John absently gives Rosie another push in the swing, his mind a million miles away. He usually loves seeing her excitement when they go to the playground – one of her very favourite places – but right now all he can think of is the horrible row and all the questions that have opened up in his mind. Why did he say those awful things? Why does he care what people think about their relationship? Why is he so bothered by Sherlock's relationship, such as it is, with Irene? He doesn't even know where to begin, doesn't even think he wants to, and he makes a mental note to schedule a therapy session this week. The inevitable guilt has already started to sink in as he dwells on their exchange – he obviously has some issues to sort through but there was no need to lose his cool with Sherlock, who has (perhaps with the exception of this past week) been astoundingly helpful, patient and kind. John heaves a deep sigh, resolving himself to go home and apologise. He's weary, miserable and freezing, having left his jacket back at the flat in his haste to retreat, and he knows at this point that he's only delaying the inevitable.

"Ready to head home sweetheart?" he says to his daughter, "so daddy can apologise to Sherlock?"

"Lock!" Rosie exclaims, clapping her hands enthusiastically.

John smiles at Rosie's attempt at Sherlock's name, a fairly recent addition to her vocabulary that she learned not long after "Dada".

Just as he's about to bundle Rosie back into her stroller, there's a tap on his shoulder. He turns around and finds himself face to face with Sherlock.

"Oh," he says, taken aback.

Sherlock's expression is calm and resolved, the most of his Dark Mood seems to have passed.

"John, I know you need some space but I couldn't help but notice you'd left your jacket behind…"

He passes over the jacket and John accepts it wordlessly.

"…and I thought you might be cold," he finishes, somewhat lamely, suddenly looking self-conscious.

John's gaze goes from his jacket to Sherlock and back again, so moved by the small but significant gesture that he's lost for words. He's horrified to find that a lump has formed in his throat and he clears it quickly, tearing his eyes away from Sherlock's for fear that he'll see the emotion that must be clearly visible.

"Thank you," is all he manages to get out, as he pulls on the jacket and zips it up.

Sherlock nods his acknowledgement but seems reluctant to speak, clearly unsure as to whether he should stay or go. John blows out a long, slow breath.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. I didn't mean…any of what I said back at the flat. I'm truly grateful for everything you've done for me and Rosie. I just…"

He pauses and turns to push Rosie again, grateful to have a reason not to look at Sherlock as he says this next part.

"I didn't mean for things to get so…complicated."

Next to him, Sherlock is very still, and John feels his own cheeks turn pink. He focuses on pushing Rosie in the swing, and the little girl giggles with delight.

"I know I haven't been an easy person to get along with at times," John confesses, not missing the humour in the fact that it's usually Sherlock who is the difficult one.

"And I'm going to keep working on that, because I want to be better. For Rosie. And for you."

He chances a quick glance at Sherlock, who looks a little taken aback but pleased at the same time. When he speaks, his words are once again careful, considered.

"You're doing just fine, John," says Sherlock, and John feels a warm bloom of happiness in his chest, even if he doesn't believe or feel he deserves Sherlock's kindness.

"But maybe it's best if we…go back to less unorthodox sleeping habits-"

John's head flicks up and he fights against the urge to protest.

"For now," Sherlock continues quickly.

"Would that make things…less confusing?"

John nods reluctantly.

"Good."

Their eyes meet and they share a small smile.

John takes a large gulp of his tea, refocusing his eyes on the paperwork in front of him, willing himself into alertness. Its day three of their newest case, Sherlock is fully immersed in The Work, and it's almost but not quite as exhausting as his prior boredom and restlessness. If he's being completely honest, John is relieved that a case came their way the very day after their argument. It's provided him with an excellent distraction to avoid the questions he must face, the therapy session he knows he needs. After all, he's always found his work with Sherlock to be infinitely more effective than therapy ever was. Currently its one AM, Rosie is safe with Molly, and he and Sherlock are up to their elbows in records of telephone conversations and text messages.

John drains his tea and pinches the bridge of his nose, sensing the need for a short break.

"Another pot then?" he says.

Sherlock just hums, not looking up from his work and clearly barely even aware that John is there, and John can't help but chuckle. He flicks on the kettle and leans against the kitchen bench with his arms folded as he waits for it to boil, letting his eyes linger on his flatmate. Sherlock is standing at the table in the centre of the room, his eyes alert and trained downwards to the paperwork he's absorbed in. He's wearing the dark purple shirt today, the one that John can't help but notice each time he wears it. The shirt fits him particularly snugly and the colour complements his skin tone in a way that John can't quite place. Tonight, the shirt has been rolled up at the sleeves, the collar left carelessly unbuttoned, exposing what seems like miles of alabaster skin of his impossibly long neck.

