By theorclair on AO3

Summary

Sequel to The Last Place You'd Look. John and Sherlock attempt to sort out their relationship in the aftermath of the trial, while cases and other crises pile on.

Notes

This story will have both scenes from John and Sherlock's perspectives. (While I wanted to write what was going on in Sherlock's head during The Last Place You'd Look, it wouldn't have been very conducive to the case scenes.)

Unbetated and un-Brit picked. If someone wants to do either please say so.

Chapter 1

It was pouring rain when John left the clinic that day, pouring so hard that he got soaked in the short walk to the cab stand. Normally he didn't work on Saturday, but he'd been called in to substitute for a sick doctor. It had been a trying day, and the only thing that made it look up was that his support group met tomorrow.

A funny thing to say, he thought. If you had told him a year ago that he'd be going to a therapy group and look forward to its meetings every week, he'd have laughed himself into a hernia. But a year ago he had lived in a pre-K world. No, since it was the beginning of December he had only lived in a post-K world for ten months.

K. Even now he couldn't make himself call her anything else. Sherlock, on the few occasions he had mentioned her, simply said She or Her with very obvious capital letters. When he'd been called in to talk to a child patient who the Yard suspected had been sexually abused, way back in February, John had had no idea what he was going to unleash. He just wanted to help the Yard, and no one, not even their entire team of experts, had gotten the girl to even admit to being abused, much less who did it. He had no better luck then they did.

Then he made the mistake of telling Sherlock about it.

They hadn't had a case then, not in a week or so at least, but John truly just wanted to share a story he found disturbing. Child abuse was so mundane that he figured Sherlock wouldn't be interested even though the Yard was involved. But he was very interested, and angry. John knew that keeping him away from the hospital was a lost cause, so he simply asked to come along with him. (If he hadn't John suspected Sherlock would have snuck into the hospital himself, and the resulting clash between him and the Yard wasn't worth thinking about.) He expected to have to drag him away from the scared, traumatized girl, but not only had he been good with the child, she asked to see him again. And that time she talked about her abuser she referred to as K. And so did Sherlock. Not much, but enough to make John ring Mycroft to demand answers. Mycroft reluctantly gave them. He told a horribly truthful account of how he had noticed warning signs but wasn't able to do anything about them until his brother rang him one day with a request to come home. How he'd come home and his mother informed him Sherlock was telling "horrible lies" about a neighbor, not saying who was involved but clearly saying it was a sexual issue, and that Sherlock was going away to school for the first time. Mycroft had demanded to know who it was, but she refused to reveal it, and died a few months later. How Sherlock had claimed complete ignorance about whoever it was that he'd supposedly lied about. How he still regarded it as his biggest failure.

When another victim showed up at the Yard a few days later, Sherlock talked to him as well. Sherlock even reassured him that he'd been through the same thing. Although Sherlock knew that John knew, he still maintained his silence. John wisely didn't ask. They spoke to more victims, their families, and other people they had been in contact with. It was a horrifying litany of damaged children, damaged, families, damaged adults. But no sign of the perpetrator until the victim that Sherlock had bonded with, Phillip Rodgers, had shown up at their door early in the morning with a note. The note led them to Yorkshire, and it was there they finally came face to face with K.

John almost asked the woman who came to the door where her husband was. He was eternally glad he hadn't done so, because a few exchanges between her and Sherlock revealed that not only was she the one who had abused the children, she'd also been the one that abused Sherlock. And she didn't seem to feel bad about it. She smiled the whole time. Sherlock was the one who practically had to be carried back to Baker Street. From there things had only gotten worse.

There were more questions, a long trial, and Sherlock started to use drugs again. John had been to most of the trial and was still haunted by the stories of the victims, even the ones he hadn't known beforehand. Still worse was the memory of Sherlock's testimony. He'd clutched the stuffed bee one of the other victims had bought for him the whole time, and had looked like a frightened child. The only way he kept coping was the support group. The then fiancee of one of K's victims had invited him to a support group meeting, and John was suprised to find it was exactly what he needed. He hadn't missed a meeting yet.

The therapist that ran the group, Dr. Dodson, called it "a group for family and friends of those who have been sexually abused" but currently all the members were in some sort of romantic relationship with that other person. Including John, he supposed, although it wasn't like any other romantic relationship he'd been in in the past. There was no intimacy. Sherlock had touched him before the so-called relationship had begun, but not anymore. John had a feeling it had to do with that shift in their relations - he had gone from being non-sexual (and safe) to sexual and not safe. He both wanted to discuss it with the group, since they'd understand, and yet not wanting to admit the relationship was that distant.

When the cab got to Baker Street and he got out, he wondered if Sherlock would be there. Lestrade had made it clear that if he showed up to a crime scene high on anything he'd never be called back, (and in the process implying he'd issued some sort of ultimatum on the subject before) and as a result Sherlock scanned the newspapers before pulling a vanishing and returning high (or after the high was over) act. But he hadn't stopped it entirely. He had once said that he'd rather live on the street than talk to a therapist, and John believed him. Of course John could ask him to leave, but the chance then the street would swallow him up was too great to risk. Mycroft had forced him into treatment some years ago, for what reason John had never been told, but he wouldn't do the same thing again. John knew he felt guilty for not having stopped his brother's abuse (even though there wasn't any way he realistically could have), and even more guilt at the fact he had assumed whoever was abusing his brother had to be male and thus never suspected it was the local pediatrician that Sherlock spoke so highly of.

He went up the stairs and opened the door. Sherlock was stretched out on the sofa, still in pajamas, using his stuffed bee Hamish as a pillow. This made John sigh with relief; if he had recently gotten high on cocaine he wouldn't be calmly lying on the sofa.

"You forgot your umbrella," Sherlock said without looking up.

"I assumed it wasn't going to rain." He hung up his jacket and went into the kitchen to see what he could make for dinner.

"There's still some risotto."

"You didn't eat it?"

"Wasn't hungry."

John sighed. "There's no case now. You have no excuse not to eat."

"Pardon me, Mother," Sherlock snapped back.

John paused with his hand on the fridge door. "Did Victor Trevor ring you today?" Victor Trevor had been a friend of Sherlock's from secondary school, and had been a surprise witness at the trial. He had also been the one to out K to Sherlock's mother. She, rather than being concerned for her son, burned the stuffed bee Mycroft had given him, planned to send him to boarding school, and when Mycroft himself came home she defended herself by saying Sherlock had been "telling horrible lies." She refused to tell Mycroft who Sherlock had been supposedly lying about, and had died a few months later from a stroke.

