Exploring Sexuality

A/N: This chapter is over twice as long as "normal," so that's why it might have taken a little longer (I had meant to post it yesterday), but enjoy! :) Reviews are always welcome

Ch. 4

John didn't have to work the next morning, but he woke around eight to his mobile ringing. He picked it up and answered it without looking at the ID. "Hello?" he mumbled.

"Oh, John, good," a familiar voice drawled and John huffed. Mycroft.

"I am not supposed to be talking to you," John informed the eldest Holmes, none too politely. "Apparently it is, "none of your business.""

"Yes, but a respectable man like yourself wouldn't hang up now, would he, Doctor Watson?" Mycroft nearly purred through the line, clearly full of self-satisfaction.

John let his head thump back against the pillow, pressing the heel of his hand into his eyes. "Just get to the point."

"Always so straight forward," Mycroft replied, and John could picture him shaking his head disapprovingly. "I can make a fairly educated guess that my brother has told you how he feels about you, though I doubt it was as blunt as you'd prefer I be." John's eyes widened in surprise, and he opened his mouth to interject and ask how Mycroft could possibly know that, but he let it slide as the other man continued to speak, knowing it was useless to ask. "I can assume it came as a mild shock to you, and can imagine you are in a very tight place right now. I wanted to tell you that Sherlock does not love easily, but you can still walk away if you so choose. You know how he obsesses over things, and he will do the same with you, should you let him. My brother may not love easily, but when he does, it is quite often completely, and you will know."

John heard Mycroft take another breath to keep speaking, but saw his chance to cut in. "Mycroft, thanks, but I think this is something we need to figure out on our own. I like to manage my own love life, thank you."

There was silence on the other end of the phone for a long while, and John wondered if he had accidentally hung up somehow. Then he heard Mycroft sigh heavily. "I understand," he said slowly, as if he regretted letting the conversation drop. "Do try not to hurt him, Doctor Watson," the man added before hanging up himself, leaving John no time to reply. He was starting to think it was a Holmes' habit, making sure they got the last word.

John put his mobile back on the small dresser by his bed and rubbed his hands over his face, letting out a sigh. He needed to get up, to do something. So he pulled himself out of bed and took a very hot shower, letting his mind wander. Of course, then it wandered to Sherlock, and the water got cold much too fast.

The flat was silent outside the bathroom, and after he dried off and got dressed, John found he was alone. However, there was a note on the table with Sherlock's handwriting, telling John he was on a case. An apology of sorts; Sherlock never left a note. He also didn't leave an address. Half an apology, then. So John made eggs for breakfast and decided he would go to the market and do the shopping. He wouldn't touch the kitchen, his own apology, knowing whatever Sherlock was working on was probably "all in its proper place" scattered about as it was. Therefore he ate his eggs in the living room, listening to the silence of the flat and playing what Mycroft had told him over and over in his head. Another thing to think about, another thing to consider. He pondered over it as he ate, and then some more as he did the dishes before pushing it out of his mind while he did the shopping.

When he got back after much thinking and with his hands full, Sherlock was thinking on the couch again, at least two visible nicotine patches on his arm. He ignored John as he walked in and put the groceries away, and John let him, knowing better than to disturb him while he was thinking like that. He made two cups of tea as quietly as he could, setting one on the coffee table should Sherlock decide he wanted it.

"You picked up," Sherlock said, opening his eyes to glare at John half-heartedly.

It took John a minute to realize what the other man was talking about, and when he did he shrugged apologetically. "I was half asleep, didn't look to see who it was," he explained.

Sherlock huffed out a breath that clearly meant, 'how could you be so carelessly stupid?' but gave no other response, closing his eyes again. John drank his tea and flipped through the case file that had been thrown on the coffee table. Another hate crime. It must be connected to the boy's murder last month, John thought, or Sherlock wouldn't have taken it. A young lesbian couple had been killed this time, and John frowned, putting it down without reading the whole thing. It reminded him too much of Harry.