He's leant over the table slightly, bracing himself with his slim but toned arms, the delicate violinist fingers spayed on its surface. His curls are more untamed than usual, having not been as meticulously tended to these past few days, and hang over Sherlock's face, creating interesting shadows over the already fascinating planes and angles. His brow is furrowed in concentration and his pink cupid bow lips are parted slightly, every now and then moving silently as Sherlock sorts through his thoughts and questions as he speedily reads the text, undoubtedly dismissing some and filing away others for further consideration. He really is quite extraordinary. John feels his face grow hot at the thought but he seems unable to tear his eyes away from the man in front of him. Jesus, he really is losing it.

Sherlock's eyes unexpectedly flicker up to his, their pale jade glittering subtly in the subdued light.

"John?"

John snaps out of his reverie, eyes back on the paper in front of him.

"Hmm?" he replies noncommittedly.

"You were staring," Sherlock says bluntly, and John can feel his gaze burning into him.

John freezes momentarily, then mercifully the kettle finishes boiling and flicks off. John turns to it, lifting it with just the faintest tremble in his hand.

"I, uh, just asked if you wanted more tea."

As he pours the hot water into the waiting tea pot he feels Sherlock's eyes remain on him for another long moment before he turns his attention back to his work.

"No. Thank you."

They get back to work.

John sits in his therapist's office and the silence stretches out before him, long and unhurried. He's told her briefly about the argument and about the odd pattern they'd fallen into of sharing a bed, but now he's finding it one of the harder sessions he's had in a while, partially because he just doesn't know where to start. Ella is watching him non-judgementally, patiently giving him the time and space she's long since learnt he needs.

"Why don't you tell me a bit more about the argument you mentioned?" she eventually prompts.

John reluctantly agrees and launches into the story, leaving out a lot of the finer details of their interactions with The Woman.

"Why do you think it bothered you so much that they're still in contact?"

John sighs.

"I guess because I'm…jealous, in a weird way? It's not that I want to be with him-" isn't it? his brain helpfully interjects "-and I know I have no right, particularly since I was married, but…"

He's not sure how to finish that sentence because he knows, realistically, that there's no justification for him to feel this way. Yet, he does.

"I feel confused, like I don't know what I want or why. And I'm exhausted, quite frankly, in more ways than one," he finishes.

Ella regards him thoughtfully before speaking.

"You lost your wife less than a year ago and you've had to adjust to being a full time parent. That's a lot for anyone to deal with. In addition to the new living situation, it's to be expected that you'll feel confused and fatigued."

John nods, acknowledging that, yes, it's certainly partially about Mary and Rosie. But, at the same time, it's more than that.

"I just…"

John stops, breathes out slowly, tries again.

"I don't know what's changed. Or why. I find myself…watching him. Noticing things more than I used to. Wanting to be…I don't know…closer to him?"

"There's nothing wrong with that, John."

"It just…it doesn't make sense. I've never…had these feelings towards…a man before."

The words are hard to get out, and he all but squirms in his seat having to say them. He's someone who would more often than not prefer to let things go unsaid, but he knows that it's neither helpful nor healthy to continue down that path. Seeing his discomfort, Ella smiles at him reassuringly, trying to make it as easy on him as possible.

"You and Sherlock have been through a lot together, more than a lot of friends would ever have to deal with. It's to be expected that you might start feeling differently towards him than you would any other friend."

John nods, taking her words on board.

"It's more than that though. I find myself thinking about him…physically." A pause. "And then there was this moment the other night…"

He feels himself colour as he recalls the incident two nights ago, the night they had wrapped up the case. They'd been chasing a perp down one of London's countless alleys – a scenario that had played out hundreds of times over their years of working together. Suddenly there had been someone on their tail, armed and closing in on them, and they'd ducked into a narrow alcove as he'd rounded the corner. They'd been pushed up impossibly close together, chests pressed against one another, shallow breath mingling, neither of them daring to move. Their hearts both hammered wildly and John, for his part, wasn't sure if it was the adrenaline of the chase or something else entirely. He'd looked up into Sherlock's eyes and seen that glint of adventure, his love of the thrill of the chase, and repressed the urge to giggle.