"Yes, and he left a unbearably polite message." Sherlock practically spat out the words.

"You delete his texts," John pointed out. "Is there a particular reason you want to avoid him so much?"

Sherlock's expression went from anger to fear. "None of your buisness."

John wisely didn't push the issue. Thank god for my group tomorrow, he thought.

Chapter 2

Chapter Summary

John gets a figurative wake up call and a literal call.

Chapter Notes

As I said on my other story, sorry for the delay. I am working on five different writing projects and trying to juggle them is hard.

See the end of the chapter for more notes
Sherlock was still asleep when John headed out to his group meeting. He'd still been up when John had gone to bed, but had also indicated that he still wanted John with him in his room. They'd begun doing so during the whole horror of the case with K. It wasn't exactly platonic, but it wasn't sexual, either. Sherlock usually used Hamish as a large fuzzy block that kept the two of them from touching. On top of that, he sometimes told John to sleep upstairs, and when Sherlock wasn't there John slept upstairs as well. So John had fallen asleep alone, but woke up to a Hamish barrier. He tried not to make a lot of noise as he got ready and headed out. It was only ten-thirty, and the meeting wasn't until noon, but he was going to walk there. It helped clear out his brain.

As usual, once he got up to Dr. Dodson's office, someone was already there. Eli, the group's self-proclaimed "elder statesman" always showed up before anyone else. Today John was also greeted by Peter, who had apparently returned from his delayed honeymoon in Europe (the first one had been delayed by some sort of hospitalization of his wife).

"You're very pale for someone who just was in Greece," John said to Peter as he sat down. John knew that had been the last destination in the trip. He didn't show any signs of having been in the sun, besides a few light streaks in his long hair and beard.

"I don't tan. I burn. My wife has a lovely tan, though."

"I take it you had a good time?" John asked.

"Most excellent, thank you." He smiled broadly.

"Gloria got married while you were gone," Eli said to Peter. Gloria was Gloria Yellowfox, the person who had introduced John to the group. John knew the man she'd married, Graham, slightly from the K case.

"Oh, she did?"

"Yes, but they're not going anywhere yet."

"Another delayed honeymoon. I've started a trend," Peter said with a chuckle.

"Are you all right?" Eli asked John. Eli always took the time to check in with each group member individually.

"I suppose. No new dramas. He hasn't gotten high in a while but I'm not betting that will continue. And an old friend has tried to contact him, but he doesn't want to speak to him."

As soon as John finished his sentence Dr. Dodson came into the room. He sat down off to the side of the circle of chairs. He always tried to let the group conduct itself as much as possible, and mostly asked for specific information or would give them an impromptu psychiatric lesson if no one felt particularly chatty.

Only a few minutes after Dr. Dodson came in, Mari walked through the door. A heavyset woman with bright red hair, she had attended the group the second longest. "Peter!" she said as she searched for a chair. "How was Europe?"

"Very good, thank you. And you're the first person to not say I didn't get a tan."

"You mentioned once you never tan."

"No one but you was listening, then." Mari and Peter laughed.

"John? How are you?" She sat in a nearby chair.

"Tired," he said. "No new dramas but I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop."

"I'll ask for more at the start of the meeting, then." Mari was a big believer in letting the whole group hear everyone's troubles.

The group members chatted amongst themselves as they waited for the other members to arrive. Rodney arrived shortly after Mari, and shuffled his way to a chair, not saying anything. The bleached tips of his black hair were now dyed a brilliant electric blue. Gloria and Jason came through the door at the same time. "Guess whose daughter is at the top of her class?" said a grinning Jason.

"Yours," said Eli, sounding satisfied.

"And guess whose brother got a job?" Gloria took a seat right next to John, while Jason sat next to Mari. She was about his height, but much smaller, chestnut-skinned and high-cheekboned.

"What's he doing?" John asked. He'd met her husband's brother, Martin, a few times. He knew that Martin had been living with Graham and Gloria for a while, first coming off drugs and then looking for work and looking after their son, Angus. Martin and Graham were part of a set of triplets and were very close. Their older sister had also crawled out of the pit K had put them in, but their brother had not.

"Working in a creche, believe it or not. He's loved taking care of our son."

"I hope it goes well," John said.

The meeting was just about to begin when Tammy dashed through the door. "Just in time," she gasped out as she sat, her long blond hair sweeping off to one side.

"All right, let's get started," Dr. Dodson said. "Does anyone have anything they want to bring up first?" After a few shakes of the head, he said: "Very well, let's go around the group. Eli?"

"Fine," he said, smiling.

"Peter?"

"The honeymoon was wonderful, and nothing came up then."

"John?"

"You're thinking about something," Mari said before he could respond.

"Kind of, yes."

"We'll get to that later, then. Mari?"

"Nothing new. Still sober. I think I may be able to bring his friend in once. He's wearing down." Mari's husband's best friend had apparently seen him being abused when he was a teenager, and it ate at him tremendously.

"Rodney?"

"She went to work every day this week. So that's good."

"Yes that is. Tammy?"

"Six months sober! We're going out to eat tonight. Her choice."

"Congratulations. Gloria?"

"Well, as I said before, his brother got a job. He's still clean too."

"Good for him. Jason?"

"It's been a good week. Almost like before I found out."

"So John has been the only one who's had any big problems this week?" Dr. Dodson looked around at the group.

"Apparently," John said with a sigh. "It's not really a new thing, though."

"What's the old thing, then?" Eli asked.

"I was thinking this week that he was a lot more comfortable with touching me before we got into whatever our relationship is now."

"Romantic?" Tammy said.

"I guess you can call it that. If there's a romance with no dates or touching and a giant stuffed animal seperates the two of you in bed every night."

"Is that different from before?" Gloria looked him right in the eye.

"Yes," John said after a moment of silence, not believing he was admitting all this.

"What's different besides that?"

"He's so much more cautious around me."

"No intimacy." Peter said it as a fact, not a question.

John shook his head. "I don't know if he'd ever let me. I wouldn't even say he's afraid of it - it's more sheer terror and panic."

"And there's more." Peter used the same tone he had before. John knew that he and his wife had intimacy issues and hadn't actually had sex, but he hadn't thought of their situations as similar.

"Because he said he'd choose her over me." John's words hung in the air.

Peter nodded knowingly. "And?" He didn't want to seem to let John abridge.

"He gets off to what she did to him. He has fantasies about it. He's even said if she took him back he'd go with her without a second glance!" John had started to talk in a normal voice, but by the end his face was red with shouting. He hadn't thought about the implications of this before, but suddenly he felt furious with Sherlock.

