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“What’s wrong, Sherlock?”
The lump of detective on the couch did not respond.
Twenty minutes ago, Sherlock had slammed open the door, shed off his coat, tossed it onto the floor, and then flopped onto the couch, curling his gangly, long limbs up into himself so he was merely a Sherlock-shaped lump taking up half of the couch.
John had ignored it. This was a normal occurrence.
Usually, by now, however, Sherlock had rolled off the couch and sunk down between John’s legs to silently request John’s hand through his hair as he rubbed his cheek against John’s knee, or maybe sat down in John’s lap, legs hanging over the edge of the chair, as John whispered, “What’s wrong?” against Sherlock’s lips and then kissed him.
Which is why it was odd that the lump on the couch was still there.
John waited for a few more seconds. Sherlock’s toe twitched, but other than that, he didn’t do anything else to reply to John’s question. With a sigh and a grunt, John stood up, flopping down to the empty half of the couch, and Sherlock rolled over, placing his head in John’s lap and elongating, his legs propped up onto the arm of the couch. John could see the pout on Sherlock’s face.
“What happened?” John said, softly, leaning down and kissing Sherlock’s temple, his fingers tucking a strand of curly hair behind Sherlock’s ear delicately. When Sherlock came home like this, it was usually easily fixed by Sherlock shouting of boredom or telling John to leave him alone, he’s going into his mind palace, but there had never been silence. Sherlock often pouted, but it wasn’t like him to not respond. He always had the last word; he always had something to say. It was unnerving to think that he suddenly just didn’t.
Sherlock stayed silent for a long while before rolling over, throwing an arm over his eyes. The pout was still plastered on his face, and John imagined kissing it before he placed his hand over Sherlock’s chest comfortingly.
“Do I seem straight to you, John?” Sherlock asked finally, a whimsical and yet despaired tone in his voice.
John had raised his brows at the question and kept them raised for a while before blinking a lot and furrowing them in confusion. “Sorry—what? Is that what this is about?” John asked, a slight bit of amusement edging into his voice.
Sherlock threw his arm off of his eyes and stared up at John, a brow quirked at him as though he thought it was strange that John wasn’t as upset as he was. “Yes, John,” he said. His voice rang of ‘obviously’ that gave John a touch of an annoyed headache, but it wore off within a few seconds.
“You don’t seem straight to me, but I have seen you in every position imaginable so it sort of—gives away the mystery,” John said, laughing.
Sherlock shot him an irritated glare.
“Sorry,” John sighed under his breath, and he patted Sherlock’s chest before rubbing his plushy stomach fondly.
“I thought I was doing well, John,” Sherlock said, looking up at the ceiling. His hand rested over the top of John’s, and John stopped rubbing his stomach before Sherlock drummed his fingers over John’s hand, which John knew to mean, ‘Keep going.’ “I wear product in my hair, I wear scarves, I dress fashionably, I keep up with trends within the gay community—for God’s sake, have you heard how I speak?” Sherlock grumbled.
John hummed in response. “Yeah, I have, you have a very sexy voice,” John purred, leaning down to kiss Sherlock’s jaw, and Sherlock closed his eyes, sighing pleasantly.
“I only mean that this should not be happening to me.”
“Is it really that big of a deal?” John asked, a whisper against Sherlock’s neck.
He knew he messed up by the way that Sherlock jerked away from him, staring at him like he was crazy. “Yes, it is a big deal!” Sherlock exclaimed, propping himself up slightly. “I do not want people, certainly not women, thinking that I’m—straight.”
John laughed, shaking his head. “I don’t think you’re straight. No one at the Yard does. Certainly not Mrs. Hudson, nor your parents or Mycroft. What’s the big deal if strangers don’t know?”
“It just is,” Sherlock grumbled, flopping his head back down onto John’s lap, and John rubbed up and down his chest and stomach again. “I was interviewing a witness, talking about how his wife nagged him all the time, and he patted my shoulder—my shoulder, John—and he said, ‘You know how women are, yeah?’” Sherlock scoffed. “As if.”
John giggled, shaking his head. “I’m sorry, love. I don’t know what you could do to make it more obvious,” John said, mostly just wanting to tease him. “You have the scarves, the two hundred pound shoes, and you use practically an entire thing of hair product every day.”
“Perhaps I could simply make an announcement anytime I go out,” Sherlock murmured thoughtfully, idealistically.
“Perhaps you could have an identification badge,” John suggested. “One of those ‘Hello, my name is’ stickers to put on your clothes, and you could write ‘gay’ in sharpie.”
“Now you’re just being ridiculous,” Sherlock said, rolling his eyes.
John laughed, leaning down and pressing his lips comfortingly to Sherlock’s, and they pulled away with a ‘pop!’ that made Sherlock smile.
Sherlock still looked thoughtful, enjoying John’s fingers through his hair. “I could suck you off in public,” Sherlock said.
John made a slight hum of ‘That could work’ and Sherlock hit his chest.
“That was meant to be a joke,” Sherlock said.
John laughed. “Well, it really depends on how badly you want to prove to people you’re gay,” John said, and he winked. “I wouldn’t be opposed.”
“No, you wouldn’t, would you,” Sherlock murmured, rolling his eyes again, and he scoffed laughter, his face crinkling into a goofy smile.
John laughed and leaned down, kissing his lips and then peppering kisses along his jawline, saying, ‘Mwah, mwah,’ with each one as Sherlock began to laugh, pushing him away playfully. The hands that once rubbed Sherlock’s stomach now tickled him, quickly and teasingly tickling along his sides until Sherlock giggled, curling his knees up and struggling to push John’s hands away. John giggled too, kissing up and down his neck. “Want to prove to me how gay you are?” John asked.
“Oh, shut up,” Sherlock said.
“To the bedroom?”
“To the bedroom.”