steady breaths I

It's not as if you understand him or those things you keep getting popping into your thoughts at the most inappropriate moments, when the two of you laugh at something or there's just another loud and clear word of approval from John. Things happen only because of logical causes, like money, twisted emotions, unfinished things, deeds or, less surprisingly than it used to be to you, sex. The latter, you'll fairly sure, is one of the most common motives and yet, you still haven't got the slightest idea why. Sure, blokes can look good, ladies just as well, but… It's just a term to you. An adjective others use to describe other others. And what's so thrilling in moving against each other, covered in sweat and moaning incoherent words no one really cares about (at least when they're still going and haven't dozed off already in the middle of the action) anyway? You keep finding photos scattered across John's bed, with naked women winking or puckering their pink with cheap lipstick lips and you're not really sure why it bothers you at all.
Or doesn't it?

You're not sure, just as always, what exactly it is, that thing in your chest when you see another of them.  Even though thoughts about the cases (a small Ukrainian syndicate interested in killing off local prostitutes, a few false bomb alarms and a couple of petty thefts) are more important, you still pocket the shots and stare at them long into the night, trying to understand something that perhaps has nothing to do with logic at all.

Nothing interesting happens for at least a week you spend pocketing more and more of the photographs you've never really noticed before until now. They've began to get monotonous and quite boring with each day though because, really, how many different poses a model in a bikini or just with her panties on, can strike? John seems to show a liking towards brunettes, petite and with small breasts which couldn't really fill a hand. B- to C-cup, narrow hips and a girlish, flirtatious smile playing on the corners of lips of each of them. They all look so fake, trying to raise some money to maintain a living in a foreign country, get at least a degree in something or just kill the boredom beside their useless husbands. It all plays in the corners of their bare arms, defiant stares from under too big nerdy glasses  or a sad glint in the eyes despite the cheerful pose. It all seems just as mechanical as you've read. Pull your pants down, the business and then forget about everything until next time.

You've never regretted having no sexual interest whatsoever and to tell the truth, you can't see why the whole idea of not enjoying something as foul and not needed could be seen as freaky or not healthy. Emotions shouldn't get in the way of thinking (but who would be petty and naive enough to think about them while seeing or describing an intercourse, oh c'mon, we're not in pre-school anymore, especially on a crime scene). It all just seems so messy and illogical that you lose your interest over and over while looking at those pictures. They're interesting in "getting to know the other" way rather, than the main purpose they have but you can't say you don't feel intrigued.

You try to find the clues finely shimmering just beneath the surface, drinking tea and going through the recent lists of things Mycroft demanded having your attention onto. Of course, the latter has time, as everything concerning your pompous brother and so you find yourself more often than not  enjoying the quality time with John. It's nothing big and you get occasionally bored, looking steadily at the face in front of you with an unreadable expression. Those photos play a role you can't yet fully grasp but everything has its rhythm, you smile lazily into the silk of your bathrobe.

Everything, even a silly question about sexuality which doesn't interest you at all.