Peter actually smiled after his outburst. "How long did this go on?" he asked John.

"Ten years, I think."

"How old was he when it started?

"Four."

"You have to remember that every single sexual impulse he has has been changed by his experiences. Most of us remember really experiencing sexual desire in our early teens, right? By the time he got to thirteen he'd already had hundreds of sexual experiences."

"Are you saying he liked those?" All his anger melted away from Sherlock and towards Peter. He barely resisted the urge to jump out of his chair and deck him.

"It's more than that. He most likely found a lot of it painful and scary. Sometimes it felt good, but it always had menace. Sex is always all of those things. And you're both a different person and a different gender. You know what he's thinking? 'What if this is even worse?' You have two choices: one is painful and scary, but sometimes good, and you know what it's like. The other is totally unknown, but along the lines of the same thing. Do you go with the known, or try the other one? You'd probably go to the known one, right?" Peter folded his hands in front of him. "Are you really surprised he doesn't want to see what's behind the other door?"

Before John could say anything, Rodney spoke up. "And I'm sure he loves that other person. He has to; otherwise he can't rationalize any pain he was caused."

John felt his mobile vibrate in his pocket, and cursed. He'd have to answer it, in case it was a crisis involving Sherlock, but he'd felt almost on the verge of a breakthrough. "Mobile's ringing. Mind if I step out?"

"Take the call," Dr. Dodson said, and gestured to the door.

John headed out and picked up the mobile on the third ring. "John? It's Lou George. I'm usually not in the office on Sundays, but can you stop by? It's important."

Chapter End Notes

For those of you who are curious: next chapter is Sherlock's perspective.

Chapter 3

Chapter Summary

Sherlock is on his own during John's meeting; he reflects on the past.

Chapter Notes

I was going to mention this in the previous AN, but this is obviously an AU. Specifically, it's an AU which diverges after HOUN and TRF never happened. Any characters depicted in TRF or Season 3 but not before are my own interpretations.

I usually choose not to warn, but in this case I'm warning for disturbing content; unhealthy coping mechanisms, I suppose?

John was late from getting back from his group. He always returned home promptly; therefore Sherlock knew something had come up that couldn't be helped. The clinic directed all emergency patients to A&E, so it couldn't be that. Normally he would have spent time ruling out anything else, but he was too tired to do that. John clearly liked going to the group and looked forward to the meetings. At first Sherlock had assumed John would invite him to it, or even worse, make him come, but that hadn't happened. If it had he would -

Stop, he thought. He had once been so good at stopping his train of thought before getting to anything unpleasant.

He should check his email; Phillip always emailed him over the weekend. Sherlock knew that he would write every day if he wanted to, but was too afraid of being seen as desperate for attention. Perhaps he was, but he'd had only one relationship remotely resembling a friendship, and even that had had strings attached.

Stop.

John's laptop was nowhere in sight, so he reached for his own. He looked foward to Phillip's emails almost as much as a case. They'd bonded in a way that he hadn't expected. Phillip trusted him and was always at his most open with Sherlock, asking questions that even -

Stop.

True to his thoughts, there was one email from Phillip sitting in his inbox. "Hello," Sherlock read. Phillip never addressed him as anything. "Mr. Holmes" or even "Holmes" seemed too formal, but he also shied away from the informal nature of "Sherlock." Sherlock didn't care; anything that made him more comfortable was a good thing.

"Autumn term is over on Wednesday. We don't go back until the seventh of January. I know the day before is your birthday and was wondering if you want a present.

"I know I have mentioned the boy that helped me around the school when I first started here before, Justin Gaudenz. His family is from Austria and he has braces on his legs. He's asked me to his flat a few times but I haven't said yes. He still eats lunch with me, though." The detail about Austria and the leg braces were only added so Phillip could mention the fact the boy had asked him to his house. While he hadn't written it, it was still clear he wanted to see if Sherlock thought it was a good idea for him to go. He'd have to write back to assure him it was a good idea. He'd only mentioned the other boy in passing before, thinking that at any point this Justin would tire of his company. Now it was clear he would not.

"We are supposed to study a language and he helps me with my German. He says he wishes he could draw like me. We are in the same chorus and he is in the orchestra with me. The conductor and director have both said they are pleased with my work. Dad says they have a right to be." He couldn't accept any compliment at face value, of course, because of his low self-esteem. And failing in school was such a pattern for him it was new to not be failing.

"I would like to see you over the break. Is there a time that is good?" They'd talked on the phone since the trial, of course, for a long time every single night, but Phillip now only called every couple of days. Sometimes he was even not in distress.

"Your friend, Phillip." He always signed his emails with that, more to reassure himself about the friendship than anything else. Sherlock knew he needed the contact, but also didn't want to seem as desperately alone as he still felt. He hadn't even mentioned his birthday, also in January, because -

Stop.

He wrote a quick response: "I would also like to see you, hopefully more than once. Any time that is good for your father and you will work. They are pleased because you are a talented flute player. A present on my birthday is not needed. Sherlock." When he was done he tried to think of anything else that needed to be done, but there was nothing, and the rest of the day stretched forward without relief. John could usually provide some amusement, but who knew when he would be back. Molly was currently out of the country and wouldn't be able to give him any body parts for at least a week. At least John wasn't going to make him eat. Even at the thought of food he gagged slightly.

Without thinking much about it, he shut down the laptop and drifted back towards his room. He flopped down on the bed. He stared at the ceiling and wondered if Victor Trevor had tried to message him again. Traitor, his brain snarled at the thought. He broke his promise. Didn't you say to him "You can't tell anyone. You have to promise not to tell anyone."? He ruined everything.

He was about to stop his train of thought again, when it occurred to him John wasn't at home. Nothing to stop him from going in now. He shut his eyes.

In the far reaches of his elaborately structured mind palace, there were two rooms tucked away. One had a large black cast-iron door; the other had a small door that only a child could fit through. The black door led to the panic room. It was completely empty and encased in darkness. Once the door was shut, it stayed locked until he decided to open it again. No sound got in. If Sherlock needed to half-hear whatever was going on, he could leave the door open but stay in the inky blackness. However, it was not the door he opened. It was the small one that led to The Room. The Room had been there since he had gone away to school. As soon as he opened it he got smaller and younger, until he looked like a small boy of five or six. He stepped through. Right by the door was a small stuffed bee. Unlike the large one he had now, this bee could fit under a boy's arm. He tucked it under his arm. It was only then he looked around The Room. It was set up as a one-room flat, with a bed, sofa, and table. There were glass cases on the walls, filled with preserved insects. He sat down on the sofa, like he always did.

