John sighed and stretched, testing his shoulder. It was aching just enough to be annoying and make it hard to concentrate on his book.
Without looking up from his laptop, Sherlock asked, "Would you like a massage, John. I could give you one."
The doctor blinked. Sherlock giving him a massage was an incredibly bad idea. "Ah, no thanks, but it's kind of you to offer."
"Mm," Sherlock agreed. "It wasn't the wife, I'm convinced of it. Mrs. Cunningham loved her husband despite the fact she was having an affair. It wasn't her lover, Ericsson, either. He respected her husband and thought of him as a friend. So..." The detective's voice drifted off as he continued his research.
John shrugged, glad that the topic had been dropped. He returned to his book, determined to read for a bit and forget the ache in his shoulder.
Just over forty five minutes later, Sherlock asked a single question, "Why?"
"Isn't figuring out the murder motive your job?" John stood and went to put on the kettle. He felt chilled and thought tea would be just the thing to warm him. "Tea?" the doctor gave a start when he turned around to find Sherlock standing mere inches from him. "Bloody hell, Sherlock!"
"Why don't you want me to give you a massage?" the detective demanded. "I assure you that just because I'm gay doesn't mean I would follow it up by mollesting you."
John glared at him. "Contrary to what you may believe, I don't walk around expecting to be mollested by every gay man or straight woman I come in contact with. Could you possibly be more insulting?"
"Then why, Doctor Watson?"
Feeling a sense of resignation, John decided to be perfectly honest and blunt about it. "I would get aroused. I commonly use massages as foreplay, both giving and receiving. Now, move, so I can get the mugs." He finished making tea and shoved a mug into Sherlock's hands before resuming his seat and his reading. When the detective went back to his computer and resumed his research, John gave a sigh of relief.
At two in the morning, John let out a sleepy groan. He knew, he just knew, that Sherlock was standing in his doorway. Cracking one eye open, the doctor confirmed his suspicion. "Go away, Sherlock. I'm asleep."
"No, you're not. You haven't been. Your shoulder is hurting too much. It was Ericsson's twenty three year old son." Sherlock stepped all the way into the room and sat on John's bed. "He thought it would make his father happy. Ericsson would be free to marry Mrs. Cunningham."
John rubbed his hands across his eyes. "Hmm, great. You can tell me about it in the morning." He rolled away from the door, hissing as his shoulder gave a sharp, insistent pang.
Reaching out, Sherlock placed his hand on John's shoulder. "You are being ridiculous. Your shoulder hurts. The pain medication hasn't helped enough for you to fall asleep. I'm an intelligent individual, as you know. I am aware that you're straight. Should you become aroused, I am more than capable of ignoring it."
John let out a sigh of frustration. "Look. That's not entirely true. I'm not so much straight as, well, I guess I'm bi. So, yeah the whole arousal thing. I'd like to skip it."
Sherlock jerked his hand back like it had been burned. "No. That's completely unacceptable. You can't be bi. I forbid it, so stop it right now."
Rolling over, the doctor glared at Sherlock. "What the fuck, Sherlock? It's alright for you to be gay, but I can't be bi? You are such a hypocrite. You know what? We're not talking about this. If we do, I'm going to punch you. So get out!"
With a sniff, the detective rose from John's bed. "We will talk about this when you have your ridiculous emotions under control." Before the doctor could make a reply, Sherlock swept from the room, slamming the door behind him.
Well, there it was. John had told Sherlock he was bi and everything had gone straight to hell, albeit for completely different reasons than he had expected. Had his flatmate got all jittery and said he was married to his work and they couldn't be flatmates anymore, John wouldn't have been surprised, but this judgemental reaction? Where the bloody hell did Sherlock get off?
John took out his anger by punching his pillow. Considering how badly his shoulder was hurting, it hadn't been the smartest move. He hissed in pain. Somehow, it had to be Sherlock's fault. Sherlock Bloody Holmes, arse extraordinaire. Hopefully he'd calm down enough before morning not to punch the arse, because if he started, he might not stop.
The next morning, John made tea, that's what he did, make tea and fix breakfast, but hell could freeze over before he made anything for Sherlock. To think, this time yesterday he had been pining for the man. The greater fool, he.
Sherlock came swanning through the kitchen and into the living room. He went straight for his laptop without so much as a 'morning'.
Fine, John could play it that way. He took his tea and his egg sandwich into the living room and sat down. Grabbing the remote, he turned on the telly and looked for the most inane, annoying program he could find.
As time passed without a single word from Sherlock, John grew angrier and angrier until, finally, he thought he would burst. "So, what? Are you one of those people who don't believe in bisexuality? 'They should have to choose one or the other.' Is that it?"
"Don't be absurd." The detective closed his laptop and fixed John with an icy glare. "I have put up with your girlfriends..."
The doctor snorted. "Bollocks."
"I have put up with your girlfriends as best I could, even the most boring and bland. I had too. It wasn't like I had the physical attributes required to compete. Men are an entirely different matter." Sherlock looked down at his hands, his voice going hard.
Too hard? John wondered. He recognised the tone as the detective's defensive one.
"I'll not put up with you shagging some insipid man you picked up at a bar. It would... be too much. If you're going to start doing that, I'll have to ask you to find another place to live." Now, Sherlock looked up to see how his words had been received.
John swallowed. His heart was beating madly and he was feeling light headed. Had Sherlock just... Was Sherlock saying... "By too much, do you mean it would hurt?" The doctor found himself smiling as Sherlock rolled his eyes."
"If you insist on stating it in such a fashion, yes." The detective crossed his arms and looked away.
"Look," John leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Just because I've finally acknowledged that I'm bi, doesn't mean I'm going to go out and play the field. There's actually only one man I'm interested in that way."
"Don't tell me his name. I might decide to kill him." Sherlock's flat tone let the doctor know he wasn't kidding.
"I think not." The doctor's face broke into a ridiculous grin. He could have danced, sang, jumped and shouted out loud with joy. Sherlock hadn't suddenly become an even greater arse than he normally was, he was jealous, wonderfully, violently jealous. "It's someone you know." John waited for the storm clouds to settle properly on the detective's face. "Look in the mirror, you git."
John lived for moments like this when Sherlock's face went blank and his mind ever so obviously ground to a halt. This time was even better, because when the detective's brain came back online, a lopsided smile lit up his face. The doctor chuckled. "Do I still have to move out?" he asked in a teasing tone.
"Of course not, don't be dull." Sherlock had jumped up off the couch and crossed the room. "Stand up," he ordered.
Doing as instructed, John stood. He was immediately pulled into a desperate kiss. It felt better than he had imagined it would. When the kiss broke, they looked at each other with matching expressions of pleased wonder.
"You will, however, be relocating your things to the downstairs bedroom." Sherlock sounded matter of fact. "It only makes sense."
John grinned up at him. "Obviously."