A/N: Hello! So, this week a close friend explained that therapy sessions don't actually go the way I've been portraying them. I am told that in real therapy sessions, the therapist never writes anything down, the patient does not lie supine (though in this case, my excuse is that Sherlock is lazy and cat-like and would most likely sprawl across any flat surface as a form of petty rebellion), and the therapist allows the patient to arrive at their own conclusions, rather than moving from one topic to the next as Dr. Ford has been doing. Very sorry for the inaccuracies, guys! For the sake of this story, however, I think I'll continue with the therapy format that I've been using, as it can be attributed to a particular style Dr. Ford has decided to use with Sherlock or the specific technique New Beginnings utilizes as an institution.

Anyway, just thought I would acknowledge that. Thank you and enjoy!

The Sweet Flag Flower is primarily known for its emblematic association with male same-sex love. This symbol is most famous for its appearance in Walt Whitman's homoerotic poem, "Leaves of Grass".

…

The first thing Sherlock did after reading the note was neatly fold it in half and set it down on his nightstand. He even bothered to crease the edge. After that, he sat there in his bed and stared unseeingly at the far wall for what could have been minutes or hours, his mind completely and utterly blank.

This note was important for several very obvious reasons. For one, it meant that John found him attractive. And if John found him attractive, that meant that John was not entirely straight and therefore Sherlock wasn't completely off the table. And two, it meant that his feelings were actually requited in some small way.

For a rather long time, Sherlock paced his room and debated what course of action to take next. Calling John seemed to be a viable option as it was not yet six o'clock and the phones were readily available, but that seemed a bit too bold. What would he say? What if John preferred to pretend he hadn't written it? Perhaps that was why he refused to allow Sherlock to read it in front of him—he wished for it to remain an unspoken thing between them. With a frustrated sigh, Sherlock walked back and forth across the thin brown carpet of his room, mentally mapping out every possible route the conversation could take.

A simple, straightforward line from Sherlock—Hello, John, I was just wondering, are you attracted to me?—could result in several very different replies.

For one, John might be offended and disgusted by the insinuation.

"Me? Attracted to you? Ha! What part of straight do you not understand, Sherlock? I meant 'gorgeous' in a friendly way! Bloody hell, I don't think we can meet up anymore if you're going to spend every second fantasizing about me."

Or he might try to deny it altogether.

"Huh? What note? I didn't leave you a note."

Or, worst case scenario, he might say that he meant it as a joke.

"Oh…wow, this is awkward. Um, Sherlock, I was just having a laugh, mate. Did you really think that I liked you? Because that's bloody hilarious."

None of these possibilities seemed completely in line with John's character, but Sherlock couldn't help fretting over them nonetheless. However, in the end, curiosity won out as it always did, and ten minutes later, Sherlock found himself standing in the hallway in his blue dressing gown, nervously tapping John's number into the community phone.

"Hello?"

"Hello, John," Sherlock greeted, worrying his lip. He felt like he was in some terrible limbo between excitement and anxiety.

"Sherlock!" John said happily. "How are you?"

"Fine," he managed. A beat went by and he took a breath. "I, er, I read your list."

There was a brief pause. "Did you?"

As silly as it probably looked, Sherlock couldn't help but idly wind the phone's wire around his finger like a teenager. "Yes. I just wanted to know if you, if you actually," he stopped and cleared his throat, his stomach quite suddenly filled with butterflies. "If you meant it. I wanted to know if you meant what you wrote."

"I did, wholeheartedly," John answered without hesitation. When Sherlock did not immediately reply, John paused and seemed to second-guess himself. "Er, do you mind?"

"No, of course I don't mind," Sherlock said with a surprised laugh. Why on earth would a compliment from John Watson be something he minded? If anything, he felt honored.

"Oh. Okay, good," John said and Sherlock could hear the smile in his voice.

"Thank you, John. For the compliment, I mean. I'm extremely flattered." Sherlock wished he didn't sound so stiff, but he supposed it was better than being a nervous mess and simply blurting out whatever popped into his head. He wanted desperately to keep talking to John, but he had no idea what to say. Why was talking over the phone so different than speaking in person? It wasn't that the silence between them felt awkward in any way—strangely, all interactions with John were utterly devoid of discomfort—but Sherlock was worried that if he didn't say something soon, John might get bored and end the call.

