I Prefer to Text
I prefer to text.
It was one of the first things Sherlock said when they met; it was one of the last he said before leaving for Amsterdam.
And while John wrapped up two cases in London, text Sherlock did. From the crime scene:
The wife's a damned liar.
From the back of a cab:
So help me I think the husband ate some of the evidence.
From the Ministry:
The Minister just touched my arse.
From his hotel room:
I'm this close to throwing someone out a window.
And that's when John texted back: Video chat in 20 minutes. Important to the case.
Here's the thing: John knows that, neurophysiologically, texting does nothing to reduce stress. Add voice to long-distance communication, however, and oxytocin—pleasure—hormones surge. Yeah, well John was god damn going to surge Sherlock's. After he took care of one thing.
"I don't have time," Sherlock groused twenty minutes later, before John had even adjusted his laptop. For a moment the good doctor didn't reply; then he said, voice low, "Hello, love."
The world's only consulting detective squinted, then slow-blinked at his lover's image. "You just…masturbated."
Face flushed, hair mussed, lower lip swollen from quite intentional biting, John smiled. "I miss you."
Sherlock's eyes, his muscles, his damn breathing turned soft, easy, slow. Cortisol plummeted, oxytocin took its place, and John said, "Just wanted to say that. Ring me tonight and I'll say it again. Later, love."
Sherlock had every intention of ringing John that night. The thing is, he solved the case two hours later and was home before nightfall.
Neither of them texted for the next couple days.
The power of voice over text messaging inspired this fic, link sent by Tony. To learn more, search Wired . com with the term "instant messaging stress."