Disclaimer: I do not own anything but the story.
Cheekbones
"Get me my pen."
John Watson was sitting on his desk, writing his blog - the fragment of the sentence "chasing what, to my knowledge, was a completely random stranger" - when he heard the voice of his roommate and, apparently, co-worker, Sherlock Holmes.
John lifted his eyes from his screen and looked at Sherlock, who was lying down on the sofa with his hands clasped together around a small notebook and his pen sitting very still on his stomach, almost not moving with the up and down movement of the man's chest.
John blinked. Through all the time he has worked and lived with Sherlock Holmes, he had received these weird and ridiculous requests. Most of the time, he obliged - maybe not on the first request, but on the second, mostly- , since Sherlock would keep repeating it at regular intervals of time and not move a single muscle to do the action that he was requesting - which would be far more simple, to John's opinion.
It was the second time Sherlock had told him that on the last hour and John decided he would refuse to get up and move the pen less than 5 inches from where it has been for the past two hours, just to save the dark haired man a few seconds and arm movements.
He finished writing his tale - which was actually true, but the way he wrote it made it seem so fantastic and exciting that "tale" would be a more fitting word than "journal" - and, while he closed the laptop, he heard for the seventh time, "Get me my pen."
John had been calm about this request and was actually having fun, imagining the frustration that the other man must had been feeling, but for some reason, when he lifted his eyes again and looked directly at Sherlock, he felt anger.
Inexplicable anger.
The fucking pen was just sitting there. On his bloody stomach. For hours. Bloody hell.
"Bloody hell," he whispered - or said, or yelled, he wasn't sure. Months living with the guy and he couldn't even respect John enough not to ask him to get a pen that was ON HIM?
And that was it. John stormed through the door and got down the stairs in a flash, slamming both doors on his way out and completely ignoring the concerned yell from Ms. Hudson, "John, dear, what happened?".
He walked briskly through the streets, feeling the cold air stinging his cheeks and freezing his body. In his hurry he didn't even think of getting a proper jacket. He didn't think of anything else, really, except for all the - uncountable - times that Sherlock had done similar things to him. The more he walked, the more he though, and the more he thought, the more things appeared to be revolting in his mind, even if it was just "Sherlock being Sherlock" 10 minutes before.
He stopped to breathe and looked around. His hands were freezing. Luckily, he thought, he knew where he was. And even more luckily, there was a pub less than 10 feet away from him.
John knew that drinking to calm anger did the actual opposite, he knew. But all the same, he opened the door, his cheeks flushed from the cold, and ordered the first thing that he saw on a bottle. Well, the second, because the first was water and to hell with that.
One hour later, John was still remembering every god damn time he felt pushed around by Sherlock - only now, it seemed to John as if Sherlock had spat and kicked him along with his eccentricity.
'Get me my phone. Get me my pen. Get me my right sock,' he though, mimicking Sherlock's voice in his mind.
"Socks don't even HAVE sides!" he exploded, which got him a weird look from the woman sitting next to him and an eye roll from the bartender.
"Come on, you've had enough, haven't you?" the bartender said, trying to usher John out of the pub, not minding that John hadn't paid for his last drink yet, since he had paid for so many on the last hour.
John looked at him, his cheeks now red from the alcohol, his eyes narrowed a bit.
"You know what? I did. I've had enough!" John said, obviously not talking about the same thing as the bartender. He got up, stumbled a bit out of his booth, and got back on the street, walking back home even more decidedly than when he had left.
He opened the door, got up the stairs with a little difficulty, his vision not helping him and his coordination much less, and got into his shared apartment, to find Sherlock on the very same position, looking at the ceiling. Bloody hell.
"Get me my-"
"SCREW YOUR PEN," John yelled, his words blurred from the alcohol. "YOU- YOU WORK... You work alone, don't ya? Get the bloody pen yourself!" He lost his balance for a second but regained it, supporting himself on the wall. He found it was way easier to argue without having to minuciously control his gravity center. Bloody gravity, it could go screw itself too. But the wall was there, so no harm done.
A drunken mind could put anyone in a state of awe, specially John Watson's drunken mind.
They were both silent for a moment, John breathing heavily and Sherlock staring at the ceiling, when Sherlock suddenly got up, his forgotten pen landing on the ground, - and how in the world could he have forgotten about the item he had passed the bloody day asking for?, John thought - his small notebook thrown at the sofa while he positioned himself with his back to John, apparently looking out the window.