"Sherlock." She appeared out of nowhere, like She had melted out of the walls.

"Mummy." He didn't get off the sofa, but spread his arms out. She walked forward, embraced him, and sat on the sofa next to him.

He leaned into Her side. "I missed you so much."

"I'm sure you did." She wrapped Her arm around him.

"Mycroft wants to take you away," he muttered into Her side.

"What does he want to do now?" She clucked Her tongue in disapproval.

"He wants to take you away when you get out of where you are and make sure I never see you again."

"I know that. I know you can't get me out. But you can stop him from doing that, right?"

"I'll tell him I'll run away."

"Good."

"I love you."

"I love you too." A book appeared in Her lap. "Where were we?" She read to him for about fifteen minutes before stopping. "I think I'll stop here. It was a long day at work."

"Do your feet hurt?" Sometimes he had heard Her talk about how much a pediatrician needed to be on their feet all day, and how Her's sometimes ached.

"Yes they do."

"I'll rub them for you." He dropped from the sofa to the ground, took off Her shoes and socks, and began to massage one of Her feet with his hands. After spending several minutes on one, he moved to the other.

He only stopped when She sighed and said "That's good." He didn't move from the floor. "Do you think you could do my legs too, love?" Without saying anything he took each leg with one hand and began to rub Her ankles and calves. She wore a skirt, so there was nothing to get in the way of his hands. He worked for longer, moving slowly upward. As he moved his hands to Her upper thighs, She spread Her legs more. And inevitably, when his hands got near the top of Her thighs, one brushed against Her groin. She chuckled when he did. "You're eager, aren't you?" She stood up. He instantly removed his hands from Her legs and stood still as She took off the clothes he was wearing. "I love unwrapping you, my little present," She said as She threw the clothes to one side. He stood there as She took off Her own clothes and then lay down on the sofa.

"Where do I go?" he said.

"Your head at my feet," She told him. "Then kiss me."

He knew what that meant, and lay down with his head at Her feet. Soon both of their mouths were occupied. He half-prepared himself for the bad taste at the end, but in The Room there wasn't one, just like how he never got older and She was always gentle. She pulled him up for a kiss on the mouth at the end and...

A floorboard creaked downstairs, and he was jerked back into reality. From the sound it was clear whoever it was (most likely Mrs. Hudson) wasn't going to be coming upstairs, but it was as clear as an alarm. At first Sherlock felt blurred, like he had come out of a long sleep, but slowly he became more aware of his surroundings.

And he had an erection.

He resisted the urge to try to tear his penis off, somehow. This always happened. One trip to The Room and all his supposed inhibitions melted away. The Room was too comforting to abandon, but this...

Pervert.

At least John wasn't home. He wouldn't have to see that. Sherlock could easily imagine what he'd say: "You love Her more than me, is that it? It was supposedly one of the worst experiences of your life and you not only have fantasies about it, you actually get off on it? So the whole idea you're too afraid to have sex is fake?"

"Shower," he said to himself, to stop those thoughts from getting worse. Simply ignoring it never worked; it was either take a cold shower or... take care of it, which he couldn't make himself do without the barrier of cocaine.

He went into the bathroom, took off his clothes, and turned the shower on as cold as it would get. A few minutes of that, and he could get out and dress again. As he dressed, his mind drifted to Victor again. Before he could think another Stop, the memory returned.

"Who's that boy?" She asked him. It was Friday, and Sherlock had just finished his homework. That meant he could go to Her house, maybe for the whole weekend. He had barely gotten through the door when She asked him.

"What boy?" he asked, already guessing what She meant. That damn Victor Trevor. He'd followed him home from school every day this week. Nothing seemed to make him go away.

"The boy that's been walking home with you. The Indian one." He thought no one had seen Victor following him. Of course She knew about it. She knew everything. She was always right.

"Victor Trevor," he said, not looking at Her.

"Who is he?"

"A boy who goes to my school."

"Why is he walking home with you?"

"I didn't ask him to. He just decided to follow me."

"Do you like him?"

"No!" he quickly replied.

She took his head in Her hands and turned him so he had to look at Her. "I think you do."

"No, I don't."

"You think he's good-looking, don't you?"

"No!" Even as he said it he knew it wasn't quite true, and She would notice that.

"Oh, you do. Is that what you really like, then? You're a poof? A faggot? You want to suck his cock?" Her eyes were dark with anger.

"No! No, no, no, no!"

"Then show me, then. Show me what you'll do. A real woman, for a real man."

He heard the door open. John was home.

Chapter 4

Chapter Notes

Sorry for more delay. I wish this was longer.

Lou's office was several miles away, so John took a cab there. It was on the ground floor, though, and once he got inside it only took a minute to find it. The door leading to his room was wide open, and John could see Lou on the inside gesturing for him to come in. He was currently on the phone, but waved his hand at the chairs that faced his desk. John sat down in one and realized he now faced a large wall covered in photographs. The first one that caught his eye was of the Aherne family. It looked like a formal picture, since everyone in it was dressed up. Mr. Aherne sat next to a small woman with long black hair - Nora Aherne, it had to be. Their youngest child Dierdre sat in her lap, and Kieran and Moira framed each of them. The picture next to that was of Phillip Rodgers and his father. It must have been taken recently, since Phillip had only recently gone to live with his father. He wore a school uniform and looked nervous. One of his hands rested almost unconsciously on his father's arm. Next to that photo was of a boy in a wheelchair holding an infant and smiling - Thomas Davidson. His mother must have given birth. Below that row there was a picture of the Spencer family, complete with Gloria and Angus. Christine looked polished, like Graham and Martin now did, but from the looks of it Dominic was still on the streets. Next to that was a picture of Jennifer Ogibede-Bena and her father on the beach somewhere. The last picture showed two teenagers of African descent, a boy and girl, with their arms around each other. John knew they'd been in foster care with K, but couldn't remember their names. The final row had one passport-style picture of a man with red hair and Asian features, one of a blond girl and a ginger boy mutually scowling for the camera, and what looked like a celebration with Sagnik Malakar's whole family.

"My little wall of the people I've helped." The sound of Lou's voice almost made John jump in his seat. "I keep up the most recent cases. The Davidson picture is the most recent. They're living in a real flat now."

"Why did you call me in?" John wanted to get straight to the point.

He gave John a grave look. "I got advance notice. Tomorrow there's going to be a story in the Sun and a few of the other tabloids. One of the jurors decided to talk."

"Are they even allowed to do that?"

