Written for an LJ prompt requesting John and Sherlock holding hands in a comforting, non-romantic way. It was also supposed to be non-sappy, but I failed at that part.

Reviews are loved and adored, as always.

When John got to the crime scene the police and ambulances were already there, everything back under Scotland Yard's strict control. John hadn't even known about this case until Lestrade had called to let him know Sherlock was fine. There had been a bit of a fight, he said, Sherlock had a few bruises and cracked ribs, but he had come out miraculously fine, considering the notorious killer he was up against. He was quite lucky to be alive, in fact.

John's heart had nearly stopped. He cursed Sherlock silently the whole ride to the scene. How could he do something like this on his own? Then again, it wasn't surprising in the least, Sherlock was always taking matters into his own hands. But John thought his idiotic flatmate could have at least called him for backup. He had to know John would have dropped everything to come along.

By the time he arrived he was ready to ream Sherlock out for his irresponsibility, his selfishness, his stupidity, and a dozen other unflattering adjectives he had come up with on the ride.

But then he saw Sherlock, standing in the shadows at the edge of the scene, watching the crews work with a blank look of detachment. John's anger subsided somewhat as he approached.

He stood next to Sherlock silently, observing, waiting for an explanation or reassurance or an apology, he wasn't sure what.

"I'm fine." Sherlock said, preempting John's questions. He didn't even turn to acknowledge him, still watching the scene.

The darkening bruise on his cheek said otherwise. "You're obviously not fine, Sherlock, you were nearly killed." It took all of John's self-control to keep his voice subdued. He didn't want to push his friend after he'd been through so much, but he wasn't about to be dismissed so easily either. This wasn't just an everyday mistake, like leaving the milk out or storing body parts in the fridge. "Fine" just wouldn't cut it.

"Thank you for pointing out the obvious, doctor. But it's not like it's the first time. You should know that." Sherlock's voice was bored, as if they were discussing the weather, rather than his most recent brush with death.

John did know that, rather intimately, in fact. He'd been there for more than a few of those incidents. And he knew that usually Sherlock shook off the experience with deliberate indifference. But for some reason this time seemed different. He could tell Sherlock was shaken more than he would let on.

John sighed. There wasn't much use for words with someone as deliberately obtuse as Sherlock Holmes. Different tactics were called for.

"Oh, shut up, just give me your—" John reached down and took one of Sherlock's hands in his own, holding it tightly in case Sherlock tried to wriggle free.

Sherlock's brow furrowed in confusion. "What are you doing?" He looked down at their connected hands, studying them like a curious piece of evidence, waiting for them to reveal their secret and possibly nefarious designs.

"Holding your hand. Obviously," John added with a slightly self-satisfied smirk. It wasn't often that Sherlock was the one asking the obvious questions.

Sherlock sighed in exasperation. "Yes, I can see that, what I meant was why are you doing such a ridiculous thing?"

John shifted awkwardly. It had seemed like a good idea, but maybe he had miscalculated. This didn't seem like the kind of thing he should have to explain, it was a gesture even children understood instinctively. But with Sherlock things were never easy.

"It's what people do, Sherlock, you know, when they need comfort. Support."

Sherlock nearly sneered at those words, that mocking look that said he was above such petty human feelings. "Thank you for the gesture, but I do not need comfort. I'm not a child." He spat the word like it left a bad taste in his mouth. He attempted to pull his hand away, but John held on tighter, his jaw set in determination.

"Yes, Sherlock, you do. You may not know it, but you do. No one faces near death and comes away fine. Not even a high-functioning sociopath." He emphasized those last words and Sherlock could hear the sarcasm behind his calm tone. He would have responded with something equally biting, but the look in John's eyes told Sherlock that this was somehow urgently important. They weren't just talking about Sherlock's misadventure anymore. John was speaking from experience.

Maybe this was something John needed, then, Sherlock deduced. He still didn't quite understand, but he stopped struggling. He didn't think it could hurt, anyway.

John accepted this silence as acquiescence. He squeezed tighter, hoping his hand could convey the message that his words clearly couldn't. He knew what Sherlock was feeling, that painful mix of relief and fear that threatened to pull you under if you didn't have an anchor to hold on to. Thinking about the possibility of Sherlock being hurt made him feel the same. And while Sherlock may appear perfectly normal to anyone else, John could sense the tenseness of his body, still primed to fight or flee, and just the barest trace of a tremor in the hand held firmly in his own. John knew that feeling all too well.

They stayed like that for a few moments, not saying anything, neither looking at the other, lost in their own thoughts. John simply held on tight and waited. The hand curled around his own was cold and chapped from the weather, those elegant fingers he had watched curl around a violin neck now coiled around his own rough palm. He felt closer to Sherlock than he had in all their months of living (and nearly dying) together. He could only hope that Sherlock understood.

Eventually Sherlock cleared his throat and shifted his weight, and John knew it was time to let go. He did so without a word, without any acknowledgment of what had just passed between them.

"I'm going to find Lestrade, see if I can be of any help," Sherlock announced, and John noticed that his voice sounded calmer, his body less tightly wound.

"Right," John replied, "I'll…come with you?" He wasn't sure if Sherlock would want him around right now. Even if he had been trying to help, he had still practically forced himself on Sherlock. This might just be a delayed reaction and his anger would burst forth at an inconvenient moment. It might be best to lie low for a while.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow in puzzlement. "Of course, where else would you go?"

John could only chuckle. Taking him for granted, as usual. Things were back to normal, then.

As they set off Sherlock leaned down close to his ear and whispered a mumbled, "thank you," giving John's hand one brief squeeze before he sauntered off, his quick pace leaving John behind, as usual.

John could only grin to himself and shake his head. It looked like Sherlock Holmes may be human after all.

It wasn't something they ever talked about, but sometimes, on the loneliest nights or after the really tough cases, Sherlock would take his hand. Just for a moment, just long enough to remind himself how it felt to be connected to something solid. It was like a secret kept between them, an unspoken agreement; a brief moment of connection and reassurance, and then life continued as it always did.