Chapter Text
Sherlock Holmes had a closely guarded secret.
Had a lot of closely guarded secrets, for that matter.
This one in particular, however, was especially secretive, and especially inconvenient.
So he did what any normal person would do - well, when he said normal.
He continued to collect odd body parts from the science lab and med school (Molly Hooper, poor thing, had passed over the keys the second he smiled and winked at her), and he sang in the men’s chorus, and he pretended not to stalk John Watson.
Because that would mean spilling his secret, and Sherlock would do anything to prevent that.
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John Watson had a closely guarded secret. And no, it wasn’t about Harry, because if he was being honest, everyone knew about Harry.
His secret was silly and embarrassing and actually rather serious when he thought about it, which he tried not to do because all that came of that was a bunch of existential shite and he didn’t want to deal with questioning anything about himself, thankyouverymuch.
So he did what any normal person would do.
He drove to Harry’s house at all hours of the night, and he kept up with his internship and got relatively good grades given the amount of time spent getting into a plethora of stupid situations with Greg Lestrade and Mike Stamford, and he sang in the men’s chorus, and he pretended not to stalk Sherlock Holmes.
Because that would be bad, like really bad, and John Watson was not gay.
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Then came the day where solos and duets were assigned and everything was great because as per use Anderson didn’t even get one and was told to stand in the back and mouth ‘watermelon’ the entire performance. Greg and Mike were really only there because John made them come along and suffer and also chorus was an excellent cover up for the whole Sherlock business.
Sebastian Moran and Jim Moriarty got solos, of course, thus perpetuating their competition, which seemed more often than not to involve a whole lot of flirting. John wasn’t expecting much as his voice was only a little bit upwards of mediocre, and he'd never found a suitable partner in all of his singing career - and 'career' was taking it a bit far. In all of his choir memberships, because he was a chronic shower singer and this drove his family/roommates all crazy, was more like it.
Except then his name was called for a duet and then Sherlock’s name was called and John got very, very confused and excited and confused all over again.
'Hello, John,' said Sherlock, and John nearly stopped breathing.
'Sherlock,' he choked out.
They received their assignment, which was 'Hello' by Lionel Richie, though at that moment John could not have cared less. Honestly, who gave Sherlock the right to have that voice and that hair and that body (ohgodthatbody) and that face and those cheekbones?
'...221B Baker Street,' Sherlock was saying, fixing up his scarf. He winked and John died for a minute. 'We can rehearse there.’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ John heard himself say. ‘I’ll see you there.’
He looked up and Greg was mouthing something and gesturing at Sherlock and pointing at a watchless wrist. It took him a moment to realise,
‘You haven’t told me what time yet.’
‘Meet at Angelo’s at six o’clock. We can practise afterwards.’
‘Angelo’s. Right. Six. Okay. Sounds... er, sounds good.’ John cleared his throat.
Sherlock nodded and winked again and was suddenly gone.
‘So,’ said John, turning to Greg and Mike, who were both grinning madly, ‘cat’s out of the bag now.’
‘John Watson,’ Greg said loudly, ‘you are so gay for Sherlock Holmes.’
And even John, who could be extremely persuasive sometimes, he really could, did not have it in him to argue.
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‘Smile and wink, smile and wink, people seem to like that,’ Sherlock muttered as he hurried away. ‘Idiot.’
John, beautiful stupid John Watson, had looked him in the eye and said his name and how on earth had Sherlock even managed to remain even slightly sane?
Stranger things had happened. Like mysteriously missing cadavers and - ah. Speaking of which.
Sally Donovan, who managed the lab, was striding purposefully towards him, dragging a stuttering Molly behind her (who, no doubt, had broken down immediately under the terrifying gaze of Donovan and fessed up, but he still appreciated her efforts), and declared his access to corpses and everything else necessary for research - ‘Even toenails?’ he asked somewhat forlornly. ‘Yes, even toenails,’ she spat back, ‘in fact, fingernails too,’ and Sherlock was very sad - PROHIBITED in all caps and for the moment that served as an adequate distraction.