"You're sick!" John's words hurt more than he wanted to allow them to, "You keep child-pornography of the worst kind in a book and expect me to turn a blind eye. No, Sherlock. You cannot seriously expect that. These pictures will go. Or I will."
"John!" Sherlock pleaded, "Please, give them back."
"What are you so scared of – oh," John flipped through the pictures and Sherlock gave a helpless croak, "Don't tell me it's you in these –!" He doubted the younger man's words, yet he refused to believe Sherlock capable of rape. Partly relieved he looked at the other again. He had found no images of the familiar face.
"You're pathetic," John had never imagined himself saying this to Sherlock.
Sherlock shivered, one big tear rolling down his cheek while John shook his head and stomped towards the door, "Just look, John. Look."
"WHY? Do you want me to like them? To get off on them. 'cause for all I know you might. I have looked. It makes me sick. So what do you want me to see?"
Sherlock gulped and finally brought his hand round his ankle. He was in pain, and he was very, very angry, "Fine, John, go. Do what you must," He pushed himself up and stood uncertainly. Then he limped over to his bedroom, "I may be heartless. Cold and cruel. But I'm also that child."