Pastel cream walls. Soft, white leather waiting seats. The faint scent of lavender. Lilting flute pipes drifting from speakers hidden behind silk flower arrangements. Framed, mass-produced art prints on the wall of vague watercolor, non-specific scenery; country sides and crashing ocean waves. It was so unnatural, like a magazine spread or a department store window. There was no personality, only commercial sterility, nothing human to deduce.

Sherlock's skin was crawling at it all.

Next to Sherlock, John looked positively miserable as well. He was slumped in his chair. He stared at nothing. Or, he stared at nothing in a general direction away from Sherlock.

Once, just once, Sherlock reached over the arm rest and gave John a friendly squeeze on the hand. "We're going to be alright," he assured John, although he had no idea what he was trying to say, or if it was true.

John recoiled under Sherlock's touch.

Sherlock felt betrayed. He put his hands squarely in his own lap and looked straight ahead.

After a time, John asked tensely, "Why does it have to be Ella?"

Sherlock answered coolly, "I assumed you'd be comfortable with your own therapist. You have a history."

"But she treats me for…," and here, John lowered his voice, even though they were alone in the waiting room, "…my…symptoms. My…post traumatic stress…symptoms. This is something else."

Sherlock noted the way John lowered his voice in shame. "What difference does that make?"

John said, "The other thing is private. I don't share that with you. I don't want that treatment to be interrupted." He made a gesture with his hands, as if mashing something. "I don't want the two problems to mix together."

Sherlock thought on that. Then he asked, "Well, what if the two things are related?"

John almost leapt out of his chair. He erupted, "You think I came on to you because I have PTSD?!"

Sherlock bristled at John's anger. "No. You told me why. Some stupid crap about you not being a man." Sherlock folded his arms hatefully across his chest, ducking his head down and away. "Honestly, I don't know which is worse; the fact that you…that you…did what you did…or that you're angry with me for deflecting it, despite the fact that you don't even want to have sex with me."

John huffed and shifted to face in the opposite direction. "Maybe I did."

"Oh, for God's sake. You didn't," Sherlock spat.

"For a minute. I thought I wanted to."

Sherlock curled his lip. "You loathed yourself. You thought it was dirty. You thought it was disgusting. You were paying penance." All at once, he felt himself trembling with emotion. "Fake the sex. Smile for the photos. Watch the kids grow up and then wait for me to die. That's what you were about to do."

John looked at Sherlock, surprised. "What?"

Sherlock was whipping himself into a furious froth. "You were willing to dupe me into a doomed relationship. Did it ever occur to you what might have happened if I were receptive to your advances? How many years do you suppose you could faked it before you cracked? And left? Or…or done something worse than leaving?" Sherlock lifted his chin with indignation. "First of all, I'd get dumped. Thanks for that, by the way, thank you for future-dumping me. Probably in mid-life or later, when my middle went soft and my face started to sag. Probably with a mortgage. And a baby. Or worse, a child, one that's old enough to understand being abandoned. 'Where's Papa?' 'Papa left, junior, I'm so sorry.' 'Why doesn't Papa love us anymore?' 'Because he's a heartless twat who thought having a baby would solve a problem he had with himself.' You suck, John Watson. You. Suck." He looked at John. "Not to mention the fact if you think so little of homosexuals, and you think I'm a homosexual, that means you think very little of me. So there's that, too. You…you…" He looked away again, settling down into his seat with finality. "…suck."

"Stop. Stop. Go back," John said. "Back up. That thing you said. Say it again."

"You suck and I hate you."

"No, no. About smiling for photos and waiting to die," John said. "I've heard that exact same line before. You haven't been…talking to my sister, have you?"

"Of course I've been talking to her. I did ask her to be our surrogate mother," Sherlock defended. "I've had multiple conversations with her. What of it?"

John pressed, "Something morethan just the surrogacy?"

"Maybe. Why?"

"Because she's a lunatic, Sherlock, that's why," John warned. "You have to be very, very careful around her."

Sherlock reflected on that. "I wouldn't call her a lunatic. She's…a bit strange. She tried to force-feed me pancakes, but…"

"She's more than just strange. She's a manipulative, pathological liar," John declared.

