Sherlock grabs John's head with both hands. There is no time to lose. He must help John access the symbols before they disappear from his goldfish-like memory. If it's not already too late. (Is grabbing him by the head going to help?) (Presumably—or else why would he have grabbed him by the head?) (He must have learned from somewhere that this helps with memory, and then deleted the source.)

"Hey, Sherlock, what are you doing?"

There's no time to explain. (Not that he would, generally.) (Unless perhaps to elicit a Brilliant.) "Shh, John, concentrate. I need you to concentrate. Close your eyes."

John protests. Perhaps the head grabbing is more distracting than useful. He drops his hands to John's upper arms.

"What are you doing?" John is too busy being confused. Need him to concentrate. (Maintain grasp on arms and spin him around. Distract him from now and try to transport to then.)

"I need you to maximize your visual memory. Try to picture what you saw. Can you picture it?" Don't be distracted by John's eyes. Help John remember. (Why are his eyes distracting?)

"Yeah."

"Can you remember it?" Words waste precious time. Memory too fleeting. Need direct mental link. (With John only.)

"Yes, definitely." Overconfidence. Sherlock knows John's memory. Has tested it by moving John's items in the kitchen and observing signs of surprise. (Or lack thereof.) John's memory is not that good.

"Can you remember the pattern?"

"Yes!"

Not being specific enough, if John thinks yes. Grip him tighter in frustration. "How much can you remember it?"

"Well, don't worry!" But he is worried. John's memory is limited and it degrades with every word that must travel through the air between them. Speech processing efforts only distract further. Language! Sherlock wants to shout, throw things, at the inefficiency.

To be kind to John, he neither shouts nor throws things. (Generous. John makes him more patient.) He cuts John off and tries to explain a portion of his frustration. "Because the average human memory on visual matters is only sixty-two percent accurate."

"Yeah, well, don't worry—I remember all of it."

"Really?" He's disappointed in John for making this claim, especially in the face of the irrefutable fact that Sherlock just presented. Skepticism floods his voice.

John pulls himself free, still talking, reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone, proudly presenting an image of the wall.

A photograph. Didn't think of that! (Why not?) John is not always predictable.

Sherlock fights off a powerful urge to grab John by the head again, pull him in, and push their lips together. (Doesn't sound like something that should be pleasant.) (But somehow still appealing.) What if he did, in this moment? What would John do?


He imagines the muffled grunt of surprise. Imagines the warmth of his mouth. Imagines his tentative tongue. —Imagines him pulling away in horror and stalking off.

No.

The likelihood of positive reception is far too low. John said no, that first night—he wasn't asking. Hasn't presented evidence that he has changed his mind.

Sherlock settles for the certainty of friendship. (That rare occurrence which has happened to him only once before, briefly, at uni. (And not like this. Never like this.)) He takes the physical aspect of his attraction and shuts it off. (At least: boxes it, ignores it.)

He reaches for the phone only, though his eyes linger on John.