atikiology:

a-candle-for-sherlock:

skulls-and-tea:

atikiology:

i live for the day rosie learns what the word gay means and she proceeds to aks john “dad is sherlock gay?” and john goes into this fucking endless spluttering explanation about how sherlock is a very complicated person and we just. we just don’t know. we can’t be sure. one time a woman sent him 57 text messages so probably not. and the next time they’re over at 221B rosie looks up from sherlock’s picture book about poisonous plant she’s studying with her plush bumblebee, gives sherlock a look and asks “are you gay, sherlock?” and sherlock, without missing a beat, just says “yes” and continues drinking his tea and rosie says “ah” and goes back to her plant book and john nearly doubles over in the corner like SAkfjalsöölsakdjflsdjEFpsflksdjfslfjsfk

i can’t breathe

He should have been more alert for danger, after the unnatural peace of the last hour. Rosie’s been lying on her belly in the corner with a book, the late afternoon sun’s been pouring in through the windows, warming the room, and Sherlock’s stayed draped in his chair with his laptop and a lapful of periodicals, typing in little bursts between consulting several copies of Elle and an almanac. (”What in the world are you doing?” “Writing up a comparative chronology of several years’ astrological predictions and the placebo effect on readers’ self-perceptions, as aligned with recorded lunar phases.” ”Oh.”)

The kettle’s clicked off in the kitchen, and he’s found chocolate biscuits in the upper corner cupboard and poured out their tea, humming under his breath (Beach Boys, he realizes later; his dad had played their records on slow Saturdays like this); has just settled down with a steaming cup and a novel when Rosie looks up and says, “Sherlock, are you gay?”

He jerks; nearly spills the tea. A cold flood of pure adrenaline pours through him, ebbing just in time for him to clearly hear Sherlock’s vague, distracted, “Yes,” followed by the rustle of a page turning. A little “hmph” as Sherlock readjusts his bum in the chair.

“Ah.” Rosie’s still lying nearly nose-against-the-page, studying the pictures, Sherlock’s still typing, the room is entirely silent and John appears to be the only one in it having trouble breathing. She’d just–asked, and Sherlock had just answered. Why hadn’t Sherlock ever said before–why had it seemed so impossible to just say that he was wondering (“Goddamn queers,” says his dad’s voice in his mind, “Never going to let a daughter of mine go gay, Harriet”)–

“John,” says Sherlock, and John uncurls his fists deliberately, takes a breath, and then another, and looks up at last to find Sherlock’s gaze on him, full of concern.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” John hisses, well aware of Rosie’s raised head and questioning eyes.

“Why does it matter?” and John wants to weep, or shout, or laugh.

“I just–wanted to know. Things. About you. It matters because it’s you. It’s us.”

“Oh.” Sherlock blinks a little, and says, “I’m gay, John. I apologize for not mentioning,” and he sounds so sincere that John laughs again and feels the pressure of certain ideas grow stronger in his chest.

“All right. Well. I’m. I’m bisexual, I believe. If it matters,” he says, very aware of the strain in his voice, and then the room grows perfectly quiet again, and it’s about three minutes before Sherlock says,

“Thank you. It matters.”

And an hour or so later, when Rosie’s taken herself off downstairs to help sort out Mrs. Hudson’s windowsill garden, and John’s in the kitchen doing the washing up, there’s a step behind him and Sherlock’s voice saying again, “It does matter, John,” and John turns around and finds Sherlock staring at him. “Why didn’t you say?”

Oh, but he isn’t ready for this. “I didn’t like to think about it.”

“Why not?”

“Can’t you deduce it?”

“Not this, John.” The trouble in Sherlock’s tone is palpable. “The human mind is complex. Motivations for crime tend to be simple, selfish. Instinctive. Pride, anger, need. Motivation in the personal arena is much harder to accurately divine.”

“Think you’ve just hit the nail on the head, actually.” John wipes his suds-damp palms on his shirt, smooths out the hem. “Pride–didn’t like to just volunteer something like that. It’s pretty personal. Anger–I didn’t always like that about myself. I didn’t want to name it.” He sighs. “Need, because I needed a bit of privacy. If I’d admitted I wasn’t only straight, you’d have started to wonder who I was interested in besides all those boring girls.” A rising heat in his face. He looks down.

Silence. Then, “Who else, John? Besides the girls?”

“Seriously?” He tries a smile, gives it up in the face of Sherlock’s earnestness. “James Sholto, for one. Took me long enough to figure that out, but there was something. Think Sean Connery does something for me, too.” He attempts another smile.

“John. Please.”

“All right. Yes. And you. I was interested in you.”

Sherlock lets go a long breath; shakes his head; rubs both hands over his face, then scrubs them through his hair. “Why not say?”

“Sherlock, you told me–Married to your work, you said, and flattered, but–And people kept pointing it out, and you’d just keep quiet, and I didn’t want to admit to myself–” He’s having trouble speaking clearly. “I didn’t say because I’d have lost you, Sherlock! I’d have been out the door on my tail! Nobody wants to hear about their best mate’s awkward feelings. And then you were dead, and then you weren’t, but I was getting married, and–Oh,” because now he’s near tears; that part’s too much to talk about, the memory of his confusion and despair when even a proper marriage and all the safety in the world couldn’t make him forget what he was missing, couldn’t give him home.

“Oh,” Sherlock echoes, in a whisper, and then he’s stepping across the space between them, nearer than he’s been in ages, and his eyes are wide and fixed on John’s and shining strangely.

He waits a minute, while John takes deep breaths and fights with too many feelings at once, but just as he’s managed to get them mostly wrestled into place Sherlock reaches out and touches his hand; takes it into his large, warm one, watching him.

“And now?”

“Now?”

“You aren’t married now,” Sherlock says, unsteadily, “and you’re here now, and you said, you said before, you wanted–but you didn’t say about now.”

“Yes, about now. Yes, I do. Still,” and his heart is hammering, and Sherlock’s starting to smile.

“Good,” a bit breathlessly. “Me too. Still.”

“Still? Oh, God, you bastard–you never said–You liked me?”

“I loved you, John,” he says. “I love you.”

Half an hour later, Rosie comes bursting into the flat and surprises them sitting tangle-legged on the sofa, John’s head on Sherlock’s chest, Sherlock’s arms wrapped tight around him. Rosie stops short. “Did you kiss?”

“Yes, baby.” He’d have thought he’d be panicking about now. His heart is beating quicker, but it’s surprisingly hard to panic properly being held like this. “Is that okay?”

She nods soberly. “I know about being gay. It’s all that kissing and people in love.”

“Yes, exactly, Rosamund,” says Sherlock.

OH MY GOD