((Author's Note: This story is a compilation of the drabbles I wrote for the 30 Day OTP Challenge on Tumblr. Each day's challenge will be at the top of the drabble, along with any author's notes I felt it necessary to include when I published on Tumblr.

As ever, recognizable characters don't belong to me (damn the luck), I merely borrow them for my own amusement while waiting for the next season of Sherlock to be filmed and delivered into our hot little hands.))

Day 1: Holding Hands

John was exhausted. After a week of little to no sleep chasing after his flatmate as Sherlock chased a serial killer across London, he wasn't entirely sure he'd remember his name if asked. He sat on the stoop, his face buried in his hands, trying to gather enough strength to get to the street and a cab home. That was assuming he'd be able to climb the stairs without falling when he got there.

"John." Sherlock's voice broke through the muzzy fog surrounding his mind, and he looked up at his friend, who was hovering over him. The detective's eyes were sparkling, filled with the hectic light that always came when he was working on a case. In that state, Sherlock didn't need sleep or food or anything else a normal person needed. John was quite sure Sherlock was able to live on adrenaline, tea and nicotine patches when he was on a case, something that wasn't exactly healthy. But at least Sherlock was able to stay on his feet, unlike John.

"John?" Oh, right, Sherlock had been talking to him, and John was staring at him like an idiot.

"Yeah, Sherlock, I hear you." John put a hand on the rail next to him and tried to haul himself to his feet. He just didn't have the strength to get his legs under him, which might be a bit of a problem when the cab actually arrived.

"Come on, John," Sherlock urged when John wasn't on his feet as fast as the detective could like.

"Unlike some people, I can't go for a week without sleep and bounce right back," John grumbled. "I'm older than you, Sherlock, and I can't drink adrenaline with my coffee."

Sherlock tipped his head to one side, studying John as if he were some new kind of specimen spread on his dissection table. "If you needed sleep, why didn't you say so?"

"Because I wouldn't miss the fun for the world, more fool me," John said, rubbing at his face with both hands and shaking his head.

Cool leather touched one of John's hands, long fingers wrapping around John's cold fingers. John looked up in surprise, realizing Sherlock was taking his hand and pulling it away from his face. "You can't fall asleep on the stoop of a murderer," Sherlock said, sounding entirely too reasonable for one o'clock in the morning. "The press will take pictures, and you'll die of mortification."

"The press, yeah," John said, blinking a few times. Sherlock's hand was wrapped around his, unusual strength in the slender fingers. From years of playing the violin, he supposed. The leather warmed in his hand, going from cold and slightly brittle to supple and soft with warmth. For the first time, John found himself wondering what Sherlock's hand felt like, uncovered by that leather glove. He blinked again and shook his head as he used Sherlock as a counterweight and the rail as a support. "Yeah, let's get out of here. Is the cab here?"

"The cab's been here for five minutes, John." Sherlock sounded far too amused for John's mental health. "With the meter running, I might add. Goodness, you are out of it, aren't you?"

"You could say that," John muttered. Sherlock shook his head with an amused little smile, but kept a good hold on John's hand until they reached the cab and John had something solidly metallic to lean against as he slid along the body of the car and into the door. He landed sideways on the backseat, but managed to right himself before Sherlock climbed in the other side.

"Your mate all right?" the cab driver asked Sherlock as the cab pulled away.

"I'm fine," John growled, fully able to speak for himself. "It's just been a long bloody week, and I'm sick to death of cabs and running all over hell and back again. I want a hot mug of tea, and I want my pajamas, and I want my bed."

Silence descended over the cab for a moment before Sherlock said, with his usual bone-dry humor, "And that's that."

John burst out laughing, and Sherlock joined in with his low chuckle, effectively dispelling the tension in the small area. John sighed and relaxed, resting his head against the cold window. The killer lived all the way across London from Baker Street, so they had a bit of a ride ahead of them. That was just fine by the exhausted doctor. Maybe he could catch a nap on the way.

Of course, his mind was too wound up to let him relax enough to nap. Sherlock had done all the mental heavy lifting, but John had done better than his share of the legwork. He thought he would call out of the clinic tomorrow, to give him a chance to sleep and recover. He glanced at Sherlock, who was looking out the window. The detective looked like he was already starting to slump into his post-case depression, which could cause anything from days of lethargy to holes being shot in the wall. All things being equal, John would take the sullen silences over the scare he got every time Sherlock got a hold of his gun.

His eyes went to the gloved hand, currently cupped under the pointed chin as Sherlock tapped his fingers against his jawline. He was tapping out a rhythm of some sort, probably whatever tune was running through his head at the moment. If he followed his usual pattern, he'd unwind in his way by playing the violin for hours after getting home. 'Just as well I still have my shooting earplugs,' John thought. But the thought was affectionate, tempered by the knowledge that they both had their ways of relaxing after a taxing case.

Later, John would blame his exhaustion for what happened next. In a normal frame of mind, he would have never touched Sherlock when the detective was sinking into his depression, nor would he have dared to take Sherlock's wrist and draw his hand toward him. Sherlock turned to look at the doctor, his eyebrows arched questioningly, but John ignored the unspoken question, another first for him.

John held Sherlock's hand in front of him, examining the glove and how it fit the lean fingers. Oddly, Sherlock didn't say anything, no objection or startled question; he remained still and silent, watching John from under a curl that had fallen across his forehead.

The glove fit Sherlock well; John suspected it had been made specifically for him by an actual glover, the sort of thing only the rich could do. Another silent sign of the wealthy family Sherlock chose to ignore, along with the elegant wool coat that cost twelve hundred pounds if it cost a penny and the fine shoes Sherlock used to chase criminals across London. The man wore some of the most expensive clothing John had ever seen, including that ridiculous dressing gown, but he wore all of it carelessly, obviously not thinking twice about actual expenses.

