Disclaimer: Not mine, yada yada.

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"You know, when we first moved in here, you never corrected her."

Sherlock didn't even look up. "Sorry?" All John could see was a section of wild Sherlock-hair sticking out from above the laptop—his laptop!—that Sherlock was hunched over, and all he'd been hearing for the past few hours were the sporadic sounds of Sherlock's fingers hitting the keys, silence, tapping and muttering, and, occasionally, an episode of furious clicking, as if Sherlock was launching an assault on John's keyboard with renewed vigor.

"When we first moved in here, Mrs. Hudson—she assumed we'd only be needing one bedroom. Why didn't you, ah, you know—"

"Convince her of our heterosexuality?" Sherlock's eyes appeared above the laptop and met John's across the coffee table. My God, he actually looked up. "Well, that would be a pointless endeavor on my part, seeing as how I am, in fact, homosexual—we established that at Angelo's, did we not?—and as for you, John, I have never leapt to help you defend your supposed heterosexuality, due to the simple fact that I would never have been able to get a word in edgewise. You have always seemed more than capable of defending yourself in this regard." Was he imagining it, or was Sherlock smirking? "Now, seeing as how you've been glancing back and forth between me and your feet for the past two or so hours, opening and closing your mouth—not to mention rubbing the back of your neck, you do that when you're nervous—either my orientation is not 'all fine,' as you have reassured me, or you have something to tell me."

John was at a loss for words. "I—I…what?"

Sherlock sighed and snapped the laptop shut. "You're remarkably touchy on this issue, John, yet you keep bringing it up. So, either you've got a problem with me and my orientation, or you're struggling with yours yourself." Sherlock cocked his head to one side, eyes curious. "And as you know, reading human emotions is not my fortê—so I honestly can't tell which it is."

"I am NOT…gay!" spluttered John.

Sherlock shrugged. "I'm not necessarily implying that you're gay; there's a whole spectrum you know. You could be gay, pansexual, bisexual, bi-curious—"

"No. No, no, no. I'm not…any of those things, I—I don't know how you came to that conclusion, Sherlock, but you're wrong. Really, really wrong."

"Am I?" John fully expected Sherlock to point out that his deductions were infallible, but instead he said quietly: "I still think—and tell me if I'm mistaken—but, that night at Angelo's…" Sherlock's eyes were unreadable, but for the briefest of seconds there was a flash of…something…across his face. Pain? Annoyance? "…I haven't been able to get it out of my head. What exactly were you asking me, John?"

Why the hell was he bringing that up? "I was NOT asking you out. I thought you understood—God, Sherlock!" John huffed, agitated. "I don't know what you're playing at. You can't just sit here and inform me that I'm gay! You! You, of all people! What do you know about sexuality? Hell, what do you even know about love? Oh no, you're not gay; you haven't loved anyone in your life—you're not capable of it! I'm not going to sit here and be lectured by a sociopath, a sociopath who's trying to convince me that we're both cock-sucking fags!"

He stood up and left, slamming the door behind him.

—

John didn't know where he was going, he'd forgotten even to grab a coat, and though it was only the beginning of October, the sun had long set and it was cold. He stumbled down the steps, cursing when he almost landed flat on his face. Stopping by the nearest streetlamp, he stood for a moment and considered his options. Immediately Sarah's crossed his mind. He was reluctant, though—what if Sarah asked him what was the matter? He was clearly upset, and he didn't really feel like explaining to her: 'Oh, well, today my flatmate tried to convince me that I'm gay.'

His only other options were Harry or Mycroft, though.

Bugger.

—

Sarah looked a bit groggy and confused, but not too annoyed. After John told her that he and Sherlock had had another fight—"You two seem to do that an awful lot," she had said amusedly—she made a cup of tea and brought him a pillow and a blanket for the couch. They stayed up and talked for a bit—not about Sherlock, obviously, John made sure to keep the conversation steered well away from Sherlock—and then John was left alone, watching the fan on the ceiling whir in slow circles.

It took a tremendous amount of willpower—more than he'd like to admit—not to think of Sherlock in the few minutes before he drifted off to sleep.

—

Waking up with his face pressed into the semi-familiar pattern of the couch cushions, the first thought that crossed John's mind was: Sarah's. I'm at Sarah's. What did Sherlock and I fall out about now?

Then: Oh, fuck.

It was all laid before him now with unbearable clarity—how quiet Sherlock's voice had gotten when he had asked him about Angelo's, the insults he had hurled at him in return, the look on Sherlock's face when he had called him a—

I am such a bloody idiot.

He was halfway out the door when he realized he had put Sarah's slippers on. Muttering curse words under his breath, he managed to locate his own shoes and was out the door with a quick shout of: "Got to go!" aimed in the general direction of the stairs.

I'm an idiot I'm an idiot I'm an idiot I'm an idiot

"I'm an idiot." John didn't bother with knocking or any other preliminaries, just marched right into the living room and addressed Sherlock directly. Well, more like addressed the top of Sherlock's head directly. Sherlock was exactly as he'd left him yesterday, sitting on the couch, intently hunched over John's laptop. He didn't look up when John entered, didn't show any signs that he heard him. Had he even moved at all since yesterday?

"I'm sorry. For everything. All the stupid things I said." John continued to address the top of Sherlock's head. "You were right. Not about the—you know, me being gay and all—but, about the…well, me being a homophobic arse. There's no excuse for my behavior; I shouldn't have called you a sociopath, I shouldn't have used the words…" John winced, and Sherlock finally looked up at him. Taking a deep breath, he continued: "I shouldn't have used the words 'cock-sucker' and 'fag'—not to describe you, not to describe anyone. I—I believe you that you're gay, and by the way, you're not a sociopath, even though you say you are, and I've said you are—I've seen you display emotion, and I think…I know you're capable of love, I just think your gigantic brain trips you up sometimes, but that doesn't matter, you're brilliant, and your being gay doesn't matter either, I—" John stopped, blinking. "I think I've lost what I was trying to say." Sherlock was smiling.

"Anyway, uh, point is, I won't ever call you those names again, and…if you, er, ever need someone to talk to about…you know, anything you've gone through or are going through, I promise I won't judge, and…I'm here, I won't…last night won't happen. Ever again. Ok?"

"Apology accepted." Sherlock stood up and handed John back his laptop, a rare gesture-when he was done with it, he usually just tossed it into the nearest pile of assorted objects. He headed towards the kitchen.

"We're going out for breakfast." John wasn't sure where the words came from. But oh well, too late now. Besides, Sherlock took such atrocious care of himself, he probably hadn't eaten in days.

"Are we?" Sherlock's head popped around the corner. "Good, there's nothing in the fridge, and I haven't eaten in—"

"Days? Weeks, maybe?" John guessed. "Yeah, I figured. I don't suppose if I lecture you again about the importance of taking care of your body, you'll actually listen this time?"

"Nope." Sherlock stuck his arm under the couch and waved it back and forth, evidently hoping to find his shoes. "Where are we going?"

"L'Eto. They have those good apple—"

"—crêpes, I know. Good choice."

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

"Your shoes." John pointed to a pile of…something…near the fireplace, under which Sherlock's oxfords could be seen poking out.

"Ah. Thank you." Sherlock had them on, laced, and was out the door before John could so much as blink.

"Sherlock! Wait up!"

John muttered something under his breath before dashing out. He didn't put it past Sherlock to eat all the crêpes.

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Please review! Next chapter up soon. Let me know if I'm getting any major terms/places/details wrong, I'm American! XD