So, grasping at straws, he said, "How was your day?"

It was a plebian, pedestrian, utterly boring question, but it quickly turned out to be the best possible thing he could have said. John immediately launched into a humorous story about a man at the clinic, all remaining tension ebbed away, and the two of them spent the next hour chatting happily back and forth like old friends.

"John," Sherlock greeted warmly, stepping into the garden the next day. After the monumentally pleasing conversation they'd had the night before, he felt there was a cause for celebration, so he was wearing one of the new scarves that Mycroft sent him several weeks ago. It was a beautiful rich blue color that reminded Sherlock of John's eyes.

"Hi," John said with a small smile. His eyes were bright, but his stiff shoulders and rigid stance indicated that there was something heavy weighing on his mind.

Sure enough, the moment Sherlock sat down, John turned to him and said, "Sherlock, I need to tell you something."

Sherlock furrowed his brow and assessed John's expression. Judging by the concerned crease in his brow, the absentminded worrying of his bottom lip, and the slight jumpiness in his eyes, he was quite nervous about something. And if his inability to maintain eye contact was anything to go by, it had to do with Sherlock.

"Yes, John?" he asked in the most neutral tone he could manage.

"Okay, so, it's about last night," John said slowly, drumming his fingers absently on his knee. His whole body seemed to be a jittery, nervous mess. "The phone call."

"Yes?" Sherlock prompted.

"Well, I know it probably didn't seem this way when I was speaking, but…well," he stopped for a moment to rub a hand down his face and take a breath. "After we hung up, I started thinking about what we said and, as stupid as this is going to sound, it dawned on me that I've never really been…interested in blokes before." John tried to laugh breezily, but the sound came out too forced, so he shook his head and continued, "And, yes, I know, you'd think that this sort of thing would have occurred to me sooner, but I genuinely thought I was straight until about a month ago."

Sherlock stared at him, caught between surprise and intrigue. "What changed?"

John gave him an odd look, as if the answer was the most obvious thing in the world, but then he seemed to remember something and the look disappeared. "Right, yeah, I forget you're oblivious sometimes. It was you, Sherlock. You're what changed things. I met you and I realized that maybe, well…maybe I wasn't only interested in women after all."

"Oh," Sherlock said with his brows raised, at loss for what to say. What kind of reaction was appropriate here? Happiness at John's admission? Sadness at the clear discomfort it was causing him? Hesitantly, Sherlock asked, "Does this development upset you?"

"No!" John replied a bit too passionately. "Er, I mean, no," he amended in a much calmer tone. "I'm just feeling a bit strange right now, because part of me feels like I've known this about myself all along, but the other part is just confused as bloody hell, and I'm not quite sure which side to listen to at the moment."

"Is this a sexuality crisis?" Sherlock asked, hoping his voice wasn't relaying the borderline panic currently welling up inside him. As much as he wanted John to embark on this 'journey of self-discovery' he was terrified of where it might lead. What if John realized that he didn't actually like Sherlock? What if he decided that he was disgusted by the idea? Sherlock internally shuddered at the thought.

"No. Yes. Alright, maybe a bit," John admitted. "Um. Okay, listen, the reason I'm kind of uneasy—is that the right word? I don't know—is not because I think there is anything wrong with being queer. My sister is, in her own words, 'as gay as they come', and I've never had an issue with other people's orientations. But now that it's me, it's different. Because now I feel really confused and I...I don't know."

Sherlock took a breath as it suddenly occurred to him where this was headed. "John, if you didn't mean what you wrote or if you wish to take it back, it's fine, I promise I won't hold it against you—"

"Hey, no," John interrupted, taking Sherlock's hand. His brow was furrowed and the tense look on his face disappeared briefly, overshadowed by his desire to reassure Sherlock. "I did mean what I said, Sherlock, and I don't want to take it back. I just wrote it a bit impulsively, is all. I didn't really examine the feelings, I just blurted them out. They're still true, of course, but now that I'm analyzing this a bit deeper, I'm starting to wonder who I am. Or what I am. Does that sound silly? Probably, yes." He rubbed the back of his neck. "As I'm sure you can see, I'm not very good at articulating myself."

