In the mudroom, Sherlock shoved his hands in his trouser pockets and leaned back against the door jamb. He could see that this case had aroused John's sympathies to an unusual degree, but what difference did that make in the end? The case had been solved. It was tragic, of course, but weren't they all? What could John possibly need to speak to him privately about?

John stood before him, arms crossed, frowning.

"You once told me you would have killed your father if Mycroft hadn't stopped you."

"Yes…?" Sherlock replied slowly.

"She could be you."

Sherlock snorted. "She could not. For one thing, if I'd gone through with it, I'd never have been caught. I had that much sense even when I was nine."

"I think you're missing the point."

"And what might that be?"

"That girl… There but for the grace of God go I, goes you, goes anyone. You've got to help her."

"Are you serious? Would you throw James McCarthy in jail in her place?"

"Maybe he'd want to go, if he knew."

"That's really not my concern. Or yours."

John opened his mouth, closed it, and licked his lips, then repeated the routine twice more before he spoke.

"You know what my father did to me."

A chill stabbed down Sherlock's spine. Two cigarette burns on John's stomach and two on his back, a fractured fibula, and (suspected but unproven) injuries to the forehead and mandible in infancy. And worse: untold assaults that left no scars, no evidence, no proof, no data. The chill spread through his veins. What was John saying?

"Did he…"

"No. He beat the shit out of me. But not Harry. He never so much as slapped Harry. I always assumed it was because she was a girl. I never imagined how right I was about that." His face contorted into an icy, humorless smile and he took a deep breath. "He didn't beat her. He did other things to her instead." He dragged a hand over his face. "I shouldn't be telling you this. Frankly, it's none of your business, but – "

"When?" Sherlock interrupted. New data required more data.

"What?"

"When and for how long?"

"Jesus, Sherlock, does it matter? It started, same as Alyssa, it started when she was ten. But she didn't tell me about it till fifteen years later."

"You had to have known. There must have been a million signs," Sherlock's hands fluttered in the air with frustration. This was the problem with families, with relationships, with people. Why did society insist on deifying these ideas in opposition to all the evidence? What was the point, if the ones who were supposed to know and protect each other the most were so cruel and stupid? If even John, who was nearly as dim as everyone else but still had a way of seeing people, could live under the same roof with his father raping his sister and never realize…

"I was a child, Sherlock."

"And your mother?"

"She found out. I never knew how, but she did, and that's when we moved back to London to live with Gran. He'd always said if we left him he'd kill us. But he didn't. He left us alone after all."

"She left because she found out what he was doing to Harry, but she already knew what he was doing to you."

"Yes." John's voice contained a warning, but Sherlock ignored it.

"And why wasn't that enough?"

"Because I was a boy, I suppose. I was supposed to be able to take it. And I was, I did…"

"Is that supposed to be an explanation? He could have killed you, was the woman just going to wait and see how bad it would get? How stu–"

"Sherlock, if you say one word against my mother, I swear to God you will wish you never learned to speak." John's voice was low and dark and perfectly steady. Sherlock had heard that voice before, but never directed at him. He slammed his mouth shut. Then he turned on his heel and walked back into the house.

He strode through the kitchen, down the hall, and up the stairs. Behind him, he could hear John yelling at him to stop, but with his limp he had no chance of keeping up. Upstairs, Sherlock took note of the wear on the carpet runner and the doorknobs, and quickly zeroed in on the third door on the left. Behind that door, exactly as he expected, he found a dying woman.

"How could you not know?" he spat.

"Excuse me!" Joanne Turner sat up in bed sleepily, blinking her eyes in surprise. She was gaunt and haggard, but her voice was strong. "Who the hell are you? And what did I not know?"

"That McCarthy was raping your daughter from ages ten to fifteen."

Turner's mouth fell open with a little cry, so small it was almost a squeak. She really did not know, Sherlock thought with amazement. How horrifying, the life of an ordinary person, to walk through the world so oblivious to the information all around you, so ignorant of the signals blaring in your face that you're powerless to protect the people that matter. How can they stand it?

