Sherlock pushed him back against the worktop, hands tracing down his back. He could feel the muscle beneath the thin shirt; this one was hot. Young and handsome and totally under Sherlock's spell.
He liked this. It was a chase in itself; a mental race to see how fast you could get them to take their clothes off. He never got attached, everyone knew that, but Sherlock was dashing and Sherlock was witty and Sherlock could do some very clever things with those violinist's fingers. He was irresistible.
Dylan; that was this one's name. He was a university student, 'experimenting'. The tent in the young man's trousers told Sherlock everything he needed to know about Dylan's sexuality. Dylan was smiling into Sherlock's mouth, pulling off Sherlock's coat and letting his snow-cold fingers sneak underneath that infamous purple shirt. Beneath the rushing desire, Dylan did not hear the footsteps coming up the stairs. Sherlock did, of course he did, and he knew what that meant; the approach of the one man truly impervious to Sherlock's charm.
John was, as it happened, not alone. His companion happened to be a pretty girl named Hannah. Hannah was John's girlfriend of three months. He held her hand as they walked up the stairs, knocking tentatively and unlocking the door. Sherlock really didn't care they were about to catch him kissing Dylan- they'd caught him doing a lot worse.
John still looked just as shocked and betrayed every time, still as cross, even as Sherlock greeted him. Dylan had the decency to look a little embarrassed, smiling awkwardly at Hannah. John offered tea, but nobody accepted the offer. There was a long moment of very awkward silence, and Sherlock wondered how soon it would be before Hannah would get too awkward and suggest her and John went somewhere else. Maybe he could snog Dylan a bit more, try and move things along.
He leaned on the worktop and ran a finger down Dylan's spine. He leaned down, whispered something into his ear, nibbled the top of it. Hannah broke.
"Lets… go and sit in the living room." She suggested.
John tore his eyes away from Sherlock's tongue running along the outside of Dylan's ear. The living room wasn't really that separate from the kitchen, and Sherlock felt John watching him as he dipped his fingers under Dylan's waistband. Dylan gasped a little, and then looked guiltily at the couple seated in the living room.
"Should we… go somewhere a bit more private?" Dylan bit his lip.
Sherlock smiled and dragged Dylan by his hand into his bedroom. John watched them go.
"What was that… talk you wanted to have?" John asked Hannah, his gaze lingering on the closed bedroom door.
"I just…" she broke off. John was still watching the closed door. "What's wrong?"
"I'm not homophobic, don't get me wrong, but I don't like seeing Sherlock… you know?"
"I think it lovely he's so… open." Hannah's voice betrayed that she really did not think it was lovely one bit.
"I mean, I'm all for loving who you want," John seemed oblivious to Hannah, still staring at the door, "but something feels… wrong about him, you know…"
"No I don't know." Hannah said crossly. "But I should, the amount you talk about it."
"What do you mean?" John finally turned his attention to his girlfriend.
"You hardly talk about anything else, John, and its tiring."
"I-"
"I don't think this can work when you're so obviously enthralled with Sherlock."
"I'm not gay."
Hannah sighed heavily. "I don't care."
"What?"
"You can be gay, or straight, or anything. I don't care."
"But you're my-"
"Not anymore. I don't want to be part of this… whatever it is, anymore."
"Hannah-"
"John, honestly, I don't care what your excuses are- what your reasoning is. I want out." She reached into her handbag and pulled out a key, handing it to John. "this is over."
John sat back a little stunned.
"Hannah."
"John, please don't make this difficult. We both know I'm right." She stood up, shrugging on a coat.
"Hannah."
"I'm leaving."
"Hannah."
"What."
"I'm sorry… for making you think I liked Sherlock more than you"
"You do."
"I'm not gay."
"There are lots of other words for it John."
He shot her a sad-eyed grin. She returned it dolefully.
"Bye, John."
She let herself out. John sat in silence, pondering, and trying very hard not to listen to the sounds coming from next door.
Eventually Sherlock came out of his bedroom, wearing just a dressing gown. Sherlock poured himself a drink, and plopped down in the chair opposite John. The dressing gown didn't cover anything at that angle.
"How'd you figure out you liked men?" John said finally.
"I kissed one" Sherlock smiled.
There was a long pause and John finally said. "I think I might like men."
"Hannah broke up with you." It wasn't a question.
"Same as last time," John sighed, "I'm obsessed with you, I can't stop talking about you, I'm shagging you behind her back."
"I'll take it as compliment." Sherlock shot him a cocky smile and finished his drink.
"What if I am?" John said finally.
"Well I know one good way to find out." Sherlock stood up, stretching.
"I'm not gay."
"Bisexual, pansexual, bicurious, queer…" Sherlock started prowling back to his bedroom.
"What if I am?" Sherlock paused.
"What if you are?" Sherlock, typical Sherlock, couldn't care less.
John's smile was a little too hopeful. He knew Sherlock was reading John's silence.
"Come here then." Sherlock held out an arm. John stepped nervously closer to his roommate. He could smell sweat and cotton sheets on Sherlock's exposed collarbone. He was practically naked, just the thin dressing gown draped over his lanky frame. Somehow he still had all the power.
His lips were warm, soft. It wasn't like kissing Hannah; it was rougher and stonger and Sherlock cradling him instead of him cradling Hannah. It wasn't better, but it was different and it was good.
John kissed him and kissed him again and Sherlock pushed him back against a wall and John's breath hitched and when they came up for air Sherlock smiled down at his flatmate.
"If it makes you feel any better," Sherlock smirked. "You hold record time for resisting."
"Just when I thought you cared." John sighed, ducking under Sherlock's arm.
"Who says I didn't." Sherlock's grin flashed as he closed the door of his bedroom.
So much for straight, then.