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xXx

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Chapter 31: Admitting

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When they finally broke apart they were both panting. Sherlock's features were still stricken with fear. He rested his brow on John's. They closed their eyes as they tried to regulate their breathing. "I need a case," Sherlock murmured. "One I can... do."

John stroked a lock of hair away from his partner's face.

"Right," he said, catching his breath. "Right. Well. That's an easy one to grant, Your Highness."

Sherlock frowned, at the same time trying to reduce his glower as he realized he was in no position to be glaring, which made for a rather funny face. John felt like kissing him again. Instead, he cleared his throat and went on, trying to ignore the tempting proximity of Sherlock's lips.

"I'll just go and get that case from Lestrade for you and come back here so we can read the file together."

"No," Sherlock deadpanned.

"Yes, I will. You're not locking me in this flat, Sherlock. I'm free to go out if I wish." Then, to make up for what may have sounded a bit harsh, although it had been said calmly, he added: "I'm the one with the gun, remember?"

And to balance the firmness of his tone, John took Sherlock's hand in his and squeezed reassuringly. Sherlock squeezed back stiffly and a flash of panic traversed his gaze. He became fidgety.

"Sherlock, I thought you said Moriarty wouldn't kill me or... what was it? 'Damage me irreversibly' or something because he didn't want you broken beyond repair."

Now that he voiced it, John couldn't repress a blush; it did sound awfully romantic, as if Sherlock's well-being were physically, intrinsically linked to the state John was in. Which might well be true.

"Yes, well, that doesn't mean he can't do anything else, John. And there's Mycroft. I'm just tired of you getting kidnapped at every corner."

"And whose fault do you think that is?" John protested without thinking. He froze, then brought a hand to his face and groaned. "Sorry, that was just the manliness in me speaking. Forget it. Just didn't like being compared to a damsel in distress. Nothing to do with you. I'm sorry."

"Well, it is my fault. No one could deny that," Sherlock remarked matter-of-factly. John blinked. But his partner did not develop any further. He seemed to be still preoccupied about John going out on his own. The doctor knew this was part of the trauma, too – not the one that had taken place in the Basement, but from the time Mycroft had the wonderful idea of making Sherlock believe John had left him, and then from the time when Moriarty had managed to kidnap John when he simply went out of the hospital room for two minutes to get a cup of tea. Sherlock had good reasons to be paranoid. John did not intend to spend the rest of his life always in the presence of his friend, no matter how much he loved him. But he knew that for now he should find compromises.

"All right. Here's what we're going to do. Just wait a minute."

John went to get his phone and began to write a text. Sherlock was pacing the room as if on glowing embers.

"Who're you writing to?"

"Just wait a minute."

"You're not going, are you?"

"Wait."

"John..."

"Sherlock, I said wait!"

Sherlock winced like a kicked puppy and fell back on the couch with a thump. John resisted the urge to smother him with kisses and drop the phone and the whole plan, just to spend the rest of the day snogging him. He pressed the SEND button.

"There."

"Who did you write to?" Sherlock asked in a small voice.

"Lestrade."

Sherlock swallowed. "And?"

"He's coming here."

"John!" he exclaimed, standing up at once, a betrayed look on his face. Reproach was clear in his voice.

John allowed himself a little smile. "And we're going out."

Sherlock stood in silence, confused. John was making no sense. Not that he usually did, but most of the time Sherlock could still follow his line of reasoning – even if it was faulty and he was prone to non sequiturs. Well. Like most people, then. But in this instance, Sherlock had no idea how to interpret John's words.

"Out," he repeated, refusing to make it sound like a question. John's smile broadened.

"Yes, out. Get your coat and let's go."

"But John–"

Before he could say anything, however, John was slipping on his jacket and putting on his shoes. Sherlock just complied because he would be glad enough to be out of the flat when Lestrade ca... Oh. Oh. He grinned.

