Great boyfriend

'Somebody once told me that I was a great boyfriend,' John muses. It hadn't exactly been a compliment, though in a strange manner, retroactively speaking, it can be. Not that this makes it an appropriate topic of conversation, on the contrary: the situation he is in right now is already rather shocking and there is really no need to add to the absurdity of it by blurting out unhelpful statements. Fortunately, Sherlock hardly seems to notice. His eyes remain firmly on the screen of his laptop as his fingers fly over the keys.

If John didn't know any better, he would think that his friend does these sorts of things all the time. Except, naturally, he knows that this is emphatically not true. Sherlock has no sex life to speak of. None whatsoever. That makes what happened last night even more baffling. Just as John decides to follow Sherlock's example and behave as if nothing is out of the ordinary, Sherlock glances at him.

'It certainly wasn't me. In my humble opinion, you leave a great deal to be desired,' he bluntly responds, before refocusing his attention on the screen. John gapes. Realising that he must look ridiculous, he carefully closes his mouth. He doesn't quite know where to begin the daunting task of unravelling that comment, so he starts with its most blatant inconsistency.

'Humble,' John repeats, as if never having heard the word before. A scowl appears on his friend's face.

'Don't get excited, John. It's merely an expression.'

'Obviously.'

Sherlock's fingers pause briefly before resuming their rapid symphony. It is only now that John wonders what Sherlock is doing that is so important. Well, important enough not to address certain other things that badly need addressing. This is, in fact, not business as usual for either of them and they should definitely discuss it. Sherlock – perhaps trying to distract John from looking at what he is doing – reluctantly speaks.

'Since you're fishing, I'd say that you are sufficient.'

The distaste is plain in his voice and it is clear that it was difficult for him to get out even this barest of praise. Yet, while a part of him feels a tad insulted, John somehow mostly feels gratified. He does not let this show, though. As he leans forward to sneak a peek at the screen over Sherlock's shoulder, he responds as if actually offended.

'That is the nicest thing you can come up with? Wait, is that my e-mail? Are you reading my e-mail?'

'Your password is far too easy. Really, it's hardly a challenge anymore.'

Of course. Why would Sherlock not be hacking his personal e-mail? Why not, indeed. John quickly ascertains that a new e-mail from his sister has remained unopened and that Sherlock is only reading and answering requests from several people who want them to solve one mystery or another. Mollified, John sinks back into the pillow and instantly questions his sanity. Is this all the privacy he can expect? Yes. Does he mind? Not really. Does this mean that there is something wrong with him? Probably.

'Do you have to sift through cases right now?' he grumbles. The 'right now' sounds particularly ominous. Therefore, after a few seconds, he adds, 'It's Sunday morning.' It's such a non sequitur that it doesn't surprise him when Sherlock counters without looking up.

'So?'

This is the perfect opportunity to broach the subject of their unusual situation. Do it, John thinks. He spends a minute valiantly trying to mention the night before. Instead, he finds himself pathetically resorting to his talking-to-patients voice.

'Well, normal people...'

'Normal people,' Sherlock scoffs, interrupting a sentence that was going nowhere useful anyway.

'Ah, I lost you there,' John mocks. He smiles. Perhaps he is wrong and they don't need to discuss this at all. Come to think of it, he'd rather not. Yes, one can really ruin these types of things by analysing them to death. He discovers that he is relieved.

'How is the behaviour of normal, boring people relevant to our situation? That reminds me; one of your former girlfriends came by yesterday morning. I'm fairly certain it was the one with the eyebrows. Or was it the one with the shrill voice? She was particularly dim-witted, though I admit that this does not significantly narrow down the field. I distinctly remember...'

Sherlock continues to sum up more unflattering characteristics of possible candidates, but John isn't listening. This is rubbish. Sherlock has an exceptional memory. For some reason, he has chosen not to bother learning any of the names of John's girlfriends, either because he simply doesn't care or because he does care. The pettiness of the nicknames suggests the latter, according to Lestrade.

'What did she want?'

'You,' Sherlock states. It takes John a moment to recover. All he can manage is, 'Oh,' while he wonders whether he detected some jealousy in his friend's brusque manner.

'I told her that you were mine,' Sherlock says. It takes John another moment to recover. It is quite a long moment. He stares at Sherlock. I must have misunderstood that, John thinks.

'What? You did what?' he asks.

'I said that you were taken. That you are mine,' Sherlock slowly answers. The resoluteness of the repetition catches John off guard. He blinks a couple of times, opens his mouth to say something and closes it again without speaking. Sherlock is typing furiously. His fingers are hitting the keys just a smidgen harder than is necessary, but John doesn't pick up on this. Suddenly, he feels angry.

'I would bloody well appreciate it if you stopped checking my e-mail while we're both naked!' John roars. Unperturbed, Sherlock gazes at him. He raises an eyebrow. The corners of his lips turn up, indicating his amusement.

Sherlock's almost clinical scrutiny of his body makes John's cheeks flush slightly. Embarrassed, he mumbles something about quality time and paying attention and pulls the sheets up to his chin. This time, instead of feeling annoyed, he feels relieved when Sherlock frowns at the laptop. That is, until Sherlock almost absentmindedly turns to him and brushes his hair back behind his ear. The casualness of the gesture is startling.

'You kept insisting that you were not gay. If not, I would have known to pay attention much earlier,' he remarks. John - momentarily forgetting about the sheets - props himself up on his elbows.

'Well, I'm not,' he replies huffily. This seems to delight Sherlock, as he admits that technically John is correct. The screen turns black and Sherlock puts the laptop aside. As Sherlock continues to explore John's physique with his eyes, John resists the urge to cover himself up. He can feel his cheeks burn. By now, he must be bright red.

'We had sex,' John whispers.

He knows why he is whispering. It's because he can imagine Mrs. Hudson sitting in her tiny kitchen and looking up from the Sunday Times as the word 'sex' replaces the word 'naked' and reverberates throughout the entire house.

However, he doesn't know why he feels the need to point out that they had sex. Undoubtedly, Sherlock remembers it, since it had been a first for them. The first time with each other. The first time with a man, presumably. It had been for John, at least. Hence, his anxiety.

'Yes,' Sherlock replies in his standard clipped tone. He displays none of the apprehension that John is experiencing. Surely, even Sherlock cannot be this oblivious, can he? The implications of last night are numerous and frightening. What does it all mean? Sighing impatiently, Sherlock leans closer. His otherwise piercing eyes exude sympathy, which John doesn't fail to notice because it occurs so rarely.

'John, listen to me. You are a great friend and I am convinced that you will be an equally great partner. Now, in response to your initial question: no, you are not sufficient. I want you to realise that what I am about to say is not an absolute truth and that I will continue to criticise you as I have always done. For some strange reason, you are the one I want. Thus, we must accept that, despite your many flaws, you are perfect for me.'

'That was a good speech,' John concedes. It was a truly terrific speech, but he is not about to admit that. It is quite clear that his boyfriend is plenty pleased with himself already. Sherlock whips the sheets off the bed, exposing both of them completely to the pale morning light, and announces that they are going to have sex. Purely for form's sake, John pretends to protest.

'Do I have a say in this?'

'No.'

'Alright.'

The end.