Touch
Disclaimer - I don't own any of the characters or any of that jazz.
Summary - The difference is subtle in description, vast in actuality.
A/N - Feel free to sing that cotton jingle in your head (or out loud..) throughout...I know I did :P
"Sherlock, what are you doing?" Watson asked, having walked into the room intent on asking him if he knew anything about the longevity of Ladybugs, only to see him shirtless and cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by an array of seemingly random items. Suffice it to say, she was both intrigued and entirely confused; a common combo in the Holmes-Watson household.
"Feeling, Watson." Was his only response, eyes closed, right arm outstretched toward a piece of fabric.
"Feeling. Care to elaborate?" She asked, walking closer to see what exactly he was doing.
Removing his hand from the swatch of fabric and opening his eyes, he looked at Watson and sighed; obviously perturbed at the interruption, but knowing that this was a moment he needed to take.
"In our line of work, Watson, we are called upon to decipher clues and rely heavily upon our senses to do so. The smell of onions, for example, could lead us to the stall of a local grower at the farmer's market; the sight of a particular color of paint could be an indicator of a certain type of vehicle to pursue; the taste of a spice, or other less appetizing substance, might bring us to the kitchen of a murderous chef...I think you see my point, Watson." He finished, closed his eyes again, and reached again for the swatch of fabric.
"So...you're honing...what? Your sense of touch?" Brows raised, tone light.
"I'm feeling, Watson, not touching." Slightly frustrated. "To touch is to briefly encounter with minimal transfer of information; to feel, however, is to study...to know an object, a person. Feeling is as much about physical contact as it is about mental and emotional connections; to quote teenaged girls on the internet 'OMG, the feels'." The last bit was done with such flare that Watson couldn't help but laugh.
"Ok, I think I get it. We touch hundreds of things everyday, but probably wouldn't be able to recognize a particular one in a lineup if we had to. By exercising this...muscle, you are teaching your mind to catalogue certain attributes of the things you touch." As she spoke, she knelt down on the floor next to him, picking up and examining one of the swatches of fabric among the items.
"Precisely, Watson! Here, let me show you how it's done." He extended his hand to her, waiting.
Hesitantly at first, she reached toward him, shoulders shrugging in a what-the-hell sort of way. Once she was seated next to him, he took her right hand gently into his left, turned it palm down with his palm flat against the top of her hand.
"Close your eyes, Watson." His voice was low, insistent. With her face turned towards his, brows furrowed, questioning, she did.
"We'll start with an easy one…" He selected one of the objects in front of them with his right hand and brought it to rest on his left knee. "Here, block out everything else; just feel.", he guided her hand underneath his over to where the object rested. She flexed her fingers lightly, still under the pressure of his hand atop her own. She tried to concentrate on the texture, smooth but not entirely without contours; it was cool to the touch, but was warming quickly beneath her fingers. She traced the outline of the object, rounded on one end….
"SHERLOCK!" She popped her eyes open, jerked her hand out from under his, and gave him a look straight out of Mrs. Manners' Guide to Being a Mother (if such a book were to exist). "I cannot believe you chose a condom for me to 'practice' with!" She half whispered the word, as if somebody, aside from Clyde, were there to overhear.
"I'm surprised at you, Watson. Not necessarily that you would guess condom, although I'm not exactly sure how much exposure to those you've had of late, but that you wouldn't check before guessing! You've opened your eyes, perhaps you should use them." He gestured toward the object, still laying on his knee.
"A glove." Embarrassed. Deflated.
"Yes, Watson, a glove. Though your instincts were correct, re: latex, your emotions clouded your judgement. You guessed before you felt. Shall we try again? Or will you just cheat and accuse me of some other social faux pas?" Hand outstretched again, eyes inviting her to continue playing this game with him.
Cheeks still flushed slightly, she took his hand again, eyes closed. This time, instead of placing an object on his leg, he guided her arm over to one of the bigger pieces in the assortment. Not relinquishing control, he kept a light, but firm, grip on her hand, allowing for only the lightest of contact with the object of inquiry. With the tips of her fingers, Watson could feel a smooth and hard surface; metallic? she wasn't sure. It was cold to the touch, not at all the same feel as the glove from before; it was large, about the size of a cantaloupe. After going over the entirety of the object with her hand beneath his, Sherlock let go, leaving her hand alone to rest atop it.
"What are your thoughts?" He asked, quietly.
Her eyes remained closed, fingers still brushing back and forth over the top of the object. "I recognize the material, steel? Some sort of metal, I know. There are rivets where, I believe, fabric of some kind was once attached, though there are no traces of that fabric now. Is it an old army helmet?"
"See for yourself." She could hear the stifled smile in his tone. She opened her eyes to see her hand resting on the top curve of a dark green, metal, WWII era helmet. She smiled.
"Not bad, Watson! With practice, I think you'll do even better at this than I do," he held up his hands, wiggling his fingers in the air, "callouses.", he explained.
"Could we try again?" She asked, eyes alight at the prospect of becoming better at something investigative in nature than Sherlock.
The corners of his mouth twitched upwards as he extended his hand once again towards her.
The game continued on, Watson taking over as guide after a few more successful turns, the objects getting more and more vague as they went; an uncooked spaghetti noodle, a piece of petrified lettuce from Clyde's tank, Clyde himself.
When Watson correctly identified the exact pattern of the sock Sherlock had randomly chosen from his collection, he beamed with pride; his sober-companion turned apprentice was doing him proud.
"You know, Watson," he began, looking at the just-identified honeycomb designed sock, "I don't always tell you how proud I am. How proud you make me feel. Your successes are my successes, somehow, just as my successes have become yours." He looked up, catching her eyes with his. "When you came here, I didn't think I needed you; I don't think you believed you needed me, either. The more we work together, though, the more I think...the more I think we both needed exactly the other. You teaching me how to deal with things other than with drugs and anger, and I teaching you how to see the world in a little bit different of a way. Neither of us really knew what we were getting when my father hired you on," he laughed lightly, "BUT, despite my general dislike of the man, I cannot fathom the debt I now owe to him for sending you to me."
He held the sock up for a moment, gesturing with it towards the stairs, smiled and then quickly popped up off the ground, and headed towards his room, sock in hand. Watson was left, as she often was, feeling both extremely elated at the latest Sherlock-ian revelation, and confused by his rapid departure.
Another day, another mystery. Life in the Brownstone was never stagnant.