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“Sherlock, that’s the fifth time you’ve introduced me as your partner instead of your friend,” John paused meaningfully, “this week. Someone’s going to get the wrong impression.”
Sherlock, lounging along the couch, tossed a ball up in the air and caught it again, completely ignoring John.
“Not that there’s anything wrong with being gay,” John said defensively, “but I’m not. And we’re not that kind of partners.”
“The general public’s obsession with the relationship status of strangers is not something with which I am overly concerned,” Sherlock said, tossing his ball in the air and catching it again. “If people want to inject sexuality into a statement of partnership, why should that bother me?”
“Or, and this is just a thought here,” John said with obviously rising irritation, “you could stop calling us partners. What was wrong with saying ‘my friend, John Watson’?”
When he answered, Sherlock’s tone dripped with condescension. “And how many of your other friends are you raising a child with?”
John didn’t answer.
“That’s what I thought,” Sherlock said smugly.
John stood. “If we’re going to talk about this, I need tea.” He went into the kitchen, and soon Sherlock could hear the sounds of the kettle being filled and turned on.
Sherlock continued to toss and catch his ball. It helped him think, and he needed to think right now. He and John had never properly talked about what they were to each other after Mary died, not even when John had moved back in, bringing baby Rosie with him. Sherlock wasn’t even sure what he wanted from this conversation, except that he knew friendship didn’t seem to cover it.
The kettle whistled, and soon John returned, cup of tea in hand. He settled back into his chair. “Alright, Sherlock, if we’re not friends, what are we?”
“We are friends.”
“Fine. If we’re not just friends.”
Sherlock didn’t respond. Friends didn’t seem enough to him, partners was apparently too much for John, and co-parents made it seem like he was trying to take Mary’s place, and he didn’t want that. He didn’t want to be John’s husband.
John sighed, and Sherlock knew he must have been thinking too long. “Sherlock, Rosie will be home from her play date in a couple of hours. If we’re going to talk about this, we have to do it now.”
“I don’t want to have sex with you,” Sherlock announced.
He could almost hear John’s jaw drop. He’d wondered, over the years, if he still had the capability to surprise John, and some small part of him was delighted to discover he did.
“Sherlock, what are you talking about? I know some of the details of human interactions escape you, but when I asked what we are if not just friends, that wasn’t an invite for sex! Besides, I thought you said you weren’t gay?”
“I didn’t say I wasn’t gay. I said I didn’t have a boyfriend.”
“So you are gay?”
“I didn’t say that either.”
John sighed again, this time more exasperated. Somehow, a catalogue of all John’s sighs had made its way into Sherlock’s mind palace, and this was definitely one of the exasperated ones. “So what are you saying, Sherlock? Are you gay or aren’t you?”
“I’m not either. I’m not attracted to anyone.”
“Everyone’s attracted to someone, Sherlock. Just because you don’t like emotions doesn’t mean they don’t exist.”
“Once again, John, you are taking something from your own experience and extrapolating it to apply everywhere,” Sherlock snapped. “Unlike you, and apparently the moronic majority who are constantly concerned with sex and romance, I am not attracted to anyone, and I do not need romantic entanglements to ‘complete me as a human being’!”
He turned away from John, his desire to have this conversation evaporating. It had been a long time since John had made that remark about romance completing him as a human being, but he hadn’t quite been able to forget it – no matter how many times he banished it from his mind palace, it always came back, just like the expression on Lestrade’s face when he realised Sherlock hadn’t died after Reichenbach, or the way Mycroft had tried to goad him into killing him.
“Sherlock...” John sighed again, and Sherlock absently categorised it as one of his tired sighs, with a slight overtone of remorse.
Sherlock didn’t deign to turn around. He heard John leave, and the following sounds in the kitchen were enough for him to deduce John was making tea long before the kettle boiled. Even the mug John set down on the small table next to him wasn’t really a surprise – despite what others thought, John wasn’t much better with emotions than him, and a mug of tea was much easier to make than a sincere apology.
