John felt Collin's arm drop around his shoulder on a two second delay, the man's weight heavy and dragging and making them both stumble. Well, more so than they already had been. Seven pints in was a bit much considering the amount of drinking-or lack thereof-they'd done in the six months of their deployment; John himself had maybe had a half a beer from a six pack somebody'd gotten in a care package, but little else. Still, no one seemed ready to quit, so John did what any good mate would do and kept taking long pulls from his bottle as the ground swayed beneath his feet.
"Where the bloody hell are we?" John heard Samson call out from where he'd fallen behind to light himself another fag. Collin shrugged against John's shoulders despite the fact that no one could see him, something John found funny enough to strangle his response in a fit of probably embarrassing giggles.
"Baker Street, I think?" John managed eventually, shifting to keep Collin walking on his own two feet. Mostly. "I thought I saw a sign back… Somewhere."
"Wait, wait, hang on," Bill, who up to this point had been wandering aimlessly about a half a block ahead of them all, stopped to examine their surroundings with an over-exaggerated focus. John pulled Collin to a halt as well, letting Samson catch up just in time for Bill to break out in a grin that should have made John nervous. Of course, it would take far more than one of Bill's infamous bad ideas to make John uneasy after seven pints and six months in Afghanistan. "This is Baker Street," Bill announced.
"That's what I said, yeah," John rolled his eyes, knocking back the last of his beer and chucking it into the conveniently placed rubbish bin to his left. He considered it a personal victory that it only bounced against the rim once, what with Collin and seven pints substantially affecting his aim.
"No, no," Bill simultaneously waved a hand in front of his face and jogged up to meet the group, looking a bit like he was going to stumble over himself in the process. Instead, he just barreled into John and Collin, using a shoulder each to steady himself before speaking, words just barely this side of slurred. "That's not- It's not about the street, you tit. It's about the street." He was grinning like a mad man, despite what John assumed was a look of confusion on his own face. Collin sagged a bit in his arms, groaning out something that sounded equally as puzzled, but Bill either didn't notice or didn't care. Probably both. "We should get tattoos!" He continued on as if the progression made perfect sense to everybody.
"Not following, mate," Samson coughed through the last drag of his cigarette, flicking the bud into the street. Bill practically gaped at him.
"Baker Street!" Bill repeated, holding his arms out for emphasis. It didn't help. "221B?" When no one showed any signs of recognition, Bill clapped John hard on the shoulder and threw his hands up in complete and total resignation. "How can you lot not know about 221B?"
"I'm guessing it's a… tattoo parlor?" John smirked, trying rather unsuccessfully not to break into a fresh fit of laughter.
Bill held up a finger a bit too close to John's face. "Not just any tattoo parlor, mate. The most prestigious tattoo parlor in London! Or something. Rumor has it the artist can guess what you're coming in for just by looking at you."
"I don't buy it," Samson scoffed, already holding another cigarette between his lips.
"I'm serious," Bill turned to look up and down the street, presumably for said tattoo parlor. "Jules says he was a bit of an arse about it too. But, fuck, if he wasn't spot on. You should check out Jules' back. Like a fuckin' Picasso paint-Oh! There it is!" Bill pointed down the street a ways before turning abruptly back to the three of them, beaming. "Come on. We have to get one while we're here. When are we gonna get another chance, right? Mark the occasion, make memories and all that!" He wrapped an arm around Samson's shoulders and placed a hand on the back of Collin's neck, shaking the both of them, and by association John. "We could all get matching tiger claws or something!"
"Fuck that," Collin scoffed from under John's arm, straightening up some but still leaning rather heavily into John's side. John debated choosing that moment to shrug out from underneath the half embrace, but he was still coherent enough to know it was much easier to maneuver a drunken but vertical twenty-two year old, than one on the floor. "If I'm getting a tattoo it's the words, "Fuck You," across my arm. Right… Right here," he tried to point to the assigned bicep regardless of the fact that John's head seemed to be getting in the way.
John swatted at his hand, but his annoyed, "Oi," went completely unnoticed.
"So you're in?" Bill grinned even wider, if that were possible, looking from Collin-who shrugged again-to Samson-who offered a noncommittal, "Sure, whatever,"-and finally, to John. Waiting, hopeful. And bloody pathetic enough that John caved with surprisingly little resistance.
"Yeah, alright. Fine." John shook his head, smiling despite himself. He'd always toyed with the idea of getting one, and doing so while on leave did seem like the perfect opportunity. In fact, if he was being honest with himself, he even sort of had one in mind…
"You lot coming or not?" Bill's voice drifted over to John from considerably farther away than before. Though when he'd sprinted the rest of the way to the shoppe, John couldn't really say. He blinked a few times, slowly feeling the last of the seventh pint settle into his system like a warning.
