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The first touch was mostly an incident. Sherlock and John were on their way to the witness who could have another lead to the place where the Reichenbach canvas was hidden. Suddenly there was loud crash in front of them. A car incautiously driving out of the parking line collided with another one in front of their cab. Their cabbie evaded accident at the last moment and Sherlock and John were all but threw together on the right window, John´s face burried in Sherlock´s hair. They stayed like that for a moment, both a bit stunned with an unexpected situation.
“Sorry, guys, are you alright back there?” Called cabbie and his voice reminded Sherlock to move, but John strangely lingered.
“John, are you alright?” Asked Sherlock with concern and that was enough for John to straighten with stammered apologies.
“Yeah, sorry, sorry. I´m… fine…”
They finished the trip in silence, but Sherlock noticed how John´s expression got a bit dreamy for the rest of it. He didn´t pay it any attention though, lost in all possible scenarios of the case.
---
Next time it happened in the flat. Also accidentally. John was making tea and Sherlock sat at the table peering through microscope at the last possible clue to a kidnapping of a little boy. So far the case defied not only Sherlock´s attempts at solving it, but also all logic. It was frustrating, because time was paramount. Sooner they found the boy, bigger the chance he was still alive. This stained piece of cloth was Sherlock´s last hope.
He found traces of same chemical compounds as on other samples but then he noticed another one. A new one. It was like discovering the secret ingredient to the particularly vile recipe. Excitement took him as he instantly knew not only who had done it, but also where to look for the boy.
He lept to his feet in the exact moment John chose for turning around with thankfully empty mug in hand. Sherlocks hair brushed John´s face and it was pure luck John wasn´s hit in the face.
“Yes!” Exclaimed Sherlock and seized John´s shoulders with both hands. “Come on, John, there´s no time to waste!”
But John just stood there unresponding, his eyes distant.
Sherlock gave him a firm shake and that was enough to bring him back. They were out in a tick.
---
Soon Sherlock became aware of looks John cast at his hair when he thought Sherlock wasn´t looking. They were tinged with something new, something Sherlock normally didn´t get to see in John´s eyes. Sherlock had no idea what could it be, so he wrote it off until he got more evidence on the matter.
---
He cracked the case of John´s mysterious looks two weeks later. To his dismay the solution didn´t come thanks to his brilliant mind and observational skills, but due to a fit of particularly dark mood.
Sherlock laid on the couch for the third day in a row and John was well through silent waiting, trying to entertain him, losing his patience and finally yelling. Nothing seemed to help though. Sherlock didn´t eat, didn´t even drink enough and most of the time seemed unable to move. At the end of the second day he even ceased his scathing comments on everything John said or done.
At the afternoon of the third day John made himself tea and while drinking it apparently decided to try one last attempt. He sat next to Sherlock on the sofa and waited a bit to be shoved off, but Sherlock was past all petty attempts at easing his mood by distributing misery and pain to others. He just laid there, wishing for the world to end, his mind eating itself in constant buzz and flashes of terrible images.
John took a deep breath as if to steel himself and after a while Sherlock felt John´s hand tentatively touching his shoulder. Sherlock expected some sort of “Come on Sherlock, snap out of it” or “You can´t continue like this forever, you know that, right?” or maybe even “That´s it, I´m calling your brother,” so he just gritted his teeth and released a sigh. John tensed a bit, but stood, or more likely sat his ground. Then he took yet another deep breath and his words wedged between incessant noise in Sherlock´s head.
“I can´t bear seeing you like this…” John whispered and his hand gently stroked Sherlock´s hair. The sensation combined with unexpected statement and raw pain in John´s voice managed to tear Sherlock out of inner jail of his mind. He began to be able to concentrate on something outside his own head, but somehow that intensified the pain he felt. John´s gentle touch was tentative as he slowly stroked Sherlock´s hair. The sensation was so exquisite, so pleasant Sherlock involuntarily held his breath. And then suddenly felt unworthy, as if he didn´t deserve any of it. The idea deepened his anguish even more and he stifled a keen, hiding his face in the cushions.
John said nothing, but continued his ministrations. His touch became more confident and his fingers slowly ventured through Sherlock´s hair to his scalp.
Sherlock remembered every second of the exceptional sensation even if he was still floating in black molasses of his uncontrollable mind. He didn´t know if it was because he was so starved of human contact, even if he liked to pretend otherwise, or because it was John´s hand slowly carding through his tousled hair.
When John began to slowly massage Sherlock´s skin, Sherlock let out stuttered sigh and finally felt himself letting go. He didn´t realise he was so clenched until his muscles started to relax. His breathing evened and deepened. John sensed the change, but stood silent and continued stroking. Time stretched ad infinitum. Sherlock felt as if light began to pour through John´s touch and drove the darkness away.
Sherlock was drifting from relief on blissful verge of happiness, wishing for this to continue forever. He really was starved of human contact. He caught himself desperately drawing warmth and comfort from such a simple act, turning to John like a flower to the sun. Which was where his mind kicked in, as always including all his prejudices and fears.
He tensed and turned his back on John again, heaving huge tremulous sigh.
