Author's Note: This can be read alone or as a companion piece with "A Place for Quiet Conversations." This story picks up immediately after that fic leaves off. Both stories share a similar theme, about Sherlock coming out, but this is slightly darker. After Sherlock comes out, John thinks he's happy for his flat mate until he starts struggling with unexpected feelings of homophobia. Sherlock's trust is shattered when John breaks his promise to accept him unconditionally.

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The restaurant was long closed. Sherlock and John's plates were scrapped clean, the bottle of wine on the table was mostly finished, their glasses empty now. They were surrounded by deserted tables and the whole of London existed for them alone.

They had talked for a long time before they got on the subject of Harry coming out as a lesbian and John's story about reconciling his feelings for his sister. How, ultimately, he loved his sister and while he didn't agree with her life choices, especially her drinking, the fact that she was gay never entered into it. He spoke plainly about separating his perception of her unhealthy habits and her sexuality. He spoke about his prejudice, about his unconditional love, about his parent's disowning of Harry and about how John stuck by Harry even though he questioned it. He spoke his brotherly duties and the failure of his parents to love their daughter. He spoke of hope for the future, hope that Clara and Harry would work it all out somehow and it was never too late for love. John was…a little drunk.

And all the while, Sherlock was frozen by the beauty and goodness and magnificence and glory of John Watson. He wanted to scream. He wanted to tell John all about how things fell apart between him and Mycroft, how his situation had nearly been identical to Harry's. Except instead of drinking and partying, Sherlock developed a drug habit and dropped out of school. When Sherlock had sought reassurance from his brother upon realizing his orientation, Mycroft threw it all back in his face and the life-long sibling rivalry deteriorated into something darker and more hateful. "If mother finds out about just one boy," Mycroft had seethed, "I'm going to make sure she knows every detail about your cocaine habit. Don't you dare ruin our family by making your vulgar fetishes public." At the time, even Sherlock wasn't aware Mycroft had some vulgar fetishes of his own, which made the betrayal all the more hurtful. Mycroft got it all wrong, wrong, wrong, John had gotten it all right, right, right!

Sherlock wanted to tell John that he was the patron saint of closeted homosexual siblings, that Harry could never know how lucky she was to have John as a brother and that, most of all, John Watson was the most incredible man on earth.

Before he realized it, Sherlock realized he was actually saying it:

"I wish you were my brother. I wish I knew you my whole life. I wish you were around when I had difficult, frightening times so I could run into your room and spill my guts to you and listen while you say something spectacular and effortless and know in my heart you have my back. Because that's all I would ever need. I could do anything if you loved me. I could tell my mother and father how it really is. I could carry my head up high, tell every rotten kid who called me a freak that I'm not ashamed and mean it. Because I wouldn't be a freak. I wouldn't be a freak if I could just be myself for a minute. I bet I could laugh like this all the time if you were my brother. I bet it would always feel as good as it does right now."

Spectacular and effortless were not words usually attributed by Sherlock to other people. And John was not accustomed to hearing Sherlock praise or compliment him in any way. Love, also, was not a polite word a man used towards another man, but Sherlock chose the word deliberately and said it with dignity and confidence. Because it was now or never. Someone had to know.

John face was pure shock. He wasn't stupid. He knew exactly what Sherlock meant.

Sherlock held his breath. He needed some sign from John or else he would break down. He couldn't believe he had gotten out as much as he had.

John offered, slowly, "You know. I don't have to be your brother to keep your confidence. You can tell me anything."

Sherlock still didn't breathe. Oh my God. It's all going to be okay.

John added, "Anything."

Sherlock exhaled loudly again.

John waited.

Destiny was also not a word Sherlock used. Ever. No matter how perfect this moment felt, he knew in the back of his mind that he was more than a little drunk and John was more than a little drunk. A drunken confession was not what he wanted. And it left open the possibility that John might not remember in the morning, or pretend he didn't remember.

Sherlock lost his nerve and didn't say it then.

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Instead, Sherlock nudged John awake at three in the morning.

John rubbed his eyes drowsily. "Hmm?" He had fallen asleep in the arm chair. He never even toed his shoes off. His coat was half-on. Looking around the dark flat, John could see they left their front door open. They must have been pretty drunk when they came home. His head still buzzed a bit.

"I'm ready to talk."

In the dark, Sherlock was just a faint outline; shoulders, hair.

