Reaching out
This is my first story posted to Archive of our Own
The first time it happened, John was in Uni. He was taking a walk around campus in between classes when he felt his right hand begin unconsciously reaching out to some unknown companion. When it returned to John’s side empty handed, John felt a strange sensation in his hand, as if the hand shouldn’t be empty. As if something was missing.
John stopped briefly and stared at his hand for a bit before shaking his head and moving on. Perhaps he just needed a new girlfriend.
~o~o~o~
Over a hundred miles away, Sherlock tried cocaine for the first time. He knew and understood the risks, but at least it was interesting.
As the drug took on it’s desired affect, Sherlock’s left hand reached out, searching for something.
~o~o~o~
The second time it happened, John was in Afghanistan. In between running towards wounded soldiers and trying to not get shot John felt his right hand once again reaching out for somebody. He turned to look behind him but found no one. His hand once again felt empty, as if someone should have been running beside him.
John cleared his head and tugged his hand towards his chest. He didn’t have time to dwell on the feeling, he had to save lives.
~o~o~o~
Over a thousands miles away, Sherlock tried cocaine for the last time. Though he was always careful, he was desperate for the high that made the world interesting. He lost track of what he put into his blood stream and accidentally overdosed.
As darkness began to filter in, his left hand reached out for some unknown comfort.
~o~o~o~
The third time it happened John wasn’t expecting the hand to still feel empty. After all he was holding on to Sarah’s hand. But the grip was awkward and Sarah kept unclasping her hand to gesture at things.
After John left Sarah at her doorstep, he glared down at his hand, unhappy that it was unsatisfied.
~o~o~o~
A few blocks away, Sherlock came out of his mind palace and reached out on the couch, but found that what ever he was looking for wasn’t there.
~o~o~o~
The fourth time it happened it was wonderful and scary at the same time. After all, running from the police while handcuffed should never be a happy occasion. But as Sherlock shouted “Take my hand,” and John did so, a pleasant feeling began to course through his hand and up to his heart.
The emotion came unexpectedly and surprised John. In shock he let go of Sherlock’s hand and took hold of his sleeve instead. John figured that he would have time later to sort out what ever emotion that was, and to see if it could be replicated.
Little did he know that in a few short hours, his chances of replicating the event dropped to zero.
~o~o~o~
Three years later after the fourth incident, John was sitting on a bench in the local park. He came here to clear his head. It had been three years since Sherlock’s fall, and everything still felt empty, including his hand.
As he sat on the park bench, he noticed his right hand had unconsciously shifted and was not on top of another hand. This hand belonged to another person who John hadn’t realized had taken the empty seat next to him.
John turned, embarrassed at his hand’s wandering tendencies. Then he caught a glance of prominent cheekbones, then of light gray eyes, then of dark hair just beginning to curl. The person’s face turned and John felt his gaze get caught in that of the one and only Sherlock Holmes.
“John.” Sherlock whispered.
John sat on the bench, contemplating punching the man, making sure this time to hit the nose and teeth. Instead his hand decided his actions for him as it clasped Sherlock’s tightly.
Sherlock merely turned his hand over and laced his fingers through John’s. “John, I’m sorry.”
In answer, John squeezed Sherlock’s hand. He may still be angry and confused, but he knew that neither his hand nor his heart would ever feel empty again, as long as Sherlock kept holding his hand.