Sherlock was incredulous. "She's lovely."

"She's not," John said firmly. "And she's got a grudge against me about something. I dunno. Mum and dad split our inheritance fifty-fifty. I sided with her when she came out a lesbian and mum and dad freaked. But she's just…she's never liked me. I'm surprised you were able to convince her to do anything for me. I mean…since she stopped drinking, she's gotten better. She actually talks to me. But. I've been bitten by her lies so many times, I'm wary of her. You should be, too."

Sherlock studied John's face very carefully. "What…kind of lies?"

John said, "It's just a life time of hiding a drinking problem lends itself to telling lies compulsively, even when she doesn't have to. She makes up vicious stories about people to get sympathy. Like, before she divorced Clara, she told me that Clara was cheating on her, but really Harry was the one cheating on Clara."

Sherlock blinked in surprise. "Oh. Really?"

"Yes, really. And, before mum and dad died, she used to make up stories about how they tried to make her be straight, tried to make her date boys, and that never happened. So, don't take anything she says to heart."

Sherlock sat quiet. "If that's true, why are you happy that she's agreed to be our surrogate mother?"

John shrugged. "Well. It doesn't disqualify her, right? A bad personality isn't genetic. And…she doesn't drink anymore. So. You know. I keep in touch with her. And she's not as bad as she used to be. I'm hoping she's getting better." He thought a moment. "And, I mean, she's not going to raise the kid or anything."

Sherlock didn't respond. His heart rate was elevated. His mind was troubled. He was about to open his mouth to ask John more about Harry when the door finally opened.

Ella Thompson stepped into the waiting room. She was smiling, smartly dressed as usual, polished and glossy and pastel, just like her waiting room. "John, welcome back." Without waiting for a response, she nodded at Sherlock. "And Mr. Holmes, it's a pleasure to meet you in person, at last. Please, come in."

John sighed and stood up. "Well. Here we go. The beginning of my mid-life crisis." He walked towards Ella's office.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

Their first therapy session went nowhere.

Sherlock vowed they would return.

John just sighed and rolled his eyes.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

John was sitting in an oversized arm chair, incapable of getting comfortable. He crossed his legs, uncrossed his legs. Put his hands up on the arms, folded them in his lap, sat on his hands. "So, here's the thing."

"Mmhm."

"We want to have a baby."

"I'm sorry?"

John licked his lips. "Sherlock and I want to have a baby."

Mycroft was clearly confused. Sitting behind his desk with his arms neatly folded in front of him, fingers laced together, the elder Holmes looked completely lost. It was an expression altogether new to him, and his facial features twitched in an undignified way. He kept tweaking the direction he was holding his head, as if seeking better reception, as if tilting his face in just the right direction would encourage the neurons that clearly weren't currently communicating to fire and make sense of the noises that had just spewed from John's mouth. Finally, he spoke, "Am I to continue to assume that you two remain platonic, or…?"

John hesitated. "You may continue to assume that."

Mycroft asked, "And by 'have a baby,' you mean adoption, yes? There isn't any fantastic science fiction involved in this? Nothing where I need to intervene on behalf of the Hague or the UN?"

John spoke evenly, deliberately. Practiced. "Sherlock has purposed that my sister, Harry, function as a surrogate mother, and he will donate his sperm, and the two of them will…make a baby. In-vitro, of course. A baby that will be related to me. And Sherlock and I will raise it. Together."

Mycroft sat up straight in his chair and lifted one hand uneasily before him, seeking some intangible thing by which he could balance himself. "John."

"Yeah."

"I am alarmed and upset."

"I'm glad you're sharing your feelings with me," John encouraged blandly. "There's been a lot of that lately."

"I'm also disappointed. Um. I'm very uncomfortable at the idea of…Sherlock…he's really not fit to be a father."

John nodded slowly.

Mycroft raised a suspicious eyebrow.

John said nothing, just continued to sit quietly.

Mycroft's back went straight, his hands rose and his finger tips steepled. "Why did you come here to tell me this? Obviously, you two have managed to keep this quiet."

