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Not a great deal brings him as much... pleasure... as John rightfully worrying. Over Sherlock.
"Remove. yourself. from. THAT. contraption."
"Yes, alright," Sherlock sighs, on his feet after unhooking the chin-strap. Behind him, an discarded electrical-current loosens.
The odour of burnt hardwood...
"...yes," Sherlock repeats dully, getting gripped. John's hands steadying. Which may be useful. Sherlock's mind moves erratically.
(Shock? Shock, yes—no, no, not electrical shock. The other kind.)
"What the hell was that? Sherlock?" John pesters him, doing so kindly. As kindly as he understands John Watson can. Not far off, an alarm. Only another some seconds before the Central London police barge in. "Sherlock, you answer me right this moment, damn you."
"That was..." Sherlock lets his mouth hang open, a bit breathless. "Unfortunate," he concludes. "That could have been very unfortunate."
"You're babbling, Sherlock."
"Well, I dare say, you have indeed met me."
"It's different this time. You're shaking like mad as well."
"Ah... yes." Sherlock finally notices, his own hands hovering over John's. "Yes. I see. Brilliant deduction made."
John grunts, resisting an eye-roll while digging fingers into Sherlock's trench-coat and leading. "Oi, shut it. We need to go. Now."
Yes...
The game's still on...