John almost choked on his coffee when he opened up a text from Sherlock to reveal a picture of a dead body.
Jesus, Sherlock! Wtf?
Don't use text slang in our conversations, John, was his only reply.
You're not going to explain the picture of the bruised corpse to me?
I thought it was obvious; I need your medical opinion. Do you think the bruises on his neck were post-mortem?
John put down his coffee mug to concentrate. All things considered, this wasn't the weirdest way Sherlock started off his morning. It had been worse when John had to deal with actual, physical body parts in their flat. He squinted at his screen. I can't tell from the picture. It's too hard to see. Where'd you even get this picture? Doesn't look like it's from the morgue.
It's in one of the cold case files Lestrade gave me. If you want, you can come over to see for yourself.
John couldn't tell if Sherlock genuinely wanted his medical opinion, or if this were his awkward way of inviting him over to hang out. He rubbed his eyes, looking at the time. He had to drop Rosie off in ten minutes, but then he could swing by Baker Street instead of coming back here. He just hoped Irene stayed out of their business, but considering Sherlock's apparent anger at her for texting him a couple days ago, maybe she would stay away.
I have to bring Rosie to daycare, but I can come by after. Be there in forty minutes?
Excellent.
John sighed, putting his phone in his jeans pocket. His heart was still hurting from the other day, when it became clear that Sherlock knew how he really felt, but was simply ignoring it out of politeness-out of kindness-because he didn't feel the same way. John obsessed over this thought since they stopped texting that night, and it was the only reasonable conclusion he could come to. Sherlock was too smart not to see how pathetic John's denials were, or how perfectly Irene got to him. He was a bloody genius, and while he wasn't always the best at picking up social cues, John was too obvious.
He picked up his coffee mug again, taking a long sip. He just hoped that things weren't too uncomfortable between them today. They always lost themselves in a good case, so this should distract them, right? Nothing like a good corpse to get them into high spirits. He groaned aloud. What the hell was wrong with them?
When John entered the flat, no one was in the sitting room or kitchen. He looked around, confused. Sherlock's violin was on the table by the window and his music stand was out, but other than that, there was no sign of him.
"Sherlock?" he called.
"In here," he responded from what sounded like his room.
John walked into his room and found Sherlock sitting on his bed, laptop out, case files all over the duvet and floor on the right side of the bed. Despite himself, John's eyes did a quick scan of the room, but he didn't see anything that resembled Irene's belongings.
"What are you looking at?" Sherlock asked.
"Just the explosion of case files," he lied. "Why are you in here and not the sitting room?"
"The Woman was chiming in and attempting to solve the case herself," he grumbled, typing on his laptop. His curls were falling over his eyebrows, uncombed, and he was in his red dressing gown.
The last time John saw that dressing gown, Irene was wearing it. He shuddered. He hoped It was washed since then.
"So I moved in here," Sherlock finished his thought. "Besides, I know you'd rather not see her," he said, looking up from his screen.
"Is she not usually welcome in your bedroom?" he asked.
His brow furrowed. "No. Why would she be?"
John swallowed, standing awkwardly in the doorway. "Er, well, she came out of your room one time I was here. In that," he nodded towards the dressing gown.
Sherlock looked down at it. "Yes, I remember," he said, tone unreadable.
"And she took your phone while you were sleeping, so she must have been in your room, right?" So much for today not being uncomfortable.
"Yes, but I assure you I wanted no part in her little game." He took the computer off his lap and placed it in front of his bent knees. His shoulders moved up and down in an inaudible sigh. "I am sorry for how she-"
"No," John held up his hand, wanting to diffuse the tension he created. "No, it's fine. We don't need to talk about it. Tell me about the case."
Sherlock stared at him. He blinked and then shuffled some of the papers around on his bed. "All right. If you don't want to stand there the whole time, you can sit here," he said as he created a space on the edge of the bed out of the sea of files.
John wasn't really sure if being on Sherlock's bed was going to make anything less uncomfortable, but protesting wouldn't help, either. He sat on the edge of the mattress, turning so he was facing Sherlock and the laptop. Thankfully, the bed was big enough so they weren't too close. He had only been in Sherlock's room a handful of times when he lived here, and he never actually sat on his bed.
