[ John draws in a breath as he's grabbed, eyes widening a fraction of a second, but he doesn't move. Sherlock has never looked at him like this, even when he's been in the most foul moods and they're wrapped in a spectacular row. A part of him thinks, for a singular moment, that the man might actually hurt him. It's not fear John feels (not quite) but it is something that makes him draw into himself a bit. Only when Sherlock nods and begins to speak, only when Sherlock takes a breath... does John realize he's been holding his own.

John breathes out, and some of his tension goes with it. His hands grow lax on the other's collar. ]

...Good.

[ This is quieter. Thank you.

It comes with a nod, too, and another breath before John's letting go, palms briefly brushing the taller man's shoulders before the contact on his end is gone entirely. His lips thin, thoughtful. ]

I understand why you did it, you know. I get it.

I just don't understand why you couldn't trust Mrs. H and me after. We wouldn't have told anyone.

[ I could have helped. ]