"Mrs. Hudson, we're going out, very urgent matter, we might be back late!" John called to their landlady after knocking on her door. She barely had time to open it and see her tenants run out, apparently in a hurry. "Oh dear," she said, shaking her head tenderly.

Outside, Sherlock joined John in his chuckles as they ran down the street. When they reached a corner they stopped, and he gave his friend an inquiring look.

"So what now?"

"I don't know," John shrugged. "Got you out of the flat. Now you decide what you want to do."

"You just wanted to make me go out?!"

"Oh don't look so indignant. Or do you want to go back?"

"No," Sherlock grumbled, sulking. "I suppose Lestrade's going to get there soon. Not very kind of you to make him come for nothing."

"It's not for nothing. He'll leave the file with Mrs. Hudson."

Sherlock stared.

"What?" John asked defensively.

"You're becoming like me."

"Clever?"

"I meant devious."

"Oh. Thanks."

"You don't need to be clever like me."

"Thanks, Sherlock, shut up now, don't get into deeper water."

They exchanged a look and a smirk.

"Fine. So where do we go?" Sherlock finally asked. He was used to being bored at the flat. But outside? He couldn't possibly start shooting walls there.

"Movies?" John suggested half-seriously, forgetting it as soon as he met Sherlock's gaze.

The consulting detective was perplexed to say the least. He never went out without a specific purpose. Finding himself on the street without any idea of what he was supposed to do was a new experience for him, and not a pleasant one either, in spite of John's presence. He felt like he had been transported into a Beckett play.

Then it hit him. Had John said movies?

"Is this a date?" he asked abruptly.

A wave of awkwardness washed over John as he got a look from a passer-by who had heard them. It did not occur to John that the stranger simply found the question in itself amusing, and not the fact that it was addressed to a man by a man. He fumbled, frowned at Sherlock while trying to find the words to convey that this was not a question to be asked in public, then realized how rude it was for him to say such a thing to Sherlock, realized exactly why he felt it wasn't proper public behaviour, and was overcome by shame.

He fell silent. Stopped fumbling, shut his mouth.

Had he seriously just been embarrassed by a passer-by's gaze just because Sherlock had asked him if they were on a date? Well. Thing was, Sherlock wasn't just Sherlock. He was a man. Have you just noticed? John asked himself sourly. This was stupid. It didn't make sense that he'd feel comfortable giving Sherlock a blow-job but would feel awkward if people in the street thought they were an item. It was stupid, and horrible for Sherlock. All the more so as Sherlock was so damn perceptive he noticed everything, and so...

John froze. He swallowed. Shutting his eyes tight, he took a deep breath and dared a glance at Sherlock. Damn. Of course. He just had to be observing him, hadn't he?

Obviously, you idiot. He's just asked you a bloody question, of course he'd be staring at you waiting for an answer!

"John..." Sherlock began tentatively.

"Yes, if you like," John interrupted. Then in a louder voice than necessary: "This is a date if you like." And to hammer his point in, he took Sherlock's hand in his. His partner glared.

"John, you don't have to do this," he said sharply, taking his hand away. He averted his gaze. "Let's go to the pub."

John's eyes widened. "To the pub? What the–"

"That's where you go with Mike or Lestrade, right?"

"Greg and I hardly ever go out drinking, but yes, it's–"

"Then let's go."

"Do you want to eat?" John asked with disbelief.

Sherlock glanced at him quickly. Nervously, John realized. "I don't know, do you eat there when you go?"

John smiled. "Let's go to a park, Sherlock," he told him. "We can always go to the pub afterwards. But it's still light out and it's a beautiful day."

"Romantic, aren't we?" Sherlock mumbled. Then he seemed to become aware of what he'd just said and averted his gaze again, clearly looking for something to add to change the subject.

"I'm sorry I reacted like that," John said quietly, putting his hand on Sherlock's arm, not daring to take his hand again. They didn't look at each other, but John could have sworn he felt a tremor of acknowledgement in Sherlock's arm. "You have to give me time. You'll have to be patient."