It's a queen-sized bed. Big enough for two.
John mentally slapped away the thought. He was a mess this morning. "Show me the picture of the body again."
"With pleasure," he said with a small smile.
What started with John confirming the bruises on the victim were postmortem ended with Sherlock talking a mile a minute on the phone with Lestrade.
"He did it with the teapot, but his desire for revenge caused him to keep going-"
John just listened to him talk, not even aware of the smile on his face. It had been awhile since he heard Sherlock rattle off a deduction like this-at least while sober. But here he was, health(ier) again and back on his game. He was animated as he talked into the phone, his free hand waving in the air and his bare toes curling in the duvet. John's smile dropped when he felt warmth in his chest. Staring longingly at Sherlock while on his bed was a bad idea.
"Yes, yes, I know, I already sent a write up of my findings to your email. Do keep up." He pushed his hair back from his forehead. "Will that be all? All right, goodbye." He hung up, putting his phone down on the bed. He smiled. "That was nice," he clapped his hands together. "Unfortunately, it only took us an afternoon, but we've had far more tedious endeavors."
"And cold cases usually don't take too long," John pointed out.
"Right," Sherlock closed the lid of his laptop and put it on the bedside table next to him. He looked around the room. "Hm."
"What?"
"An disadvantage to solving cold cases at home is having to clean up all the files."
John snorted, crossing his arms. "I spend every day cleaning up after a baby, and I'm not about to clean up after you."
Sherlock sighed dramatically and flopped down on the bed. "It can wait. Mrs. Hudson can do it."
"You can't rely on her to clean up the explosion of papers in her room."
"Sure I can," he said. "She'll complain and scold me and do it in the end."
John rolled his eyes. "You're a grown man. You shouldn't rely on an elderly woman to clean your room." He stopped. "God, I feel like I'm parenting you."
Sherlock chuckled. "Well, you are older than I."
John reached back and grabbed the pillow behind him. "Don't make me whack you," he said jokingly, with no intention to do it. He wasn't actually a young girl at a sleepover, thank you very much.
Something shifted in Sherlock's expression and he seemed to tense slightly. "Please," he said dismissively, "don't be foolish."
John went to put the pillow back, but a flash of color on the white pillowcase caught his eye instinctively. He casually glanced down at the pillow and saw something red smeared on it. It was lipstick. He clenched his jaw. This was why Sherlock tensed up. John took a deep breath, his teeth hurting from clenching his jaw so tightly, and while he felt the blood in his veins turn hot, there was a resigned sinking feeling in his chest.
"Mrs. Hudson hasn't done my laundry yet," Sherlock said defensively, sitting up.
John pressed his lips together, putting the pillow down. He knew Irene spent time in this bedroom, but something about her makeup smeared on the pillow reeked of sexuality. If she were only sleeping in this bed, then this wouldn't have happened; he assumed she took her makeup off at night. All the signs were there, too convenient to be coincidental. They were together. "Uh," he cleared his throat. "It's fine. I mean," he smiled tightly, "good for you, eh?" These words were painful to speak. "I told you not to miss your chance with her, so. Good on you. For listening to me for once."
Then, the oddest thing happened to Sherlock's face. He blinked slowly, and then his eyebrows and mouth turned downwards slowly, deliberately, forming a scowl. A flame ignited in his eyes, and his teeth were bared. "For god's sake, John!" he said sharply, shooting up from the bed forcefully to stand on the other side of it.
"W-what?" John asked in confusion, Sherlock's abrupt change in tone sending a shockwave through him. He stood up, too.
Sherlock looked downright angry. The intensity in his stare was almost frightening. "I don't know how many times I've made it clear that women aren't my area, but apparently that wasn't transparent enough for you," he pointed his finger. "So, since I need to talk to you like I talk to Rosie, I'll break it down for you. I. Am. Gay. Do you understand now?"
John's heart was in his throat and his legs were rooted to the floor. He was speechless.
