"Father?" Sherlock went quiet.
John waited. Sometimes Sherlock would answer a question hours after he asked it, but as though he had only just been asked a second before. But this time Sherlock considered, and after only a few moments' thought, began, in a strangely flat voice.
"Mummy….. said… he was sick. When she met him, she said, he had some kind of infection and a fever. She only knew him for two weeks. He was assigned by the Civil Service to protect her during the 1978 crisis. He… was new, she said, he and his friend. And then… she said he was sick, and one night he went out of his mind and…. raped her. But… the funny thing was…she never reported it. She didn't blame him. She said, he had no control, and… she knew what was in his mind."
Sherlock went quiet, then continued, "He was mad, or sick, or something. He had a friend, a blonde man, I guess a bit like you, John. She didn't get a photo of them, but Mummy can draw. She drew sketches of him and his friend. But she said a few odd things."
"Like what?" John was intrigued. So Sherlock's father was a mystery? No wonder Sherlock was so intrigued by mysteries.
"She said," Sherlock hesitated and looked up at John, "That he was so ill that his fever was fifty-two degrees, and that the infection in his blood was so bad, that he cut himself one day and he… bled green."
"What?" breathed John. He had never heard of an infection quite that bad.
"And she said… when he touched her it was like she was two people."
John shook his head, frowning, "That's too weird, Sherlock."
"Isn't it?" agreed Sherlock, "Mycroft decided she was mad, and took her along to a psychiatrist when he was twenty-three. That's what he did that upset her."
"What did the psychiatrist say?"
"Depends on who you ask, Mycroft or Mummy," smiled Sherlock.
"We'll start with Mycroft, I know Mycroft," suggested John.
"Mycroft said the psychiatrist said, 'Your mother is the sanest, smartest woman I have ever interviewed'," smiled Sherlock. "Mycroft wasn't too happy about that. Thought she'd managed to pull the wool over his eyes, charm him or something."
"And what did she say?"
"She told Mycroft, 'if something sounds unlikely or unbelievable, you examine the credibility of the source', and she also told him that he should have hired a smarter psychiatrist," Sherlock's smile was soft.
"Do you have anything to do with her?"
"No, we have to be careful. Mycroft and I, you know…" Sherlock looked out at John with a strange look, "We're not really supposed to exist."
"What, so…?"
"Illegitimate," finished Sherlock, hanging his head.
John was quiet for a moment and said, "Doesn't really matter, these days."
Sherlock looked at him, and sighed, "Does to them. Mummy's family tends to… live in the past a little."
"I see," John looked thoughtful, "So that's why Mycroft was so upset with you when you started solving all those high profile cases?"
"Yes. Notoriety. Not good form."
"Ah. So, what happened to your father, then?"
"He disappeared after two weeks, Mummy never saw him or his friend again," Sherlock changed the subject, "What about your parents, John? What are they like?"
John smiled, and said, "Reciprocity. You're learning."
"I'm not stupid," it came across a bit snippy, but John smiled.
"The fact that I got you to say that at all…" John grinned.
"Oh, shut up," grumbled Sherlock.
"My parents…." sighed John, "Well, Dad's fine, but my mother was very put out by all this business with Harry. I think Dad thought it was a bit of a lark, actually."
Sherlock grinned, then looked thoughtful, "What did you think of it?"
"Didn't, at first. Didn't know. Then when I did find out it was through my mother, and she was obviously so upset by it…. I didn't really know what to make of it. Still don't."
"What's to figure out? She's gay."
"Is she?"
"Well, John, she married a woman. She's either gay, or spectacularly in error."
John chuckled, "Well…"
"It bothers you still?"
"Of course it does. One minute she'd found herself, found her soulmate, and was blissfully happy, the next she was divorced and hitting the bottle like there was no tomorrow. I hardly had time to blink. Besides, I missed most of it, I was in Afghanistan at the time. Thank God."
Sherlock's eyes narrowed, "So what do you think happened, really?"
"Oh, I don't know, Sherlock. Harry's always been pretty self-contained, like me."
Sherlock's head tilted and he looked curious, so John went on, "They didn't live together before they got married, and I think Clara was expecting something else entirely. Sort of a sentimental, mushy variation of the Harry she knew. She didn't get it, and started making demands, and Harry clammed up, withdrew."
"Withdrew into a bottle."
"Unfortunately, yes."
"You don't drink much."
"Of course not. I've seen what it can do."
"Oh, yes, of course. So, back to Harriet, is she gay and reclusive? Not gay? Has she decided?"
"Well, she's stopped drinking."
"And?"
"I think she's… gay. Just doesn't tend to get attached easily to either gender, that's all."
"How like her brother."
John looked up at Sherlock sharply, and growled unhappily, "I'm not gay."
"No, of course not, John."
"Sherlock…" the tone was warning.