While John was speaking, Sherlock was panicking. Time, he said. Time for what? He shuddered. This was exactly what he had been trying to avoid. This was the reason he had been so specific in the way he had asked John about experimenting, the day after the Basement. Just... experiment. John was the only friend Sherlock had; he did not want to lose him.

Did having sex necessarily imply a romantic relationship? Would they be expected to go on dates? They lived together already, so perhaps not. Hopefully not. What had he got himself into?

You're not being fair, he thought. Fair? Yes, fair. What had he expected, really? What was it he had wanted from John? The sex? Just the sex? Had he really asked him because he'd been the one to initiate it, and was the only one Sherlock could actually ask? No, that was preposterous. For many reasons it could only be John, but mainly because it was only with him that Sherlock had wanted to try anything. To experiment. With him and because of him. John was central; he was fundamental, and not just random.

So what was it they had now? It had to be put simply. Sherlock had to be rational about it.

A) John was in love with him.

B) John was not ready to face fully his newly found sexuality, that is, bisexuality.

C) John did not believe Sherlock was genuinely in love with him. John thought that whatever came from Sherlock was a result of the trauma.

D) Consequently John was torn all over the place between love, shame, and guilt.

Then Sherlock had to add reluctantly:

E) He knew that there was something genuine in what he felt, but he highly doubted one could call it "love".

… Right. Whatever they had, it wasn't simple. And it got even worse when Sherlock started to analyze his own situation. He had no idea whether he could give John what he wanted. He'd never asked for a romantic relationship, but he'd been a fool if he hadn't realized that having sex with someone you deeply cared about usually led to just that.

Deeply cared about? That was something else. Sherlock never had to analyze sentiments from the inside before. He knew how to observe and recognize the signs. But it was all so alien to him that he could not link any of it to what he felt himself; a bit like knowing the exact wavelength of a colour won't help a blind man picture it. Thinking 650nm doesn't make you picture red if you've never seen red. Well, it was strangely the same for Sherlock and feelings. From the inside, the experience was entirely different, and he had no bearings. He had a certain image of love, mainly from books and films and discussions he'd heard and most of all from crimes and murders committed because of "love". But he couldn't identify what he felt with any of it. For these kinds of things, he realized, the point of view was crucial: just like two people kissing look stupid and grotesque from the outside, because it makes no sense to stick your mouth on somebody else's and keep it there for a while, moving it; but for some reason – or rather, for no reason – when you are the one kissing, you don't even ask yourself what in the world am I doing? At that point, such a question seems irrelevant.

Except that in Sherlock's current situation, such a question had to be addressed. Seriously addressed.

It suddenly occurred to Sherlock that maybe he had got it all wrong; that what he had understood was the inverse of the truth. He had thought John was only concerned about Sherlock's situation – whether he ever truly wanted the sex, whether he was merely trying to tie John down to himself by every possible method, whether he was getting addicted to it or simply convinced that John would leave the moment he stopped providing it, etc. But perhaps, maybe even unconsciously, John was also concerned for himself. Wasn't the real problem the fact that he doubted his own feelings and intentions? What if, even unwittingly, everything he had said these past few days had been to persuade himself that he wasn't just heterosexual? He kept telling Sherlock that he did not need the sex, that he could go on without it. Admittedly today he had clearly said he wanted to try to be penetrated, but wasn't that even further proof? Sherlock could not quite believe John would want to do it out of sheer curiosity. There had to be something else. A reason. Perhaps what John wanted were further proofs too. Perhaps he fully intended to get so deeply involved in it that he could never deny it afterwards, that he would have to admit that he couldn't only be a straight man. And knowing him, Sherlock knew how much it would cost him.

