Animum debes mutare, non caelum

Two days after arriving in London he first spotted a camera. His mind had instantly flown back to that dull hour whiled away in Mycroft’s office, crumbling biscuits on the Chesterfield and leafing through Mr Boothby’s tedious prose lauding the merits of surveillance. Behind each of those cameras he imagines Mycroft with his eye fixed to the lens in a perpetual search for Sherlock’s face amidst the seething cesspool of humanity spilling across London’s streets day in day out