A/N: Idea based off of the Bond touch module bracelet. If you don't know what that is, look it up it's cool. I own nothing. Enjoy some feels. -Classi G.
With A Touch
He knew.
They had dragged him away from the scene, a bright orange shock blanket draped loosely over his shoulders and a multitude of sympathetic and pitying looks from friends and strangers alike. They tried talking to him, to reason him into coming out of his introverted state. He ignored them. Really, they were all idiots, in the end. Blind idiots. He wasn't in shock, nor denial, nor was or grieving. He just knew something they didn't. Still, he continued to play along, as he knew he should.
He planned and attended a funeral, noticing a specific lack of British Government. He knew better than to expect the presence of the Ice Man. After all, he undoubtedly knew as well, so the event would have no meaning to him, no point or purpose. Mrs. Hudson cried, Lestrade just looked sad and regretful, the kind of sadness and regret that stays with a man for a good long while. They didn't know. Molly Hooper cried and offered an endless stream of apologies and condolences, but the entire time there was something in her eyes. She knew. No family came. They knew.
He continued on with his life. People trying to get through to him, trying to make him realize that this wasn't healthy, that he needed to let go. He brushed them aside. If only they knew. The flat remained blissfully unchanged, due in part to his own stubbornness and in part to Mycroft, who always made sure everything was paid for and taken care of.
Quickly he found himself developing a new habit. Wherever he was, whenever his emotions began to become too much for him to handle, he'd run a finger over the small bracelet on his wrist. Sometimes this would yield results, mostly it didn't. Still it was enough to keep him going. The bracelet had been a strange gift at first, with its giver insisting upon him wearing it at all times. Now he was more grateful for it than anything else, since that day. He didn't understand it's significance at first. Now he did. Now he knew.
The day that his best friend committed suicide in front of him should've been the worst day of his life. He should've been left shocked and hurt and grieving and with a thousand things left forever unsaid. But it wasn't, he wasn't. Instead, he had a lingering bit of anger, and a lasting feeling of hope. He was left with a hundred unspoken promises, and an unshakable feeling that he was indeed loved.
Because the day of the jump, the fall, John Watson's wrist had vibrated persistently, lighting up various colors as a simple message was delivered to him. Sherlock Holmes was not dead, and was to return to him, be with him, in every way imaginable.
With a touch, he knew.