A terrible thought came to his mind. Maybe John had never been ready to acknowledge his attraction to Sherlock – because he was attracted, that much was undeniable. But he too had been forced into the realization of his body's desires – the key word being forced. There was something else Sherlock could not deny: John loved him. As he looked back on the past few days, Sherlock was profoundly convinced that John did love him. This was the reason he "danced" for him in the first place; the reason he accepted Sherlock's outrageous request of continuing such "experiments"; the reason he didn't leave, the reason he always came back; the reason he had gone along with everything Sherlock had asked, the reason John would have accepted even rape... The more he thought about it, the longer the list became. However there was a rub. John loved him. He was devoted to him, as only a very few friends ever had been in history. His dedication to Sherlock was dazzling.

But it did not mean he was ready to face the change in his own sexuality. It did not mean he was ready to acknowledge his bisexuality from one day to the next. Now that he thought back on it, when John had accepted that Sherlock should continue to experiment with him, together with him, he had closed his eyes. He had sounded nonplussed. Sherlock had been on edge that morning, he was terrified and even panicked when he'd asked, and he remembered John had had to interrupt his babbling; then he'd said "I'd love to. Experiment on us." And when Sherlock had begun to develop his meaning so that John would not misunderstand – so that he would not believe Sherlock was asking him to be his boyfriend or anything as ridiculous as that – he had interrupted him and said "I know. Experiment all you want." Then he had set the two rules: 1) You must say what you intend to do beforehand, whether to yourself or to me. 2) We do not run away; if we want to stop, we just say so.

He had said "we", hadn't he? So if he had wanted to stop... Sherlock furrowed his brow. No, of course not. John was doing all of this to help him in the first place, of course he wouldn't say if he wanted to stop for his own sake. He would always put Sherlock first. He had reached a point where he would do everything for him.

That morning after the Basement, he'd said he had enjoyed it. What they'd done the previous night. And perhaps he had. No, clearly, he had. Sherlock tried to remember all of it, from the beginning. It hadn't been what he had expected. In the chaotic state of mind he had been at the time, he'd thought John would simply want to sleep with him, as if it were the natural thing to do to sort out their awkward situation. He tried to remember John's words – some key sentences, perhaps. "You were beautiful, and I never wanted you so much. There, I said it." "I didn't want you because you were being humiliated and shred to pieces. I wanted you because you were gorgeous and I've always wanted you, from day one – don't tell me you had no clue, I wouldn't believe you. It's not like I was very subtle about it when we met either. Even if it took a madman messing with you to make me admit it out loud..." Was it true? John had been surprisingly casual about it. Tried to, anyway. He must have been terrified at the time that he'd say the wrong thing and make it worse for Sherlock. Well. He had made it better in the end. Much better. But this was still such a mess.

"Sherlock?"

"Mm?" He barely registered the worry in his friend's tone.

"What are you thinking about?"

"You weren't attracted to me from day one," he stated pensively.

John blinked, lost.

"What?"

He tried to guess what Sherlock's line of reasoning had been to get to that.

"You were intrigued," Sherlock went on, "then in the cab to the crime scene of the pink woman, you became fascinated. You weren't attracted to me."

John frowned. Sherlock did not notice, for he was still lost in thoughts. In memories.

"This is a misunderstanding." "I owe you a dance." "You've got to overcome this. I'm not giving up on any tender gesture, nor on any part of your body, just because a maniac jumbled your mind. I'm not giving up on you – on this." "Obviously you can't delete what happened this morning, so we have to find some other way. Will you trust me with this?" Some other way. A way. That is to say, a means.

"Why are you saying that now?" John asked.

"It was a way to help me overcome the trauma," Sherlock said.

"You're not asexual, Sherlock. Your reaction to Adler was telling enough. But if it hadn't been so intimidating and frightening to you, it wouldn't have obscured your mental capacities." Why had John mentioned the Woman then? "Moriarty was smart enough to notice that you weren't asexual or sociopathic, just incredibly clever and remarkably inhibited when it comes to your body."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm afraid. My body is betraying me." "It's not betraying you, Sherlock." "But it is. I've always been able to keep my distance." "But you don't need to." "I do. Otherwise I..." "You doubt." "Yes." "In the end though, you figured it out. The drug in the fog." "But there's no such drug here." "You can still figure it out."