"The trial's over. As long as they don't name any of the victims or anyone whose identity might identify a victim, they're free to do as they like."

His stomach dropped to the floor. "Do you have any idea what they're going to say?"

From Lou's sigh, it was clear he knew very well what the juror intended to say. "He's going to say that he would have voted to acquit."

John sighed, although he wasn't entirely surprised. "Is that all?"

"No. He's going to say every other juror would have done the same thing."

"WHAT?" That he had not been expecting. "Did he... give a reason?" he managed to add.

"Not one based in the evidence. It seems he just couldn't imagine a nice old woman like that doing those things."

"And that's it?"

"That's enough for some people."

"How did he know the other jurors would say that?"

"They apparently went to the courthouse on the day of the plea. Everyone there thought it was sad she seemed convinced she'd be convicted."

John merely stared at Lou in disbelief. "But..."

"You know why I said I was satisfied with the plea? Because I thought something like that might happen. People see what they want to see." He folded his hands. "I know your next question is going to be who's going to believe the story, but you have to remember the public didn't see the evidence the jury did."

"They'll believe it." His feeling of outrage had tempered into sort of a resigned acceptance.

"Most likely, yes."

"But she can't use that to argue against the plea, right? She's still in jail?"

Lou sighed again. "She can't, no, but others can make a plea to release her." He looked again at the wall of the people he'd helped. "I'm making a few calls like that today, but I thought it would be better to talk to you directly, since I never got to know Victim Three that well." Victim Three had been what Sherlock was called in all the trial documents.

"Thank you, I suppose." As John got up to leave, Lou called back to him.

"I'm very sorry," was all that he said.

John headed outside the building, but instead of hailing a cab, he just stood there. He did not want to go back home and face Sherlock. Even if he didn't figure it out right away, he'd know something was wrong. But there was really no place to go. He finally decided to go to a nearby restaurant, have a long lunch, and return when he couldn't linger over the food anymore. That worked out as well as he thought it could, and by the time he was in a cab headed back to Baker Street he felt a little more composed.

Once he got upstairs and into the flat, he noticed Sherlock standing in the hall between his room and the sitting room. His hair was wet, like he'd just taken a shower, and he looked guilty. "Hi," Sherlock said to him in an unnaturally flat voice. He quickly retreated back to his room, and shut the door firmly behind him. John sighed and sat down in the nearest chair. It was going to be one of those days.

While he expected Sherlock would remain in his room the rest of the day and this would be one of those nights he would be sleeping upstairs, Sherlock actually emerged around supper time. He didn't say anything but he did drink a cup of tea and poke a bit at the remaing risotto. John didn't say anything, either, and felt almost glad that he wouldn't have to have the headline discussion. As soon as he was done eating, Sherlock went right back to his room, but didn't shut the door that time. When he decided to go to bed, he merely came into Sherlock's room and asked "Am I welcome?" Sherlock nodded slightly and he got in beside him.

John woke up once during the night, not enough to fully register what was going on, but he did hear Sherlock say "You've been crying." He must be on the phone with Phillip again, he thought before going right back to sleep. When he woke up in the morning Sherlock wasn't there. He looked at the clock, realized that it was past the time the morning papers would be delivered, and immediately went to the sitting room, not even bothering to get dressed. The room was empty, but there were scattered newspaper pages all over the floor and furniture. He looked in the kitchen, but wasn't surprised to find Sherlock wasn't there.

"He left about an hour ago." Mrs. Hudson's voice came up from the stairwell. She entered the room and said "Took off like the hounds of hell were at his feet. Poor dear, I saw the headlines." He hoped Sherlock was off to Phillip's house, to comfort him, but he knew perfectly well where he had gone.

John couldn't make himself look. "What did they say?"

"'This bird should have flown, says juror,' for one" She clucked and said "None of the others were quite that tasteless, but you get the idea."

He almost couldn't blame him for fleeing. "I think it might be best if I don't head into work today."

"He'll be back, you know." She smiled at him before going down the stairs.

Back, yes. But in what kind of condition?

Chapter 5

Chapter Summary

Sherlock crumbles.

Chapter Notes

Once again, I have no excuse for this being late besides I've got three other writing projects.

Once John had called out that dinner was on the table, Sherlock knew that he couldn't remain hiding in his room. He made himself come out, although the last thing he wanted to do was eat. Eating was such a horrible activity. You were assaulted by all sorts of smells and tastes and textures, and people expected you to enjoy it. His mother had seemed to think it was a royal insult against her when he couldn't make himself eat whatever the cook had made. "Eat what's on your plate!" she'd cry out. "I never had this trouble with your brother!" He'd end up eating as little as he could, trying not to gag the whole time.

With Her it was a little different, of course. She had squash and biscuits and ice creams, and things he never had at home, like spaghetti hoops and and hot dogs. He'd liked those, once. And She'd always seemed pleased when he cleaned his plate.

Stop. He'd never be able to eat if he thought about that. He shoved those thoughts away and made his way to the kitchen. He'd eat a few bites, but space them out. When he got there and sat down to eat, John didn't say anything. Usually if Sherlock sequestered himself in his room he would at least ask "Is everything all right?" Not that he got a response from Sherlock very often, but he asked. In fact, John looked uncomfortable. Was he finally sick of Sherlock's company? Everyone else got tired of it, and didn't stay even if you begged. Hearing about all those things he'd done with Her couldn't have helped matters.

There was tea, and he sipped it, not looking at John at all. Drinks always seemed less horrible than food, smoother and thinner. If he drank enough tea maybe John wouldn't notice him not eating. No, he was still preoccupied by something. He'd been to his group, so maybe something had happened there. Ordinarily Sherlock knew he could have figured more out, but right now he wanted to get away from the food on the table, and if John kept thinking about something else it would be helpful for that. He made himself eat a few bites of the risotto, had a full cup of tea, and then fled the table.

The rest of the evening passed in a haze. John eventually came into his room and asked permission to sleep there. He let him and eventually drifted off himself. Only the ring of his mobile awakened him.

It only rang once before he picked it up. John was still asleep. "Phillip." Sherlock hadn't checked the incoming number, but it could only be one person at this hour.

"It's me." His voice was thick with tears.

"You've been crying." That simple statement made him sob audibly. "All right. Can you take a few deep breaths?" He heard Phillip take a few shuddering breaths. "Can you talk now?"

"I think so." He still sounded on the verge of tears, but wasn't obviously crying.

"Tell me about what happened."

"I think you know."

He did. "I think it would be good for you if you said it."

"I can't," Phillip whispered.

"Why not?"

