CHAPTER 9

The camera view changed once again. The sitting room of 221B was shown in perfect, defined clarity from the corner above the window frame, the curtains open yet allowing no light through bar the endless flickering of the nearly deceased streetlight's luminescent glow. It was putting up a good fight: The settee, John's chair and the kitchen were just visible in the darkness whereas Sherlock's chromed one-seater was stooped in shadow, black leather reflecting amber and steel emitting half-hearted white flashes every couple of seconds before the fuse abruptly snapped under the stress. The low back was facing the lens and if the owner were occupying said chair, would look down onto inky riotous curls and the tips of perfectly groomed hands in their beloved pose. He was not, however, and instead a lone figure could be seen standing in the dead zone between kitchen and sitting room. The waif like spirit seemed thunder struck, almost as if stuck between the crossing of two worlds, so close yet so far apart: body and mind warring that ever familiar, loathed battle. Pale eyes glinted dully in the glooming, and no sound crossed those monochrome lips that stuttered across un- pronounced words that even the owner did not know the meaning of.

Sherlock was slightly baffled by the arrangement in recording: he would have thought that Moriarty would want Sherlock himself to be centre-stage, would have wanted to rub in the fact that he had not noticed what was staring him in the face, but no. Either he had multiple cameras placed in web filled nooks and crannies to get every panoramic shot possible, or simply realised that Sherlock spent the majority of his time either in the kitchen doing experiments or sulking on the couch, and therefore a direct visual was seen as pointless in his enemy's dead pit-like eyes.

However, just as he was about to share his thoughts with John and the two law enforcers in the room, the image panned slightly from left to right, then vice versa. The lens slowly rotated in a wide circular motion, causing Sherlock's figure to warp and tilt, and then stopped dead centre. The image flickered suddenly and a completely new view of the sitting room burst on to the screen, now in the opposite corner, and repeated the same little dance: only the tall man was now not visible apart from at the widest angle and only then his bare feet with their long, almost prehensile toes. This happened several times, until all angles were accounted for: the former idea then, Moriarty must like his seats at the theatre to be exclusive, Sherlock thought bitterly. Just as he was about to remark on it, he was yet again interrupted by a change in perspective: John's laptop had been left half open on the desk, just as he always did whenever he went out, a bad habit formed due to Sherlock always rushing him about.

The laptop had a webcam.

"Oh Jesus Christ, no." John moaned as he held his head in his hands for a moment.

"…Indeed."

"Is that all you can fucking say?! 'Indeed'? He's got all our… every time you or I went away for a case… Oh bollocks. The Medi-"

"Medical Conference." Sherlock closed his eyes as if he were in pain, a deep sigh passing his lips as he cut off john's ever growing consternation. Now this development was unfortunate. The conference Skype had been…eventful. Enjoyable at the time, yes extremely, but... Damn Moriarty for exposing things this way.

"Stupid, clever show-off, you can tell he's enjoying it with all the dramatic swanning about." Sherlock muttered mostly to himself, as the tiny, fewer pixel camera showed the keyboard and the desk, case notes strewn about with tea rings stained into their pages that john had been cross referencing before he had left for Sarah's.

Before Lestrade or Donovan could comment, sounds reverberated from the speakers of the room, harsh thudding steps and squeaks followed by the creak of a door being pushed open tentatively. The original vision cut across the screen; illustrating Sherlock jumping slightly as the light was suddenly turned on, the brightness a shock after the dark that he had been wallowing in. John stepped through, peering around for Sherlock before going further into the room to stand in the middle with his back to the secret lens. You could see that his clothes, now illuminated by the better light, were filthy. His arms were bare after he had already ripped off his jacket, and he was bleeding due to several lacerations up the back of the appendages. His elbows especially: they were skinned and rubbed raw, as if he had fallen on his back to the ground or dug through rubble.

In fact, he had done both.

"John…" Sherlock reached out to his friend, his face open and surprisingly contrite as he took timid steps towards his flat mate, whose fists were clenching at his side. A hiss came from the doctors lips as the cuts on his palms were reopened. At the sound, Sherlock stopped in his tracks, shook his head a little as if to clear it, and made a beeline for the stairs, limping slightly. "I'll... I'll go get the kit." He rushed off before John could say anything, his singed hair waving a pathetic, lank goodbye to the weary Watson, the soft thud-thud…thud-thud of Sherlock's bare feet mirroring his erratic heartbeat.

