A Hand

A hand. Fingers. Carding through his hair.

His mind registered the sensation vaguely, world far too fuzzy, like the lining of one of John's comfiest looking jumpers. John—He breathed in slowly, letting the feeling of the fingers on his scalp fill his senses, overriding any signs of the possessive pain. John. Of course. It was—The thought ended there, the comforting darkness covering him again.

-----

It was an accident really, John mused.

Sherlock. The sight of him on the ground, eyes closed and in clear distress, in clear pain. There was nothing for it. John's brain instantly went into a state of instinct-based shock. It was in almost slow motion that his knees hit the ground next to his friend and only as his mind slowly came back to him did he realize that he was holding Sherlock's head, gently running his hand through the detective's hair. It felt just as John would have imagined, impossibly soft as the curls almost clung to his hand. For a moment that was all he could think of, focusing entirely on the feel, almost giggling in relief on how alive the detective felt. As Sherlock slowly let out a breath, John also recognized how two-way soothing his actions were, Sherlock's expression becoming far more relaxed as he went even more limp. John sighed, his head coming down to rest on Sherlock's brow, hands never stopping their motion for a second.

The space around him was fixed only on the detective below him, even as Lestrade appeared, as the team came around, as sirens signaled the ambulances arriving (dear god he was sick of that noise - the wailing sound of hurt), John was left crouching next to his friend, listening to his breathing, fingers carding through his hair.

-----

"What happened?"

John huffed, arms crossed in front of him. "He was shot, Inspector. Don't have to be Sherlock to figure that out."

-----

What was—What—How... He gasped. Moving was impossible. His body had figured that out to the point where even his dulled brain recognized it. Still, he shifted, trying to find any comfort in the position he was in. There wasn't any. The darkness around him didn't help, swirling and almost laughing as it left nothing to distract him from the bitter, confusing sensations. He needed… He closed his eyes, telling himself that he was definitely not whimpering. Steadying his breathing proved almost impossible but focusing on it provided more relief that it should have. He needed… he needed John.

It lasted what felt like forever, the silence and darkness. The loud banging noise and sudden light appearing through his closed lids was most unexpected. He flinched, pushing his body back into the chair he was tied to as if he could meld into it.

A hand. He could feel it, gently rubbing at his shoulder before touching his scalp. He gasped at the familiar fingers running their way through his locks. "John?" He probed quietly. The fingers just continued to card through his hair, a hum reaching his ears. He sighed in relief, his head leaning forward against the other man's shoulder. Of course it was John.

-----

The next time it was accidently deliberate.

From what Lestrade's witness (or snitch, his mind corrected) had reported, Sherlock was there, definitely there and drugged out of his mind. It made sense, John thought, to defend oneself against the weapon of a powerful mind one must dull it. What they didn't take into account was Lestrade's personal affront to the kidnapping, making the investigation go far quicker than John could have anticipated.

During the search, John had been the first one to find the basement door. Backup be damned, he kicked it open with a bang, immediately regretting it. Sherlock was completely out of it, the harsh noise undoing him and in the darkness he flinched unconsciously away from John, shaking. The doctor's heart melted at the sight, dropping his gun as he flashed back to the night Sherlock had been shot, and the sheer amount of terror involved. Slowly, he brought his hand up, touching the detective's shoulder in what he hoped was a soothing motion before moving to card his hands through his hair. There was an almost physical change in Sherlock at that, previously shuddering breath slowing fractionally down as he relaxed.

"John?" He whispered questioningly after a bit. John's only response was to continue the motion, starting to hum softly. Apparently it was all the affirmation Sherlock needed, slumping slightly, letting his head rest against John. John smiled affectionately, eyes moving to where Lestrade was entering the room, promptly undoing Sherlock's bonds.

-----

"Is he alright?"

"He will be."

-----

"Sherlock."

He didn't need to hear it. Mycroft's tone—"Mother." He replied simply, staring at the carpeting.

"We knew this was coming, Sherlock. There's much to discuss—"

"Get out."

Mycroft didn't answer, tilting his head and studying his brother coolly.

"Get out. Please." The rough tone usually involved in conversing with his brother was absent. A simple plead for privacy or time, he wasn't sure which, just that he needed Mycroft out. His gaze continued to focus on the carpet.

The eldest Holmes left without a word, leaving him and the carpet alone for an, for once, incalculable amount of time. His awareness of the world fluttered under an unnamed emotion.

Vaguely, a voice drifted into his small world of consciousness. He did not react, but took it as a cue to take some sort of stock of himself. Leisurely, he raised his hand to eye level, somewhat awed at how visibly it was shaking. He lowered it and let out a breath. "I'm fine." He murmured, to whom he did not know.

