My hand wasn't made for much. It had very few useful actions. When my gun sat in it, tight and steady, I felt at ease. Comfort was something that was lacking in my life after the war let me go. Holding it out before me now, watching the cabbie pushing a bottle across the table towards Sherlock, I knew my place and my job and my importance. As I squeezed the trigger towards myself, I didn't regret it at all even when I saw the spurt of red blood. Letting the gun fall, I became semi-useless again- so I walked away, bouncing the shell casing in my palm.

I found a new and interesting use, one that kept my hand from shaking even though there was no danger in it. Tea making. Well all right, as long as I didn't touch any of Sherlock's experiments there was no danger in it. But tea was simple and a pleasure. Also, Sherlock enjoyed it. Isn't it funny how the act of pleasing someone else could be calm and reassuring? Maybe it was just pleasing him.

My hand was useless when it came to those damnable self-use check outs. How a machine can best a man so stubbornly, so completely, and so often I do not understand. What I do know is that no matter how my hand attempted to work the thing, it seemed to protest louder each time. Beating on it also only helped to earn me a bruise on the edge of my hand and some lofty looks from other, more sensible people with hands that could work the machines.

I did not expect my hand to be useful with so personal an affection to Sherlock as examining bodies at the crimes he'd deemed most interesting. But what did I know? He had me bend over the bodies, testing this or looking at that and my hand was busy. It was doing something, creating a way for Sherlock to think.

And then my hand found a use for others. I became the person who returned what Sherlock had stolen. D.I. cards, wallets, keys, anything that Sherlock could get a hold on when someone rightly pissed him off. All but Sherlock appreciated this use. In fact, he told me to stuff it one day, and find a better use for my hand. Upon inquiring what, I found a much better use. Probably my favorite use.

I found that my hand trembled in a desirable fashion as Sherlock had me trace that curve from the bottom of his ribcage to round the hill of his hipbone. The trail of pale skin was remarkably silken there and my fingers never grew tired of marking that space as 'mine'.