In the hallway, John's limping steps were approaching. He burst into the room, Alyssa following right behind, just as Sherlock had timed it.

"Alyssa," Turner gasped as her daughter came in. "Is it true? Did Charles…" Alyssa froze, then nodded helplessly and Sherlock allowed John to pull him out into the hallway as mother and daughter clutched at each other and sobbed. This was going to take forever and be terribly annoying, but it was necessary.

He pulled his mobile from his pocket and checked his email while he waited. It was difficult to concentrate with John standing there staring at him with eyes like poisoned daggers.

When he determined that the Turners had gone through sufficient apologizing and explaining and crying and repeating the entire cycle again, Sherlock abruptly returned to the room.

"Ms. Turner," he said. "What size shoe do you wear?"

"Again, who the hell are you, and do you mind giving us some privacy?"

"I'm Sherlock Holmes, investigating the murder of Charles McCarthy, this is my associate Dr. John Watson, and I do mind, as we have some urgent business to discuss." His eyes hurriedly scanned the room until they found a pair of trainers tucked under an armchair. "Ah. Five and a half. Close enough. James is the prime suspect in his father's murder and, although the evidence does not support it, knowing the British legal system, he stands a very good chance of being charged and convicted. Your daughter has suffered a great deal of trauma and stress, which probably accounts for her bizarre behavior this afternoon, when she attempted to confess to the murder of Mr. McCarthy in front of myself and Dr. Watson. Of course, that is impossible. Don't you agree?"

Turner blinked stupidly at him.

He tried again.

"Ms. Turner. I understand that you have only a few months to live, while your daughter has her entire life ahead of her."

"Yes," Turner replied, her voice threatening to break into sobs again.

"It would be a terrible shame for that life to be spent in prison."

Turner covered her mouth with her hand.

"But fortunately, that won't happen, because we both know that Alyssa could not have killed Charles McCarthy."

Turner's eyes widened. Finally catching on. "No."

"And why not?"

"Because I killed him."

Alyssa gasped and grabbed her mother's hand. "Mum! No!"

Turner's face settled into a firm expression, her mouth tightening into a grim line made more striking by her skeletal appearance. There's the ruthless businesswoman, Sherlock thought with satisfaction. This will work after all."Alyssa," she said decisively. "Honestly, it's the least I can do."

Alyssa shook her head violently. "Mum, no one will believe you. Look at you, you're sick…"

"It's improbable," Sherlock agreed, "but definitely possible. A rush of adrenaline can produce incredible, unpredictable strength. Isn't that right, John?"

John swallowed. "That is true. I can't say that Ms. Turner could not have done it."

"Adrenaline," Turner repeated, nodding.

"Of course," Sherlock continued, "you hated him. He blackmailed you and lived off you like a parasite for almost two decades."

"Oh, I hated him," Turner agreed, and sounded quite sincere.

"Yesterday morning, you went for a walk in the park and came across the McCarthys, arguing."

Turner nodded hesitantly.

"Say it," Sherlock ordered.

"Yesterday morning… I… went for a walk in the park and came across the McCarthys, arguing."

"You saw James' bike leaning behind a hedge and hid behind an elm tree to listen."

"I saw James' bike leaning behind a hedge and hid behind an elm tree to listen."

"Charles wanted James to marry Alyssa. When you heard Charles talking about your daughter like chattel, it was the last straw."

"Charles… wanted James to marry Alyssa. When I heard Charles talking about my daughter like chattel, it was the last straw."

"As soon as James left, you grabbed a triangular rock and walked up behind Charles."

"As soon as James left, I grabbed a triangular rock and walked up behind Charles."

"You remember the first blow brought him to his knees. You don't remember how many times you hit him after that."

"I remember the first blow brought him to his knees. I don't remember how many times I hit him after that."

"You only remember that you looked down and realized he was dead. Then you wiped the blood off the rock on his coat and hid it under a shrub and walked home."

"I only remember that I looked down and realized he was dead. Then I wiped the blood off the rock on his coat and hid it under a shrub and walked home."