"My throat closes up around the words and I can't say it."

"Does your psychiatrist know about that?"

"No, because I can't say it."

"What do you do if he asks you?"

"I tell him I don't know or I don't remember. But it's even harder there."

Sherlock doubted the psychiatrist took him at his word. "Why is that?"

"Because he wants me to talk about my feelings and I can't do that either."

"You've mentioned feelings to me, sometimes."

"Yeah, because you know. So you can say it."

"Is there any other reason?"

"You can't be worse when I tell you, because you know what it's like." A pause. "I wish I didn't have any feelings."

"Why?"

"They hurt."

"They most certainly do."

"I hate myself," Phillip said in a whisper.

Sherlock knew that trying to talk him into thinking otherwise wasn't possible. "I don't hate you."

"You should."

"Well, I don't." Staying on this track would be pointless. "Please don't do anything too drastic now."

"Like what?" It was truly amazing that even after all Phillip had been through, he could still sound so innocent.

"Slashing your bedsheets with a knife, or setting them on fire."

"I'd rather set myself on fire." And of course after sounding innocent he would say something that revealed how not-innocent he was.

"Or bathe in acid." Sherlock knew they both didn't literally mean what they said, but he knew the feeling.

"This is why I talk to you." Phillip paused. "You understand." Another pause. "And don't tell me I have nothing to be ashamed of, because I know I do."

He decided that it was best to simply ignore that remark. "I do care about how you feel, no matter why you feel it."

Phillip let out a sob. "Did you, um. Did She ever find out about those dreams you had?"

"Yes." He didn't bother to correct the tense.

"I don't think She knew, but She always knew everything else about me, so She probably knew that too." Phillip took a deep breath and added: "She did know about the other bit. Except She said I wasn't really thinking about Her but the other kids that were sometimes there. It wasn't true, it wasn't, but She said it so many times. Like with all the things She said about how I'd hurt other people if She wasn't there, and I know I started it with Her and even if I didn't I kept going back."

Once again Sherlock thought it was best to change the subject. "What do you tell your psychiatrist?"

"About the kids who used to tease me and about Mum yelling at me all the time. And about my dad."

"Do you ever talk to your father about these things?"

"No!" he said with a sharp intake of breath. "He can't know that, he'd hate me!"

"He loves you."

"Love can't fix everything." Another pause. "I think I hear him getting up. I'm going to go now."

"Remember you can call me at any time," Sherlock said before he disconnected. He truly wished Phillip would call more often; he was so often distressed and Sherlock was sometimes able to calm him. Of course, Phillip didn't want to be seen as needy or hungry for his companionship, afraid it would have strings attached. He sighed; the poor boy had been through so much.

Eventually he drifted back to sleep. He slept lightly and uneasily, and woke as soon as dawn came. After getting dressed, he decided to go to the kitchen. He wasn't hungry in the slightest, but he could at least make coffee and read the papers; they were always here by this hour. And when he went into the kitchen the papers were indeed piled up by the door. He made the coffee and drank down half of it before taking the pile and looking at the headlines.

He only made out one word next to Her picture before he threw all the papers across the room. He didn't know what it was going to say, but he knew without seeing it that he didn't want to know what it was, that the contents would be like poison. He grabbed his coat and fled. It was like all his world had been blotted out by white-hot pain. And there was only one thing that could make it stop.

For the next few hours it didn't feel like he had control of himself. It was more like Sherlock was some passive observer to someone who looked like him buying cocaine, taking it to a drug den, and shooting it up. And once all that was done he just drifted off in a haze.

"I was thinkin' it was you." Sherlock opened his eyes a bit. From the cold and lack of light, it had to be the evening. "That stuff's gonna kill you."

He opened his eyes for good. A short teenager with red hair crouched in front of him. He recognized him as a relatively new member of the homeless network who hung out with Alla Pinyakova. "I'm sure you know I'm already aware of that."

"Well, yeah, but I saw what it did to my mum and other people. I'm not thick, I know better than to mess with all that." His brown eyes bored into Sherlock as he spoke.

Sherlock struggled to remember his name. "Jim?"

The boy spat on the ground. "No. James. Jim is what my mum called me." After a minute he said "I saw those papers today."

If he hadn't taken the drugs, he would have made the connection sooner. James Warren, victim twelve at the trial. Since Alla Pinyakova had been victim eleven they must have met then. Not wanting to go into all this, he just nodded.

"Well. You see. I knew Her before I was out here. You know, I ran off when I was twelve. Sick of living with Mum and all those junkies that stayed there. Mum said she didn't want me at all. Don't know why she kept me. Anyway, I got sick of everyone there smacking me around. Left. I knew Her from when Mum decided I had to earn my keep." He paused, then began again. "At least all those times when I was out there with Her I got to keep the money. Once I got past thirteen She wasn't interested in me as much but sometimes found me anyway. And when you're on the street you meet lots of kids who're there too. There was this girl, Jamie, and she just got out there. Didn't know how to beg and never had any money. I told her I'd help her and teach her how to survive. And I did for most. Then one day She came along and asked me to come with Her. I did and when I got back Jamie was going on. She was only twelve, you know, and she was real innocent. So I said She liked to buy us for a while. We talked a bit and Jamie figured out that meant sex. She asked me if I liked it and I said you could never really like it with Her but She always gave you good money. Then we went and got takeaway and I thought it'd be over but the next time She came around Jamie went with Her. I was there when she got back and she looked horrible. I'd've asked her about the money but she looked like she was about to cry and so I asked if she was all right. She shook her head and ran off. Never saw her again after that, not alive at least. Found out from someone else that she'd used all that money and bought some junk. It was too much and she died. The people who told me said it was an accident, but it wasn't no accident. Whatever She made her do was so bad she didn't want to live with it anymore. I got so angry. She was just a little twelve year old girl and then She got a hold of her. I decided I'd kill Her the next time I saw Her. Stab Her with a knife, cut off everything She could have used to hurt her. But then I got arrested and I didn't want to go to jail so I told them about Her. I'd seen on the telly that they had Her in jail and I figured if She got to rot in jail it'd be better than killing Her." Another long pause. "Then I saw all those papers today and I wished I had." He turned as if to leave but added "Even if I'm not taking that stuff and it'll kill you I figure everyone got a right to. I know you helped out the police and all that and it still wasn't enough." Not even a second later, he vanished into the night.

Sherlock understood how he felt. He'd even feel sad if he wasn't still feeling the drugs. Instead he remembered how to float off in his mind and was soon away from everything.

Chapter 6

Chapter Summary

Sherlock thinks about the past.