"No, but you do not attach easily to people, except of course to m-"
Sherlock stopped suddenly, realising what he was saying and deciding belatedly that it might be another of those 'not good' things. He swung his eyes up to meet John's.
"Well," John's voice was a little rough, "I guess you have a point. Mycroft said I was 'very loyal, very quickly.' Maybe there's something more to us than meets the eye."
"I should hope so," said Sherlock archly, "Else we should be very dull."
John laughed, "I don't know, Sherlock. I did offer."
"You did, didn't you. If I had known then that it was not the kind of offer you commonly make, I might have given it greater consideration," mused Sherlock.
"Really?" asked John, "And what conclusion would you have come to?"
"Surely you don't want me to deduce whether you're gay or not, John? That could be rather embarrassing for you."
"Oh, no, by all means, do go on. I'd love to hear your deductive reasoning skills applied to my gayness or otherwise." John grinned crookedly.
"Are you sure?"
"Wouldn't miss it for quids," smiled John, settling in his seat a little more comfortably and looking a lot more confident than Sherlock thought he should.
"Very well, then….." Sherlock hesitated, and looked over his friend. He steepled his fingers and began.
"When I first met you, you were looking for a flatmate. You are thirty-nine years old with no wife or children, yet you are a doctor, a profession traditionally valued highly by women seeking marriage. This means you could easily have married, but did not. Rather than lead a quiet, peaceful bachelor existence, though, you chose to go to war. Perhaps there was something in your nature that you found repulsive, something that you didn't think should be handed down genetically to your children, something even that you felt subconsciously that you should be shot for. Given that your family had a track record of reasonable acceptance of homosexual tendencies, leading to Harriet being confident enough in her sexuality to openly marry a woman, however badly that went, I doubt that merely being gay would have caused you such angst. So, what could the problem be?"
"It's obviously not cowardice, or drinking, or drugs: I have lived with you long enough to observe if any of the above would cause you problems. You don't seem to have any other bad habits. You don't even access pornography on your computer," he held up a hand to quell John's indignant retort and added, "I would know."
"You don't have any trouble relating to other people, you have managed to start several relationships with women since I have known you, in fact four in the last three months. Ah. There's a clue. You have had four relationships with women fail in the last few months… is it possible that whilst sexually attracted to women, you do not see them as long-term partners? You are repulsed by gay men, I saw that plainly in your curled lips and body language upon meeting Moriarty and the proprietors of the Grimpen Vegetarian restaurant. Much as you try to hide it for reasons of wishing to appear tolerant, perhaps inculculcated in you by your parents who were anxious to protect Harriet from any whiff of homophobia, you do not like gay men. And yet… you like me."
"Why? Because I am dangerous, intelligent, different. Because I drag you out of your mundane existence and pull you into a world of intrigue, murder, serial killers and intellectual challenges. Is it possible, John, that your main problem is that you are… easily bored?"
John frowned, and Sherlock went on, "Which would fit with your lack of interest in marriage and children and all the mundane things that entails, also would fit with your lack of ability to maintain a fascination with your transient female companions…. so…. 'easily bored.' Ah, so that is why you offered a relationship with me at first, then changed your mind. To have a sexual relationship with a man would be very intriguing for you, since you are not gay. But then when you realised that your affection for me had increased, and mine for you, you realised that to sleep together would simply turn us into a platitude, and our relationship to date into… foreplay. Foreplay is boring, eh?"
John was staring at Sherlock, and said with an annoyed look, "There are days I hate you."
"And there are days you love me," grinned Sherlock. The sudden silence that fell after that sentence surprised them both. Eventually John coughed, "Well, it sounds like you've got me sorted. You don't need me here now."
He stood up, rather abruptly, and made a beeline for the door. Sherlock walked quickly after him and stopped him, and said, "Sorry."
"Don't be. I asked for it."
"No I…. " Sherlock sighed, exasperated, and added, "John, I meant what I said."
"What, that I'm an insensitive, easily bored prick who uses women and is only interested in you because it might alleviate my boredom? I'm sure you did mean that Sherlock. Question is, did you have the right gay man? Or were we talking about you, there?
Sherlock grabbed John's head in both hands and pulled it to him, suddenly saying, "And I said you loved me."
John looked up at him.
Sherlock said in a hushed voice, "And you didn't deny it. The truth hurts, John."
"Alright, yes, it does. It bloody-well does," groaned John, "Especially when I have no idea how you feel about me."
"Oh, didn't I tell you?" asked Sherlock, sounding genuinely surprised.
"No," grated out John, "You never have."
"Ah. Better to show, than tell, I suppose," said Sherlock very softly, and leaned down to kiss him. John did not resist, although he had a strong feeling that he should. But then he felt the breath leave his body in a rush and all his nerves come afire, and he realised that he would not be resisting anything at all that Sherlock did.