Here, the image split, as if looking at a shopping centre's security tapes: Sherlock's slow way up the stairs and into John's room being monitored on the left hand side, and John's silent figure on the right.

Back in Lestrades office, John rested his head against his hand in perfect symmetry to footage-John, who had, after looking around the flat as if he was seeing it for the first time, sat weakly on the couch, knees buckling with exhaustion.

"Looks like Moriarty pulled out all the stops in the surveillance, hmm?" John cracked, his tone mock bright and addressed to no-one in particular.

"Oh John, I thought you would be delighted by it. Now you get to see my masturbatory habits as well." All three of the others choked on nothing. "Intriguing… maybe this would be an interesting experiment. After all, the comparison between methods could be enlightening… " He trailed off, muttering about the control variables and pressure vs angle of wrist theories.

John laughed reluctantly. His partner could never fail to see the scientific benefits of such an experience, although how much of it was faked or used to counteract his or John's embarrassment was yet to be seen. Sherlock was weird about things like that: The man had no pattern to follow according to what crossed the line into personal territory and what he considered to be perfectly socially acceptable.

After Lestrade had become less red in the face, and had finished spluttering he finally inserted himself into the conversation. "Sherlock… Just- Don't. If you wanna take notes, be my guest but do not, under any circumstances, say the word 'masturbate' out loud ever again. And that includes variations as well. It's just…too weird, even for you."

"Come Lestrade, everyone does it- pun not intended. I don't see why it's a big deal, considering almost the whole population of Britain or even the world has 'done the deed' as they say. I could deduce, if I really wanted to, which I don't, the last time either you or Donovan had debased your selves to carnality and how you went about it: with another, on your own, what style or what equipment. But John has forbid me from doing so to members of the met. He says to save it for when clients are being annoying, and I like to do it when he needs cheering up: he finds their facial expressions hilarious, it never fails to make him laugh." Sherlock smiled over at his partner, as if he were sharing an inside joke. John just looked pleasantly surprised at the fact that Sherlock would do such a thing for John's own happiness. It made his heart warm, albeit how weird the notion was.

"Also, it sometimes gives John some great ideas to try out." Sherlock continued, now smirking to himself like the cat that got the cream as he remembered vividly the time he deduced that Swedish fellow who had tried to blackmail the duo into helping him.

John just sighed. "You were being so sweet as well; you just had to ruin it. Couldn't help yourself."

"No point holding anything back John, they'll see for themselves anyway, why not give them an early warning." Sherlock then folded his arms and looked smugly at the D.I, before pronouncing. "Lestrade, may I warn you that throughout these little clips- and I speak for myself, I didn't know John's habits at that time- I masturbate. A lot. Sometimes with toys. I pleasure myself on the sofa. In my bed, in John's bed. I touch myself sat in my chair, on John's chair. In the shower-although we have no evidence for cameras being in the bathroom, but I wouldn't be surprised- and if that disturbs you, then tough, you have to watch. And that's not taking into account what we do to each other, why-"

"SHERLOCK. Enough already. And shut up, I think you're giving Lestrade that aneurism you were talking about earlier and Sally may hit you in the face."

"You're damn right I will, no 'may' about it…" the sergeant muttered darkly, surprisingly unaffected by Sherlock's little tirade: it would take a lot more to embarrass Sally Donovan, that's for sure. As she was mumbling, she couldn't help but over hear John whispering to the detective, something about not knowing he did it in his bed and that much. He was licking his lips far too frequently for Sally's liking. They hadn't gotten to anything racy yet and Watson was already showing signs of arousal. She was still unsure whether or not the tapes would do anything for the couple: maybe the mortification and shame would be too much for either of them to get it up. That's what she hoped for anyway. In this instance she would Thank Christ for being a woman. No real outward signs of attraction would show, although Sherlock would obviously be able to see if she did react.

Not like she would be pitching a tent in her trousers anytime soon though.

"Hey freak, bet you-"

"NO SHERLOCK, THIS IS NOT OKAY, IM NOT OKAY. NOTHING ABOUT THIS SITUATION IS OKAY! WHAT WERE YOU FUCKING THINKING?! YOU CAN'T EVEN SODDING WARN ME OR TELL ME ABOUT ANYTHING, CAN YOU?!"

