Desperate Need

Sherlock had been in a mood for the last two days. Something was bothering him, but since he was inexperienced with what he was feeling, he couldn't exactly figure out what it was or how to make it go away. The problem made him extremely irritable and when his mood made John flee the flat, he resigned to lying on the sofa until he could figure out what it was.

The morning of the third day, after visiting his mind palace for hours, Sherlock finally knew what was wrong. He was in desperate need of physical contact. Not just the brush of hands when handing over pens and mugs, but something more substantial. He sat up with a smile at finally solving his problem.

His happiness was short lived though. There would be no way he could get what he needed. People barely wanted to talk to him. Who would want to actually have any type of physical contact with him…a self-proclaimed high functioning sociopath? For that matter, who would he even want touching him? He sunk back on the sofa and curled into a ball facing the back.

Twenty minutes later, when the front door opened and closed and footsteps could be heard climbing up the stairs, Sherlock got his answer. Now all he had to do was figure out how to get John to initiate physical contact with him.

A few seconds later, the text alert went off on Sherlock's mobile. He immediately grabbed it from the coffee table, read the text and excitedly hopped up from the sofa. "John," he exclaimed as the doctor walked into the room, "Lestrade has finally recovered from the flu and has a case for us. Let's go."

Sherlock just finished spouting his deductions to Lestrade and spun around to leave the room. His eyes landed on John who had just put a hand on Lestrade's shoulder. Sherlock just barely heard John saying goodbye and that he was glad the detective inspector was feeling better, and that he, Sherlock, was driving him up the wall without a case to distract him.

Feeling slightly jealous, since that touch was what he wanted John to do to him, Sherlock stalked out of the house to main road to hail a cab. Not even a minute after reaching the curb a cab pulled up. It hadn't even come to a complete stop when Sherlock yanked the door open and got inside. He began to slide over to the far side but stopped and looked out the window toward John who was jogging to catch up. Breathing erratically, he instead he sat in the middle seat.

Without a word, John entered the cab. Seeing Sherlock in the middle seat, he wrinkled his eyebrows in confusion and flipped down the seat opposite and sat down, facing Sherlock.

With a scowl at John's actions, Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest and stared out the side window the entire drive back to Baker Street. His eyes, however, were not observing his surroundings. He was staring intently at John's reflection in the window, hoping John would get the hint.

Sherlock was not deterred from trying to obtain the physical contact he needed. Knowing John's nightly routine of a shower, tea and then bed, he figured he had one more chance that day. While John was in the shower, Sherlock piled all the chairs in the living room with books, papers, and some empty petri dishes and vials so the surfaces were uninhabitable. There was no way his plan wouldn't work.

When the bathroom door opened, Sherlock quickly sat in the middle of the sofa and opened his laptop that had been setting on the coffee table. As he waited for John to come into the room, he noticed his heartrate was increasing. He was so close to finally getting the contact he needed.

Unfortunately it took ten minutes before he heard John walk toward the living room. Pretending to be researching something on the laptop, Sherlock inconspicuously watched John. John walked into the room with his cup of tea and paused with a frown, obviously not pleased that he couldn't relax in his chair. He watched as John took one look at the sofa and instead of sitting next to him, turned back toward the kitchen and sat at the kitchen table. Sherlock all put threw down his laptop next to him, jumped up with a glare in John's direction, and marched to his room, slamming the door behind him.

It was now the next day and Sherlock still hadn't received what he needed. Still irritable, he was lying on the sofa in his pajama pants, t-shirt and dressing gown and was plucking at the violin resting on his stomach. Every so often he would glance at John, who was sitting in his chair reading the newspaper.

"Sherlock," John said in exasperation after five minutes. "Must you torture the instrument?"

Raising his fingers from the strings, Sherlock glared at John. He quickly stood up and placed the violin on the sofa and began pacing the length of the living room. He ruffled his hair and made a frustrated noise.

