Proof: A term from logic and mathematics describing an argument from premise to conclusion using strictly logical principles. In mathematics, theorems or propositions are established by logical arguments from a set of axioms, the process of establishing a theorem being called a proof.

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“We should be having sex,” John said conversationally.

Rodney sighed without looking up from his laptop. “Look, Colonel, since you’re already here and obviously determined to pester me against my will despite the thousand and one things I have to do, would you at least try making yourself useful and hand me that –-” He stopped. “Wait, what?”

“Sex,” John repeated. “You and me?  We should be having it.”

Rodney’s back stiffened abruptly, fingers stilling on his keyboard. “Are you -– have you -- what?”

“Sex, Rodney,” John drawled. “You know, that thing with the nakedness, the orgasms--”

“Yes, yes,” Rodney snapped, “that pastime in which you tend to indulge with truly irritating predictability whenever we encounter princesses or priestesses or ascended-wannabes. I get it.” He returned to his laptop, turning a shoulder to Sheppard in a distinctively dismissive gesture. “You’ve been drinking from those Athosian kegs again, haven't you, Colonel? I warned you to stay away from that stuff; you have no idea what’s in it and frankly, I don’t trust those people as far as either of us – or Ronon, even - could throw them.”

“I haven’t been drinking,” John said, crossing his legs at the ankles and leaning against the worktable. “I’m talking about you and me.”

“Having sex.”

“Right.”

“You want to have sex with me.”

John smiled and nodded. “I do.”

Rodney swiveled on his chair to face him, square-on. "Why?”

John shrugged. "It’s really a matter of logic, Rodney.”

Rodney's jaw fell. “You’re telling me that you and I having sex would be logical?”

“Exactly.” John smirked at him then, slow and lazy, which made Rodney want to hit him -- preferably with something very, very hard. Because John’s habit of smirking at Rodney while he was being contrary was just annoying, and no one should ever be allowed to look that good when they were being annoying. Especially when they were being annoying and looking so good and talking about having sex.

“In fact,” John added calmly, pushing off the table and taking a step toward Rodney, “I really can’t imagine why we haven’t thought of doing it before now.”

Rodney kicked his chair backwards, rolling away from him. “Is this some kind of joke? Wait, are you feverish? Did you eat something foreign-looking the last time we were off-world?”

“Uh-uh.” John reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded magazine, tossing it onto the worktable. “Did you know that men who report the highest frequency of orgasm enjoy a death rate of half that of guys who, uh, slack off in that area?”

Rodney glanced over and scanned the open page. “Yes, well, I’m sure that the quacks at the… the Queens University in Belfast didn’t take into account the rather high probability of our being eaten by aliens when they were conducting their cute little pseudo-study. Which is understandable, certainly, given that nobody actually knows what we’re doing out here, but I’m sure that such information, if it were to become publicly known, would throw a nasty wrench in their statistics. As it is --”

John took another step forward, and then another, until Rodney nearly fell off his chair backing away from him. “A follow-up study found that by having sex three or more times a week, men reduced their risk of heart attack or stroke by half.”

“Voodoo claptrap.” Rodney waved a hand loosely. “Also, stop stalking me!”

“Half, Rodney,” John said pointedly, raising an eyebrow. “And come on -- you don’t eat right, you hardly ever sleep, you refuse to exercise regularly. And then there’s the whole hypoglycemia thing, and the repeated use of stimulants, not to mention your tendency toward high blood pressure – which is perfectly understandable in our situation,” he said quickly, holding up a hand, “but given that you’ve had no sex at all since we left Earth -- my God, McKay, you’re a heart attack waiting to happen.”

Rodney abandoned his chair altogether, jumping to his feet and folding his arms over his chest, gazing at John narrowly. “And this is your responsibility how?”

“Well,” John drawled, “since you’re a vital member of my team, I have a vested interest in keeping you healthy.” He gave a smug smile. “So. Sex?”

“No!”

“Come on, Rodney. Don’t you want to?”

"Do I -- no!"

John waggled his eyebrows. “I’m really good at it,” he wheedled.

“No! I mean, yes, I'm sure you're -- but why are you -- wait, who’s paying you to seduce me? Is it Lorne? It’s Lorne, isn’t it? He’s never forgiven me for--”

"No one’s paying me, Rodney." John moved closer still, dropping his voice to a low whisper. “Did you know that that the pulse rate in a sexually aroused person rises to that of an athlete putting forth maximum effort?”

"Okay, just so you're aware? That is so not an incentive."

“Or that a vigorous bout of sex can burn up to 200 calories?”

“Which I could just as easily burn by skipping the pudding for a few days,” Rodney pointed out. “Colonel, what are you--"

“Or that sex boosts production of testosterone, which leads to stronger bones and muscles, and the muscular contractions work the pelvis, thighs, buttocks, arms, neck and thorax—”

“Leave my thorax out of this!”

“-- while orgasm increases one's levels of immunoglobulin A, which is known to boost the immune system?" John smirked at Rodney again. They'd reached an impasse of sorts, with Rodney all but backed up against the far wall of the lab, and John hovering just close enough for his breath to gently stir Rodney's hair. "Not to mention, immediately before orgasm, levels of oxytocin surge to five times their normal level, releasing endorphins which can alleviate pain.”

Rodney stopped moving, and looked thoughtful. “Really?”

“Would I lie to you?" John asked solemnly.

"Huh." Rodney gazed at John, who was leaning the way only John could, with his hips cocked and that lazy smile and those half-lidded eyes, and Rodney thought about the tart on MX4-225 who’d all but thrown herself at John and how wrong it was that some cheap alien bimbo should have any kind of edge over Rodney McKay. “Hm. You know, my immune system could use a little help...”

“Sure it could.”

“... and I do have a slight headache, now that you mention it. And you know, I think I may have a touch of carpal tunnel, which I’ve been meaning to have Carson check out —”

“See?” John said. “I can help you with that."

"Huh," Rodney said again, gazing at John for a long moment. “So… you think we should have sex?  Really?”

John nodded sagely. “With blowjobs.”

“Blowjobs,” Rodney repeated softly. “I have always been rather partial to them, myself. Hey." He pointed toward the magazine. "Is that really in there? I mean, the blowjobs thing?”

"Yep." John took the last step remaining between them, trapping Rodney against the wall. "I swear."

"So... what does it say?"

“It says," John whispered, leaning in, his lips moving slowly over Rodney's jaw, "that seminal plasma contains zinc, calcium and other minerals shown to retard tooth decay."

For a while Rodney was completely silent, while John used his talented tongue to search Rodney’s mouth for any signs of imminent cavities.

“Okay,” Rodney said, finally, after they pulled apart.

“Okay?" John asked. "That’s a yes?”

“Yes, yes, that’s a yes,” Rodney said, pulling John close again. “After all, one really mustn’t neglect one’s teeth.”