A little less humour and a little more drama.

John ran after Mrs Hudson. He followed her into the living room and stopped in front of her just as she was about to leave the apartment. They looked at each other, John apparently lost for words. As she gazed down Mrs Hudson realized that she was still holding the book. She thrust it into John's hand and hurried past him. He looked at it and angrily put it on the living room table. He stood in the doorway to the apartment as he saw Mrs Hudson disappearing down the stairs.

"I'm… We're not… I think you've misunderstood the situation!" There was a definite note of desperation in John's voice.

Mrs Hudson turned around and smiled at him.

"I don't want to interfere with your privacy. I don't judge people on their sexuality. My uncle was… of that kind in secret of course. You couldn't go waving that sort of information around back then but it's much more acceptable today you know. It's nothing to be ashamed about. I have to run. The kettle is boiling down stairs."

She gave him a fleeting smile and continued down the stairs. John buried his face in his hands.

Why? Why do things always get complicated around him?

John sighed heavily and leaned against the doorframe.

"Has she left?" A yell came from the kitchen.

John slid his hand down his face and revealed an exhausted look that turned to annoyed when he heard the yell.

No help at all had he been. Typical…

"Yes Sherlock. She is gone."

John turned around to see Sherlock standing by the doorframe to the kitchen in the flowery apron. He looked unconcerned about the situation. Like nothing out of the ordinary had just happened.

"Brilliant. Were you making tea? I think I'm in the mood for a cup anyway."

John stared at Sherlock with a look that clearly told you that, in his opinion, the situation could not be less brilliant.

"Brilliant!? She thinks we're…" He trailed of. Apparently to frustrated to finish the sentence. Or could it be a hint of embarrassment in voicing the thoughts of Mrs Hudson?

"What John? That we're gay? Let her think what she wants. It doesn't matter really." He turned around and walked into the kitchen. John, now completely perplexed by Sherlock's peculiar statement stood still and thought. Sherlock was peculiar by nature but he wasn't gay. John knew that much. So why was he okay with other people thinking he was. He couldn't be gay. John would know if he were wouldn't he?

Why would I know? He doesn't tell me everything. In fact he tells me very little about his feelings.

John's eyes darted to the book lying on the living room table.

John decided to follow Sherlock into the kitchen to get some answers. Before going he grabbed the jumper Sherlock had nearly used to wipe of the coffee with lying across the armchair of the couch. He put it on and went to the kitchen. He walked around the dining table to avoid the "preserved eyeball liquid" lying in a puddle on the floor in front of the refrigerator. Sherlock was standing at the kitchen desk making tea for two. John stopped at the end of the table, Sherlock's back to him.

"What do you mean brilliant? How are you okay with this? And why were you reading that book?"

Sherlock turned around sharply at the last question and pierced John's eyes with his own. They stood like this for a moment both of them completely still. John's mouth relaxed slightly and his breathing intensified. Sherlock spoke soft and slowly. With every answer he moved one step closer to John.

"Brilliant she's gone. I like my privacy and frankly she's too interfering. I'm okay with this because I'm very sure of my sexuality John. It doesn't matter what other people think. It won't change anything." He was now at half an arms length away from John. Johns breathing quickened even more.

Never noticed how deep Sherlock's voice can become. The softness…

"And lastly John…" At the mention of his name John took a sharp intake of breath. "…The reason I'm reading that book… Is none of your business. By the way you're still wearing a plastic glove."

John snapped out of his frozen state and took a step back. He quickly collected himself and avoided Sherlock's eyes as he pulled of the plastic glove and laid it on the table.

"Fine. If you don't want to tell me then that's your choice." He walked to the doorframe to the living room.

As he reached it he turned around. Sherlock was still staring at him with a blank expression.

"Clean that up will you?" John pointed to the liquid lying on the floor. Sherlock didn't look away from John.

"Where are you going?" He asked.

John looked through the living room out of the window. It was a sunny day.

What do I need? I need… I need to get out. I need to think... I need to get away from him.

"I'm going out." John started to move towards the entrance to the apartment. Sherlock moved to the kitchen doorframe and in his haste stepping in the liquid. He scowled at his foot and when he looked up again John was gone.

John had almost run down the stairs and was now stepping out onto the pavement in front of the apartment complex. He started walking. Not in any particular direction. Just away from the apartment and away from the place that very odd situation had taken place. He needed to think and breathe and none of these tasks could be accomplished in the presence of Sherlock right now. John was so frustrated with him. Why did he have to be this mysterious always? Never letting anyone inside his brain just to have a peak at the complex feelings he must have. Even though John was one of the few who had an actual relationship with Sherlock his feelings had always been a great mystery to him. Sometimes he could seem so cold. This hurt John sometimes though he'd never admit it to anyone. Like the only one who cared about upholding their friendship was John. Why did he even care? That was another mystery that John thought he'd never solve.

He stopped to cross the road. He arrived on the other side and proceeded into the park that he had been aiming for since he had turned a corner to see it.

John sat down on the first unoccupied bench he saw. He leaned back and closed his eyes. He let himself relax and felt the frustrations leave him like he was breathing them out of his lungs.

As they left him he began to ponder over something else. What had happened to him in the kitchen? Why had he frozen like that? Now that he thought about it, it had felt like Sherlock had petrified him with his stare somehow. John had felt lost and deeply sunken into those eyes. It had made him focus on every movement Sherlock had made. Like John was anticipating something. Excitement had rushed through him and he had found himself not being able to control his breathing. He'd had coffee that morning. Maybe it had been some sort of adrenalin rush caused by the coffee. John didn't think so but could find no other explanation. He decided to open his eyes and have a look at the passers by. Suddenly the sound of a gunshot was heard and the head of a massive statue located about 20 meters away from John shattered like glass hitting the floor. John crouched below the bench and stared around at an attempt to locate the gunman. As it was a sunny day many people were in the park. John could see about 20 people from where he was sitting. Some of them had fallen to the ground and others had run in panic. A few with an unnaturally slow ability to comprehend what was going on still stood looking around with confused expressions. There was no one with a gun in sight. A few seconds later another shot was heard and John saw a teenage girl fall to the ground. Somebody screamed. John took him phone out of his pocket and started texting Sherlock.

"COME QUICK. PARK. GIRL SHOT DOWN."