In the Name of Science
There were some things in life that never made sense to Sherlock Holmes. John's attraction to blonde women. The incompetence of Scotland Yard. Mycroft's fascination with Victoria sandwiches. American style chips. Sex for pleasure.
Yes. That made no sense.
Sherlock set his violin aside, his fingers numb from overplaying and his mind whirling with thoughts on his newest case. What he initially gave a solid 5 and barely convinced himself to accept had blossomed into a beautiful, wonderful, most thought-provoking solid 8 in the matter of 16 hours.
The game had begun.
Or, at least, it should have. But here he sat, his fingers dancing thoughtlessly across the beat-up armrest of his precious chair.
Sex. Fucking. Shagging.
Why? Why would someone willingly engage in such acts?
Sherlock was a logical man. He understood the human body and the routines that were required to keep oneself healthy.
He ate when he required subsistence. He slept when he required strength. These functions made sense.
They are necessary. They are logical.
But why did people insist on engaging in sex outside of procreation?
Sherlock rose to his feet, his body immediately thrown into a relentless pace around his sitting room.
Sexual intercourse was required to reproduce. Therefore, if one were to desire offspring, they would simply engage in sexual intercourse with a woman of childbearing age.
So why in God's name did people shag outside of their desire for children?
Simple-minded weaknesses.
Sherlock collapsed back into his chair, his eyes slowly shutting, his body preparing to descend back into his mind palace. That was until John Watson barreled his way in, his shorter stature weighed down by a bag of take-away.
"Oy! Sherlock. Glad I caught you. Mary dropped us off some food," John smiled and lifted the grease stained brown bag.
Sherlock merely opened one eye to evaluate his partner and the greasy take-away.
Disheveled hair. Afternoon escapade with Mary.
Shirt without wrinkles. Hair dried in ringlets. Activities performed in shower.
Favoring right leg. Activities performed for too long. Pulled muscle from lifting partner.
His eyes shifted to the take-away.
Fish and chips. Hammersmith. Fish frozen, chips day old. Two months from shutting down.
His eyes shifted back to John.
"I'm not hungry. Why are you here?"
John gave his partner an inquisitive look. "You are always asking for me to be here, and the one time I show up unannounced, you don't need my company?"
Sherlock gave an exasperated sigh and jumped to his feet. "Yes, John, exactly."
The shorter man shook his head before dropping the bag on a table. He began to unpack the containers.
"Well, you may not be hungry, but I certainly am. And what's got you in such a mood?" John opened a box and shoved a greasy chip into his mouth. "I thought this new case would have put a smile on that miserable face of yours."
This earned the doctor a brief, forced, and rather creepy smirk from the detective.
"Satisfied?"
John sighed and shoved another chip in his mouth. "Don't be a prat."
"Fine. Perhaps you can assist me."
"That's what I'm here for." John began cutting into his fillet, having a rather difficult time with the fish and the plastic cutlery.
Yes. Frozen.
Sherlock shifted his eyes away from the take-away and back to his partner.
"Tell me. How often do you and Mary engage in sexual intercourse?"
The piece that John had spent so long sawing into came sputtering out of his mouth at the question. After a brief choke and a sip of water, he redirected his attention to the detective.
"Come again?"
Sherlock let out another exasperated sigh.
These questions are bloody simple, even for an idiot like John.
"You. Mary. Sex. How frequent?"
John narrowed his eyes. "What? Are you going to analyze my relationship based on how frequently we shag?"
Sherlock laughed. "I can do that from looking at you. I certainly don't need your hints."
John dropped the fork and crossed his arms. "You're barking."
The detective stuck his nose up. "Discussing the frequency of your shags would take hours. So, we'll settle with your activities this morning."
Sherlock took a lap around John, who sat watching curiously.
"You and Mary had an afternoon encounter in the shower. You were the first in, presumably washing off the dust from cleaning the sitting room—her idea and at her insistence. She felt awful for making you do the work, and surprised you in the shower. You were delighted yet weary. You hate lifting her."
He took another spin, his eyes traveling over every inch of the doctor.
"Your encounter lasted approximately ten minutes, four minutes shorter than it would have had you not been wanking before her entry. Your left leg is in pain from holding her for so long. Presumably a muscle sprain."
His eyes drifted to the boring, navy top of his friend.
"Your shirt is free of wrinkles as it sat in the room for the duration of the event. Your hair is dried improperly, suggesting a rush out of the bathroom because you were late for something. Knowing your schedule, it was a meeting with your therapist. Anything else?"
John blinked, attempting to hold back his astonishment. His mate did this frequently. Still never ceased to amaze him.
"No, Sherlock. That will be all, thank you," John grumbled before resuming his eating.
"Splendid. So. Your sex life. Frequency?"
John groaned. "God Sherlock, I don't know. I reckon it varies. Maybe three times a week? It depends on my work schedule. It depends on if we're working on a case. And of course, there's the week off for her menses."