John said, "Of course. We suspected you might not approve. And you, with your influence and resources, could be terribly disruptive. And this means so much to us." Suddenly, John's face was awash with guilt. He glanced away briefly to gather himself and when he spoke to Mycroft again, his eyes were fixed at some distant point. "Sherlock and I would be crushed if…this didn't happen."

Mycroft's expression flickered in uncharacteristic sympathy. "John. Was this a mutual desire…or is this just Sherlock?"

"No, no. Please don't misunderstand. I really want to be a dad," John said earnestly. "I really want it, more than anything else in the world. And Sherlock really wants it, too. And it was my idea. And Sherlock has actually been very wonderful through most of this. I've seen a different side of him. He's…um." John stopped. He pursed his lips. Then he began again, "I couldn't tell him I was having second thoughts. Not now."

"John."

"He hasn't done anything wrong. He's been incredible. But if I back out now, he'll think it's a punishment, or a rejection, and I don't want him to think that. I just need some interference. Nothing permanent, just for time. Until I can sort some things out. And then, when I'm ready, Sherlock and I…if he still wants to…we can try again."

"John, you can rely on me."

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

Later, in 221b, there was dinner. And the dinner was like all the dinners from recent days; quiet, strained. But Sherlock had cooked, as he become accustomed to, and John found himself thinking; This is our new normal. We used to get take out all the time before, and now Sherlock cooks. Sherlock, who could never be bothered to pick up after himself or sanitize the kitchen or buy a loaf of bread, now does the shopping, the cleaning (some cleaning) and cooks dinner every night and I don't even have to ask. How many other things can become our new normal?

John blurted, "We haven't had a case in long while. How are we doing for money?"

Sherlock was in the kitchen, washing dishes. He paused uncomfortably at John's question. "Um," he started. "I hope you don't mind. I told Mrs. Hudson about the baby. She gave us one month of no rent as a present. Oh. And she's going to organize a surprise baby shower once Harry's pregnant, so…be sure to act surprised whenever it happens. However, because she has to keep it a secret, she has to refrain from gushing her excitement to us for a bit, so expect only a few more weeks of peace. Then all bets are off."

"Oh." John rubbed the back of his neck. "Are we behind on any other bills?"

"We're going to be stuck with just pasta for dinner until we get some cash flow."

"I could always go back to the clinic."

Sherlock said, "No. We'll take some cases. I think it will be good for us to get back in a routine."

John approached Sherlock from behind. He eyed the dish rack and a hand towel crumpled on the counter. He picked up the towel and plucked up one dripping, clean plate and began to dry it. "There's nothing routine about our lives when we have cases," John pointed out.

"You know what I mean," Sherlock said.

For a while, they just worked side by side, Sherlock washing, John drying.

John waited until Sherlock was almost done. He eyed the other man carefully, his gaze zeroing in on the back of Sherlock's neck, white skin above his shirt collar below a thick patch of curly black. Just as Sherlock was starting to rinse his hands of suds, John stepped closer, heart thudding, and kissed that spot, softly, close-mouthed and chaste, and then pulled back a fraction and held his breath, waiting, to see what kind of reaction he'd provoked.

Sherlock's skin prickled and his shoulders went stiff and he inched closer to the sink, away from John. "I've asked you not to do that," he said coolly. "I've made my feelings on this subject abundantly clear. No."

John sank back in disappointment. "I don't understand why. I'm trying."

Sherlock didn't turn around. He ran his soapy hands under the tap. "What is it about unwanted sexual advances that you think I should appreciate?"

John said, "We should be in love with each other."

With that, Sherlock did finally twist around so he could give John a judging look.

John took a deep breath and squared himself. "The parents' love for each other should be the bedrock of a family. If nothing else, it should be the foundation for a relationship. If you and me can't work, then a family with you and me definitely won't."

"Just as I thought," Sherlock huffed, finding a towel and drying his hands. "This isn't about you wanting to have sex, you want to do it because you think you should, because you feel pressure to align and conform to some kind of archetype you can recognize and identify." He threw the towel across the kitchen, just missing the other counter, but he didn't go to pick it up. "It feels safer. It's more socially acceptable to be in a gay relationship with children than to be in a sexless relationship with children."

