A Study In Denial
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John Watson is not, has never been and will never be, gay. Right? So long as that's straight. Because he's not. Johnlock
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It is the early hours of the morning when I awake, the events of the previous few days rolling over and over in my mind. In a week I had met the world's only consulting detective, moved in with him, and even managed to chase a serial killer halfway across London. Certainly not my plans when I first returned from the army. Back then it was all about walking upright, not showing emotion, and fighting the need for sleep - for sleep was when the nightmares came. I realise, with sudden clarity, it has been days since I have endured a nightmare and the thought is terrifying in itself.
I let my mind wander to other things.
I remember, with some level of embarrassment, the conversation with Sherlock at Angelo's. When London's best detective thinks you are flirting with him then you probably are. I recall the fleeting disappointment on his face as I realise he is gay, or - at the very least - not straight. And the words tumble clumsily out of my mouth as I try to reassure him that it doesn't matter to me; that it is none of my business; that it is, in fact, ALL GOOD. I also can't tell him enough just how not gay I am, though he is too distracted by a cab outside to pay any attention to me. And then I am too distracted by the chase to realise I have left my cane behind in the restaurant as I follow Sherlock into the night.
I have fun, dare I say it. For the first time since being discharged I feel lightheaded and giddy and am laughing too much to stand up without the support of the wall behind me. The rest of the world is spinning past the front door, and Sherlock and I are safe within our bubble of adrenaline; his hand to his chest as if he can't quite catch his breath. And then he is the one spinning, turning so his hand is on my chest and his nose is rubbing against my forehead and, just as he dips to kiss me, someone calls at the door and the moment is broken.
When Angelo brandishes my cane before me, I look at it with sheer amazement - I had forgotten all about it and I can't imagine ever needing it again. And all the time Sherlock knew I had never needed it in the first place. I turn, expecting to see that know-it-all smirk across his face, but he is gone up the stairs and away from me. I remember our almost kiss and blush in spite of myself.
I am not gay. What I am is a doctor, and a soldier, not to mention a crack shot who just saved Sherlock's life from a completely different building to the one he was being threatened in.
He is Mr Deduction, Mr Know It All and Show It Off, and yet he doesn't tell the police it was me. He feigns ignorance for my sake. The look he gives me when he turns my way is almost one of gratitude.
"Dinner?" Thank you
"Starving" You're welcome
He predicts the fortune cookies, and even I can't help but predict what happens next.
And here my head catches up with itself and I open my eyes to the early morning dawn, warm blankets, and an over whelming feeling of home. I turn to the body beside me and find Sherlock is already awake, just watching.
"I thought you were married to your work," I comment as he moves closer and runs a hand over my stomach, twisting to place a kiss on my shoulder.
"And I thought you weren't gay," he replies.
Only for you Sherlock, only and always for you.