#elfenwesen

Sherlock glanced up from his newspaper at John, who had set his laptop aside and seemed to be pinching his own hand. His face slowly fell from an agitated state to a more relaxed one, the wrinkles in his brow decreasing in depth as he leaned back into his armchair with a soft sigh. Finally, he let go of his odd grip and reached for his tea.

"What was that?" Sherlock leaned forward a bit in his chair, folding the paper in half to better keep it out of the way.

"What was what?" John tilted his head and Sherlock inclined his nose down in the direction of John's hands, mimicking the motion on his own. "Oh," John smiled softly, almost surprised Sherlock didn't know this one either, "Just a trick my therapist taught me." John scooted forward in his chair and reached out to grasp Sherlock's hand, using it as a visual (and tactile) aid, "There's a pressure point just here, between the metacarpals, at the top of the thenar crease-"

Sherlock looked on in curiosity as John began to gently massage this small, precise spot with his thumb and forefinger on either side of Sherlock's hand, just firm enough to reach gently into the flesh.

"It could be placebo for all I know," John continued, "But it's supposed to help relieve tension and focus the mind." Sherlock had to keep himself from curling his lip at the idea of the commoner's mind attempting to focus, and instead kept his concentration on the effects of John's thumb against his palm.

"It probably is just a placebo," he agreed softly, though had to admit to himself that he could already feel a gradual relaxation in his spine and thighs.

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John shook his head as Sherlock barged into another crime scene, leaving him behind on the roadside as he struggled to put on his hasmat suit as quickly as possible. Lestrade was wearing one, as were Donovan and Anderson. Only Sherlock had the impudence to glide in against the body to integrate himself into the facts, wearing nothing more protective than a pair of latex gloves. It was a familiar scene, and John still wondered how Sherlock managed to get away with it every time.

Lestrade looked pained as John caught a glance of him before heading out to join Sherlock in the bed of pine needles. He was reminded again of that first night when they'd met, and the competent-but-not-quite-competent-enough Detective Inspector had ruefully admitted his need of Sherlock's assistance. These days, through trial by fire, Lestrade hardly even spoke up against Sherlock's farfetched conclusions, never questioning his antics or the thoughtless way he took liberties at a crime scene that nobody else would dare try to get away with.

John felt a faint flash of pity for the DI's pride, but dismissed it as Sherlock had already approached them with three plausible explanations.

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