Sherlock made a weak sound of acknowledgement before dropping to his chair. He brought his hands together, resting his index fingers against his nostrils, his thumbs resting under his chin. His eyes drifted closed.
"Why?"
John blinked. "Why what? Why do we take a week off for her menses?"
"No, you idiot. Why do you have sex?"
John blinked yet again. "Come again?"
Sherlock let out a growl from deep in his throat. "My god Watson! Do. You. Speak. English?"
The doctor yet again dropped his fork and looked over to his friend. "I'm sorry Sherlock, but it seems to me that you're… You're asking why I have sex with my wife. I'm just… Confused."
"Well, obviously. You're always confused."
John glared at the curly-haired detective. "Surely you understand why two people have sex. Right?"
Sherlock opened one eye and gazed at his friend.
John couldn't help but let out a tiny gasp. "Sherlock?"
At his whiny tone, the consulting detective dropped his hands and opened both eyes.
"I've sat here for hours, trying to figure out why in God's name people could possibly engage in sex. It makes no sense," Sherlock jumped to his feet and took another lap around John. "Take Mary for instance. You two are expecting. What biological purpose does sex serve now that you can't impregnate her?"
John blinked again. "It bloody feels good Sherlock. That's the purpose. Biologically, mentally, emotionally, whatever. It feels good."
It was Sherlock's time to blink. "I don't get it."
John just sighed. "Figures you wouldn't. You must have wanked before."
The consulting detective halted his lap around the room. He considered his response before continuing his movements around the space.
"Yes. But only when absolutely necessary."
"When necessary? So… What's your frequency?"
Sherlock stopped again. "Twenty-one."
"Come again?"
"What was not clear about my answer? You asked for my frequency. I gave you a number."
John again dropped the piece of fillet before it reached his mouth. "Sherlock… Is that monthly?"
The consulting detective laughed.
"Yearly?" John choked out.
Sherlock laughed again. This caused John's eyes to bug out.
"Ever?"
The consulting detective nodded. "Once a year since I turned thirteen."
John shut the lid on his food and pushed the box away, his eyes never leaving Sherlock. "No wonder you're always so pent up! How… How can you possibly survive only wanking once a year?"
Sherlock shrugged. "Masturbating is a sign of weakness. I can quell any biological need I have for sex with a visit to my mind palace. I do indulge once a year. The body shouldn't be prevented entirely from doing its biological duty."
John opened his mouth to speak, but found himself speechless.
Why is this so surprising?
Sherlock continued to pace, this time his eyes floating to the collage of photos and maps plastered across his wall. His movement broke John out of his stupor.
"My god… Sherlock… You're a virgin."
"A virgin? If you're asking if I've ever engaged in sexual intercourse, then the answer is no. I have not. And there's no need to. You can't even explain to me why you have sex when not trying to reproduce! All I got was a pathetic answer such as 'it feels good'!"
John covered his mouth with his hands, momentarily silenced by his shock. Sure, he never imagined Sherlock as a man about town, fucking his way through Uni and beyond but… A virgin? This was on another level.
"It feels good is not a pathetic answer! Christ, Sherlock, if you don't believe me, consider asking someone else. You never listen to me. But consider this. Sex brings you close to another person. Physically and emotionally. It relieves tension and stress and by god it feels bloody good!"
Sherlock sighed and waved his hand, signaling for John to stop his rant. The wall collage now fully held him captivated.
Sex. Lies. Why?
John rolled his eyes at the gesture before redirecting his attention to the wall as well.
"This has to do with the case, doesn't it? The murdered couple that was involved with swinging?"
Sherlock groaned in annoyance. "Exactly, John. It only took you ten minutes and an entire container of chips to figure that one out."
"You're being a prat."
"If I wanted to be insulted, I would invite Mycroft over for tea and Victoria sandwiches. Now. Sex."
John ran his hands through his peppered hair and muttered to himself. Sherlock continued to scan the documents with his eyes.
"One of the murder weapons seems to a blunt object with a rounded edge, about 20 centimeters long, with some sort of pulsation or tremor. And the murders were committed during intercourse. None of it makes sense."
John felt his cheeks go hot and a desperate laugh die in his throat. This was all too funny to the doctor.
"Well then. I need a change in scenery. Goodbye."
With that, Sherlock moved towards the entry way, quickly slipping into his Belstaff, and tying his scarf in one seamless movement. John remained rooted to the ground, imaging all the possible ways he could embarrass his mate.
"Sherlock?"
"What?"
"Consider describing your murder weapon to Molly. I reckon she could know. You know… working with dead bodies and all."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Describing murders to a pathologist? Wow John, I never would have come up with that one myself."
The consulting detective shook his head in irritation before departing, leaving John to let out his laughter.
However, barely a moment passed before Sherlock popped his head back in.
"Consider running to the shop. You'll need something for food poisoning."
With that, Sherlock was gone, leaving John to touch his stomach and immediately regret his previous meal.