Sherlock reluctantly turned back towards John, sitting up enough to sip on his tea. If he ignored John’s conciliatory gesture now, John might go past being remorseful and into annoyed, and then they’d never finish this discussion.
John broke the silence. “I shouldn’t have said that, alright? It’s not my business who you’re attracted to.” Sherlock rolled his eyes, and John added, “Or, if you aren’t attracted to anyone.”
“I’m not attracted to anyone.”
“Whether you are or not, Sherlock, you’re missing the bit where I’m not attracted to you. Might be hard for you to believe, dashing around everywhere in that coat, but I’m not, so whatever you’re thinking of with this whole ‘partners’ thing isn’t going to work.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I’m well aware you’re not gay, John, I’m not asking you to be my boyfriend.” He imbued the word with as much disdain as he could muster. “Not only do I not find you remotely attractive, but sex in general seems unnecessarily messy.”
John opened his mouth to argue, then closed it. When he opened it again, he had apparently decided to drop that line of conversation, instead asking, “What are you asking me to be then, Sherlock? You already know you’re my best friend.”
Only decades of practice in concealing his emotions was enough for Sherlock to hide the way his insides lit up when John said that. There was no scientifically valid explanation for how those words made his heart feel warm, and yet that was the best description of the sensation. It was enough to soften his irritation at John for asking a question he’d already answered. Really, was John paying any attention? “I’m asking you to be my partner. Or really, you already are, so I’m just asking you to acknowledge it, and stop pretending we’re just associates, or whatever word you’re using to protect your heterosexuality from an imaginary threat.”
John took a deep breath, and Sherlock realised that last part might have been a bit much. As irritating as he found it, most heterosexual men were resistant to any idea they might not be straight. He just didn’t think of John as being like most people.
He couldn’t say sorry, as that would make it seem he hadn’t meant it, so instead he said nothing, and tried to convey without words that he hadn’t meant to offend John.
Fortunately, despite their current disagreement, John could still read him better than anyone (except perhaps Mycroft, but that wasn’t worth thinking about).
“You know, most people hear partners and think,” he gestured back and forth between them, “together.” Sherlock opened his mouth to object, they had just covered this, but John barrelled on. “I know you aren’t attracted to me, but did you think about what happens if I start dating again?”
“You won’t,” Sherlock immediately replied. “You wouldn’t want to bring a new person into Rosie’s life and potentially upset her if things don’t work out.” Plus John had been devastated by Mary’s death and was unlikely to return to dating for a long time yet, but Sherlock had the sense to keep the comment to himself this time. Even John’s patience wasn’t endless.
John scowled, but didn’t actually object. “What if you found someone you were interested in?”
“Not going to happen.”
“It happened before.” Sherlock raised his eyebrows, and John said pointedly, “Irene.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Irene had a uniquely brilliant and creative mind, but I would no more have sex with her than I would with you.”
“Are you saying you never slept with Irene? Irene Adler?”
“Do try to keep up, John. I have no interest in sex with anyone.”
John had leaned forward in his chair to ask the previous question, but now he pulled back like he’d been struck. He opened his mouth, then closed it, running a hand over his face.
Sherlock watched him, nerves dancing. He didn’t know why he felt so jittery, but he didn’t like it. In an effort to calm himself, he picked up his mug and had a long sip of tea.
Finally, John spoke. “Do you remember, that first time I asked you if you had a girlfriend or boyfriend, I said it was all fine?” He paused, and Sherlock nodded, sensing this wasn’t the time to remind John that he had a mind palace capable of keeping any memory as fresh as the day it was made. “I haven’t really been living up to that, have I? If you’re not interested in anyone, fine, I’ll trust you on that. I don’t understand, but frankly, of all the things I don’t understand about you, that doesn’t really rank.” John gave him a half smile, and Sherlock involuntarily closed his eyes to keep them from betraying all the emotions he felt in that moment.
His nerves fled as though they had never existed.
“Will you be my partner, John?”
John gave him a half smile. “Might as well, after all that. You are raising a child with me.”
Sherlock snorted, and they both collapsed into laughter.