"I thought we got the bloke that killed the teen?" John asked after a little while, trying to figure it out in his own head and looking over at Sherlock.

"It must be a group, an organization. It has to be. I missed it," Sherlock replied curtly, clearly frustrated with himself. He clenched his fist and let out a slow, even breath.

John nodded silently, letting Sherlock think. He let himself watch, too. It was amazing, watching Sherlock think. You could practically see the wheels turning over in his head, though he sat almost perfectly still. He was stunning.

"Shut up," Sherlock snapped, though John hadn't actually said anything. John sighed and tried not to think as he watched Sherlock and drank his tea. After ten or so more minutes, he gasped, sitting bolt upright and springing off the couch, calling for John to bring his gun with him.

John set his now empty mug down hastily and went to go grab his gun, shoving it down the waistband of his trousers as he ran out of the flat after Sherlock. The consulting detective was just getting into a cab and beckoned for John to follow him, handing John his jacket as he gave the cabby the address they were going to. "Thank you," John said, pleasantly surprised as he shrugged his jacket on.

"I knew you were going to forget it," Sherlock replied as if it were obvious. It probably was.

John felt the tension settle around them in the back of the cab, though it wasn't quite as bad as it had been last night. "So where exactly are we going?" he asked when Sherlock didn't offer up the information, trying to focus and get caught up with all he needed to know. "And what are we doing there?"

"We are going to the skate park downtown to stop the next murder," Sherlock replied calmly, though neither of them were really dressed to blend in at a skate park. He was looking almost everywhere but at John.

John let that sink in and nodded. "Tell Lestrade," he said, mind whirling.

"Useless. He won't get there in time."

"I don't care; text him anyway, or I will." Sherlock didn't move for a minute, but just as John was about to get his own mobile out and do it myself, he typed a quick text out to Lestrade, presumably, still not looking at John. "Thank you," John said again. They weren't technically allowed to go off on their own, but it had happened more than once, and Lestrade liked to have a heads up when it did. "So tell me what I need to know."

Sherlock filled him in briefly on the details of the case, how it was connected to the teen's. The next target was 23 year old Brett Montgomery, 5 foot 11 inches, dark hair almost to his shoulders, blue eyes, glasses. In a committed relationship with Khyle Adams and close friends with the women who were killed recently. The suspect should be around six foot, slim, light hair, no glasses, but Sherlock wasn't positive. He didn't say that, of course, but John could tell. The whole time he spoke, Sherlock didn't look at John once, and it was starting to drive him insane. But he needed to stay focused, needed to pay attention to the case. So he looked away from Sherlock too, instead looking out the window, trying to reign in his thoughts.

When they got to the park, amidst a few odd looks, Sherlock immediately found Brett and went over to him, acting natural while John walked the perimeter. There was barely twenty other people in the park, if that, and there were three people that fit the suspect's description. Once John pointed them out, they had a system, Sherlock deduced it was the man immediately to his left, to John's right, and John nodded once. They couldn't do anything until they were positive, but they were both ready.

Five or so minutes later a young woman walked up to Sherlock and Brett, blocking John's view of the latter. They talked for a while, and John saw Sherlock's eyes flicker briefly to him. She reached in her back pocket at the same time Sherlock tackled her and John pulled out his gun. Brett was pushed out of the way, and John saw a flash of silver by Sherlock's chest before he turned to their suspected man. But he was watching in shock and horror, and John quickly realized what Sherlock must have realized seconds earlier. They were wrong. He wasn't the killer.

The woman was. She even fit Sherlock's description too, if only she was shorter, damn it all.

And she was grappling with Sherlock on the ground.

With a knife.

John cussed under his breath and ran the ten or so yards to where they were, gun steady in his hand and pointed as best he could at the woman. He couldn't get a clear shot though, not without the possibility of hitting Sherlock instead. They were a whirl of black, the only colors being the silver of her knife, the blonde of her hair, and the red dripping down Sherlock's cheek.

