AN: So this is my first attempt at showing other people my writing. Hope you enjoy. Thanks to my beta TeaLogic who helped make this piece readable.
Disclaimer: I own no part of Sherlock; I am simply borrowing the characters for my own use and pleasure.
John hates the scar on his shoulder.
He views the mangled and disfigured flesh as a weakness.
It was the place where he had been conquered, defeated.
It's a deformity that taunts him everyday; its vile voice, the voice of his past, whispering into the darkest recesses of his mind, "You're a failure as a soldier, John. You're a failure as a man."
John can't evenbear the sight of it in the mirror, his carefully trained eyes always staying away from that one spot, that one disappointment.
It's for this reason that John fists his hand in the wispy curls at the back of Sherlock's head just as Sherlock's tongue is about to make contact with source of John's failure.
…
Sherlock is intrigued by John's shoulder. More specifically, he's intrigued by how much John hates it.
He understands why, he'd deduced the reasons long ago, had filed them away in some cabinet in his mind palace.
He understands of course, but that doesn't mean he has to like it.
John terrifies Sherlock.
Sherlock isn't used to emotions. He doesn't know how to deal with all of these feelings.
Sherlock cares so much. So much that sometimes he thinks John must not be real, must not be human. For surely anyone with the power to ensnare Sherlock so completely must be something more than a mere mortal man.
But then he sees the scar for the first time, and he knows: John is real. John is the most real thing Sherlock will ever encounter.
He had known the scar was there, but seeing it with his own eyes, it solidifies all his feelings for John. It makes them true.
That scar, that insignificant patch of skin, is the reason John is with him now. Sherlock knows John hates it. Hates what it represents, but to Sherlock, that scar is the most magnificent thing in the world.
So when John stops Sherlock from tasting the skin that he considers the cause of their relationship, Sherlock closes his mouth and looks up at John.
Up into his eyes, and tells him.
He doesn't use words, they have long since moved past the need for words to express feelings. Sherlock lets his eyes speak for him, he pours out his soul to John, the love, the compassion, the possessiveness bordering on frightening, and the need for trust.
For John to trust that Sherlock won't hurt him, not on purpose, and not like this.
And John sees it all. He absorbs all the emotion from Sherlock, he understands, he trusts, and so he lets go of Sherlock's head.
He slides his hand down Sherlock's neck, and flattens it against the planes of Sherlock's back. Sherlock doesn't move a muscle; he holds completely still, he's waiting.
John draws in a deep breath. Sherlock can feel the hand on his back shaking slightly. John releases the breath and gives a tiny nod, then closes his eyes and drops his head back, giving permission, giving Sherlock his full trust.
As soon as Sherlock sees the nod, he moves a hand from where it was on John's chest, a safe distance from his shoulder, and extends one long finger to trace the outline of the scar.
The second he makes contact, he can feel John tense, and then slowly relax, letting out another deep breath. Sherlock moves one finger, then two, following the lines, exploring the dips and pits, feeling the rough texture of destroyed and mended flesh.
When Sherlock's fingers have felt every centimeter of skin, filed away every pigment change, every minor detail, he lowers his head, and lets his tongue explore the city of pathways and lines left by the bullet and the surgeries that followed.
By the time his tongue has memorized the scar, Sherlock can feel John's whole body is tense and shaking. When he looks up, John's eyes are open, looking down at Sherlock, moisture pooled in the corners. Full of unshed tears threatening to break free and spill down his cheeks.
Sherlock bends his head one more time and places a single kiss in the center of the scar, directly over where the bullet hit, before laying his cheek on the now damp skin and closing his eyes.
…
The moment that Sherlock's intentions toward the scar are made clear, John is immediately and overpoweringly filled with dread.
Not there, anywhere but there.
John will let Sherlock do almost anything. Will kill for him, will die for him, but he won't give him this, not this part of himself.
At least that's what he's convinced himself until Sherlock looks up at him. Until Sherlock pours his soul out his eyes and John knows he will give Sherlock anything, anything in the world and damn the consequences as long as Sherlock just keeps looking at him like that.
So John gives up. He lets go of that last secret part of himself, and with one tentative nod, he finally lets Sherlock in. He lets Sherlock explore until he's sure there is no part of him, mind, body, or soul that Sherlock doesn't know.
As Sherlock lays his head down, John draws in a deep, shaky breath, and slides his hand back up Sherlock's neck to twine into his thick hair, pulling his fingers through the dark strands, stroking over and over until John is once again relaxed and calm. John murmurs out a quiet, "Thank you" then closes his eyes and drifts into a deep and nightmare-less sleep.