John walks.

John often does his best thinking while walking alone, nothing to distract him. He walks sometimes to work out how to write up a case for his blog.

The thing is, he doesn't want to think right now.

But he really doesn't want to go back to the flat, either. He walks in the direction of the store, and tries to silence his brain.

I don't. I can't. He's sort of succeeding -- he hasn't so much been having coherent thoughts, for the past several blocks. Mostly just panicking.

I didn't. Did I? Did he really think that about Sherlock? Think ... that?

I didn't mean to. For all the good that does.

I like women. I really like women. He remembers pressing his lips against soft mouths, running his fingers along the curves of breasts and hips, feeling bodies quiver beneath him as he slides his tongue between their legs. Yes, he likes women. He's getting aroused again. It's a relief -- a confirmation of his identity and sanity -- even if he is out in public.

So maybe it was just a fluke. Before. He tries to keep thinking about women, but now he's remembering before, and he's imagining his lips on Sherlock. Twining his fingers through Sherlock's hair as they kiss --

No. No, he is not going to think about it. That's a mistake.

His lips tracing Sherlock's jaw, neck, chest, the line of hair running down his lower belly --

No. I can make this go away. I'll just do normal things. I'll get milk. And I won't think about it any more.

Sherlock on top of him, growling "John" commandingly in his ear, and pressing his erection against --

No!

He feels a flush creeping up his face and down his body. His cock is achingly hard.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Bugger.

He walks half a mile past the store before he notices where he is.

* * *

That night, Sherlock is out again, and John and Harry are having coffee.

"God, I could use a pint," John sighs, then winces. "Sorry, not thinking."

"No worries. I wish I had something with alcohol, too." Harry grins. "Thanks for keeping me company with the coffee, though."

John nods. "Of course. Happy to."

Harry's look grows calculating. "So... Rough week, then?"

John closes his eyes. "I don't want to talk about it." Especially not sober.

Harry smirks -- John can hear it in her voice without even looking. "Why, did you think more about our conversation? Did you think about kissing Sherlock?"

"Harry." He tries to firmly indicate that he is not interested in pursuing this line of questioning.

"Oh my God!" She claps her hands together with excitement. "You thought about it, didn't you?"

John doesn't say anything, keeps his eyes firmly shut. Maybe if he ignores her, she'll leave him alone. There's a first time for everything.

"Did you like it?"

John still doesn't answer.

"You did! You liked it. Otherwise you'd deny it." She sounds positively gleeful. He opens his eyes to glare at her. John thinks it's wrong for his sister to get so much joy out of the idea of him thinking about kissing someone. She's always taken a delight in teasing him about his dates and crushes, though. (The first time was Em Richardson, back in second form.) Not that this is. A crush. No.

"No. Not exactly," he says.

"You didn't exactly like it? But you thought about it? Did you think about it a lot?"

John's blush is enough of an answer, and goddammit, when did he stop having any semblance of control over his body? "I really don't want to talk about it."

"Why not?"

"I just don't."

"Oh, come off it, John. You can talk to me about being attracted to a bloke. I've dealt with coming out more than a bit, and with denial."

He frowns. "You think that's what's going on? I'm hung up just because he's a bloke?"

Harry's grin slips, and her brow furrows a little. "Aren't you?"

"No."

"So you're not afraid of being attracted to a man?"

"No." He pauses. "Maybe. A little."

She nods, like she knew it all along. Then she tilts her head. "Why are you afraid?"

He sighs. "I don't know. It's not... something I was expecting."

"What were you expecting? A wife and 2.5 kids?"

"Well, yeah. Something like that."

Harry considers this. "And would your wife and kids be okay with you running off into dangerous situations all the time? Almost getting yourself killed?"

"I wouldn't --"

"You do. All the time. Who'd go along with that?"

He sighs. "I don't know."

"Sherlock would."

"But," he protests weakly.

"But what, John? He's a man? Get over it," she says, with all the patience of a lesbian who came out nearly two decades ago.

John sets his mug down, giving himself a moment to think. "Even if that were something I wanted," he says carefully, "and I'm not saying it is. But. Even if it were. It wouldn't... it wouldn't do any good."

"Why not?"

He looks down at his hands, because there are some words he physically cannot say when looking at his sister. "Harry, what makes you think Sherlock has any interest in... dating … me?" Correction: he can't say shagging to his sister at all. He has no idea how she does it.

She looks at him quizzically. "You mean he's not gay?"

"What made you think he was?"

"Well, he hasn't looked at me once, for one thing."

"Oho, you've got quite the opinion of yourself, don't you!" John laughs.

Harry wrinkles her nose at him. "Laugh if you want, but most blokes do look. All your friends have -- even the ones who knew I was gay."

"Ugh," says John. He doesn't want to think about his mates checking out his sister.

"Anyway, it's not just me he hasn't checked out. He didn't look once at that cute server in the restaurant we went to -- the one who was almost popping out of her blouse." John remembers her. He'd enjoyed the view but had tried not to flirt, since he didn't want to be twitted by Harry about it. "I figured since he doesn't like women, and he seems to enjoy keeping you on a tight leash, you'd be all set."

