"I hope we didn't wake the children." Sherlock muttered.
"Thankfully it's rather soundproof down there. I'm sure they're fine." Mary assured quietly, drenching the cotton ball in disinfectant before touching it gently to Sherlock's nose.
"I'm not sure what version of this John will have you believe, but hear it from me, Mary. I was here for Annie, I was worried about her. It's her first night out of the house and I just...well to come invited just seemed a little weird. I just wanted to check in, make sure she was okay." Sherlock assured, trying to put all the emphasis he could manage into those few and untrue syllables.
"I understand, Sherlock. I know what it's like to do things for your children, things that...well things that seem a little unorthodox. You want the best for them; you're put in a position where you feel that you have no other choice." Mary agreed quietly. Sherlock winced as the alcohol leaked into his cut lip, to which the woman apologized profusely and dabbed more lightly.
"John told me that you had another child." Sherlock said quietly, feeling as though his trip wouldn't have been wasted if he was to get the story from Mary Watson herself. This hadn't been a conversation he had approached her on before, and that look of shock on her face was ultimately what he had expected. Perhaps that was their most carefully guarded secret, perhaps Mary hadn't expected anyone to know, much less Sherlock. Her eyes melted into sadness, and for a moment her hands went weak. The bottle of disinfectant slipped through her numbed fingers, and for a moment she could only stare blankly into Sherlock's eyes, her gaze fixed upon him though seeing things, seeing other things...seeing trains.
"No I...that was a long time ago." Mary whispered, sitting back upon the floor and abandoning her task. She instead sat back in the puddle of rubbing alcohol, her eyes welling with fresh tears.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry I didn't mean to hurt you." Sherlock insisted, trying to fake a pang of regret when in all actuality he felt positively overjoyed. So it was true, it was true from a source who had no reason to lie! Mary was more affected than he thought possible, her weakness said it all; her defeat was more telling than ever. Rosie Watson had been their child...Rosie Watson had left them all those years ago. Her reaction was much more authentic than any evidence he might've found in their basement, her reaction was worth all of the photographs, strollers, and baby clothes that might've been hidden in plastic boxes.
"Why would he tell you?" Mary whispered, looking up to Sherlock with an utterly broken expression.
"He was drunk, it wasn't on purpose. We just got talking about..."
"Did you see him at the bar?" Mary wondered, as if that was the most important detail of this whole narrative.
"Yes, I saw him there." Sherlock agreed, feeling the need to cater to this woman's questions, feeling as if the truth might comfort her. She seemed on the verge of tears, though with a very low probability of spilling any. She looked as though she was more dazed than she was upset, as if she hadn't thought of her lost little bird in a long while, as if she hadn't considered the happenings of the train station since they occurred.
"He goes there on weeknights, he tells me he's going with friends but...but he hasn't got any friends." Mary whispered, her eyes widening now as her secrets poured as if from an open tap. "I know what he does; or rather I know what he wants to do."
"Mary, why don't you sit down?" Sherlock suggested, though it was a rather pathetic suggestion being as though she was already seated. He didn't know why he was so adverse to this situation; he knew that he was a fool to avoid such information. Though he felt as though he had accidentally broken something within Mary Watson, as if he had split her in two and the words coming from her mouth were just leakage...words not meant for anyone to hear but words that were manifesting all the same.
"I'm not enough, you see? I give him everything but I'm not enough. He wants more; he's always wanted more...I'm sure he's wanted you. For a moment I'm sure his thoughts lingered on you." Mary whispered.
"Mary, I'm sorry I brought it up. You can just...well you don't have to tell me this." Sherlock insisted, patting the poor woman on the shoulder and trying to help her to come back to her senses.
"It's alright, Sherlock. It's better that I know you, it's better that I know he's being taken care of. I wasn't enough, I know that I've failed him." she whispered.
"Mary, you've done everything for him. Stop that talk, you're his angel. He wouldn't leave you, he wouldn't dream of it. He sits alone at the bar, I've seen it myself. He sits alone." Sherlock promised, patting the woman on the shoulders and seeing her smile at last. Perhaps that was good news, perhaps that was exactly what she needed to hear. Their conversation was interrupted by the flashing of multicolored lights in the window, the flashing of red, blue, and white penetrating through the sheer curtains. So the police had arrived, just in time. John seemed to have noticed them before Mary or Sherlock could react, as his footsteps came pounding down the stairs to receive the officers at the door.
"Who's here?" Mary demanded, finally coming to her senses as she was forced back to her feet, forced back into action.
"It's the police; I called them because of Sherlock." John growled.
"The police? John why'd you have to make this into such a scene? Oh we can't have Sherlock arrested, he was just..."
"Yes we can." John growled, pulling open the door just as soon as the bell was rung. Sherlock sat motionless in his kitchen chair, feeling an incredible need to run. He knew that his daughter was downstairs, oh if all this noise drew her attention he couldn't bear to see her reaction, he couldn't bear for her to watch her father get carried away in handcuffs. They'll realize, they'll see his face and remember...he ought to be running now; he ought to be enjoying every last moment of freedom while he still could.
