John stared openmouthed, at his girlfriend. Well former girlfriend now, he had thought things were going great. She had even almost gotten along with Sherlock.
After another few moments, he sighed and wiped his hand over his face.
"It's Sherlock, isn't it?" he said, indicating the door that led to the consulting detective's bedroom where Sherlock had passed out from exhaustion a few hours before.
"In a way," Rebecca said, smiling softly.
"But you never minded before," John argued. "You said that, with our work being as it is, you understood why I always have to be "on-call" with Sherlock-"
"And I do!" she said, cutting him off as she leant forward and gripped his arm reassuringly. "I'd love to keep seeing you, John, but just as friends. In any other capacity I'd just feel like I was getting in the way."
John's forehead scrunched up in confusion. "In the wa- I'm not gay!" John said, interrupting himself.
Rebecca chuckled, pulling her hand back into her lap. "I've seen the way he looks at you, John. And you never look more alive, more happy, than when you're talking about him and your adventures. Even when you are complaining about him."
"But I've never- I'm not- He's..." John trailed off as he caught her eye and noticed the way she had her eyebrows quirked at him.
Sure, he cared about Sherlock, deeply even, the man was his best friend, of course he cared. And so what if sometimes Sherlock cuddled up with him on the sofa during particularly cold nights of watching crap telly, that was just for warmth. Wasn't it? Then there was that case not too long ago when they went undercover to observe a suspect who worked as a bartender at a gay bar... John had gone up and possessively kissed a panicking Sherlock, who was being cornered by a rather tipsy, rather large, man.
John had just meant the gesture as a rescue attempt, but Sherlock's lips had been unexpectedly soft. And welcoming. And John realized just how often he'd thought about doing it again.
What was that river in Egypt called?
"John," Rebecca called his name, gently pulling him back to the present.
John looked up at her, confused and uncertain. "But I'm not-" he mumbled, with far less conviction than before.
"And even if I..." John made a vague hand gesture in the air, "Sherlock is asexual or something."
"With those jealous looks he's been sending my way? And those lustful looks he's been sending yours?" Rebecca laughed, "Sherlock is definitely not asexual. And you, John, you may not be homosexual, but you are Sherlock-sexual."
John blushed at that, "How did you- I didn't even-"
"Sometimes the two people who are in love are the last people to realize it," Rebecca said sagely.
"John?" came the muffled call of a groggy consulting detective.
Rebecca squeezed John's hand and smiled, "I hope to see you both again soon."
John watched her, still processing everything that had just happened, as she stood and tugged on her coat.
As she reached the door, she turned back.
"Go get 'im, tiger," she grinned and, with a wink, she was gone.
"John!" Sherlock shouted.
The doctor blinked and a crooked smile, that could only be described as sappy, blossomed across his face.
"Coming, Sherlock!"