Living with Sherlock, you had to be ready to have your deepest secrets laid bare at any time.
If I wanted to look at naked women, I'd borrow John's laptop.
Half the time it was just a phrase, a tiny prick wound that could be ignored. John would ignore it, because it really wasn't anything to fight over. It was just Sherlock.
Better yet, stop inflicting your opinions on the world.
Sometimes, it would hurt. Not badly, not bad enough for him to leave. After all, it wasn't as though he had anywhere to go. But, still, it was as though he was being pummeled in the stomach over and over, and Sherlock never even noticed… But then the game would be on, and he would forget the pain in the haze of adrenaline that accompanied every moment of Sherlock's cases.
Gay.
But sometimes he wished he wasn't so good at forgiving and forgetting. Sometimes it was a civilian who was caught in the gunfire. Then he would watch, trying not to cry as hope was nipped to the bud by that infernal scientist.
He wished, those times, that he could leave.