"I'm not gay."

It didn't seem particularly indecent a thing to say, to John at least. After such a long time, the phrase had become more automatic than meaningful.

But Sherlock- calculating, unaffected, impervious Sherlock- had flinched away from the noise as if it were a physical brand on his skin. And that, the doctor thought, must have meant something, because previously him saying that same phrase had done nothing to affect the detective's façade. Somehow, this time was different.

Sherlock's eyes met the bag of groceries, boring through the plastic with fervor as the presumptuous woman startled and gave them their change, looking at John oddly. As soon as they exited the Tesco's, John peered at him with soft eyes. He clutched the detective's arm, pressing him into an alley wall firmly, but not harshly. In a rather unSherlock-like fashion, the boffin didn't say a word about the ordeal, didn't protest to his personal space being invaded, didn't scowl at his blogger through the dim light of the one lamp post in the alleyway. For once, John just stopped, and looked, and saw him: the whole of him, illuminated by the presently ill-colored light.

His hollowed eyes were defeated, a thousand sorrows which lay behind his mask, finally visible in the pallor of his face and wrinkles around his eyes and mouth, marring his otherwise young appearance. And all of this, John realized, this was all because of him. His words. His denial and defense, even when he had said, it's all fine.

Because he was the catalyst of this, John pulled away after just another moment of searching. Sherlock barely moved after his offending hands were gone, didn't even brush himself off. His eyes didn't shift to try to cover anything; John suspected it was because Sherlock already knew that he had seen the emotions there, and found it pointless to waste his energy on keeping it locked up now.

"It offends you," the once-soldier broke the quiet. It was more of a statement than a question, but he still wasn't 100% sure. Sherlock cocked his head.

"Offend is not the word I would have chosen," the boffin said dejectedly, pointedly, as if he had thought long and hard about the choice before then, as if he were critiquing and cajoling for the sole purpose of protecting himself. It wasn't much of an answer, but John interpreted its meaning just fine.

He placed his hand back on Sherlock's arm, gentler this time, as if to communicate that he could leave John's grip if he felt uncomfortable. "You know I meant it, right? That it's all fine?" Sherlock nodded his head, lacking even a mite of hesitance as he did so, which made John feel just an ounce respected and warm in his belly.

His small hand dropped from the seam of his friend's shirt where he had been stroking. "I can stop doing it, if you like. Just know that it's never been anything personal against you. It's not a jab at you, or…whatever you are, or anyone's sexuality, and I need to make sure that you know that now because I apparently have not been clear and been perceived as a prick."

Sherlock smiled for the first time all night, some mirth changing his eyes and youth returning to his face. "Well, you appear less of a prick beside me," he conceded, slipping out of John's grasp. That, John knew, meant he was forgiven. "And…" The detective suddenly appeared uncomfortable, but soft and uncertain. "What you offered…that's- it would be appreciated…"

John laughed, loud and full of heart, throat clogged with acid affection for this whirlwind of a man who was looking at him brightly, as had become normal, as was his wont to make the old doctor feel like the Sun. "You can count on me," he breathed contentedly in reply.

Sherlock observed him for a moment, sizing him up. He blinked seriously.

"I always do."