A HandA hand. Fingers. Carding through his hair.More Like This
His mind registered the sensation vaguely, world far too fuzzy, like the lining of one of John's comfiest looking jumpers. JohnHe breathed in slowly, letting the feeling of the fingers on his scalp fill his senses, overriding any signs of the possessive pain. John. Of course. It wasThe thought ended there, the comforting darkness covering him again.
It was an accident really, John mused.
Sherlock. The sight of him on the ground, eyes closed and in clear distress, in clear pain. There was nothing for it. John's brain instantly went into a state of instinct-based shock. It was in almost slow motion that his knees hit the ground next to his friend and only as his mind slowly came back to him did he realize that he was holding Sherlock's head, gently running his hand through the detective's hair. It felt just as John would have imagined, impossibly soft as the curls almost clung to his hand. For a moment that