Ritual Behaviors

by LadyTuesday

Part Two of the Baker Street Boys series - wherein John realizes he's in love with Sherlock, a trip to the A&E makes everything clear to John, the boys both manage to become accidental Peeping Toms, Rosie knows what's up, and an overnight at a B&B pushes everything to the forefront. Direct prequel to From the Mouths of Babes.

2. Morning Rituals

A/N - please take note of the change in rating for this chapter. *winky eyes* It's about to get sexy all up in this piece. Also, in this chapter, you'll see my take on what Sherlock's sexuality actually is. And as you'll see ... my John is a bit of a cock tease. Sorry not sorry. ^_^

As always, a huge thanks to my beta bigblueboxat221b, as she is amazing both as a beta and as a writer.

Thanks for following along and I hope you enjoy. Keeping it short in my author's note for once.

~~ ** Lady Tuesday ** ~~

---

Chapter Two – Morning Rituals

To say that John is disappointed in the days following his epiphany would be a vast understatement. Well, of course he's relieved that Rosie recuperates from the scalding almost immediately (faster than John recovers from the guilt) with only a tiny little fleck of a scar just at the base of her neck, and that only because John can't keep her fingers off the scab once the blister had started to heal. Sherlock, on the other hand … John can't help but be disappointed. He tries to keep it close to the chest but the fact that Sherlock acts no differently in the days following the A&E trip is as baffling as it is frustrating. From the well of supportive calm to the gentle clasp of his hand in John's, Sherlock had given the impression that even if he wasn't overflowing with ardent affection, at least maybe John wasn't barmy or alone in his feelings. Maybe there'd been something to it all these years when people saw them as a couple. Although the detective hasn't suddenly reverted to the age-old gruff dismissal of sentiment the way he used to, things settle back into a place where John sometimes feels as if he imagined the whole evening. Only the tiny mark on Rosie's neck and the ghost-like memory of cool digits wrapped around his own makes him think it wasn't some kind of hallucination. So John spends the next week doing the only thing he can think of: putting his head down and soldiering on.

It's not so different, really, as far as his normal daily routine is concerned. In any case, the routine isn't different; John is different. He feels wound up like a bed spring now, second-guessing every action, trying not to appear too fond but at the same time trying not to overcompensate and be too distant. At first he thinks he's doing an okay job of it despite feeling like he's been thrown back to his teen years. It's entirely too reminiscent of those days when everything about fancying someone felt so important and loaded. Except that this is important and loaded, and it's driving him round the twist. Somewhere around day three, he realizes that Sherlock has taken to watching him like a hawk. Apparently he's not done as well as he thought. Sherlock has always been the actor, after all. John takes a few more shifts at the clinic the upcoming week, hoping that burying himself in sniffling children and adults too embarrassed to go to their GP will keep his mind off bloody Sherlock.

The Monday after the A&E incident, he's running incredibly late getting ready for work. Rosie spent the entire weekend cutting another tooth and being completely miserable about it; Sherlock hasn't had a case in nearly a week. As a result, John spends the majority of his two days' rest dealing with two unreasonable children. Sleep deprivation, John decides with one last look in the mirror before leaving, is not a good look on him. He's just glad Sherlock hasn't left his room yet this morning, otherwise he'd likely have heard an exhaustive list of all the ways he looks like complete and utter shite this morning. As a matter of fact, he hasn't looked or felt this knackered since Rosie started sleeping through the night at eight months old. It's not entirely surprising, then, that John's gotten halfway to the Baker Street tube station before he realizes that he's left behind Rosie's medical records that he's supposed to fax over to her new pediatrician this week in anticipation of her two-year-old checkup at the end of next month. He grouses to himself the entire walk back to the flat, periodically checking his watching and swearing. At this rate, he'll be so late it'll be lunch time when he gets there and he knows he's far too curt when he rings the clinic to warn them but he really can't be bothered to be polite.

Jogging up the stairs, John hears some shuffling about towards the back of the flat which means that His Royal Highness must have deigned to rouse himself for the day. After eleven, so it's about bloody time. John's left Rosie with Mrs. Hudson the way he does every Monday – her "special day with her honorary granddaughter" as Mrs. Hudson puts it – so he doesn't worry about the noise he's making as he bangs around in the drawers of the sitting room desk, cursing increasingly loudly when he discovers that Rosie's papers seem to have completely vanished. A few muffled thumps from the back to the flat draw John's attention and, in the interest of time, he resolves to go ask Sherlock where he stashed the damn folder so that John can just bloody well get it and get out of here.

John raps his knuckles against the door. "Sherlock? I'm looking for Rosie's medical records, have you seen them? I was sure I put them in the top drawer of the desk but they're not there …."

A low rumble of voice that could be his name hits John's ears as he leans towards the door but Sherlock talks to himself when John's not there all the time, so it doesn't stop John from swinging the door open to ask his question again. Once John takes a step into the room, the enquiry freezes on his lips and all his stunned brain can manage to put forth is that he's not sure whether or not he wishes he hadn't come in. He barely even registers the feel of the doorknob in his hand as he clutches it for support, he just stares. And stares. And no matter how much he stares, he can't seem to process what he's seeing.

Sherlock sprawls across the center of the duvet, limbs splayed in that gangly starfish formation he usually occupies when he's sleeping, which isn't terribly surprising, but for his knees bent up to put his feet on the bed. He's completely nude which, unfortunately (fortunately?) for John, isn't all that terribly surprising either. What John can't seem to parse, however, is that one of Sherlock's hands works steadily up and down the flushed length of his erect cock, curved up high towards his belly and wet at the tip. The detective seems completely oblivious to John's intrusion, his head thrown back into his pillow, putting that long pale neck on full display as his other hand – oh holy Christ, John's only just noticed – pushes a flesh-colored toy of some kind or other between his legs and out of sight. When Sherlock draws his hand and the toy in a long stroke backwards, John can tell that it's shaped like a cock. Jesus.

"John – ah! – John…?"

The doctor's heart is in his throat and he sends the door banging off the wall behind him as his knees nearly go out from under him. He leans against the wall for support. Even with all the joking he'd done about Sherlock's 'bedroom voice', John never actually expected to hear said voice in a bedroom. Saying his name. Like that.

"John?" Sherlock says again, only this time John notices that it's distinctly a question. "John, what do you want?"

He has a moment of complete and unadulterated panic that Sherlock has found him out on his recent epiphany – although said epiphany somehow hadn't progressed to something like this – but then he regroups enough to realize that Sherlock is no doubt asking why in hell John interrupted what seems to be a rather spectacular wank session. Jesus.

"I—what?" Two solid minutes to recover and this is all he can come up with. In his defense, though, Sherlock is wanking. Sherlock. John feels certain that this merits a little forgiveness on his inability to think.

Both of Sherlock's hands still but don't leave their appointed positions. John wrenches his gaze up to the detective's face, florid and tipped towards him with an inquisitive expression.

"You needed something?" Sherlock says between panting breaths. His hands tremble with the effort to remain still.

"I … have no bloody idea what it was," John blathers. And honestly, his head feels completely fucking blank. He's lucky to remember his name, really, because it finally penetrates John's brain that Sherlock isn't just wanking, he's bloody well fucking himself right in front of John's eyes

"Well then, if you don't mind …." Sherlock answers as if he's been interrupted shaving or combing his hair or something else equally innocuous.

John just gapes like a landed codfish.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow and smirks just a tiny bit. "You see, I was just getting to a crucial moment, so …."

"Right." He's trying desperately to restart his neurons firing but he just keeps blinking and gaping and gripping the doorknob.

Sherlock laughs – actually fucking laughs – as he props himself up on one elbow to regard John's wall-eyed gaze. "John, were you intending to stay and watch me finish?"

"I—what? No!" There. More than one word. It seems like progress. Although his ruby-red cheeks probably aren't doing him any favors.

Then why are you still standing there staring?"

"Right. Right!" John says, jumping a bit as he kicks into motion. "Sorry, I just—" As he casts his eyes away from the bed, they catch on a manila folder sitting atop Sherlock's dresser. John's legs wobble beneath him as he skirts along the side of the room to snatch it up. "Sorry. Rosie's medical records. I was. Looking for them. I'll just—" He flails one hand back towards the flat door. "Go then. To work. Sorry."

John heaves the door shut behind him and leans on it for a second to recover his faculties. The instant he does, though, he hears the low grunts of voice resume and a rather enthusiastic noise that makes John's spine tingle. He rockets down the stairs and resolves to take a cab to work to save time and damn the cost. He's just pulling up outside the clinic when he realizes he's rock hard in his trousers. It takes a good five minutes of sitting on a very cold bench outside the clinic before he feels collected enough to go inside without scandalizing anyone.

---

John proceeds to have what may be his least productive day of his entire career, and that's counting the day he found out his mum died and the first day of locum work with Sarah where he'd gone on no sleep because of Sherlock. Bloody Sherlock. It's his fault this time as well. John's barely able to focus on the patients in front of him because every time he closes his eyes – even for just long enough to blink – the back of his eyelids lights up with the image of Sherlock wanking and fucking himself with the bloody fake cock and John can't think about anything else. Worse, his brain keeps cycling through a myriad of questions that he can't possibly get answers to: does Sherlock wank a lot? What would "a lot" even mean to someone like Sherlock? On one hand, he's exhibited absolutely zero interest in sex the entirety of the time that John's known him (before today); on the other, he's got the very definition of an addictive personality, so it wouldn't be so out of the realm of possibility to think that he would do it any time he got bored. Does he only do it when John's not in the flat? Does he do it every time John's not in the flat? Is it just in his room or does he wank in other places? Oh God, where else in the flat would Sherlock wank? Knowing Sherlock, it could be anywhere. Or everywhere. The man has no bloody concept of personal boundaries about anything else so the chances he would have modesty about this are pretty slim. God only knows where he would—and unfortunately, that starts John's brain picturing all the places and ways Sherlock could be wanking when John isn't there.

