TRIGGER WARNING - Child sexual abuse referenced (not graphic). Sherlock's response is less than sensitive because, well, Sherlock. Child physical abuse discussed (the same as in my fic "Let Me Read You").

I'm not happy with the way that chapters 1-5 are John's POV and only chapter 6 is Sherlock's. That seems wrong. But it made sense to me that way. So I just couldn't figure out what to do about that. If any reader has a suggestion, I'd like to hear it.

All my fics stand alone, but some are linked. This one follows "Reassembly Required" chronologically, and also references some backstory that I wrote in "Let Me Read You." In a fit of anal-retentiveness, I made an index of all my fics so you can see how they all fit chronologically, if you care. It's in my profile.

The case is based on "The Boscombe Valley Mystery," which contains these Holmes quotes:

"There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact." (Which is something BBC Sherlock would totally say.)

"Why does fate play such tricks with poor, helpless worms? I never hear of such a case as this that I do not think of Baxter's words, and say, 'There, but for the grace of God, goes Sherlock Holmes.'" (Which is something BBC Sherlock would never ever say.)

"No interviews, and don't call again," John said – practically shouted – and slammed his mobile down on the coffee table.

Sherlock, slumped in his armchair, looked up from his laptop (technically John's laptop) with a sour expression.

"Bloody parasites," John grumbled.

The reporters had started buzzing about when Sherlock first came back – the back-from-the-dead angle was certainly sensationalistic enough to get their attention – but Lestrade's reinstatement and the accompanying controversy had put the final crescendo on the story. Suddenly he was a hero again, London's own mysterious protector, and Moriarty was the horrible dragon he'd vanquished. Of course the reporters had magically forgotten how they had pilloried his memory in the weeks following his death, but John hadn't. He remembered standing in line at Tesco's, staring at Sherlock's face – a particularly nasty, distorted version of it – on the cover of The Sun, under white block letters spelling FAKE. Sherlock's voice had rumbled through him, as clearly as if he was holding the mobile to his ear even then: The newspapers were right all along... Tell anyone who'll listen… John had told no one, but it hadn't mattered, the newspapers had their story, it was clear as day to them, as plain and unambiguous as a wrist with no pulse, and there was nothing John could do to stop it, just as there had been nothing he could do to stop a black silhouette from spreading its arms and taking that step and falling and falling until it was just a rag doll on the sidewalk, and there ought to have been something John could do because he was a doctor, wasn't he, and he'd saved lives, a lot of them, and what good was that if he couldn't save the life he valued the most, but he was useless, there was nothing left but pale, empty eyes and blood. He had dropped his shopping on the floor and fled the store to vomit in a nearby alley.

And now the newspapers wanted to talk to him.

"Sherlock, give me my laptop."

"Use mine."

"I don't want yours, I want mine. You use yours."

"It's in my bedroom."

"Well, I don't want to go to your bedroom either. And I'm the one who got shot in the leg. So give me my sodding laptop."

Sherlock made a noise not unlike a dog being deprived of a prized bone, but he handed over the computer. John logged into his email and groaned. All the new messages, except one concerning an opportunity to enlarge his penis and another regarding the plight of certain members of the Nigerian ruling class, were from reporters.

"John. I need a case."

"I know."

"John." His voice was insistent, but quieter, almost pleading. John looked up and realized with a start that while he'd been ranting at and about reporters all morning, Sherlock had been quietly unraveling, struggling with uncharacteristic resolve to hold it together.

"I know," he said softly. "We'll get you one." He had no idea how. There'd been nothing from the Yard in weeks. When the Chief Superintendent had found out Dimmock was giving Sherlock cold cases, he'd put a stop to that, in no uncertain terms. And the private cases were not coming.

"You used to bring me cases," Sherlock said, his voice still quiet but a bit accusatory.

"I'm trying," John answered, and he had been. Sanitizing their adventures on the run had been a challenge, but he'd managed to get a few stories up on the blog. All it seemed to do was titillate the media, however. Not inspire clients.

"That's not good enough," Sherlock snapped, baring his teeth. "Bring me a case."

John bristled. "I'm not your dog. I don't just run off and fetch things for you when you whistle. You're the bloody genius detective, you get your own cases. In fact, why don't you do some interviews with those vultures? Get yourself a nice spread in the Daily Mail. What does Sherlock Holmes eat for breakfast? Nothing! He doesn't eat, isn't that marvelous? See Page 17 for our exclusive Sherlock Holmes Diet, the pounds will fall away! Where does Sherlock Holmes do his shopping? Nowhere! He has other people do it for him, how fantastic! What sort of girls does he fancy? What product does he use in his gorgeous hair? How does he sharpen his cheekbones?..."

"Shut up, John," Sherlock snarled, stalking to the kitchen, "you have made your point and you're not clever."

John bit the inside of his cheek and bent over his laptop again, sorting through his emails and deleting the interview requests. He opened a few. He hadn't been serious, a moment ago, but he realized he didn't actually have any better ideas.

"You know…" he began.

"No!" Sherlock yelled from the kitchen.

"Not the Daily Mail, obviously. But maybe one of these better ones…? I hate them as much as you, very possibly more. But if you want cases? My blog is not enough."

"Then make it enough."

"What do you want me to do, Sherlock? There is nothing I can do. You need to rebuild your image. They destroyed it before, and now if you don't take control of it, they will twist it into… god knows what. You're going to have to do something if you want people to come to you."

"I don't owe those people anything," Sherlock spat.

"No, you don't," John yelled. "You're you. You're brilliant. You're extraordinary. You're a bloody genius. You've got nothing to prove. You don't owe a damn thing to anyone in the world. But they don't owe you a case. If you want their cases, you're going to have to ask nicely for them."

Sherlock stared at him in disbelief. "Ask nicely?"

"I mean, you're going to have to convince them they should trust you."

Sherlock laughed sharply. "No one in their right mind would trust me."

"Well, I do."

"Case in point."

"Right," John agreed ruefully. "But still, if you want them to bring you cases, you have to convince them they can trust you with their darkest secrets and deepest wounds."

"Oh for god's sake, John. Why? I solve cases. That's what I do. Must you wrap it up in all that intrigue and romance, really?"

"Yes, because that's how it is for people. Normal people."

"And you would have me put on a normal people costume and a normal people mask and do a little normal people dance so they like me?" Sherlock wiggled his fingers and hopped from foot to foot to underscore his point, his face contorted with disgust.

"Like it or not, you live in the normal people world. You have to play by our rules some of the time."

Sherlock threw him a reproachful look. "You're supposed to handle that."

"Well, I can only do so much."

"Do it for me," Sherlock commanded.

"Do what?"

Sherlock sighed wearily. "The interviews. The media. Talk to them. Rebuild my image."

"Oh lovely, not this rubbish again. Tell anyone who will listen… isn't that what you said?"

Sherlock's face clouded.

"You know, I'm not your mouthpiece. You asked me to tell everyone you were a fraud, it was your dying wish for Christ's sake, and I didn't do it. Couldn't do it. Never considered it for a moment, actually. Not that it made the slightest bit of difference. Do you realize that, by the way? The job was done. Moriarty had already made the story so simple, so much easier to believe than the truth. So you put me through all of that, for what? So that I could convince the world that you were a liar? And it turned out to be completely unnecessary." John laughed humorlessly.

"Wrong, I needed you to believe it so Moriarty's people would believe it. And not kill you."

"Well, I believed it all right. And now you want me to go out there and tell those wazzocks all about it, how you duped me right along with everyone else? Just don't ask me, after everything else, to humiliate myself in front of them. That's one thing you can do for yourself."

"No."