John has tattoos. Sherlock has questions. Something like a love story eventually blooms, but it's not without its complications.
(See the end of the work for
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Sherlock was staring at John. Not through him, for once—though his constant transparency made it impossible to avoid—but at him. At the turn-down of John’s collar, where he’d missed a button he usually fastened. Where the shirt gaped and John grimaced, clearly yearning for the undershirt he’d taken to layering underneath his clothes. He hadn’t quite gotten back into the swing of London yet; to him, it was still too cold. He’d only abandoned his jumper because the day had been unseasonably hot. He was regretting his lassitude now, Sherlock knew. The world’s only consulting detective tended to have that effect on people.
John reached up to tug at the spread of his collar, licking his lips with a self-conscious air. His anxiety wasn’t unfounded. Sherlock followed the motion of his hands where they failed to hide the evidence. Partially obscured by the shirt’s ghastly fabric, a dark green mark wound toward the hollow of John throat. The shape of it was distinct and the colour vibrant though Sherlock doubted he could see the whole of it. It clashes with his hands, he observed, noting how John shifted as though embarrassed at his oversight. Sherlock disregarded his discomfiture. The unidentified mark twisted from sight at the clavicle. John moved to right his placket as another burst of colour caught Sherlock’s gaze. Below the vanishing tendril, a rich blue streak smudged to burnished gold between the buttons, trailing down his ribcage to settle above his navel in some indefinite form. This was all in plain sight, laid nearly bare for Sherlock alone to see.
“You have tattoos.”
John drummed his fingers. John narrowed his eyes. Sherlock continued to wait. John sighed. “One there, a large one.”
Sherlock’s quiescent interest in the Case of John Watson reared its head. “You’ve never mentioned it.”
“You’ve never asked after my distinguishing marks.”
“I assumed you’d mention one quite so prominent.” Sherlock spun the impressions about in his head in search of a fit.
John shrugged. “Didn’t see a need myself.”
Sherlock laced his fingers together and watched John breathe. What else have you kept from me? “I see.”
Written in response to this BBC Sherlock kink meme prompt. Posted here because I got way sick of character limits. I expect this fic to be around 25 to 30k. I've got 22,000 written right now and I'm hoping to wrap it up soon.
Also, no worries about Stitches & Threads, I'm working on that as well. Additionally, I have another Sherlock fic that's still in drafts, but is nearly
25k 31k 42k. Whee!
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