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“Embrace me,” Sherlock ordered.
It had been a long, fruitless day of examining bits of pavement in bloody Gloucester, and John would have been confused even if he hadn’t already been worn out. He stared at Sherlock. “What?”
Sherlock frowned. “Since I know your hearing is perfectly serviceable – above average, in fact – you must be asking for clarification when you say ‘what’, but honestly I can’t see how I can put it any clearer. Embrace me.”
John’s expression could only be described as wary. “Why?”
“Because I’m extremely disappointed that I haven’t been able to track down the supposed ‘Lysander Stark’ and his compatriots, why would any parent name their child such a ridiculous name?”
John suppressed a smile, but still his brow remained furrowed. “I’m sorry, but what has embracing you got to do with that?”
Sherlock ignored the question. “I ask you because you know me well and are less likely to refuse or misinterpret.” Then Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “Except... you are misinterpreting, judging by your stance. Your feet are planted firmly apart, you’ve taken your hands out of your pockets, ready to physically fend me off – do you really honestly think, John, that I could be making some ham-fisted attempt at seduction?”
The perplexed, slightly nervous smile on John’s face set up camp and stayed. “I think I should be insulted.”
Sherlock made a derisive noise. “Don’t be ridiculous, you’re obviously quite attractive – if you’re into that sort of thing.”
John’s grin grew a little wider, even as it gained a hint of grimace. “Great. Thanks. If you’re into unemployed former army doctors who hang out with sociopaths. Very nice.”
“No, no – how can you be so obtuse? – if you’re into all that,” Sherlock waved his hand vaguely, “biological rubbish.”
“Biological rubbish.”
Sherlock glared at him. “Yes. You thought it was a come-on, didn’t you?”
“When you demanded I embrace you? The thought crossed my mind.”
Sherlock shook his head. “You thought it was come-on, so you wished to avoid physical contact. John, let me make this perfectly clear: the urge to achieve orgasm is, like the urge to urinate, normal, uninteresting, and not something I have any interest in sharing with others.”
John gave Sherlock a long, level look. Then he said, “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Fine.”
“Good. Now embrace me.”
John paused. “You still haven’t explained what your frustration with the case has to do with me embracing you.”
“Oxytocin,” announced Sherlock. He was flexing and relaxing his hands repeatedly.
John blinked. “The hormone released in nursing mothers and after orgasm?”
“And after any prolonged affectionate physical contact. Some studies have found its effect to be stronger than that of cocaine.”
John went white.
“What? No! Stop it. I’m not about to take cocaine if you don’t embrace me, even I wouldn’t be that insensitive.”
John breathed out. “Okay. Good. That’s good. So... what effect of oxytocin are you after, then?”
“Stress relief,” said Sherlock promptly. “I can’t do anything about this case until I hear from my contact, which likely won’t be until the morning. Therefore, I wish to calm my incessant clamour of thoughts with cheap hormones.”
John rubbed his eyes. “So now I’m a cheap hormone supply.”
“It’s been shown to increase empathy as well.”
John raised an eyebrow. “That’d be nice.”
“Ten minutes ought to do the trick.”
“Ten minutes?!”
“It’s the length of time that’s proven to be effective.”
John met his gaze for a long moment. Then he said, “First of all, I have to tell you that I would have done this even if you were gay.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I know, I know, get on with it.”
“Second,” said John inexorably, “you probably ought to know that your choice of words was odd.”
“What, ‘embrace’? What’s wrong with ‘embrace’?”
“Sounds like something out of a romance novel.”
“You would know. I hope you’re going to return ‘The Pirate Lord’s Wench’ to Mrs Hudson soon, she’s planning to read that next.”
John was a picture of outrage. “I only read five pages of that before I got sick of it – I was bored – you’d broken the telly!”
“I had to dismantle it, I thought it was bugged! And besides, there’s no other word appropriate. ‘Hugging’ is for newlyweds and teddy bears, and I, John Watson, am neither.”
John took a deep breath in and out. “No. No, you’re definitely not.”
“Have you at last completed your strenuous mental preparation?” inquired Sherlock sharply.
“One last thing.”
Sherlock sighed theatrically. “Yes, what is it?”
“Next time,” said John, putting his arms around Sherlock, “ask nicely.”
THE END!