"I'm pretty sure none of us are sober enough to be making these sorts of decisions," John stated half-heartedly once he'd managed to drag Collin up to the steps of 221B. Samson lifted Collin's free arm around his shoulder to help, the two of them easing their way through the door with only minor difficulty.
Bill just continued to grin. Bastard was probably the happiest drunk John had ever seen. "The more plastered you are, the less it hurts, Johnny. Now come on! In you get!"
The door closed behind them with a slam, Samson depositing Collin in a chair near the entrance while the rest of them took a look around.
The first thing John noticed was the distinct drill-like sound of a needle going, although it looked as though no one was around. The second was the walls. Stretching across every inch of wall space were various types of pictures, from charcoal to ink to pencil sketches on paper, cardboard, envelopes, even a few drawings that looked to be done on the walls themselves. It looked almost reminiscent of a scene from a murder mystery; the only thing lacking was a bit of red string tying this picture to that picture from victim to witness to killer.
But it was more than just the chaos of it all that grabbed John's attention. The pictures themselves were bloody gorgeous, and spanning across all manner of artistic styles. There were quick sketches of tribal art, full portraits, Van Gogh-esque water color scenes, some rather morbid cartoons. There was even a giant, yellow smiley face spray painted over a patch of wallpaper. It was breathtaking, if a bit overwhelming.
"Where is he?" Samson asked from the entryway, still standing next to Collin, an elbow resting none too gently on his head. Collin didn't seem to care, though by the faraway, glazed-over look in his eyes, John was pretty sure he was far beyond caring about anything at this point.
"I'm surprised he's even still open," John heard Bill answer from the other end of the studio where he stood admiring the wall of colored inks and tattooing instruments. "It is nearly past three in the morning."
"Think he's asleep?" Collin asked in a barely intelligible mumble,
"Sleep is boring," a voice-a deep baritone that John's alcohol laden mind involuntarily translated as rich and sultry-interjected from somewhere out of their line of sight. John took a surprised step back from where he'd been standing awfully close to a shaded, charcoal drawing of a man wearing fishnets and heels. He recognized the image from some American cult classic, but a blush rushed to his cheeks none-the-less. A blush which only deepened when the owner of the voice chose that moment to stroll out of a side room and into the main parlor. "I try to avoid it when I can."
He stood a good head taller than John, a mess of dark, almost inky black curls hanging just this side of intentional across his forehead. His eyes were blue-grey and piercing, flicking across the group of them like a scientist would a detailed equation. He rolled his sleeves up as he walked, revealing an exquisite and detailed expanse of tattooed skin which John found himself eagerly wishing he could get a closer look at. It was a perfect contrast to the buttoned-up dress shirt and trousers that made him seem otherwise posh.
As quickly as the artist's gaze had settled on the lot of them, John watched him roll his eyes in annoyance, a look which brought to John's attention just how young the man really was. Couldn't have been more than nineteen, maybe twenty tops, and he was running his own tattoo parlor?
"Oh, dull," The artist huffed. "Recently on leave from Iraq, or Afghanistan, is it? At least you're not tedious enough to be asking me for matching tattoos. But honestly." He looked at Collin chidingly. "An expletive along your upper left bicep? Crass and unimaginative, not to mention stereotypical, but if you allow me liberties with the font, then fine." He moved on, looking at Bill now, though John was equally as mesmerized. "And while I'm not surprised, at least yours will allow for more artistic license." He placed a finger to the right side of his chest and drew a line in a diagonal to the center of his sternum. "Claw marks, bear or tiger, you don't seem to care, raked across your right pectoral. I'll allow it, but only in color. If I'm going to be forced to render an over played image of idealized masculinity, I'm doing it in blatant and morbid realism. Now you," he turned to Samson next, who was glaring defensively, arms crossed tight over his chest. John could already tell he was going to be stubborn about this, possibly even storm out. The artist didn't seem fazed. "Regardless of what I say you want, you're going to deny it, so there's no point in even bothering with you."
Finally he turned his attention to John, eyes raking over him like a physical presence. "And then there's yours." His gaze captured John's for barely a moment before he was turning away, as if the whole ordeal bored him. "The name of a family member between your shoulder blades, possibly accompanied by some sort of memento-a rugby ball perhaps-out of sight but present so most likely the relative is deceased. All tedious and wrought with sentiment, mind you, but if you give me artistic liberty with the rendering I'll-"
"Actually," John jumped in, despite the fact that his head was spinning with the man's deductions. The artist stopped, turning back to John and raising an eyebrow in surprised confusion. For a moment, John allowed himself to be slightly pleased at catching the obviously arrogant bastard off guard, even contemplated keeping the near-accuracy of the man's assumption to himself. But John was as amazed as he was smug, so he explained. "I'd been considering that for a while, actually, pretty much down to the letter. My father's name between my shoulder blades and everything. But that's not what I want."
