Nᴏᴛ Gᴀʏ {Tᴇᴇɴ/Jᴏʜɴʟᴏᴄᴋ}

№ 5

Mum was getting on my nerves, to say the least.

"How's your new friend?" she kept asking. "How's Sherlock Holmes?"

I kept telling her that he was fine, and that if she was so utterly curious that she could walk across the street and talk to him herself. But she didn't want to listen. Not at all. She kept asking me, as if I would know all the time.

He, in fact, turned into the main talk at the lunch table completely against my will. We would be sitting down and preparing to eat, my dad all hungover and tired, my sister most likely thinking about lesbian things, and the first attempt my mother would make at conversing was turning to me and asking how Sherlock was doing.

It was annoying as hell. But I couldn't tell Mum that. I didn't want to be rude. However, I never failed to express my irritation passive-aggressively.

"So," Mum said, sitting down at the table with us as my father laid his head in his arms and my sister stared off into space, "How's your friend Sherlock?"

I sighed inwardly. "Fine," I said. "It's all fine."

She nodded. "Don't tell anyone," she said, "But if I were his age, I would totally date him."

At first I didn't know how to respond, but then, remembering the conversation we had shared walking down the street, I informed her out of utter stupidity that I wasn't very sure that he was straight.

"I think he's gay, actually," I said. "I don't know."

Mum leaned back in her seat. "Oh," she said. "There are pills for that, you know."

I smiled dryly. "I'm quite aware."

"I've heard before that homosexuality could be contagious," she said, and I sighed.

"And you believe that...?" I asked.

Mum looked at me as if I were from another planet. "You never know," she said. "But, if you ever start feeling gay, just let me know, alright? We can get you some medication."

I sighed. "Mum," I said, "I don't think being gay is a mental illness, and I'm sure it isn't contagious, and I know it can't be fixed with pills. And I think that, even if he is gay, we need to accept Sherlock for who he is. And, since you're most likely wondering, I'm not gay."

Mum smiled weakly at me and began eating her food. I got a feeling that I possibly wouldn't be invited to dinner, which was fine, I supposed.

I excused myself from the table without eating at all and went outside.

The air was crisp and clean, and I liked it. I sat on the front step and considered jogging around the block, or maybe walking through the leaves again, or visiting Sherlock and checking up on the baby bird. Maybe I could do all three. I needed a break from my family anyways.

So, looking both ways before I did, I crossed the street and headed towards Sherlock's house, knocking on the door four rough times as I arrived.

His older brother, which I assumed was the eldest, opened the door. He had a sort of permanent scowl on his lips, and he had stretch marks on his neck where I guessed an excess of fat used to be. He narrowed his eyes at me without even saying hello.

"John Watson," he said.

"Is Sherlock here?" I asked.

"Mmm," he mumbled as if in thought. "Will you be keeping him out of trouble?"

"Um," I said, "I have a good conscience."

"Good," he replied curtly. "If you report to me everything that happens between the two of you, I'll give you a nice fifteen pounds each time."