John took this as a cue and withdrew his hand. Sherlock screwed his eyes, cursing himself inwardly and hiding his face, because he had absolutely no control over his expression at the moment.
Unexpectedly, John laughed out loud, crushing beginnings of tension into shards and thus saving Sherlock once again.
“If I knew this is the way to help you out from your moods, I´d been doing that since the beginning.”
Sherlock gnawed on his lower lip for a moment while gathering all his courage. “You can use it since now if you wish.” He grumbled, carefully hiding his face against the cushion to conceal blush on his cheeks.
And so it started.
John ruffling Sherlock´s hair on the way to his chair, some dull book under his arm and the tea in the other hand.
John efficiently pulling him out of dark moods with gentle fingers and light touches.
John carefully pushing aside loose strand of hair when Sherlock was too busy peering through microscope and felt bold enough to ask.
They never talked about it and never moved to something more. Mostly it was John who initiated the touch, but Sherlock created an art of various ways how to convince John to touch his hair without having to utter a single word.
Then Moriarty happened and everything escalated in a spiral of destruction and madness. The end was inevitable. Sherlock did the best thing he knew and left John broken and alone.
---
One of the first things undercover was to handle his appearance. Changing his clothes and posture was easy enough. Simple act, nothing more. Contacts and facial hair helped a bit with adjusting his facial features. The last thing left to change was his hair.
Sherlock stood in the bathroom and eyed the colour which he bought few hours ago. After twenty minutes just sighed and binned it unopened. John touched those hair. He wouldn´t bleach his memory out of them. He considered scissors for another five minutes only to bin them too.
At least he slicked his hair back and plastered it to his skull.
After four months he got compromised and yet another quick change was necessary. He stood in different bathroom, scissors in hand, watching himself in the mirror. He gripped one strand. They were too long now anyway. Then he opened the scissors and in the exact moment he put them close to his hair, unbidden memories flooded his mind.
John´s shy caresses. John´s gentle fingers in his hair. John´s warmth on his skin and, cheesy as it was, also in his heart. Sherlock frowned and smirked at himself, but couldn´t bring himself to stop thinking about that closeness, trust and strange kind of glow between them.
Sherlock even remembered John´s scent from one evening John had squeezed himself behind Sherlock on the sofa and ended with Sherlock´s head on his lap, watching tv while idly caressing his hair. John´s eyes had been watching some dull show, but Sherlock had spotted how they were full of affection, tenderness and fondness.
That night he fell in bed and let his uncut hair land on his face. His last tangible connection to John. He fell asleep like that, imagining John´s gentle touches. Like if his hair filled themselves with John´s kindness and warmth and Sherlock was somehow able to draw it back.
Next time he didn´t bother to pretend he was willing to get rid of his hair and bought a wig.
---
Mycroft smirked when he saw his mane in Serbia (and he naturally waited until Sherlock could see it together with his assessing look), but didn´t say a thing. He didn´t have to. His “ sentiment, little brother, really? ” was written all over his smug face along with “ after all you´ve been through I´d expected you to be finally immune to such thing”.
---
Sherlock had minor crisis when a barber began to cut his hair, but he wanted to be as same as possible when meeting John so he just clenched his teeth and let it happen. He comforted himself by thinking about seeing John soon, letting him rage a bit, maybe got punched. There he couldn´t suppress light shiver. The first touch after two years! He didn´t mind at all if it was to be via John´s (John´s!) fist. He was certain gentle touches will come soon after and everything was going to be alright. Finally.
He allowed himself to bask in sweet anticipation of first look at John´s face and then, soon, also John´s gentle fingers touching his hair once again.
Everything was just fine until Mycroft with his smooth voice uttered “He got on with his life”. Sherlock´s heart sank in the moment Mycroft´s words left his mouth and only feigning ridiculous exaggerated selfishness saved him from completely revealing himself to his brother.
He secretly hoped Mycroft was lying, but knew him well enough to be aware Mycroft would reprimanded him using well timed truth rather than falsehood.
---
The enormity of Mycroft´s statement hit him like a train when he realized John was actually going to propose to Mary. He tried to let himself be blinded by excitement of John´s closeness, but everything drowned in shock and pain and distress. John got himself blond hair to caress instead of Sherlock´s. He wasn´t his anymore.
Sherlock tried to amuse John with some minor deductions and few antics John was prone to appreciate two years ago but everything bounced off of him. After initial shock had faded it became obvious John was far behind the wall of normality he built around himself: living with a woman he planned to marry and once again having a respectable work.
At last Sherlock desperately tried to seduce John with promise of a danger. He even used physical proximity, the weapon which never disappointed him while they had lived together, only to watch it fail for the first time.
When he stood on the pavement with bloodied nose and watched John leaving with his soon-to-be fiancée he almost wished he kept the hair, preposterous as it was. It wouldn´t bring him the real sensation but at least he would have something.
John wasn´t any longer part of cosy safe heaven they created for themselves before Sherlock had fallen. That much was clear. He got on with his life. In fact their safe heaven was now but an empty shell of dusty flat and Sherlock´s memories.
Sherlock with a pang realized he lost in a game he didn´t even know he was playing. It hurt more than any torture he had to endure in the last two years. He was alone.