A/N: Written for a kink meme prompt about John not being ashamed of his scar and not understanding why everyone's so horrified by it. I have had the type of acid mentioned here spilled on me once so that part is completely accurate. Enjoy!
A Fortuitous Downfall
It's not something John really thinks about.
His shoulder still pains him, especially in the cold and wet, or when he needs to lift heavy things (like an unconscious Sherlock), but he almost forgets about the scar itself. It's an ugly raised patch of skin crawling up his collar bone and down his first few ribs, but John's not ashamed of it. Fuck, if anything he's proud of it. John's a soldier. He went to war. John got that scar in the middle of a desert kneeling over a wounded comrade, he was saving a life when he was shot, and that's nothing to be ashamed of.
But most of the time, he just forgets it's even there.
So he's honestly puzzled by the staring at first.
They just arrested their killer, someone who they've been tracking down over the course of the past three days, and John's ready to go home. For three days he's been trailing after Sherlock, taking cabs across most of London, and trying to sneak bits of food into his boyfriend all while catching only the occasional cat nap. He wants to grab some dim sum, go back to Baker Street, and curl up around Sherlock on the couch.
Unfortunately John Watson's life is rarely that simple. Because the man they've just arrested threw acid at him.
It's not a big deal, really, they let kids use this type of acid in science classes, but it can irritate the skin something awful and that's just plain unpleasant. May has been unusually warm this year, and for once it isn't raining, so John doesn't think much of stripping his shirt off to make sure none of it's soaked through to his skin. He can always wait for the shirt to dry before they head back home after all.
He notices the silence immediately.
Anderson's not looking at him except for the occasional, frankly frightened looking, glance. Sally's staring at him in abject horror, her mouth actually hanging open. Lestrade looks especially grim considering they just caught a murder. John, feeling more than a bit unsettled by this point, looks for Sherlock.
Sherlock is looking at him with the kind of focus he usually gives to dead bodies. "I haven't had a chance to see it yet," he murmurs stepping closer to John and suddenly it all makes sense. Everyone is staring because John has a great old scar on his shoulder. What he still doesn't understand is why everyone except Sherlock looks so fucking uneasy about it. "A sniper?" Sherlock questions tilting his head. John nods. "You must have been kneeling when you got this from the angle," his fingers brush the raised skin gently, "Your unit was by a mountain side, only way they would have gotten the height necessary to shoot you from the front like this. Fascinating."
An awestruck 'amazing' is on the tip of John's tongue when Donovan finds her voice again. "What's wrong with you, Freak?" She demands, tearing her gaze away from John's shoulder. "You find it fascinating that your boyfriend got fucking shot? That you almost never met him because of some terrorist with a gun? How sick are you? It's a war wound not a fucking puzzle."
Sherlock shoots John an uneasy look and John feels himself bristle. No one has the right to make Sherlock unsure of himself like that.
"In case everyone's forgotten," John says loudly. "I'm aware that I was shot. I was there after all," he gives Donovan a cold look. "Don't talk about things you don't understand. I'm not ashamed of getting shot or my scar. I got it saving people's lives. I went to war, and I survived, and I've got the scars to prove it. I've got nothing to be ashamed of." He looks around at everyone, making sure they understand him.
"And for the record," he continues, "I think it's brilliant that Sherlock can tell all of that from looking at my shoulder for less than a minute. You were right about everything." John says turning back to Sherlock. "And if it wasn't for getting shot," he looks at Sally, who's looking at the ground, "And getting invalided back home, I would have never met Sherlock. So," he takes Sherlock's hand, "When everything's said and done, I'm actually pretty pleased I got shot by 'some terrorist with a gun'. Can we go home now Lestrade?" Greg nods, giving John an understanding look and tells them to remember to come down to the station tomorrow for a statement. John shrugs his now dry shirt back on and he and Sherlock go home.
: : :
"Is it sensitive?" Sherlock asks later that night when he has John, spread out and shirtless, underneath him on the couch.
"No," John says honestly. "The muscles still hurt, and there's nerve damage, but the skin itself is pretty numb." He runs a fond hand through Sherlock's hair. "Go ahead," he urges, "You're not going to hurt me."
Permission given Sherlock lowers his head to John's chest licking, kissing, tasting, biting, at the scar. John can't feel most of it very well, just the occasional bite, but that's fine with him. This is for Sherlock really, his way of proving to himself that John survived to come and find him so that they could have this life together.
"I'm – I'm glad you got shot." Sherlock admits quietly, looking uncharacteristically worried. "I'm not glad you got hurt," he adds quickly, "But I'm glad we met. And if you had to get shot for that to happen then I'm glad you did."
"Shut up, you idiot." John admonishes him fondly. "I'm glad I got shot too. You're not doing anything wrong by being glad we found each other. You're good." He promises pulling Sherlock up for a kiss.
It's probably not normal, being so happy he got shot, being so grateful to some anonymous Taliban member for setting him on the path that would eventually lead him to this wonderful, amazing man. But since when has John ever done normal?