The artist looked borderline horrified now, taking a step closer to John and all but examining him like a slide under a microscope, even going so far as to circle him multiple times, hands clasped prayer-like beneath his chin. After a few awkward moments of pacing and silence, he stopped, letting his hands fall to his side as he opened his mouth to speak.
Which was the exact moment that Bill chose to chime in.
"Well he hit the nail on the head with mine, so you'll just have to go last, Johnny," he said, the sound of his voice yanking John back to the present, and alerting him to his and the artist's sudden proximity. John took a step back out of reflex, the artist raising an eyebrow at him again, only this time with a hint of amusement tugging just barely at the corner of his mouth. "So," Bill went on, walking up to the two of them and clapping his hands. "Where do you want me?"
The artists rolled his eyes again and motioned for them all to follow, leading Bill, John, and eventually Collin, into the back room he'd been in when they arrived. John wasn't surprised when Samson didn't join them.
Without preamble, Bill settled himself on the table in the center of the room and Collin sat himself down on a seat in the corner, which left John free to look around a bit.
The room wasn't large, but it was spacious enough for the four of them and substantially less cluttered than the giant collage that was the front room. Shelving units spanned one full wall, lined with numerous bottles of ink-all organized by what seemed to be a rather complicated color spectrum-and a variety of tattooing equipment. A few pictures hung in frames on the remaining wall space, though none like what John had seen outside. Instead, there was a periodic table, a portrait of the Queen, an old and faded map of some sort burnt to crumbling at the edges and dotted with scorch marks, a long scroll written all in Japanese, and a certificate which John assumed was proof of the artist's legal right to charge them for sticking needles and ink into their skin.
There was also what appeared to be a ram's skull wearing headphones hanging over a desk on the far wall, but as obscure and amusing as that was, John found himself drawn back to the certificate. More specifically, the name typed across the center of it.
Sherlock Holmes.
"Is that your real name?" John heard himself ask, mentally berating himself at once for how rude that must have sounded. But instead of the defensiveness he'd expected, all the artist did was laugh softly, a low rumble of sound that settled strangely in the center of John's chest.
"That's what my birth certificate tells me," Sherlock said, and despite the slight chuckle from two seconds ago, when John turned back in his direction, he looked about as bored as before.
"Sorry," John cleared his throat. "I didn't know if that was, like, your artist's name or- or something. Like a stage name." He could feel his face getting hotter and hotter the more he rambled, but he couldn't seem to stop. Bloody pints. "Do tattoo artist's even do that?"
Sherlock did look at him then, smirking full out now. "Not that I know of."
"Right," John shoved his hands in his pockets. "I'll just… Over here, then," he nodded, cursing silently to himself as he leaned back against the wall, out of the way. He'd never really considered himself the smoothest man in the world, but he'd never embarrassed himself that badly before, the seven pints notwithstanding. He opted for keeping his mouth shut until he sobered up a bit more, just in case, though a little voice in the back of his head was all but certain he'd just ruined everything.
Not that he knew what he'd "ruined" per say, but he'd have liked the option, whatever it would have been.
Watching Sherlock prepare was an art form in and of itself, the way he gathered his equipment and lined up the colors in various cups along the desk next to the table. His hands moved with a certainty born from repetition and a fluidity that could only have been natural. He moved about the room with a surprising amount of grace, his hands adjusting and prepping the equipment like those of a scientist. It was damn near mesmerizing. And when he was finally ready, it seemed, John couldn't wait to see what those hands and that grace, not to mention his talent, would be able to create.
Bill, however, seemed a bit less enthralled, especially when Sherlock started the drill.
"Wait," Bill said suddenly, holding up a hand and scrambling to sit up, his bare back sticking for a moment to the leather of the table. "You're not gonna sketch it first or something? Like with a marker, to make sure you don't mess up?"
John had to stop himself from laughing at the look of genuine exasperation that crossed Sherlock's face. In lieu of answering, Sherlock pointed instead at a sign hanging above the door, one that John hadn't noticed before. The words were written in an elegant, curling script, but were still as clear as day:
Artist reserves the right to refuse services to any and all idiots.
