"No," Sherlock hissed, "don't think you can walk around this, you're the only one he would actually talk to, he's likely to say something if you get him plastered-"
"Now wait just a sec-"
"No, I'm tired of this. Everyone likes to think that I'm completely oblivious to the petty glances they give me, but it just so happens I'm not a fucking idiot." Sherlock waits for Greg to respond, but instead receives a frustrated sigh. Greg looks down at the drink in his hand, carefully calculating while simultaneously avoiding Sherlock's icy glare.
"I suppose you won't just drop it if I said he likes you because he just so happens to be your best mate?"
"I'd be no closer to dropping it than I did five minutes ago. Look, this isn't something he would tell me and there's no way in hell I'm going to ever bring it up so you might as well tell me."
Lestrade sighed again, and sherlock leaned forward, about to prod for answers when the inspector lifted a finger in front of his face, clearly wanting him to shut his fucking mouth. Lestrade picked up the drink, gulped it down then turned to sherlock with a very agitated expression. Sherlock didn't move, just waited patiently with a triumphant smirk. Greg looked dead into Sherlock's pale eyes and in his most perfect poker face and monotone voice, Lestrade whispered to Sherlock "he said he would probably fuck you if you gave him the time of day." Sherlock's face immediately grew red and he fumbled for words, looking like an infant babbling out nonsense. Greg choked back his laughter as Sherlock leapt from his seat and ran out the door of the pub, not before stumbling over a couple pairs of feet in his dash for the door.
'I'm probably going to regret this later,' Greg thought, chuckling to himself. Greg waved down the bartender, a young girl with short brown hair and a ski jump nose. "Another, please," he said, raising him empty bottle and shaking it. She slid him another and walked away.
The cold night air bit Sherlock's exposed skin as he tried to fling on his coat.
'You have got to be fucking kidding me,' Sherlock thought as yet another cab passed by him. Tonight it seemed as though he couldn't catch one if his life depended on it. But Sherlock really couldn't pay too much attention to it, he was too caught up in what the detective inspector had just told him. 'What do I even do with this information? I don't kno-' No. Sherlock couldn't say that. How many years has he gone, and not known what to do? It's not as if he'd never faced something like this before. Random cases, uni. So why was this time any different? 'Because it's fucking John. I don't- I just can't seem to-' Sherlock bit his tongue to keep from saying it out loud.
He hadn't realised that he was stopped out of 221B. Sherlock sighed and felt his eyes sting from the cold, and with tears. He was furious. Not once had this ever happened. This is why he'd always tried to prepare himself. 'Sociopathic', 'asexual', 'married to my work'. Having feelings for someone is petty and weakening.
And unappealing.
But this was different. This was his friend. His only friend.
'I don't know what to do with this information.'
'I don't know what to do at all.'
Sherlock silently stepped into the warmth of the flat, walked into the living room and collapsed on the sofa. He curled up in a tight space, facing the wall, and decided to never speak of this new knowledge.
Ever.
And with that decided, Sherlock Holmes slept.