John has taken Rosie home for the night. Sherlock had suggested that they move into 221B permanently, but John felt that with Rosie crawling, the stairs would be too dangerous. Sherlock understands, so they live a separate life as friends, good friends.
"Have you had sex?" Eurus had asked when he had played. She had heard the song that he had written and it had sounded like sex to her. He had been afraid to play her the song he'd written for John and Mary. He knew that she would hear it for what it was, a dirge.
Sherlock walked to the bathroom. He didn't have to pretend when there was no one to see. He could shuffle and stoop as he walked. He filled the bath and put in salts. They stung a bit, but they were helpful for the bruises.
Sherlock took off his clothes. His skin had once been smooth and pristine. Now it was a map of scars and bruises. So much had happened to him in the last few years. So much had happened since he'd met John.
He climbed into the bath and lay back, wincing a little. He could still feel the ruts and rolls in his skin from his time in Serbia. Beaten with a pipe and a chain. They had cracked the back of the ribs, but not broken them. Thank god the spine had stayed intact. They were healed for the most part now. Only raised bits of skin, but they had been fresh wounds when John had tackled him onto his back that first day. He had been hoping for a hug, and he had got a bloody nose and a shock instead.
His hands were scarred with nicks and cuts, mostly from his lab experiments, but there was a burn on his wrist from when he had pulled John out of the fire over a year ago. It had healed, but the hair had never grown back.
His arms were covered from the scars of his drug use. So many on his left arm that the veins had started to collapse, and so he had injected himself on the right arm. It had been difficult to do it with his non-dominant arm. Unlike John, he was not ambidextrous. He'd had to make a rig to hold the syringe still while he'd injected himself. John had taken his hand and pulled up his sleeve to look at the scars on his right arm. Thank goodness he hadn't seen the ones on the other arm. He had been disgusted enough by what he'd seen not to want to touch him anymore.
Sherlock was disgusting. He was covered with scars. Even Molly had frowned when she'd examined him. She'd acted like she was going to throw up. John had waited outside during the examination, not wanting to see or hear any part of him, but that was only understandable. Mary wouldn't have died but for him.
He touched the hole where she had shot him. Why did he even bother coming back. If he had died, Mary might still be alive. Then again, maybe not. Maybe none of them would be. It didn't matter, really. He had made a vow, and he had broken it. He wouldn't break it again. He would die for Rosie. He had died for John, again and again.
He still had a broken rib from where John had kicked him. It had healed back wrong, and he could feel it with his fingers through the skin. Luckily John never tried to touch him now. They only touched casually as they passed the baby back and forth, or when fingers bumped while passing a cup of coffee. The doctors said that he'd been lucky that he didn't have a punctured spleen. He would have bled to death for sure.
He wouldn't have minded, really. Why not bleed to death, if John wanted him too? He's bleeding to death now, little by little, day by day. It doesn't matter that his best friend doesn't care about his body. Why should it matter. The body is only transport. Transport is a tool. It is a thing that you use. The mind is what matters, and John respects his mind.
There was a time, he cared about the body too. He asked Sherlock to eat. He patched his wounds. That time is long past. Now Sherlock hides his scars beneath long sleeves, and John never asks, never cares to ask if he's okay.
He lifts himself out of the water and opens the drain. He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror, skin as full of craters as the surface of the moon. He was attractive once, he was pristine and unscarred once, before he met John. Now scars are all that he has. Scars are all that he is.
John will be coming in the morning to drop off Rosie when he goes to work. Sherlock likes Rosie. Her little fingers are so soft when they stroke his face. He likes to be touched. He can admit that now, and Rosie is not afraid to show her love.
He puts on his robe and shuffles to his room. There is no one here to see. He looks in his drawer for the clothes he will wear tomorrow. Not that shirt, it's too transparent. It might show the bullet scar. Yes, the black shirt will do.
He understands the truth of Mycroft's words now that it's far too late to do anything about it. Caring is not an advantage. Caring gets you hurt or killed. It causes pain that feels too hard to endure, and all that it gives you back are scars.