John couldn't hold back then, clutching his stomach and bending forward with the burst of laughter, which only grew as Bill mumbled something in his defense and Collin snorted his own amusement at him. It was the sound of Sherlock chuckling softly to himself that kept John going, though, even once Bill had crossed his arms over his chest and laid back down in a huff.
"Yeah fine, sod the lot of you then," He spat. "Do it freehand, but I'm not paying you shit if you fuck up my chest."
"I don't 'fuck up,'" Sherlock scoffed, starting up the needle again. "And I don't do this just for payment. I do it for the work. You should take solace in that."
"Yeah, I'll fucking try," Bill groaned, biting hard onto the heel of his hand when the needle made first contact with his skin. John hissed in sympathy, though a part of him was suddenly keen for his turn, eager to see exactly how much it hurt. By the way Bill was trying desperately not to move, it looked like a lot. John tried not to think about just how much that excited him.
Sherlock was as precise and elegant tattooing as he had been in his preparations, a design of impressive standards slowly beginning to take form across Bill's chest. It was so impressive, in fact, that John barely registered the passage of time, as distracted as he was by the steadily evolving art, not to mention he artist himself. It took Samson's voice calling out from the main room-something about leaving the lot of them to go have another smoke-for John to realize a full hour had passed. And aside from his initial bought of rambling, an hour of complete silence at that.
Swallowing back the uncharacteristic self-consciousness, John decided to break it. "I'm surprised you decided to take us so late. And despite being pissed at that."
"What you decide to do to your bodies, and what state you decide to be in while doing so, is your prerogative," Sherlock said matter-of-factly without looking up from Bill's chest. He was adding some shading in a deep red to one of the claw marks; it was really starting to look more and more realistic as time went on. "Like I said," Sherlock continued, stopping the needle for a moment, the second or two of silence almost overwhelming in comparison. And the way Sherlock looked up at him, grey-blue eyes locking on John's like a vice, even more so. "All that matters is the work."
"Right," John swallowed, licking his lips reflexively as he forced himself to look away, though not before noticing Sherlock's gaze drift down to watch. "You did say that, yeah."
Sherlock started up the needle again, the sound a relief in comparison to the awkward and tense attempts at forgone conversation. It also reminded John of something.
"I heard the needle going when we came in," He started before he could stop himself. "Were you working on someone else?" He didn't see another exit around the shop, but the only other option was-
"Touching up some designs on my arm, actually," Sherlock shattered his train of thought, alerting John to the fact that, while he couldn't get a truly proper look, he was finally close enough to at least casually examine Sherlock's many tattoos. Well, the ones not covered by his rather expensive-looking, form-fitting clothes. As if to punctuate John's thoughts, Sherlock held out one of his arms in John's direction, though his other hand kept working with the needle and his focus stayed pinned to Bill's tattoo. John took a step closer, leaning over some to get a better look.
It was absolutely stunning, a proper tattoo sleeve with barely any remaining original skin, all the pictures and patterns and letterings perfectly interwoven despite the varying styles and designs. Though he couldn't see the whole thing-and he desperately wanted to-he caught glimpses of what looked like a violin and sheet music, a skull, an old fashioned pipe, and a diagram of a man that looked a bit like Da Vinci's Vitruvian Man. The more he noticed, the more he wondered about the twenty year old tattoo artist, what sort of person he was, how he'd come to own his own shoppe so young, what sort of things he liked, hobbies he had. Tattoos could tell a lot about a person, but the more John saw, the more he felt like he needed to know.
"You did all these yourself?" John asked, surprised his voice was so even considering how awed he felt.
"All the ones I could easily reach," Sherlock replied, finally returning his arm to the table. "I had my mentor do my back before I left."
"Another tattoo artist?"
"One of the better ones, when he's not being unbearably sentimental about portraits of dead children and quotes about the trials and tribulations of life." Sherlock rolled his eyes hard enough for John to see it in his periphery. "His parlor is about twenty minutes north of here, a place called The Yard."
"Well he must have been talented to mentor someone like you," John offered, feeling the blush settle across his cheeks at the attempted flattery, even though it seemed to go unnoticed.
"I mainly went to him to learn the basics," Sherlock shrugged. "Picked it up in an hour or two, stayed with Lestrade for a few months to practice, then left." Sherlock turned just enough in John's direction to offer him a wink. "My talents are far superior to his." John felt something in his chest tighten. "And anyway," Sherlock looked back at Bill's tattoo, and so did John, the shading and most of the minor details already complete. "I only really decided to venture into tattooing because I was bored and needed a steady income to buy cocaine. Any artist would have sufficed."