"No, John, I understand completely. I'm just relieved you don't regret what you said," Sherlock replied, staring down at their joined hands. "Would you like to talk about my experience with this? I doubt there is any insight I could share, but I'd be happy to try."

"Okay, um, yeah," John said with a half smile. "That might actually help. I guess I want to know, what do you identify as?"

Sherlock lifted one shoulder in an elegant shrug. "Labels bore me. Men are far more attractive to me than women, but intelligence is usually the ultimate determinant"

"I see," John said with the focus of a student listening to his professor's lecture. "Did you ever find yourself wishing you were straight? Just because of how much easier it would be?"

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "Women are not my area, John. I've never had an issue with my attraction to men, but my family certainly had their fair share of aversion to it. Aside from Mycroft, of course. He never cared."

"Your brother was okay with it?"

"Yes, he and I both understood how inconsequential it was in the grand scheme of things, so neither of us made a big deal about it."

"So then I'm guessing you didn't come out to him?"

Sherlock snorted. "That would have been pointless. My sexuality was a mutually understood fact that neither of us addressed in any significant way. He knew I wasn't interested in women in the same way he knew I wasn't interested in astrology. It was all rather unspectacular."

John sighed. "I envy that outlook; I wish I could be as blasé about all this."

"It isn't bad that you aren't, John. If anything, having this mindset puts me in the minority."

"So, your family didn't take it well?" John asked.

The moment he said this, Sherlock could see a dozen micro-expressions dash across John's face, revealing a multitude of emotions—anger, fear, sorrow, anxiety—that clearly indicated that he'd pondered this question several times throughout his life. Most likely, for Harriet's sake.

"You see, my father was a raging homophobe, so Harry had to keep her sexuality under wraps until she was old enough to move out," John explained, proving correct Sherlock's observations. "Was it a similar situation with you?"

Sherlock thought back on the narrow, dark-eyed face of Siger Holmes and a stone of dread settled in his stomach. "No, when my father found out, he merely grew cold and detached. He never physically harmed me, but that was only because he could not muster up enough passion to go through the trouble. He felt nothing for me other than vague disdain and disappointment, I'm afraid. My mother was not as cruel, but she certainly was not pleased with my 'lifestyle choice'. She never actively stopped me from seeing anyone, but she didn't support me either."

John nodded and briefly squeezed Sherlock's hand, a silent gesture of comfort. Sherlock was relieved that John was not the type of person who cringed and cooed and offered a barrage of apologies in the wake of a confession—Oh, no, that must have been awful, I'm so sorry! Sherlock appreciated that John could express a far more genuine sentiment without even speaking.

"When did you know you weren't straight?" John asked, releasing Sherlock's hand and leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. It was a position Sherlock imagined John had taken when he'd been on the bench during a rugby match all those years ago, watching the proceedings with a sharp eye and eagerly awaiting his return to the field. It was a pose of focus and gritty determination. The fact that Sherlock's words were provoking such a look meant that in some small way this was helping John regain his confidence, and the thought made Sherlock's heart sing.

"There was no particular moment when the realization dawned on me," Sherlock said. "The impulses and inclinations I felt were an undercurrent throughout my entire childhood. If you'd like to know the first time I acted on those impulses, however, I was fourteen years old and I kissed our maid's son out by the lake. When my father found out, he was so furious that he fired the maid and sent her away immediately. It was all rather unpleasant."

"But that never bothered you?" John asked. "His disapproval, I mean."

"No," Sherlock answered simply. "I'm content with myself and that is all that matters."

…

"Sherlock, you know I like you, right?" John said a bit later, still holding his hand.

"I do, now," Sherlock replied honestly. John smiled.

"Okay, good. Because I don't want you to think that what I'm about to say next has any bearing on my feelings for you." He paused. "I think I might be able to figure this out a little better if I'm by myself. I promise I won't be gone for more than a week, but I need some space. Not because of anything you did," John hastily clarified, "but because when I'm around you, I can't seem to focus on anything but how lovely you are." He smiled and squeezed Sherlock's hand. "Okay?"

Yet another week without John. Sherlock obviously wasn't pleased with this development, but if it meant giving John peace of mind, he was willing to grit his teeth and bear it.

"Okay," Sherlock agreed, returning John's small smile.

