There were clients and cases, work at the clinic and arguments over empty milk cartons. There was tea and Chinese takeaway. It looked for all the outside world that life at 221B Baker Street was what it had always been. It is what it always had been, John reflected, before… well. Before. It should have been enough. Why can't it just be enough?

He was walking his regular route (our regular route, he thought sadly), avoiding the coffee shop, though a steaming cup of anything would be welcome relief from the miserable dampness that hadn't lifted for weeks. The same street crossing, the same walking path. He was just about to enter the park when an eerily quiet black sedan approached from behind. Hearing the rear door open, John sighed, resigning himself to the inevitable, and climbed in.

"Hello, Dr. Watson."

"Hello, Mycroft."

"I wondered if I might have a word about my little brother."

"If I'm not mistaken, I'm rather a captive audience."

Mycroft smiled without humor. "Quite right. Well. I understand that the cold front that settled over London a few weeks ago has spoiled the newfound, shall we say, domesticity between Sherlock and yourself?"

"It's called a fight, Mycroft," John said impatiently.

"Yes, well, given the enduring effects of this fight, I thought it might be time that you knew a little something of my brother's past."

"Anything Sherlock wants me to know, he'll tell me himself."

"Ah, loyal as ever, I see, Dr. Watson. An admirable quality, to be sure. Perhaps my dear little brother has already mentioned his singular foray into the world of relationships? No? Well, then. I suspect you may wish to bend the rules a bit this time. "


Sherlock stretched his arms above his head and glanced over at the strawberry-blonde head leaning back against the pillows. One eye opened, and he was met with a smile and a quick, sweet kiss as the man rolled over.

"Hmm, good morning you."

Sherlock just smiled and fidgeted with the blanket.

"Alright. Out with it. What's going on in that big brain of yours?"

"Nothing. Well. I was thinking."

"Aren't you always?" his boyfriend interjected without any edge to his voice. The casual flirtation that had started just before winter break had flourished into a proper relationship this term, and Sherlock did not want to risk its destruction for something as mundane as summer holiday.

"What if we took a flat together by campus for a few months? I have to be here all summer preparing for my thesis, and you could… work in town?"

His companion looked at him skeptically, pulling on his shirt and trousers and artfully disheveling his hair.

"We'll see, hm? Going down for breakfast."

Fifteen minutes later, Sherlock spotted him in the dining hall. He had never spent any time with the others in the group, but he knew if he was going to make this relationship work, he'd have to make some… adjustments. That's what people do, isn't it? Compromise?

As he approached the table, someone called out, "Freak alert, 10 o'clock!" his boyfriend flushing crimson while everyone else laughed. Sherlock stopped in his tracks. Should he still try to join them? Would walking away make it worse? He looked at his partner for help.

"You wouldn't believe what he asked me when I ran into him in the dorms this morning. Wants to get a flat together this summer! As if I would waste minutes, let alone months, of my life putting up with him! And just in case anyone still cares," he turned and met Sherlock's eyes squarely, "I'M. NOT. GAY."


John sat in horrified silence as the sedan pulled up to the flat. All these years… all these years I had been… but I couldn't have known. Oh god, forgive me Sherlock, I didn't know.

The man in question was lying flat on the sofa, eyes closed, when John entered the sitting room.

"Sherlock. Show me."

"Really, John, after 7 months this is becoming rather tedious."

"Sherlock."

"I thought you wanted me to sleep… oh alright, fine." He huffed a loud breath and sat up, pushing back the sleeves of his dressing gown. John sat on the coffee table to examine the faded marks, then lightly brushed his lips over the veins on either arm and turned his searching gaze back to the younger man's face.

"Tea?" He didn't wait for the response before walking into the kitchen and clicking on the kettle, followed closely by his flatmate. Best friend. And maybe still –

Sherlock caught his lips in a hard kiss the moment he turned around, pressing him back against the worktop with enough force to rattle the waiting mugs. John answered by wrapping two strong arms around him, pushing him blindly down the hall, until he fell backwards onto the bed. Sherlock had unbuttoned John's shirt as they walked, but had now run out of patience and simply tore his own from his body, throwing it to the floor, then pulling John's vest over his head and shoving his jeans down. John straddled Sherlock's thighs and kissed him fiercely, pulling him into the center of the bed before crawling down the length of his body, alternating bites and kisses until he reached top of his trousers.

Locking eyes with an already panting detective, John licked his lips and dragged the zipper down with his teeth. Without breaking their gaze, he lifted Sherlock's hips, and freed him of both trousers and pants at once.

"My god, you are so beautiful." The hope that filled Sherlock's expression upon hearing those words brought tears to John's eyes. How could I have doubted him? This man. This –

"Gorgeous, stunning, complicated man," he finished aloud. Sherlock inhaled sharply as the color rose in his cheekbones, and suddenly nothing was happening fast enough. John crushed their lips together as his weight pinned Sherlock to the bed. He lifted his hips slightly, slotting his thick, prominent erection along Sherlock's long, painfully hard cock and began rutting until the friction almost burned.

"Jooohn. Jooohn, I … John, lube," Sherlock moaned, gesturing to the nightstand. Reluctantly stopping their movements, John yanked open the drawer, flipping open the lid on the half-used bottle and poured it into Sherlock's waiting palm. Slender fingers immediately wrapped around both of them and set an urgent, almost frantic pace.

"Fuck, oh my god Sherlock, you feel so… I'm… are you…"

"Almost, I just…" Sherlock barely registered the movement at his side until two slick fingers were penetrating his hole, thrusting quickly and searching for his prostate. The tightness of Sherlock's body brought John dangerously close to the edge, but he needed the detective to climax first, needed him to be taken care of. He knew if he could just hold on a few seconds longer, he could –

"JOHN! Oh OH FUCK YES. Yes, John, yes… I… I …" the rest caught in his throat as long white strings of come shot across his stomach, mixing just seconds later with John's. The older man stood up slowly, still breathing hard, and returned with a wet flannel. After wiping both of them down, he slid gracelessly beneath the covers, holding out his right arm for Sherlock to curl into. They were both asleep before either could speak a word.

Later that night, John placed a kiss lightly into Sherlock's hair while he stared out at the waxing moon. The sky was clearer after the weeks of rain, and the stars shone brighter, as if they had been washed and polished. Maybe Sherlock was right. Maybe Captain Watson had become his own worst enemy. Maybe it's time to do something about it.