Sherlock kept a photo of John with him during his time in Serbia. The photo got crinkled during the two years. A little faded. Damps destroying a part of it. It was just a normal photo. The type of stiffed lipped, no smile photo for driving licenses etc. Sherlock stole it before he disappeared. One day, he lost the photo. And never found it again. Maybe it just fell from his pocket during one of his runs. And when his captors left him in the cold hardened floor after beating him into a pulp, Sherlock just laid down there. The pain was bearable, because it was more painful to him that he lost that photo. He didn’t even trust his mind palace. What if he forgets what John looks like.
When Mycroft showed him John’s photo for the first time, Sherlock hated it and loved it at the same time. He almost made the mistake of asking Mycroft for it.
At least I am gonna see him now. I can touch him. He ran his own hand over his lip. I wonder if I like bristly kisses for the first time. My god I hate that mustache.
And he got touched. Yes. Not like the way he wanted.
John tackled him in the ground and opened his wounds.
John doesn’t know. I don’t blame him.
Didn’t get the kiss. Just got some wounds reopened.
That night, a single tear fell down from Sherlock’s eyes while dressing his wounds.
At least he touched me.
You are welcome .