In his room, obvious; John's already seen proof of that. And really, that would be the most obvious choice for most people. The shower, maybe? That's another logical choice; usually that's what John does, for ease of clean up and convenient background noise, especially now that he shares a room with his two-year-old daughter. Sherlock usually precedes John into the bath in the mornings now … has John ever stepped in under the stream of water and touched his own cock just after Sherlock had been in there doing the same thing? Something about the thought of that, the possibility that they may have come in the same place just minutes apart makes John's limbs feel watery.

Does he ever do it elsewhere in the flat? The kitchen or sitting room? John knows that Sherlock wouldn't do it on the days where he was minding Rosie; whatever lack of boundaries Sherlock may have with John, he knows that Sherlock has never been anything but responsible and deliberate in his care of Rosie. But what about the days where Rosie is with Mrs. Hudson or Molly or the rare occasions John has gotten another sitter? Does Sherlock use it as a stress relief when he can't get an experiment to go right Does he just sit back in his kitchen chair, push away from the microscope, and slide a hand down into his pajama bottoms? Stroke himself to completion and let the bliss of it clear out his mind? Maybe when he needs a break in a case; John can picture that being the most likely. When Sherlock's brain becomes a teaming hive of noise and threads of leads that won't come together, John can imagine him stripping out of his clothing and throwing himself down in his chair, maybe draping one slender leg over the arm of it so that he can use a loose fist around his cock and long fingers inside himself ….

Does he ever just use his hand on his cock or does he always use a toy? His fingers? Something else entirely? John proceeds to see all these things on a loop … Sherlock as he was on the bed this morning, working a toy in his arse as he strokes himself. Sherlock dripping wet in the shower and striping the wall with his come. Sherlock leaning back against the kitchen counter and fisting his cock inside the folds of his dressing gown. Sherlock splayed over his chair, fucking up into his hand as he impales himself on his fingers. Sherlock laid out face down on the sofa, arse raised up a bit as he thrusts against the cushions. It drives John bloody mad all day long. He then discovers that his subconscious mind is unbelievably cruel and demands attention be paid to just how long it's been since he's gotten laid, because when John's brain exhausts all the possible ways Sherlock could be wanking himself into oblivion while John isn't there, he starts picturing the two of them shagging in every possible variation John knows of that two men can fuck. And as it turns out, John is far more knowledgeable than he realized about gay sex.

He's at the point where every single thing someone says to him or does in front of him for the remainder of the day triggers some fantasy of Sherlock. The woman describing the symptoms of what might be strep throat makes him picture Sherlock on his knees between John's legs as he sits low in his armchair, fisting a hand in Sherlock's curls as the detective swallows his cock. The avid cyclist with the herniated muscle in his groin has John picturing himself perched on the edge of their sofa, clutching the plush cheeks of Sherlock's arse and spreading him apart, one of the detective's hands grasping the back rail of the couch behind John's head and the other splayed on the wall as Sherlock rides his cock. A young teacher needs a wicked splinter removed from the back of her thigh, a product of playing on the school playground with one of her grammar school students. As she bends over the exam table and lifts her skirt, chattering away about her students in an effort to distract herself while John works, John has to physically shake his head to banish an image of Sherlock bent over the kitchen table, a hand to the back of his neck as he comes untouched from John fucking him roughly from behind. His hands shake a bit after he puts a plaster over the wound and wishes the teacher a good afternoon.

When the last patient of the day tells him what's wrong, John barely resists the impulse to shout and climb out of his own skin. A sandy-haired boy of no more than twenty or so blushes and refuses to sit when John greets him. He drops his eyes to the floor and explains in a hushed voice that he's too embarrassed to his normal GP on account of the nature of his ailment. After a few moments of stammering, John finally pries it out of him with a bit of gentle prodding: his boyfriend had been a bit rougher than he's used to during sex the previous night and he'd been very sore and stinging this morning. John swears under his breath.

Using the most gentle and professional tone he can, he explains about the importance of thorough and careful preparation before anal sex, the possibility of tears and such, and then praises him for coming in to see a doctor right away if he suspected there might be something amiss, hoping that it might ease some of his embarrassment and encourage good sex practices in the future. The boy blushes the entire time, resolutely staring at the floor, but nods and occasionally murmurs a few things that show he's paying attention. John turns his back to put on gloves as the boy drops his trousers and pants before laying down on the exam table. He jumps as John prods gently here and there but more from surprise than pain, as far as John can see.

"Just so I know, Alex," John says, "have you been sexually active before or was this a totally new experience?"

"I—" Alex turns his face towards the other side of the room before answering. "Just a few times. Not all that much but … I mean, it isn't completely new."

"Okay. Well, just make sure that you're communicating with your boyfriend about this, okay? If he was a bit too rough, you'll want to make sure that you tell him so that you two can avoid going too far next time. I'm sure he wouldn't want to hurt you and it'll be a much better experience for both of you in the long run."

"Oh, we … yes, okay."

John hums thoughtfully at the response. Everything about the boy's tone says that while he's comfortable enough to talk to John, a doctor and total stranger, the chances that he's going to be comfortable enough to speak to his partner seem slim.

"Alex, you do know that this is nothing to be ashamed of, don't you? The sex but also learning where your boundaries are. It's something everybody learns, no matter who they are and no matter who their partner is."

The boy is silent. John checks for a few more warning signs but based on what he can see, poor Alex is just a victim of inadequate or rushed preparation and isn't all that much worse for wear.

"I mean it. You've nothing to be embarrassed about, all right?"

He mumbles a response that John doesn't catch. A few twitches of his muscles are Alex's only response as John applies a bit of antibiotic ointment with a numbing agent and then he allows Alex a little privacy to put his trousers back on.

"Alex, hang on a minute," John calls to the boy before he can dash out the door. He gestures to the chair opposite him.

The young man perches at the edge of the seat looking like he wants to melt into the floor. The boy's light blue eyes dart from John's hands folded on his knee to the framed picture of Mary and Rosie that he keeps on his desk. It takes until the third or fourth glance at his hands for John to realize that Alex is staring at his wedding ring – which, in all honestly, John had forgotten was still on his finger nearly a year and a half after Mary's death. Alex bounces between John's ring and the sunny picture of wife and child. Ah. John had planned another little talk about empowerment and control of one's sexual destiny but something completely different tumbles out of his mouth.

"Tell me about your boyfriend."

Alex's eyebrows shoot up. His eyes sparkle with happiness as he gives a few halting details – he's called Oscar, tall, dark hair, beautiful brown eyes, sharp as a tack and studying to be a barrister – clearly Alex is proud of this young man.

"We've … erm," Alex stumbles, "only had sex just the once before last night, you see. So I guess that's why … I mean, he's a lot bigger than me – taller, I mean! –" Alex bleats out, turning beat red, "—and he was very keen on it, so I don't think he realized he was being a bit rough when he was behind me and …." Alex trails into silence for a long moment.

He doesn't try to picture it (the boy is half his age after all) but the image slips into his head unbidden. Almost immediately, the mental picture becomes John and Sherlock. Suddenly he's coming up behind Sherlock, pushing him down to all fours, thrusting into him with little warning and roughly fucking him until—

"I'm sorry, Dr. Watson," Alex says in a rush, shaking John from his musing.

"Sorry?" John repeats, dumbfounded.

Alex nods and goes back to staring at John's hands.

"Sorry you have to … I mean, it must be awkward," Alex rolls his eyes away and they fill a bit. "Having to patch up the bum of some poof who can't even control his own—"

"Hey," John says sternly and puts a hand on the boy's forearm. "Don't talk like that. First of all, as a doctor, it's my responsibility and my honor to treat anyone who puts their trust in me to help them. Secondly, nobody gets sex completely right when they're new at it and anyone who says they have is an enormous liar."

John says it with such thick sarcasm that it teases a watery chuckle out of Alex's sniffle.

"And you're not just 'some poof'. You're clearly a bright young man with a boyfriend to be proud of."

Alex just nods and looks away again. John's not at all sure why it occurs to him to say the words but out they come.

"Would you like to see a picture of my boyfriend?"

The blue eyes fix on him keen as lasers and Alex's expression goes slack with surprise. And then the eyes get wide as saucers and flick back towards the picture of Mary and Rosie.

"Oh, yeah," John says as casually as he can manage, "that's my daughter and her mum," he words it this way very deliberately and refuses to examine why he avoids using the word 'wife', "—but here let me show you—"

John digs in his trouser pocket and unearths his mobile, thumbing through the gallery for a moment until he lands on the picture he wants. A few months ago after a case, he'd been possessed of a silly mood and took a snap of Sherlock just after his triumphant Great Reveal. As he was winding his scarf back around his neck, Sherlock's eyes had caught John's and he'd winked theatrically. Somehow, John had managed to catch him at the perfect moment: dark curls swirling around his face, cheeks flushed, lips turned up in a quirked grin, eyes dancing with mischief, and his fingers just pulling the blue wool tight at his throat. If any single photograph can distill the essence of the Sherlock that John has fallen in love with, this is it. John turns the phone towards Alex and watches, gratified, as his mouth drops open in a comically large O-shape.