Chapter Notes

Yes it's late, yes it's short, yes I'm sorry, I've just been doing other writing things too.

When Sherlock woke again he could see some light. He ached, not physically but mentally. What he wanted was something to kill the pain, but if he still had any cocaine in his system it'd be a bad idea; he'd learned long ago cocaine and heroin did not mix. He still had too much in him to go back home and he didn't want to disappoint John by returning high in any form.

"You're still here?" The boy from before, James, had apparently come back. He stood over Sherlock, with an expression of concern.

"Nowhere to go."

"What was wrong with your mum?"

Sherlock blinked. "What?"

"You weren't going with Her for money. I know that. So it was something else. Alla said to me - she don't know a lot of English but I learned some Russian - her mum and dad were drunk all the time and they didn't even notice when she ran off and she got across Europe and here. So it was nice when She acted like a mum, and She knew more Russian. You know it too, so I wonder if She taught you. No one's going near Her unless everything is so fucked up you don't care. So I bet your mum was like Alla's and didn't care."

He shrugged, not wanting to admit anything personal to the boy. "And?"

"Your brother. He's been around here before. And that friend of yours. They worry about you."

"What's your point?"

"I could bring 'em here, but I don't. I just figure someone should look after you."

"I don't need to be looked after." Mycroft had tried to look after him, and it had made things worse. He made himself stop before he got lost in those thoughts.

"Maybe not. But until you're off that stuff - not forever, but off your high now - I'm gonna watch out for you."

"But not in here."

James looked at him for a moment. "We'll all be outside, then." He got up and left. Sherlock had no doubt that he was going to gather as many of the other homeless network members as he could to stake themselves outside the building. It was almost funny how they seemed to think they were the ones who had to protect him.

Unbidden, another image came to mind. It was Christmas break. Mycroft was at the door. He had missed his brother at first, but after he'd started to play with Her, he didn't think about him as much. Now, though, he suddenly wanted to tell him about all the things he'd been doing. Only then did he remember what She had said to him before. "I think it's better for you not to say anything to your Mummy about what we do all day here. She'd get jealous if she heard there was someone you liked more than her." But that didn't mean Mycroft. What if he got jealous himsef and told Sherlock not to go back, though?

He wanted to tell him about his new friend. Mycroft had been upset when he had to go to school. That was why he'd gotten his bee. He'd even named it Mike, even though She was the only one who knew about that.

"Where'd you get that?" He realized he was holding on to the book She had given him. Mycroft was looking at it oddly. If he didn't say anything, maybe Mycroft wouldn't say more. "Is that a new book? It looks expensive." The insect book was one of those big books with a hard cover and big color pictures, what Mummy called coffee table books.

"I found it." He knew his brother wouldn't believe that, but it was all that he could think of.

"No you didn't." But before he could say anything else, Mummy was greeting him and leading him off to the hall to unpack.

Sherlock sat down on the floor. Another thought occured to him: should he give Mycroft a hug and a kiss? It was something he had only done with Her before, but She said it was good because She loved him so much.

He heard Mummy say in another room "Oh, he plays all the time in Dr. Martin's garden. I think he likes it there because there's trees to climb. She says as long as he doesn't trample the flowerbeds he's welcome there."

He suddenly didn't to hear any more of what Mummy might say to Mycroft. He went to his room, lay down on his bed, and tucked Mike under one arm. He suddenly thought about the last time he had been at Her house. At first She'd picked him up and spun him around. Then She took his shirt off, lay him down on the sofa, and started kissing his stomach. It felt nice, tickly, and he'd laughed. Then She had taken off his trousers and pants (he always took off his shoes when he went into Her house) and kissed his legs, and between them. That wasn't as nice. It felt hot. He didn't think She noticed, and he tried to pretend he was still happy, because if he didn't maybe She wouldn't let him come back anymore, and he wanted to come back. Because She loved him. He knew because She said so. He tried not to look too grumpy, because She'd notice. "Why are you looking so sad? Don' t you feel good? You make me feel good," She'd said once. So he just shut his eyes.

"Sherlock?" Mycroft's voice came from the doorway, and he jumped up off the bed in surprise. Mycroft got a strange look on his face. "What are you doing?"

He realized he'd put one of his hands down his pants without thinking about it. She liked to do that and he'd gotten into the same habit when he thought about Her. Mummy didn't like it and would slap his hand if she caught him at it. "Nothing," he said. "Go away." Mycroft shook his head, but went off.

He didn't think as much about Mycroft until the next week. He'd come back from Her place just in time for supper. But it was one of those days where he didn't want to eat. He still had a horrible taste in his mouth and he wanted to brush his teeth to take it away. He knew it made Her happy, but he couldn't seem to like it as much. So he just sat there.

Mummy made a face. She'd seen him do this before. "Stop staring at your plate. There's your supper. Eat it."

Mycroft looked over at him. "Where have you been?"

A sudden cry jolted him out of the recollection. He opened his eyes and John was in front of him. He didn't look angry, which surprised Sherlock most of all.

"You have to come back home now. Case."

Chapter 7

Chapter Summary

A new, mysterious case

Chapter Notes

I am sorry this is so long in coming. A Million things have come up. I hope to try to update more regularly.

For his part, John couldn't believe that he'd actually stepped in the crumbling squat that the kid with the red hair had lead him to.  But he really had no choice.  Before he'd even gotten in the door earlier that evening, Mrs. Hudson had greeted him with "You have a client waiting upstairs."

He really didn't know what to do about that when Sherlock wasn't there - it didn't happen very often - so he just nodded, said "I'll be back," and shut the door. He took two steps away before a kid appeared from a nearby alley.

"Looking for the boss?" he said.

"Actually, yes, I am."

"I'll take ya there."

"Where is he?"

"No place good, but I figure you need him for something.  He won't like it much but he'll be mostly back by now."  The kid gestured to him, and when John followed he was led through a maze of alleys and back roads that eventually wound up in front of one of the saddest looking squats he had seen in a long time.  "Come on in." He went into the center one and John followed him.  Inside it was cleaner than he thought it would be from the outside; clearly used and dirty, but not inch tall layers of grime.  A few people were sleeping, or passed out from drug use, he couldn't tell which.

While he knew Sherlock would be there, he didn't have any idea of how he would actually look.  It was almost a relief to see him curled up in one corner of a small room, his long coat draped over him.  He was either asleep, passed out, or in a trance.  The kid knelt down and nudged him.  Sherlock rolled over and looked at him.

