Sherlock leans forward, between John's knees, keeping the doctor's hand in his own to continue the mental contact. A ripple of trust comes from Sherlock, so terribly open it can't possibly be something native to the detective, though he tries desperately to clamp down on it and the wash of calm that comes from feeling and hearing John's heartbeat underneath his jumper as Sherlock's head collides softly with the doctor's chest.

He doesn't care anymore. He's exhausted. Something in Sherlock breaks a little, just a bit, and he floods John with the things he cannot say, that he does not know how to say and does not understand. They're simple concepts to a man like John Watson, but to Sherlock, they are as foreign to him as Swahili is to John. Sherlock pours forth implicit trust, a tangled heap of feelings that is too noisy to identify, but it's fond anyway.