A/N: It would appear that I am incapable of writing a happy story, so apologies. Dear readers, more angst...
"June twenty-seventh is a good date, don't you think?" Sherlock had been prone on the sofa for well over two hours, fingers idly toying with a cigarette he had no intention of smoking, lost in thought. John physically jumped when his voice rumbled into the room.
"Well, it's no March the fourth, or September the eighteenth, but as dates go it's not bad I suppose."
"If you were already in favour of another date perhaps we should discuss it?"
John sighed, dropping his newspaper into his lap. "Sherlock, give me a clue?"
"Setting a date is traditional I believe once a proposal is accepted. It's three months since we became engaged, yet we have not set a date for our wedding."
"Oh." John hadn't really thought much about wedding planning, and Sherlock hadn't brought it up at all since the evening John had presented him with a ring and asked him to be his husband.
"I had thought," the detective continued, "that you were content with the status quo, or that the ring on my finger marked me as yours therefore you had no need of formal ceremony to confirm it, however now I am considering other possibilities."
"Such as?"
"Perhaps you wish to return to your single days, with the sexual freedom that offers?"
"What are you talking about Sherlock? Did I fall asleep and miss half a conversation?"
"When we ran into Q last week he answered your three questions politely and succinctly, with none of his usual embellishment."
John had an uncomfortable feeling scratching at the inside of his skull. "I got my answers, no need for extraneous detail. And this has precisely what to do with sexual freedom?"
"He was angry. With you, actually. It confirmed what I already suspected. I believe a 'final fling' prior to a marriage is common, but I wondered if it was perhaps something more."
Sherlock knew. Of course he bloody knew, he observed everything, analysed everything, but it was rare of him to know something significant and yet restrain himself enough not to comment on it. John pinched the bridge of his nose.
"How long have you known?" he breathed. Sherlock hadn't moved an inch, and that was just bloody unnerving.
"For sure, since we saw Q. As three out of the four interested parties appeared to be cognisant of the full story, it seems the right time to confess my awareness."
"For fuck's sake Sherlock, I've just pretty much confirmed I've had an affair and you act like you're not even bothered. Don't you care?"
With a sudden burst of movement the dark haired man was sitting upright glaring right back.
"Of course I care! How exactly would you like me to express said caring?" He demanded.
"Hell I don't know. Normal people would get angry, scream, shout, break things! At least sodding well react!" John yelled.
Sherlock's large feet hit the floor with a thump, striding across the room to his side table where he plucked a bone china tea cup and dropped it on the floor. It tinkled into three pieces scattering minute droplets of tea across the hearth. "There, all fixed! No less painful and now we're short of a cup! Superb!"
"Oh that was just- aargh!" John threw up his arms in frustration. Sherlock didn't have a clue, never would.
"Did the sex meet your needs?"
"My needs-? Jesus Christ!" John looked skywards and contemplated punching his fiancé. He should have expected something like this, it was inconceivable that Sherlock wouldn't have deduced the extent of the relationship, but he waited until now to say anything, when things had supposedly getting better between them.
"Was it satisfying?"
Anger bubbled up, white hot. "What? I bloody came, is that what you want to hear? Emotionally unfulfilling because it wasn't the man I wanted to be with, but yes Sherlock, I fucking achieved orgasm. Are you happy with that? Does it answer why I did it?"
"No! You said sex didn't matter."
"I lied!" Sherlock looked like he'd been slapped, shock registering in every fibre of his body. "Shit! Sherlock, I didn't mean-"
"I don't know what you want me to say to that John! It hurts, and it's upsetting and confusing, and I want it not to have happened. My insides feel shaken up like- like I want to- and I can't even speak because I don't have the words to express how angry-"
He collapsed to the floor in an untidy pile of limbs and curls, sagging into himself, breathing raggedly, and John was left staring at the top of his head. Slowly he lowered himself to the floor too, leaning against his chair for support. He reached out a hand to the other man. "Sherlock-?"
"You lied," he said dully.
"Yes, I'm truly sorry. I wanted to be with you more than anything so I told you sex wasn't important to me. I thought I could make it not matter, but I miss the proper intimacy of a relationship. Not just sex. I miss holding and being held, casual touches and hugs, spending time curled up with a partner just being together and loving each other."
"And Bond gave you that?" Sherlock snorted.
"No, but I saw what he had with Q and tried to take a little of it for myself but that was never going to work. Ultimately it was just fucking the wrong man."
"And am I the right one?"
"Yes! Oh god, emphatically yes!"
"It would seem we are incompatible in several rather important areas."
John cradled Sherlock's unresponsive fingers, tracing nervous circles over his knuckles. "Not incompatible, just a bit mismatched. I have no complaints, none at all, about the quality, but I need to know you want me because you never seem to show it. If you still do..."
"I don't know," he said honestly. "I want some time to think."
"Oh right. I thought-?"
"Thought I'd be fine with it? Put it behind us and move on? No, I don't think so. I'm not asking you to move out, but I think it best if you move back to your old room while we resolve this, one way or the other."
"I- ok, if that's what you want?"
"It is. Here, keep it safe."
John stared numbly at the ring in the palm of his hand. "I- right."