"Wow."

John chuckles. "Yep."

Alex snatches up the phone, glancing from Sherlock to John and back. "He's divine."

Another laugh bubbles up from John's belly. "Yeah, shame that he's well aware of it. And a proper genius, too. Most brilliant, amazing man I've ever met. No shame in being proud of that, right?"

John's smile is easy but there's just enough of a leading edge to his voice. Alex smiles and nods as he hands the phone back.

"Thanks again, Dr. Watson," he says sincerely, pretending not to notice as John stuffs a few condoms and packets of lube in the boy's rucksack before handing it back to him.

"You're welcome. And Alex: take care of yourself. And your boyfriend."

"You as well," Alex says as he heads out the door of the exam room. He pokes his head back in to give just the hint of a cheeky smile. "Keep your eyes on your one, yeah? He looks like he's trouble."

With a smirk, John confirms, "That's my favorite part about him."

---

John intentionally takes the tube home from the clinic because he knows he'll need the long ride back towards Baker Street to collect himself before seeing Sherlock this evening. Firstly because he knows that if he reacts too obviously, he may inadvertently shame Sherlock for doing something perfectly normal and healthy (well, normal for average blokes, anyway): he just caught John by surprise is all, because John had no bloody idea that Sherlock even did that sort of thing. Which, he supposes, was the whole point of him doing it when John isn't there. Privacy. Who even knew that a man who would swan around Buckingham Palace in a bed sheet understood privacy? Just another reason for John to stay calm. The other reason that John needs to stay calm, of course, is that his head has been a non-stop whirlwind of pornographic scenarios involving his same-sex friend that John's only just realized he's in love with and who, until eight and a half hours ago, he believed to be completely asexual. Oh God, oh Christ, if he doesn't get himself together, Sherlock will suss it out within seconds of John walking in the flat and who knows how Sherlock would react. However far Sherlock had come as far as sentiment is concerned, he's never shown anything but disdain for anything resembling a desire for sex. Although … the detective certainly appeared fairly sex-positive this morning. Eager, even, with his flushed face and gasping mouth, thighs trembling—

No, no! John scolds himself. Definitely not the sort of thing you think about surrounded by commuters while on the tube. Hard not to think about it, though. The talk he'd had with that last patient, Alex, had stuck with him. The boy had looked so mortified, as if embarrassed about his entire being just as a by-product of admitting to participating in gay sex let alone enjoying it. John had wondered, in that moment, if that's how Harry had felt when she'd first known herself and come out. He doubts it; Harry had been intentionally, even excessively, brash when discussing and detailing her preferences in those days. John wonders now if it was bravado to cover up something more like Alex's feelings. It made him want to help the young man in whatever way he could. And if John's completely honest, he'd wanted to test out the words on his tongue, see how they felt in his mouth, calling Sherlock his boyfriend.

The memories of tending to the aftermath of Alex's rather vigorous activities with his partner – and their basic similarities to John and Sherlock – allows a lurid vision to bloom in John's mind that differ from all the other images he'd pictured so far. Perhaps because of the method of Sherlock's masturbation this morning, all of John's mental wanderings so far portray Sherlock as breathlessly lustful but always submissive to John, eagerly welcoming John fucking him regardless of whether Sherlock was technically on the top or bottom. With Alex, though, the similarities were too obvious to miss – sandy-haired and blue-eyed; gushing on about his tall, dark-haired, sharp-minded boyfriend who'd been keen to the point of roughness – so his mind circles around and suddenly John's unable to stop a vision of himself kneeling on Sherlock's stark white sheets with his legs spread, clutching the headboard, hands framed by Sherlock's own. As he sits quietly in the corner of a tube compartment, he imagines the detective's slender frame bracketing his own, a litany of filthy praise dropping from those wicked lips as the muscles in his hips work, pounding himself into John, pulling groans that John can nearly feel tearing themselves from his mouth….

John clears his throat and pulls his jacket over his lap when he realizes that he's got another erection blossoming with embarrassing speed in response to his train of thought. Jesus, when did that sort of thing even become something that appealed to him? However confident he is that he has never been attracted to any other man enough to even be a blip on the radar, his blood sings in his veins just thinking about shagging Sherlock. And now, now he's even getting worked up thinking about being fucked. He's never before found the idea of being penetrated the remotest bit arousing – and he'd had more than one adventurous girlfriend who'd offered fingers or toys – but God, his heart races just thinking about it. Some weak protest echoes in the back of his head that he's not gay (really, he isn't) but that seems to matter less and less with every passing second in the wake of what he's starting to feel for the world's only consulting detective. Christ, maybe Mary was right. Maybe Sherlock really is the exception to … everything.

---

"Sherlock, we—"

"Two hours and eleven minutes. I'm impressed, John; really I am."

His flatmate straightens in his armchair, his eyes flicking up to catch Sherlock's from his former gaze down at his hands clasped between his knees.

"We—what? Impressed with what?"

Sherlock makes a show of gazing at his watch and then back at John. "Two hours and eleven minutes since you walked in the door and fifty-three minutes after dinner. I must admit, your restraint really has improved dramatically. That's thirty-seven minutes longer than I expected, so well done, John."

John's face changes from one of confusion to the more predictable expression of frustration. "What are you on about?"

The detective crosses his right leg over his left and leans back in his chair, dropping his hands to his lap and folding his fingers together, a picture of nonchalance despite the tension that threatens to break through any minute. Extremely unlikely that John will notice, though, which is the entire point of the charade. "You want to talk about this morning."

"I … yeah," John admits; his posture goes from straight to stiff in moments. "Is that all right?"

Sherlock shrugs insouciantly but even John will see the tightness in the gesture. "I suppose it was inevitable."

"Well, you can hardly blame me for being … surprised," John says in a rush, his cheeks tinging pink. "After seven years of you ignoring or actively dismissing anything that has to do with sex, you can understand why I would think you had no interest in sex—"

"No interest in sex with other people," Sherlock corrects. "An incredibly important distinction, John."

John sits back and mirrors Sherlock's cross-legged position, although Sherlock's fairly certain it is an unconscious move. "Ah. DIY, then." John smirks at his own joke which fizzles a bit when Sherlock merely shrugs. "So, you're not …." He trails off as he visually scrambles for the appropriate term. "… active?"

Sherlock arches an eyebrow. "Neither are you; does that mean you're not interested either?"

John visibly startles at this, as if he only just realizes that he's not sexually active and hasn't been for some time. "Not at all. But you've just said—"

"I dislike assumptions, John," Sherlock cuts in quickly. "Gross generalizations seldom apply to me. Labels exist simply to help define the world for less able minds and only serve to jam people like me into a box that rarely fits."

John ponders this for a moment then nods. "So would you—is it all right if—do you mind?"

"I understand why you have questions, John. You may as well ask," Sherlock replies in a carefully neutral voice.

"Well, it's not as if you can't just read my sexual history off of me," John says with a small smile. "Bit unbalanced."

"Mmmm," Sherlock agrees, smirking. "Turnabout is fair play, I suppose."

"As long as you're—"

"John," Sherlock remonstrates and makes a 'get on with it' gesture with one hand.

"So," John starts, clearly choosing where to begin. "Do you do that a lot?"

Sherlock shrugs. "'A lot' is relative, John. Once a week would be a lot for some men; not nearly enough for others. At least once a day would be a lot for me but if the length of your morning showers are anything to go by when compared to showers taken at other times of day—"

"Point taken," John cuts him off. "So where on that spectrum do you fall?"

"Is this professional curiosity, Dr. Watson, or personal?"

John shrugs, not the least bit self-conscious apparently. "Both, I guess. You've just never given any indication of any sexual behavior, so I'm just … curious."

Sherlock can feel a blush rise up but he answers as best he can. "I don't really have an answer you'll find satisfying, I think. It varies. I've certainly done it more frequently since you've moved back in." He says it without thinking so he startles a bit at the astonished look that graces John's face. Before the doctor can make any assumptions, Sherlock quickly amends, "Common animal behavior, John; normal response to introducing another sexually mature adult into a confined 'herd'."

Strictly speaking, Sherlock isn't certain that's correct and he silently prays that John will let it pass. He does, but not without a slight narrowing of his eyes that clearly telegraphs his suspicions.

"You do it when I'm not here then, obviously."
"Obviously," Sherlock confirms. He sighs heavily and then spreads his hands. "Contrary to what most people would think …." He finds he has to stop to clear his throat. "I may not careen after sexual encounters the way most people do, but I am human, John."

"Of course you are," his friend replies softly.

"I have the same," Sherlock flounders for a word and hates it, "needs as any other man. It is a biological imperative; I meet the need when it needs to be met."

John's flush reappears as he steels himself to ask his next question. Interesting.

"So … you're gay?"

Not unexpected but a question he'd fervently hoped to avoid. However much he tries to hide it, John is deeply discomfited by the question but seems incapable of quashing his curiosity. Even though he knows how this is going to go, Sherlock tries to deflect through feigned ignorance.

"You can gauge sexual preference by a single instance of observed masturbation?"

John shifts in his chair. "Well, no, but—"

"So then why would you make that assumption?"

John shifts and settles again. "You were … using a toy."

Sherlock stares back flatly. "Are you suggesting that only gay men enjoy the sensation of penetration? Aside from being factually unsupportable – statistically speaking, more heterosexuals engage in anal sex than homosexual men—"

"Jesus, Sherlock—"

"—that's also a remarkably – what's the term? – vanilla outlook, John. I'm surprised at you."