"Oh, well, that's just brilliant," John says, throwing up his hands theatrically. "Great detective work, there."

Harry sighs. "All right. Please enlighten me -- what have I missed?"

"I don't know if Sherlock is attracted to men, or to almost anyone. I used to think he was probably asexual, but he was interested in a woman, once."

"Oh, really?" Harry's eyebrows shoot up. "Fascinating. I never would have suspected!"

"Yeah, it was odd." John rubs his forehead. "But I don't think he slept with her. I don't even know if they kissed."

"Hm," Harry sounds intrigued. And not at all like she's giving up. "Okay, this is more complicated than I thought. I have to admit, I thought it was just a matter of getting you to want him, and then everything would work out."

"Why would you think that?"

"Well, you're both guys. Guys generally want to shag anything that's fit and the right gender. Don't roll your eyes at me -- it's true."

John snorts. "Bit of an oversimplification, I think. But even if it were true, Sherlock's different. Sherlock doesn't have sex, and he doesn't do relationships--"

"Bullshit," Harry interrupts.

"Sorry, what?"

"You two are so coupley. You already have a relationship. That's why I was trying to get you to shag."

John shakes his head. "I don't know why everyone always thinks that."

"That's because you don't see yourself with him."

He sighs. "Be that as it may. Even if... even if I wanted that, I don't think Sherlock is up for it."

"But..." Harry frowns. "But everyone likes sex, don't they?"

"Not everybody. And not Sherlock. He doesn't eat, or sleep, or shag."

"Yeah, I'm very aware of the not sleeping. There's nothing like trying to kip on the sofa during violin performances. Or frighteningly smelly experiments in the kitchen."

"Sorry." John grimaces. "We can get you a blindfold and some earplugs.... and noseplugs, maybe."

Harry waves this away. "Beggars can't be choosers," she says cheerfully. "I don't mind much, honestly. But back to the topic at hand. What you said -- it isn't entirely true, is it?"

"Hm?"

"Well, he does eat, and sleep, chiefly after a case, right?"

"Yes -- he stuffs himself with takeaway and then sleeps for 15 hours straight, often enough... Oh." John's eyes widen as he imagines Sherlock going on a similar binge in bed. With him. He shifts uncomfortably as he feels his cock stiffen, grateful that his jeans are confining him and making it difficult to develop too obvious a bulge. This is not a line of thought he wants to follow with his sister present.

"So he's not entirely inhuman," Harry muses. "All you have to do is seduce him after he finishes a case."

"Oh, is that all," John says irritably. "Look, I think it would be easiest -- and best -- if I just don't think about this anymore."

Harry's eyes hold a surprising amount of sympathy. "Yeah, good luck with that."

John is saved from replying by a text from Sherlock, summoning him to the scene of a crime involving artificial kneecaps and a great deal of blood. It's enough to divert his thoughts, at least briefly.

* * *

For over a week, John tries to not think about any of it. He tries not to look at Sherlock's eyes or mouth. He tries not to let his breath hitch when Sherlock touches him -- which he does a startling amount, now that John notices it. He tries not to think about Sherlock shoving him back against the worktop, biting his neck. Or pushing him to his knees in an alleyway and unzipping his fly. John spends a lot of time furiously not thinking about any such scenarios.

John is momentarily distracted from these thoughts whenever he is chasing someone, or being chased, or shooting at someone, or being shot at, or punching and wrestling with someone (except when that person is Sherlock). And granted, such activities do take up a significant portion of his time. But for the most part, John is a wreck.

Fortunately, Sherlock doesn't seem to notice. He is, perhaps, himself distracted by the kneecap case, which remains a puzzle even as they successfully solve other crimes. Sherlock also keeps himself -- and the kitchen -- occupied with some rather alarming experiments, while John occupies himself with trying not to stare at Sherlock.

In the service of one of his experiments, Sherlock eventually departs to acquire some fresh bits of corpses from Bart's. John groans and collapses into his armchair. Harry is already making up the sofa for the night.

"Harry, distract me, please," John begs. "Tell me something good. Anything."

"I visited Simon -- d'you remember him? My old coach?" -- John nods -- "and he had a lead on a job at the place where he works," she offers. "And we had a good talk. I apologized for being a twat last time we spoke. It went well."

"That's great news! Good for you," John says. "What job?"

"Thanks," Harry smiles. "It's just a temp job -- typing and filing and such -- and it won't start for a couple weeks yet, but I think it would be a good place to start. I certainly can't be a bartender again." She shrugs wryly.

"That sounds terrific. Really! Congrats."

"Cheers." She eyes his dejected slouch. "So, ignoring Sherlock not going so well, then?"

John buries his face in his hands. "No, really not."

"I'm sorry, John. I'm sorry I got you thinking about it."

"Yeah, me too."

"Well, I'll just have to help you get past this."

He looks up, hopeful. "Oh? Do you really think I can find a way to stop thinking about him like this?"

Harry laughs. "Silly brother. No, I'm going to help you figure out how to get into his pants. If that's what you want, that is."

John hesitates, then surrenders. "God help me, yes, I do."