August 2012

London, England

"What would you do if you actually got the chance to see him again?"

What would he do if he were given the chance to see him again?

John huffed. Of course, Molly meant well. She always tried to comfort people or help them restore their self-esteem and come to terms with trust issues. But he, John, did not want to be comforted. Neither did he think of himself as lacking self-esteem. It was more that he felt temporarily out of order. He felt stranded. Betrayed. No, that wasn't right. Abandoned. But he did trust. He had always trusted the madman. And now he was gone.

John felt hollow. He gulped and raised his chin, "I'm not sure – I think I'd either punch him in the face. Or – kiss him."

Good God. He had really just said that, John realized. Kiss. Sherlock. Holmes.

"No, I don't mean that-"

"It's okay, John. If that's how you feel, it's absolutely fine," Molly smiled an odd lop-sided smile, "Did you ever tell him?"

"Tell him what?"

"How you feel about him."

"There's nothing to tell. We're – we were – flatmates. That's it."

"John," how he hated that hesitant tone of hers.

"No. I'm not, no. I'm not gay. Neither was Sherlock, so, no. End of story."

"You told me you didn't know what his preferences were," Molly corrected.

John craned his neck and closed his eyes. He had told her that, yes.

"I was wrong, alright? I. He. It wasn't that obvious. He just wasn't like that."

"Like what?"

The doctor heaved an exasperated sigh, "He didn't care. You see, most people, guys, have this thing about sex. He didn't. Wasn't his cup of tea."

"So he was asexual."

"I assume," John shrugged feeling slightly uncomfortable discussing Sherlock's orientation, "Look, there was this one time we shared a bed. By mistake. I mean, Sherlock had booked the room. Double room. But he forgot to mention we were not actually a couple."

"Forgot?"

"He didn't think it mattered."

"But it did."

"Not really, no. It was okay. I've shared beds before."

"But not with an attractive bloke like Sherlock," Molly chuckled into her pint.

John pouted. The pathologist was right. But that was not the point. He didn't think of Sherlock that way. He had never drooled over the other man. Back then, he had suspected the detective was hitting on him. When they had gone to bed the first night, Sherlock had behaved almost seductively, splaying his long form on the covers and staring at him, his worn-out gown and baggy shirt baring bits of alabaster skin on his neck and shoulder. Yet he had done nothing.

Maybe he had expected him to.

"I'm not gay," John repeated and Molly nodded.