Nᴏᴛ Gᴀʏ {Tᴇᴇɴ/Jᴏʜɴʟᴏᴄᴋ}

№ 9

"I've found it," Sherlock said, standing up and taking the pill bottle from the table and laying it next to the pills from Mary. "They both contain an acidic chemical that degenerates some of the romantic and memory-related parts of the brain. The reason people can make and keep romantic memories later is due to the intrusion being too small to cause permanent damage. The sexualities of the subjects will, however, stay the same." He scribbled some sloppy handwriting on a piece of loose leaf paper and dropped the pen carelessly on top of it.

I nodded and stood up as he did. "I've done some research on the internet as well," he said. "The sexuality pills from that specific brand have been shown to make the person forget about their romantic interest, only to have them find another one of the same gender anyway. So I doesn't make them heterosexual, but it does make them forget."

"That's..." I tried to find the right word, but I couldn't, so I asked, "Is that even legal?"

He shrugged. "I've absolutely no idea."

"Hmm," I said, looking at the floor. "It really shouldn't be."

"But that isn't the point," Sherlock said. "John, don't you feel... excited?"

I narrowed my eyes. "Excited?"

"Yes!" Sherlock replied. "A mass murder that's connected to your homosexual pills? An undercover ally for the killer that works part-time at an animal rescue?"

"They're not my pills," I said, but I was, of course, ignored.

"She even kissed you, for heaven's sake! And she's a chef! They let her use knives and mess with people's food all the time! What if she put a pill in one? That would be a messy date." He laughed dryly and picked up one of Mary's pills. "They dissolve quickly in water or heat, meaning they enter your system faster and work faster, quite possibly even staying in it longer in comparison to other chemicals."

I nodded. "That's not exciting," I said, "Just unsettling."

"Unsettlement is the best kind of excitement, John," Sherlock said enthusiastically, opening his bedroom door and the both of us walking out of it. "You just haven't figured that out yet."

We descended to the ground floor, Sherlock's shiny dress shoes almost clicking against the old, rich wooden stairs. "Mother," he called, "We're going out!"

"Have you eaten?" she called back from somewhere in another room.

Sherlock paused. "We'll eat on the way!" he answered, putting his coat on over his dress shirt and opening the front door. I slipped my sneakers on to my feet and pulled my hat over my ears, and we both stepped outside into the cold and nippy air.

"Chilly today," I said, and he gave a grunt of agreement and begun to walk with me in a different direction from which we went the last time around. He rested his hands in his pockets as we went down the street and toward an unknown destination.

"Do you think I'm unsociable?" Sherlock asked suddenly.

I shrugged. "You can be, yes," I said, "But I personally find you quite hospitable. And, at times, you can also be very polite and docile." I paused, my brain working out exactly what he was trying to say. "Who told you that you were unsociable?" I asked.

Sherlock sighed. "Sally Donovan."

I looked up at him. "Who on earth is Sally Donovan?"

He kicked an acorn on the ground and watched it bounce and roll into the street. "She's working with Lestrade. She thinks I'm irritating. I just think she's extra irritable."

I nodded. "Don't listen to her," I said. "If she doesn't like you, that's her loss."

Sherlock nodded unsurely, pursing his lips and staring off into the distance. "But I'm not normal," he said. "Normal people like normal people. That's why you have so many friends and I only have one."

I stopped walking and grabbed his arm, turning him to face me. "Listen to me, Sherlock," I said. "I don't give a damn if you're like most people or not. I would rather have you as my only friend than have a million completely generic ones. You underestimate yourself too much and you need to stop. Think of yourself as more than you already do. Because I definitely value you more than you might yourself. Alright?"

His eyes widened, almost as if he'd been attacked. He even drew back a bit, startled, perhaps, his mouth slightly open in confused and terrified surprise.

He nodded slowly. "Okay."

We began walking again, and he led the two of us into a new restaurant across the street. He apparently got free food here as well, for some kind of case he'd solved where he found a serious risk that the place would have been shut down for and had them fix it before they were found out. Or something like that. Some asbestos problem of some sort.

"Do you get free food everywhere you go?" I asked, and he took his scarf off as we were seated.

"I'm not sure," he said. "I barely ever leave the house, so it's hard to remember."

"Oh," I said. "I see."

We discussed music that day. Turned out he liked 80s Rock more than classical, which surprised me since classical seemed like more of a thinking sort of genre, whilst I always thought rock was an intense, active one. And Lord knows that Sherlock Holmes was anything but active.

I told him I liked jazz, and he nodded in interest. He said he especially liked the sound of the bass guitar, and he even began learning it as a young child.

"That's interesting," I said. "One of my childhood friends used to take bass lessons. We used to play pirates, or at least that's what Harry said. I lost that memory with my shoulder."

"Hm," he said. "That's quite common, the pirate phase in children. Fascinating because I used to play pirates with a friend as well," he ran his fingers along the condensation on his water glass. "But his name wasn't John."

"What was it, then?" I asked.

"I actually don't remember."

"Oh, really?" I replied playfully, chuckling as I leant forward and whispered, "Then how do you know it wasn't me?"

Sherlock laughed softly. "You never know, I suppose," he said.

"Mm," I agreed lightly. "You really don't."