221B was a minefield of awkward silences the next day. Sherlock mostly stayed in his room and sulked, which wasn't unusual, but his sulking was pointedly directed at John and it was bloody annoying. John finally called up Greg and invited him out for a pint, just as an excuse to get out of the flat.

Greg was already waiting when John got to the pub, two beers set expectantly on the table. John slid into his seat, grabbed the second, and took a long drink before even trying to talk.

"So Sherlock and I aren't shagging," he said without further preamble.

Greg blinked. "Okay."

"But he wants to, I think."

"And?"

"And I'm not gay, but apparently he is, and I just found out today that everyone in bloody London knew this except me."

"Ah." Greg stared into his pint for a long moment. "And you're mad about it?"

"Not mad that he's gay, but I am mad he assumed I'd be the kind of homophobe who would react badly. Tell me honestly: do I come across as that kind of bloke?"

Greg tilted his head to one side and studied him. "No," he finally said. "You really don't, and you didn't even when I first met you. One of your most remarkable traits is how you manage to stay so bloody reasonable all the time, even in the presence of Sherlock Holmes. He'd drive anyone else around the twist."

John slumped in his seat. "So what the bloody hell is his problem?"

Greg's eyes flipped downward, but he stayed uncharacteristically silent. John waited until it was obvious he didn't intend to answer.

"Greg?"

He finally looked up. "He's got - there's a reason, okay?"

John blew out a long breath and some of the tension left him. "Yeah, I figured," he mumbled. "He said - he said I was his type and you bloody well knew it and that's why you and the rest of the Yard keep assuming we're together."

Greg nodded and took another drink. "Yeah, I - I can see that. Didn't think of it in those terms, but yeah."

"So explain! What happens now?"

Greg hesitated, then dug his phone out of his pocket and started scrolling. He finally pulled up a picture and handed the phone to John. "That's Sherlock twelve years ago, when I first met him."

John glanced at the picture - and then couldn't tear his eyes away. Sherlock was gorgeous. His face was a bit softer, still with those high cheekbones and dark curls, but tempered by a bit more shape around the jaw and a healthier glow to his skin. It was the face of a man who would undoubtedly draw attention wherever he went, whether he wanted it or not. John let the phone drop and stared at Greg.

"Yeah, you see what I mean. You can't tell in that picture, but he carried himself differently, too - he was still bloody tall, but not quite so . . . austere, I guess. More approachable. And he pretty much had to fight admirers of both sexes off with a stick."

"I can imagine."

"He didn't want any of the women, though. I don't think he ever 'came out,' per se, but he didn't have to - you could tell from a mile away that he played for the other team. It was in his mannerisms, the way he dressed, the way he talked."

John frowned. "He doesn't strike me like that at all."

"Yeah, not now. But then, for sure."

"So what happened?"

Greg stuck the phone back in his pocket and took a slow drink from his glass. "Promise me this won't get spread around."

John shrugged. "I - okay, sure."

"Right. So I wasn't a DI yet, at the time, was just working my way up. And here this kid - Sherlock - walks into the Yard, claiming he's solved a murder."

"Like always."

"Again, he does that now, but then he was some gay punk from uni and nobody would take him seriously. He latched on to me, for some reason, I had no idea why. But he waited outside of work for me for a week straight, trying to catch me on my way home and convince me to let him see the case file."

"And did you?"

Greg snorted. "Hell no - that's a good way to get sacked, for sure. I did get him to tell me his theory, though, and no big surprise, he was right. It wasn't like we had missed something, it was more that Sherlock just saw things we didn't. I got a promotion, he got a nice little pat on the head from the current DI, and I assumed that would be that. Except he stuck around."

"Wanting to help with more cases?"

"Um, wanting to wait for me." Greg reddened a bit. "You know how he deduces things you'd rather not have him say? Well he deduced that I wasn't exclusively interested in women, actually, and he wanted a shot."

John gaped. "I never - I never knew. So you're . . ."

"Married," Greg said flatly. "Just two years at that point. She was cheating on my already, apparently, but I didn't know that at the time. I just knew that I had this stunningly gorgeous guy half my age angling for me, and I had made the decision to stick with one woman - one person - for life. I wasn't about to take up with Sherlock on the side." He closed his eyes. "God, I wanted to, though."

John took a moment to assimilate this. "Do you wish you had?" he finally asked.

"No." Greg shook his head emphatically. "Bloody gorgeous as he was, he was also messed up pretty badly. I'm sure you've heard about the drugs. He wasn't - he got worse after I turned him down, went from hounding me and flirting with me one day to just disappearing. I assumed he'd lost interest, but a month or so later I came across him as part of a drugs bust and he was . . . well, he was in bad shape."

"Bad shape how?"

"Bad boyfriend, I guess I should say." Greg snorted. "Some guy a decade older than him. Seemed quiet enough, but ended up being one of the larger cocaine distributors in London."

John could fit the pieces together easily enough. "So Sherlock was trading sex for drugs."

"I think it was more relationship-ish - is that a word? - than that, but yeah." Greg shot John a lopsided smile. "Sherlock got what he wanted - a boyfriend and access to cocaine - and it damn near killed him. His brother hauled him off to god-knows-where and got him clean, but when he came back he was a different Sherlock. Much more like the man you're living with now - he'd always been bloody brilliant, but after that whole episode, he was . . . more reserved, somehow, I guess."

"Yeah, I have a hard time picturing him less reserved," John said instantly.

That got a reluctant laugh out of Greg. "You'd be surprised. I'm sure you've seen him flirting to get something he wants? Now picture that manic focus directed at you, all the time. No filter." He took another drink and grinned. "God, it was fantastic."

"Christ." And the worst thing was, John could picture it. That little tingle when Sherlock was truly there, paying attention to just him. Especially when he said something that managed to surprise him a bit, so Sherlock was momentarily impressed with his plebeian brain and was all smiles and approval and energy. It was heady enough from a friend - how much more devastating would it be if Sherlock were flirting at the same time?

"Yeah. So." Greg chuckled into his pint. "You see why we all thought . . . what we thought about you two."

"Yeah, I do." John realized he didn't mind as much as he had the day before.

"Especially since he hasn't really done that - flirting - with anyone for twelve years. You're the one exception. It wasn't a big deduction on our part."

Something in John's brain screeched to a halt. "Wait - you mean Sherlock went from flaming gay flirt to absolutely nothing over the course of a month, and has stayed that way for more than a decade?"

Greg raised a silent eyebrow.

Shit. "And I never noticed."

"I . . . think he doesn't want to risk being shot down again, honestly," Greg said with a grimace. "Look, if you're not interested, that's fine. You're not obligated to do anything just because your flatmate is a bloody failure when it comes to actual relationships. Even Sherlock has to realize that. Tell him thanks but no, decide what you want to do next, and go from there."

But what if I have no idea what I want to do? John nodded and drained the rest of his pint, but his mind wasn't on the conversation anymore. He had to get back to 221B and talk to Sherlock.