John said, "You think I want this just so I don't have to correct people when they call you my boyfriend?"

Sherlock folded his arms. "Yes."

"Well, let me tell you something," John said. "I've been correcting people. Since the beginning. It's annoying, but it's no huge burden. I just don't want to be the last guy in the room who figures out he's gay when everyone else figured it out years ago."

Sherlock's brows furrowed. "No one thinks you're gay."

John shouted, "Everyone thinks I'm gay! Mrs. Hudson thinks I'm gay, the Daily Mail thinks I'm gay."

"No," Sherlock corrected, jutting his thumb at himself. "Everyone thinks I'm gay. And when they see us together, everyone thinks that we're gay. But no one thinks you're gay when you're alone. So, you aren't emitting some pheromone, alerting the general public that you're a homosexual. You aren't the last to know. You haven't the slightest inclination to have sex with men, and the fact that you're trying to convince me otherwise is stupid and insulting and boring. Believe me, if you were gay, I would know. I can see things, John, because seeing details and extrapolating information from what I see is what I do for a living. I'm a legend at it. So rest easy and hands off."

John shook his head and sighed.

Sherlock took a deep breath. "John. Don't stand there and wish you were gay."

"Why shouldn't I?" John said glibly. "I might be standing in front of the love of my life. And I'm standing here, the wrong sexual orientation. You won't even give me a chance." He flopped his hands at his side in helplessness. "For all I know…just one little experiment and I'll find I really do like it."

"John, I don't want to give you a chance. For one, I'm not interested. Sorry. I don't want your feelings hurt, but I just don't want to. And furthermore, I'm very happy that you are straight. So just stand there and continue to be straight."

"Why?"

"Because I'm happy with you just as you are!" Sherlock stepped forward boldly and took John by the shoulders. "And because I want you to be safe. If you're gay, then there's people out there who think you are evil. They won't want you to have contact with them or their children, or their food or their exercise bike at the gym or their books. They won't want you mingling with them. And even though it's not polite, and even though it's not socially acceptable to say so anymore, they would be happy to see you dragged behind a car by a noose around your neck, or strung up in a tree! Which, by the way, when it was polite to say such things, happened. Also, it still happens. And not just in remote parts of the world where oppression is law and there's no indoor plumbing, it happens here, in our country, and also in many other lovely western, civilized, industrialized countries where you might want to visit on holiday someday. Of course, the potential for being murdered isn't the only thing to worry about. There's also the less violent slights, the subtle bigotry, the exclusion, the jokes. And while those things may seem small and petty, it's just a chilling reminder that people still think you're different. And different is just another way of saying 'Not As Good As,' and 'Not As Good As' is one just one societal expectation away from 'Not Human,' or 'Evil.' So, don't wish you were gay. It's horrible. I don't know why anyone is proud to be gay. You'll never catch me waving a flag. 'I'm so excited to be part of a demographic that has such a disproportionately higher rate of murder and suicide!'" Sherlock shook his head. "It's stupid, John."

John said, "If I were gay, if you loved me, I would hold your hand in public and kiss you on train and let everyone see. And if someone wanted to fight me, I'd fight them."

"But you're not gay, John," Sherlock said. "And when you make advances on me, I watch your face and I see how much you hate what you're doing, how uncomfortable you are and how miserable you really feel. And I'm very fond of you, so just stay as you are. We can still mean a great deal to each other and not do those things. What do you say to that? Let's be friends, John. Very intimate, very close friends, but let's just keep sex and love out of it."

John shut his eyes. "What…if…I do love you, but I'm not gay?"

Sherlock hesitated, crestfallen. "Well. I suppose that's what the therapy is for."

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

Their second therapy session went nowhere.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

"Are you gay?" John asked on the cab ride back.

"John, I am firmly celibate." Sherlock shot him a dark look. "And please don't ask those kinds of intimate questions in mixed company." He eyed the cabbie.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

That night, John was reading up about human sexuality on the internet. At one point he looked up and asked, "When say 'celibate', do you mean 'asexual'?"

