It was their own fault, Greg reflected. There was John, with his fluffy jumper and his little face, looking like he ought to be presenting children’s telly. And there was Sherlock, brittle and spiky and expensive-looking. The one looked cuddly and the other looked untouchable, and so strangers came up and touched John and nobody much ever touched Sherlock.
Only it was all backwards, because John was the one who actually winced sometimes at accidental contact, and Sherlock was the one who’d lean on your shoulder and reach into your pockets if he thought he could get away with it. Greg reckoned John had got a bit too much intimate touching through being up to his wrists inside people’s guts. There was no need to speculate on how Sherlock had ended up so touch-starved — he’d just been himself and people had shied away in droves.
Now I’m amused. I told a coworker/friend about my fics. Apparently she spent half the weekend reading.
She says she won’t be able to watch Sherlock the same way now.
I gave her a hug and told her welcome to the fandom 🙂
