Sherlock took a deep breath and looked up at John.
The doctor was watching him. If Sherlock didn't know better, he would think that John was trying to deduce him.
Sherlock could see those little frown lines around the eyes; the turn up of the lips; the slight tip of the head.
He really couldn't put this off forever.
This thing he was feeling - You're in love with John, his psyche corrected. Sherlock told it, in no uncertain terms, to shut the hell up - had to be dealt with and, if he couldn't hide it away, perhaps letting it out and clearing the air would fix something.
He picked up his tea and took a long drink.
"Actually," he said decisively, placing his mug back on the side table, "I need a proper drink."
Sherlock stood and crossed to the little-used bottle of expensive Scotch that Mycroft had given to them as a Christmas gift. He poured two fingers for himself before waving the bottle at John.
"I think I'd better." John answered to Sherlock silent question. If this was serious enough that Sherlock felt he needed a drink, John was fairly certain that he would too.
Sherlock poured a second glass for John and, passing it over, sat back in his chair. Resisting the urge to drain the glass in one swallow, he drank half and took to studying the cut of the crystal facets.
He was still studying them when he started to speak again.
"John, do you remember when we first went to Angelo's and you asked me if I had a girlfriend?"
John took a swig of his own drink before nodding.
"Of course."
Of course he remembered. It had been one of the most awkward moments between them during those early days. John had been mortified when it became apparent that Sherlock thought he was being propositioned.
Sherlock nodded at his own recollection of that moment. He remembered the warm feeling that spread through him when John had then gone on to ask if he had a boyfriend. Sherlock, of course, knew that he had never really been interested in having a girlfriend - boring! - but the boyfriend question had thrown him. He hadn't expected his seemingly heterosexual new flatmate to come out and ask something so blatant; so personal; so... close to home.
He'd never really had a boyfriend either, of course. Jim hadn't been that to him. Jim was his dealer; his fuck buddy. He certainly wasn't anything you would consider as "boyfriend" material.
Neither, he supposed, was Sherlock.
He nudged himself back into the present.
"Right, yes. Well, you also asked me if I had a boyfriend..." John made to speak and Sherlock raised a hand to stop him. "I told you that I was married to my work and implied that I didn't really have any interest in either."
John just nodded, unsure if he was actually allowed to talk yet. He remembered it; all of it; every word. "It's all fine." The words echoes through his mind.
Sherlock took another drink.
"I may not have been entirely telling the truth."
There, it was out.
Well, it was out in a roundabout kind of way. Kinda like when you promise your brother that you're going to write a catch-up letter to Mummy and then you only send a postcard.
But it was a start.
He dared to look back up at John who was staring at him with squinty, slitted eyes.
"Umm, about which part?" John was confused. "I mean, I've been around you enough now to know that you haven't had a partner since we met; a girlfriend or a boyfriend. Unless..." he paused momentarily before seemingly coming to a realisation. "Is that why you've been out a lot lately? You've been seeing someone?"
Despite the confusion on John's face, he did seem to have come to some sort of completely incorrect conclusion. Sherlock watched John's 'Now it all makes sense' face as his friend continued to rattle off his deductions.
"That would explain the odd moods; the distraction; the being out at odd times; the... coming in looking well and truly..." John didn't finish the sentence but both men knew exactly what he was thinking.
Sherlock almost stopped John right then and there. He had got this utterly and totally wrong but, for a moment, Sherlock wondered if it wasn't better that he thought that.
He emptied his glass and crossed to pour another.
While stood with his back to his friend, Sherlock stopped and thought.
If John thought he was seeing someone, maybe that wasn't such a bad thing. It would mean that John would stop questioning his moods and would also give him some sort of free 'going out' pass.
It wouldn't solve the overall problem but perhaps it was enough?
His thoughts were broken off when John spoke again. "Man or woman?"
Sherlock hadn't anticipated that and his hand stopped, mid-pour of the Scotch. He carefully placed the bottle back in the cabinet and, cradling his glass in those long slender fingers, turned back to John.
"Sorry?" he replied, half-hoping that his ignorance of the question would lead to John not wanting to repeat it. John dashed his hopes.
"Man or woman? The person you're interested in."
"Ah, right." Sherlock stuttered. He figured he could at least that exact question truthfully. "Man."
He slumped down into his chair and held up his glass, examining the cut crystal once more, this time at eye level, spinning the glass between his fingers and watching the golden liquid swirl.
All those little Johns , he thought absently as he watched the doctor's many faces through the facets.
The collective of mini-Johns nodded.
"Fine, good." John began, rolling his eyes at thedéjà vu of it all. "Well, I'm glad you have something... someone..." he corrected, "...to occupy your mind between cases then."
The detective lowered his glass and studied John. He looked OK with it. He looked 'fine'. John wasn't judging him on his preferences; wasn't judging him... at all.
Sherlock supposed that this was a victory of sorts. He raised his glass again, draining it and going back to watching John through the little crystal windows.
"Right," John added, after a longer than comfortable period of being studied by his flatmate, "I think I'll head to bed. I have surgery again in the morning and another date with Sarah after work."
John stood and left the room, and Sherlock watched as a dozen mini-Johns grabbed his heart right out of his chest and took turns to stamp on it, one by one.