The screen flickered for a while, and then a grainy image from an outside CCTV camera began to appear. It was dark: only the ambient lighting from a select few windows and cars made the scene visible, the road quiet in the earliest of mornings. The only sign of life was a young couple staggering slightly along the pavement who shortly disappeared, tripping round the corner and appearing to laugh drunkenly at each other.

The time stamp in the corner read 01:37, the date 01/04/2010.

The camera suddenly started moving, swivelling slowly as it zoomed into a cab that was fast approaching, the driver obviously being persuaded to step on it. The trick reminded John of the days after meeting Sherlock for the first time: Mycroft and his dramatic kidnapping, the ostentatious show of his control over London security systems, how they always followed him no matter where he was or what he was doing. This seemed a lot more sinister to him, perhaps because he knew it was Moriarty or whatever henchman was at his beck and call. Or maybe it was the fact that it was extremely disturbing, the knowledge that he had gotten so used to them ceaselessly pointing their glassy stare at himself and Sherlock.

He looked over at the detective, who was sitting as close to his side as possible given that they were in two separate chairs, and studied his face. It looked like he was thinking the same as John, his mouth a pale thin line in his otherwise stoic features that were at odds with his current body language. He slowly moved to cover his hand, which was clenched around the armrests of the chair, squeezing it hesitantly in case Sherlock did not want his touch. After not gaining any kind of response, he began to move his hand back dejectedly to its original position. He was therefore startled as the man at his side quickly flipped his hand, palm up, so he could grasp John's fingers between his own.

Sherlock was thankful for john's touch: he had begun to get caught up in his own head again. He needed John to ground him, lest he float away on a sea of churning black thoughts, barbed as Poseidon's trident and just as terrifying. They glinted in the waves of feeling, like sun reflections from the jewellery of drowned sailors. His head and heart pounded as one, for once: john had caused that beat to finally match perfectly, now in sync more than he ever had been. He closed his eyes for a moment, just as two dark, bedraggled creatures emerged from the taxi on screen, rotten, algae draped deckhands emerging from the moonlit froth on a beach far, far from here. Sherlock shook his head slightly, murmuring a gentle:

"No…"

Now was not a time to be waxing poetic.

Nothing was dead here.

Nothing was adrift.

Curse his childhood love for pirate stories: they would be the death of him. He did have a love for dramatics after all, not that he would ever admit that aloud to anyone, especially after John's good-natured-yet-rather-close-to-home teasing. Similes and metaphors had no place here, only facts, logic and John. Always John.

Sherlock opened his eyes to see John turn his head towards him slightly, eyebrows lowered in concern. Oh. Sherlock had spoken his name out loud. Instead of looking back, he slowly lowered his heavy head to his partners' shoulder, curly hair brushing his neck lovingly. He closed his eyes again, savouring John's scent and snuffling into the dip between shoulder and neck, his favourite place to rest when in a moping mood. He felt more than heard John chuckle quietly as he placed a small kiss on Sherlock's head, before turning back to the screen.

Sherlock reopened his eyes and caught Lestrade and Donovan staring at him with joint expressions of shock, before Sally smirked and Lestrades eyebrow rose. He glared at them and scowled, feeling embarrassed in his moment of weakness. In fact, he had forgotten they were even there. Sherlock jerked his head up from his lover's shoulder and burned holes into the ground with his eyes. He pulled his hand out from under John's and retreated back into himself, walls going up completely. Now wasn't the time to be childish.

John again looked at Sherlock in concern, wondering why his partner had pulled away. He looked up and saw nothing exciting going on, just the two of them finally getting the door open to 221, Sherlock herding him slightly as he always does.

"Sherlock..?" John risked putting his hand on his arm, which tensed under his touch but quickly relaxed as Sherlock leaned imperceptibly into him before tugging his arm from his hold. John got the message, and prepared himself to ignore whatever sour comment he said next: it was all for show. He understood, and was a bit peeved with the two officers sitting opposite, actually, especially with Lestrade. They should know by now, how much Sherlock relied on his sociopathic exterior and instead they sit there and seemingly mock him for showing emotion.

"John now is not the time for sentiment, we are on a case and I need to focus on this, so stop fawning over me and watch the video, I do not need to remind you of the seriousness of this matter, considering that it is about us, do I? No? Good, and I would appreciate, Lestrade, if you and your… colleague," he sneered at Donovan as she looked at him indignantly. "Would pay attention also, otherwise there is no point of you even being here. Now stop inflicting your insipid thoughts on me and do whatever you are here to do."

Sherlock took a deep breath as he stared ahead, not concentrating on anything in particular. He removed all outside stimulus and concentrated all but a slither of his focus on the evidence, the small part that wasn't for the work left for John and his reactions, always keeping tabs on his blogger from the corner of his eye. His hands in his usual pose by his face, and his feet brought up onto the chair so he could rest them on his knees, Sherlock blinked as the camera shot went black for a few seconds, and then burst into colour that was joined by the sound of scuffing and panted breaths. It was a lot higher quality: either it was one belonging to Mycroft that Sherlock had missed on his searches whenever the git visited, and he seriously doubted that, or it was Moriarty who had placed it. Must have been. Mycroft would never plant a camera at this angle. This placement screamed stealth, whereas 'big brother' tended to focus on the angle that would give the most useful view.

Beside him, Sherlock heard John sigh and caught him mouthing to Lestrade across the room: irrelevant.