"It was shaped like a cock, Sherlock," John points out.

Sherlock shrugs again. "Perhaps I chose it because it was convenient. Perhaps I chose it at random. Perhaps it was simply on sale that day."

Scoffing loudly, John stares him down. "You know, Sherlock, just because I'm not as observant as you are doesn't mean I don't see and it doesn't mean I don't understand you."

He can't help the small smile that tugs at the corners of his lips. Sherlock reclines and spreads his hands wide. "Astonish me."

John rolls his eyes. "First of all, a man who faffs around crime scenes in Spencer Hart and a coat that costs more than a month's rent wouldn't choose socks simply because they were on sale, let alone something he was going to put up his bum."

Sherlock snorts loudly and John jumps a bit, as if he's only just realized what he's said.

"Secondly," John continues in a sharp tone after clearing his throat, "the man I've known all this time would never choose something like this at random. You're a scientist and a detective, you wouldn't choose a potentially inadequate tool for a job. Moreover," John says thoughtfully, sitting back as if giving the matter due consideration, "a man who refers to any part of sex simply as a 'biological imperative' isn't going to base things on chance or convenience. You," John sits up suddenly and points directly at Sherlock's chest; he smiles, "you, Sherlock Holmes, would want to make sure that if you have to 'meet the need' that you did it as quickly and efficiently as possible, with the best possible results. No, you wouldn't choose … that," John waves towards Sherlock's bedroom vaguely, "unless it was exactly what you wanted. You would choose that specific toy because something – or everything – about it would arouse you enough that you knew it would make you come the hardest and the fastest."

Sherlock's heart thunders in his chest and it's all he can do to keep a straight face that isn't crimson. Just hearing John say such things makes his pulse race and pound at his ear drums.

"You don't say," Sherlock answers, thankful that his voice remains mostly steady.

"I do," John says smugly. "Because I know you, Sherlock. If you chose that particular thing, you chose it because it's shaped like a cock, not in spite of it. And certainly not at random. And yeah, okay, maybe it's a gross generalization to say that only gay men would be aroused at the idea of having something that looks like a cock penetrate them, but as Mycroft would say, 'balance of probability.'"

"Interesting."

Now John raises an eyebrow. "Well, go on, tell me: how'd I do?"

Sherlock grins easily. "Surprisingly well."

John returns the smile. "Did I miss anything?"

"A few things," the detective responds. "But those details are … private." Sherlock finds he has to clear his throat again.

"Right," John says and drops his gaze to his lap. "Right. Of course. Sorry, didn't mean to … overstep. Although if I'm even mostly right about why you chose what you chose, that does leave some questions about why you were so enamored with Irene Adler. Unless she—"

Sherlock pins John back with a withering glare. "Oh for God's sake, are you on about 'High Wycombe' again? Honestly, John, you seem more obsessed with her than I ever was."

"I am not!" he retorts hotly. "I thought she was a bloody nuisance and spent most of the time wanting to give her a good slap."

"No use," Sherlock rejoins, "she'd probably enjoy it."

"I just didn't like—she was so bloody smug—"

"She did it to wind you up, John. It was ridiculously easy to do."

"—and you just seemed so … Jesus, you even babbled when she said brainy was sexy! You, of all people. Babbled!"

"Christ, John, she was clever! She was new and interesting. I found her intriguing and yes, I was a bit impressed. But I was never in love with her," he can't help but spit the phrase, "and I certainly wasn't attracted—"

"Oh come on, if I didn't know better, I'd think you were a teenager with his first crush!"

"She's a lesbian!" Sherlock yells. "She told you herself! Honestly, John, I think you've said 'not gay' so often you've lost all concept of the meaning of the word. She. Is. Gay."

"And?!" John sneers.

"And so am I!" Sherlock thunders back.

If Sherlock had actually intended to make that declaration, he'd be thoroughly gratified at John's stunned silence in the wake of his words. Which, really, is completely ridiculous seeing as how John speculating this very fact is what started this whole line of discussion. And yet, here the doctor sits, flabbergasted at having the words actually spoken.

"Oh," is all John manages to say.

"Yes, oh," Sherlock spits.

John stares at him until Sherlock feels like he wants to crawl out of his skin. It's the same feeling that he used to get when he was gasping for another fix.

When John's voice comes, it's achingly soft. "Why didn't you just say so? I mean, all that time ago… in Angelo's, even, that first night. You could have said. I wouldn't have minded one way or the other. Why didn't you just say?"

Sherlock's fingers come up to massage the bridge of his nose; he can feel a headache building in the tension just under his fingertips. "Because I'm not even sure that is the right term for me."

Above his fingers, Sherlock watches John slowly lean forward and prop his elbows on his knees. His gaze rakes over Sherlock's face and it feels tender, even if Sherlock can't quite meet his eyes.

"What do you mean?"

"Does it matter?"

"Of course it matters." John's voice stays quiet but that earnest firmness that is so quintessentially John sneaks in and Sherlock is powerless to resist, even if he has to try.

"Why? Why does it matter to you, John? After seven years of silence on the matter, why should my sexuality suddenly be so important to you?"

Sherlock finally brings his gaze up to John's face and he feels wrong-footed in that he has no idea what to make of the mixture of emotions chasing across John's face. He's not even sure he can name them all.

"Because I care about you, Sherlock. Jesus, you're my best friend. You're the person I love most in the world, apart from my daughter. I want to understand. So explain it to me."

"Must I?"

"Please."

A heavy exhalation leaves his lips. Sherlock pulls his legs up from the floor and wraps his arms around them, curls into himself; he's well aware of what the posture will read as but he feels safer this way. He has to look away from John as he speaks so he studies the knees of his trousers.

"You once called me the most human human being you'd ever met, John. I feel … need the same as anyone else does but desire and attraction? I just … don't feel it. Well, not never—" Sherlock says in answer to the half-formed question on John's lips, "but not the way most people do. Or so I gather. I don't feel attraction to an entire gender en masse, I don't feel attracted to subsets of people, I don't 'have a type', I don't walk into a pub or a supermarket or a coffee shop, see a stranger and feel attracted to them the way so-called normal people would, John. I just … don't feel those things that way."

"Okay," John says slowly. "How do you feel those things?"

"It's hard to explain," Sherlock hedges.

"Try." John is relentless. It makes Sherlock smile in spite of himself.

"I feel … pulled, sometimes. To the person first. Minds. Hearts, if that's what you want to call it. I don't … if I feel drawn to the person, sometimes – not often, but sometimes – it deepens into an appreciation for the body."

John nods. "So you only ever feel attracted to people you already care for?"

Sherlock nods in return, shrugs as much as he can without loosening his grip on his calves. "But it happens so rarely that it's hardly worth speaking about. If forced to put a label on it, I suppose 'gay' is as good as any because I've only ever felt … drawn to men. But … very rarely. I typically have no interest in sex with other people because I don't typically feel attracted to other people. For the most part, any interest in sex is merely a byproduct of being a sexually-mature adult and rarely involves a desire for another person."

"Okay," John says, mulling it over. "Then you've never had any interest in pursuing something with any of the men you've ever been attracted to in the past, when you do feel drawn?"

Sherlock gives a mirthless chuckle. "You've met me, John; how many men do you believe returned my interest?"

John's laugh isn't much more sincere. "Many more than you thought, I bet."

Sherlock snaps his gaze up to John but now he won't meet Sherlock's eyes. "What do you mean by that?"

Scoffing, John replies, "Come on, Sherlock, I've seen you use your appearance, your sexuality, as a tool before. Mostly on women involved with cases, but I've also seen you use it on Molly before. You know you're good-looking, you know you have sex appeal. You choose not to engage it in a practical sense and that's fine but that doesn't mean that those qualities wouldn't transfer over to men. You could pull if you wanted to, you just don't."

"It doesn't matter anyway. I've already said, I only ever feel sexual interest when I'm already interested in the person and you know how deadly dull most people are. Besides, because I experience attraction and desire so rarely, the feeling of being attracted to someone … for me, it's very unsettling, John. Bewildering, even. Easier to simply 'meet the need' on my own than pursue it."

John regards him with a gaze that suddenly seems far too keen. "And now?"

Sherlock frowns at him. "What?"

"Everything you've said about not wanting to pursue sex is in the past, but all that about how you feel attraction is in present tense. Feel, not felt. You experience it rarely, it's unsettling, bewildering. Not you were bewildered. Bewildering. Present tense. And you said you typically have no interest in sex with other people, which implies that right now is the exception. So there's … there's a man you feel that way about right now?"

If Sherlock hadn't been so surprised, he may have been able to rein in his startled response but he knows John sees it, the panic in his eyes. "Don't be ridiculous," he answers, too quickly. "Of course there isn't."

"You're lying," John says before Sherlock has even finished the denial. "I can see it in your face."

"John—"

"I thought we weren't going to lie to each other anymore, Sherlock."

"John, please," Sherlock implores; his voice sounds strangled. "Given everything I've told you this evening, don't you see how much more difficult that question is than any base discussion of masturbation? How that particular fact might be my most private confession, given where attraction comes from for me?"

John gapes at him for a few seconds before he recovers and his face is a calm mask of compassion again. "You're right; I'm sorry. Not my business."

Sherlock squirms in his chair. "It's not that I don't want to be honest with you, John—"

"No, you're right. You've already let me poke my nose in farther than I should have."

