Three.
Two.
One.
John Watson reached for the button on his small camcorder and sat back in his cheap black chair, spinning in a circle and turning to smile warmly at the little red light. "What's going on everybody," He chuckled, ocean blue eyes brightening as he bared his teeth in a fond grin, "my name is John Watson and this is what's on my face." He spun in his chair once more and threw his feet onto the top of his desk, running a hand through his ashy blonde hair and sighing, "Math class."
He let out a laugh and lunged forward, dropping his legs and resting his crossed arms on the table. "Everyone instantly groans at the very mention of the thing; amazing isn't it?" He bit his lip and shrugged, "I genuinely don't have any personal vendettas towards the subject, but it says a lot about me when I say that my favorite part of the class is having the calculator in front of me and slowly, painfully, discovering what each and every button can do."
He giggled his high pitched, infamous giggle and shook his head in amusement, "Honestly, I'll turn to my mate Mike and say, 'Watch this,' and it just blows his fucking mind."
John lifted his hands animatedly as he spoke, throwing them in the air to relay his irritation, his confusion, his merriment. He moved on further into his video talking about how he presses 'Clear' on his calculator fifteen thousand times before he's satisfied, how when teachers ask you to copy down notes they always stand in front of the board they're on, and about how on the first day of class you have a whole pack of pencil and erasers and by the end of the year you're left with one you arbitrarily found on the floor. He joked and brought up how algebra is only important when you're a pirate - since finding X is your main priority. He explained the fact that he has no idea how to pay taxes or raise a family but not to worry because he can find the area of a triangle and the circumference of a circle.
John Watson was relatable.
John Watson was brutally honest and utterly unabashed by the things that made him human. He was John Watson and so that's who he portrayed in front of his quaint, thirty pound camcorder. He felt no shame - only a need to express. And so he did. All in the span of a fifteen minute recording, which he ended with a smile and a wink, giggling his signature giggle and signing off by stating, "All the love to every single one of you. Catch you later."
And with that, he was ending the recording, loading the file onto his computer, editing, shortening, adding and subtracting, and exporting until he reached his utmost satisfaction.
And, with a bright smile, he uploaded his video to YouTube, the, currently, biggest and best way to have others hear you, listen to your words, reach your eyes and take in your line of sight - it was the way to connect in a day and age that relied so heavily on the modern ways of technology.
John Watson smiled as he left the video to upload, shaking with excitement and hoping his ten thousand and thirty three subscribers were doing the same.
It was more than a hobby - making people smile, laugh, giggle; it had become more of a mission, something he pursued with great determination, something he never wanted to put an end to.
He sighed happily as a check mark turned green and he added yet another daily video to his channel, grinning as he stared at the small, red rectangle that portrayed, in a large, white font: 10,033. Never did he think so many people would find him, him, interesting.
He was John Watson, seventeen-year-old rugby captain attending Baker High; below average height, average weight, blue eyes, blonde hair, a mostly B student with dreams of becoming a doctor, and a fan of Bond films - entirely and utterly unexceptional. Yet, somehow, 10,033 people didn't think so.
With a fond smile, he moved the little arrow on the screen with his mouse to the search bar, pecking the keyboard in his usual manner and typing, 'theballetbee.'
Now, this guy was interesting. Violin and ballet fanatic, talented at both, and utterly, frustratingly, anonymous. Yet, only 4,900 subscribers.
It bewildered John. One of these days he was going to give the unnamed virtuoso a shoutout.
John bit his lip in concentration and scrolled through the Youtuber's playlist, humming and smiling softly as he chose his very favorite cover by the mysterious violinist, one he'd played himself and, in turn, videoed his very own dance performance to.
John clicked it and watched as the screen remained black but for a few white words that fluttered across the screen:
'Who Wants to Live Forever': Queen (Instrumental) by theballetbee
John sighed as he watched the video transition into shades of beige and soft grey, the man, bare chested, dancing across the wood coated studio clad in black tights and pink ballet shoes, his face utterly unreadable, blurred out purposefully with the right amount of skill applied to his editing. John narrowed his eyes, studying the being carefully, watching the stretch of his muscles, the ripple of them beneath the black material. He was a complete stranger with no identifiable qualities apart from a rather decent sized bee tattoo, all realistic and detailed, spanning across the lower half of his back.
John hummed softly and shook his head, sighing and pushing aside his anxiousness and need to discover who this person was and where he came from. The boy's bio on his channel's home page gave nothing away. John had read it time and time again, eyes roving down every word and always trying to make something out of nothing.
He knew the dancer lived in the same general area of the UK as John did, which came as quite a delight, but merely served to boost John's further curiosity. He wasn't at the point of checking every ballet studio across central London yet, but he was close - and for that, he reprimanded himself. The boy must have chosen to go into the world of YouTube anonymously and John should respect that.
So why did he find it so hard to?
