John through back his third beer before Greg arrived to the pub. Approaching slowly, the inspector sat on the closest stool and, after a pause, tried to make conversation.

"You, uh, wanted to see me?"

John raised his eyebrows and ordered another beer.

"You're not much of a drinker, John. It's serious?"

"I haven't drank in nearly a year," the doctor confessed, grasping his new frothy treat. "Too risky. Sherlock sees an opportunity to test my perception. I have four new scars because of him; I think I missed a Wednesday once because of something he slipped into my wine, but who knows? It was for science." He grimaced at the last phrase and gulped another round.

"Today's different? I know Sherlock must be a hassle to live with, but he's always been that way."

"I don't live with him, Greg, I take care of him. I'm practically a single father, and last night? Last night I almost kicked my only son out on the street."

"Well. Vent." Greg ordered himself a shot of whisky and settled in to hear the latest adventure of 221B.

"Sherlock!" John rattled his knuckles against the bedroom for the fifth time that morning. "Sherlock, no more stalling. We're going."

"No!"

John nearly lost it as the childish, rebellious cry emerged, but he gulped down his anger. Battles weren't won that way. "I wasn't asking. We're going to be late if you don't hurry up. There's tea in the kitchen if you need some." No reply. "I'll break down this door, Sherlock; you know I will."

"When calculating your mass against the door's, the amount of damage caused to your posterior—"

Throwing his hands in the air, John walked to the edge of the stairs. "Mrs. Hudson!" He called. "Mrs. Hudson, could you come here a moment?" He walked back to the door. "You hear that, Sherlock? You've made me get her involved."

Mrs. Hudson was already muttering before she was up the stairs. "…and, really, I don't know if his mother could even take another call. I mean, a twelve year old! There's nothing else to equate him too. Four times this morning, John, he's woken me up with his tantrums, and I won't stand—"

"Yes, yes, I know." John glanced at the door and took several steps away from it. "Listen, I need your help. I can't get him out of the room."

"Well what for? Leave him in there."

"I would agree, but the police need him. He refuses to go out on a case."

Mrs. Hudson sat down at placed her hand to her cheek. "Oh, dear. I've never heard of such behavior."

"Well, it's…" John sat next to her and lowered his voice. "He embarrassed himself yesterday. We were working with Donovan on a pretty average case—you know, nothing special—but when we go to leave, Sherlock…he, er…"

"What dear? Called her out on sleeping with Anderson again?" Mrs. Hudson chuckled; she'd never met most of the people the boys worked with, but her favorite time was Sunday afternoons, when John would sit with a cup of tea and filter his week's activities to see what was good enough for a blog. She'd come to disdain Anderson and Donovan—and love Greg and some of the clients—as much as John and Sherlock themselves.

"No, no, that would embarrass me, not him. No, he…hugged her. I mean, full-blown embrace. He even closed his eyes and sighed, for goodness' sake. She stood there, frozen, until he let go. His smile faded the second he looked around the room and saw everyone staring. I mean, Sherlock Holmes, hugging people he barely knows—who he can barely stand. He walked out with his tail between his legs."

Mrs. Hudson shook her head. "There's no way. He doesn't even let me touch him, John, unless he's in a perfect mood. And even then it's minimal."

"I'm telling you, in happened. A few weeks ago he asked me to explain hugs to him, and ever since, he can't stop hugging everything. He came out of his room yesterday morning clutching a blanket as though it was going to run away if he loosened his grip. The other day he side-hugged a client, but she was distraught so I thought little of it. Maybe he was just trying something new, you know? But then last night, with Donovan…I don't know, I'm concerned. And I'm not sure exactly why."

"He's searching for connection, John. It's what he does."

"You know we're talking about Sherlock, right?"

She rolled her eyes. "Look. So many people think he doesn't have emotions, but we know that's not quite true. We know he has a heart. You're in there; maybe I am too. I don't know. But I promise you, John, he longs to be understood. At the very least, accepted. You accept him, I accept him, and…that's it. You opened up the world of hugging to him, and it represented everything he ever wanted. He'll use that on anyone he can, even Donovan. I wouldn't be surprised if he tried Anderson. Try to understand."

"Yeah." John sighed and looked at the window, organizing his thoughts. "Okay, fine. But that doesn't help me understand what I'm supposed to do with him."

Mrs. Hudson smiled and patted John on the back. "You'll figure it out." She stood, dusted off her apron, and descended to her flat.

John cursed her under his breath and stood, slowly making his way to the detective's door. "Hey, Sherlock? Um…" Was this the right thing? "You don't have to go in today. Okay? Take a rest. I'll be out here reading the paper and watching television if you need anything." He paused and was nearly about to walk away when the door cracked open.

"You mean it?""

John licked his lips and cleared his throat. "Yeah. Yeah, yesterday was…um…hard. So. I'll tell Lestrade we can't come in."

The time came. Sherlock opened the door half an inch more; John charged. The detective was stronger, mostly due to his height, but he was no match for a soldier's determination. John tackled him onto the bed, face down, and grasped his hands in handcuffed fashion with some struggle.

"Now listen," John said slowly, sounding much like the criminals the men had worked with so many times before, "I know yesterday was hard. Maybe you need to take a break today, and that's fine. We'll discuss it. But Sherlock Holmes, you will never refuse to do what you love because you're embarrassed. Do you understand me?"

"John—"

"No, listen to me. So you hugged someone. Yes, it was awkward. Yes, it was socially inappropriate, but you're Sherlock Holmes, and we're all used to that. If you want something, you take it. So that's what's going to happen."

John released his grip and stood, his hair amiss and clothes wrinkled. Sherlock didn't look much better; his robe was halfway off his body and the thin white shirt underneath was stretched, but the look of complete shock and utter lost was the most striking.

"Wha…what's going to happen?" he finally asked."

"We're going to hug."

"We've already hugged. A few weeks ago, remember? In the park, then after a shower."

John tried to ignore the awkward situation that sentence offered. "Yes, but it was just physical. We're going to hug, and…and it's going to mean something. It's going to be emotional, and meaningful, and you'll never have to ask people like Donovan to supply that need for you ever again."

Sherlock cleared his throat. "I don't, uh…"

"Sherlock Holmes, we are going to hug, and you are going to like it."

The following event isn't easy or enjoyable to describe. The men embraced, as they had before, both rigid as ever until Sherlock's body slowly relaxed. John sighed, content, and tried to release before Sherlock grabbed him tighter. And tighter. In fact, the detective didn't let him go until ten minutes later.

"I don't understand," Lestrade said, finishing his second drink. "Okay, you were going to kick him out at the beginning. But it got better, yeah? You understood what he was trying to express. What's the problem?"

"Greg, I almost exploded on him because he was seeking acceptance."

"Well, yeah, but—"

"What kind of friend does that?"

"John, it's Sherlock. What kind of friend slips sleeping pills into drinks or spiders into bath tubs? You know how he is. Don't beat yourself up about it."

"He still won't confide in me, though. I mean, I know why he's acting the way he's acting, but he won't admit it. And I care about him, Greg. Lord knows I do. I tried to express it last night, in a way, but even that falls short. I would do anything for this man. He's my best friend, and I don't even think he knows it."

"Well, say it while you can."

John finished his beer and sighed. He'd have plenty of time. Yeah, they were in a dangerous profession, but nothing devastating ever happened. Besides, Sherlock probably knew how he felt about him.

Probably.

Hopefully.

I mean, hey. What could go wrong?