"John—"

The doctor leaves his chair then and, to Sherlock's surprise, kneels in front of the leather armchair to place his hands on Sherlock's where they clutch at his knees. Sherlock can feel how wide and panicked his eyes are, how tightly he grips his shins, how stiff his shoulders, but John's palms are warm, heavy, comforting on the backs of his hands, his thumbs gently circling as he speaks in a hushed tone.

"I meant what I said that first night, you know. It's fine, Sherlock. You're fine, just as you are. Whatever you are."

Sherlock's mouth drops open. His jaw works as he tries to cobble together something to say, but nothing comes out. Nothing he can think of seems enough. John recovers much faster than Sherlock, though. He hauls himself to his feet, gently releasing his grip on Sherlock's hands. Just the tips of the fingers on John's left hand skim up from Sherlock's hand, over his wrist, up his arm and lift off near his shoulder. John's fingers curl open in the air next to Sherlock's cheek but when Sherlock gazes up into John's face, tilting his head quizzically, the fingers clench shut again, flex a few times in the air, and then dart away. Sherlock can't decide if he's disappointed.

"You know what?" John says, his tone aiming for bracing but coming out stilted. "I think we both need a bit of time to digest everything from tonight. I'm going to go down and get Rosie from Mrs. Hudson and take her for a little ramble around Regent's Park before it gets dark. Will you … be all right?"

His lips turn up and he tries to think of something sarcastic to say. His brain abandons him, so he just gives a forced smile and nods. "Fine, John. I'll be fine. Don't forget Rosie's slicker; it's going to rain before nightfall."

John chuffs a laugh but snatches the little pink raincoat from the hook outside the door without further comment and stuffs it into the pocket of the pushchair. Once he shrugs on his own jacket, John casts his eyes back to Sherlock, still curled in his chair, and seems to want to say something. In the end, he just gives Sherlock an unreadable look and a nod before assuring the detective that he'll be home before dark.

---

John parks himself and Rosie on a bench at the far side of the Triton Fountain and stares up at the structure as if the bronze god and his attendant mermaids will have all the answers. One of them may as well, because John bloody well doesn't. He massages at his forehead with one hand and holds Rosie firm on his knee with the other, swaying her side to side just a bit as Rosie babbles some nonsense or other. He presses his cheek to the top of her head, breathes deep, and tries to focus.

"What in the hell am I going to do, love?" he murmurs to her. "Sorry about the language but reasonably sure you're not going to repeat it just yet. Daddy's just … confused. He doesn't know what to do."

"Dada!" Rosie murmurs into his cheek. The little girl shifts beneath him so he moves to the side, peering into the small face which wrinkles in concentration. Eventually, she reaches out and pats his cheek with a small, bemittened hand. "Dada, no sad."

John gives an unsteady chuckle and kisses her chubby cheek. "I don't like being sad either, my love, but it seems to be my lot in life."

Rosie pats his cheek again and John turns her to face him completely. With his daughter straddling his knee, gazing up into his face with a mixture of trust and concern, his life feels far simpler than it did a half hour ago inside Baker Street.

"I'm very confused, love. You see, Daddy loves you very much and he," John stumbles, but his daughter barely manages three words at a time so what harm can it do to say it, "loves Sherlock very much. But Daddy isn't sure if Sherlock loves him back. Probably not. Although…."

He looks up at the statue again, thinking of the panic on Sherlock's face when John asked if there was a man whom he currently felt attracted. Maybe it's arrogant of John to just assume that it would be him, but with Sherlock, who else would it be?

"Maybe Sherlock does feel the same. What do you think? Do you think Sherlock loves Daddy?" he directs at the little girl currently buzzing her lips and patting her hands together.

To his very great surprise, Rosie actually appears to consider the question. After a moment, she reaches out to pat John's lips with her fist.

"Dada. Luff."

"I love you too, darling," he says with a smile.

Rosie grimaces at him and pats her hand against his mouth again. "Dada kiss."

John leans forward and gives her a peck on the lips which the little girl returns but flaps her arms indignantly.

"No!" she says vehemently. The exasperation on her face makes him chuckle aloud; it's the exact same expression Mary would give him when she thought he was being particularly dense about something. "No, kiss. Kiss."

"I already gave you a kiss, Rosie." John's brows furrow as she makes a noise of extreme annoyance.

"Dada kiss. Sock," Rosie says deliberately.

"Kiss … your sock?" John questions, baffled.

"Sock," Rosie groans. She waves one arm behind her. "Kiss sock, Dada."

John's eyebrows wing up because that time, the word 'sock' may have had a bit of an 'h' in it.

"You mean … Sherlock? Were you trying to say 'Sherlock'?"

Rosie nearly rolls her eyes at him and pats her hand against his lips again. "Daddy kiss Sheh-ock."

His stomach flips over and John realizes that perhaps he doesn't give his daughter anywhere near enough credit for her development. "You want me to … kiss Sherlock?"

The muffled thump of Rosie's hands clapping together echoes in John's ears. She's clearly pleased with herself as she regards his face, tapping his lips once more for emphasis.

"Kiss. Shock," she says once more. Then, "Spehmin."

This draws a loud chuckle out of John despite the wobbly feeling in his gut. "Yes, I suppose kissing Sherlock would be quite an experiment."

Although he's a bit ashamed that he's avoiding this conversation with a not-quite-two-year-old, John hitches her up from his lap and settles her back into the pushchair.

"Come on, love, we'd better go home. Too chilly to stay out long."

"Kiss, Daddy. Luff."

John squats down in front of her chair and secures her coat and mittens before pressing her stuffed tiger into her grip. "Now listen, young lady, that's private and you'd better keep it to yourself."

Rosie rolls her eyes and this time, the expression is so very Sherlock.

"That's all I need," John mutters as he wheels them towards home. "Two of him."

---

"Sherlock?"

"Mycroft, as much as I loathe to admit this, I find myself in need of—why are you out of breath?"

Sherlock hears shuffling on the other end of the line and a few unsteady breaths.

"I'm not," his brother says far too quickly.

"You are," Sherlock confirms with certainty. "You're practically panting. We both know it isn't exercise like last time, you've gained three pounds since August—"

"I haven't—"

"Please, Mycroft, you only ever wear the blue chalk-stripe suit that you had on last Tuesday when you're feeling insecure about your weight. So if it isn't the treadmill, what—" The riffling noise happens again and this time, Sherlock is positive what the noise is. Bed sheets. His lips turn up at the edges. "Mycroft, have you decided to take up fishing lately?"

He practically hears his brother's posture go rigid. Oh, this is going to be too good.

"Fishing? Don't be ridiculous, Sherlock, I'm not exactly a sportsman. Now if you would—"

"Develop a particular affinity for goldfish, perhaps?" Sherlock says, his voice thick with humor and sarcasm.

The noise on the other side of the phone deadens completely.

"I don't know what you—"

"You're having sex!" A bit juvenile of him to practically shout it that way, but the idea is so preposterous that it merits the reaction, he thinks.

"Don't be ridiculous," Mycroft says huffily. He doesn't deny it, though.

"You are. You're having sex. Or, rather, you've just finished having sex," Sherlock amends and then pulls a face. "Good Lord, I think I'm going to be sick."

"Oh, grow up, Sherlock, for God's sake," his brother snaps and switches the phone to his other ear. "You were calling because you need a favor, which is a far more amusing topic for me. Let's get back to that."

"Please tell me that you didn't blackmail the poor soul into your bed, Mycroft. That's beneath you. And if that poor person has been beneath you, no amount of money would be enough."

"Sherlock."

"Ugh, just the thought—"

A gusty sigh from Mycroft. "I'm hanging up now."

"Wait!" Sherlock protests and tries to check his tone. "I … need a favor."

"So you've said. I'm waiting to hear what the request in question is before I agree to honor it."

"Of course you'll honor it," Sherlock says, waving a hand as he begins to stalk around the sitting room. "You always do. That's why I call you."

"How very flattering," Mycroft answers flatly. "What is the favor, Sherlock?"

He pauses a moment in front of his arm chair, fingers tapping lightly on the neck of the violin laid across its seat, before he resumes pacing the living room. "I need a case."

"A case? Hardly the sort of thing you need to call me for, brother mine. You seem to do well enough through the Yard and your little blog."

Sherlock resists the urge to grind his teeth at the phrase 'little blog' which has generated the interest of actual royalty before, not to mention saved his brother's ample arse in the last year. "I've already checked with Lestrade; he doesn't have anything that meets my needs and neither does the website."

"What needs, precisely, would those be?"

Sherlock nearly chuckles; he can hear Mycroft shifting the bedsheets up to cover his chest, as if the prim gesture somehow gives him the high ground.

"Something relatively simple and free of danger so we don't get hurt, but something out of London. Preferably far enough away that we won't be able to return to London until the next day."

Sherlock tries to say the last part of it as casually as he can, hoping that Mycroft won't latch onto that particular detail.

No such luck, of course. "You want me to give you a reason to share overnight accommodations with John?"

Sherlock tries to keep his face still. "John's been acting odd lately. It's … an experiment."

"Oh, Sherlock," Mycroft says quietly, the note of pity in his voice nearly intolerable. "Are you sure that's wise, given how much you have to lose if this goes poorly?"

"I can handle myself, Mycroft. And John. So I'll thank you to keep your nose out of it," he says with as much dignity as he can muster.

"Sherlock—"

"Just find me a case, Mycroft; I know you can."
"Sherlock, I'm only trying to—"

There is a tremendous amount of rustling, hushed angry whispers, and a soft, "absolutely not!" from his brother before some disturbance against the mouthpiece of Mycroft's phone.

