John was mildly confused, but he did not say a word. Sherlock Holmes, a man John had only just met, just addressed, just hopped in the car of and just realised Sherlock is probably a mass murderer. Unfortunately, there was no going back now, and John sat solemnly in the car.

Baker Street, above a café, a little flat; this was not the abode John was expecting. After see Mycroft's apartment, he had withheld higher expectations, especially more than a small, one bedroom apartment, crowded in books and small laboratorial structures.

"Make yourself at home." Sherlock said, as he took off his scarf and unwrapped himself from his coat.

"Ah, Sherlock." John began, standing at the edge of the stairs.

"You're a doctor, are you not?" Sherlock inquired, walking ever so gracefully around the room, cleaning small messes that were not going to enhance the area even if tidy. John watched in utter amusement. He was unsure of what Sherlock was doing and for some reason, the anxiety of being in a strangers house had hit him, thus turning into a nervous amusing feeling. Shutting the door behind him, he wandered further into Sherlock's house, reading the titles of books strewed across the coffee table and looking at small ornaments placed on the mantelpiece above the unused fireplace. John thought about how nice having a fire would be in winter.

"Yes. I am. And what are we doing-"

"And you're gay too?"

John looked at Sherlock. The expression his face depicted was one of confusion and shock. The amusement was gone from John's now pale and dismal face. He took a step back away from Sherlock and raised his eyebrow. For about a year or two now, John had been questioning himself, but not once did he think he was gay. In fact, he refused to be gay. Not because he was Christian, or he thought it wrong, but merely because he didn't want to accept that fact that he was attracted to the same gender. John had never had an experience, per say, but he had shared a mutual like with a fellow medic in Afghanistan. Nothing came of it, and John was rather thankful. He had not thought of that until right in this moment. He was infuriated, and embarrassed.

"No, I am not…gay." John hissed, feeling dirty even just saying the word.

"Bisexual then? Not only do you have the posture of a soldier, John, but you have the arched back of a gay man. Your fingers suggest that you cook quite often by the state of the burns on the palms side, from using a pan possibly, but you don't cook like a heterosexual. No, no, you put together immaculate dishes. No, not a pan then, a wok? The way you part your hair from the left and the upkeep of not only your hair, but your clothing, indicates you take care of yourself, and quite frequently in fact; more often so than any other man that I have met before. And-"

"What do you think you're doing?" John interrupted, his eyes knitting together in sheer amazement and anger. "You don't know what or who I am. I'm going to walk home."

"Don't worry, John. You're not the only one who is gay." Sherlock frowned, before perching himself on the armchair sitting in the far corner of the room. "Do you even know where you're going?"

"Sherlock Holmes. I am offended that you have the audacity to accuse me of such things and quite frankly, I am horrified. I should've guessed you'd be like Mycroft. You think you know everything, don't you Holmes? Here's some news for you; you're wrong." John straightened out his jacket collar and began to walk to the door before halting, and turning to Holmes once more. "And so what if I was gay? Not that I am."

"Sheer curiosity." Sherlock grinned, seeing write through John's lies. John rolled his eyes and swung the door open in the crudest fashion before walking out and slamming it. As John plodded out into the rain once more, now remembering he had left his umbrella at Mycroft's, he sighed. It was not just a sigh like when you are bored or you subconsciously do it, it was a sigh of regret and shame. Not once had any person humiliated him such as Sherlock Holmes just did.

Sherlock remained perched in his armchair throughout John's little façade of storming out. He himself did not classify nor identify to any particular sexuality. He liked to call himself 'open-minded' or something along those lines. Sherlock did not care for the genitals on a fellow person, but merely the person himself. Although, Sherlock was not one to identify with feelings either, but for some strange reason he found himself feeling rather guilty for what he just did. The look on John's face was enough to make Sherlock regret it.

Slowly, Sherlock rose from his seat and headed back to his coat at the door. He reached into the inner pocket, which was rather large and to his liking; always good to 'borrow' evidence with. But instead, he pulled out a crème coloured umbrella. This was his key to see John again; and to apologise.

This was his bargaining chip.