Everyone in the office jumped, Donovan giving a small, little scream in shock at being interrupted by the sound of John's voice blaring like a fog horn into the now tense air. Even though she and Lestrade had already watched this part, it still did not ready her for the sudden change in volume that was associated with Watson's volcanic temper, her full body twitch causing her to pause the video. Sherlock grimaced, remembering with a pang the following argument and make up. He had been so afraid: terrified even, that John would walk out of his life for good, that his realisation had come just that bit too late. The worse thing was the feeling that he deserved it, deserved the pain that would follow the compact man walking out his door. He had been so lucky. He was so lucky to still be able to wake up every… well, some mornings with his John Watson.

John let go of Sherlock's hand as he felt him tense, and wrapped his arm around his skinny waist once more, giving him an affectionate squeeze and whispering, "I'm still here, always." Into Sherlock's long neck. Sherlock grunted in acknowledgement and pulled away slightly, embarrassed by his need for comfort.

"Well, as we have just missed it, and Donovan has been so kind as to… crush the remote in her harpy claws, I will explain from my point of view: I came back downstairs. John was sat on the couch. I went over to pass him his medical kit and thought it prudent to ask if he was alright: obviously he wasn't, and as I am unused to asking such stupid questions and dealing with large build ups of emotion, I chose the wrong path of investigation into his psychological and physical condition. John is one of the very few who walk this earth that I cannot always predict; which is probably why I can stand his company for long periods of time."

"Oh well, glad to be of service to you then, you awkward git!" John said in mock outrage, before he grinned at the others who looked at him like he was crazy. He just shrugged at them: They never understood that Sherlock always veiled his compliments, and, to be honest, John found it quite funny and in a way adorable.

"Anyway, if you would be so kind sergeant, I think that's all cleared up, yes?"

Sally just rolled her eyes and stayed silent as she pressed the button: Another day in the life of Holmes, it seemed.

"John… I…"

"Don't Sherlock. Just…don't. Pass me the kit and sit here. No, not there, here, where I can reach you. Oh for god sake, don't look at me like that. I'm not gonna hit you, your scraped up enough as it is. Maybe next week, ey?"

Sherlock, who was perching on the edge like a kicked puppy, scooted closer to the doctor, who was busy opening the kit and unravelling gauze like candy floss on a stick. He still looked angry, but it seemed like he was containing himself, channelling the doctor for the moment and putting away the angry soldier for later, until he could really chew Sherlock out. His jaw clenched, John checked over the detective gently, pulling his arms this way and that to assess the damage. Sherlock just sat there, remarkably docile as he scrutinised John from head to toe, using his own skills to ascertain the degree of injury. Or, that's what he had told himself at the time. He was not wondering at his flatmate, not awestruck about this man, of course he wasn't. That would be disgustingly pedestrian of him.

"Well, looks like you're not gonna need stitches, you lucky bugger. After that beam fell on you I… I thought…" John's voice broke before he could continue.

"John, I'm absolutely fine. Don't trouble yourself with what if's, it's a waste of time and-" Sherlock did not continue speaking. In fact, his face contorted, lips popping open and eyes widening as John looked ready to explode. Again. Before he knew what he was doing, John was on auto pilot as he grabbed Sherlock's un-injured wrist and pulled him sharply towards himself, getting right into Sherlock's face. His breathing was audible even from across the room, the multi functioning camera capturing every flicker of emotion and every sound that crossed their lips.

A vein could be seen pumping in John's temple. A grin was plastered on his face, but it was anything but friendly as the deadly silence and the fire in John's eyes pulled Sherlock into focus, a black hole.

"Do not. Finish. That. Fucking. Sentence. I swear to god Sherlock. If you even spout a single bit of that shit at me, I'll go fucking mad." John was speaking lowly, calmly, and that was more frightening than any kind of shouting that Sherlock could endure. He was pale, and flinched as Johns breath wafted onto him, the sweet scent at odds with the sour taste he could feel creeping into the back of his throat. This was his John, the real John, untamed and unabashed in his anger.

It was glorious for Sherlock to behold now, outside of the event, watching from the future, even though he had been scared at the time. His attention was pulled back as his now lover continued.

"You think I don't know that caring is a disadvantage? You think that I don't realise that? Every time I look at you, I'm reminded of that fact. Every single time. And you know what? I can't do a single fucking thing about it. I WOULD DIE FOR YOU! Hmm?! I was READY to die for you. Why didn't you just run while you had the chance, huh? You stupid-"

John looked away panting deeply and clutching at Sherlock's wrist like a lifeline. The taller man, still shocked, managed to twist it so he could grab John's arm in return, a crushing grip that spoke volumes.

A closed circuit. An unstable equilibrium.

"Because… because, John. I find myself compromised."