Chapter Text
“We’re not a couple,” John said. Found himself saying. Repeatedly. Weekly. On a case-by-case basis. To several people more than once. We are not a couple. It didn’t matter how or how many times he said it, people just seemed not to get it. Even his slew of girlfriends (who, though their association was short-lived, usually had ample and earnest example of his heterosexual inclinations) exited the relationship with the accusation, almost admonition: Why would you need me when you’ve already got such a great boyfriend?
It bothered John in a way he couldn’t explain. Shouldn’t have to explain? It was annoying as all hell to be constantly and consistently misinterpreted—almost wilfully, as in the case of Mrs. Hudson, bless her. John was a relatively easy-going bloke (a quality which made living with Sherlock at all possible), and there were times when he knew it was a lost cause and hurting very little to let people carry on with their assumptions. A part of him gets it, he really does: what he has with Sherlock is . . . intense. Unpredictable. Devoted. In short, it has been the most important relationship of John’s life, and it continues to be so. Sherlock surprises, consternates, delights, and knows John in ways that (as he has come to suspect and accept) a potential romantic partner may never do.
So, maybe they are a couple of sorts. But John isn’t gay (much as that might make things easier), and neither (he thinks) is Sherlock, and they aren’t . . . well, gay together. Not the way people think of. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. It just isn’t them.
And there are only so many times that a man, even as patient a man as John Watson, can allow himself to be misidentified without wanting to do something about it.
Which is how, sometime later in the month of February, after having been assaulted with Valentines’ well-wishes and snide remarks from much of New Scotland Yard on a case earlier in the month, Sherlock came into the kitchen holding John’s laptop aloft, his eyebrow raised.
“Is there something you’re trying to tell me?” he asked. His tone was somewhat bored, but it usually was at this time of morning, on Sundays when there wasn’t a case on.
John blinked. “Is that my laptop?” It was a stupid question.
Sherlock tore his eyes from the screen to give John a look that clearly reciprocated the sentiment, and then asked, “Your search history. Am I to expect a declaration of undying devotion in the near future?”
John set down his mug of tea, considering. He hardly got angry any longer at Sherlock commandeering his laptop— boundaries were something that Sherlock was still working on and, besides, there was little that John could hide from Sherlock at any rate. Sherlock could read him like anything, and did so regularly and with a gusto that could only be explained by fondness, even if the results were sometimes (or often) irritating. He was so used to Sherlock being inside his head that it didn’t occur to him to delete his browsing history after his search.
Sherlock swept further into the kitchen, his blue silk dressing gown fluttering around him, before settling into the chair opposite John and reading aloud, “’More than best friends’? ‘Nonsexual partnership? ‘Intense male friendship’?”
John grimaced. “I didn’t really know what I was looking for.” He was aware, on a peripheral level, that there was a whole culture of terminology that he was unfamiliar with. He just wasn’t sure where to start.
As if he had no real business on it but to make a point, Sherlock closed the laptop, tapping its lid with one finger. “What brought this on? Are you having a crisis of identity?”
The tone of the question was gentler than John had expected, and when he looked into Sherlock’s face, there was a genuine and un-snide curiosity there.
“No, I’m just— I’m just tired of people making assumptions. There has to be a way to explain . . . ” he gestured between them, “this that people can understand.”
Sherlock was quiet, considering. “It’s never bothered you before.”
John laughed, an incredulous bark. “Yes, it has, Sherlock.”
“Why?”
“Because . . . I don’t like people telling me what I am or am not. Or what you are, for that matter. It’s aggravating.”
“So, what? Your goal is to find a term that explains away,” he mimicked John’s earlier gesticulation, “this?”
“I thought I’d at least try,” John said. He paused. “Does that bother you?”
Sherlock sat back in his chair, looking lazy and lofty. “Frankly, I don’t care what people think. You know that.” He studied John for a moment before continuing. “But, if it bothers you, I won’t stop you from trying, and will give an opinion on whatever you come up with, if requested.”
John nodded, something like relief flooding him. “Great.” And then, because he could think of little else to say and desperately wanted to change the subject. “Toast?”
Sherlock picked up the paper that John had discarded earlier and opened it. “I used the marmalade for an experiment, but I think we still have jam.”