A voice on the other end of the phone that is distinctly Not Mycroft follows after a light clearing of the throat. "Mr. Holmes, good evening. I believe I have just the thing for you. I'll be in touch with details from my office tomorrow before lunch."

Sherlock screeches to a halt in the doorway to the kitchen, blinking at least twelve times while staring ahead into space, before he can formulate a response. "Lady Smallwood," Sherlock answers, his voice as even as he can manage. "What an … unexpected pleasure to hear from you this evening."

He hears her give a small, throaty chuckle. "Yes, I'd imagine. I have a case for you that ought to do just nicely. I was going to send one of my people, but if you need the excuse, it's yours. Out in Dursley, so a good few hours away and if you leave around tea time tomorrow, it'll give you a good reason to stay the night. Something more admin than chasing, I'm afraid, but that sounds like just what you're looking for."

"Yes, I expect it should be. I'm in your debt," Sherlock responds, still a bit unseated.

He can hear the smile in her voice as she responds, "I'll remember that."

She shifts around a bit, throwing more indistinct noises over the receiver, before Sherlock hears a gruff grunt that is most definitely Mycroft. Sherlock shudders.

"Now, if you'll excuse us," Lady Smallwood continues with a surprisingly even tone, "I've decided to reacquaint your brother with the health benefits of 'fishing' and I think it's been just enough time that we can cast out the line again. I'll call tomorrow morning. Goodnight, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock doesn't bother with a "goodnight" in response, just brings the phone down from his ear and stares at it after he hears Lady Smallwood rings off. Sometime in the minute or two where Sherlock stands gaping at his mobile, the downstairs flat door opens and closes and John shuffles up the stairs, the distinctly uneven thumping gait indicating that he decided it easier to walk Rosie up the stairs and carry the chair than attempt to carry her up in it like last time. His shoulder ached for a week. Sherlock has only managed to make it as far as the sitting room by the time John and Rosie have hung up their jackets and wandered in.

John stutters to a stop when he sees Sherlock standing in the middle of the room gawping at his phone. "What's the matter?" he asks, bending to scoop up Rosie and deposit her on the couch with her tiger.

"Mycroft was having sex," Sherlock blurts out, his gaze flicking up to John's face.

John's cheeks are pink from the cool December evening and when his gaze locks with Sherlock's, the flush deepens. He doesn't look away, though. John flinches comically when Sherlock's sentence sinks in.

"Mycroft? Having sex? God, I hope not while you were on the phone with him."

Sherlock pulls a face that makes John chuckle and deposits his mobile in his pocket. "Just finished, I think. Grotesque."

"Mycroft," John says again as if he may have misheard. "Having sex."

"Mmmm," Sherlock confirms. "Terrifying, isn't it?"

"Mycroft having sex," John says again and thumps down in his chair. "With another person?"

Sherlock smirks and shrugs. "So it would seem."

"A live, human person?"

"A woman, no less," Sherlock amends, smirking at John's bewilderment.

"And she was having sex with him on purpose? I mean, she was aware and consenting?"

This teases an actual laugh out of the detective. "Presumably. As a matter of fact, I gather that she was the instigator, as it were, since she ended the conversation in order to … resume activities."

John wrinkles his nose in apparent disgust.

"Lady Smallwood," Sherlock says succinctly.

"Huh," John mutters. "I would have thought she'd have better taste."

They lock eyes for a moment and then burst into giggles. Rosie seems determined not to be left out, as she begins clapping her hands and laughing along with them. John jogs over to scoop her up from the couch and return to his chair, depositing the girl in his lap. Sherlock watches John run a few light fingertips over her belly, smiling as the girl squirms and giggles in response to the tickling. The doctor looks up to Sherlock, his indigo eyes merry, and he looks so … so John that Sherlock has to actually clench his hands around the arms of his chair to resist the impulse to stalk over and taste the grin on John's face.

"So what did Mycroft want?" John asks before bending to blow a raspberry into Rosie's belly, smiling at the girl's shrieks of delight. "Hopefully something other than just tormenting you with the awareness of his sexual activity?"

"Yes, thank God," Sherlock returns. "I've enough mental scars as it is. He has a case for us."

John arches an eyebrow as he rights Rosie in his lap. "So, what is the case about?"

Sherlock clears his throat and gazes down at his lap. "I'm not sure, actually. Lady Smallwood actually gave me the case but she said she'd have to call me from her office tomorrow to give the details."

"That's fairly unhelpful," John mutters with a lopsided grin. "But not entirely surprising if she and Mycroft were in the middle of shag—"

"John, please," Sherlock protests dramatically, "there are impressionable young minds present. No need to warp your daughter's impression of sex by introducing a Holmes into the matter."

Oh. That's obviously the wrong thing to say because several emotions chase across John's face in the silence that follows. Sherlock puzzles at them, though, because in between the amusement and the rush of embarrassment, there is definitely fear and … disappointment? Baffling.

"I suppose that means we're not setting off straight away then," John says stiffly.

"Tea time tomorrow, I should think," Sherlock agrees, studying John's face which he now seems determined not to show Sherlock in its entirety. "Should call Molly and see if she can mind Rosie, though. The case isn't in London, so we'll need to stay the night."

Tiny specks of fear and anxiety flicker on John's face again before he caps them. Curious.

"All right," the doctor replies evenly. "I'm not at the clinic tomorrow, so why don't I stay here and take care of getting a sitter for Rosie and pack a few bags, and you can dart out to MI6 and get the details from Lady Smallwood. Will that do?"

Given that Sherlock had said that Lady Smallwood would call with the details, Sherlock feels his stomach drop away with the obvious realization that John is attempting to get rid of him for the few hours before they will be going away together. Sherlock's chest tightens and he wills himself not to react visibly.

"Of course."

John stands up and pulls Rosie to his shoulder. "I should go and put her down for the night. Getting late."

Sherlock just nods. Rosie raises her hand and pats John's lips. She begins to say something but John cuts her off by pressing a kiss to her lips. His face flushes and he gives Sherlock a tight smile as he prompts Rosie, "Say goodnight, love."

"Night night," Rosie says dutifully.

"Goodnight, Rosie," Sherlock answers, smiling just a bit when the girl waves to him over John's shoulder as he climbs the stairs. He waggles his fingers in the air in response and can't help but grin when she favors him with a slightly slobbery smile in response.

---

Sherlock takes the stairs two at a time, heedless of his volume when he calls out as he enters the flat. Mrs. Hudson has daytime telly on, so the noise will hardly bother her.

"John!" he yells when he doesn't see the doctor in the sitting room. "John, the case! Where are you?"

He hears muffled laughter and splashing, then John's voice from the back of the flat. "Giving Rosie a bath, give me a minute!"

He bounds down the hall towards the loo and throws open the door. "John, I thought it was going to be a three, four at most, but it's definitely—"

Sherlock screeches to a halt, both verbally and physically, and he can feel the redness climb from his chest to his face as he stares. And stares. And he can't seem to do much more than that, despite the scrambling going on in front of him. He just clutches the knob of the loo door and blinks in surprise.

"Ah," John says and clears his throat, snatching a face flannel from the sink and draping it over his lap. "I suppose when I said 'giving Rosie a bath' I should have been clearer and said 'I'm in the bath with Rosie."

Sherlock can't stop staring; his whole body's been petrified where he stands. "Yes, that would have been … more accurate."

His eyes take in the scene even though his brain still has trouble processing it: Rosie in one end of the tub with streaks of blue and red paint running from her hair down across her sturdy little chest; the girl slapping her palms on the surface of the water and laughing delightedly at the columns of spray that splash around her; dappled bubbles that have mostly dissipated from the surface of the bath water; bubbles which don't manage to cover the metres (kilometres, maybe) of John's naked skin. He sits at the other end, slick from the bath and clusters of bubbles clinging to his arms and chest in odd places; rivulets of water run down from John's hair which he has pushed away from his face, dripping down his chest and back. The thread-bare yellow flannel never seemed quite so small before but now seems woefully inadequate to the task of covering John's—

The doctor clears his throat heavily and Sherlock's eyes snap up to John's face and then as far away from John's face as possible.

"Sorry," John says with a self-depreciating grin. "Didn't think you'd just invite yourself in. Stupid of me, all things considered."

He actually chuckles, which draws Sherlock's eyes back to his face. John's cheeks are pink but that could be from the steaming bath water. God, he doesn't know, he can't seem to process because his brain just won't work. The only thing running through his mind is John John John, naked John, naked, skin, wet, skin naked, John naked wet in an endless loop of babble.

"Rosie and I decided to attempt finger painting this morning and really, I should have known better," John says by way of an explanation. "Apparently she decided my khaki trousers didn't have enough color and dumped an entire cup of blue paint and half the red down the front of them before I could stop her."

"And that necessitated a bath rather than a change of clothes?"

"It soaked through my trousers and my pants," he says ruefully. "My groin was a very festive shade of lavender."

Sherlock feels his entire face flame with color. "I'll have to take your word for it."

"Yup," John chortles. "Figured if we both needed a wash, might as well consolidate my efforts. On a related note, we need a few new flannels. This was the only one that escaped the initial clean-up effort unscathed and," he gazes down at his crotch with a lopsided grin, "it may now be tainted by association."

"Oh," is all Sherlock can manage and he looks away again.