John couldn't help but raise an eyebrow at that. Though a part of him felt like he shouldn't have been surprised. Owning a parlor, out on his own in the middle of London, at his age. His money had to be coming from somewhere, and the posh, rich types didn't usually send their kids off to be tattoo artists.
"So," John cleared his throat, trying not to be awkward. "Are you still-?"
Sherlock's brief, slightly sardonic sounding chuckle interrupted the rest of John's question. "Not recently, no. It was part of my arrangement with Lestrade. And I've found the work significantly distracting." This time when he looked at John from the corner of his eye, the gaze felt heavy, weighted. The next words to slip from his lips-full, fucking kissable, cupid-bow lips- shit…-felt somehow laced with intention. "Though not as distracting as other things."
All John could do was stare, heart pounding against his chest even after Sherlock finished the last of the detailing and put the needle to rest.
"Keep it moisturized and refrain from scratching as it heals," Sherlock explained, wiping the remaining ink off Bill's skin and bandaging the tattoo with surprisingly gentle hands. John felt a small, involuntary spike of jealousy at the sight. Sherlock handed Bill some ointment and pushed away from the table. "I don't do touchups for anything self-inflicted, including but not limited to your own stupidity."
Bill got to his feet, moving a bit slower than he had before. It seemed the pain and the lengthy sit down had sobered him up enough to take the edge of his manic excitement, though when he looked at his chest in the mirror, that same grin split his face.
"Damn, Johnny!" He exclaimed. "Look at it! Bloody amazing, yeah?" He ran careful fingers across the plastic wrap taped over the image, mouthing an impressed, "Wow."
John turned back to Sherlock, unable to help his own appreciative grin. "It really is amazing, Sherlock." A little thrill shot through him at saying the name aloud, which was only added to by the way Sherlock seemed to approve of the compliment.
"Thank you, John," Sherlock smiled, and that thrill from before multiplied ten fold at hearing his own name in the velvety baritone.
When he could finally get his words out at a normal timbre, John stuttered, "How did you-?"
"Simple," Sherlock's smile shifted back into what appeared to by his usual smirk. "He called you Johnny multiple times in my presence. You flinched just slightly each time, so a nickname you neither willingly chose nor entirely approve of. Therefor, John."
John smirked. "Could have been Jonathon."
"You don't look like a Jonathon."
John was strangely pleased by that.
"Your friend was meant to be next, but…" Sherlock trailed off, intentionally glancing over John's shoulder at Collin, now passed out in his chair.
"Bloody hell," John sighed, running his fingers through his hair. "We should probably get him out of here, then."
"Finally!" Samson offered his own exasperated sigh from where he'd abruptly appeared in the doorway. "You've made your memory, Bill, now can we please fucking go?"
"You could have just left without us," John frowned, throwing an apologetic look at Sherlock, who only shrugged and continued to clean up his work-space, already back to looking unbearably bored.
After that, it was all business. Bill paid Sherlock what he owed him-a surprisingly affordable cost considering the amount of work done-Samson and Bill got Collin on his feet enough to manage the brief walk to the curb, and Samson hailed a cab, threatening as usual to make someone other than him pay.
"Consider it compensation for waiting on your sorry arses for three hours!" John heard him say as the door shut behind them, leaving John and Sherlock alone in the parlor.
"Thanks for… for doing that for Bill," John offered lamely after a moment. "He really wanted one. And it really was amazing, what you did. Really impressive stuff."
"Thank you," Sherlock nodded, looking a tad uncomfortable himself.
"Sorry about Samson," John tried, though as desperate as he was to keep the conversation going as long as he could, he could feel it coming to an end. The realization probably shouldn't have been as upsetting as it was. "He can be a bit of a prat sometimes."
"I've dealt with worse," Sherlock smirked, and John grinned back at him, considering for a moment ways in which he could stay. He hadn't gotten his own tattoo yet. They didn't exactly need him to accompany them back to the-
"Johnny!" Bill's voice managed to drift in through the crack in the door. True to form, John winced, though this time for an entirely different reason. "Cab's here! And I'm pretty sure Collin's gonna throw up!"
Right. What were mates for?
"I should go," John sighed, offering one last, sad smile at Sherlock before turning towards the exit.
"Wait. John," Sherlock called out and John's heart skipped a beat. The sound of his name in that voice had to right to sound as fantastic as it did. "Your tattoo. You said you wanted… something else."
John looked over his shoulder at him. "The words Primum non Nocere," he said, dragging a finger over the left side of his chest, a few inches beneath his collarbone. "Right here."
Sherlock nodded. "Ah. Doctor. There's always something."
John nodded as well and smiled, trying not to be disappointed when, as he walked out the door and got into the cab, Sherlock didn't call him back one more time.
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