Sherlock kept staring at him, and he huffed out a harsh breath, putting his hands out to the side. "Will you really say nothing? Fine! I'll keep talking. I have no idea why you have always been invested in the idea of me being with Irene, especially when it's clear that you loathe her. Even in the beginning, you could never stand her, so why did you ever try to push me towards her?"
John swallowed hard, feeling the blood drain from his face. "I...I thought she would make you happy, so-"
"Well," Sherlock cut him off, "perhaps you should spend less time with your head up your own arse and more time listening to me. When have I ever been unclear about what I want or don't want?"
Normally, John wouldn't take that kind of talk from anyone, but he was too shocked to do anything. He wasn't sure if Sherlock had ever been this angry with him. Where was this coming from?
Sherlock shook his head roughly, visibly frustrated. "I let you talk and talk because our friendship had just recovered, but I can't take your moronic delusions anymore. You thought she would make me happy? Have I ever given that impression?"
John struggled to speak without stuttering. "But, you were always so drawn to her-"
"And I always told you I wasn't interested in women or any of that fairytale romance nonsense you believe in," Sherlock cut him off yet again, his voice hovering between speaking sternly and yelling.
His words were daggers right into John's chest. So much was going through his head right now, but there it was; it didn't matter what Sherlock's sexuality was, because he wasn't interested in romance. John had no chance. Anything resembling hope was gone in an instant.
Sherlock's chest was heaving. "You kept making assumptions about us, about what we supposedly did, and every time I tried to redirect the conversation. I thought you would take the hint. I didn't think you were this thick-headed."
"Yeah, okay, I get it," John muttered, his chest hurting, his stomach churning. "God, why are you so angry about this? I made a mistake, sorry, but I've done far worse than assume you wanted to have sex with a woman. Seriously, Sherlock, why are you like this?"
"Because," he spat. Before he finished his thought, the scowl on his face loosened, and his features turned upset. "Because you're my best friend and I thought you were the only one who understood me. But I was wrong. To have you insist that I must secretly be heterosexual and that I want to be with Irene made it seem like you never took me seriously. You just brushed off my words, as if I'm a child who doesn't know what he wants instead of an adult man." He sighed, the anger in is posture deflating, and his shoulders sagged. "You've always built up an idea of me, John, but it's usually very far from the truth. You've done this in numerous ways over the years, but I think I know why you've been obsessed with me and Irene."
John braced for the worst, his hands balling into fists. "You do?" he asked quietly.
There was still an agitated furrow to Sherlock's brow, but sadness was definitely taking over his facial expression. "Yes. You've never been skilled at hiding your thoughts."
John felt like he was going to vomit.
Sherlock's eyes flickered down. "You've always, so badly, wanted proof that I'm not a machine and in your mind, being with the Woman would be confirmation that I'm not the sociopath you think I am."
John's eyes widened. "What?" he asked incredulously. "No, you-no, Sherlock, you've got it all wrong," he held up his hands in placation.
"Then what is it?" he threw his hands in the air, a bitter smile on his face. "How am I wrong? What are your true motives behind this, then?"
John could hear his own pulse, his palms sweating. To tell the truth would be to confess how he felt, but Sherlock just said he was never interested in "fairytale" romance. He was already so disgusted with him. John could picture telling him the truth, and his expression turning bored and annoyed. "Oh, John. That's unfortunate. You know I'm married to my work, and yet again you've built up a pathetic idea of me." He couldn't say it. He couldn't. His head was spinning.
Sherlock waited for his response, and as the seconds passed by, he grew more disappointed. He was staring at John, but there was no more fire in his eyes. He looked tired. He sat down on the edge of the mattress. "So, I'm right. You wanted proof that I'm human. Well. Sorry to disappoint you."
John didn't say anything.
Sherlock shut his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath, a pained look crossing his face. "I knew that was how you thought of me," he nearly whispered.
"No," John shook his head, his voice dangerously close to wavering. "It's not true. I know you're not a sociopath, Sherlock. You wouldn't react this strongly if you were."
