A/N: This is basically the result of reading one too many unrealistic stories. No offence meant to anybody.
John came home from work to find Sherlock sitting at the table, staring at his computer. When John walked in, he closed the computer and stared at John. "I need help with an experiment," he said.
The doctor walked over to Sherlock. "What do you want me to do?"
The detective looked at the other man with his beautiful multi-coloured eyes. "As you have probably figured out by now, I am both asexual and aromantic. Or at least, I used to think I was." He took a deep breath and looked up at John. "I think I'm in love with you, John Watson."
John started to back up. "Whoa. Sherlock, I'm not…I'm not even…I'm not gay, all right?" He started to walk away, but Sherlock grabbed his wrist.
"I'm not finished," he said. "You keep saying that you're not gay, but I have observed you, John. You're right, you're not gay. You're bisexual. And," he added, "I further conclude that you, John Watson, are in love with me too."
The blonde looked as if he was about to protest, but then he stopped and nodded. "It's true," he said. "I am bisexual, and I am attracted to you. Have been for a while, actually."
"How long?" he asked.
"Ever since 'Welcome to London'," he said, and they both smiled at the memory.
He grew serious. "So, John." He looked away as if embarrassed at what he was saying. "Would you, uh, that is to say, would you be interested in, er, pursuing a romantic relationship with, er me?"
John barked out a short laugh. "Interested?" Then he, too, grew serious. "Sherlock, I'd love to."
The detective stood up, so his head was above the shorter man's. "So, uh, should we kiss now?"
"If you like," John smiled.
Sherlock bent his head down to meet the shorter man's lips. They began to kiss, slowly at first, then Sherlock deepened the kiss, running his hands through the blonde man's hair.
John reached up and fisted his hands in the brunette's thick curly hair. Sherlock moaned and parted his lips slightly, allowing the shorter man access into his mouth. Their tongues battled for dominance, and Sherlock reached down and gave John's behind a tight squeeze, lips latching onto his neck.
It was John's turn to moan as he ran his hand down the detective's chest, feeling the soft silky feel of his tight purple shirt. His skilful fingers quickly undid the top button, baring part of his flatmate's pale chest.
Suddenly, Sherlock pulled back, holding up one hand. "No, I'm sorry," he said. He sounded annoyed. "I'm sorry, but this has gone too far," he said.
John frowned. "What's wrong?"
"No, not you," Sherlock said impatiently. "I was talking to her." He swivelled and pointed at the author, who was sitting stock-still at her computer, staring at him.
"What did I do?" she asked, confused.
"I wasn't going to say anything, but this really has gone far enough," Sherlock said. "I mean, what sort of a premise is this for a story? I suddenly decide to come out to John, and the next moment we're kissing as if we've been together for days?"
John nodded in agreement. "I was thinking the same thing," he said, somewhat apologetically. "I only came home a couple of minutes ago, and now I'm undressing him? Were you going to have us do it that soon? Really?"
The author's eyes turned shifty. "Maybe," she said slowly. "Anyway, you're my characters! I can do what I want!" She tried to go back to writing the story, but Sherlock and John were having none of it.
"There's another thing," John said. "Would it really be so difficult to call us by our real names? I mean, look at this." He gestured to what she'd written, reading it out scornfully. "'The detective'. 'The doctor'. 'The taller man'. 'The shorter man'. 'The brunette'. 'The blonde'. I'm John, and he's Sherlock. Is it really necessary to call us all of that?"
"It adds variety!" the author said defensively, feeling a blush creeping up her neck. "People get bored reading the same two names over and over again."
"No they don't," Sherlock said dismissively. "You are merely being a sheep, using the same conventions as countless clueless writers before you."
"Okay Sherlock, be nice," John warned him, then turned back to the author. "I think that's it. Anything to add?" he asked Sherlock.
"Yes," he told him. "People don't change moods that quickly in real life. Could you at least try to conform to some semblance of real life? Oh, and check your continuity, would you?"
By now the author's cheeks were burning in shame. "Stop it!" she said. "This is my story! You're my characters!"
"Not any more," John said. "I quit."
"Me too," Sherlock told her. "Being in 'Alone on the Water' was a more pleasant experience than this!"
"You died in that one," John remembered.
"I know."
And with that, they both turned and walked out, leaving the author sitting hunched over her computer, embarrassed and humiliated, with tears beginning to run silently down her cheeks just as it began to rain outside.
Suddenly, John's head popped back in. "Crying while it's raining? Really?" he asked, somewhat scornfully. "Isn't that a bit clichéd, even for you?" And then he was gone.
The author thought for a long time about what they had said. Then she stood up, picked up her computer, and left 221B Baker Street for the last time. Never again would she write another story about the adventures of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. They didn't deserve her talent.