Semi-warning: brief mention of homophobia and mention of a murder. Nothing gruesome or terrible, but I felt the need to say something. Erring on the side of caution here.

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Sherlock was buzzing with excitement all the way to the crime scene. John watched him fondly from his seat across the cab, marveling at the fact that the man he loved could get so excited over a murder. He turned to look out the window at the city whizzing past, failing to comprehend that this was his life now. He was married to Sherlock Holmes, well, Sherlock Watson-Holmes now, world's only consulting detective. He was not only his partner in life, but his partner in crime, solving crimes, and blogging about it when he gets home while Sherlock lies on the couch and prays to the ceiling.

His life now consisted of regular trips to the morgue and to Scotland Yard, as well as regular trips to the bedroom for more carnal activities. It wasn't a life he'd ever pictured for himself, but now that he was living it he couldn't imagine things any differently.

The cab pulled to a stop and Sherlock bounded out of the vehicle, dashing over to where the body was, and John forced himself to snap out of his reverie. There would be plenty of time for appreciating how wonderful his life was later. Now, he had to help catch a murderer. He paid the cabbie and stepped out of the vehicle, meeting Sherlock at the edge of the crime scene. Sherlock was holding the tape up for John, and he smiled at him before he ducked under.

"Ta, Love." Sherlock beamed, then turned and headed in the direction of the large groups of people standing by a ditch. John joined Lestrade while Sherlock flitted over to the body, magnifying glass in hand, looking more like a hyperactive puppy than a detective on a case. A quick scan of the other workers revealed no familiar faces, something John was grateful for. It would be nice not having to put up with Donovan and her caustic remarks.

He and Lestrade stood together in a comfortable silence and watched Sherlock as he worked. After a brief moment, Sherlock finished his examination and was bounding over to Lestrade.

"Have you found the boyfriend yet?"

"He's been taken into custody."

"I want to speak to him."

"I don't know if that's-"

"Let me speak to him." Lestrade folded his arms across his chest, and John watched as the DI and the consulting detective found themselves an old fashioned staring contest. John knew it would be Lestrade who caved first, as did Sherlock and Lestrade. It was less than a minute before he sighed and shrugged.

"Whatever, go ahead." Sherlock gave a curt nod, then turned and began walking. John sent Lestrade an apologetic glance before turning and following after his husband. The cab ride was quiet, neither man feeling the need to fill the silence with idle chit chat. Sherlock was in full on case-mode, and John was happy to sit back and enjoy the ride. He kept quiet and didn't tell Sherlock how beautiful he looked with the sunlight shining on his face and in his hair. He didn't reach over and grab his hand like he wanted to, because he saw the way Sherlock's fingers were tapping on his thigh and knew he was too busy thinking to be romantic.

When the cab came to a stop Sherlock got out and John paid the cabbie. They walked side by side through the familiar hallways until they reached the interrogation room Lestrade had instructed them to find. There were several officers and another DI in the room with Rodney, and upon seeing Sherlock enter the room all but one left. It only took an icy look from Sherlock to get him to leave as well. Rodney glared at Sherlock before settling his gaze on John, who took a self-conscious step back and towards Sherlock.

"Hello, Mr. Douglas." John heard how clipped Sherlock's voice sounded, and wondered if it was because Sherlock was feeling threatened by the attention Rodney was paying his husband. He smiled and went to lean against a nearby wall, leaving Sherlock to do the interrogating.

Thirty minutes later John was remembering why Sherlock usually didn't question suspects. He was callous and bossy, and so malicious Rodney was on the brink of tears by the time he broke down and confessed to every murder.

He blamed everything on some camp he'd been sent to several years ago. He claimed it was a 'gay-to-straight' camp where men and boys are supposed to be 'cured' of their homosexuality. Rodney, having grown up with homophobic parents, had been sent to several camps over the course of his lifetime, but none had worked. As a result, he claimed, every time he was with a man he felt guilty, worthless, like a failure because he couldn't make himself attracted to women. After every encounter with a man Rodney was overcome with anger and killed them to 'erase' his mistake, then returned to his girlfriend's house for more self-loathing. Sherlock had turned and given John a look when Rodney admitted that his girlfriend was in fact a beard, and John had rolled his eyes.

"Rosie didn't know. She never did." Rodney sighed and shook his head. "I tried to make it work with her, but I couldn't. I did like her though. She was nice and pretty, but I-"

"If she was so nice and pretty," Sherlock interjected, "Why did you kill her?"

"It was after you guys showed up. I was tense and angry, and she could sense it. She offered to ... to make me feel better and I refused. We got to arguing somehow and next thing I know she's lying on the ground and my hands are still wrapped around her neck. I just ... that camp messed me up."

"Oh, spare me your sob story," Sherlock barked, turning away from Rodney. John noticed the stiff manner in which Sherlock was walking, and the way his fists were clenched, but he kept his mouth shut, and gave Sherlock the space he obviously needed. Rodney sighed and covered his face with his hands, breathing heavily. The room was eerily quiet for several moments, with no one daring to break the silence with sound or movement. John noticed the glazed over look in Sherlock's eyes, and reached out to lay a hand on his arm.

