A/N: Still getting used to writing again. Hope this doesn't suck too hard. I usually prefer to write from Sherlock's POV, so this was an interesting change. Enjoy!
brand new.
The hand slid onto his leg, slowly, quietly, sneaking up on him. John did not notice its approach until it was already placed against his jean clad limb. He glanced down, staring at the hand, eyes analyzing the slim fingers, all bone. Actually, most of Sherlock was bone, sharp angles here and there, awkward and yet so appealing. He did not tilt his head, not wanting to alert Sherlock to the fact that he did, in fact, have John's undivided attention.
It felt nice, having that solid pressure pressing against his body, reassuring somehow. He was well aware that it would not have felt so reassuring had it been anyone else's hand, it would have felt awkward, a violation. The doctor had no explanation for why it was different with him, different with this strange detective, all sharp angles and unyielding words, a flurry of ideas and deductions, a sharp wit as well. John quite liked that, even if most of the jokes were slightly demeaning and very often aimed in his general direction. They showed him something about Sherlock that the work never did, something that John very rarely saw, except a few moments when he would look in his friend's eyes and see a glint of something hidden, something protected, something sheltered. He cherished those moments, memorized the curve of Sherlock's lips, the flurry of electricity in his eyes, the furrow of his brow, the ghost of awareness in his voice. John locked those memories away.
John wondered to himself if he fancied Sherlock. It would explain a lot. He wouldn't mind if he did, he wasn't put off by the idea, he was merely curious. Being with Sherlock didn't feel like it felt to be with other people. How could it? How could he even compare when Sherlock was so unlike everyone else? He knew how it felt when he fancied somebody. This wasn't it. But that pressure on his leg, that warmth, that tight squeeze that sent shivers scurrying across his warm skin. If this meant nothing then why was he so aware? Why did he notice the precise moment when Sherlock had touched his leg? Why did he know that it had been exactly one minute and forty six seconds since he had felt the other man's touch? And why was he dreading its departure?
This was nothing like he'd ever felt before. Nothing he could compare against past experience, past result. Something new, pure, unique. Perhaps that's the way it should be.
John grinned, allowing the expression to flutter across his lips. Then, he leaned forward and placed his hand atop Sherlock's. His smile widened.
Brand new.
A/N: Thanks for reading! Please review.