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Flashpoint. That's what they called it then. There was another word, a weaker word, a colder word: interface. But flashpoint is what John always thinks of. Bombs in the air, on the street. Violent outcomes. Wounds that need healing under his hands. Bodies shredded at the urging of emotion. Opposite sides slamming together. Protestant/Catholic. Then.

Now: Tall and wiry/short and square. Dark/light. Cold/warm. Opposites. Colliding in the heat of battle.

Flashpoint. The first one after putting a bullet through a man for the sake of this man. Dinner, what dinner, different hunger roaring now. Alive, and burning with it, with the near-kiss of death still at his mouth. One exchanged look, utter clarity. Bodies slamming against a wall, mouths biting. Hands seeking, touching, grasping. So alive. Violence at the interface. No peace lines here.

Every time, bodies shredding in new ways. In oh god and yes please and just like that. In tearing cloth and bite-marks and John, fuck me now.

Violence at the interface. The flashpoint that is 221B. Meeting of opposites. Wounds that need healing under his hands. Hands that grasp and pin and hold and bruise to heal deeper cuts unseen. Words that bandage: fantastic, brilliant, beautiful, mine.

Opposites stretching and straining and crying for victory. For freedom.

Sherlock is John's own personal Belfast.