"What is that man doing?" Sherlock hissed.

John followed his gaze and saw the young man standing across the street, holding a cardboard sign.

"'Free hugs,'" John read. "That's not something you see every day."

He and Sherlock watched for a moment as random strangers obligingly hugged the man every time he presented his sign. All of the strangers walked away with smiles on their faces. One man was even whistling as he continued on his way down the street.

Sherlock looked aghast. "Why in heavens' name would anyone want to do this?"

"Lots of people enjoy a good hug," John shrugged.

"I can't imagine the benefit," Sherlock replied.

"Actually, there are many," John said. "Hugging has been known to release oxytocin in the body, lowering blood pressure, boosting self-esteem, and possibly boosting heart health. Eastern medicine believes the pressure on your sternum during an embrace stimulates the thymus gland, which regulates and balances the body's production of white blood cells."

Predictably, Sherlock scowled. "I'd rather take vitamins," he said.

"Of course you would."

They didn't get a chance to discuss this further; Sherlock's mobile phone buzzed at that moment. Within moments, they were out the door and on their way to a crime scene.

It was late by the time they had returned to 221 B. While Sherlock had solved the case in record time, the case had involved young children. Although the father was on his way to jail and the children off to social services, both John and Sherlock felt the heaviness of what they'd witnessed as they stepped into their flat.

Immediately Sherlock picked up his violin and faced the window. It was the only way the man could wind down, it seemed. To have gone straight for his only source of comfort told John volumes about his best friend's emotional state.

Sherlock played for a few moments, and then his eyes were drawn to the street below. He moved the curtain aside, frowning.

"The hugging man has gone home."

"Well, it's been a long day for all of us, I suppose," John said.

Sherlock didn't reply; he just gazed out the window.

John knew he wouldn't talk in the mood he was in, and John's body ached with exhaustion. "Sherlock, I need to sleep. Are you going to be okay?"

As expected, there was no reply. John turned, about to walk out of the living room, but something made him stop. Maybe it was the defeated slump of Sherlock's normally ramrod straight shoulders, maybe it was the way the violin dangled from his fingers, apparently forgotten.

"You okay?" he asked.

"Of course." But Sherlock didn't sound very convincing.

John walked into the kitchen and found the notepad and pen he kept beside the telephone. Scribbling on the paper, he then cleared his throat noisily and held up his sign.

Sherlock turned to face him. At first, he looked aghast. Then he nodded reluctantly.

John set aside the notebook and crossed the room. He took the violin from his flatmate and set it gently on the chair, then encircled Sherlock in his arms. He didn't hold him tightly; he just hovered around the taller man rubbing his hands briskly over his back as if comforting a small child.

Sherlock kept his arms hanging loosely at his sides, but he pressed his cheek against John's temple and sighed heavily.

If it hadn't been such a long day, John would have been tempted to gently chide him, to remind him of his words that morning, to ask if he wouldn't rather take vitamins. Instead, he tightened his hold around his best friend.

"John? I don't like this," Sherlock said, but John didn't think he was talking about the hug at that moment. Just to be certain, he asked, "What, Sherlock?"

"It's too much," Sherlock breathed. "When you do this, all these feelings …"

"Are coming up to the surface?"

Sherlock didn't speak, suddenly overwhelmed.

"That's okay," John squeezed him tighter. "Just relax."

Sherlock's arms, which had been hanging loosely until this point, raised to grasp him tightly. John could feel Sherlock's fingers bunching up handfuls of John's shirt in distress.

"No," he said.

"No what, Sherlock? We're just hugging. Is it too much touching?" Sometimes Sherlock didn't like to be touched. John tried to step away, but Sherlock tightened his grip.

"It's not the touching," Sherlock grimaced. "I don't like the way it's making me feel."

"How are you feeling?"

"Like a spinning top," he murmured.

"Maybe it's because you've been spinning inside your head for so long, that now you're standing still the world feels like it's spinning around."

Sherlock didn't reply, just held on tighter.

"I think you need to rest, Sherlock. Come sit." John stepped back and Sherlock involuntarily made a soft sound at the loss of contact. John took his head and led him to the sofa, and when they were side by side, he held out his arms in invitation.

"You're hugging me? Again?" Sherlock blinked.

"Yes."

"We just hugged. Wasn't that enough?"

"No."

"Okay." Sherlock leaned into him gratefully, this time nestling his head in the crook of John's shoulder. He didn't hug back, he just lay there limply.

"Still spinning?" John asked.

"Yes," he said. "But it's slowing down a bit."

"Good." John found himself rocking ever so slightly back and forth, absently touching Sherlock's curly hair. By the time he realized he was doing this, Sherlock was making soft noises from the depths of his throat. It almost sounded like purring.

"Good hug, Sherlock?" he chuckled against the man's hair.

"Mmmm," Sherlock agreed.

"Getting sleepy?" John smiled.

"Mmmmm," Sherlock agreed again.

John reached for the blanket he kept draped over the back of the sofa, but the movement caused Sherlock to grab him, holding on tightly, although his eyes were still drooping.

"Don't let go," Sherlock mumbled.

"Wasn't planning to," John said, spreading the blanket over them as best he could with his arms full. The blanket was Sherlock's final undoing; with a contented, "mmm," he was asleep, safe in John's embrace.