"Sir, you called about a break in?" asked one of the officers at the door, a large man with a radio strapped to his shoulder and a gun clipped on his belt. At his side stood an equally formidable looking woman, with tired eyes but a firm and brutish look to her. Sherlock didn't like the idea of running from either of them, for he'd surely lose in whatever fight he tried to conduct.
"Yes I did." John said sternly, looking oh so self-righteous as he stood at the face of the law.
"But it's nothing, officers. It's really nothing." Mary insisted. They blinked, looking past the Watsons and into the kitchen, where they caught Sherlock's eye. Sherlock immediately looked away, setting his gaze down guiltily to the floor so as not to give them the advantage of his full attention.
"It's not nothing, this man crawled in through our window and was creeping around our house!" John exclaimed, jabbing an accusing finger into Sherlock's direction so as to set the police's attention on him.
"But he's a family friend." Mary offered with some hesitation, as if that was going to clear anything up effectively. The police officers didn't look very confident about either side; in fact they seemed a bit confused as to why half of this household wanted the man arrested and why the other half was so against it. Perhaps the inconsistency would drive them away?
"He's nothing of the sort. I want him arrested." John demanded firmly.
"Can we come in?" the female officer asked, though her partner was already stepping through the door.
"Just be a little quiet, our children are sleeping downstairs." Mary muttered, looking towards the basement door with an impressed look to her, as if she was shocked of the children's ability to sleep through this whole ordeal.
"What's happened to his face?" the man wondered, walking up to Sherlock and tilting his head up for a better angle. Sherlock winced at his touch, keeping his eyes directed away so that he would not bare too much resemblance to whatever mug shots they may have been consulting. He wasn't entirely sure if the police ever had a picture of him, or if the security cameras at the train station had done him any justice at all. Nevertheless, he knew better than to assume luck was on his side. Supposedly the only good thing about this whole ordeal was that his nose was broken and bloody, rendering him almost unrecognizable at the present moment.
"He beat me." Sherlock said at last, deciding that if his crimes were going to be blown out of proportion then John might as well stand trial for what he had done as well. The cops' eyes widened, and together they shot accusing glances at John as well, as if wondering what business he had taking the law into his own hands.
"I was defending my home." John said flatly, as if he was perfectly entitled to ruin a man's flawless facial complexion on behalf of his own pent up rage. Sherlock gave a little whimper of dissatisfaction, as if pleading with the officers to realize that John was as much of a criminal in this situation as he was.
"I was only here to check on my daughter." Sherlock defended, at last smacking the police officer's hand away from his chin. Those fingers had lingered a bit too long.
"You could've rung the doorbell." Mary offered a bit weakly.
"He's lying! He was here to seduce me!" John exclaimed at last, to which there was a momentary silence, in which all parties had really no idea how to process or react to such information. Sherlock sighed heavily, though this was pretty much exactly what he needed. Now he could make John into the crazy one.
"Seduce you?" Sherlock said with a forceful laugh, looking over to John who was now growing red, not only with embarrassment but with anger as well. The man hesitated, shifting from one foot to another and looking about at the group to see if anyone was going to believe him.
"You can just shut up, Sherlock. Have you any better reason to explain why your shirt is on the floor?" John snarled.
"I didn't want it to get bloody!" Sherlock exclaimed in defense, daring a little chuckle and looking about to the audience, all of which were now snapping their necks back and forth to watch this argument ensue, looking just about as distracted as they might be with a tennis match.
"Surely no one's actually believing that?" John chuckled. "I mean, look at him! He's a f*cking flamer, and he's been obsessed with me..."
"Sounds like you're a little too obsessed with yourself." Sherlock offered, to which even the seemingly expressionless female police officer managed a little chuckle. That seemed to be the last straw; it was all a bit of a blur after that. One moment Sherlock was in the chair, the next he saw nothing but a blur of colors as John dove at him, the man's face contorted in fury, his fists at the ready...a single collision was the last thing Sherlock remembered before the darkness came about. He remembered just a little inkling of pain before everything gave up, deciding to shut it down for a while to avoid the ghastly consequences of his own clever words. 

Sherlock woke with a start, jolting awake with such intensity that he nearly toppled off of the bench he had been placed on. The place was cold, that was the first thing he noticed...the second was of course that his hands were cuffed together in a way that made it impossible to reposition himself. The bench was hard on his spine, and after a long while of unconsciousness he felt as though he had rather melted into the cold, uncomfortable plastic. It was a jail cell, then. A place he was not entirely familiar with, though something he recognized immediately. It was the bars around him that rather gave it away, bars lined on all sides as if he was some animal in a zoo for people to gawk at. Though there was no one to look at him, no one outside of the bars at all. In fact he seemed to be alone, alone with only one soul for companionship in the cage next to him. They were separated by the same sort of bars, and the other prisoner was sat with his back to Sherlock, as if he didn't want to show his face for shame. Perhaps it was the delirium that made the man unrecognizable, or perhaps it was just the fact that Sherlock had been hit in the head one too many times. It took him about a solid minute of staring before at last he realized just who his company was.