"You seem distracted, Sherlock," Dr. Ford pointed out during their session the next morning. She set her mug down and readied her pen with a sharp click. "What are you thinking of?"

"John's sexuality," Sherlock answered absently. He was busy wandering through the mazes of his mind palace, in search of any information that might shed light on the solution to this dilemma. Though John wasn't pushing him away or threatening to stop visiting forever, it still pained Sherlock to know that John was distressed about this.

"Oh?" Dr. Ford said with interest, raising a brow. "Would you care to elaborate?"

"Not really, but I suppose I don't have much of a choice." He distractedly picked at a loose string on the sofa. "John confessed that he was attracted to me and now he isn't sure what he is. Orientation-wise, I mean. According to him, he thought he was straight until quite recently. We spoke for some time yesterday about sexuality and all that rot, and it seemed to help a bit, but he still said he'd like to take the next few days to mull things over in private."

Dr. Ford nodding thoughtfully, her pen uncharacteristically still. "Do you have any thoughts on this?"

Sherlock considered the question for a moment. "Well, I'm quite certain John is bisexual, but I have no intention of flat-out telling him that. I believe it would benefit him most if he were able to arrive at this conclusion on his own."

She nodded. "And how do you feel about this situation?"

Sherlock turned his gaze to the ceiling and heaved a big sigh. "I can't help but feel guilty."

"Guilty," Dr. Ford echoed. "That's very interesting, Sherlock, would you like to tell me why?"

"I feel guilty for being the one who catalyzed this whole identity crisis," Sherlock said, drumming his fingers on the armrest of the sofa. "I just want John to be happy, and even though he made it very clear that he is far happier now that we're friends, I can't help but feel as though I've caused this mess."

Dr. Ford tilted her head and gave him a knowing look "And that's the only reason you feel guilty?"

With an annoyed glance in her direction, Sherlock begrudgingly continued, "And I suppose I feel guilty for taking pleasure in this whole situation. John is clearly lost and confused at the moment, yet I'm utterly delighted by this turn of events. I mean, obviously I'm not pleased that John is upset, but even taking joy in his attraction to me seems a bit wrong, doesn't it? "

"Is that what you're concerned about, Sherlock? Because going by what you've told me in the past, right and wrong aren't usually your priorities."

"Well, in this case, they are," Sherlock replied succinctly. "I want to treat John right."

"Why?"

"Because he matters to me," Sherlock said, stating what he felt was quite obvious.

"And why does he matter to you?"

"Because he's clever and patient and he cares about what I have to say," Sherlock stated. He moodily swatted a stray curl out of his eyes and threw an annoyed glance her way. "However, I've told you all of these things before. Why on earth are you asking so many redundant questions today?"

"I just wanted to clarify the depth of your relationship with John," Dr. Ford explained, placing her pen down on the table. "From an outsider's perspective, I think his entrance into your life has had a monumental impact on your recovery. How do you feel about that, Sherlock?"

Ah, yes, the recovery. AKA, the only reason he was here in the first place. It had been ages since she'd mentioned his drug abuse so directly; his near-overdose almost seemed like a strange dream, now.

"Dr. Ford, I haven't thought of cocaine once since the moment John and I met," Sherlock answered. He waited for that telltale pang of emptiness that always accompanied a lie, but it never came; he was telling the truth. Something in his chest felt feather-light and warm. "Why bother with something like drugs when I can have the real thing instead?"

"The real thing?" Dr. Ford questioned.

The word jumped from Sherlock's lips without a second thought. "Happiness."

"Happiness," Dr. Ford said under her breath, scribbling the word onto her notepad with a quick flick of her wrist.

He looked out the window, watching as dust motes floated along the watery rays of sunlight spilling into the room.

"All I know is that he makes me happy, Dr. Ford. Any other vice is pointless in comparison to John Watson."

"So, I talked to Harry," John said over the phone four nights later. He sounded much more relaxed than he had when they'd spoken in person, which was a good sign. "We had a long, long conversation when I visited her yesterday and it was…interesting."

"Did she tell you anything helpful?" Sherlock asked. He was sitting in the dim hallway, clutching the clunky New Beginnings phone to his ear with an iron grip. He hadn't heard John's voice in what felt like ages and it was a relief to finally speak to him again.

