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His Hands

His were pale, long fingered, and bony, exactly like the rest of him. There were small burns and nicks from experiments, but all in all, they we generally unmarked. His usage of gloves had protected him from callouses during cases, which left his hands soft in the end.

But John's were a different story.

They weren't overly large like his. No, they fit perfectly in proportion to his body. Like he had noticed, they were tanned from war. Even during the bitter winter, they were still a slight shade darker than his forearm. But it's not like anyone besides him would notice.

There was only one significant scar on his hands, the right one actually. It was a thin white line running from the side of his index finger to his first knuckle. It was another minute detail most didn't see, or even bother looking for really. But he had seen it one day while John was stirring his tea, the silvery scar tissue shimmering against the unmarked skin.

It happened when he first began using surgical tools in university. A few of his other classmates were surprised when they nicked the bladder of the practice pig. One backed into him, knocking him into the table and toppling his mayo cart. In a scramble to catch the instruments, he found the wrong end of the prepared blade. It was purely accidental really.

Years of rugby gave John's hands callouses, war only thickening the skin more. The rough cover lined his fingertip pads and reached down to the tops of his palms. To feel those patches brush over his skin wasn't anywhere near unpleasant. It made white fire dance up his spine. John's touch was gentle, lightly skimming the surface in search for a place to grab. Once he found purchase amongst the flesh, those labored hands would grip him. It was strong, habit from his childhood, but light enough not to leave marks. They were practiced hands of various talents.

It reminded him daily of exactly what John was.




But it was the steadiness to the set that really proved his worth in a tight spot.

It was the way that John could hold a gun. No matter the type, the grip always sat perfectly in his palm. By reflex, his fingers would wrap themselves around the covered metal and wait for the perfect moment. The single moment John would have lined his sight up with his target, flicked off the safety, and squeezed the trigger. Another flawless shot.

John would always be his soldier.

And every night those worn hands would smooth over his body and pull him close, allowing Sherlock to find a warm spot in which to snuggle.

And all night, those hands would hold him close.

And in the morning, they would be the hands keeping him in the bed as John slept on.

And he would never complain.

Hope you enjoyed it. Thanks for reading.