Each scar is infinitely precious – a battle won, a war survived, touched by death but fighting through. Scars are a tapestry, a story woven through pain and skin, blood spilled on bright blue days (or dark starry nights). Each represents a moment where death was in reach, but some way, somehow, was held back. John and Sherlock are covered in far too many scars. Tracklines, bullet wounds, beatings laid out for all to see. (In truth, it is only ever the other who sees, on nights tangled together, each needing the other pressed close, memories of scars reminiscent of moments where this could have been lost before beginning.) Every scar receives a kiss, feather-light finger touches, delicacy though pain is long gone. (There are deeper scars too, invisible, unknown except to the well-trained eye. Scars on minds, and hearts. Nightmares, phantom pain, emptiness and numbness forming a yawning chasm. The brightest days are sometimes the blackest, these hidden scars coming forward all at once.) The scars are badges of victory branded on flesh, forged in the darkest moments. Each proclaims in a unique way "life has proved stronger than death." Though the scars are memories of grief – a declaration of a time in which the other was not there – they are also quiet proclamations of survival. What was bruised and broken beyond recognition, pieced back together again. Healed in the arms of another.