John blinked uncomprehendingly. When realization hit him, he sat up. "I'll get up," he muttered. "Have you slept yet?"

"No." Sherlock was sitting on the sofa, knees drawn up to his chest.

"I'll put coffee on." When John returned to his chair, he had two steaming mugs. He silently offered one to Sherlock.

Sherlock's white hands reached out, his translucent skin catching the soft glow of the street lights filtering in from the windows and the dim kitchen light over the sink–the only sources of light in the flat. John couldn't tell Sherlock's hands were shaking until his fingers curled around the mug and the coffee within quivered and sloshed audibly. Sherlock brought the coffee carefully to his lips and sipped greedily, seeking comfort and distraction in the heat. By now, John's eyes had adjusted to the darkness and he watched Sherlock's haggard face relax as he drank.

John waited, not sure of what to expect, knowing exactly what to expect. He didn't want to speak; this was Sherlock's time to speak. Yet Sherlock's shaking hands troubled John a great deal. "Are you alright?" he asked.

The question roused Sherlock from his stupor. "Yes." He set his coffee down on the table, but his hands continued to fidget.

"Take your time," John encouraged, feeling very brotherly and supportive. This talk was a long time coming. He felt honored.

Sherlock's fingers unconsciously twisted in his night robe, pulling the material into knots. "You already know what I'm going to say. You deduced it already." He said it with a kind of disappointment and hopeless disgust, as if deductions ought to only be directed at commoners, criminals and strangers guilty of anything, and now Sherlock was somehow lumped in with the rest of them, dull and predictable and drained of importance. Sex made people ordinary.

"I haven't the faintest idea what you're going to say," John lied innocently.

Sherlock shot John an angry glare, but his fiery temper quickly fizzled out from embarrassment. "I've always tried to be mindful of my behavior. Am I… effeminate?"

John almost laughed and quickly felt bad about it. "God, no. What are you talking about?" Really, it wasn't the suggestion that Sherlock was effeminate that was ridiculous, but that he was mindful of his behavior. When, exactly, was he mindful? When he was an effacing, condescending snot or when he left deteriorating body parts in the crisper?

"Don't play dumb," Sherlock said sternly, his hands twisting in a nervous fit in his robe, the material beginning to tear only he didn't seem to notice. "Tell me the truth, no matter how harsh, but don't treat me like an idiot..."

John reached out for Sherlock's shaking hands, putting his own over his friend's to still them, to hold them. He couldn't stand to watch them writhe in fear anymore. There was nothing to fear. He was ashamed that Sherlock thought he had any reason to hide. John questioned himself, wondering if he had ever said anything derogatory or dismissive. Maybe he'd been too curt on one of those occasions they'd been mistaken as a couple.

Sherlock's eyes went wide when John gripped his hand. His carefully chosen words stumbled to a halt.

He just stared and John's hands, covering his.

Sherlock looked mesmerized. Then his whole body shuddered in the effort to keep his emotions controlled. He very nearly lost his composure right then and there.

John squeezed his hand until he got it back.

And that's when Sherlock said it; "I'm gay."

John kept his hands in Sherlock's, squeezing still.

Sherlock added, his voice beginning to waver, "And I've never told anyone until now."

He didn't count Mycroft. Mycroft hadn't allowed Sherlock to finish. God, no, that was not the memory Sherlock wanted to be confronted with at this vulnerable moment. Oh God. Oh God, please make that hateful memory go away. John, please say something. Please say something spectacular and effortless like only you can.

And it was so surreal. To watch Sherlock Holmes, usually so elegant and superior, look so raw and vulnerable and say something so personal, reveal something that had been secret for so long, and then punctuate it with the heart breaking, unspoken question that was the real heart of the matter; Do you still like me? Are we still friends?

Since John knew that silent understandings are no substitutes for truth, he answered Sherlock's unspoken question with a spoken, direct answer; "You're my best mate and I'm glad you told me this."

Sherlock was blown away.

Spectacular. Effortless.

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The thing about Sherlock's coming out was this; nothing changed.

It was now several weeks after the fact and John thought they were both adjusting nicely, partly due to the fact there was very little to adjust to. Sherlock didn't reveal he had a secret boyfriend. He didn't suddenly take on feminine mannerisms or reveal a lingerie obsession or leave lip gloss on the bathroom vanity or answer anonymous craigslist ads for hook-ups. He didn't start flirting with strangers. He didn't linger in John's personal space or make any advances or comments or gestures or unnecessary physical contact.

