For context: this came out in 2011 in Australia. Same-sex marriage would not be legalized until December 2017.
It was only legalized in 8 US states (the 8th only a few months before), and wouldn’t be legalized nation-wide until 2015.
It was only legal in TEN COUNTRIES in 2011. We wouldn’t hit 20 countries until 2017. (Australia was 23rd)
As of today (April 14, 2026), I believe only 38 countries have fully legalized same-sex marriage. Out of somewhere around 200 countries in the world. That’s only ~19% of countries.
If Sherlock BBC was a romantic comedy. Epistolary is very popular in this fandom, so here’s my take on it, hope you like it. And happy Valentine’s Day (:
Love, Sherlock: The greatest love story told in texts.
“Tolerable,” he says, as close to the truth as he can manage. It fucking hurts, he wants to say.
“Liar. If you’re in pain, I can give you something.”
Give me time travel, he thinks. Send me back to 2010, let me figure out how we won’t end up here.
“No, it’s not so bad.” He considers. “You should go home, check on Mary.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Well, she’s pregnant.”
“Yeah. She’s also a nurse, and knows how to use a phone.”
“But you—“
“Don’t say you chose her. I didn’t. And I don’t. The woman I chose, the one I married, wasn’t an assassin. I don’t know who she is.”
He reconsiders. “She could have killed me if that’s what she intended.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” John glares at him. “That was a kill shot. And if it wasn’t, it’s given her what she wanted. That’s what she thinks, anyway. I’m not letting her divide us.” He gives a short, brutal laugh. “And her shooting you was acceptable? Is that what you think?”
“She was cornered. It wasn’t her plan.”
John rolls his eyes, gives a deep sigh. “I know you’re the amazing Sherlock Holmes, who can identify a software designer by his tie and – what was it? – a retired plumber by his left hand.” He looks away, stubbornly shaking his head. “I’ve lived with her for months. Maybe I was oblivious for most of that time, but that bullet—“ he points at Sherlock’s chest— “has given me remarkable clarity.”
“John—“
“No, Sherlock. She’s lied to me from the day we met. Everything about her is a lie. Maybe if she’d just lied about one thing— but I can see it all now. Even here, in this room, while the paramedics were taking you away, she pretended concern, but she never ever apologised to me for—“ Tears course down his face. “She knew what it did to me when you died— she saw how I grieved— and she tried to take you from me again—“
“Come here,” he says. “John, please.”
“Not if you’re going to tell me how she saved your life!”
“All right. Just— come here.”
John kneels beside his chair, leans his head on Sherlock’s thigh. Sherlock puts his hand on John’s head, feels him let go.
“I want you to be happy,” he says. “Ever since I’ve known you, you’ve been looking for someone. When I saw you with Mary, I thought you’d found her.”
A deep sigh. “So did I. But that was only because I’d lost you. Who was the last woman I dated, Sherlock? Do you remember?”
“The boring teacher.”
“Her name was Jeanette. We broke up after the Christmas party, the first year I lived here. Do you know why I stopped dating?”
“I assumed it was because I kept scaring off all your potential girlfriends.”
“It was because of what Irene said. I know you heard it. You were there.”
“You told her you’re not gay.”
“She said we were a couple. She was right about that, and I was just too stupid to see it then. But after— after you fell, after you died—“ His face contorts with sorrow. “It was too late, but I saw it. I was in love with you.”
“But you met Mary. You married her. You’re not gay.”
“Look, just assume I’m an idiot, Sherlock. I was angry with you. I’d realised that I was in love with you, settled for a woman who I thought could make me happy, or at least less unhappy, and then you came back. But you don’t do feelings. You don’t do romance or— love. Me loving you—“ he makes a choked sound, half laugh, half sob. “You were never going to love me back, so I stayed with her. And now— I’m not going to make that mistake again. Maybe it is too late. Maybe you’re married to your work, don’t have friends, avoid sentiment because it wreaks havoc on your rational brain. I don’t care. I choose you. I love you. I need you.”
“John—“
“Fine— sentiment is on the losing side. You can’t reciprocate. I know, I know. I won’t leave you again. Not voluntarily. You’ll have to change the locks if you want to get rid of me. Or maybe have Mycroft vanish me, send me to some remote part of Canada. He’s threatened before—“
“What?”
“Just say it, Sherlock. If you want me go, I’ll go— anywhere but back to her. I wish—“
“John, stop.”
John sighs, looks up at him. “All right, I’ll go. But not until you’re off pain meds. When you’re well, I’ll leave. I’m not sorry I told you how I feel, Sherlock, but I don’t want you to think that you owe me something you can’t give.”
“John, please. No more.” He closes his eyes, breaths deeply. “Let’s assume I’m an idiot, too. I told you I was married to my work, and I believed it. But I was wrong. By the time I realised, you were dating women. I would never make you happy, I thought, but apparently I couldn’t stand seeing someone else make you happy. But when I came back and saw what I’d done to you, how unhappy you’d been after I left—“
“After you died.”
“— I was willing to put your happiness before my own selfish desires. That’s why I told you to go back to her. I wanted you to be happy.“
“Are you even listening? It isn’t about being happy, Sherlock! I don’t know why you think—“
“That’s what I thought, past tense. As I say, I was an idiot. This is imperfect— you and I. It’s something I didn’t realise, and when I finally realised, it was something I didn’t want to feel.”
Unexpectedly, John laughs. “You’re saying that even though we’re a mess, even though you don’t want it—“