"That night after the Basement, you did desire me," Sherlock went on. "Let's see what I can stimulate in you, shall we?" "You desired me and you ignited desire in me."

This time John stopped in his tracks and turned to him: "Sherlock, what are you trying to say?"

"Perhaps you'd been thinking about it a little before the Basement," Sherlock amended, as if John had not spoken at all. "When we met the Woman–"

"Sherlock, you're not answering!" John put his hand on his arm. "What's going on in your head?"

Sherlock looked him in the eye, then answered, slowly:

"Are you having second thoughts about this?"

John's eyes widened. Sherlock knew he was being cruel. He had asked that question this very morning. John's reply had been very clear. "Never." And he had kissed him with unquestionable passion.

But then they had been in the privacy of their living-room. Now they weren't in their flat, away from people's eyes. They were on the street. Sherlock knew John would not react in the same way. That he could not.

John's face filled with tension and Sherlock noticed he clenched his fists.

"I told you this morning," he said. "What have I done to make you doubt me?"

The hurt in his voice was unmistakable. Sherlock felt his chest twist with remorse.

"I am not doubting you, John," he said quietly.

"Then what are you doing exactly?!" John snapped. He looked distraught. Sherlock had hit a nerve. "What is it you're asking from me?" John went on, agitated, beginning to walk down the street again so as not to make a scene and attract too many gazes. "What do you want me to do? Kiss you here? Now? Is this a test?" He stopped abruptly and turned to Sherlock sharply. "Because if it is, I will," he said sternly. He was angry, Sherlock could tell. Very angry.

"John–"

"Is it? A test?"

"No, John, it isn't a test–"

"What is it, then? What are you trying to say?"

"I'm just saying maybe we're mistaken. Maybe I asked too much of you. I hadn't realized. All you were trying to do was help me. I–"

"God, Sherlock, is this because I asked you to be patient, to give me time to adjust? Is it really too much to ask?" Now he clearly looked hurt. "I'm trying, you know. It just isn't as easy as you may ima–"

"That's it, John," Sherlock cut in, as gently as he could manage. "You are trying."

"What's wrong with that?!"

"Nothing. Nothing is wrong with that. Look." Sherlock took his arm and pulled him along into Paddington Street Gardens, which was obviously where John had been leading him, then dragged him down an alley, and made him sit with him on a bench in the rose garden. It was rather quiet, and except for a woman talking heatedly on the phone on the other side of the garden, who could certainly not hear them, even if she had been paying any attention to them at all, they were alone.

"Look, John," Sherlock started again, "I was not reproaching you with anything."

"Sure sounded like it."

"I wasn't," Sherlock stressed. "What you're feeling, the awkwardness, the reluctance to do anything in public, well... It's natural."

He could tell from the look on his face that John was not following. He repressed an annoyed sigh.

"Were you ever attracted to a man before, John?"

"No! Of course not!" John protested. Sherlock gave him a pointed look. See? You're reacting as if it were an insult.

"Are you saying I can't possibly be attracted to you, Sherlock? Because I thought I gave enough signs that–"

"No, that's not it. I think you are attracted to me. No, I know you are. But it isn't something you've ever wanted or chosen for yourself."

"You never choose who you're attracted to, Sherlock."

"That's not the point. All I'm saying is that until now you've only been dealing with it for my sake. You haven't taken time to think it through because you always put me first and you did everything you thought would help me."

"Sherlock–"

"Let me finish. When I asked you if we could... Well, if I could experiment a bit with you, I..." He took a deep breath. "I hadn't realized you were..." He stopped. In love with me. But he couldn't say it. Because then it would inevitably raise the most problematic issue. The asymmetry.

Gingerly, John put a hand on Sherlock's which was resting on the bench. "I was what?" he asked gently.

