused. "Unless it was his mother?"

"His mother?" It took John a second to realize what she meant. "No, his mother just didn't really care about him. It was her." He hadn't meant to add the last part, but he was looking at the picture of K and it slipped out.

"The exact same woman?" Mrs. Hudson didn't seem particularly surprised. "No wonder he's taking this so personally."

"You still haven't explained how you know all this, if Sherlock didn't tell you." John didn't want the conversation to be sidetracked.

"I've seen it before myself," she said flatly. "Do you know the story about how Sherlock and I met?"

"Your husband," John said. "I don't know more than that. Did you hire him?"

"Hire him? Oh no, he wasn't a detective back then." She laughed. "His brother had sent him to Florida, as soon as he got out of rehab. Thought if he was away from all the 'bad influences' he'd stay sober." John thought that that did sound like something Mycroft would do. "He was in the flat across the hall from where we were living. Edwin - my husband - had inherited some real estate in the area from a relative and we were staying there to sell it. He was from the States originally, you know. Poor Sherlock was climbing the walls with boredom after a day or two, and Edwin saw him pacing around at all hours. So I invited him over for some tea one day. Well, he laid out almost my whole life story before I'd finished one cup, and I thought he was more interesting than anyone else I'd met there."

"What led to the execution?" He wasn't sure whether she was deliberately avoiding the point or if she just felt all this information was needed.

"As I said before, Sherlock was bored silly for most of the time he was here. He took a look at the newspaper archives for the past year or so to see if he could solve any of the crimes. He found a string of murders, all of older, short, dark-haired women. The police weren't sure if they were connected because the cause of death was different in all the cases, but you know Sherlock. He found out all he could about them from the paper and from asking questions." She looked at K's picture again. "He turned over all the evidence to the police with a description of the killer. Two days later they knocked on my door and asked for Edwin. Sherlock knew about the arrest, but he went back to England before the trial started. The police thanked him and said without that evidence they'd have never found the killer. He was tried, sentenced, and executed. It was all fast because he never appealed."

"That's quite a story," John said, not knowing what else to say.

"Edwin's mother was short and dark-haired." Mrs. Hudson looked up at John to see if he got her meaning. "When I brought up having children, very early in our marriage, he said he didn't want any children as long as his mother was still alive. When she died, I was already fifty and past that point."

"How long were you married?"

"Twenty-five years. It wasn't like what you would expect, being married to a murderer. Edwin was never violent with me. I'd have almost called him timid. I was the only woman he'd ever courted." Once again she looked at the picture of K and John noticed the anger in her glance. "We lived in England for the most part. Edwin would visit relatives in Florida but he never wanted me to meet them. I didn't mind that; the one time I did meet his mother was enough. He never mentioned much about his childhood, said he couldn't remember most of it. Every now and then he'd tell me little things. My guess is that he did remember and just didn't want to tell me."

"What did you hear of those little things?"

"Nothing good. His father had been apparently committed to an institution shortly after Edwin was born. Once he mentioned that he hadn't slept in his own room once until he moved out."

John took a sudden deep breath. "He was... his mother..." He couldn't make himself finish the thought.

"I think so, yes. He had scars all over his back, chest, and legs. He said he didn't know how he'd got them. Sometimes he'd vanish for a few days and come back like nothing had happened. He'd always seem so haunted before he left. He never liked to be touched. We didn't make love all that often; he was rarely in the mood. Even with only those little things to go on you could figure it out. More came out when he was charged." She sounded sad. "The relatives I never met told all sorts of horror stories. And what happened to those women he killed. Rape, sadistic torture, murder..." She trailed off, as if overcome by emotion. "He said he didn't remember killing anyone. Strange choice of words, but I believed him."

"Do you think he was telling the truth?" John asked.

"Yes, I do. Edwin was the one who told me about Sherlock. He said: 'That boy was using drugs because they killed the pain,' and while he never said what the pain was I could figure it out. Even then he never went out with anyone, never made any friends, kept everything to himself. None of that would bother me, but he didn't seem happy with that. Just not able to reach for it." Mrs. Hudson looked up at the ceiling. "I think I just heard someone come down the stairs. One more thing, John. I know you're willing to help Sherlock fight those demons. Just make sure he does what he feels comfortable with, not what he's willing to do for you."

John nodded in response. Mrs. Hudson rarely called him by his first name, and the use of it combined with her well-spoken advice was a bit jarring. He headed upstairs. Sherlock was sitting on the sofa, a blanket draped over his shoulders. His bee sat next to him. All of the curtains were drawn and the room was dark. Before saying anything, he walked over to the refrigerator and pulled out a can of Coke. He noticed that there weren't any experiments in there and realized that Sherlock hadn't done a single experiment since this case had begun. That was enough to make him stop for a minute to compose himself. Only then did he reach into a cabinet, pull out a bottle of aspirin, and put two in his hand. He carried the can and pills over to where Sherlock was sitting and set them down on the table in front of him. "Take these with the Coke," he told him. "It'll rehydrate you and the caffeine in it will make the aspirin work faster."

"Did they teach you that in medical school?" Sherlock croaked out.