John shook his head at himself and huffed, turning up the volume of the video and sighing, grabbing his backpack and pulling out his math homework, scribbling nonsense the best he could into the answer blanks of questions, all the while swaying to the soft melody of a carefully practiced violin and spotting the blur of black and pink in his peripheral vision, dancing with grace across his computer screen.
The curly haired boy lugged his belongings into the studio, glaring forwards while he walked past the dozens of ballerinas eyeing him suspiciously as they left their afternoon class. He rolled his eyes and pushed past them and into the slowly emptying ballet studio, slipping off his tennis shoes - old and tattered blue converse - dropping his duffle bag and beginning to stretch, extending his arms upwards and downwards and spreading his legs in a straddle like position, sitting gracefully onto the wooden floor. He leaned over his thighs, grabbed his toes and pulled them towards himself, huffing out a breath as the movements pulled at his muscles, the sensation both relieving and painful.
"Sherlock!"
He lifted his head and met the approaching eyes of a small, rather petite elderly lady, dressed elegant and classy, blending in with the atmospheric nature of the studio.
"Ms. Hudson," Sherlock smiled tiredly, humming and standing once more, stepping forward as the woman advanced on him, arms extended fondly as she reached out to pull Sherlock into a hug.
"Back again I see," She chuckled, drawing back to look him in the eyes, her warm smile gracing the soft, round curves of her kind expression, "I don't see why you won't just join my class."
Sherlock shrugged carelessly, eager to avoid that particular subject and scoffed, choosing to roll his eyes instead and step away from her, turning towards his bag and pulling out his ballet slippers, "Dull."
The old woman laughed and shook her head, tapping him lightly on the shoulder and sauntering daintily towards the studio exit, "You always say that."
Sherlock chuckled and smirked a little at her, arching a brow knowingly and gesturing sluggishly with his hands, "Then it must be true."
Ms. Hudson snorted and sighed joyfully, reaching for the exit and turning back to, most likely, sneak in another jab at Sherlock's clear distaste for other normal human beings but was instead interrupted by the sharp ding of his mobile. Sherlock unzipped his duffle bag and pulled out the black device, pressing his finger to the screen and biting his lip as a rush of overwhelming fondness consumed him.
watsonmyface uploaded: Math Class can Kiss my Ass
Sherlock snorted softly to himself and shook his head, smiling at the video thumbnail of a warm, tan face sticking his tongue out in utter exhaustion, mathematical symbols of all shapes and sizes surrounding him.
"Your boy again?" Ms. Hudson's voice jolted him out of his mindless gawking and he turned to quickly stare up at her from where he was kneeling beside his bag, blushing pink under her scrutiny. She caught up on his shameful gaze and snickered quietly, shrugging her shoulders and turning to open the exit door, "Stop watching him through a screen when you can just see him in person."
And with a wink, she disappeared out of the studio.
In person? No.
No, Sherlock would stutter and cower and hunch and blubber some stupid excuse about having laundry to do and would disappear in an instant, sprinting far from John Watson's view and into a dark abyss of which he'd never resurface from.
Or worse: he'd say something he'd later regret, something cold and brutal and rude and deductive and John Watson would never look at him again apart from the occasional glare.
Not that he looks at him now.
Actually, Sherlock's pretty sure John Watson isn't aware of his existence.
But that's okay. Sherlock has a new video everyday to look forward to.
Sherlock glanced down at his phone, swallowing and eyeing the thumbnail once more, admiring John's soft, rather adorable expression, and then shook his head, tucking his mobile back into his duffle bag and sighing.
He'd watch it later.
He pushed the phone aside and grabbed out his dainty tripod and rather cheap, old digital camera, switching it to its proper video feature and huffing as he hooked it to the stand, screwing it tight to the top. He could always ask Mycroft for the money to get a proper, functioning camcorder but that meant emailing his brother and emailing his brother meant a lecture and he did not have the time nor the patience for such a thing. So, he'd make do.
Besides, Mycroft spent enough money on making sure his alcoholic father didn't tarnish the family name.
Rolling his eyes at his inner turmoil, he got to his feet, reaching for the hem of his baggy maroon sweater and lifting it up over his head, standing bare chested in the empty ballet studio, mirrors serving as his walls while he slowly began lacing up his slippers. Once he finished, he simply sat there, unmoving on the wood floor, blankly staring at his reflection - his floppy mop of dark brown curls, his sharp cheekbones and his thin shoulders, his angular collarbone and jutting hipbones - before dropping his eyes back down to his duffle bag and thinking.
It was only fifteen minutes long. He'd just shorten his performance today. No big deal. Ms. Hudson didn't need the room back for another hour yet. He could just watch it and then get right to work on his own video.
Yes.
Sherlock huffed and inwardly swore at his impulsiveness, reaching back into his duffle and pulling out his phone, scooting up with his back against the mirror and hunching over his knees, propping the video up and watching intently as it began to play.
"What's going on everybody, my name is John Watson and this is what's on my face."