Based on an AU by SwissMiss c: Also, Mary doesn't exist. Because, um. Plot reasons.
And thanks to W. