Wednesday

Come morning, John got up at eight o'clock, had a shower, shaved… Well, you get the idea by now. But that day, when he stepped in his sitting room with their breakfast balancing precariously on a tray, his flatmate was already there. He managed to place the breakfast on the side table between the armchairs, spilling just a small amount of the content of the cups (the saucers were now soaking in coffee, but that was everyday's trifle: he wasn't a waiter after all). He approached his flatmate with a fond smile on his face. It wasn't that Sherlock had passed the night thinking, experimenting or researching on his laptop, even though there had been some of that too, evidently. But the detective had finally succumbed to sleep and there he was, lying on the sofa, completely dressed in his now crumpled black suit, with a trickle of slobber going down his chin, and the trace of auburn stubble on his face. John thought he looked so vulnerable and cute that it was a shame having to waking him up.

"Sherlock", John whispered, a hand on his flatmate's shoulder, patting instead of shaking. "It's half past eight".

The detective grunted and rolled over to face the back of the sofa. Alright, perhaps a bit of shoulder-shaking was in order.

"Coffee and toasts ready, Sherlock! Come on, they will get cold".

Sherlock groaned, and when he finally answered, his voice came muffled by the cushions.

"Leave me alone. I don't have anything to do today. We don't have enough evidence to follow the robberies case, and we don't have any other case at the moment. So until Lestrade comes up with something else, let me sleep or be prepared to provide me with distraction."

"Isn't breakfast enough distraction?"

The answer was another grunt.

John threw in the towel and decided to have breakfast alone. He took his laptop, rebooted it and drank the first sip of delicious hot coffee as he entered his blog. He choked and spat the coffee all over his lap. Sherlock deigned to raise his head from the cushions and turned to look at John. John looked back at him.

"Ninety-one comments on my blog".

Sherlock stood up and came nearer John, stepping over the creaking coffee table, and started to read over his friend's shoulder.

"Another person has uploaded the video again".

"So it seems".

John opened YouTube, and typed 'Sherlock Holmes' in the searcher. The damned video was on top of the results again. He swore, and clicked on it. The now familiar scene began, but both pairs of eyes were fixed on the user name, the views counter and the comments. It was a different user, and the views were 900 and counting: not bad for a video uploaded just a few hours ago. John turned back to look at Sherlock, and was surprised by the manic grin of his flatmate.

"Yesssss…", Sherlock's deep voice rumbled. "Exactly what I needed on a dull day. Give it to me".

John passed him the laptop and ate his breakfast; Sherlock only drank his coffee, too concentrated on whatever he was doing. After a while, the doctor coughed to attract his friend's attention.

"So", he said. "We are denouncing, right?"

Sherlock ignored him. John sighed, cleared the breakfast and went back to his bedroom for a change of clothes. When he came downstairs again, at least he got a mildly surprised look from his friend. John was wearing a tracksuit: given that Sherlock had nothing to do that day, he didn't have anything to do either, so he had decided to go jogging to the park. He waved Sherlock goodbye.

"A bit more conscious of our body now, are we?", grinned the detective.

John shut the door with a bang, blushing.

He ran towards the nearby Regent's park, enjoying the fresh air and smiling every time he crossed another jogger. After a while, he did push-ups and crunches until all his body was aching. He jogged lightly back home, stopping at a Café Nero for a frozen yoghurt, and when he finally arrived home his mood was quite cheerful. He noticed, satisfied, that Sherlock had showered and changed clothes in his absence, and that his mood seemed much better than before, too.

"Well, how was it, then?", he asked. "Have you denounced the vid?"

Sherlock smirked.

"Oh, I have done more than that! I have denounced the user, I have left comments in all the other videos they have uploaded, I have found the original porn video they used to make the manip, and contacted the producers to let them know the use it's being given to their video. And", here Sherlock made a dramatic pause, his smirk turning into a true smile when he finally made eye contact with his friend, "you've got exactly ten minutes to have a shower. Lestrade has texted, another break-in! I've told him we would be there at one o'clock: that's in thirty minutes. What are you doing still here? Go and get ready! You can't accompany me to a crime scene in a sweated tracksuit!"

John almost ran to the bathroom, feeling his flatmate's gleaming joy spreading through him.

