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    Summary

    He found himself reaching out, laying a slow, almost tentative touch to the back of James’ hand. The other man was warm, even warmer than the lingering heat of Constantinople’s blazing sun, still radiating outwards from the stonework around them, despite the onset of proper nightfall. James didn’t recoil from his touch, for which he was grateful, but he didn’t relax into it either. At least not at first.

     
    Gradually, some of the tension drained from his posture, and the wariness in his eyes retreated, although it was replaced by something no less guarded, only less anticipatory in its suspicion. Still, James’ hand shifted beneath his own, fingers spreading in a way that settled Sherlock’s touch more comfortably and deliberately across the back of his palm. James even began to brush his thumb against his in a minute, featherlight back-and-forth movement. It was a small thing, but enough to set Sherlock’s heart kicking violently against the inside of his ribs.

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