Hey, everybody! RainyDays-and-DayDreams here. I decided to try and do the 30 Day OTP Challenge a loong time ago (like, back in September) but I never got around to writing more than the first few chapters of the first days' challenge. However, during a conversation with my Dear Sherlock ADD Buddy, I sent her the little bit I had written and she loved it. So, I decided to do it for the month of December as a Christmas present for her. This is going to be Johnlock (both her and I's OTP!), and she's going to be doing this simultaneously with me.

Long intro, I know, but I needed to get it out. Oh! And one more thing! I am going to be writing one every day, but I may not be able to update this daily, because I may be busy or having computer difficulties. But fear not! I will, I repeat, I WILL finish this. So now, to the disclaimer.

DISCLAIMER: If you recognize it, it ain't mine. Unfortunately. *sniffles*

Dedicated to my Sherlock ADD Buddy. Thank you for always being there, for the amazing fanart, for comforting me, for helping me... for everything. Thank you. Oh, and that one shot you asked me to do, based off the drawing I did that I sent you? I promise, it's coming soon. I promise.

CHALLENGE: HOLDING HANDS

Challenge accepted! XD

When John began to have feelings for Sherlock that definitely qualified as a bit more that friendship, and disqualified him from ever being able to say "I'm not gay!" ever again while being totally truthful, he figured his feelings would be unreciprocated, unrequited. He was in love with Sherlock Holmes, his infuriating, beautiful, most likely asexual but definitely sexually frustrating flat mate and best friend. The day Sherlock showed any sign of returning any feelings John felt towards him, John swore he would happily eat his favorite jumper. Spread it with jam, even. Because there was a snowball's chance in hell of Sherlock Bloody Beautiful Holmes, with his lean body, stormy grey-blue-green eyes, curly and dark hair, and oh-hot-damn-those-cheekbones that could probably cut steel and John swore would one day be the death of him loved him back. So John hid his feelings, hoping that friendship would be enough for him, because he didn't want to lose Sherlock. Never again.

When Sherlock first realized his feelings for John, he wondered when they first appeared. He was startled when he realized that they must have always been there, and he just never noticed them. He tried to bury them immediately. He told himself he didn't want a romantic relationship, that his work was all he needed, and besides, why would John "I'm Not Gay" Watson be interested in him? He was Sherlock Holmes, the self-diagnosed high-functioning sociopath who wasn't a sociopath at all, who shot the wall when he got bored, kept heads in the fridge and whose antics had caused John to threaten his life (only half jokingly) no less than forty two times. So Sherlock deliberately buried his feelings into the deepest recesses of his mind palace, hoping to ignore them, but never quite having them go away. The day John Watson showed any signs of returning his feelings, Sherlock swore he would wear that horrible hat in public again for a day. Because there was no way John would ever love him back.

Neither of them knew that their feelings for the other were mutual. But that was about to change.

The case had been a seven. Just barely enough to get Sherlock to leave the flat, and John still had to fight with him. Sherlock had shot another hole in the wall, and John knew if he didn't get Sherlock a case soon he should begin to fear for his life, or sanity. Or both.

"But Jaawwn," Sherlock whined. "This case is boring. I can already tell that it was the gardener who did it-"

"No," John said, "no 'buts'. You haven't seem the crime scene yet, and therefore could be wrong. Besides, I'd rather not have Mrs. Hudson yell at us again." Sherlock shot John a "look", which John ignored. "Dressed. Now." he commanded, using his army "I'm your superior officer, you better fucking listen to me" voice. Sherlock sighed, rolled his eyes, but got up anyways.

Ten minutes later, they were leaving the flat. Thirty minutes after that, they were leaving the crime scene. Alright, so Sherlock had been right- so what if it was the gardener? He'd left the flat for a bit, which was what John needed. If he had stayed cooped up there with that gorgeous ("No," John reminded himself. "Straight thoughts, straight thoughts,") madman for one more minute John would've probably ended up shooting the wall himself. Or Sherlock.

