That afternoon, on the drive home, Sherlock steals looks at John from the passenger seat. John notices, but he's choosing not to say anything yet. Observing John has not led Sherlock to any conclusions other than that John is no more or less talkative than usual, no more or less tired than usual, nothing but usual.
And yet.
"You're not gay," Sherlock blurts.
John coughs. "Um, ahem. No," he answers, keeping his eyes on the road.
Sherlock frowns. He wants to continue, but all he has is questions. John helps him out.
"Are you . . . concerned about the . . ."
Yes. What to call it?
"Co-sleeping?" John attempts.
It's a ridiculous word, but the thought of saying "snuggling" or "cuddling" instead makes Sherlock shudder.
"Yes," he says simply.
John is quiet for a moment. "Did it . . . make you feel uncomfortable?"
"No," Sherlock answers. "Did it . . ."
This is an intolerable conversation.
Sherlock tries again. "Were you? Uncomfortable, I mean."
"No."
Sherlock rolls his eyes. Good Lord, they are never going to get anywhere like this. He huffs and then the questions tumble out of him.
"Were you aroused?"
"No," John answers firmly.
"But you were comfortable?"
"Yes." Answered equally firmly.
"And why were you comfortable?"
"I dunno. Because I was warm, and you were warm, and it seemed . . . nice."
"'Nice' in what way?"
"'Nice', like in the way that it was not objectionable; 'nice' like . . . affectionate."
"And," Sherlock pauses only briefly. "Is that. Is that what you feel, affection?"
John clears his throat. "I feel many things towards you," he answers, and Sherlock senses a joking sort of irritation behind his tone. "Affection being one of them."
Sherlock sits very still at that. It seems rather improbable that after all this time together, they are only beginning to discuss these things, but there is nothing for it. Last night he had been given an opportunity to experience what a physically affectionate life with John Watson might be like. He has observed John not behaving any differently afterwards, simply treating it like something normal and natural, nothing to be concerned about, and that has allowed a tiny bud of hope to grow within him.
Sherlock looks over to John once more. Fairly calm. Loose grip on the steering wheel. Only a slight look of befuddlement on his features.
He turns to stare out the windscreen at the vaguely bucolic scenery. "I'm not gay either."
"Okay," John says.
Sherlock keeps his eyes forward and reminds himself that giving in to fear has never gotten him anywhere.
"I'm asexual."
There is a pause, and then John says, "Okay," in the same tone as before.
Sherlock rubs the nail of his middle finger along the length of his thumb, over and over. John clears his throat again.
"All right, so, as you know, my sister's gay, but what you may not know is how much she talked my ear off about sexuality when we were teenagers. I mean, it was the only topic that was of any interest to her for the longest time. I am, also, a doctor, you may have noticed. So I'm not, you know, completely dim on the subject," John offers.
Sherlock raises one eyebrow.
"So I know that there's a . . . spectrum. Each person defines it for themselves, and that definition can be-" John paused. "Amended."
And then John does glance over to him, his features open but also knowing. "And I'm going to assume that you want to talk about your definition of it, or you wouldn't have brought this up at all."
Sherlock looks away, half-wishing John had been a little less perceptive. Fine.
"I abhor labels."
"So don't use them."
Sherlock frowns, but continues. "I have no interest in participating in the physical act of sex. None whatsoever."
"Which is fine," John interjects.
"I know it's-" And then they're both smiling a bit at that, and Sherlock feels the tension slowly begin to ebb.
"I've never had much of a sex drive. I have no desire in that sense," Sherlock says. "And before you ask, yes, I masturbate, though rarely, and no, there's nothing medically wrong with me."
"All right," John says, still maddeningly neutral. "So, what were you thinking this morning, then, when we woke up. Like that."
"Why do you ask questions you already know the answers to?"
John sighs. "Forgive me if I think this is something I shouldn't guess about."
Sherlock remains stubbornly silent.
"Fine. I think you like nonsexual physical closeness, but that you might jump out of this car if I call it 'cuddling.'"
"Yes," Sherlock answers quickly, mostly to cut off the dreaded word. "But not exactly."
"This is -" John glances upward as though for guidance, "-an impossible conversation."
Sherlock nods because he can not agree more.
"An important conversation, and you deliberately bring this up when I'm driving and can't look at you for more than two seconds."
Sherlock scowls. John really is becoming entirely too insightful.
"Look, I think we've established by now that I'm rubbish at deducing, so you're going to have to tell me what you want."
Sherlock thinks he might rather jump out of the car.
"I'm going to say this once and never repeat it," he pronounces.
John stays still and doesn't look at him. "I'm listening."
"What happened last night was . . . good. But it's not something I would enjoy in general. It's specific to you."
Sherlock listens to John breathe and feels that he might be, in truth, dying, waiting for John to respond.
"What else do you like?" John asks. "Or think you might like. With me." His words, his tone, are so very soft and careful.
Sherlock shudders and grabs at the door handle. "Stop the car."
"What? Here?"
But Sherlock really is opening the door, and John pulls over quickly to the side of the road. Sherlock bounds out of the car, and begins pacing, as John gets out on his side and walks around to him. There's a fence, so Sherlock can't properly escape, and he feels like climbing one of the trees and hiding.
"Hey, it's okay," John says, putting out a hand in a supplicating gesture. "We don't have to talk about this right now."
Sherlock shakes his head. "No, no, it's too late for that. It's like a runaway train." He waves his hands near his head.
"Oh, well, that bodes well." John sighs, but then Sherlock slides his hands into his hair and tugs.
"Hey, I'm kidding, it's going to be fine," John says more gently. Sherlock sees his hands hesitating, clearly not sure if reaching out to him is a good idea or not. Sherlock groans and slides down to the ground, his back against the rear tire of the car.
"Okay," John says, moving to sit next to him. He puts a hand on Sherlock's back, very gently, and the vacillation behind it sickens him, makes him regret asking the first question that started all this.
"So. This is new," John says calmly. His hand moves in small circles on Sherlock's back. "But it's-"
"If you say 'fine' one more time-"
"It's good, okay? Just give me a minute."
His touch becomes firmer, more natural, and Sherlock relaxes a fraction.
"I'm open to figuring it out as we go, okay? Nothing has to be decided right now."
Sherlock huffs out a breath and sinks his head against John's chest. "Can we please stop talking about this now?"
"Yes."
John smiles and squeezes Sherlock's shoulder.
After a moment, Sherlock lifts his head, and soon they are both getting up and getting back in.
John nods tightly once and starts the car.
x-x-x
Notes: Thanks again to wiggleofjudas, i_ship_an_armada, and prideandprejudiceandcheese for betaing.