D I S C L A I M E R : I do not own Sherlock Holmes/ Sherlock BBC! All rights go to Mark Gatiss, and Steven Moffat, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

A / N : The third episode destroyed me. So I wrote about one of my favorite little things in it.

The first time John had held Sherlock's hand they were fugitives. Together at least, but fugitives all the same. It was cold, and dark, and the streetlamps gave off a sick yellow light. But Sherlock had told John to take his hand across the silver chain linking them and John did. Without any hesitation. Sherlock's gloves warmed his chilled skin as they ran. He didn't realize that he was holding on to Sherlock's sleeve after their fingers had disentangled themselves from each other. But Sherlock was off running again and John was dragged after him. Even without the handcuffs he would have followed.

The second time John had seen Sherlock's outstretched hand had been before his best friend's death. The clouds had gathered, ominous and boasting-betting amongst themselves how long it would take the detective to hit the wet pavement below. 70ft down and one-way to get there. The final problem solved. John had stridden forward, hoping to enter the hospital and tear his friend away from that precarious edge. Sherlock's voice had stopped him. The desperation in his deep tone made the panic bubble up in John. He knew what would happen. Sherlock always was dramatic.

"You're alright?" He whispered holding out and up his hand as if doing so would steady the detective above him. Sherlock reached out on instinct, his fingers stretching to reach John's hand, but the distance was too great this time. They weren't hooked together anymore. The sudden realization of this came with his tears. He didn't bother to wipe them away. He just kept reaching out. And when it finally was time, when standing there not being able to touch was too much to bare Sherlock readied himself closer to the edge.

"Goodbye John."

And he jumped.

The third time John had held Sherlock's hand it was beginning to rain. There was a crowd gathered about him. He couldn't hear what they were saying, everything blended together in the end. He had reached out and took Sherlock's wrist beneath his fingers. A pulse, he told himself, there must be a pulse. Sherlock's skin was grey and cold. His blood lapped at the soles of John's shoes. Sherlock didn't reach out this time. Instead he let his hand fall against the cement.

John never wanted to let him go.

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