There was a silence so still, for a moment Sherlock wondered if he was the only one who was breathing. John was watching Alyssa, who was watching her mother, who was staring at Sherlock. Finally Joanne Turner closed her eyes, leaned back into her pillow, and said, "It feels good to get it off my chest. That's exactly how it happened."

Alyssa covered her face with her hands, and John, unconsciously mimicking her, did the same.

"Since it was such a relief, perhaps you should tell us again," Sherlock suggested.

Turner recited her confession twice. Then Sherlock announced, "Well, then. I think this is all sorted. I'll just call DI Lestrade."

"Sherlock and I will wait downstairs for two hours and then call DI Lestrade," John said, standing up.

Sherlock recoiled. "Half an hour," he snapped.

"One and a half," John countered.

"One," Sherlock snarled. John bowed his head at him in mock deference. "Sixty minutes," Sherlock added, and stomped out of the room and down the stairs. Behind him, he heard John's comforting murmurs.

In the kitchen, Sherlock slumped in a chair and idly scrolled through the messages on his mobile. What the hell was he going to do here for sixty minutes?

John's halting footsteps approached until he finally appeared in the kitchen and sat – collapsed, really – into the chair he had occupied earlier. He looked exhausted. His leg was bothering him today more than it had in some time. Of course, Sherlock realized with a twinge of anger, all that walking about and interviewing neighbors, he wasn't up to that. He should have said no. Sherlock turned his focus from John's leg to his face to scowl at him, but saw another scowl already there.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I'm ready for my lecture," he said, leaning back and stretching his legs out in front of him. "What is it this time?"

"First of all, announcing to a mother that her child has been sexually abused for years right under her nose, without first discussing it with the child, is not ok. Extremely not ok. Regardless of the result. Secondly, coercing a false confession from someone on their deathbed – from anyone, actually – is also extremely not ok. Regardless of the result. Do you understand?"

"No, I don't. I did exactly what you wanted. I helped."

"Right now, we are talking about the means, not the ends."

Sherlock sighed and ran his hands through his hair. This was going to be hopeless. "Does it matter? Really?"

"Yes! Really! That was devastating, Sherlock."

"I thought all the raping and murdering were rather more devastating…"

"Oh shut up, for God's sake, shut up!" John was covering his face with his hands again. He took a deep breath and raised his head. "Look. Efficiency can be very, very painful. Try to remember that."

Sherlock shrugged. Remembering wasn't the problem. He just didn't see where the traps lay. He saw everything but that. "I'll try," he said, to please John, but he knew trying was never good enough.

"Good. And the third thing. Thank you. I know you didn't do that for Alyssa Turner. You did it for me."

"Don't know what you mean," Sherlock grumbled. "I didn't do anything except solve a case, and I certainly didn't do that for you."

"You threw a case."

"It's not like I've never lied to Lestrade before." John winced, and Sherlock remembered that he was supposed to be on his best behavior for this case, John had probably promised to keep him in line or some such rubbish, and now they were handing over a false confession. John would lose sleep over this. But it wouldn't bother Sherlock.

"You made Anderson right."

Sherlock frowned at his mobile. This bothered him. So much that he was embarrassed at how it twisted and burned in his stomach. The idea of Anderson believing he was right, thinking that he'd actually beat Sherlock at his own game, and all the Yarders laughing, and it wasn't just an idea, he himself had made it reality, and he was going to have to face that reality again and again. He'd elevated the stupidest man in London above himself.

He knew pride make him vulnerable. They'd been telling him that his whole life. Pride goeth before a fall, Mycroft would say. But he had fallen, and found that pride kept going afterward too. He was an idiot for caring, but he couldn't stop it, could only push against it, crushing the thought of how Anderson would tell this story over and over until it became fact.

"And you put your reputation on the line. If she changes her mind…"

"She won't."

"No. I think she won't." John licked his lips. Sherlock could see he was thinking about tea, wondering exactly how rude it would be under the circumstances to help himself to a cup. Too rude, apparently, because he settled back into his chair. Fifty-five minutes till we call Lestrade, at least fifteen minutes till he arrives, five to ten minutes to bring him up to speed, then thirty to forty minutes to get home and that's in good traffic. At least two hours until your next cuppa, John. You asked for it.