His eyes had naturally gone to the flannel in question, stuck at one corner in the trail of hair leading down from John's navel and beginning to float away with the current from Rosie's splashes. John clears his throat and the gentle noise of displaced water suggests that John has pressed a hand down to hold the cloth in place over his genitals. Sherlock gulps.

"So, the case?"

This gets Sherlock's attention. John's voice remains just the tiniest bit stiff but he's clearly angling for a casual tone and the fact that he's attempting to continue the conversation as if there's nothing odd about the situation certainly deviates from John's normal attitude about these things. While Sherlock would never go so far as to call John prudish, he's always been ruthless about boundaries when it comes to 'personal space' – insisting, rather justifiably, that Sherlock has no concept of it whatsoever – so the fact that he's openly conversing with Sherlock while naked in the bath with his daughter is peculiar to say the least. When Sherlock catches John's gaze again, he can see tension bunched in the doctor's arms but John simply readjusts the cloth at his crotch and looks up to Sherlock with a questioning expression.

"Sherlock," John prompts gently, trying not to grin when Sherlock startles a bit. "The case?"

"Yes. Case. Thought it was going to be deadly dull – the clerk at the local historical society having some issues with the local parish's paperwork to get funding for historical restoration – but it turns out that the clerk hasn't got any indication that any paperwork was filed and as a matter of fact, when prodded about it, there's no indication on any of the town's records that the building even exists. A cathedral that's stood since the thirteenth century, completely vanished from the legal consciousness of the entire town, which is fairly difficult to do with no one noticing, as the parish is still thriving and has been since the late seventeenth century." Sherlock becomes aware that he's said all of this very quickly.

"That is quite the accomplishment. Any ideas?" John asks. He fishes a cup from the side of the sink, puts a hand over Rosie's eyes, and proceeds to scoop cups full of water to pour over her head, gently scrubbing the paint from her hair with his fingertips.

Sherlock still can't seem to get his footing in the situation. John, who has always complained about Sherlock's lack of boundaries, is calmly bathing his daughter while nude and wet right in front of Sherlock, seeming not to care that when he leans forward like that, Sherlock can see all the way down the lean line of his back to the rounded cheeks of his arse, and—he has to look away. Sherlock has to look away to preserve his own sanity. Whatever game John is playing has Sherlock baffled, but he'll be damned if he gives up before he figures out the end goal.

"Seven, currently."

John chuckles. "Decent start then. Why don't you—" John flicks his head in the direction of Sherlock's room, "—collect what you need and I'll finish up in here. Molly's coming round for Rosie at two, so should give us plenty of time pack a few bags before we set off."

"Yup," Sherlock says. "Right. I'll just—" he waves an arm jerkily towards his bedroom, "—I'll go pack a case. You can … finish. With Rosie. I'll just go."

John nods and Sherlock turns to leave. Just as he's crossing the threshold into his room, he hears a great splash of water that follows John getting out of the tub. A wavy outline of John's nude body appears in front of the frosted glass door which Sherlock shuts with a hasty snap.

---

Well, that is certainly … unexpected. John hadn't planned to give Sherlock an eyeful of everything short of his cock, but as far as tests of interest are concerned, really John couldn't have planned it better. Halfway through the middle of his restless night of little sleep, it had occurred to John that perhaps he'd been going at this the wrong way. Despite how (shockingly) considerate and generous Sherlock had been to John since they moved back to Baker Street, John knows that the chances of getting Sherlock to admit anything as 'detrimental' as romantic feelings – should they exist – would be about as likely as him writing a sonnet about Mycroft's virtues or giving up experimenting on pieces of corpses. In light of Sherlock's explanations about his sexuality, however, John starts to wonder if maybe the way to get a clue as to what's going on in Sherlock's heart would be to get a definitive answer from his transport instead. Maybe it's arrogant of John to say so, but John is definitely the man that Sherlock is closest to – hadn't he said so at John's wedding? – so if he was going to feel that way about anyone, wouldn't it be most likely to be John? After all, if he only feels attraction to men that he's emotionally connected to then getting some sign of attraction would more or less confirm that Sherlock feels something for John, wouldn't it? Of course, John felt a sick swoop of guilt last night at the idea of purposely goading a sexual reaction out of Sherlock in order to ransom his emotions, which is precisely why he hadn't decided to actually act on it in any firm way. The universe, it seems, is not without a sense of humor though because Fate took the decision entirely out of John's hands, and even if John had decided to push something with Sherlock, he definitely wouldn't have chosen "naked in the bath with toddler" as his chosen method of seduction. Especially not for Sherlock.

He can't deny, however, that it did seem to prompt an interesting reaction. Sherlock had been stunned and embarrassed but there was an unmistakable flicker of interest in those verdigris eyes. John may be an idiot compared to Sherlock but he knows what it looks like when someone is eyeing him up and John's pretty damn certain that Sherlock was just north of openly ogling him. Good, that's definitely good. Interest, John can work with. Perhaps it's time John conducted an experiment of his own.

He gets out of the bath with little fanfare, hoisting Rosie out and wrapping her up in the little hooded towel Sherlock had bought her a few weeks ago (really, he must stop Sherlock spoiling her so ridiculously). It had seemed a bit silly at the time, but the little bobbles on top of the hood and "stinger" on the back makes Rosie look like a little bee and it sets John grinning. He tweaks one of the bobbles on her antennae and sets it bouncing, drawing gales of laughter as he buzzes at her. All of a sudden, John gets an idea … it's a bit terrible to involve his daughter in his plot and more than a bit manipulative … but he does it anyway. John gently sets Rosie on the ground, hooded towel gaping around her sturdy little naked body. She grins up at him, chubby cheeks rosy from the warm humidity of the room.

Wrapping a towel loosely around his waist, John bends over and whispers to his daughter. "Rosie love, would you like to go show Sherlock what a wonderful bee you are?"

Predictably the girl squeals in excitement and takes off into Sherlock's bedroom the instant John cracks the door, buzzing loudly as the towel flaps behind her. John waits a second before taking off after her.

"Rosie!" John cries, hoping that it sounds natural, and dashes into Sherlock's room with his towel clutched loosely in his fist.

Rosie giggles in delight as John chases her in a half-circle around the bed to where she is now 'hiding' behind Sherlock's legs as he stands at his dresser; Sherlock blinks confusedly as he twists this way and that, trying to get a look at Rosie as she ducks from one side to the other to avoid the reach of John's arm.

"Darling," he huffs, "when I said 'would you like to show Sherlock what a wonderful bee you are', I meant 'once Daddy puts his dressing gown on'."

John flicks his eyes up and catches Sherlock's gaze. The detective has the trace of a smile on his face when he looks up from where Rosie now pokes her head between his knees, buzzing ostentatiously, and the expression freezes a bit when he links eyes with John. He's still bent almost horizontal, peering at where Sherlock has bowed his knees out around Rosie's mischievous little face, and John lets his grip on his towel slacken just enough that he can feel it slide down to the top curve of his arse. Sherlock's cheeks redden as he scans John's face and even though John tips his gaze back to his daughter, he can feel the heat of Sherlock's gaze as it slides down John's damp back and over the curve of his bum. He smirks just a little when he hears a distinct throat clearing above his head but decides to put Sherlock out of his momentary misery.

"Come here, little bee," John chortles and snakes his hand through Sherlock's legs to curl around Rosie. He brushes Sherlock's calf with his arm just lightly enough that it seems like an accident as he pulls Rosie to him and lifts her up against his chest.

"Sorry," John says as he hoists Rosie up on his right hip but the jovial tone dies on his lips almost immediately.

Sherlock regards Rosie with a fond smile on his face and when he lifts his head to include John, the expression is so warm and unguarded that it staggers John. It feels as if Sherlock has cracked open a tiny window into his heart and where John expected to find a single lit match he found a bonfire. He's so overwhelmed by it that he actually moves back a step or two, his smile wobbling as he has to reposition Rosie on his hip.

"Sorry," John reiterates, trying to get back the jokey voice. "Didn't realize she'd be quite so eager to tear off before we'd either of us gotten properly dressed."

"Should have known better," Sherlock chortles then reaches out a fingertip to tap the end of Rosie's nose. "She's a shameless nudist."

"Says the man who went to Buckingham Palace in nothing but a bed sheet."

Sherlock gives a thick smirk before he leans over Rosie and whispers, "You make a marvelous bumblebee. They're my favorite living thing, you know."

"Bees?" John asks, nonplussed.

"Absolutely," Sherlock confirms, grinning into Rosie's face as she starts buzzing again. "Fascinating creatures."

"Huh," John responds, amused. "Now I know your grand plan for retirement: Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, scientist … beekeeper."

Sherlock smiles indulgently. "You poke fun but that sounds like an excellent plan to me. Perhaps you could learn to garden, John."

Something in John's chest tightens at the notion that Sherlock never questions the two of them growing old together. After a long moment of silence where they just seem to both be content to smile at each other, Sherlock's gaze slips again … over the curve of John's bare left shoulder, down his chest, and gets stuck at his waist where his hand still clutches his towel, but he'd gotten so distracted that his grip loosens to the point of absurdity, and the worn terrycloth hangs low. Very low. At this point, most of what's keeping the towel above his cock is the fuzz of blonde hair leading down to his groin.

"Oh!" John blurts, and this time the tone of surprise isn't manufactured. He'd momentarily forgotten why he came in here in the first place. "Sorry, could you, um …?"

He gestures forward with his right arm and Sherlock takes the cue, reaching out to take Rosie from John. Out of his peripheral vision, John sees Sherlock's eyes widen to the size of saucers when John flicks the towel open just enough to give just a fleeting glance of his cock and balls before he wraps the towel securely around his waist and tucks in the ends.