Lestrade felt like a huge dick now. At first, yeah, he had been surprised by Sherlock's little display of affection. Who wouldn't? He didn't mean to mock him for it, far from it. He felt a bit privileged really: he had witnessed him being…well… cute. There was no other word for it; he had been snuggling with John for Christ sake. And he had ruined it by appearing to be judgmental about it. Well, no point in crying over it now, what's done is done. Although the man didn't have to defend himself quite so thoroughly, john hadn't done anything wrong in Lestrades eyes. John's reaction had confused him somewhat as well. He hadn't seemed put out or upset or anything like that. Just pissed off, and not with who you would imagine.

Greg really did hate it when Watson pulled out the Captain stare on him; it was… disconcerting. It didn't match up with the John that he had gotten to know over the year of being in his presence. He was kind and doctor-ly, and put up with far too much shit. He wore those jumpers that were all comfort and no fashion to speak of. On a case, he was stoic: he could handle the vilest of crimes, more so than any of the members of the forensics team, as much as Sherlock, even. Lestrade did not know this John, the one with a pack and rifle slung over his back, his fatigues bloody and torn, dust worn and clung to by many a man's hands as they bled to death in the heat and flies of an Afghanistan best forgotten. Only Sherlock could even get close to knowing him fully. He felt like a school boy being reprimanded by the headmaster.

He looked over at Sally and could see that she felt a bit bad as well, yet also pissed off at being part of Sherlock's acidic diatribe. She was trying her best to ignore John and was pouting at the screen instead. She started a little as the camera changed and lost that expression quickly, calling Lestrade to focus as he was distracted by a silent conversation with John.

"Sir? The audio has kicked in, we didn't really watch too much after this, did we?"

Both he and John sat up straighter, angling themselves to get the most comfortable view of the TV; if this caused John to lean against Sherlock slightly, well, he wasn't complaining. His voice reverberated through the room, choked slightly by gasping breaths.

"Sher-sherlock…"

There was a thud as his head hit the wall of the entrance way of 221; the exact same place where they had laughed together, what seemed like years ago. Sherlock was not beside him this time, instead pacing in front of him with a stricken expression on his face, eyes wide as he muttered to himself. You couldn't make out much of what he was saying, just random words, his pacing speeding up exponentially with his level of frantic energy, a positive correlation.

"john- you-…I don't-Moriarty, he said…why- …sense. Not quite true?… not quite true… heart- john-burn?-burn-burn-BURN!"

He seems to stop dead. All strings cut as his hands flop to his sides from their previous position of fluttering beside his head, a great swooshing noise that Sherlock swears he can hear over the tape. His face, which had been parallel to the floor, eyes screwed shut so tight that it's a wonder his eyeballs weren't crushed by the pressure, now snaps up as he gasps.

He is broken: his battery has run out, his heart stops for a minute and everything seems to be a much bigger deal than it used to be. Sherlock remembers that moment like it was yesterday, the moment when he knew he was defeated. The chemical defects had caught up, manifested in his system, without him even knowing. A million thoughts had run through his head, yet it only lasted seconds. He can see the time in the corner of the screen, he is amazed and slightly disturbed that he had deduced and reacted to the fact that he was in love in less than 3 seconds.

John is still panting against the wall, still staring at Sherlock like he hadn't just made the biggest personal deduction of his life. He can now revel in it, instead of panic like what happened at the time. He can bask in the fact that he is in love with the greatest man he has ever known, and the fact that this man loves him back.

In Lestrades office, John can feel Sherlock against the back of his shoulder and along his arm. He feels the hitch in breath, the tension in his frame. At the time of the video, john had assumed that his brilliant, ridiculously handsome flatmate had deduced something about Moriarty.

But now, he knows.

John turns in his chair to look at Sherlock, sees the widened eyes and awed expression. Pale supernova eyes flicker to dark sea and a wondering smile replaces the slightly opened lips as his doctor cups his cheeks and grins back.

"That was the moment you knew, wasn't it?"

John whispers reverently into the air between them, and Sherlock huffs out a long breath as he leans his head against blonde and grey silk.

"yes…"

The moment extends itself: warps beyond all methods of time as their breath mingles in the space between them, the particles of Sherlock bouncing and swirling against the particles of John, collision theory at its finest. We are all just particles, floating upon this ground, in this restricted space of each individual niche: every person meeting is a collision, every old acquaintance bouncing off a limping individual, every chance encounter between a detective and a doctor teaching at St. Barts creates a new chain of events, until two particles collide in a lab on a non-descript day and manage to ignite.

But all moments are broken, and Sherlock knows that nothing lasts forever: particles decay, half-life after half-life is reached until there is nothing but bones. However, that will not come to pass soon, (he hopes anyway), so it is broken as all things are: with an interruption.

"What do you mean 'the moment that you knew'? All I can see is the two of you getting wound up to epic proportions!"

Sherlock growled under his breath for a second, and John joins in with some rather spectacular swears. He slips his hands down Sherlock's front, prolonging the contact as much as possible under the pretense of straightening his shirt, as Sherlock's hand slips around his waist. In the background, he can hear the thud-thud-thud of one pair of feet going up the staircase to 221B. He knows it's Sherlock, remembers the confusion he felt as his friend suddenly came back to life with shaking hands, took one look at him and… well, legged it up the stairs. The Sherlock in an office in Scotland Yard is now looking over his shoulder, curious about how he reacted. The one good thing about all this mess is the objective view they can gain from it: analyse their partners reaction to things they either didn't notice or weren't there for. As John thinks this he straightens suddenly.

His face is now a flaming red.

Shit.