"Well anyway," John continued. "It means a lot to me."

Sherlock grunted in acknowledgement and returned his attention to his mobile.

"She didn't tell… Harry, I mean… because Dad told her if she did, he'd… kill me. I'm sure that seemed believable to her. He'd gotten close enough before. See, even then she was protecting me. You wouldn't know it now, but she always did. When we were kids, she always was protecting me. And I never could protect her."

Sherlock looked up at John's face and found it looking helpless and weak. He couldn't stand it. "You protect me," he said.

"You see that now, do you?" He sucked on his teeth and stared at the wall behind Sherlock's head. "Well, I used to. I have done. I do what I can."

There was a sorrow and a distance in John's eyes that Sherlock was not accustomed to and did not like. He was relieved to have a project, a goal to fixate on. The study of making John smile was an intriguing one. On the one hand, it was laughably easy. Almost anyone could do it. Literally, random strangers on the street could achieve it with no effort to speak of. On the other hand, it was surprisingly elusive. He could suddenly become sad or depressed or angry – granted, where Sherlock was involved, it was nearly always anger – and then making him smile was a challenge that required strategy, imagination, and a fully stocked toolbox.

Sherlock steepled his fingers in front of his lips and considered.

"Your mother," Sherlock said, breaking into the silence so suddenly that John started in his chair. He narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

"What about her?"

"Exactly. Tell me something about her."

"Why?" His suspicion was unabated.

"Because I want to know, obviously."

John raised his eyebrows. It wasn't a smile, but it was in the right direction. "Um… Well, she was born in Edinburgh. They moved to London when she was thirteen."

"I already knew that. Something new, something good."

"You did? I don't think I ever…? Ok." John tipped his head back as if he might see her gazing down from the kitchen ceiling. "She had a wicked sense of humor. She had a way of giving someone an insult or a compliment so they wouldn't realize until hours later what she'd really said." His lip twitched. "You'd have liked that about her. Though I'm not so sure she'd have liked you." And there it was, a fine specimen of a John Watson smile. Sherlock felt the reward center of his brain light up and he smiled back.

"She was musical too. She had a gorgeous singing voice. Harry and I inherited our dad's musical talent. That is, none. But Mum could sing. She sang all the time. Especially when she was working on something, or when she was happy. She sang a lot more after we moved back to London."

Sherlock hummed a slow, childlike melody in G major and watched John's eyes widen in amazement.

"How'd you know?" he asked.

"You know how to cook three things. A passable curry, decent pancakes, and a beef stew that is actually quite good and that you learned from your mother. You've made the stew twice since we've lived together, and both times, you were humming that song. What's it called?"

"Wild Horses," John answered, shaking his head. "She used to sing that all the time."

Sherlock was pulling YouTube up on his mobile. "Hm. There it is." The opening guitar chords tumbled out of the tinny speakers. "I detest popular music."

"I know."

Sherlock listened to the first verse and turned it off. "Simple. I'll play it on the violin when we get home."

A second smile – better than the first because this one glowed with surprise – spread across John's face. "I'd like that," he said.

"Yes, obviously. That is the point."

After a minute, John cocked his head to one side and asked, "Tell me something about your mother?"

Sherlock turned to look outside, where a light rain was beginning to fall. The leaves of an ash tree next to the window trembled.

He smelled Chanel No. 5 and jasmine tea. He felt long, thin fingers firmly wiping the gravel and mud off a cut on his knee and wrapping his own small hand around the neck of his first violin. He heard the trills of piano keys elicited by those fingers, and a clear, precise voice reciting Rimbaud and Valéry. He saw shoes that always matched the handbag, endless stacks of books, closed doors, and gray eyes that were generally flat and locked away somewhere far beyond his reach but that sometimes flashed metallic with anger or clouded dark with disappointment, or that very occasionally turned the exact color of London's summer rain with affection or paled into icy pools with fear.

He was silent.

It was something he'd learned from his mother. Data is potent. Details matter. There is nothing as dangerous as a fact.