John was considering other ways he could murder his flatmate, who was already complaining of boredom, when the bomb went off. There was an outstanding flash of light, and a deafening bang. John and Sherlock flew backwards, and landed several feet away. John slipped into unconciousness.

When John came to, he blinked his eyes. He could barely see, he was so dazed. Everything was blurry and seemed simultaneously too bright and too dark. A fuzzy thought formed in the back if his consciousness. Something should be there, something that wasn't... He frowned as he tried to remember what was wrong, but a pounding in his head developed and he could barely move. He scrunched his eyebrows up in pain. He wondered where Sherlock was.

He gave a gasp as he realized that's what he was missing. Sherlock. Where the hell was Sherlock? He tried to sit up, but gasped in pain as a searing pain shot down his spine. He winced. That wasn't good. That's when he hears the voice calling his name.

"John? John? Where are you? John?!"

"Here! I'm here!" John managed to gasp out. He was having difficulty breathing. He looked around him. There. That form in the distance limping toward him must have been Sherlock. He coughed, hacking, and it felt like he was being torn apart on the inside. Sherlock finally reached him, and John couldn't help but feel a little relieved. "John," Sherlock breathed. John, sven though he was still light-headed and felt as if he could pass out at any second, did a quick examination of Sherlock. He looked fine. Might have sprained or broken something, judging by the limp, and he looked as if he had a nasty cut on his forehead, but other than that he looked fine. The look he gave John though made the doctor worry something far worse was wrong with him. "Stay with me, John," Sherlock begged. "Of course I will, Sherlock," is what John wanted to reply. Instead, he gave another hacking cough and passed out.

Sherlock was in a right state of panic by the time the paramedics arrived. He could tell John was alive, but damn his lack of medical knowledge! He couldn't tell what was wrong with John, aside from the obvious concussion, but he had no idea how to help him, if he was dying in front of him, or if he had simply passed out from the pain.

The not knowing worried Sherlock a lot (he was Sherlock, and he was supposed to know everything- or at least everything deemed important by the genius), but he found he was also worried for his flatmate. He suppose he shouldn't have been surprised- he was aware that he had feeling for him, after all- but he still was. The sociopath had a heart. Maybe he wasn't such a sociopath after all.

When the paramedics finally arrived, they tried to take John away. This infuriated Sherlock. He argues with the one in charge, and after much blackmailing (apparently he was having three affairs at once, two with men) and a few threats to call the human personification of the British government, he was allowed to ride with John on the way to the hospital.

As they hooked up John to various machines and tried to figure out was wrong with him, Sherlock grabbed his hand. He wrapped his cold, delicate, long, pale violinist's fingers around John's darker, more worn ones, and tried to draw comfort from the pliant fingers.

He held his hand all the way to the hospital, and during the surgery, when Sherlock had to leave his side, his fingers itched the entire way through. When they released John, barely holding in but stable, Sherlock grabbed his hand again and didn't let go until he woke again.

John wasn't sure what was going on at first. Where was he? What were those bright lights? Why was everything so white? And what was wrapped around his hand? Slowly, John pieced it together. He figured out he was in the hospital, and then...

He turned his head sharply to the side. Sure enough, there was Sherlock, grasping his hand, asleep with his head on the hospital bed. He startled awake after a few seconds. "John?" he asked, as if to confirm that it was really him. John tried to speak, but found his voice was too sore, and instead nodded his head the tiniest bit.

Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief. "John," he said, bit this time it wasn't a question- it was a reassurance, a comfort. John smiled, and squeezed Sherlock's hand, enjoying the feeling of the long pale hand wrapped around his.

Sherlock's eyes widened with surprise before he squeezed back, a smile on his face that was reflected in John's.

Reviews are much appreciated, and I can't thank you enough for reading this! Remember: Reviews- me = Cake+ Lestrade - Mycroft. Thank you!