Sherlock was right. His neck had always been a rather sensitive area for him, and he'd always liked it when women would kiss and bite him there. The way Sherlock talked about it made it seem, well, kind of normal.

No. No, he couldn't let himself get sucked in like that. That's how you lose arguments, John.

"Christ, Sherlock, he was strangling me!" He caught himself in his exclamation and lowered his voice to a stinging hiss when people began to look round. "If that doesn't proudly exclaim, 'sexual deviant', I really don't know what does. And you're insisting that I like going round, getting choked by strange men. I don't." Strange men, no.

"Look: Think what you want. I don't care. You're wrong, you're wrong. Can we please move on from this before the waiter gets here? I really don't want the staff of the places we visit to think I'm a pervert." His expression is firm, but there's a hint of pleading in his eyes; not one he's sure Sherlock is either going to abide or care about, but when he inevitably storms out, at least he'll be able to say he tried first. "God knows I'm not trying to embarrass you in front of everyone."