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Since he was young, John's skin was never simply his own. It was always decorated with bright splashes of color from everyone around him, sometimes even those he didn't know. Most kids would trade marks with their friends, and they became more exclusive as people got older. John, however, would gain the colors of almost anyone he brushed against, even if they hadn't even exchanged conversation. His mom had always said that it was because he cared so much, he couldn't limit it to just a few people. It didn't bother him, he would just rub at the colors and shrug. When he was a small boy, he would often be mesmerized by the colors snaking their way across his body. Nearly all of the marks were faint, more brushes than stains. But that was ok, because he always had his mother's light blue caresses on his face, Harry's fond orange punches on his arms, and even occasionally his father's coffee-colored pats. These colors remained, more beautiful and meaningful than the other careless colors he had acquired. They showed he was loved, that he was important to people. These were the colors that John treasured above all.
That was before his mom got sick, though.
It was strange for John to see his mom in her hospital bed. He liked to sit there with her and read, gathering as many light blue marks as he could. They were still as brilliant as ever, as were his own crimson splotches on her. Her marks stood out on his skin, even among the rainbow of new pigments he picked up every time he went into the hospital. Even as the light in his mom's eyes was dimming, her marks on him were still bright. He treasured them after her death, rubbing them when he needed to feel her comfort again.
And it worked, until they began to fade. They disappeared into his skin until he couldn't even remember what they had looked like in the first place. They faded away, along with Harry's affectionate pokes and his father's loving nudges. Now, the only time his dad was around him or Harry was when he was drinking, and then it wasn't good to be to noticeable. Fond pats had turned into slaps and shoves, so John tried to stay out of his way as much as possible. As time went on, Harry had taken the opposite stance. She would come home everyday colored with touches from a new girlfriend, and get into a rousing argument with their dad. It always ended badly for her, no matter how much John tried to help. He was happy for her when she finally left, really. Except now it was just him and his dad at home, which wasn't a great situation for either of them. His dad was drinking as much as ever, and his harsh marks still lingered on John's skin. The other colors that decorated his skin from people he met everywhere he went helped to hide the harsher, darker marks and the bruises under them. Fighting back only left him with darker bruises and, on one memorable occasion, a concussion. So John resigned himself to leaving as soon as he could; once he packed his bags to leave for basic training, he never looked back.
The Army was good for John, or as good as could be expected. His ease with taking marks had earned him some strange looks, but no one treated him any differently. Here, he was just another recruit, one that happened to be a bit more colorful than the others. Now he was constantly gaining and losing marks, what with all the new people he was meeting and training with. And it only got worse once he began his medical training. Every single patient left their own mark somewhere on him, and most received their own crimson streak in return. One thing that had always irked John about his own marks was how fleeting they were. Since his mom, none of the marks he had left on others or the ones left on him were particularly dark or long lasting. It left him feeling adrift and distant, but it wasn't something he put much thought to. At least, it wasn't until John met David.
David was another trainee, and he and John had become close while together at St. Bart's. David was also the first man John had ever kissed, once he realized that maybe it was alright to like men as well as women. Funny and bright, David made John feel young in a way he hadn't felt in years. Their relationship was a good one, but once it became more serious, John's multicolored streaks began to be a point of contention between them.
"How would I even know?" David would shout, "You could have someone else's marks and I would never be able to see it, because you get the colors of every damn person on the street!"
"Well it's not my goddamn fault!" John's return would be, "You try not being able to go to Tesco's without getting twenty new marks! It's not like I'm trying to mark with every person I meet."
"Just for once, I'd like to have my color be the brightest one on you, just to show that you're mine," David's voice had gone from heated to exhausted in an instant, "I just don't think I'm important enough to you. Not important enough to warrant a lasting mark, anyway."
At the end, David had been so tired and crushed that it was almost a relief for John to be deployed to Afghanistan, just to escape the hurt that lingered in London, and the fright that he wouldn't ever be able to have a lasting mark. At least in a war zone, there would be bigger issues than how many colors painted his skin. It didn't make it hurt any less to leave, but was more bearable to be away.
After the first few weeks, John would never think of Afghanistan as a relief again. It was a whirlwind of blood and sand, red rivers against a tan desert, and so many colors that they all began to bleed together. As always, John left his crimson imprints on whomever he met, and gained faint stamps in return. As hectic as it was, he was comfortable there in the middle of the fighting; there, he had a purpose and a sense of duty.
All of which was taken away in a second by a sniper's bullet.
When he woke in the sterile hospital, John's first feeling was confusion: this was not the desert he had been living in for years. Why wasn't he there? His doctor was called in, and she explained how the bullet had hit directly in his left shoulder, a few inches above and to the left of his heart. The shrapnel had caused nerve damage in that area, so it was unclear how much control he would have in that hand. The doctor's face turned more grave as she elaborated, stating that it might not be possible for John to continue being a surgeon. In a single shot, the enemy sniper had taken everything John was, and what was he supposed to do now? Once released, John took the few possessions he had brought back and moved into a bedsit. A small, dark flat that was going to be his home for a long while. After all, who would want an ex-Army doctor with "trust issues" as a roommate?