Sherlock swallowed. "Why did you do it, John?" he asked so quietly his friend could barely hear him. "You said you enjoyed it, but... Why did you do it?"

John arched an eyebrow. "The lap dance?" He couldn't believe they were having this conversation in a park. He tried to ignore that fact. The discussion was too important.

Sherlock nodded.

"I wanted to do what Moriarty had done to you in reverse," the doctor said. "When I tried talking to you, you completely shut yourself off. I realized it wouldn't work unless I did something as... as total as Moriarty had done. Involving your body. Involving your gaze. Involving dance, and desire, and fear, and the risk of death. And shame, too." Sherlock tensed imperceptibly. John reaffirmed his grip on his hand. "I don't pretend I thought I could fix you in any way, that wasn't my aim. But I wanted to reach you before it was too late. I wanted to reverse the trauma so you'd realize you weren't alone and isolated from the world. I wanted to remind you how brilliant you were."

Sherlock nodded, incapable of saying a word. He was too scared of what he'd let out if he did.

"Then," said John, "when the next day you asked why I had done it, I..." He paused, closed his eyes, then opened them again. "I wanted to tell you it was because I loved you. But I feared it would scare you off. Then you made it so clear I was your best friend, your only friend, that it surprised me when you asked if you could experiment to better understand your body and the way it related to mine." He let out an unconvincing chuckle. "I accepted because... Well. I thought it might help you. If I refused you, I didn't know what you'd do. Maybe you'd never dare ask again. I thought... I don't know." He shook his head. "I wanted you badly. But I thought if I was careful, if I really made sure I wasn't doing this only for myself, it would be fine. It might really help you. I guess I was amazingly conceited." Another mirthless chuckle. Sherlock couldn't stand it.

"John," he said, grabbing his hand and squeezing it tightly before letting go so John wouldn't be embarrassed if someone walked by, "You weren't conceited. You did help. I... Touching you. Seeing the effect my touch could have on you. It reassured me. It gave me the feeling that I could still be in control of some things. That I could do some things right. You gave me back some self-confidence. And..." He looked around to check no one was coming, for this part surely would embarrass John if someone were to overhear them. "And you gave me physical pleasure like I had never felt before."

The effect of his words on John was quite impressive. He turned crimson and his pupils dilated considerably. Sherlock swallowed.

"It's true I don't want you to leave. It's true I want to tie you down to me. But John, if you are not ready for this, if this is not what you want – and I don't mean desire here, which is something else entirely – then I'll understand. You've done so much for me already. When I asked this of you, I... I know you consider yourself straight. I should have thought about it twice before asking this of you."

John let out a sigh he hadn't known he was holding.

"God, so that's it," he said.

Now he could perfectly follow Sherlock's line of reasoning from the moment he had reacted with shame to the stranger's gaze on the street. He should've been more careful. Sherlock was too observant, and his insecurity too acute still.

"Listen, Sherlock. I am a responsible adult, no matter what Mycroft may think on the matter. When you asked me if we could engage in a physical relationship, I knew what you meant." With all the ambiguity of it, he added mentally. It was true. He had been perfectly aware that what Sherlock was asking him was to be his guinea pig, but he wasn't so idiotic as to believe that Sherlock felt nothing for him whatsoever. John thought perhaps Sherlock had too idealistic an image of love in his mind, and did not realize that what he was giving John was enough. John could tell Sherlock cared about him. He did not have the same notion of relationships as most people – as ordinary people – but he was very capable of feeling. Which was, according to Moriarty and Mycroft, his greatest weakness. It was funny how, to John, Sherlock had seemed so insensible, whereas to them, it was almost as if he'd been the soppiest of romantics. As it turned out, they'd all been wrong. "I knew what you were asking, and I accepted."

There it is again, Sherlock thought. The asymmetry. John had accepted a sexual relationship when what he had wanted was surely a romantic one. But he had known. He had known Sherlock couldn't give that to him. And still he had gone along with it all.

