Sherlock didn’t know what it meant. He glared at a passing duck, which promptly settled down and glared back at him. Marvellous. Sherlock looked the other way. Duck: 1 ; Holmes: 0. He sighed. Had he sunk so low that he could no longer out-face even an aquatic bird?
It was no good. John might be wrong to think that they weren’t suited, because Sherlock was increasingly sure that they were frighteningly compatible, but the assumption that a romantic relationship was the last thing he would choose was entirely correct. ‘Sex, romance and cuddles on the sofa’… those were the specifics John had quoted. Sounded dreadful. Absolutely awful. Horrible. He threw a few more synonyms at the small dissenting voice in the back of his head and it subsided. For now.
He sighed again, looking around to find that the malevolent duck had now been joined by another, which was standing in such a way as to give the strong impression that if it had hands, they would be on its hips. It was glaring at the first duck, which was still glaring at him. Duck One did not give way. With an unmistakably disgruntled quack, Duck Two plonked itself down onto the grass. Duck One edged over until they were pressed together side by side. Both ducks glared at him. Sherlock contemplated the possibility that he had been driven mad by sexual frustration.