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At first, Sherlock doesn’t know how to react. So he doesn’t. He stands perfectly still, holds his breath, doesn’t even blink as he feels that hand, so warm and calloused, but still somehow soft, slide over his own. Their palms press for a few seconds, almost like John was asking for permission, and finds a ‘yes’ somewhere in Sherlock’s silence.
It’s amazing, Sherlock thinks, how perfectly their hands fit together. How easily their fingers interlock, despite the size difference. Sherlock’s hands are long and pale, John’s shorter and tanned from years exposed in the sun; it’s then that Sherlock fully comprehends that opposites attract.
Their fingers slot together. John squeezes lightly, so lightly it might not have even happened, but Sherlock’s too perceptive for that, he feels every small movement, not just of John’s hand, but his pulse too, and the nervous fidgeting of John’s body. With that simple barely-there squeeze, Sherlock finally relaxes. He let out the breath he had been holding, he lets his eyes slip shut, and he lets himself squeeze John’s hand in return.