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John could tell you in detail the account of every time Sherlock had let his fingers brush against John’s during the first six months of their acquaintance.
The first time, it hadn’t been just a brush. Sherlock had just finished his first Vulcan hologram array, and, as promised, he took John to test it. That day, he had reached for John’s hand unthinkingly grasping it in a gesture so intimate and nearly overwhelming to the vulcan. Not because of the physicality of it, no, John was used to a degree of physical contact, having spent so much time around humans and the other various races in the federation. No, what had nearly overwhelmed him in that moment was the intense glee and anticipation that lurked just beneath Sherlock’s skin. It was practically tangible for those few moments before Sherlock reacted to John’s shock and took his hand away.
That was the only time Sherlock held his hand in those first few months. The other times John had been cataloging had started as accidents. Fingers brushing his as they worked in the lab, or when he handed over paperwork. Then they began to eat meals together, and John had a hard time convincing himself Sherlock didn’t know exactly what he was doing.Their fingers would brush as he was handed a cup of tea, or when he was reaching for something from the replicator, and they started to last longer. Long enough John could feel trepidation leaking through that point of contact.
Trepidation and something more underneath. Something that made John want to linger there, regardless of how dark a shade of green John’s ears turned. Something that made John want to project, to ask, to reach out and let his fingertips do more than just ghost over Sherlock’s. Something that made him want to press the pads of their fingers together, and let Sherlock see the jumble of emotions John worked so hard to hide when the betazoid was around.
John could tell you in detail about each one of those countless times, the stepping stones to the moment when Sherlock turned to ask him something and John was waiting, cheeks and ears flushed green, his hand outstretched, his fingers presented as an offering. It had been worth it for the look of surprise on Sherlock’s face, the reverent way he pressed his fingers to John, and the rush of emotions and thoughts that collided from their minds at that one point of contact.
John went weak in the knees, practically falling into Sherlock’s arms as wave over wave of emotion washed through him. There was the care he felt for Sherlock, the worry over his well being John never could quite hide, the wonder at Sherlock’s intelligence, and the most overwhelming thing: the desire for Sherlock that John had been building up over the months. He wanted to put it into words, all the things Sherlock meant to him, but he couldn’t, not in this moment when every wave of emotion that rolled off him was met with an equally strong one from Sherlock, each wave building off the other until John wasn’t quite sure he’d ever be able to fully separate them in his mind, or that he would ever want to.
Sherlock’s lips pressed softly against John’s and in that moment, their hands still intertwined, John knew he had a new category of touch to file away, to memorize the accounts of.