Chapter Text
Sherlock was staring at him as though he was an idiot, and John wanted to scream.
It was too much. It was all too much. John could feel the tight ball in his chest tensing even more, to the point of it being painful. With each word he said, he could feel himself inching closer and closer to an explosion.
“She’s out there, she likes you, and she’s alive.” He was shaking. When did he start shaking? “Do you have the first idea how lucky you are?”
He wasn’t even upset to learn that Sherlock had deceived him into thinking Irene – the Woman – was dead. At this point, it was just another disappointment, another tiny, piercing lie to add to the pile of other piercing lies that had accumulated over the years. Lies told by Sherlock, by Mary. By John himself.
But he was upset that Sherlock was wasting the very opportunity John so desperately wanted. Although upset didn’t seem like the right word. Angry. Angry was good.
Furious was better.
“Just text her back,” he said.
“Why?”
John gritted his teeth together. His fingers itched at his side. Somewhere, deep down, he felt sick.
“Because High Wycombe is better than you are currently equipped to understand.”
Sherlock looked down at his mug. His lower lip jutted out just a little. “I once caught a triple poisoner in High Wycombe.”
John’s fingers curled into fists as he willed himself not to release every ounce of rage bundled up inside him. The need to make Sherlock understand was overwhelming. John could feel it welling up, threatening to swallow him whole. It was terrifying. It was what happened to him in the morgue, when he unleashed his emotions and struck Sherlock repeatedly. He’d hurt someone who – admittedly – did not deserve it. Someone who was – for a time – his best friend and maybe something more. Even now he regretted it. The healing cut on Sherlock’s face was a sharp reminder of what he was capable of when he lost control. It sickened him. The self-loathing had always been there, but he was certain it had reached its peak at that moment.
“That’s only the beginning, mate,” he said, relieved at how calm it came out.
Sherlock sighed, looking almost annoyed at the conversation they were having. “As I think I have explained to you many times before, romantic entanglement, while fulfilling for other people-”
“Would complete you,” John said, “as a human being.”
Sherlock looked up at him, and John saw something unfamiliar in his eyes. His long fingers tightened around his mug.
“I have no desire,” said Sherlock slowly, “to be in a romantic relationship with Irene Adler. Leave it alone.”
“Why?” In all the years of them knowing each other, John believed he could count all the arguments he’d won on one hand. It was petty of him, but he was determined to win this one. There was a burning sensation in his gut that needed to be put out. “I saw the two of you together, I saw your connection.”
More than I’d needed to see.
“What connection?” spat Sherlock. “We played a game. A game I won because her ridiculous feelings got in the way.”
“Feelings she had – has – for you! For God’s sake, she entrusted you with her metaphorical heart!”
Sherlock set his mug down on the tiny table beside his chair and stood up. He swayed a bit as he did, his hand reaching out to steady himself on the armrest. John’s heart clenched at the sight.
“For the last time,” Sherlock said, “I do not have feelings for Irene Adler. She is the last person I would ever be interested in.”
John laughed humorlessly. “Are you serious? She’s got a brilliant mind, she’s gorgeous, she loves playing games. She’s perfect for you.”
“She’s also a woman.”
He was so caught up in the idea of winning that he missed the implication. “The Woman, as you always put it.”
Sherlock stared at him. He seemed both defiant and nervous, an odd mixture that seemed wrong on his face. His words finally sunk in for John, and he felt his jaw slacken.
“Wait… You mean you’re…”
Sherlock looked away. He snatched up his mug and strode into the kitchen, leaving John to stare at his back.
“I told you girlfriends weren’t my area,” Sherlock said, his voice quiet as he placed his mug in the sink. John forgot to be proud of him for it. “On that first night.”
He knew exactly what Sherlock was referring to. He’d replayed that moment in his head countless times.
“I thought you just meant you didn’t like relationships. Or that you weren’t good at them.”
Sherlock’s lips quirked into a small, self-deprecating smile. “That’s still true. But so is the fact that I’m gay.”
Hearing him actually say it out loud was like a jolt of electricity. John felt like an idiot – and a terrible friend – for not realizing it. His previous anger and determination to make Sherlock see reason had dissipated the moment he caught up with the conversation, and now he was just desperate to fit together all the puzzle pieces that made up Sherlock Holmes.
“Why did you never tell me?”
