Sherlock X Reader One Shots || 𝐹𝐿𝑈𝐹𝐹 + 𝑆𝑀𝑈𝑇

"What Are You Looking At?" (Part 1)

CONTEXT: 

John notices Sherlock staring at a woman (Y/N) in a cafe, and prompts him to ask for her number. 

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"---but it was only a fracture, so she'd---what are you looking at?" John sat opposite his friend, who started suddenly, dragging his eyes back from over John's shoulder to focus on him.

"Nothing." Sherlock cleared his throat a little. "Please, continue."

John quirked up an eyebrow, holding Sherlock under an assiduous stare. "Right ... Where was I? Ah, yeah, so she'd basically--"

Sherlock's gaze had once again gravitated towards a point just over John's shoulder, a glassy expression clouded his usually crystalline eyes.

John felt irritation nibbling at his edges at this; sure, his strange flatmate had never been very interested in his stories about working at the surgery, but he could at least try to act like he cares, just a little. "Okay, seriously! What is so fascinating that you---" he turned around on his chair to try locate the thing that held Sherlock's attention so dearly, and found it almost at once:

A woman sitting at the table by the window. She was reading a small paperback, leaning with her back against the slightly condensation-riddled glass of the window, so absorbed in her novel's contents that the dampness didn't seem to bother her.

John smirked and faced his friend again, who's cheeks were sprinkled with a small---but still noticeable---uncharacteristic blush. "Oh."

"'Oh' what?"

John's eyebrows---which had inched even further up his face---were now hidden almost completely by his blonde fringe. He stirred the last dregs of his tea with a spoon absently; this was going to be interesting. "What do you mean 'what'? You were staring at that woman weren't you?"

Chuckling, Sherlock shook his head pityingly at John's naivety and nibbled the corner of his ginger snap. "Really, John? Surely after all these years, you would be well aware that I don't care about---"

"Yeah, yeah." It's an understatement to say that John looked unconvinced.

Sherlock sat a little straighter as if minutely improving his posture could somehow make his claim more credible. "Of course not. Do you really think that I--"

"Yes."

"No, I most certainly was not! And anyway, why out of all the people in this cafe would I be staring at her in particular? You're being illogical."

John shrugged, angling himself as much as needed to get a clear view of the unsuspecting woman in question, but not too much so as to seem suspicious. "It seems perfectly logical to me. She's about your age, you're a human being, she's a human being. She's sitting alone, reading. I'm no detective, but she seems quiet, maybe quite clever. Just your type."

Scoffing: "How do you know what's my type?" Clearly the conversation was ruffling Sherlock's feathers. So much so that he'd forgotten to deny that he even has a 'type'.

"Well, I assume it's just like your taste in everything else: If it's loud, stupid, or boring you're not interested."

Sherlock looked like he was collecting up the pieces of his dignity that he had dropped, brushing invisible dust from the front of his jacket, running a hand through his hair---a nervous habit---John noticed, and took a cleansing breath. "I'm bored. Could we please change the subject?"