"Yes, in the after-hours student learning sessions." While Sherlock didn't laugh, he did smile. "Take the aspirin."

Sherlock opened the can and downed the pills with a large swallow of the soda. He rested his free arm on his bee. He looked exhausted and John wondered if he had slept at all that night. For a few minutes all he did was take large gulps out of the can. Once he was done he set the can down on the table, making a metallic clank. "I can't get the taste out of my mouth," he said.

"Did you throw up earlier this morning?" John asked.

"Not what I meant." He spoke so quietly John almost didn't hear him.

He had a feeling that he didn't want to know whatever Sherlock meant, so he changed the subject. "We need to talk about last night." Sherlock's eyes widened. "Please don't run. We need to talk," he quickly added.

Sherlock slumped a little and moved the bee to his lap. Seemingly unconsciously, he wrapped his arms around it and pulled it to his chest. "All right," he said in a childlike whisper.

John sat down on the sofa next to him, albeit leaving a space between the two of them. "First of all, don't think you have to get drunk to tell me anything. I promise that I won't get angry at anything you say." He was probably asking for trouble with a policy like that, but putting Sherlock at ease was more important. "Second - no, wait. Have you ever kissed someone before?" It seemed like a reasonable question, but as soon as it came out of his mouth Sherlock backed up against the arm of the sofa, clutching the bee even tighter. "I'm sorry," John quickly said. "Let me rephrase that. Have you ever kissed someone that wasn't her? In a romantic way?" He almost said "kissed someone because you wanted to" but was smart enough to realize that might have the same answer the first question did. Sherlock shook his head. John could still see fear in his eyes. "You know that relationships are about more than just physical affection, right?" he said.

"It's an important part."

"Not the most important, or my sister wouldn't be going through a divorce right now. Intimacy was never a problem for them." While John almost said "sex" instead of "intimacy" he thought that if he did use the word Sherlock would once again flee.

"Sometimes She'd say She didn't know why She let me come around. That I was terrible company and it was only because I was so good in bed." Sherlock looked John in the eye, as if he needed to make sure John understood what he was saying. "I - I'd beg Her to let me stay. I promised I'd try to do better and be more interesting."

Before John could think of something to say in response someone rapped shortly on the door. "I'll get it," he said hastily. As soon as he opened the door, he wished he hadn't. Mycroft was standing there, seemingly unchanged from the previous day.

"Ah, John. May I have a word with you?" He made it sound like they would be discussing the weather.

"Anything you can say to me you can say in front of Sherlock."

"Very well then," Mycroft responded as he stepped through the doorway.

"Get out of here now!" Sherlock leapt off the sofa and turned towards his brother, clearly furious. "I thought I made it clear you weren't wanted!"

"I'm not here to talk to you, I'm here to talk to John."

"I know that. I'm not deaf, I heard the two of you talking before."

Before the conversation could degrade into a shouting match, John cleared his throat. "You say you came here to talk to me. What do you want to say?"

Mycroft turned to look at him, and John realized he actually seemed nervous. "Even if this case goes to trial, there's still a very good chance that she will be found not guilty."

"I'm aware of that. What's your point?"

"It may be easier on all the involved parties if she is merely taken into custody by the government. No trial involved." He continued to look at John even as Sherlock shot daggers out his eyes at him.

"Sherlock wants a trial." Suddenly something clicked in John's brain. "Wait. You feel guilty, don't you? You thought the same as everyone else, that the person Sherlock was 'telling horrible lies' about was a man! You knew that he was close to that neighbor but never considered it could be her!"

That, of all things, was what made Mycroft look away from him. "Sherlock did say that she let him help after school in the clinic she worked at. He also said that he liked playing in her garden." He paused. "He told me he loved her. I thought he merely had a childhood crush."

"You never listened," Sherlock said. He was now sitting on the sofa again, one arm curled around his bee. From the way he spoke it was clear that he'd known how Mycroft felt for a long time.

"You never said anything negative about her." Mycroft's voice was heavy and John realized he was near tears. "And she left to get married before you rang me."

"No, She left because of what Mummy had told Her. Victor had spoken to Mummy before that." In stark contrast to his brother, Sherlock sounded flat and emotionless. "You know as well as I do that Craig was gay. He only married Her so he could get his inheritance. He told me that She said She wasn't interested in dating anyone anyway, so they might as well be together."

"I assumed she was in love with him anyway." Mycroft suddenly turned and headed for the door. "Forgive me. It's -" The rest of the sentence was cut off as he shut the door.

In the time it had taken Mycroft to leave, Sherlock's bee had wandered back to his lap. He folded himself around it before saying, "Can we not have more of that talk today?"

While John would have taken that as a diversionary tactic most of the time, Sherlock sounded so tired from his brief conversation with his brother that he decided that would be for the best. "All right." He sat down next to him on the sofa again. His hand brushed against the side of the bee. "Does it have a name?" he asked.

"Hamish."

John blinked. "My middle name?"

"Yes." At this point Sherlock was almost doubled over the stuffed toy. He repositioned himself so he was now on his side, still wrapped around the bee.

"Why?" John had to ask.

"He feels safe. Like you."