Before anyone says anything, I'd just like to say that I wrote this at about 11 o'clock on a Friday night.

That's...really all I can say about this one. XD Enjoy.

"Why are men obsessed with breasts?"

My head snapped up, eyes bulging at my flatmate draped over the sofa. I'm hearing things. Sherlock most certainly did not just say that. I cleared my throat. "What?" I squeaked in a very un-military fashion.

"Breasts. Boobs. Bazongs. Badonkadonks. Why are there so many words for them? And why do they all start with B?"

I ran my tongue over my teeth and pressed my eyebrows down. This was not real. This conversation most certainly wasn't happening. The way he was talking almost made him sound...

"I honestly don't understand it."

...Gay.

"Sherlock," I said, my brows still pushing on my eyes. "What brought this up?"

He turned to face me, his curls dangling from his forehead. "Making conversation. You said that we need to have more 'normal' conversations. Are you bored of this subject?"

"Sherlock..."

His eyes cleared with newfound knowledge. "Oh, I see. You're not interested."

"Sherlock!"

"It's nothing to be ashamed of, John."

"For Christ's sake, Sherlock..."

"Is there something wrong with being gay?"

I raised a hand to my face and rubbed my temples. This was getting nowhere. He had to be doing this on purpose. No one could possibly be such a prick.

Sherlock seemed to get anxious when I didn't respond. "Is there?"

"What?"

"A problem?"

"No, Sherlock. You know that."

"Oh," he said. "Good. I mean, fine. That's fine. Very good, actually."

I smiled. "Very good?"

Half of his mouth turned up in a half-smile. "Yes. Very good."