"Yes, actually. Um," John hesitated for a moment. "She said I'm probably bisexual."

"Probably?"

"Well, she went on for about twenty minutes about all the different sexualities I could potentially identify as, but eventually we decided on bisexual because it made the most sense."

Sherlock smiled, half because he was pleased that John had found a label he felt satisfied with, and half because his guess had been right. "I'm really glad to hear that, John."

"Christ, Sherlock, do you know how many different sexualities there are? I can't even remember half of them now, but Harry was listing them off the top of her head like it was the sodding alphabet. Hold on, let me find that slip of paper, I scribbled a few down."

Sherlock leaned back and made himself comfortable in his chair. "By all means, go on."

"Ah, here it is. Okay, so she said I could potentially identify as biromantic heterosexual, homosexual, pansexual homoromantic, etcetera. She went through about a dozen more and explained each one, before I finally settled on bisexual. Makes sense, right? I didn't think I was gay, but I definitely didn't think I was straight either."

"Well, I am very pleased that Harry was able to help clarify things, John," Sherlock said, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Do you feel a bit better now?"

"I do," John said, huffing out a relieved laugh. "God, aren't people supposed to have these realizations when they're bloody teenagers? Why did it take this long for me to figure this out? How the hell did I not realize this about myself?"

"I'm sure you were busy with other things," Sherlock replied wryly. "You know, playing rugby, getting your PHD, making women swoon on three different continents."

John groaned and Sherlock imagined he was pressing a hand to his forehead in mock-agony. "God, I really do regret telling you about that nickname."

"Three Continents Watson has an interesting ring to it, but I would definitely prefer that you remain in this continent."

John chuckled. "You don't have to worry about that, I have no intention of leaving any time soon."

"Good."

So, John was bisexual and he was attracted to men. Specifically, Sherlock. This admission raised some very pertinent questions. Did this mean John wanted to pursue something with Sherlock? Was this John's way of testing the waters and determining Sherlock's level of interest?

Sherlock was fairly certain that his fumbling compliments over the past month had been more than enough confirmation of his feelings for John, but he couldn't be certain. The last thing he wanted was for John to think that he wasn't interested in a relationship of some sort, because he was. Quite desperately, actually. He'd been so caught up in this whirlwind of John's sexuality crisis, that he hadn't bothered to stop and properly wonder to what extent John returned his feelings.

At the same time that Sherlock said, "John, If you don't my asking—" John said "Sherlock, there's something I need to say."

"Oh." Sherlock leaned back against the wall and physically (and mentally) braced himself for whatever John was about to tell him "You first."

"Okay. Well, first of all, Sherlock, I just want to apologize for keeping you in suspense for the past four days," John said with an exhale. The weight behind his words indicated that he'd rehearsed this speech several times in his mind already. Sherlock pressed the receiver tighter to his ear and waited for John to continue with bated breath. "I was confused and lost and I didn't want to lead you on in case these feelings turned out to be purely platonic." John snorted at himself and Sherlock's tense shoulders immediately relaxed. "Honestly, I don't know who the hell I was kidding when I thought there was even a single chance that I wasn't attracted to you. I mean, look at you, Sherlock. Brilliant, beautiful, exciting to be around…" John trailed off for a moment and then remembered himself and cleared his throat. "Er, but yeah, anyway, the point of all this is, I like you. A lot. More than anyone else, really. And…and I don't really know what I'd like you to do with that confession, but there it is."

Sherlock hadn't realized he was biting his thumbnail until he had to wedge it from his mouth to reply. "John, I like you too. I like you more than virtually any other human being on the planet." He mentally reviewed his words and winced. "Too strong?"

"No, it's fine. It's all fine," John replied with a warm intimacy that Sherlock had never heard before. Sherlock sat up a bit straighter, his heart thrumming inside his chest like a hummingbird.

"John?"

"Hm?"

"Is it strange that I wish we were speaking in person right now? Because I would really like to see your face. It sounds like you're smiling."

John gave a delighted hum. "Your skills of deduction never fail to amaze me, Detective."

A/N: Thanks for reading, everyone! Please let me know what you think in the comments, your feedback is food for my writer soul!

Chapter 6 will be up next weekend! I am going to ambitiously promise that there will be a new update every Sunday, so make sure to subscribe!

Much love! JLW