Exactly thirty minutes later, they stepped out the cab and strode towards the new crime scene: an old but luxurious flat in Fleet Street. John had always wondered who might live over those Victorian banks, and there it was: a journalist and a restaurant owner, in their early forties, no kids. John just peeped with envy behind every room, trying to look professional (what kind of professional? He still hadn't found the answer. Was 'consulting detective assistant' an actual job?). Sherlock, meanwhile, examined with his magnifier every little detail of the flat. He clucked his tongue, upset. When he had checked absolutely everything, still frowning, he interviewed the charwoman, who had been the one to discover the robbery a couple of hours ago. John stood a step behind the detective, with his pen and his notebook: not that Sherlock needed any written note, but John felt easier to turn in his 'assistant' persona with something in his hands. While he pretended to listen and take notes, he noticed instead the unusual amount of smirking behind him. He turned, with a glare… only to see that Donovan and the other officer hid their laughs behind their hands and tried to avoid looking him in the eye. But then Donovan glanced… the rest of him, in a very pointed way, and John felt his cheeks hot again.

He reached Sherlock's sleeved and mumbled:

"Sherlock, we have to go. Remember… they are expecting us, we are in a hurry".

The detective raised a brow, half turning to face him, and let the poor nervous cleaner go. John was in part embarrassed, and in part raging, and it was easy to deduce which was the reason. He faced Donovan and his mate while the doctor escaped to the hall and the lift.

"I really hope you two haven't bothered John with that stupid video", he said, showing his teeth, "And, believe me, I will know if you have, and I'll make sure you get as annoyed as John next time we meet".

Donovan raised his chin to answer Sherlock.

"We haven't said anything to your boyfriend, freak. It's not our fault he feels embarrassed, I bet it was your idea to film yourselves… Can't do anything by halves, can you?"

"Only somebody with your tiny brain would mistake that clumsy manip with a real recording, Donovan. But perhaps it will give Anderson some ideas for your next encounter."

Donovan opened her mouth to retort something, really angry now, but Sherlock cut her with a:

"Just leave John out of this!", and a dramatic exit to the hall.

John was waiting for him leaning against the lift, breathing deeply. He looked more composed now.

"You okay?"

John nodded.

"Just let's go home. Please".

The doctor passed the rest of the afternoon cooking; he decided it was what he needed in order to relax, so he googled a couple of recipes and secluded himself at the kitchen until dinner time. When he came out (with a chicken curry, mushroom Tom Yum and a carrot cake), Sherlock just sighed and dropped himself on the chair, helping himself a good ration of every dish.

"You were right on a thing, John: the robberies are an inside job. It's not the security company, though, because there is no link between the two companies involved, and in fact the robberies are costing them a lot of money, so there's no motive, apparent or not. And God, this tastes amazing! Why do we ever eat frozen or precooked food?"

"Because you don't usually allow me two hours to cook dinner, and I'm not usually in the mood to cook?", smiled John.

"We should remedy that".

The conversation turned again to the case: Sherlock hadn't found anything conducting to identify the thieves, and was now investigating the rest of companies that provided any kind of services to the victims. But none of them coincided in all the cases.

Sherlock avoided in purpose to refer to the brief conversation with Donovan, or in fact any mention of the stupid video. John read it between lines, of course, and was glad for it. He managed to settle Sherlock in front of the telly once more, this time letting his friend choose the program. They shouted to the contestants of a silly competition, and then laughed together when the dumbness of the competitors was simply too much for them (and to think that he didn't notice that before Sherlock, thought John).

All in all, not a bad day. John climbed to his bedroom tired but smiling. He rebooted his laptop again before turning his bed lamp off. He checked YouTube: the video had been removed. Efficient and quick YouTube, smiled John, half asleep already. Then he took a final look to his blog, thinking about writing an entry with an explanation. Tomorrow.

He opened his eyes wide, startled: his blog had won 1200 followers since the previous day. And there were more than two hundred comments. He felt suddenly tired and decided that all that mess could be dealt tomorrow. Tomorrow would be fine, yes.

With a little of luck, a nuclear bomb would explode at YouTube headquarters and all the videos hosted would be deleted from the internet. Yes, all kind of things could happen before tomorrow.