A/N: I have seen the newest episode, but I started writing this last week, so you can safely assume it took place before all that mess.

This is rated M, but I'm not sure if its a heavy M or a light M. Right now it's light, but it, might get a little out of hand in later chapters. I'll let you know before hand if it does.

*Update to let you guys know that the last chapter is *very* M and slashy, but the other chapters aren't really that bad.

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John Watson was not gay. Really. Despite what his ex girlfriends, the media, and anyone (everyone?) else thought. He liked women, liked to get off with them. Mind you, talking to them was a bit of a chore, and remembering the names of their pets, sitting around watching romantic comedies trying to get them in the mood for a shag…

He was quite normal. Before Afghanistan he had it all planned, and at this point in his life he had every expectation of being married with a kid or two, a house in the suburbs and his own practice.

Cheryl, sitting across from him at the table, was a perfect girl for that. Bottle blond, but her eyebrows were natural so going prematurely grey. Her sweater was new and she was either careless or unobservant (the tag was still attached under the sleeve). White hairs on her skirt-pet owner (more animal names he would have to remember, blast it). She carried a large, plain bag, which suggested she cared more about function and thrift than designer labels.

He had noticed all of this before they had gotten past "Hello, I never do this internet dating thing, but-" He was beginning to think like him, and it depressed him. Even when he was out on a date Sherlock Holmes invaded his mind. It was a whole lot more interesting than that wife and suburban house. The war had changed him, or maybe not. Something about life-uni, med school, the string of uninteresting but beautiful girls, had left him restless and unfulfilled. He never felt that way anymore.

Cheryl was looking at the menu. Her fingernails were bitten down-either a nervous condition or an oral fixation. He tried not to think about the latter and stood up abruptly. "I'm so sorry," he said. "This just isn't fair to you. I'd better leave."

"What do you mean not fair?"

"You are a very lovely girl but this isn't…I'm sorry."

He grabbed his jacket and hurried away, trying not to think as he walked back to Baker Street, but thinking anyway. Women were so _boring_. He had come to that conclusion years ago and had accepted it, but it was getting worse. He did not want to spend one more mind-numbing evening with one. All that effort just for a blowjob by the third date was not even worth it. If there was anyone who could have a conversation even half as stimulating as one with Sherlock that would be one thing, but he had given up.

Sherlock had lab equipment strewn all over the living room, and the entire flat had an acrid, burnt smell to it. John Watson was a Spartan sort, not too keen on clutter. Sherlock's work ebbed and flowed through the flat, from the body parts in the kitchen to his chemistry set in the living room. There was often something growing in the bath and the truth of the matter was, John didn't mind. All he did was hang up his jacket, and ask Sherlock what he had discovered.

"That when you know that heating an acid causes it to explode you should not be wearing your best dressing gown," Sherlock said morosely, sitting on the couch. His robe was covered in small spattered holes and brown stains. Johns first reaction was to check his face for burns, and while there were little splotches of redness over his finely sculpted cheekbones, he did not seem seriously injured. "Weren't you supposed to be on that internet date? I told you her picture was fake. Tell me John, how hideous was she?"

"She was fine," John said, feeling frustrated. "Looked just like the picture-it was me."

"She thought you were ugly? Well, your nose isn't quite right, but-"

"You look at my nose?" John asked, surprised.

"I _observed_ your nose. Not entirely symmetrical. Also your right ear is about a centimeter lower than your left. It's very distracting."

John stared at his friend, amazed that he had given his face that much thought, but then he remembered this was Sherlock, who had tape measures built into his brain and probably knew the measurements of everything in the flat. "As it so happens, she did not reject me. I just…couldn't put up with the thought of meeting another girl I had nothing in common with." He collapsed in the chair opposite Sherlock.

"You've never had anything in common with your dates. It never bothered you before."

"Well, I guess it does now! I'm getting too old for this…Sherlock, I quit."

"Very sensible of you. All the same, I doubt it will last."

"Oh no, it'll last. I'm done with women."

"I will spare you the humiliation of making a wager on that one. You are too connected to your carnal needs." Sherlock stood up abruptly. "Well. I believe there is some acid in my collar slowly eating its way through my skin, so I think I will go take a shower."

"Let me know if you need a doctor," John said with a sigh, and reached for the paper.

The paper held little to interest him and he set it down half-way through a story about a homeless man found dead under the bridge. He should probably check and make sure Sherlock did not have any major injuries that he would try to cover up. Within an instant he was on his feet and marching towards the bathroom. He opened the door and saw the shadow of Sherlock's slim, nude form behind the frosted shower curtain.

What the bloody hell do you think you're doing? he asked himself, and he shut the door again. He wasn't gay. He just wasn't. So why did getting that PG glimpse of Sherlock Holmes in the shower cause such a stirring? John went to his room, shutting the door behind him.

Cheryl was the first woman he had had a date with in two months. It was the possibility of sex-okay, at least some snogging-that had him riled up. A possibility he had blown, and now he wouldn't be getting any sex for the rest of his life, according to his own damn mouth.

He threw himself down on the bed and undid his zip, grabbing the tube of KY from the bedside table. He was half-hard already, and buzzing with unrequited lust for-the image of Sherlock in the shower again. No, not that. He got up again and fetched his laptop, bringing up a selection of proper, heterosexual porn. This was good. Exactly what he needed. He squirted some of the lube into his hand and got to work with one hand on the touchpad and the other on his…well.

All the same, he was acutely aware of the shower turning off, of Sherlock stepping out of the tub, rubbing a towel over his smooth skin, slipping a clean dressing gown over naked flesh to walk to his room…

John's bedroom door opened and there was Sherlock, in his red dressing gown loosely tied at the waist, droplets of water still gleaming on his pale chest. "John, I-" Sherlock stopped mid-sentence and gave a glance at John's hand, frozen in mid stroke, and the bastard actually _smiled_ at him. "I knew you couldn't handle it," he said, and turned away.

John was coming before he had completely shut the door.