(no subject)
Title: Hands that Pilgrims' Hands Do Touch
Fandom: BBC!Sherlock
Rating: G
Summary: Written for moony 's kiss meme. Holding hands shouldn't be this hard.
i.
Sherlock cannot bring himself to hold John Watson's hand.
When Sherlock reaches out for John, he grabs the doctor by the forearm, fingers digging gently, but urgently, depending on the situation, into the layers of jacket, sweater, shirt and skin. The lowest he allows himself to go is above the wrist. If he is feeling extremely indulgent, he will extend his pointing finger, the only way he'll allow himself to touch John's hand.
No, it's not want he wants. What Sherlock wants is to press his palm against John's; feel the roughness of their skins, John from him service in the war and Sherlock from war with his experiments. He wants to lace their fingers, form one giant fist with their hands and solder it permanent with kisses along the knuckles.
He knows he can do this, any of the aforementioned. He knows it in the way John glares at him but still sees him as Sherlock, not freak, brother or childish. He knows it in the way John pretends the blue cake box does not contain another severed head, this time with a chopped finger up each nostril. He knows it in the way John wakes up early morning, comes down and drapes a blanket over him, as he attempts sleep on the sofa.
But. But but but.
Here lies the problem.
ii.
John, no matter how many times Sherlock has called him otherwise, is not an idiot. He may not see the miniscule details that Sherlock picks up but he can see things too.
Like this growing attraction between them. John knows- has known- for quite some time that he rather likes Sherlock. He never bothered denying these feelings because he can see how Sherlock feels the same way.
He sees it in the way Sherlock hides swords, daggers, guns and, at one time, a blow dart under the sofa, to hide evidence that he had been in danger. He hears it in the way he is fondly called idiot. He smells it in the aroma of food being cooked coming from the kitchen; tastes it in the dinner Sherlock concocts when John comes home from a bad day at the clinic and he has time to spare.
John feels it in the way Sherlock's finger curls when it rests against his hand.
But. But but but.
That is the problem. John sees Sherlock's hesitation, the way but but but beats a steady staccato across his mind. Measuring pros and cons, dividing why's and why not’s. It shows in his eyes and creeps all the way to his fingertips. John can't begin to understand why there are buts; he'll be there rain, shine or criminal mastermind on the loose.
So, he throws caution to the wind, and decides for both of them. The next time Sherlock's hand lowers down to his wrist, John tugs his own hand up and laces their fingers together.
He watches Sherlock react: the irritation in those creased eyebrows when he first assumes that John is trying to defy him. The subtly widening of his eyes, when he realizes what John means.
The way the but but but disappears when he brings their hands close, planting a lingering kiss on Sherlock's hand.
iii.
This- this feels like pacing in a crime scene, waiting for the final clue to arrive, and then finding it hidden by the fraying wallpaper. It's fantastic, completely brilliant, completely euphoric.
It's the answer to the endless doubts, the endless questions. Sherlock wants to laugh because it's so obvious! Why did it take him so long to figure it out?
He answers by leaning close, resting his forehead against John's. He brings his mouth to their clasped hands, sealing their held hands permanent with kisses along their knuckles.