Once he'd examined the actual glove to his heart's content, John slipped his fingers under the cuff and carefully peeled it off Sherlock's skin. A part of him expected Sherlock to protest the action, but the detective didn't say a word. John leaned over and put the glove in Sherlock's lap, then froze as the rest of his brain caught up with the part that had been in a sort of autopilot until that very second. He looked up at Sherlock, who was watching him with those light blue-green eyes. There was something in Sherlock's expression, a look of wary expectation, that gave John pause.

They stayed there a moment, Sherlock's wrist warm in John's hand, before the detective cleared his throat. "An experiment?" he asked.

John seized on that explanation with relief, knowing "it's an experiment" covered a multitude of Sherlock's sins; why shouldn't he use the same excuse when caught with his brain out to dry? "Yeah, yeah," he said, a little too quickly as he released Sherlock's wrist like it was a hot stone. "Just…just an experiment."

"Did you find what you were looking for?"

An odd way to phrase the question, John thought, and he hesitated. Because he hadn't, not really. The goal had been to see what Sherlock's hand felt like without the glove, and while he'd held Sherlock's wrist, that didn't really count.

"No?" Sherlock asked. He extended his hand, all elegant aplomb, not unlike the noble ladies in the movies who expected to have their hands kissed. "Then find whatever you were looking for so you can put your mind at rest."

"That's all right…" John began, but stopped when Sherlock twitched his fingers impatiently.

"Be a scientist, John, and follow your hypothesis to whatever end it leads."

John looked at Sherlock for a long moment, unable to read his friend's face at all. Sherlock had a way of shutting down all expression, leaving him looking like a calm, expectant wax doll. John looked down at the offered hand, then shrugged and took it in his.

Sherlock's hand was about what he expected from someone who never had to work a day in his life. The palm was soft and smooth, with the occasional chemical mark on his fingertips from the work he'd done in the lab for this case. But then, Sherlock usually had some kind of mark on the tips of his fingers, either from doodling something idly in the dust, or mixing chemicals, or grease and blood from one of his many experiments. John blinked; he hadn't realized he'd noticed so much about his friend's hands before that moment. He was holding Sherlock's left hand, and as he turned the palm to face up toward the ceiling, he saw the callouses from the violin strings, so much a part of Sherlock's hand it seemed they must have been there from the moment he was born.

Sherlock often commented upon people's hands, saying each hand told more about someone's life story than the whole of a person's body. It struck John then how much Sherlock trusted him, to put his life story into John's hands. Or maybe Sherlock was giving him a chance to deduce what he could, using Sherlock's methods. That thought was a bit intimidating, but John shrugged it off. He wasn't Sherlock; he couldn't see the world like the consulting detective did. But he could and did use his own years of training to observe details pertaining to his own area of expertise.

In very brief, John found Sherlock's hands, with the shaped nails and chemical stains, calloused fingertips and soft palms, oddly appealing. There was strength and beauty in the sleek lines and smooth muscles. John shook his head, releasing Sherlock's hand and leaning back against the window. "Sorry," he said.

"For what?" Sherlock asked. "Something clearly aroused your curiosity; I see nothing to be sorry for in that." He smiled, his white teeth flashing in the passing street lights. "God knows I spend enough time poking where people don't want me."

John had to concede that was the truth; Sherlock had a knack for getting his nose into things he shouldn't know about. He watched as the detective tapped his bare fingers against his thigh, clearly lost in his own thoughts again. John wondered, not for the first time, where Sherlock's mind went when he got that distant look in his eyes. He looked so lonely, a marble statue reflected in the dark window as street lights flashed by. Even in a moment of triumph, something set him apart from the rest of the world, only able to observe everyone else's joy without experiencing more than the satisfaction of a job well done.

A wave of sympathetic sorrow swept through John, and he acted on impulse again, taking Sherlock's bare hand in his.

"Yes, John?" Sherlock's voice didn't sound particularly surprised, just drained as the hectic excitement faded away.

"Nothing," John said. He could have made a million and one excuses for why he was holding Sherlock's hand, but the short version was the simplest: after a week of the chase, he wanted human contact, and Sherlock was the closest thing to human contact he had.

"All right." Sherlock's hand tightened around John's, a surprising show of affection for the coldly aloof detective. John covered his smile with the collar of his coat; clearly, Sherlock needed the contact as well, though he'd never admit it out loud.

They continued holding hands all the way back to Baker Street, surrounded by a comfortable bubble of silence. The cabbie shot them an inquisitive look in the rear view mirror once or twice, but didn't comment. That was probably best for him, since John was too tired to have his usual polite filter in place.

When they got home, Sherlock took John's hand as they exited the cab and helped him up the stairs without a word. They bid each other good night on the landing outside the sitting room, and John climbed the last flight of stairs to his room alone. He flopped onto his bed, only stopping long enough to shed his shoes and coat, and cuddled a pillow against his chest as he started to drop off.

As he began slipping into sleep, he realized that Sherlock's outdoor clothing was armor for him, protecting what was slender and vulnerable. The swishy, dramatic coat with the popped collar and the scarf protected his neck and brain from the world around him. Not to mention he looked taller and a bit bulkier with the coat (skinny git needed all the help he could get). And the well-made leather gloves? They protected those delicate fingers, helped keep sensation from the outside world to a manageable level. 'And he let me take one off,' John thought. He wondered about that until the second he fell asleep.