His life continued on, monotonous and dull, until one run-in with Mike Stamford caused John's entire world to shift.
Walking into the old labs at St. Bart's was a strange experience, but that was nothing compared to the one that awaited him once he met Sherlock Holmes. Sitting at the back of the room, hunched over, was the most pristine man John had ever seen. His pale skin had no marks on it at all. It was refreshing, especially considering the riot of color that John walked around with every day.
After a two minute conversation that stripped him to the bone, John felt his head spinning. How could this man be any good for him? Sherlock Holmes clearly ran at 100 kilometers per hour, and John would barely be able to keep up. Not to mention, who would want a man with a limp and a cane living with them? Even so, John met him the next day at the flat and things seemed to spin out of control from there. Next thing John knew, he was taking a shot at a murderous cabbie who was threatening to take away this new chance at a life John had thought he had lost. The shot was true, John's hand was as steady as ever, and he and Sherlock Holmes went back to their flat together.
One of the more peculiar things about Sherlock that John had noticed, besides the bodies in the fridge, was his aversion to marks. Sherlock would not touch other people with bare skin, or even with clothing on, despite his lack of other personal boundaries. However, Sherlock wasn't open to explaining, so John didn't pry, and left him to his own business.
As they continued to live together, the list of things that John was noticing about Sherlock rose. How his ridiculous hair was almost always in perfect form, despite all the ruffling he did to it. Or how the buttons on his probably insanely expensive dress shirts always seemed about to burst, but still kept hold. The fact that he always smelled like soap, chemicals, and something else, dark and warm, like wood smoke. The shape of his lips, or the impossible verdigris color of his brilliant eyes. At this point, it became clear to John that he most likely fancied his flatmate. It was also abundantly clear that Sherlock did not reciprocate those feelings. So, John shoved them in a little box, and continued on with his life. This did include occasionally going out with women, but he knew from the start that they would probably come second to his mad friend. He tried anyway.
The turning point came one day when John was coming back from yet another failed date; at this point, it was obvious to everyone what his problem was, so why was he still trying? He was absorbed in his thoughts as he ascended the stairs to the flat, and barely heard Sherlock's request for tea. He complied anyway, trying to tear his thoughts away from the man sprawled in his armchair in pajama pants and a silk dressing gown. They settled together as they often did, quietly immersed in themselves, but enjoying the company anyway. John was pulled out of his reverie when he heard Sherlock call for him, and saw him reach out to touch his cheek. Sherlock's touch on his face was pleasant, warm and soft, gently rubbing an apparent smudge. However, the look on his face once he realized what he was doing and subsequently pulled away was stunned and awestruck, which was worrying to say the least. John felt his brows pull together, and reached out to steady Sherlock, laying a hand on the side of his neck.
"Sherlock? Are you alright? What's wrong?" John's voice trailed to nothing as he saw the brilliant crimson handprint that was now present on Sherlock's neck. It was vibrant and unmistakable. He had only seen these a handful of times: on his mother and father and on Lestrade with whatever mystery man he was hiding. He had just left a soul mate mark on Sherlock Holmes. And by the way Sherlock was staring at him, he was willing to bet that he had one of his own on his cheek.
"Oh," John felt vaguely faint, "So that's what you were staring at. It's kind of pretty, isn't it? And it's-"
"A soul mate mark, yes," Sherlock seemed upset, for reasons John could not understand, "I'm sorry John, I know I'm not your first choice to be marked with. I don't want to make things awkward, but it seems I've already gone and done that."
What the hell was the idiot talking about?
"Not my first...? Oh hell," Sherlock was obviously dangerously confused, so John tried to make things a little clearer for him. And if that meant threading his fingers through that ridiculously soft hair and pulling him in for a kiss, then so be it. The kiss was hot and wet, and the noises Sherlock made simply weren't decent. This went on for several minutes, and when they parted, Sherlock was stained crimson, though none of the marks were as bright as the claiming hand on his neck.
John knew he probably looked incredibly smug, but he frankly didn't give a damn since he now had this beautiful thing for a soul mate. Though, Sherlock probably deserved an explanation if the dazed look on his face was any hint. Pulling him towards the bedroom, John murmured,
"There is no one I would rather have as my soul mate. I've been in love with you for months."
"Months? How could I have missed- Oh." He was still talking. Why was he still talking? Though, John's mouth on his neck seemed to distract Sherlock a little. They kept walking towards the bedroom, still joined at the mouth, when Sherlock burst out,
"But John! What about the tea?" The ridiculous bastard.
"Damn the tea," John growled into Sherlock's neck as he dragged him into the bedroom. There wasn't much talking after that.
John might still be covered in colors, but now he knows he has the only one that really matters as a bright violet smudge on his cheek. And other places, but most of those are really between him and Sherlock.