[AN: I wondered what 21st century Sherlock and John would think of living in the Victorian era. This is the result. It surprised me by turning all angsty toward the end, but I'm still pretty proud of it. =) ]

"Why does everyone think we're gay?" John burst out as they had left the pub. "I mean, it isn't like they even know us!"

Sherlock, moving to walk between John and the busy street, said nothing. The bartender (a man of little importance) had asked him how long he and John had been together, sparking a subtle annoyance in the veteran that only grew as he attempted to drown it in beer. Four and a half glasses and one hour later, John was swaying slightly and in the mood for a good rant.
"Is it because we use each other's first names?" He asked loudly, startling passerby. "Because we live together? Because that's pretty damn normal!"
Sherlock got to the curb and grabbed John's arm before the man stumbled off it. John didn't seem to notice and kept on with his speech.
"We're friends! It's what friends do!" He said, making a face.
Sherlock kept his hand on John's arm and hailed a cab. His swaying friend was quiet for a moment, gazing blearily out at the traffic. The detective gently pushed John into the back of the cab and sat beside him. He gave their address to the cabbie and they were off.
John watched all this interestingly (if a bit unsteadily) before launching back into his rant. "I'mn, I like you, Sherlock! You're my mate. That's all. Why do they... Eh. Who cares, anyway?"
Suddenly there was a pressure on Sherlock's shoulder. He looked over to see that the man was leaning on him. The contact was strange but not uncomfortable, so he let it be.
"God, Sherlock." John continued in a quieter voice. "Aren't you glad that we aren't living in the Victorian times? All it would take is a few people thinking we're gay and BAM!" John threw up his arms for emphasis, causing Sherlock to jump and almost dislodge John from his shoulder. "Smack-dab in prison."
Sherlock didn't answer, choosing instead to focus on the cabbie's driving. He was a bit uneasy in cabs of late and this one was weaving hectically through the crowded London streets. He felt John sigh and settle against him.
"I don't want us in prison, Sherlock." He said, before drifting to sleep.

Soon they pulled in front of 221B. Sherlock paid the cabbie, hauled John out as carefully as he could, and helped his staggering friend into the house. They made it up the stairs and John collapsed onto his bed. Sherlock pulled off John's shoes and coat and got him under the covers.
"Thanks, Sh'lock." John muttered. "You're my best mate, you know that. An' I don't care what anyone thinks about it."
This brought a faint smile to Sherlock's lips. "You're drunk, John. Go to sleep."
"Drunk?" John asked loudly, attempting to sit up on his elbows. "I'm wasted!" He flopped back down and giggled softly.
Sherlock rolled his eyes and pulled the blankets over his flatmate's shoulders, then straightened and turned to leave.
"Love you, Sherlock." John said from the bed.
He froze for a moment, then turned back to John's now-sleeping form. He closed the door behind him, leaned against the wall, and put his head in his hands. "I love you too, John. I love you too." He said softly.
He was thankful that they were no longer in the 1800's.