Sherlock jerked away from him, then his eyes cleared and he stared at John apologetically. John just stared back, a million questions forming in his mind. Sherlock avoided eye contact with him and called for some officers to take Rodney away. He turned and left the room the moment the officers entered, and John had to jog to catch up with him.

"Alright, Sherlock?"

"Hm? Yes, I'm fine." John eyed him warily for a moment, but before he could ask another question Lestrade and company showed up to interrogate them about the interrogation.

"He confessed to everything, as I expected him to." Lestrade seemed ready to ask further, but he saw something in Sherlock's expression that made him stay quiet. John was becoming more worried by the minute. Sherlock turned and began walking away, and John dutifully followed him.

"What do you think of his 'sob story'?" John asked, trying to alleviate the sudden tension he felt with a sad attempt at humour. "A gay-to-straight camp. Those things don't really exist do they?"

"They do."

John nearly stopped dead in his tracks. Sherlock's voice had sounded so ... small. He looked over at Sherlock and saw that his eyes were cast downward. His hands were stuffed in his pockets and his shoulders were slumped.

"Sherlock, is there something you'd like to tell me?"

"Not anything I'd like to, no." Sherlock held the door open for John, then hailed them a cab. The ride back to Baker Street was incredibly tense and awkward, with Sherlock staring out the window and John staring at Sherlock. His entire body was turned away from the center of the car, and away from John. His hands were folded in his lap instead of resting on the seat between them, inviting one of John's hands to join it. His eyes were hard and his lips were tightly pressed together. Overall he looked very 'not okay', and John felt something in his stomach twisting.

When they finally reached their flat, John paid the cabbie while Sherlock went to wait at the door. John shot him a worried look before unlocking the door and walking inside. He went about making them both tea while Sherlock disrobed and changed into his pyjamas. When the tea was ready and Sherlock still had not emerged from the bedroom, John went in after him.

Sherlock was lying on the bed, palms pressed together, staring at the ceiling. John stared at him for a moment, wondering if Sherlock was even aware of his presence. It wasn't unheard of for Sherlock to go catatonic every now and then, but Sherlock had acted rather strangely leading up to this, and that was what worried John. He hesitated in the doorway, and just as he was turning to leave, Sherlock spoke.

"I was sent to one." John didn't have to ask for clarification. He knew immediately what Sherlock was referring to. He sat down at the edge of the bed placing his hands in his lap. He waited for Sherlock to continue, but he remained silent.

"Your parents don't seem-"

"They didn't send me." Sherlock sat up and fixated his eyes on John. John found himself unable to look away from the stricken look on Sherlock's face.

"Who did?"

"My aunt Alice." Sherlock pulled his legs against his chest and rested his chin on his knees. "You see, she's very ... well for lack of a better word, homophobic." Sherlock sucked in a breath, and John moved closer to him on the bed. Sherlock held a hand out, and John laced their fingers together. Sherlock stared down at their hands as he spoke. "One Christmas she came to visit us. It was a special event, because she was living in America at the time, and we didn't get to see her very often. I adored her, you see. I was so excited, I composed a song to play for her on the violin. I baked her a cake, and I spent nearly every waking minute with her. I showed her my collection of dress shirts and the new dance I'd been working on. She had smiled then and was pleasant and everything was great, but apparently my behaviour had raised some red flags." John moved close enough to Sherlock to draped an arm around his shoulders and pull him close. Their fingers remained intertwined and John gave Sherlock's hand a quick squeeze. Sherlock sighed before continuing.

"The next summer she requested that I come to stay with her in America. My parents were fine with it and I willingly agreed. However, rather than spend two summers at her estate I was shipped to a special camp for," he held up air quotes, "'confused and misled boys'."

"Sherlock, that's terrible."

"It was the worst camp experience of my life, which is certainly saying something. I know Mycroft has told you about the time I nearly escaped from camp several years before this." John fought the urge to laugh at the memory; Now was not the time. "It was one of the worst summers of my life, preceding one of the worst years of my life. I was told that liking boys was wrong, but I didn't find girls appealing at all. I figured I was just 'wired wrong' and that I wasn't meant to like anyone. At the age of 14 I began to research different sexualities and decided that I was asexual. But at 16 I found that even that didn't fit because I still found males attractive. Cue a six month sexuality crisis that ended with me coming to the conclusion that I was just an anomaly in that department as well. I figured it didn't matter; I was already an outcast among my peers and the rest of society. What difference did it make if there was one more thing wrong with me?"

"Sherlock..."

"I'm over it now, obviously. I'm married to a man whom I love very much and I couldn't be happier." John smiled and held Sherlock tighter against himself, but soon found that there was a nagging question in the back of his mind that he had to ask.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"What?"

"If you're so over it and so happy with me, why wouldn't you tell me something like that? Why won't you open up to me?"

"John?" Sherlock pulled away to stare at him, eyes wide and searching. "What do you mean open up? You know me better than anyone."