As moments passed, he'd felt hot oddly around the collar and tried to tell himself it was the physical exertion and nothing more. But the longer he'd stood against Sherlock, feeling every breath and every lean muscle underneath his coat, the harder it had become to convince himself. Out of nowhere, he'd had the mad urge to rest his palm against Sherlock's chest, against that ridiculous shirt and at the base of that long elegant throat, wondering if it would feel as much like hard, cool marble as it looked. He'd slammed his eyes shut, forcing the thoughts away, until he'd become aware of Sherlock's gaze upon him. "John?" Sherlock had questioned in a whisper, evidently concerned by this strange behaviour. They had exchanged an odd, heated look that seemed to stretch on into infinity. John didn't dare breathe, almost positive his thundering heartbeat could be clearly heard. But the next thing he knew, Sherlock was pushing him out of the alcove and taking off down the alley in the opposite direction to which they came. John was off after him before he could give it a second thought.

He recounts the event in as little detail as possible, feeling mortified at having to divulge something so personal.

"Would you say that you're finding yourself attracted to Sherlock?" Ella asks. It's a blunt question, but one that John accepts needs to be asked and answered outright.

"Yes," he manages to say.

"I guess that would be a reasonable deduction based on the evidence."

He's sure it's what Sherlock would conclude and tries not to think about the idea that Sherlock has likely already come to it himself.

"Even though I wouldn't consider myself to be…"

He finds he can't say the word and instead blows out the breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding. Why was this so difficult?

"Gay?" she supplies.

John nods once and feels uncomfortable all over again as Ella considers him.

"Has it occurred to you that just because you're finding yourself attracted to him doesn't mean that you're gay?"

"Doesn't it?"

"No, I don't believe it does. Sexuality can be a complicated thing, John. It's not always black and white. In fact, there's a lot of grey area for many people. You've always been attracted exclusively to women so it's natural for you to now feel confused about your sexual identity and struggle to accept your attraction to Sherlock."

"Yes, that's it exactly," he replies with relief, glad that he's being understood without having to spell everything out so plainly.

"It's certainly possible and it does happen. It doesn't mean that you need to start thinking about yourself differently or labelling yourself in any particular way," she says in her sensible but reassuring way.

John nods, trying to process his thoughts.

"Let's move on," she says, "do you find yourself feeling concerned about being judged by others?"

"Honestly…yes," he answers, "I wish I didn't. But I've always cared. I guess I've been around a lot of…'blokey' environments – college, the army, the rugby crew – and I've always, well, fit in."

"There's no reason you can't still fit in," she replies, and John nods, mulling this over.

"Do you feel that those closest to you would accept you for who you are, whoever that may be?"

"I…I think so."

"Then you have to consider whether or not it really matters what strangers think of you. You might come to find that the person judging you the most is yourself," she says gently.

John nods, he already knew this but needed to hear it. Ella seems to sense his reluctance to dissect this particular topic any further at the moment, and changes tact.

"Do you feel that you would ever want to take things further with Sherlock?"

"No," John says quickly. He rubs his eyes, struggling to verbalise his thoughts. "I…I can't. He's not interested in me in that way…or anyone really, that I've ever seen."

He can't help but recognise how bitterly disappointed he sounds.

"And besides, I wouldn't want to ruin our friendship. It would…be a big risk."

Ella nods understandingly and jots down a quick note.

"Do you believe Sherlock to be asexual?" she asks.

John lets out a slightly exasperated puff of air.

"He's Sherlock bloody Holmes, who knows what goes on in that head of his."

He thinks back to their argument and some of the new information it revealed.

"I do know that he's never…been with anyone before…but I don't know the details, or if he's wanted to or…"

He trails off and suddenly the whole thing seems too much. Part of him wishes things could just go back to the way they were before all this – before The Fall, before Mary and Rosie and rebuilding 221B. He's lost so much already, and the thought of losing the person closest to him is more than he can bear. He takes a deep, shaky breath.

"Let's leave it at that for today, John," Ella says, her voice gentle and kind. "You've done really well and we've made some great progress. I'd like to see you again in two weeks, if that would be okay with you?"

John nods, already feeling exhausted at the thought of wrenching himself open again in just two short weeks, but he knows it's necessary. It's not like he hasn't been here before. He and Ella say their goodbyes and John heads out to the street, deciding that the weather is nice enough for the walk back to the flat. As tiring as his therapy sessions are, he has to admit that his head is clearer. By the time he's climbing the stairs to the flat, he feels lighter than he has in ages.