Sherlock has always thought, despite knowing the illogicality of it, that holding hands was one of the sweetest gestures that could ever be made. People do everything with their hands and they're worn with the life that you've lived. Linking hands with someone is like weaving your lives together, it's sweet and innocent, but full of promise.

He told me that this is what Sherlock has always thought.

I hold Sherlock's hand sometimes, his long, graceful fingers entwined with my calloused ones. His large soft palm resting against my hardened one.

Sometimes when he covers my hand with his, it feels as if he is trying to protect me.

Sometimes when he senses that I'm uneasy or worried he takes my hand as if to encourage me.

The first time we held hands was when we were walking through the park. We were on route to somewhere, it slips my mind where, and seeing as we always go by cab I persuaded him to walk with me.

There were trees on our right, quivering with the cold wind of winter, after being stripped of their leaves. The sky was turning orange, looking as if almost on fire.

I could see Sherlock's breath forming a cloud of mist in front of his face every time he breathed out.

I could see that his nose was flushing with the ice in the air.

We were walking side my side and my hand brushed against his. He reached out and grabbed my hand, entwined our fingers together and looked at me seeking approval. A small smile played on his lips and the least I could do was break out into a grin.

We spent the rest of the walk in comfortable silence with our hands linked together.

It was the day after when he told me what he's always thought about holding hands.