Title: The Power of a Touch

Characters/Pairings: Sherlock, John

Rating: K+

Word Count: 1,039

Spoilers/Warnings: Spoilers for TGG, HOB, and TRF.

Summary: Touch. It's an important part of the human world, a daily occurrence that passes unnoticed….until it is gone.

Author's Note: Because I was finally brave enough to watch The Falls a second time all the way through, and now I have a severe case of post-Reichenbach blues. And this is my therapy.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything related to BBC Sherlock.

Touch. It's an important part of the human world, a daily occurrence that passes unnoticed, but conveys affection, comfort, protection, solidity. It reminds us that we are not alone, are not isolated incidents, and gives a sense of belonging and assurance. It passes unnoticed….until it is gone past recalling.

"There's stuff that you wanted to say…but didn't say it." Yes, that was true, but staring down at the gravestone in front of him, John had finally managed to find the words. And yet… it was not the things he had left unsaid that had haunted him all those long, nightmarish weeks following – it was what he had left undone, the care he had not risked expressing by a touch, a pat, a nudge. Their unlikely friendship, warm and comfortable by that point, had been oddly marked by an absence of tactile communication that perhaps his friend had needed without realizing it, and it was something John now keenly regretted withholding.

He had learned soon after moving into Baker Street, that his flatmate lived according to his own rules and norms, and as such did not have unnecessary contact with other beings, and John had respected that apparent wish. As their friendship grew and evolved, a comfortable familiarity had developed. Sherlock had always been near at hand, knowing no personal boundaries, hovering over John and Lestrade while his great brain was consumed with The Case; reading over John's shoulder whenever his curiosity overcame his disdain; the two of them always drawn to linger near one another, whether lounging with the paper in their flat, or standing side by side in a crowded room. It had not taken John long to realize his brilliant but socially inept friend drew some measure of assurance from his nearness, and John had been content to offer that ever-present support. But always, that support had stopped just short of touch, and the isolating bubble around the detective had always been kept intact, as if connecting physically with his fellow man would cause the self-made barriers to come crashing down and expose his well-ordered mind to vulnerability. But John's thoughts now wondered bitterly if his friend had wanted that connection, without even understanding the need.

Blinking through blurred vision, he recalled instances past, seemingly annoying requests made by the otherwise occupied detective. "Pass me my phone…." John had been upset with his friend at the time, and the request had seemed a bit of simple, lazy arrogance, but John questioned now whether that had been an awkward attempt by the detective to obtain the contact he did not know how to initiate.

Staring at the grass-covered grave, he regretted now every missed opportunity, and cursed himself inwardly for not recognizing them as such. At the Baskerville facility – John had lurched from his hiding place and stumbled to his feet, still dazed under the effects of his drug-induced PTSD, and Sherlock had stepped forward, hand out-stretched, tentatively offering assurance in an uncharacteristic move. But John had backed away, maintaining a distance, and the unspoken offer had not been repeated.

John's thoughts moved on. The one time his friend had initiated physical contact – John's heart skipped painfully at the memory – Sherlock had clasped his hand, his grasp held tightly to aid running in-sync. A simple matter of convenience, but John suspected that his friend had needed the physical reassurance of an ally at that moment, when Moriarty's game had begun to take form, and John had merely pulled away at the first possible moment, clinging instead to the cuff of the detective's Belstaff.

John pinched the bridge of his nose, muffling a groan. He wondered now why he had done so, what had always held him back. Perhaps it had been fear, fear of offending his newly-found friend, coupled with his own insecurities which had stemmed from months of lonely isolation after being abruptly torn from the close quarters of military deployment. Out of practice, from long disuse, John had hesitated to instigate friendly contact, until it had become increasingly awkward and not worth the risk.

And so they had continued, content in their ways, communicating comfortably with a prolonged glance, or a brief, half-spoken thought, until the day John had found himself standing alone in the middle of a street, his gaze turned upwards towards the roof of St. Bart's. At that moment, with all inhibitions stripped away by the drama unfolding around them, he had finally reached out, vainly, futilely, and in a scene that would haunt his dreams for the rest of his life, he had watched his friend stretch his hand out in response, the distance between them widening.

But at that point, it had been too late. Too late to reach out, too late to stop the Fall. Pushing past the responders, he had fought to feel the cool wrist for a pulse, until the body had been turned and he had glimpsed the growing stain of blood, and the cold, staring eyes. Then he had realized, it was too late for anything.

Gazing unseeing across at the gravestone, John regretted every missed opportunity to connect with his friend, every missed chance to show the self-proclaimed sociopath that he was not alone in the world and friendless, that he had not been a brilliant, isolated aberration. John ran his fingertips gently against the cool dark of marble, hungry for one touch, one glance from the being lying so still beneath his feet. Straightening, he turned on his heel to walk away, but paused, pleading with his friend to simply stop. being. dead. But as he limped away from the plot, he knew that it was too late.

And when the world's only consulting detective showed up in his surgery one morning six months later, John did not stop to think, or to question, or to hesitate. He simply took what Fate had given him back, and stumbled forward to clasp a startled Sherlock close to him in a fierce and relentless embrace.

"Too often we underestimate the power of a touch, a smile, a kind word, a listening ear, an honest compliment, or the smallest act of caring, all of which have the potential to turn a life around."

– Leo F. Buscaglia