"John!" Sherlock exclaimed, sitting up with a great deal of effort before taping on the bars with his bound hands. For a moment he got no response, though as soon as he banged on the bars some more the man seemed to awake, and at last he craned his neck so as to better see who was disturbing his slumber.
"Oh you absolute..." John started, his eyes narrowing just as soon as he realized that his companion had come back to consciousness.
"Don't get mad with me." Sherlock growled in defense. "You're the one who had to call the police."
"You're the one that had to make me look like an idiot!" John snapped back, though his defense was much weaker than Sherlock's attack. He was doing a rather poor job at making himself seem like the victim, as Sherlock was the one with a broken nose. This whole situation might have been cleaned up on their own, with Mary Watson tending their wounds and making them settle down. But no, John had to escalate the situation. And now look where it landed them both?
"You've ruined my complexion, John. I thought you might have been more careful with fragile objects...precious objects." Sherlock growled.
"You call yourself fragile. God Sherlock, do you really think so highly of yourself?" John snarled, shaking his head even though their gaze had not met yet. John was still sitting with his back to the open bars, as if he couldn't stand to look at Sherlock any longer than he had to.
"I obviously do, John." Sherlock insisted in something of a small whimper. There was silence following that, a period of time in which neither of them could guess what the appropriate response was.
"I bet you liked it." John muttered at last, so quietly that Sherlock could hardly even hear the words which were uttered. Though it was a stupid claim to make, a rather awful justification of his own brutality.
"Liked it? What, I liked getting my nose broken? Ya, great fun." Sherlock chuckled. However as he thought more on such a statement he realized that there might've been some truth behind it. He didn't like the pain, no...but the intimacy was much appreciated. It was one thing to shoot a man, or to stab him. It was one thing to use some sort of device...and another to use your hands. Another thing entirely to force skin upon skin, another thing to clamber on top of a person and feel them struggle. Sherlock had to smile, ducking down his head so that John might not notice. John knew, John realized the enjoyment behind it all. In an attempt to frame Sherlock for his own strange ecstasies John was probably just trying to justify himself. He had probably spent this whole time contemplating it, probably spent this whole time dreaming of it.
"I'm sorry to break your nose." John said at last, as if that was any proper compensation.
"My modeling career is over." Sherlock muttered, shaking his head in some disappointment. At last John rearranged himself along the bars, just so that he could glance over at Sherlock to see if he was joking. Thankfully Sherlock did him the justice of a forced little smile, for he could only imagine John needed the visual aid of sarcasm.
"You're joking?" John presumed with a little grumble.
"I'm joking. But I'll never be able to start a modeling career, either. You erased that from my prospects of future employment." Sherlock insisted, as if that was going to be enough to make the man feel bad.
"I think you could still be a model, if you needed to." John offered at last.
"You think I'm pretty?" Sherlock assumed with a little grin. John dropped his head into his chest with some exasperation; however his response was not immediate. Obviously he had to think on his answer, as if he wasn't just going for whatever response would hurt the most.
"I suppose I'd be an idiot if I said no." John admitted at last. Sherlock blinked, sitting still for a little while and processing what very well be his very first compliment from the man. Well of course Sherlock knew John found him attractive, it would be a fault of human nature if someone looked upon him with repulsion. All the same, he never expected those words to be said allowed. Despite the chill, Sherlock felt warm inside.
"Yes I think...I think that would be quite idiotic." Sherlock agreed at last, though very quietly. The air was thick with some sort of presence, the presence of words unsaid and compliments held behind their steady tongues. There was something filled the space between them like a fog, something downright asphyxiating.
"You know, John, you may very well be the first friend I've had in a long while. Maybe even in forever." Sherlock muttered at last, to which he heard the man chuckle a bit doubtfully.
"Sherlock, I'm not your friend. I hate you." John defended, to which Sherlock merely smiled. He had rather expected that response.
"You hate me because you know me...you know me better than anyone else around. The hatred that you have, it takes dedication; it takes some form of obsession. And obsession, well that's one step away from affection. And affection is what makes friends who they are." Sherlock muttered at last.
"You seem to have thought that one through for a while." John offered, though without any sort of denial. It seemed as though he didn't want to debate, for while Sherlock was spewing exactly what he didn't want to hear he was also speaking the truth. John couldn't argue, he was too tired these days.
"I have." Sherlock admitted at last. "And with that...with that affection, do you think you might be able to forgive me?"
"Forgive you? Forgive you for breaking into my home?" John exclaimed, speaking as though that was a downright unfeasible request.
"You know my intentions weren't criminal." Sherlock breathed, knowing better than acknowledge the real reason he had broken in. He knew that he ought to just go with the truth that John believed, in an effort to hide the truth that was underlying this entire conversation.