"You have to come back home now.  Case."  John figured it would be best to skip the lecture for now.  Even a drugged Sherlock seemed to know what "case" meant; he got up (in a much quicker flurry of limbs than would be without the drugs) and headed towards the exit without another look back at John.  If he hadn't known Sherlock well and seen him move with much more grace, he wouldn't have been able to tell that Sherlock was currently somewhat high on something.

They didn't speak as they walked back, trailed by the redhead that had brought John there.  When they got to the outer steps of Baker Street John saw a blond girl sitting on the steps.  "James," she said, her thick Russian accent making the words alien-sounding.  From her look she likely lived as rough as the one who had gotten him to Sherlock.

"Alla," Sherlock said.  "Good to see you."  He said something in rapid-fire Russian, and she nodded.  "You'll go with James?"  She nodded again.

"We'll be all right," said the boy.  He gestured to her with his hand and said some Russian word.  She headed off the steps and they walked off together.

"I didn't know you spoke Russian," John said as he opened the door and they headed up the stairs.

"French, German, Russian, Latin, and some ancient Greek and modern Czech."  Sherlock made it sound like it was the equivalent of reading a picture book.  "Mycroft is the one with the gift for languages."

By now they were at the door to their flat.  John opened it and they both went in.  "Sorry if I shouldn't have just come in.  Your landlady said it was all right to come up here," said a woman's voice from the inside.

"That's fine," Sherlock said as they both got into their respective chairs.  "What brings you here?"

The woman sitting on the sofa was small and petite, her hair a light blond color that made her seem younger.  One of her hands was closed over something.  She was short, barely five feet tall, but looked determined.

"What's in your hand?" Sherlock said.

She uncurled her fingers and showed them a flash drive.  "A.G.R.A." had been written on it with black felt-tip marker.  "My father recently died.  He told me before he died that what was on this was very important and I needed to keep it at all costs."  She paused.  "But it's empty.  Or at least it appears to be empty."

"Is there any reason to think it isn't empty?"  Whatever effect the drugs were having on Sherlock seemed to be muted by the case; if John hadn't known he was on something beforehand, he didn't think he would have noticed anything wrong.

"I've gone to a few computer places to see if they can retrieve anything off it.  But all they have gotten so far is strange error messages.  That more than anything else makes me think something is on it.  If it was really empty, it'd just say so, right?"

"Did he ever allude to what might be on it?"  Sherlock looked intently at her as he spoke.  He took the flash drive from her hand.

"No.  But I think it might be related to something that happened about ten years ago."

"Tell me about it."  He handed back the flash drive.

She folded her hands on her lap.  "Well, my mother died shortly after I was born, so it's always been just my father and me.  He didn't have any living relatives, so we are - were - really alone in the world.  When I was younger we traveled all over Europe and Asia; we only settled here when I was twelve.  Even then, he would go on these business trips and leave me with friends."  After a pause where she seemed to collect her thoughts, she began again.  "Most of the time these were very short trips.  This one I remember because he told me it was going to be six months.  I had my GSCEs next year and I assumed he'd take me with him.  But he didn't.  He said something about how India wouldn't be very fun to me, even though we'd been there before.  Now that I think about it, he seemed nervous."

"What did your father do?" John dared to ask.

"He was a government contractor.  Did inspections and visits with other government contractors.  Eventually he got more home-based work."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes.  "Did he ever mention what he was doing in India?"

"If he did I don't remember that part.  I stayed with friends the whole time, the Forresters.  For most of the time he was away it seemed just like any other trip.  We had chatted online the whole time he was there and he seemed fine for most of it.  Then at the last week of it he said that he might not be in touch with me until he got back.  And he wasn't.  When he got back he had changed.  Very drastically.  Not just physically, although he was thinner, but mentally.  Jumpy, I'd say.  A constant state of alert.  I'd find him up at night sitting in a chair looking out from the curtains."

"Did the Forresters say anything about why he was away?"

She shook her head.  "I don't think they knew.  I can give you their number so you can ring them up, but there's only Mrs. Forrester and their three kids now; Mr. Forrester died two years ago."

"That was ten years ago, you say.  Did he stay that vigilant the whole time?" Sherlock asked.

"No.  After a few months he calmed down and acted like it had never happened.  It wasn't until he got the pancreatic cancer diagnosis that he brought it up again."

"And all he told you was that this flash drive was important?"

"Yes.  Literally only a few days before he died."  She looked down at the flash drive and went on.  "I took it and tried to open it on my home computer.  It came up as being blank.  'This folder is empty.' That's it.  Since he said it was so important, I tried to get it to show hidden files, but I got a message: 'This action cannot be performed.'  I thought of taking it to a computer shop to format it, but if it really contains something important I don't want them to see it.  I just asked them if there were any files on it they could access when I did.  They couldn't."

"You don't want them involved."  It made sense to John – something that important could easily put anyone with the information in danger.

"No."

"Have you tried to format it?" Sherlock asked.

"Actually, yes, I have.  I get another error message.  'This drive cannot be formatted.'  Since I'm not using it to run the computer that doesn't make any sense either."

"And you want us to find what's on it."

"Not just that.  I want to know what my father did in India.  I want to know what made him so paranoid.  Just that information won't solve anything without knowing the answers to both those questions."

"You are right."  Sherlock sounded almost pleased with her.

"Can you help me?"

"Of course."  It was hard to tell that Sherlock had just been pulled from a drug den: he was excited, of course, but no more than he usually got from a high-ranking case.  "We'll need that flash drive, though."

She stood up, and started to put out her hand with the drive, but stopped.  "It might put you in danger."

"Our job," John said without thinking.

"It spooked my father and he just didn't get frightened."

"We'll take the risk."  Sherlock took the drive from her hand.

"I don't know your fee, but I'm a nursery teacher; I don't have a lot of money."

"Don't worry about it."

She smiled, and seemed to stand up straighter. "Thank you."

John realized that she hadn't said one important thing.  "What's your name?"

"Mary Morstan."  She handed Sherlock a slip of paper.  "That has my number and email.  Please tell me as soon as you find anything."  She smiled at them again, turned to the door, and left.

As soon as the door shut, Sherlock said "Her father was a spy, of course," without looking up.

"Spying in India?"  A thought occurred to John.  "Isn't Agra a city in India?"

"Yes, but this has some initials on it, or there wouldn't be the dots."  He turned the flash drive over in his hands.  "It's not ten years old.  He must have moved the information."  At the moment there was nothing but interest in his voice and deduction in his eyes.  This case might be just what Sherlock needed to distract himself from the horrible news.

"So the game is on?" John asked.

Sherlock actually smiled.  "The game is on."