John heard the sirens outside as he reached the pair, Brett still shocked on the floor a yard or so from them. With some effort they got the knife out of the woman's hand; she was stronger than she looked. Sherlock let John pin her to the ground, seeing as he had the military background and they were still lacking a pair of handcuffs. She cussed and insulted them both, threatening Brett and telling him he was going to Hell as she struggled beneath John. Brett looked like he was going to cry by the time Lestrade and he crew came in and told her her rights, cuffing her hands behind her back.

"Bloody hell!" Lestrade exclaimed, looking at the two of them as someone else led the woman to a car. "Do you know it's technically illegal to do that?" he said, not for the first time, handing Sherlock a cloth to hold to his cheek to staunch the bleeding as they waited for the medics. "Are you all alright?"

John had sat down next to Brett on the floor, rubbing the other man's back soothingly like he had used to do to Harry when she had a particularly rough day when they were younger. He looked up at Lestrade though and shrugged sheepishly. "We survived," he responded, his unused gun that Lestrade had studiously ignored back in his waistband.

Sherlock ignored the DI completely and tied the cloth tightly around John's arm, much to his surprised protests. When John opened his mouth, Sherlock cut him off. "She cut your arm," he explained matter-of-factly.

"Sherlock!" John protested anyway, looking up at the other man. "Your head-"

"Will heal."

"Not as fast as my arm!" To be fair, John hadn't even noticed he was bleeding.

A medic was there before he could protest much further, and Sherlock grumbled that it was fine as they looked him over. Lestrade talked to Sherlock as they did so, having watched their little exchange with barely concealed amusement. He gathered the basic information that Sherlock had figured out before the man recounted what had just happened, paying no mind to the medics fussing over his head. The cut wasn't actually on Sherlock's cheek, it was near his temple, but she had got him relatively good, probably aiming for his throat. Brett didn't have a scratch on him, thank god.

John sat next to the other man still, talking with him softly as he calmed down. He was in a bit of shock, but otherwise unharmed. John wondered what Sherlock had said to him to get him to talk and act natural around a complete stranger. It clearly hadn't been, "You're in danger and I'm here to help." John told him about Harry and listened as he talked about Khyle for probably close to half an hour or more while Lestrade talked to Sherlock.

When they were done, Lestrade told Sherlock and John they could go home, and John bade Brett goodbye, wishing him and Khyle the best of luck from now on. Sherlock hailed them a cab, a bandage wrapped around his head and messing up his curls. The cloth on John's arm was still tight where Sherlock had tied it.

"I hadn't noticed," John admitted to the silence a little while later. "Thanks for that, though it was stupid of you."

"I know you hadn't; it was stupid of you," Sherlock quipped in return, not having looked at John since they left the scene.

"It wasn't serious," John felt compelled to point out. "She cut my jacket, though."

"I was more concerned about you."

He still didn't look at John as they spoke, but John was staring at him. He didn't think Sherlock had meant to say that aloud, and there was a faint blush on his cheeks that confirmed it. John felt the urge to kiss him again, just a small peck on the cheek. Taken aback by both Sherlock's words, the initial action, and the reaction it had stirred inside John, ad he didn't say anything for quite a while. "I know," he whispered, still trying to find his voice. "Thank you." The feeling had been mutual. He felt like he was saying that a lot lately, and not just out of habit. Sherlock was going out of his way to make sure John was comfortable, letting him think this all over himself.

"Don't mention it," Sherlock replied easily, though John heard both the tension in his voice and the double meaning the words held. Pretend he had never said that.

"You should eat," John said, changing the subject for Sherlock, though his head was still spinning a little. The urge to kiss him had faded. "I did the shopping, or we could go out if you'd prefer."

"Not hungry."

"Too bad."

Sherlock huffed in annoyance and turned to look agitatedly at John, but he couldn't quite manage it. "Angelo's is probably one of the only places that will take us like this," he ceded after a pause, gesturing to his head and John's arm.

"That's fine with me," John agreed.

