Data Doesn't Lie (Johnlock)

Chapter 10

Quick message
At first I didn't expect to update so soon, as I didn't even expect to be popular with this being my first fic. But here I am with almost 200 reads and I know its not that much in reading terms but it means so much to me as a writer. So this chapter is written early in thanks to all my readers, especially you Clara_adores reading. Thank you all for being supportive and active with me and I promise to update asap. Teetee a fen, tata for now.
~Shay

JOHN

  At first I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I didn't want to believe it, but once I heard it I knew it was true.

  Sherlock had my phone; he was laying in bed and talking rapidly to Lestrade. I was standing in the doorway, breathing quickly, so unsure and confused and afraid. No matter how much I told myself to calm down it seemed that I couldn't hold myself up any longer. At first I thought I would pass out, then I thought I'd vomit. Eventually I settled for standing woozily in the doorway and praying that I wouldn't tumble over.

  You see, Sherlock had finally solved the case, but the answer to my questions were less than comforting. Apparently, I'd been a victim of a hate crime, all for something that wasn't even true.

  Sherlock said it was a gang member, hunting down local homosexual individuals in the area. Accordingly, they'd seen me confess my love for Sherlock and assumed...well, perhaps I was gay. Maybe I was bisexual. Maybe I wasn't gay, simply attracted to just Sherlock. Of course nobody but me knew why they assumed, simply that they did. I didn't know, I was in shock.

  In front of me, Sherlock hung up, tossing my phone to the foot of the bed and flopping backwards into the sheets. "John," he called to me, the frustration in his voice clearly audible. "I don't understand, Sherlock," I said dryly. He only nodded. "I didn't either, at first." He sighed. "I was such an idiot, I completely ignored the signs." He shook his head slowly, muttering something inaudible. "What did Lestrade say?" I asked with uncertainty. From the bed, Sherlock peered up at me from beneath his long, dark lashes. "That he'd 'work on it'", he replied, his voice acidic with anger and frustration.