A/N: Just a short little one-shot I found hidden in my documents folder on my computer. Let me know what you think! Reviews are love!
What was it about John Watson's touch that would startle Sherlock out of his sleep? The damp, warm hand that grasped his own; searching, longing for a pulse and never finding one. The warmth would linger on Sherlock's hand long after they wheeled him away. In the two years he was dismantling Moriarty's web, he often contemplated his wrist. The places that John had touched, a solid grip, yet gentle enough not to hurt. A touch that Sherlock knew could heal, or take a life.
Touch.
It was something that Sherlock took for granted, until the fall, when he realized that one touch could break him, reduce him into a mere human and not the thinking machine he had thought of himself. Most certainly not the hero that John had made him out to be. There was something in the lingering touches of other humans that Sherlock started to find fascinating. Especially since he had been back. Mrs. Hudson placed her hand on his shoulder, or his arm whenever she had the opportunity and the touch made him feel grounded. It was a motherly touch. Lestrade was never the touchy-feely type, maybe a clap on the shoulder, or the crushing hug that he gave when Sherlock presented himself again after two years, but that was it. Molly never touched him, and he never touched Molly, except for the two kisses.
Sherlock held his hand up in the dim light of his room. It was only a shadow, but he could see the outline, and amazingly still feel the weight of John's grip on his wrist, even after three years. He thought about the many times he had broken into John's personal space and the man never winced, or backed away. It was like he was daring Sherlock to come closer, let's see who breaks first in the personal space game. Sherlock realized after a while that it came from being a soldier, and in that respect he wondered what kind of touch could break John? He wondered if he had ever touched John in the way that John had touched him, leaving a lingering presence. He thought about how John's skin felt, warm, soft, wet from Sherlock's kisses...
Sherlock took a deep breath and turned over onto his belly, adjusting himself in the process, willing his excitement to calm.
He hated himself for thinking about John this way when he was away on his honeymoon, being touched by Mary, the way he wanted to touch John.
Sherlock was addicted to John. He knew in his own way, John was addicted to him as well; addicted to danger, addicted to adventure.
He stared at his hand again in the darkness.
Sherlock was addicted to John. He was addicted to the emotions that John made him feel for the first time in his life, Sherlock felt pain, he felt agony, he felt sadness, he felt defeat and happiness, elation, warmth, and the most deadliest of them all: Sentiment.