Sherlock shrugged. There was something looser about him now, something resigned. “I thought you knew. And even if you didn’t, it was never relevant.”
“How could I have known? I mean, aside from that first night, the only things I had to go off of for you and romance were Irene and Janine.”
Sherlock made a face. “Janine wasn’t a real relationship.”
“Still.”
Sherlock scratched the cut on his brow, and John’s stomach gave a little lurch. “What does it matter? So I’m attracted to men. That doesn’t change the fact that romantic relationships are unappealing to me.”
There was something in his voice that made John pause. A terse note, a slight unevenness.
“It also doesn’t change the fact that loving someone – being with someone – would do wonders for you.”
“You make it sound as though I’m broken. Like I need to be fixed.”
John recoiled. He’d always made it a point to make sure Sherlock knew he wasn’t defective in any way. But now that he pointed it out, it was clear to John that he’d ruined that.
“I’m just saying,” he said, his words lame even to himself.
“I think you’ve said enough.”
John looked at him. Sherlock wasn’t looking back, but at the kitchen table, which looked startlingly empty without its usual clutter. Mycroft’s people had disposed of everything harmful in the flat, something John was begrudgingly and immensely grateful for.
“Look, Sherlock,” he said. “You know you’re not broken-”
“I don’t want to talk about this,” Sherlock said. “Yes, I know there’s nothing wrong with me, I know romance would change my life, blah blah blah. Thanks for coming, thanks for the birthday wishes, how very kind of you, do say hello to Rosie for me.” At the end of this, he walked over to the door and gestured out it. John could feel his anger pricking up again.
He couldn’t tell if it was anger toward Sherlock or himself.
“I just have one more question,” he said, his voice almost a whisper. He stood still in the middle of the sitting room, feeling surprisingly calm at the center of his roiling emotions. The eye of the storm.
“What?”
He didn’t know what possessed him to ask, but the need to ask it was very much there. It was probably what fueled him to start the conversation about The Woman. It was definitely what fueled him to start the conversation. He had always been desperate to know.
“Has there ever been anyone you’ve loved?”
Sherlock’s face remained blank, but John saw something in his eyes. A hint of surprise, a bit of fear. John stood his ground, watching Sherlock.
“I suppose I love my parents,” said Sherlock, flatly. “And I might say I love my brother, but only if under extreme duress and possible threat of life. There’s also Mrs. Hudson, and-”
“Shut up,” interrupted John. “Just shut up. I’m so tired of playing this game with you. I just want a straight answer. Yes or no. It’s not hard.”
Sherlock’s shoulders drooped. John waited.
“Yes.” It was no more than a whisper. “Yes. There’s – someone.”
“A man.”
“Of course a man.”
John stepped closer. “Is he still alive?”
“Yes.”
“Do you still see him?”
“Yes.”
John almost laughed. “Then it’s simple, isn’t it?”
Sherlock glared at him. “No, it’s not.”
“Why not?”
Sherlock apparently gave up on trying to make him leave, because he turned away from the door and stalked further into the sitting room. John didn’t move from his spot. There was an odd feeling spreading throughout his body, and he wasn’t sure what it meant.
“He’s straight and often relishes the opportunity to say so.”
“But have you ever-”
“Yes, John!” The suddenness of his shout startled John. He was shaking again and John didn’t like it. “I am absolutely certain he has no interest in men because he married a woman, he’s only dated women, and every time people insinuate he and I are a couple, he insists he is completely straight.”
John stepped back. Let out a breath and took in a new one. Opened and closed his mouth. Sherlock watched him with keen eyes.
“Figured it out, have you?” asked Sherlock, his voice low. “Are you quite pleased with yourself? I should hope you are. As you know, your happiness is very important to me.”
John felt as though he had been punched. Sherlock seemed unfamiliar to him, and he couldn’t tell if it was because of the new information flooding his brain or Sherlock’s gaunt appearance that still made him want to cry every time he saw him.
He knew, of course he knew, but he had to confirm it. “Me?”
Sherlock’s silence said it all.
“I don’t – I never meant to – I didn’t know.”
With a shake of his head, Sherlock walked past him and into the kitchen. “Molly will be here in three and a half minutes. I promise I will behave myself until she gets here.” John could hear Sherlock’s footsteps retreat down the hallway until they were swallowed up by his bedroom door shutting.
And then he was alone.