"I'll just … do you mind watching her while I…?" John flaps his now-free right arm towards the loo and then upwards in the vague direction of his bedroom.

"Of course," Sherlock says and clears his throat yet again. "I'll just … I'm nearly finished packing. I'll give her a snack once I'm done."

"Thanks. I'll toss out a nappy from the loo and I'm sure there's a spare outfit in there," John nods to the diaper bag next to the spare cot they keep in Sherlock's room, "if you don't mind getting her dressed while I get myself sorted and pack our bags."

"Of course not."

John starts back to the bathroom to throw on his dressing gown and then stops. "Oh and Sherlock?"

He hears the detective hum in questioning acknowledgement as he riffles through the diaper bag for clothes for Rosie.

"I, erm," John falters a bit, "did some research last night when I couldn't sleep and I wanted you to take a look at it."

John throws a glance over his shoulder where Sherlock has turned to regard him, Rosie in one arm and a pair of tiny coveralls thrown over the other. "We don't have to talk about it if you don't want to," he says delicately, "but I'm willing to listen if you do."

"All right," the detective answers, his brows pulled together in confusion.

John hands a nappy through the door once he's slid on his dressing gown, jogging up the stairs to prepare to head out on an adventure.

---

Rosie gurgles from the high chair Sherlock pulls up to the desk but he stares ahead at the paper clutched in his fingers. Two pages of computer printout had been resting on his music stand, dotted with a few lines of John's cramped block script worked in here and there around the text of a website that appears to be a dictionary of some sort. At the top of the page, John has written a note to him.

Sherlock – Thank you for last night. For trusting me. Our conversation got me thinking: I know you don't like gross generalizations or labels. I will try never to label you – hasn't gone well for us in the past – but I read up on what we talked about and thought this one sounded like what you described.

The page is covered in definitions, clearly all explanations of terms regarding sex, sexuality, or gender identity. Sandwiched in between "cross dresser" and "drag queen" lies an entry that John has circled twice in pencil.

Demisexual – typically regarded as being on the asexuality spectrum; people identifying as demisexual usually feel little to no sexual attraction or desire except to those with whom the person has already formed a close or intense emotional bond. Demisexuals can and do have the capability for forming very loving and rewarding relationships – both romantic and sexual – with partners of any gender; they simply tend not to feel physical desire to anyone outside a committed emotional relationship.

Next to the definition, John had penciled in, scribbled over, and then erased the words "Sherlock?" and "Love = sex? Sex = love?". Sherlock isn't certain what to make of this, exactly, but it does make his heartbeat roar within his chest. A thin, snaking arrow next to the circled definition wends its way down the page and draws his eyes to a note down at the bottom.

What I've left you here isn't an attempt to push you one way or another, just an attempt to show you I want to understand. To do better. Also, after 3 hours combing websites about sex, I am a ridiculous mix of aroused and overwhelmed.

Sherlock huffs a bit of a laugh and flips to the second page John left. It's nothing but a list of usernames and the beginnings of sentences which takes Sherlock a moment to parse as a screenshot of forum post links. Every single listing on a page of at least thirty items – with numbers at the top to indicate that this is the first page of fifty-seven – of postings by people who identify as demisexual discussing how this affects their lives. Sideways along the margin, John has written again.

Labels aren't always a box to jam you in. Sometimes they're an identity, something that can give you a community of like-minded people so you don't feel alone. You are never alone. Don't forget that.

Sherlock stares at the words "you are never alone" for an indeterminate amount of time. In the back of his head he hears a loop of all of the voices that have spat the word "freak" at him over the years; this aspect of himself always just seemed to be one more way that perhaps the masses were right about him. And yet, that tidy scrawl of four words in John's tight handwriting – small, bold, and consistent; so much like the man himself – somehow dulls the roar. The cascade of usernames and posts stands stark in his hand, a testament to John's assertion: these people are like him; they feel what he feels; they understand. And so, it seems, does John. The piece of paper quivers in his grip and he isn't aware that a single tear track snakes its way down his face until he feels small fingers on his hand.

"No sad," Rosie bleats with a puckered frown. "No sad, Shock."

He swipes at the tear with the back of his hand and lifts Rosie from her chair, clutching the little girl to his chest and giving a watery chuckle when she taps his chin.

"No sad," she says and drops her hot cheek to his shoulder.

"I won't be sad anymore, I promise," Sherlock murmurs to her, letting his face rest against her downy hair. He idly recalls the smooth strands of John's grey-gold hair beneath his cheek as John wept into his chest. Sherlock can't help the squeeze of his heart, marveling at how thoroughly these Watsons hold him in their thrall.

Hearing the telltale creak of floorboards in the hall, Sherlock turns his head to regard John. The doctor lays a small lilac hold-all on the floor just inside the door sill, shifting his overnight bag to his other hand. A crooked smile quirks his lips on one side and John leans heavily against the frame; his face softens and lines of tension smooth away as he watches Sherlock rock back and forth, Rosie's small fingers twining in a few errant curls at his nape.

"Never fails to amaze me how taken she is with you," John remarks.

"Given how badly I tend to trample nearly everyone else?" Sherlock offers wryly.

John huffs quiet laughter and moves to the sofa, dropping his bag at one end and sitting at the other, elbows folding over his knees so he can lean forward towards the pair of them. The detective rotates in his chair to face John, pulled inexorably towards him as always, but says nothing further. After a moment, John raises a hand and strokes his palm over Rosie's back in small soothing circles, his fingertips brushing against Sherlock's wrist in rhythmic glances of touch. The moment feels comfortable in silence but Sherlock's chest aches. However much he once might have ridiculed such saccharine musing, he now ponders if perhaps this is why people yearn so desperately to have children with a person they love. The child curled in Sherlock's arms is not his own but … but it feels as if she is, as if she lays against his chest because she belongs to him, as if John's fingers linger on his skin because John belongs to Sherlock as well. In that moment, he wants so desperately for this notion to be the truth that the force of what he feels for John stifles him. He presses his cheek back into Rosie's hair. He has to hide from John because with the enormity of the feeling, there's no way he could turn this face to John and expect him not to see.

A soft wuffling sound comes from Rosie, vibrating against Sherlock's pectoral, and he smiles when he realizes that she's fallen asleep on him. John must realize as much as well, a short exhalation of breath taking the place of a laugh. Sherlock lifts his head and regards John, gesturing briefly towards his bedroom with his chin, indicating his intention to lay Rosie down for a nap. John looks … disappointed for a moment – odd – then nods silently. Upon returning to the sitting room, Sherlock finds John unmoved but for the hands that have clasped between his knees, so Sherlock resumes his seat at the desk. John clenches and unclenches his fingers a few times before he speaks in a low voice, his eyes darting towards the now-closed door of Sherlock's bedroom.

"So," John begins, his voice just a tiny bit tense, "you saw the pages I left for you then?"

"Yes, I … thank you, John."

John's eyes dart up to his and then away. He nods. "Did you want to talk about it?"

Heart kicking against his ribs, Sherlock spends a brief moment debating doing just that. Telling John that the description does sound like him. That only John would have bothered to look for something like this rather than simply write Sherlock off as an unfeeling, asexual machine. That perhaps he can only feel desire for a man's body when he already desires the heart. That perhaps this is why he finds himself drowning in want for John every time his fingers touch his own skin. But although the sense memory of John's hand smooth and strong within his own still has shocking potency after nearly a month, he still can't shake the memory of how frightened John looked when he called Sherlock beautiful.

"Not—not yet," Sherlock manages, unsteady. "Perhaps sometime soon but—"

"You don't have to," John insists. "You don't ever have to share if you're uncomfortable—"

"I know that," Sherlock assures him. "It's just not quite the right time yet. As you said the night Rosie got burned: I will tell you, just not yet."

John nods. "Whenever you're ready."

They lapse into silence and stay that way for quite some time. The ticking and settling of the old building echoes around them, mingling with the ambient noise of London from outside the windows, but the two of them stay as they are for nearly an hour while Rosie sleeps. Eventually, Sherlock gets up and mills about the sitting room, collecting his laptop and a few other things he anticipates needing, placing his case in front of the sofa next to John's. John fiddles about in the kitchen filling a few cups of snacks and packets of juice for Rosie that he stuffs into her diaper bag to pass on to Molly. They circumnavigate each other throughout the two rooms but don't speak until they hear the doorbell, Mrs. Hudson's chirrupy greeting, and the shuffling footsteps on the stairs that follow.

"Molly," John says unnecessarily just before she knocks on the sitting room door.

"I'll go get Rosie," Sherlock mutters and heads off towards his bedroom.

As they hand over the still-sleepy toddler, Molly's gaze bounces between the two of them with clear curiosity and speculation but neither of them acknowledge it. With a somewhat bewildered smile, Molly precedes them down the stairs, Sherlock hoisting Rosie's bag onto one shoulder and gripping his case in the other hand. John follows him wordlessly but Sherlock can feel the pressure of the doctor's eyes like a palpable presence on the back of his neck.

---

A/N - So yes, demisexuality; this is my Sherlock. I think there's a lot of evidence to support it, especially with season four's projecting Sherlock as a highly emotional person who CHOSE to be restrained with his emotions. It fit, to me, although I acknowledge and enjoy many different depictions of his sexuality.

Next chapter will have some incredibly emotional, difficult scenes (in my opinion) but are some of the best character development I think I've ever done. Stay tuned.