John had been able to ignore the detective for the past hour, however the man's pacing was the final straw. John finally lowered the corner of the newspaper he was reading and glanced at Sherlock. "What is the matter with you?"

Sherlock stopped pacing and began tugging at his hair. He stared at John, an internal debate going on in his brain. There was obviously no other way around it. In order to get what he so desperately needed and wanted, he was going to have to ask. He removed his hands from his hair and walked to John. "Will you hug me?"

"What?" John asked with a slight laugh.

"You heard me the first time, John. I will not repeat myself."

John lowered the newspaper completely and stared at Sherlock. "Why would you want me to do that?"

Sherlock looked away from John in slight embarrassment. "I…"

"Is it for some type of experiment?" John interrupted.

"No."

John closed his eyes and rubbed a hand over his forehead. "Sherlock, how many times must I tell you, and everyone else for that matter, that I am not gay?"

"What does that have to do with…"

"I do not want to hug you. Only people in a relationship hug each other."

"But…"

"No, Sherlock!" John brought the newspaper back up and continued reading the article he started earlier.

Sherlock deflated at those words. His shoulders slumped and all the air left his lungs. He felt like he got slapped in the face and punched in the stomach. Never in his life had words hurt so much.

Somewhat scared of what he was feeling and needing to get away, Sherlock rushed out the door of the flat and pounded down the stairs.

He had just come off the stairs when Mrs. Hudson opened her door. "What's with the racket?" she asked Sherlock as she came out into the hallway. "Have a new case on?"

Sherlock temporarily stopped his escape and shook his head, avoiding eye contact with her.

"Sherlock, dear, what's happened?"

In response, Sherlock shook his head again and glanced at her. At that moment, he knew he could probably get what he had wanted from Mrs. Hudson, but it didn't really matter anymore. He clamped his lips together, blinked quickly a few times and tore off out of the building, slamming the door behind him, now desperate to get away.

John appeared at the landing a few moments later. "Is everything alright Mrs. Hudson?"

Mrs. Hudson looked up to John. "Did you two have another domestic?"

"What do you mean?"

"Sherlock. I've never seen him look so upset. He wouldn't even talk."

John sighed, not wanting to discuss it with his landlady. "It's nothing to concern yourself with, Mrs. Hudson. He'll be fine."

"I hope your right, John. I swear he was on the verge of tears. And I can't believe he rushed out of here in his pajamas!" Mrs. Hudson looked at the door then turned and went back to her flat.

John watched her leave with a worried expression on his face.

After rushing out of the flat, Sherlock immediately hailed a cab. After he entered the cab, the cabbie gave him a once over. He ignored the questioning look he received, caring only about getting somewhere he felt safe. Somewhere besides 221B. He gave the cabbie the address for Barts and because there was no traffic, arrived 15 minutes later.

Sherlock quickly made his way to the lab, knowing no one should be using it at that time of day. To be on the safe side, though, Sherlock left the overhead lights off and relied on the glow coming from various computer monitors and equipment in the room. He immediately headed to the far corner of the room and sat down on the floor, pulling his knees to his chest and bowing his head.

He tried to clear his mind of the last hour, but his emotions and thoughts were going haywire and he couldn't do it. Going into his mind palace didn't help either. It actually made everything worse. He pulled at his hair, began rocking back and forth and kept whispering the word rejected over and over.

Ten minutes later the door to the lab opened. When the lights stayed off and the footsteps began to approach him, Sherlock knew exactly who it was and he wasn't surprised. There were times when he really hated Mycroft's use of CCTV.

As the footsteps got closer, Sherlock tried to stop rocking and pulling at his hair, but he couldn't. It actually increased. "Go away," he choked out, not wanting John to see him like this.

John cautiously approached Sherlock. "Sherlock?"

"Go away," Sherlock repeated, a little louder this time.

"Sherlock," John stated, his tone of voice like he was talking to a scared child. He then began to crouch down in front of Sherlock.

