A/N: I really do love these boys. Expect a fair amount of Johnlock coming your way in the coming weeks, at least until I get into Supernatural or Elementary or back into Harry Potter. And yes, I know I should be updating ACOMI and Tail instead, but never fear, those updates are also coming! This is a short crackfic that attacked my muse at midnight a couple nights ago, and I just had to write it. And honestly, I'm quite fond of it. This fic was partially inspired by the fic Being a Master at Ignoring the Obvious by the wonderfully hilarious sockpuppet82. Her style intrigued me, and from that intrigue came Not Gay. Happy reading!

Not Gay

He's not gay.

Really, he isn't.

John Hamish Watson is a straight ex-Army doctor who enjoys the female form. Long, smooth legs, lush, curvy bodies... That's what he appreciates. Not the flat planes of a man's hard chest or the bulk of a man's muscles. No, John Watson is most definitely not gay

John also doesn't find Sherlock attractive.

Really, he doesn't. At all.

Admittedly, Sherlock does have a rather lean build, with sinfully long and smooth legs and alabaster skin to die for, and John has seen him shirtless enough times to know his chest is sculpted from porcelain and his sinewy muscles ripple like tidal waves under his china skin. But that doesn't mean John finds him attractive. Well, he supposed Sherlock could be considered attractive. To people who, you know, find that kind of thing attractive. And John Watson isn't one of them.

No sirree, John Watson is a straight man and loving it, thankyouverymuch.

And he's told Sherlock, too. Just in case the detective somehow missed it. Even though the chances of that are nigh on impossible. Still, best to make sure, better safe than sorry, all that rot.

"I'm not gay," John tells Sherlock one evening, after they've run across the rooftops to intercept and catch a wanted smuggler.

Sherlock looks at him oddly, but then returns to his work. "Of course not," he murmurs absently, peering intently at the pipette in his grasp.

"I'm 100% straight," John presses.

"100%," Sherlock agrees.

John nods once, satisfied, and returns to his blog. "And you're not attractive," he mentions, almost as an afterthought.

"Oh?" Sherlock says, and John can almost hear Sherlock's eyebrow rising. Cheeky bastard.

"Well, I suppose you are," John says. "Just not to me. Because I'm not gay." And he nods again, signalling that the matter is closed.

Sherlock just chuckles. Heaven knows what that means.

It's a month later that they catch a wanted, Top-Ten-FBI-Most-Wanted, On-Interpol's-Most-Wanted-List- wanted serial killer, and they decide to celebrate. There isn't much to ear at the flat, seeing as John hasn't made a grocery run in nearly a week, so they head out to eat. A good Italian place is found, champagne is ordered, and a warm chocolate lava cake follows. They enjoy themselves heartily, recalling fond memories, telling funny stories, and generally having a good time. They spend some time simply walking around, and Sherlock analyses people at John's whim. There's a surgeon, you can tell by his posture; he's cheating on his wife, look at his eyes; she's just lost her son in combat, notice the badges pinned to her purse. They drop by a bakery and enjoy a couple pastries, even though John knows the calories are going to catch up to him sooner rather than later.

In fact, it isn't until they're standing outside their flat as Sherlock fumbles with his keys that the revelation strikes John.

"My God," he says. "Sherlock, we're two people who like each other who just went out and had fun."

"Yes, and?" Sherlock asks, opening the door.

John stays frozen to his spot. "Sherlock, we just went on a date."

"No, we didn't," Sherlock says, bodily dragging John out of the cold and across the threshold.

"But we did," John counters, still in shock.

"How could we have?" Sherlock responds, whipping his scarf off. The action most certainly does not mesmerize John. "You're not gay."

"Oh," John says. His world starts to spin again. "I'm not gay," he tells Sherlock.

"As we just established," Sherlock says, and heads to his room.

But after that, John starts noticing things. How he and Sherlock always stand closer than strictly necessary, how they buy each other small things they saw "out in the town, it reminded me of you, I just had to get it," how Sherlock knows him better than even Sarah. And it all strikes him as very...gay. And not just gay, but gay for Sherlock.

"Sherlock, am I gay?" he asks Sherlock one evening. After all, Sherlock is never wrong.

"No, of course not. Haven't you said yourself you aren't gay on numerous occasions?" Sherlock responds.

"Well. Yes. But." And then he lists his evidence. "We always stand closer to each other than common courtesy dictates. We buy each other trinkets. We have domestics. And the entire world thinks we're-I'm-gay. They can't all be wrong, can they?"

