John isn't gay. He reminds himself of this regularly when girlfriends or Scotland Yard or even strangers assume otherwise.
John isn't homosexual, although his Christmas jumper begs to the contrary. He bought Sherlock one too. Maybe all that dire December mood had gone to his head, made him a changed man in the time it took to make a purchase. Maybe it was the dye in his novelty socks.
Sherlock would probably find some reason to shoot it, if he hadn't already; let it meet the same fate as the doorbell. John feels the need to check. He regrets it. Every single present under the feeble tree has, written on it, the contents of the respective package. He stares at the offensive indelible ink, it reads: Marks and Spencer's jumper. 75% merino wool. Medium. Nice try, John. SH.
John shuffles back over to the arm chair he feels most at home in. His leg is playing up, another reminder of the lull in Festive murders.
God, he was bored. He had guilted Sherlock into playing a board game when the standstill in all areas other than retail had become particularly crushing. Who's Who, being the only game (property of Mrs. Hudson) in the flat, was the logical choice. It all would have run rather more smoothly if Sherlock had not scanned the rule book and thrown it somewhere in the vicinity of the waste paper basket. He then imposed an entirely new set of rules aimed at improving John's attention to detail. He reckoned that every single person has their vice and for the majority in this 6+ game it was illicit.
They discarded that idea quickly and Sherlock rearranged his bedroom twice and found his violin. He hadn't put it down since.
John awoke; startled by the realisation he had drifted off, to find Sherlock mumbling. He moved to a seat at a lesser distance from his flatmate's bedroom and eavesdropped. Sherlock was singing.
John had to check, lest his ears deceive him. But no, his highly functioning sociopath flatmate was definitely the source of the noise. A deep, wordless bass that intertwined with yet kept its independence from the violin's clean tinkling.
John stared dumbfounded, by both the unlikely absurdity of the moment and the look of peace on Sherlock's face.
If both a vexed Sherlock and one at a loss for stimulation were destructive, then what was a happy Sherlock? John was looking at him.
John Hamish Watson was not gay, but he was quite possibly in love with Sherlock Holmes.
Seratonin, his brain corrected.
AN. Happy new year!