"Go away," Sherlock shouted, and jumped up. He began pacing the length of the room, hands tugging forcefully at his hair, eyes scrunched shut. "Go away." Sherlock could tell John hadn't moved, that he was still in the corner of the room. "I said, go away!"

"Stop. Sherlock, stop!" John yelled.

The yelling got through to Sherlock; mostly because he'd never heard John yell at him like that. He stopped his pacing but didn't turn around or open his eyes. His hands were still in his hair. "All the evidence points to it, so it must be true," he whispered. "It turns out everyone was right. I am obviously a machine, a monster, a freak. I can't even acquire a basic human need." Feeling defeated, Sherlock dropped his hands from his head and looked at the floor. His usual posture, confidence and demeanor were completely gone.

John walked a few feet closer to Sherlock. "What are you talking about?"

Sherlock shook his head in response. "Nothing. It's not important." He began to head to the door when he felt a hand grab his arm to stop his exit.

When Sherlock stopped, John dropped his arm and stared at the back of Sherlock's head. "Sherlock, I've been your flat mate…your friend… for years now," John began, his voice laced with the deep concern he felt for the man in front of him. "You have never talked so negatively about yourself before or reacted like you had just a few minutes ago. So, whatever it is, it's obviously important."

It was silent for a minute as Sherlock debated whether or not to speak. He had nothing else to lose, so he decided to explain. "Physical contact. Human touch. It's a basic need of all human beings from babies to the elderly. At least I thought it was," he whispered. Sherlock dropped his head. "I was so stupid. It should have been obvious that I am an exception. I should have known. Who would want to have any sort of physical contact with someone like me?"

"Oh God," John said sadly. "I'm the stupid one." John grabbed Sherlock's arm again to turn him around. When Sherlock wouldn't budge, John walked to stand in front of him. "Sherlock, I'm so sorry. I didn't know you… When you asked…I thought…." John sighed.

Sherlock finally raised his head and looked at John. "Like I said. It's not important."

"It is important, Sherlock," John said as he moved closer to the detective, until he was just a few inches from him.

With eyes wide in confusion at John's actions, and before he could voice the question in his head, Sherlock was being crushed by John's arms around him.

"I'm so sorry," John said into Sherlock's shoulder. "This was what you've been after for the last few days wasn't it?"

Sherlock nodded. When he felt John tighten his hold in response, Sherlock began trembling with the release of all his pent-up emotions and thoughts. He wrapped his arms around John and grasped the jumper he was wearing as tightly as he could, resting his head against John's. John began to rub a hand comfortingly in circles on his back, and Sherlock couldn't stop the quiet whimper that escaped. He couldn't remember ever receiving this type of touch or the comfort and feelings it gave him.

When John began to loosen his grip and pull away, Sherlock tightened his hold. "Please, John," he begged. "Not yet." He didn't want it to end since he didn't know when he'd get this contact again.

John chuckled, stopped pulling away but didn't go back into the hug. He looked at Sherlock. "Okay. But you know, Sherlock, this won't be the last hug or touch you can receive from me. Whenever you need a hug, just ask. Don't be afraid to sit next to me on the sofa, in the cab, anywhere, if you need the contact. I'm sorry to say that it never crossed my mind that you were not getting this basic need from anyone."

Sherlock nodded and pulled John back to him, happy that he finally got what he so desperately needed and wanted. "Thank you," he whispered and tightened his hold on his friend.

The hug lasted for another three minutes before they parted and went to get a cab to take them home. As they headed outside, John mentioned they'd be having a conversation about some of the things Sherlock had said in the lab. Even though Sherlock was dreading the conversation they'd be having, he was still almost glued to John's side the entire ride to Baker Street.

The idea for this fic had been brewing in my head for months. I'm not too happy about the ending, but it's the best I could do. I hope Sherlock wasn't too out of character.