An inane study about the Rubella vaccine during pregnancy.
Really, nothing of interest in the entirety of the study, save for -
“Sherlock, I need to talk to you about something.”
Sherlock’s eyes immediately snap up to scan John. Apprehensive, nervous about the topic about to be broached. Serious, then. Perhaps the reason for his recent brooding and not, as otherwise estimated, due to the gloomy weather.
He earmarks the paper he’s reading and places it carefully on the table next to his chair.
John just stands in front of him, rocking back on his heels once, twice, hands behind his back.
“Why don’t you take a seat,” Sherlock suggests kindly, eyes crinkling at the corners.
“Alright. Yeah, I think it might be better.”
He makes a big show of settling in to his chair opposite Sherlock’s, going so far as to puff up his Union Jack cushion for a full twelve seconds.
When he’s settled, he turns to face Sherlock and nods once, putting his brave, soldier face on.
“I think… I mean, I know… What I’m trying to say is… I’m bisexual,” John says, his shoulders sagging in relief after the statement is out.
Sherlock’s eyes narrow in confusion. “When exactly did you come to this conclusion?”
“Past couple of days, right. What about the fact that we’ve been sleeping together for five months now?”
“Well, that was part of coming to my conclusion. I thought… I convinced myself I was straight for the past forty odd years of my life. Then there was you.”
“Then there was me,” Sherlock echoes, still a little lost.
“Yes. At first, I thought it was just a you thing. You know how you defy all expectations. I thought I was straight, but I’d fallen for just one man.”
“Right. What about the army, then?”
“Well, that - Hang on! How’d you know about that?”
“I’m Sherlock Holmes, remember? Besides, you were practically wet at the mouth when Sholto showed up to your wedding.”
“The army was just… necessity.”
“Nope,” Sherlock exclaims, popping his P with a precision he’s mastered over many years of proving people wrong.
“What you and Sholto had was definitely more than mere necessity, John. Sherlock Holmes, remember?” he adds, pointing to himself.
“I suppose so. I just. I never felt this way about. Well, anyone really, and it led me to wonder… I mean, I know I’m not gay. There have been women…”
“Three continents’ worth.” He can barely contain his smirk by this point.
“Sod off! You can’t use pillow talk against me. It’s in the rules.”
“The relationship rules.”
“You told me relationships don’t have rules. I specifically asked.” Sherlock is alarmed now, his mind racing back to every time he may or may not have violated these as-of-yet-unspoken rules.
“They do when I say they do,” John grins, prompting Sherlock to be at ease once again.
“Alright so. This declaration of yours. What does it mean, exactly? For us?”
“For us? Nothing, really. It’s just something I figured you might want to know. About me,” John adds softly, a slight blush creeping up from his neck.
“Well. Thank you for sharing.” Sherlock smiles, picking up the research paper once more.
A few seconds go by until he realises he should probably have reciprocated.
“I’m gay, by the way,” he announces, looking at John once more.
“Yes, you poncey tosser, that’s obvious,” John laughs, lifting off of his chair and lowering himself onto Sherlock’s lap for a kiss, one that’s given freely.
“Just thought you might want to know,” he murmurs between kisses.
“Thank you. I figured it out from the fact that every previous encounter you’ve had has been with a man and that you once told me, and I quote, ‘there’s nothing I’d like to do less than sleep with a woman.’ It was a little obvious then, love,” John teases, pounctuating it with a deep, long kiss.
“I think we’d better go to the bedroom and test out this hypothesis of yours,” Sherlock suggests, feigning a straight face. “It’s very important to come to accurate conclusions, John. I am a scientist, as you well know.”
“Hmm,” John murmurs into Sherlock’s neck as he kisses a slow line to his collarbone. “But where on earth would I be able to find a willing test subject?”
“I, ah,” Sherlock is barely coherent as he bucks his hips up, beginning to grow impatient. “I think we can, ah, arrange something.”
“Let’s go, then,” John announces, pulling himself and Sherlock up in one fluid motion.
The hypothesis is definitely confirmed that afternoon and all through that evening, too.
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