Not Interested
AN: Hello! This is my first ever Sherlock fanfiction so I apologise if I have written anybody out of character. If I have, please could you let me know so I can work on it? Thank you! The reason why this is rated a T is mainly due to language. Believe it or not, I watched Sherlock for the first time this weekend. I bought series 1 and 2 on Saturday, and by Sunday evening, I had finished watching them all! I have to say, it's absolutely brilliant! I can sense a new obsession coming along... This one-shot isn't much, but after Reichenbach, I needed something. Everything is Johnlock and everything hurts. Even more so, seeing as though today is three years since they first met *cries*.
Okay, that's probably the longest author's note I've ever written... I should probably shut up now. Enjoy! Oh, and any mistakes you find in this are mine and mine only. Sorry!
Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I do not own Sherlock.
The door of 221B Baker Street stands slightly ajar. A cab pulls up infront of it carrying Doctor John Watson who is returning home from yet another unsuccessful date. Women. He rolls his eyes as he steps out of the cab, handing a ten pound note to its driver with a firm nod of the head.
"Keep the change," he says.
The driver simply smiles his thanks before speeding his cab off into the night. Eyes forward, John begins to approach the flat with tentative steps. Although the reason for the door being unlocked is probably down to Sherlock's outright laziness, John knows better than to reply on solid fact.
"Sherlock! Sherlock, are you in?"
A moment passes before a muffled, forced sound travels its way down the staircase.
"Yes," comes the reply. "Of course I am."
Rolling his eyes for a second time, John opens the door gladly and locks it behind him. He makes his way up the stairs to find Sherlock sat in his usual spot, legs tucked up beneath him, with a bored, empty expression upon his face.
"Evening."
John tosses his house keys down onto the arm of the couch, despite not having to use them. Sherlock looks up to give his friend a half smile. After removing his shoes, John flops down onto the armchair opposite Sherlock's. Both men sit in silence for what feels like an entity, before John brakes it by sighing meaninglessly.
"Well," he starts sarcastically. His voice is bitter. "That went well."
Sherlock looks over to the doctor, his lips forming into an arrogant smirk.
"Funny that," he says. "Because according to you, all of your dates go well."
John shakes his head.
"I wish," he replies. "That's the third one this week that's ended miserably."
Sherlock already knows this, but doesn't feel the need to point it out. John rubs his temples.
"Maybe I should just give up on women altogether..."
Waiting for Sherlock to make one of his usual dedications as to why this date failed, just as he had done with the other two earlier on in the week, John is surprised to be met with nothing but a piercing silence. Sherlock simply does not have the energy to do so, despite having done nothing all day. Yet again.
"Maybe you should," he replies after a lengthy pause. "They bring you nothing but grief, John. Surely a few shags now and again aren't worth all of this. Any more added stress and you won't just be going grey. You'll be bald before you even get the chance to."
John chuckles to himself softly. Sherlock can't half be blunt when he wants to be.
"Okay, Sherlock. 'Course. Because you'd know all about women, wouldn't you?"
Sherlock resists the urge to scoff.
"As a matter of fact, John, yes. Yes, I do."
His flatmate raises a disbelieving eyebrow before opening his arms out in amusement.
"Go on then, Sherlock. Enlighten me. Amaze me. I want to know what I'm missing here."
Sherlock throws his head back in irritation. He understands that John is pissed. He has every reason to be — after all, not many men could be able to deal with rejection three times in a row by three different women — but that doesn't give him the right to take his frustrations out on his so-called friend.
"Meaning?"
"Well. How many years have I known you for now, Sherlock? What is it — three years? Maybe, four?" The detective nods slowly. "And during that time, Mr. Holmes, how many women would you say you have given even the slightest bit of interest to?"
Sherlock closes his eyes, as if to remember. He has no idea why he even bothers because both men already know the answer. Really, they always have.
"Okay, maybe one or two..." He trails off. Sherlock Holmes may be a lot of things, but a good liar is not one of them.
John smiles tightly, detecting the lie.
"Name them," he states simply.
After a brief period of consideration, Sherlock sighs heavily in defeat.
"Alright, you got me. There aren't any," he admits.
John's smile suddenly turns genuine.
"I knew it!" he exclaims. "Don't you think it's time you went out and found someone?"
The flat falls silent yet again.
"Already have."
John's stomach lurches. He looks over to where Sherlock is sat. His eyes look dead, but serious. They burn into him. An expression lies upon his face that John simply cannot read. If he is being brutally honestly, even if he could, he is not sure he'd want to.
"In case you haven't already noticed, John, I don't do relationships," Sherlock informs him. John is just happy for the distraction. "I mean, before you, I didn't even have friends."
John reflects upon the memory fondly.
"But there must be some woman out there waiting for you to find her," John insists.
Sherlock is adamant.
"There isn't, I can assure you."
John pinches the bridge of his nose. He knows better than to get into topics as delicate as these with Sherlock, but the temptation was simply too strong to ignore. Most things are when it comes to Sherlock Holmes.
"A man, then?" John tries tirelessly. "There is a lovely man somewhere out there who — "
Unless he is mistaken, John is sure he can hear laughter. It's Sherlock's.
"Oh, John," he splutters out between breaths. "You don't half make me laugh sometimes."
John shrugs. He's used to this sort of thing.
"What now?"
"You think I'm gay," replies Sherlock, drawing out each syllable with care. "Me... gay."
"Well, don't give women the time of day so I just thought that — well, I just assumed that you — "
Sherlock's continuous laughter stops John in his tracks.
"I don't know how many times I have to tell this to people, but I'm honestly not gay," says Sherlock. "Really."
"Then what are you?" John asks. Sherlock is as much as a puzzle as the crimes he solves. "Are you straight or... ?"
"Not interested," Sherlock replies as his laughter draws to a close. "I'm just not interested in anyone, male or female."
John looks at him sceptically.
"Yeah, alright. But what if you met someone and — "
"I wouldn't. Honestly."
John nods somewhat reluctantly.
"Okay, okay. I get it." He holds his hands up in a form of playful surrender. "Sexual orientation: not interested."
An amused smile spreads across Sherlock's lips.
"That's the one," he replies. Pausing briefly for a moment, he continues cautiously. "And you?
"My sexual orientation?"
John smirks as Sherlock nods. Tension drifts through the room.
"Oh, don't act as if you don't know. Sherlock, you know everything."
The detective sighs. Deep down, he's flattered — whatever that actually means.
"I don't know everything, John," he replies. "I just know a lot more than you ever will. That's all."