"John. I think your... devotion to me made you go too far, too quickly."

"Is that why you refuse to have anal sex with me?"

Sherlock froze and looked at John, dumbfounded. Had he just said "anal sex" in a public park and in full daylight? Sherlock observed him closely. Every expression on his face had been replaced by an almost military sense of determination. He returned Sherlock's gaze sternly.

"Is it? Because you think my... manliness wouldn't allow it, no matter what I say?"

John was angry. Quite angry. But with himself, more than with Sherlock. He had to admit that he'd given his friend good reasons to believe what he had just told him. And it was, to his shame, partly true. He was having a hard time with this. Any man would, he supposed, if he suddenly discovered in his forties that he was bisexual and very much in love with a bloke. Who could blame him for that? John had nothing against homosexuals. Hell, Harry was one, and he'd never hated her for it! But he reckoned that his sister being gay probably had something to do with how adamant he had been about affirming his straightness. Their parents had always been understanding. But John distinctly remembered, before they died, how the weight of giving them grandchildren had fallen on him the moment it had been clear to all that Harry wouldn't fill that role. It hadn't been a problem because John had never fancied blokes. He'd never been in denial. He'd always liked women, even loved some, and when he was in the war, he'd taken care of his needs himself, and never indulged in anything else with any guy. Not that he found such practices reprehensible. He was a tolerant man. Just adamant about stating clearly that he was not gay.

It had only become a problem when he'd moved in with Sherlock, really. Bill had been the first to mention it on his blog, and then Harry had made such comments as well, about how infatuated he sounded in his posts about Sherlock. Well. All his posts were about Sherlock anyway. But before he'd met Sherlock, nobody had ever hinted at his possibly repressed homosexual tendencies. Just the thought of it seemed absurd.

And now here he was. He couldn't help but find unpleasant the thought of people's reactions. Harry. She would gloat for sure. Something like I knew it! or I told you! even though she'd never told him anything and certainly had never known. John himself hadn't known before meeting Sherlock. Could you actually turn bisexual for someone? Probably.

Well. Obviously.

Then there was Bill. John knew the nurse wasn't homophobic at all, but still he'd be surprised. He always used to call him Casanova, after all.

And then all the ex-girlfriends. They'd be proven right, and find him even more despicable. They'd most likely be entitled to, at any rate...

Finally there were the people at the Met. Lestrade would be OK. He'd seen the video, and he'd seen John looking up lap dances on his laptop. He must have known already. But then there were Sergeant Donovan and Anderson. John could already picture their snickering, all the little cutting remarks they'd get revenge with, for all the humiliating comments they'd had to suffer thanks to Sherlock. John could perfectly imagine Donovan giving him a knowing look and saying something like: "Ooh, so that was why. That explains it, yeah. Better than fishing, I bet. Do you scrub his floor, too?"

"Yes. And I am correct," Sherlock replied, snapping John back to the present. He was a bit lost for a moment, then caught back up.

"It is difficult," he admitted with a nod, "but Sherlock, it's not just that. It's..."

He trailed off, not knowing how to voice it. Then he realized it was because he did not want to voice it. He knew what he felt most ashamed of. Thing was, they weren't truly a couple. They were best friends who had sex together. Sherlock had made that quite clear. John no longer thought he was using him, because it was so evident that Sherlock cared about him it would have been insulting to question his feelings. But some of them were due to the trauma. And others came mostly from gratitude and the wonder of having found someone who loved him. And it was fine. As long as Sherlock wanted him, John would stay. That was the end of it.

Sherlock was watching John's face and could see all the emotions flashing across it. John was an open book to him. Nothing like the Woman. His face was so expressive it was quite arresting sometimes. His thoughts and feelings were written all over his face, in the smallest wrinkle, the most discreet twitch, the almost imperceptible curving of the mouth... But the most telling were his eyes. They truly were an open window to his soul, or mind, or inwardness, or whatever it was called. Sherlock plunged into them and almost drowned in what he read there, so he quickly averted his gaze and fixed it on something safer. Like John's nose.

