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Janine emerged from Sherlock’s bedroom wearing his shirt and followed him into the bathroom. The shower started.
John stood in the kitchen, baffled and—he realised, to his horror—livid. It was the tactlessness, obviously. Sherlock never brought women home, then chose one of Mary’s friends? John attacked the washing-up with unnecessary force.
Sherlock came in, dressed and composed.
“So. You and Janine are seeing each other?”
“Isn’t it obvious?”
Janine appeared, kissed Sherlock on the mouth, waved to John, and left. The door clicked shut.
John criticised the experiments, the mess, the milk, Sherlock’s clothes and the violin. Sherlock endured ten minutes.
“You were uncomfortable with my being gay, and now you’re upset that I’m not? Do kindly make up your mind and come out of the closet.”
John swung at him. Sherlock dodged—proficient pugilist, smug bastard—but John caught his arm. They grappled, twisted, and somehow John had Sherlock against the wall and was snogging him senseless.
His hands fumbled frantically at Sherlock’s clothes. “Why couldn’t you have done this before I got married?”
Sherlock seized his face. “Move back in. We’ll figure it out.”
“Yes,” John breathed, dragging him to the floor.
They undid buckles and pulled down trousers. John licked, sucked, opened and entered him, choosing Sherlock at last, too late and yet exactly in time.