Exploring Sexuality

A/N: I'm a straight cis girl, so if anything is inaccurate I apologize in advance. Don't be afraid to message me and call me out on anything I did wrong if you're more knowledgeable than I am!

Ch. 2

John woke at seven minutes to five to the sound of Sherlock playing the violin. John sighed. That was almost never a good sign, even more so considering they weren't currently on a case.

At least he had waited until an almost decent hour, John thought to himself. Maybe he could fall back asleep. But then everything that had happened in the past month, last night especially, came crashing back into his head, and John sat bolt upright.

Sherlock Holmes was in love with him.

John didn't even believe he was completely straight anymore, let alone not interested.

God help him.

He briefly considered hiding in his room for the rest of his life so he didn't have to make sense of what he himself was feeling, not to mention how Sherlock was feeling. About him. But he ruled that out as the tune of the violin turned to a harsher sound. John had been in the army, he was used to early mornings. The rest of Baker Street probably wasn't. Letting out a semi-frustrated sigh as he got up, John dressed and went down to the living room, where he knew Sherlock would be. Carefully walking up behind his flat mate, so Sherlock could see his reflection in the mirror if he looked, John was just about to place a hand on Sherlock's back and say something when the music abruptly stopped, and the man in control whirled around to face John.

"Don't."

"I-" John was a bit taken aback by the hostility in Sherlock's voice, though it didn't truly reach his eyes as well. "Five in the morning?" he corrected himself instead. "I'm sure Mrs. Hudson might actually be sleeping at this odd hour." Sherlock never liked it when John interrupted him, but he seemed unusually tense this morning. Of course, John knew why.

"Fine," the detective snapped, and if John hadn't known something was wrong before, he certainly would have then. Sherlock didn't listen to anybody. Ever.

So John, mildly shocked, let Sherlock half-shove him out of the way to put his violin back in its case, and he could feel how tense the other man was. "Um, thank you." He didn't know what to say, what to do. It was all too new, too overwhelming.

Either Sherlock could read his mind, or, more likely, he was still frustrated (with himself? With John?), because he stalked over to the doorway and grabbed his coat, pulling it on. "I'm going out," Sherlock said, practically slamming the door behind him, not giving John any time to reply.

John stared at the closed door, bewildered. "Okay," he muttered, mainly to himself. He set the kettle to boil and put some toast in before heading upstairs to grab his phone.

Don't do anything stupid. –JW

Fifteen minutes, two pieces of toast, and a cup of tea later, he received no reply. Not that he was really expecting one.

Stop and eat something. –JW

Or just respond so I know you're not dead. –JW

Or putting yourself in life-threatening situations. –JW

Again. –JW

I'll come find you. –JW

You wouldn't be able to. –SH

John sighed in relief. Two hours and eighteen minutes.

Thank you. –JW

He didn't get another reply after that, but he didn't need one. John turned his phone on silent so he wouldn't forget to for work and put it back in his pocket. He showered and got ready for work like it was any other day, trying to keep a resemblance of something normal in his head. He had a relatively constant stream of patients that day and didn't get a chance to look at his phone again until he was in a cab on his way back to Baker Street. Three missed calls from a blocked number, and a text from Sherlock telling him not to pick up. Probably Mycroft then. Wonderful. John sighed and paid the driver, letting himself into the flat.

"Did you answer it?" Sherlock asked before he had even taken off his jacket.

"No, I was working," John replied with an almost audible roll of his eyes, hanging up his coat and looking to Sherlock. He seemed to be in a better mood, but he was in his thinking position, laying on his back with slim hands templed under his chin. "What did he want?"

"It's none of his business; don't pick up if he calls again."

Definitely Mycroft then. "He will merely give up on trying to call us and come over himself if you don't just talk to him," John pointed out. It had happened more than once. Mrs. Hudson always let him in.

Sherlock huffed from the couch. "It is none of his business," he repeated crisply, as if John were suggesting they invite the man over for supper that evening.

"Alright, whatever," John replied with a shrug, not thinking much of it; he didn't need to get between the two brothers. He carefully maneuvered around their mess of a kitchen, though it had been relatively clean before he left. "I am going to assume you haven't eaten all day," he called, poking around through the edible things left in the fridge. "I can order takeaway," he offered when that elicited no response.

"Chinese," he heard Sherlock call back after a short pause. So John called and ordered Chinese from the place down the block.

"Forty-five minutes or so," he informed, sitting down in the armchair and switching the telly on, earning a noncommittal grunt from Sherlock. Things were almost normal again. If you ignored the tension so thick you could cut it with a knife.

John let fifteen or more minutes of silence pass between them before turning to look at Sherlock. He was surprised to find the other man staring at him. "Most people don't prefer to have their sexual orientation casually announced to them," he managed to get out after another minute.

"You aren't 'most people,'" Sherlock replied instantly, not taking his eyes off John.

John heard the unspoken, "not to me," even if Sherlock hadn't intended him to. Sherlock's gaze was so intense that John had to look down, though he hated himself for it. "I…" he started lamely, then hesitated. "You have to give me some time to absorb all of it, figure it out myself, yeah?" John looked up again to see the look of pain flash briefly pass across Sherlock's features before he composed himself and nodded once, and John hated himself even more.

"Okay," was all he said though, and his voice sounded normal. But John knew better. Sherlock wasn't looking at him anymore. He was staring resolutely, though blankly, at the telly, and John sighed.

"That wasn't necessarily a no." Sherlock didn't move, and John knew that meant he would no longer get a response. This discussion was closed. Which was almost a good thing, because John didn't know what he would have said next anyway.

When the doorbell rang signaling their food was there, John placed a very chaste kiss to Sherlock's forehead as he walked by, as if a promise, but almost instantly regretted it as he watched the man's whole body go rigid. Neither of them spoke much the rest of the night. Though hard to imagine, the tension between them got worse, and John again went to bed with a lot on his mind.

A/N: Thank you so much for all the reviews; this is my second ever Johnlock fic, so it's really appreciated. And I know I'm a horrible person (TheQueen'sAttack xoxo). Sorry. Ish. Updates should be pretty regular for the rest of the summer, it's not like I have a ton of summer work to do…. Oops.