"I am one," he said, but his voice was weak and unconvincing, sounding like a reflex more than anything else. His fist was wrapped around the tie on his dressing gown. "Even if you don't believe that, you said it yourself that I'm not complete as a human being if I'm not romantically involved."
Damn, John seriously didn't know that hurt Sherlock's feelings at the time. He had been projecting, and he knew it. He didn't feel complete without romance, and he guessed he was wrong for assuming Sherlock would feel the same way. "Sorry," he said, voice scratchy.
He lifted his face with a look that wracked John's heart. "I think you should leave now, John," he said quietly.
He sniffed. He looked at Sherlock, who was hunched over on the side of the bed, eyes glued to the floor. John knew he hurt him, but his cowardice prevented him from saying anything more. An unpleasant tingle rippled down his spine as he walked (stumbled) past Sherlock and out of the room, his throat feeling tight. He got out of the flat and downstairs, but had to lean his arm against the front door and try to control his breathing. He couldn't walk through London while crying.
There were footsteps on the stairs. "John."
John lifted his head, gritting his teeth. "What?" he barked.
Irene took a couple more steps down the stairs. "You should have told him."
John whipped around. "Stay out of my business. I don't know how you heard all that-were you eavesdropping?-but I don't want to hear anything from you."
Irene was standing at the bottom of the steps, hand on the railing. Her hair was down and for once, she was wearing actual pajamas, no makeup on. "I always knew I never had a real chance with Sherlock Holmes," she pressed on. "I have fun with him, but that's all. I'm gay. So is he."
"Yeah, I know, I just found that out," he said gruffly.
She sighed, crossing her arms. "Just trust me on this one thing-I think you should be up front with him. Trust me."
John just shook his head, tired of her and her games. He didn't respond. He turned around and left the building.
Several hours later, Sherlock's words were still bothering John. He couldn't stop thinking about it to the point where Rosie started to cry because he wasn't paying attention to her. He couldn't get rid of the cloud which hung over his mind. He truly had no idea that his urging bothered Sherlock. John thought he was only mildly annoyed at the worst, and god, he really didn't know Sherlock was gay. He felt guilty. If he had known Sherlock were gay, he wouldn't have made those assumptions. But, he supposed he should have known.
"Girlfriend? No, not really my area."
God, John was an idiot. He really had been so caught up in his own head and insecurities that he ignored what was right in front of him. But it was the false deduction Sherlock made that was getting to him the most. John didn't think he was a sociopath, and he didn't think being with Irene would have made him more human. It must have really hurt for Sherlock to think his best friend thought of him as a machine. How could Sherlock ever think he was a sociopath? He cared so much, he always did. He deserved be told that. John said he wasn't a sociopath, but he clearly didn't believe him.
He was lying on the sofa, barely watching the news on the television. Rosie was sleeping and he was alone with his thoughts. He wiped his tired eyes. What was he going to do? Sherlock was so angry with him that he kicked him out. That had never happened before. John was awful to him for so long, but today seemed to push him over the edge. John didn't blame him. Maybe this was just Sherlock finally snapping on him after being treated like shite. Could their friendship recover from this? It had barely recovered since Culverton.
John honestly doubted it. This was his fault. It was all his fault. What if they only worked together as associates and nothing more? What if John just went on cases with Sherlock for the money and went straight home to Rosie every time? That was probably going to happen. He finally blew it.
John sat up on his elbows. He felt like Sherlock couldn't possibly be more upset with him. If that were the case, then...then there was no point in hiding anymore, was there? Sherlock deserved the truth. John deserved the pain the truth would bring. If telling him what was really going on would make him shut out John forever, then that was his punishment. He knew Sherlock wouldn't return his feelings, but maybe learning that John did think he was capable of emotion and not a machine, or incomplete, would make him feel less insulted. John had an obligation to apologize and come clean. With a sick feeling lingering in his gut, he got up from the sofa to find a pencil and paper. He was too much of a coward to face Sherlock again in person or call him, but he could write him a letter. The last letter he wrote Sherlock had been full of rage and misplaced loathing, but this would be different. It would be his confession.