"And I still feel like I know nothing. All I've got to go on is bits and pieces of your past that you throw my way." John had no idea where all of this was coming from, but now that it had been said he realized he did in fact know very little about Sherlock's past, and it upset him greatly. Sherlock continued to stare blankly at him, and John could hear him thinking.

"Why would you need to know everything about me?"

"Not everything, Sherlock. I understand some things are private and I respect that. I just ... I don't want to feel like I'm married to a stranger." Sherlock pulled further away from him.

"John what are you saying? Do you not want to be married anymore?"

"No! I do, I do ..." He sighed and rested his head on Sherlock's shoulder. "You know, forget everything I said. Or, delete it. Just ..." John sighed and stood up. He turned around to look at Sherlock, who had one hand extended as if beckoning John to come back. He bent down and kissed Sherlock's forehead. "I think I'd like to go for a walk now."

"Would you like for me to come with you?"

"No." Sherlock deflated. "I mean ... " Sherlock frowned, then turned away from John and curled into a ball on his side. John groaned and scrubbed his hands over his face before leaving the room. He grabbed his keys and coat and left the flat. He was about fifteen minutes away from Baker Street when he realized he'd left his phone. He chose not to go back, and continued on with his walk.

What had happened back there? Sherlock had opened up to him on what was obviously a sensitive subject, and John had instigated an argument. He'd probably hurt Sherlock, who would be too proud to admit it or accept John's apology, and everything was probably going to turn to rubbish between them. All because John had acted like a complete and total arse.

John berated himself for another several blocks, then turned back and started walking home. It was getting pretty dark out, but John hadn't grabbed any money and therefore couldn't take a cab. He walked as briskly as he could until their flat was in sight. His heart was pounding from the exertion, but he was home and that was all that mattered. Well, that and whether or not Sherlock would forgive him.

He opened the door and tried to be as quiet as possible climbing the stairs. He was planning on adding a cup to his apology, and he wanted to surprise Sherlock with it. John knew that if Sherlock knew he was home there was no way he could surprise him with anything.

When he reached the top of the stairs he was surprised to find the door to the kitchen wide open. He could see Sherlock standing by the stove, facing away from him as he busied himself with some task John couldn't see.

"Welcome home, John," Sherlock said, still not facing him. "How was your walk?"

"Fine." John hesitated, then reached a hand out towards Sherlock's shoulder. "Sherlock-"

"Here." Sherlock said turning, shoving a mug into John's outstretched hand. He answered John's raised eyebrow with a smile and a quick kiss on the cheek. He left John standing in the centre of the room and entered the sitting room. John followed Sherlock's movement with his eyes as he picked up his violin and nestled the instrument in the crook of his neck and shoulder. He turned partly away from where John was standing, only leaving half of his face visible to him. John had yet to move since Sherlock had given him the tea, and he stared down at the mug in his hand with a frown.

"My mother used to play the violin for me when I was younger." Sherlock's voice snapped John's attention away from the tea and he looked up with his eyebrows raised. Sherlock began fingering the instrument but didn't play it, and turned further away from John.

"She didn't play it often until ... " Sherlock took in a deep breath and his shoulders slumped slightly. "I lost a friend, and my mother's violin playing was the only thing that could console me. At the time I was content to just sit and listen, but years later I decided I would learn so I could play for myself whenever I needed." Sherlock moved the violin from his shoulder and turned to face John, his face blank. John finally gained enough sense of his faculties to step into the living room towards Sherlock, and he placed his mug on the table in the centre of the room.

He plucked the violin and bow from Sherlock's fingers and stepped so close to Sherlock he could feel every puff of air he breathed out. He reached up and tangled his fingers in the curls at the nape of Sherlock's neck, pulling him down until their foreheads were touching. For a moment no one spoke, and John took the opportunity to arch his neck and place a soft kiss on Sherlock's waiting lips.

"Sherlock ..."

"I apologize, John. I didn't expect you to be so concerned with my life story."

"Well, of course I am, Sherlock. I want to know everything about you, but you don't have to-"

"I want you to know everything. I want to tell you everything. You deserve it." John raised a hand to place on Sherlock's chest, and smiled when he felt the rapid beating of his heart.

"I don't deserve you." Sherlock made an awkward sort of snorting sound, then wrapped his arms around John and buried his face in the side of his neck. John kept his arms around Sherlock and allowed himself to be hugged; Sherlock obviously needed it.

When Sherlock finally pulled away his face was once again stoic, but John could see the warmth in his eyes that hadn't been there when he'd first entered the flat. He opened his mouth to speak, but the sound of a doorbell ringing cut him off. Both heads turned towards the door, and John watched as Sherlock went to answer the door. He picked up his mug, full of tea that had now gone cold, and made to move into the kitchen to rinse it out. He heard two pairs of footsteps ascending the stairs, and had just made it back to the living room when Sherlock entered, looking sullen and petulant. John didn't have time to question the sudden change in disposition before another figure appeared in the room, and all his questions were answered.

"Oh," he said, trying to keep any animosity from his voice. "Hello Victor."