A/N It had to be done. Also, I am SO sorry that I've taken so long to update, I literally keep on forgetting.

Thanks to MapleleafCameo, DuShuZi, total-animal-lover, Guest, Hummingbird1759, and johnsarmylady

Disclaimer I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc.

LIII. Keeping a Secret

There are some things that John keeps entirely to himself, a level of privacy that never has the slightest chance of being breached. They're more than secrets, more like absolutely confidential suspicions—things that even he is unsure about, and therefore doesn't want to share with anyone, not even Harry or Sherlock, on the off chance that he might turn out to be wrong about them, himself.

Well, alright, when he really gets down to it, there's only one thing like that.

John Watson, ex-soldier, mid-thirties, companion to the world's only consulting detective, questions his own sexual orientation.

And it's such a pathetic, mundane thing that he wants to laugh at it, some days—because there are the days when such a doubt seems incredibly distant; of course he likes women, he has all his life, and there's no reason for that to change at an age when he should already be married. It's absurd. Laughable, even.

But other times, he can't be quite so sure.

Those other times, if he's completely honest with himself, are very specific times, too. Always with Sherlock, of course, and in his best moments—when the light of a sunset causes the edges of his dark curls to shine a low crimson-like copper, when he makes a connection in his head and the edge of his mouth curls up in a triumphant grin, when his eyes flash intently as he reaches the realization that will turn a case around.

Because, in those moments, John can't possibly deny that he's attracted to Sherlock. He sees him as more than a friend, more than a brother—God, it's so stupid, but he wants him, wants to feel him and be with him, in just about the least platonic manner possible. He won't pretend that he didn't start at Mycroft's prod back in Buckingham Palace—

How would you know?

…And he feels guilty, almost, for the things he's been imagining, for the things he wants.

And with Irene Adler, of course, he's swamped by what can only be identified as jealousy. As for the Woman herself, well, he's barely attracted to her, and that's disconcerting. Because she's stunning, everything about her—her face, her figure, her sleek attitude and sharp wit. And yet, when he walks in on the two of them that first time, in Adler's house, sees her standing over him, it's not the detective that he's jealous of.

Get away from Sherlock, he thinks, desperately, blindly, because Sherlock is his, in every way that there is, and if sexually is one of them, then so be it.

He'll keep up the denials, of course—I'm not actually gay—both inside and outside of his own mind, but somewhere, deep down, he knows the truth. Maybe it took the likes of Irene Adler to teach him, but he definitely knows the truth.

Still, that's not to say he has any reason to tell Sherlock.