"And yet they so often are," Sherlock ponders. "We're mates, John. One might even go so far as to say best mates. Best mates do act like this. You aren't gay."

John's still a little doubtful. "Are you sure? Because the evidence is pretty damning."

Sherlock sighs. "Think of Sarah," he instructs. John dutifully obliges. "Now think of her lying on your bed. Wearing no clothes. Absolutely none. You are with her. Also wearing no clothes. None. Now tell me, are you gay?"

John sighs in relief and adjusts his trousers. "I'm not gay," he says with a smile.

They're tracking a serial rapist a few weeks later when they're forced into a bit of a tight spot. A literal tight spot. Between a brick wall and a dumpster.

They're waiting for the rapist to show, and they're pressed together so their chests are touching and their groins are only a centimeter away from each other. Adrenaline buzzes through their veins, and they share grins that are just a tad manic.

John, being...vertically challenge as he is, can't help but let his gaze fall on Sherlock's lips. Those perfect, rosy lips, made for pouting and- well. He won't go there. Briefly, he wonders how they taste.

So he finds out.

They taste like Sherlock, he decides a minute later when he comes up for air.

"I'm still not gay," he whispers fervently, but he's starting to feel unsure about who he's trying to convince, himself or Sherlock.

"Of course not. You were simply conducting an experiment," Sherlock agrees with a shrug.

John smiles, happy Sherlock understands. "And you're still not attractive," he continues, feeling courageous. "To me, I mean."

Sherlock lets out a breathy chuckle. "I know," he says.

John feels delightfully in control of his life.

Of course, Sherlock being Sherlock, John finds Sherlock's lips addictive. He begins kissing the detective more and more frequently, trying to get more of that intoxicating taste.

"It's your fault," he accuses Sherlock one morning, after he's just woken the detective with a morning kiss. "Why are your lips so addictive?"

Sherlock is, of course, accommodating as always. "I suppose I'll have to change them, then. Make them less addictive."

"No!" John cries out almost immediately, distraught. "You can't do that! It'd be like taking away your cigarettes. But worse."

"I suppose it would be terribly inconvenient to have you incapacitated and suffering from withdrawal in the middle of a case," Sherlock says after a minute. "I suppose my lips will have to remain as they are."

The thought makes John immensely happy.

But he isn't gay.

Ask anyone.

It's a month later when Sherlock wanders out of the bathroom wearing nothing but a towel slung low around his hips. John's typing up a blog post about their latest case when he hears Sherlock pad in. He glances up instinctively.

"Oh," he says. "Oh."

"Hm?" Sherlock says, sparing John a glance as he goes to make a cup of tea. "I do hope you don't mind, clothing seemed incredibly dull today."

"No, I don't mind at all," John says, returning to his blog post. He lasts an hour before he gives the post up as a lost cause and gives himself free rein to ogle Sherlock.

"Does all of you taste the same as your lips?" he asks.

Sherlock looks over lazily from where he's sprawled on the couch. "Come find out," he say.s

John does. In great detail.

The rest of Sherlock doesn't taste quite the same, he thinks, but there's still something uniquely, delectably Sherlock, about Sherlock, so he supposes he'll let it pass.

Unfortunately, he can tell the rest of the Sherlock is going to be just as addictive as Sherlock's lips.

"I'm not gay, you know," he says casually, clinging to the statement. It defines him, really. Or at least a major part of him, if not all of him. After all, if he can't be straight, what can he be? Don't answer that. "And you're not attractive. To me. I'm sure you're perfectly attractive to other people. Like girls. Or gay men. Which I'm not. Gay, I mean."

"You don't find me even the least bit attractive?" Sherlock teases.

John thinks about it. Sherlock is indeed a fine, fine specimen. Anyone can appreciate that. Besides, it wouldn't do to get on the bad side of someone who could control John like Sherlock can. And appreciating Sherlock's beauty doesn't make him gay, does it?

Of course it doesn't. Because he isn't gay.

"Well. Maybe a bit," he concedes.

Sherlock smirks.

John feels vaguely uncomfortable.

A year later, and they're exchanging wedding vows, courtesy of England's acceptance of and total indifference towards same-sex marriage. They exchange rings, say the magic words, and find themselves bound together for all eternity. Or until one of them dies. Whichever comes first.

And John comes to a conclusion the rest of the world probably came to years ago.

"You know, Sherlock," he muses as Sherlock throws him onto their bed and gets busy with his teeth.

Seeing as his mouth is full of John's trousers, Sherlock simply grunts in reply.

"I think I might be a little bit gay."

Sherlock's entire body vibrates as he laughs.