Again he did not react as an outside force pushed against him, manipulating him into a more comfortable position. Fingers started to run their way through his hair. He could recognize those fingertips anywhere by now, the feel of their pads and the familiar motions they made. John. Of course. Closing his eyes, he just let himself drift, comforted by John's presence.

-----

It turned out Sherlock didn't need to be physically distressed for it to work.

John had rushed home the minute he'd gotten Mycroft's text, images of a high or, god forbid, ODed detective flooding his mind. What he'd found wasn't what he'd prepared for. Sherlock was just sitting, staring at his shoes or the carpet absently, barely blinking. "Sherlock." He called softly. "Sherlock, I got Mycroft's text are you…"

He trailed off, almost entirely sure the other man wouldn't, couldn't hear him. Or maybe he could, John mused, as Sherlock slowly raised a hand towards his face, seemingly fascinated by its trembling. "Oh Sherlock…" John sighed empathetically.

"I'm fine." Sherlock muttered, though John wasn't entirely sure if it was in response to him or the detective's own mind. John shook his head, reaching over to his flatmate and gently pushing him sideways onto the couch, carefully directing the long legs to stretch out on its surface.

Without really thinking about it, John lifted Sherlock enough for his head to rest on his leg, starting to card his hand through his hair. He felt immense relief as the detective relaxed and closed his eyes contentedly; glad he could provide his friend with some form of comfort as he cried silently.

-----

"So I heard about…"

"Yeah."

-----

Once John recognized the benefits of the gesture, it never stopped being useful. It worked in many a distressing situation: all-encompassing anger at humanity, fits of addictive need, physical pain or illness… John's discovery of its helpfulness during black moods was invaluable, his dragging Sherlock away from knifing the curtains and hauling him across the room to purposely pet at his hair being a memorable moment. Sherlock had fought at first, squirming in John's hold, before immediately going limp at the sensation, his over-active mind quieting enough for him to hear his thoughts again.

Neither of them knew why it worked. Neither of them ever brought it up. Just another unmentioned but assumed part of their relationship.

-----

Pain. Worse than when he'd been shot. This… this was like his skin had rubbed raw. This burnt. And he couldn't wake up. Didn't want to wake up. Not with the burning waiting for him. He gasped as a flair of pain overwhelmed him, uncaring as a whimper escaped him. Something was missing—

A hand made its way through his hair. John? He faltered, not recognizing the tips of these new fingers, the motion through his locks entirely wrong. John?! He panicked internally, forcing himself into full consciousness, forgetting entirely about the burning.

Lestrade's tired face filled his blurred vision, fingers stilling. Something was wrong. "John?" He asked, a silent despair setting in as the DI seemed to be able to look anywhere but him, fingers continuing their work.

It did nothing. He wasn't John. The thought struck him almost as hard as the burning, and he allowed himself to be swept away.

-----

There'd been an explosion.

Lestrade sat anxiously next to Sherlock's side, the hospital chair doing nothing for his back. John had been in surgery for a while, apparently having tried to block Sherlock from the blast with his body. While partially protected, the consultant was far from unscathed and was placed under as much pain medication as he could be with his drug history – which wasn't near enough.

The small whimpers of pain were getting to Lestrade's head, helplessness setting in like a stone in the pit of his stomach. He didn't know what to do. What would John do? He thought desperately, running through his memories of John in similar situations. One action stuck out in his head. It seemed silly, but he found himself reaching out and running his hands through Sherlock's surprisingly soft hair anyway.

Sherlock's breathing hitched a bit, closed eyes tightening a bit at the feeling, as if registering Lestrade's fingers as friend or foe. The DI's hand stilled as Sherlock's eyes fluttered a bit before opening, staring at him with an unclear but somehow resolute gaze. "John?" He inquired softly. Lestrade found he couldn't answer, allowing his hand to resume the carding motion, staring at the floor for a moment. When he looked back at Sherlock, he found the detective had drifted off again.

His heart felt heavy and he retracted his hand at the continued sounds of distress. "I'm sorry." He whispered.

-----

A hand. Fingers. Carding through his hair.

Well, sort of. He thought, waking up to the new sensation, the fact that his hair almost wasn't long enough to do that not lost on him. Gradually he opened his eyes, the sight of another set of, abet unnaturally blue, eyes staring back at him not being a surprise.

Sherlock's response to his wakefulness, however, now that was a surprise. John froze in shock as the detective embraced him as much as the awkward hospital bed would allow, nearly lying on the bed with him and head laying near John's shoulder.

"Oh thank God." Sherlock breathed, almost inaudibly.

John let his eyes close again, smiling affectionately at the unusual sentiment. Oddly enough, his undamaged hand found enough strength to card through Sherlock's hair soothingly, letting his friend's comfort come first.

Sherlock sighed contently, finally feeling fully at peace. Of course. John…

-----

"Is he okay there?"

"He's fine. I've got him."