Sherlock huffed again and told the cabby to take them to Angelo's instead. It was only about one thirty in the afternoon, so the lunch rush should be over. The cabby grumbled a bit, but changed their route and dropped them off in front of the restaurant. John paid him as Sherlock walked in, holding the door open as he waited for John.

"Sherlock! John! My, what has happened to the two of you?" Angelo greeted them, motioning them towards the same table they always sat at, by the window, and grabbing them a candle as he always did. John had stopped protesting that as well, though for a second Sherlock looked as if he might this time.

"We ran in to a bit of trouble with a case," John explained nonchalantly, sitting down as Angelo handed them each a menu. "Everyone else is fine, though. Just a couple scratches for us."

Angelo nodded at John with an 'I should have known' type of expression on his face and clapped Sherlock on the shoulder. "Well, glad you are alright then. Anything you want- it's on me," he said before leaving them alone again. John didn't think they had ever paid for anything here.

Sherlock looked at the menu for all of maybe twenty seconds before looking up at John instead. "When did you stop objecting?" he asked with the look of frustration he always wore when he couldn't remember a detail about something on his face.

John knew almost immediately he was referring to the candle and he thought on that, not entirely sure himself. "He never listened. Probably around a month or two after we met," he answered as honestly as he could.

Sherlock nodded and looked down at the candle on the table as if it had personally offended him, "You don't tell people we aren't a couple anymore, either," he said quietly, calculating, not stating it as a question, but almost as an accusation.

"No, I don't," John agreed with a nod, looking at Sherlock a bit curiously. He hadn't expected him to start this conversation, least of all in public.

"Why not?" This time it was definitely an accusation, and Sherlock was looking over at him intently, as if he could read John's mind if he tried hard enough.

John sighed softly, knowing he didn't really have the answer Sherlock was looking for just yet. He still had a lot to figure out by himself, but maybe this was something Sherlock needed to figure out with him, so he gave it an honest amount of thought. "Because no one ever gave us any rubbish about it, so why should it bother me that they all thought we were together?"

Sherlock didn't respond, but was still staring at him when Angelo came by to take their order. He didn't take his eyes of John's face as he told Angelo what he wanted, though John looked to Angelo when he made his order. "Did it bother you?" Sherlock asked as soon as Angelo left.

John looked back at Sherlock seriously. "A little, at first. When five people in just as many days have told you you're gay and you have always thought of yourself as straight, if can get a tad annoying," he said honestly. "I was never insulted, however," he amended after a short pause. "Not once."

Sherlock looked confused. "Why would you be offended?"

"Would you be offended if someone assumed you fancied Anderson?"

Sherlock glared at him, making a face but understanding then what John meant. It was a compliment. "Of course," he said then, smirking at John. "Anderson is married and already shagging Donovan."

John sighed, rolling his eyes. "That was almost polite," he teased.

Sherlock made another face at him, as if to say, "You know it's true," and for the first time in a while the tension between them lifted. It was like everything had gone back to normal for a little bit.

Except Sherlock was still staring at John, who eventually sighed, half rolling his eyes. "What?"

"I want to talk to you back at Baker Street."

John hesitated a second, realizing this was one of those times that if he said yes, he really had to take it seriously, then nodded. "Alright," he agreed, trying to keep his voice casual.

"Don't do that." John raised an eyebrow at him, and Sherlock sighed exasperatedly. "Pretend. Hide. Change your tone to appear normal. I want to know," Sherlock explained, and John understood.

"Okay," he said quietly. But the thing was, he didn't know. There were so many things swirling around in his head, fighting for control, and he figured Sherlock was watching them all flash across his face, because neither of them said anything else until their meals came.

They talked a little as they ate, and John finally started to feel the pain in his arm. He could bandage it properly when they got back home. And take a look at Sherlock's head. They probably looked like quite a sight, sitting in a restaurant eating normally while they were all beat up like that. But John couldn't bring himself to care. Brett was safe, and Sherlock had given Lestrade enough information to find the rest of the hate group, plus whatever information the woman they caught would tell them. And Sherlock was safe.

John thought that was a pretty good deal right there, and he would take it any day.