John's nose was funny. It was too long for his face, but it went well with his ears. His ears too were strange; depending on the point of view, they looked either quite big or very small. Probably because they stuck out, Sherlock mused, so that from up front they looked big, but when one saw John's profile, they were actually small. He had quite a lot of wrinkles, mostly around the mouth and on the brow, which always betrayed his state of mind. His mouth was quite big but his lips very thin. He was rarely well-shaven, at least to the observant eye. Not that he neglected himself. He did shave almost every day, but he probably didn't put much time into it, and often there was a slight shade above his lips, like the very faint shadow of a moustache. He often had rings under his eyes, more sunken than actually dark, which made his eyes look bigger than they were. His brow was so often creased that the four lines – two very pronounced, two much more tenuous – remained there at all times, just less visible when he was smiling. His eyebrows were the element on his face which most clearly conveyed his sentiments and thoughts.

Sherlock did not realize he was smiling slightly. His eyes paused on John's lips. There was nothing objectively attractive about John's face. Nothing enticing. Thus he could not explain his sudden urge to kiss him. He looked away, abruptly.

John was surprised. He too had been observing Sherlock, and at first he thought that what his friend had read on his face had hurt or disappointed him. He fumbled, and tried to finish his sentence one way or the other.

"It's not like we have to shout to the world that we have sex," he finally said, feeling that this hadn't come out right.

"No, of course not. Why would we do that?" Sherlock sounded genuinely perplexed. John smiled.

"No reason. I'm just saying."

Sherlock's eyes turned to slits as he stared at his friend. "Do you want to keep this secret?" he asked cautiously. John blinked.

"Well, Lestrade knows already, Mycroft knows... I don't see how it could remain secret."

"Lestrade knows?"

John shrugged.

"Saw me look up lap dance tutorials."

"You looked up tutorials."

"Did you think I was used to lap dancing for my girlfriends?"

Sherlock blushed. "I hope not."

A small smirk lit up John's face. A wave of tenderness washed over him. Once more, he put his hand on Sherlock's. "I could take you here and now," he said in a low voice, and Sherlock turned to him with round eyes, unsure whether he'd heard correctly. "Actually, I think I could probably get hard for you anywhere. I'm sure you could even manage to make me hard by text if you were on the other side of the city."

We'll have to try that, Sherlock thought, then slapped himself mentally and tried to focus on the conversation. And not on John's lips.

"So you don't mind?" Sherlock asked.

It took John a few seconds to remember the discussion. "I'll be honest with you. I hate to think about Harry or Donovan or Anderson knowing about it. I'm just... not ready for that. And there's something else, Sherlock. Public image. You have one now. You're not exactly famous, but in any case, you have a reputation of sorts. This is not something I should ever put on my blog, and I need you to understand why."

"Because it's bad for my reputation? You must be joking."

"I am not. Some people aren't really open-minded, Sherlock. This might actually make you lose clients."

Sherlock snorted.

"I'm serious! It completely changes your image. It might make you look less... reliable or serious to some people."

"Let these people deal with their problems themselves, then."

"Sherlock. I'm just saying we should not be obvious about it."

You are obvious about it, Sherlock retorted back in his mind grimly.

"Fine. It doesn't matter. I don't care about what they think. But I certainly care about what you think."

He leant in, and made a point of locking their gazes together. "Are you sure about this, John? We can stop now. If I'm not giving you enough and I'm asking for too much, we can stop now."

John glared. Sherlock held his heated gaze, and did not flinch when he grabbed his collar. He was swallowed by the sheer, overwhelming strength in John's pupils. In this very instant, Sherlock felt more possessed than he had when his friend had concretely been inside him.

At last John spoke again, his tone inexorable.

"Never."

He crushed their lips together.

xXx

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tbc