Disclaimer: Sherlock and John aren't mine, I'm just borrowing them. I promise to feed them and take them for walks and give them back when I'm done.
This fic is FALL-compliant.
Thanks for reading.
John finds the handcuffs in his jacket later That Day when he finally returns to Baker Street, the restraints he slipped in his pocket at Kitty Reilly's flat.
The circles of cold metal clink in his palm, the brittle jangle echoing in the silence of the flat. His skin prickles with the memory of the cuff around his wrist, the pull of the chain, the solid warmth of Sherlock's hand in his as they ran together through the amber, glowing night.
He pinches his fingers together, the echo of fine wool brushing against his flesh. The slip of bare wrist against bare wrist whispers over him; pale, soft skin stroking weathered and steady.
Slowly, he locks both of the cuffs around his right wrist, twin bands of silver snug against his skin, the solid weight encircling him. He leaves them on for weeks, the clink of metal swishing around him, filling the emptiness, the skin underneath turning smooth and shiny from wear.
On the nights when he wakes screaming, his dreams filled with blood and bones and silver eyes blown still, he caresses the cuffs with his fingers, tracing every wrinkle and scrape as he tugs softly on the chain, again, and again, and again.