To John, that was terribly bothersome. He expected that, with all the effort it took for Sherlock to come out to someone, anyone, that Sherlock could finally be free to be himself at last. Except, nothing changed, he was free but was exactly as he was before. Nothing changed at all.

And that was the one and only thing John needed to adjust to: Himself and his own feelings about the matter. For one thing, it made him carefully examine his own attitude towards homosexuals. All that imagery about sexual aggression and effeminacy was ridiculous and riddled with unfair stereotypes. That he should expect, on any level, for Sherlock to be any different now showed very poor judgment on his own part and left him feeling acutely guilty.

Sherlock was exactly as he had always been: a tense, miserable elitist and intellectual snob who took too much glee in the misfortune of other people so long as it provided him with a crime scene to lovingly bond with. He remained untidy, demanding and obsessive. He was still a pleasure to be with and his impulsive adventures remained John's most relished delight. Gay, not gay, none of that changed. Their daily routines didn't change. And now that the truth was known (only between the two of them, Sherlock had impressed firmly upon John his wish for privacy on the subject as he navigated coming out at his own pace) Sherlock acted as if nothing had happened.

Really, he would have adored Sherlock all the same if he found out the man wore lip-gloss or ladies underthings or thrilled in secret trysts with men whose names he didn't know. Actually, it would have been a relief to know Sherlock had any fetishes that didn't involve blood-stains and crime scenes. It would have been nice to discover a human being hiding under all that arrogance and posturing and beauty.

Now John wondered; What was the point of coming out? Why subject himself to ridicule, why risk rejection if Sherlock was committed to remaining celibate? Which was fine, as far as John was concerned, just fine, it just seemed like such an effort to reveal something so deeply personal unless…

John wanted to slap himself sometimes.

Because it was the truth. Sherlock was attracted to men. He was orientated that way, and he wanted someone else to know. He wanted John to know because it was the truth, not as a courtesy before he shocked his flat mate by bringing someone home of the unexpected gender for a shag. Because they were friends, so John had assured him, and friends trust each other and Sherlock wanted to trust John.

John kept reminding himself of this. Every day, he told himself this. Sherlock came out to John because they were friends.

Not because Sherlock was attracted to John.

Every day, right before John told himself Sherlock came out to me because we are friends, the thought that proceeded it was: Sherlock came out to me, just to me, because it's the natural progression prior to confessing something else…

John dreaded such a confession. He thoroughly worshiped Sherlock, but was completely unable to reciprocate any romantic or sexual feelings. Looking at himself objectively, he knew he was firmly heterosexual. John waited in dread for Sherlock to make a move.

Of course, John rejected his own suspicions. They were homophobic, he chastised himself. The idea was merely a projection of his own discomfort, and those feelings would disappear over time as he adjusted better. So John told himself. Nonetheless, the anxiety remained.

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One rainy afternoon, at the New Scotland Yard, Sherlock and John were climbing down a stair well. Their shoes were wet. John seemed to struggle with his footing on the slippery landing and Sherlock reached up and touched John's elbow, to steady him.

It was a benign gesture. One made a hundred times before, forgotten and meaningless.

Except John flinched and shot Sherlock a warning look.

And Sherlock froze.

John knew immediately he had made a mistake. But the damage was done. He kept completely silent and continued down the stairs, hoping the moment would pass and be forgotten.

For the rest of the climb, Sherlock remained one step behind John. He did not smile and there was no talking between the two men for the ride home.

And that was the first indication that everything was Not Fine.

Not Fine, despite what John had assured Sherlock, despite what he assumed his own tolerance would allow. Not Fine, despite his promises and despite the evidence that justice and humanity could triumph over darker human impulses like bigotry and intolerance. John didn't want to believe he could harbor such ugly feelings. He loved Sherlock. He loved Sherlock, he told himself. They were best mates, brothers almost. And this experience had bonded them. But John...just felt…right or wrong…he had…reservations he couldn't deny.

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To be continued…

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Author's Notes Cont.: Goddamn it, I really wanted that to be a one-shot, but even that was really long. Damn it. Anyhow, candid feedback, criticism, praise and flames all greatly appreciated. Be as ruthless or as kind as you like.