Sherlock awakens, for the first time in his life, to the feeling of warm arms wrapped around him. Usually he snaps awake, his brain instantly online, but somehow the sensation of John snuggled so intimately against his own body throws everything off-kilter. It takes several minutes before he feels ready to both speak and think simultaneously.

"John?"

John mumbles, his arm tightening over Sherlock's ribcage for a long moment before going slack again. "Mmm."

"John," Sherlock repeats.

John sucks in a sudden breath, obviously just now taking in their relative positions. He pulls away and drags himself up to prop himself up on one elbow. "Oh." His smile is a bit bashful. "Hey. You look adorable when your hair is all rumpled like that in the mornings, did you know that?"

He doesn't look angry. He doesn't even look embarrassed. Sherlock lets his eyes dart over as much of John's body as he can make out underneath the sheet. Still fully dressed, neck a bit sore - but that's obvious, Sherlock fell asleep with John's pillow still under his hips and he had just ejaculated into it, anyway, John made do with propping his head on his arm and sleeping on his side. Eyes a bit over-bright - anticipating the need for compassion, then. Possibly pity. An uncomfortable knot forms in Sherlock's stomach.

"That wasn't what I planned," Sherlock says.

John smiles, the cat with the proverbial cream. "I know," he replies. "You like having everything all planned out. It was nice, though, wasn't it?"

Doesn't he understand? Sherlock huffs in frustration, not caring whether John reads it off him or not. "I was going to give you a blow job," he explains with restrained patience. "It was supposed to be a thank-you."

John shrugs. "There's no rush." He reaches to brush one palm over Sherlock's cheek, fingers trailing over his cheekbone and palm cupping his jaw. "We can do whatever you want, as many times as you need for you to start believing me."

"That's not - you're not -" Sherlock is rarely at a loss for words, and it throw him uncomfortably off-balance. "You're not gay," he finally blurts out.

"Ah." John withdraws his hand, opts instead to lace his fingers behind his head and lie back flat on the mattress and stare blankly at the ceiling. "Is that what's bothering you?"

Sherlock glares, the dark glare that usually has strangers avoiding him and starts Lestrade muttering, but John regularly throws off with little more than a shrug. Not even that, this time, just a hint of an eyeroll and a tiny sigh.

"I'm not. Wasn't," John corrects. His gaze darts back to Sherlock's face, lingers on his lips. "You probably deduced correctly that when we first met, I wouldn't have even considered anything like this. That was before I got to know you, though."

Sherlock's mouth feels dry. "What is 'this?'"

"What do you want it to be?" John's lips twitch upward, a tiny hint of a smile nobody else would have recognized, but a moment later he sobers and turns his head to focus directly on Sherlock once again. "This is different, Sherlock, and I meant what I said. There's no rush. This can be whatever you need it to be, and I will be happy with it. I promise."

How? The data is all there, it must be, but it doesn't add up. John, who was never shy about his interest in opposite-sex relationships in the past. Who went out with an assortment of women on a fairly regular basis and often came home showing signs of having participated in at least some form of physical intimacy with them, usually a smudge of lipstick somewhere on his skin, sometimes just a telling flush and a beeline for his bedroom. John can't be shy, then, not about his own body or about his physical, biological drive. And yet.

"It can't just be about me," Sherlock says aloud. He may not be good at "people-emotion-relationship things" (as John so eloquently put it), but he does know they usually seem to indicate some sort of reciprocation. This is not reciprocal. This is John babying him, pitying him. Consenting to touch his body only because he wants Sherlock to be magically healed. Bollocks to that.

"It's not." John props himself back up on that elbow, eyebrows knitted together in confused concern. "You've been through a lot. I'm acknowledging that. There's probably always going to be some residual emotion about what your kidnappers did to you-"

"Fuck you." Sherlock rolls out of bed and stalks to the dresser, yanks out a clean pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt. John's - it was borrowed from John for the duration of his recovery. He throws it on the floor and digs out another, untainted one. Behind his back, there are noises of John sitting up, mouth probably hanging open in shock, but Sherlock isn't interested.

"Sherlock, I don't understand-"

"Fuck that too." Sherlock whirls on him, finger raised in accusation, a fucking perfect caricature of useless anger. He knows it, doesn't care. "Fuck you, and your understanding, and your pity. I'm not a broken bone you can mend, John. I'm not a lost puppy and I'm not a fucking charity project. Don't you fucking try that with me."

John's eyes are liquid, hurt, but Sherlock can't stop to process that. If he stops, he may crumple into a fragile pile of empty husk right there on the floor. He glares instead, daring John with his eyes to interfere, and storms out of the room. The bathroom door slams with a satisfying bang and Sherlock leans against it for a long while before his legs give out and he sits on the floor, heart leaking out onto the tile around him.

The flat is silent for a minute, two, then John's bare feet thump down onto the floor. The footsteps pause outside the bathroom door, hesitate, then continue on upstairs.

Sherlock closes his eyes and just tries to breathe.