"Hmm," was all he said.
"AND-AND..." He had the bloody wall, thinking and talking was supposed to be easier! "AND what's up with those... those... socks of yours? HOW IN THE WORLD am I supposed to know which one is the god damn left one?"
"I don't have left socks. Socks are socks, they don't have a side."
"EXACTLY! THAT WAS WHAT-"
"So I chose them all to be right." Sherlock tilted his head the tiniest bit to the side, as if he was paying closer attention to something unrelated to the - somewhat - conversation.
"That can't- You can't - That's RIDICULOUS! You're ridiculous! You're... You..." The wall wasn't helping, to hell with it. He let go of the wall that was keeping him straight and stumbled a step forward, managing not to fall in time. He used the hand that was on the Wall of Treason, as John had started referring to it in his mind, to point to the back of Sherlock's head, as if he could see John at all. "And you're gay. I know it. I just know it!" And what on earth that had to do with the damn pen requests, Watson?, John had the mind to ask himself.
Sherlock smiled almost unperceptively, as if his face was smiling - or not - and his mouth was the same. John wouldn't be able to see his smile even if Sherlock was facing him, be it for the alcohol factor or the lack of perception of John. At least the level required.
"And what's your evidence?" Sherlock asked, smoothly.
John was taken aback. Not literally because he felt that if he moved a single muscle (his arm was still in the air, pointing) he would actually fall back, but he was not expecting that. And what made him say that? Well, yes, he had considered it about his roommate, but what in the world that had to do with anything at all? Bloody alcohol. And what WAS his evidence, after all?
"You... don't show interest in females!" John said, triumphantly, his arm raising a tiny bit more, to show to an unacknowledging Sherlock his victory. He was gay, after all. John knew it.
"That only proves I either don't have interest in any gender or that I hide too well. Or, of course, that you're too focused on me focusing or not on women to see my interest on them or lack of it."
God damn Sherlock Holmes, has an answer to everything. John hated him. Even if he didn't. But John had other evidences! He did! - despite the fact that he didn't even know why he was defending a point he didn't know if he believed in or not.
"You wear scarves! SCARFS! You've got to be gay. And you're too classy! And.. AND YOUR CHEEKBONES! Those are gay cheekbones, I tell you!" John was on a row. Lots of evidence. See? "AND! You waited hours for me, a MAN, to get a pen that was a few inches from your pants! I figured it out! I figured YOU out! AHA!" With a final movement from the pointing hand, he put it down, actually managing not to fall while doing so - mostly because the hand was now supporting him on the arm of the sofa, that seemed way more trustworthy than the Wall of Treason.
Both of them stayed practically motionless for a few more moments, Sherlock's smile becoming a bit more perceptible. John was always a laugh when he was drunk.
"My cheekbones. Yes, John, you're absolutely right, my cheekbones, that you apparently spend too much time observing, are what proves my sexual orientation. Well done." Sherlock was speaking very softly, with a practically monotone voice, but the sarcasm was perceptible even for a drunken John.
But there had to be something! He had to prove to Sherlock. He had to prove himself to Sherlock. He deserved respect as an... consultant detective assistant or whatever he was. The new found reason as to why he was putting all that ridiculous effort into that discussion crossed his mind for a second and he was about to stop when a flash of memory or something crossed his mind. HOW could have he forgotten that?
"THAT TIME IN THE KITCHEN!" The arm was back up, pointing. John didn't see the slightly confused frown that appeared on Sherlock's face. "YES!" That was final proof! "I was there, making pasta on the table - fresh pasta! - when you asked me to get something ridiculous and I said no and you entered the room and got all in my space and said you were gonna make me!" What, when had that happened, again? John didn't know. He didn't care. Sherlock was gay.
Sherlock was fully smiling now, all his face muscles forming an extremely amused smile, while he waited until the right moment to intervene.
"And I said I had to finish the pasta and you grabbed my waist and-" John stopped talking, frowning. But it HAD happened!
"John?" Sherlock said. "Our kitchen table is always covered in chemicals and tubes." He turned around, more amused than he had been in a while at the sight of the other's confused face. "It seems like you're having dreams about me. I understand, don't worry. Must be my cheekbones," He said, passing through John and going out the door, laughing whole heartedly. John wasn't moving and was having a really difficult time understanding what on earth had happened when he heard Sherlock's voice once more, from downstairs now, the laughter still in his tone. "And when you sober up, get to the station. Lestrade is here."