"I find these questions intrusive and disrespectful," Sherlock replied from the kitchen.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

Their third therapy session went nowhere.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

She delved into places she hadn't dared tread before. And Sherlock felt his will to resist dissolve. She asked about his mother, his father, his childhood, and he felt compelled to reply, even though he hated it. If he wanted any progress, he'd have to give in, eventually.

"You were bullied as a child?"

"Everyone is bullied as a child," Sherlock scoffed. He sat in his chair, looking at her with disinterest.

"You know what I mean. You were singled out."

Sherlock didn't answer. He didn't appreciate other people making awkward stabs at deduction.

"You were a prepubescent when the teasing and the bullying became unbearable. And you despised them. Everything they valued, you found repulsive. Their love of popular culture…"

Sherlock muttered impatiently, "I'm not a sad by-product of school yard name calling. Those years, as unpleasant as they were, don't define me in any way as an adult and it certainly doesn't have anything to do with what's happening now."

She ignored his interruption. "…and their consuming obsession with the opposite sex, which you didn't feel."

Sherlock just snorted.

"It was just another quality that set you apart from them. And it didn't bother you, that you didn't feel the same attraction to the opposite sex that your peers felt. Because those kids were obviously rushing. Obviously trying to impress each other, dabbling in something they weren't ready for, and then you watched, gleefully, as it wrecked havoc on their lives, as they suffered, as they went through break ups, embarrassments, fights. A few pregnancies, even. It ruined them, really. Lives and minds full of promise, stalled now. Probably ruined forever. And everyone, even the adults who offered you shelter, said you'd understand 'one day.' But you didn't want to understand. You were better than that. Above that."

Sherlock didn't respond in any way. He remained still, his mouth a frown.

"In fact, you had a theory: The longer you could delay sex in your own life, the better you would become. After all, monks and scholars had discovered the same thing, which is why they took vows of celibacy. They redirected the energy otherwise wasted on vestigial, sexual impulses into more meaningful pursuits, like science and philosophy."

Something flickered in Sherlock's expression; his brows drew closer, his mouth twitched.

"Without your concentration clouded by impurity, you could remained focused on developing your mind, which you did, for years. Even now, you don't feel like you've reached your maximum potential. Maybe you never will. Maybe there's no limit to what you can achieve."

Sherlock's head slowly turned, fully engaged, with an expression of surprise.

"As an adult, you concluded it wasn't the delay of sexual activity that contributed to your superiority. There would never come a time when you were ready for sex, when your fully developed brain would be able to balance sex and control. It was complete absence of sex in your life that gave you power. The self control you exerted provided you balance, discipline, faith and strength. Why would you ever give that up? It's been the most liberating, empowering force in your life. You feel true to yourself. You feel ten feet tall. You've never had to compromise this vision. Celibacy is a part of you. A defining part of your identity. It doesn't matter if no one else understands."

Sherlock exhaled audibly in disbelief, "Yes. That's…that's right." He couldn't believe anyone else had made the logical jump. He leaned forward, stunned. "That's exactly right!"

Harry just smiled.

Sherlock exclaimed gleefully, "Harry, you're brilliant! Or a witch! You've done in twenty minutes what our therapist hasn't been able to do in two sessions and I haven't been able to do in my whole life; put into words what I feel."

"I should charge by the hour," Harry mused. "Harry's Living Room Life Advice."

"Name your price," Sherlock said breathlessly.

Harry smirked wryly at that. "Actually. There is something I want. But I don't know how open you'd be open to it."

"Name it. Anything."

She looked directly at him, hopeful and smiling. "I want…visitation."

Sherlock cocked his head. "Of the baby? Of course." He smiled broadly. "Like I would want to keep you away!"

Harry looked away wistfully. "I'm really not…ready to be a mom. It's not for me. I do want to look into my own kids eyes and have him or her look back at me and call me 'Mummy.' I think that's fair. Maybe a few weekends a month? An extended vacation now and again?"

Sherlock hesitated. "That sounds more like partial custody than visitation."

"Well, whatever you want to call it." Harry's voice was pure sugar and honey. "You wouldn't mind, would you?"

To be continued…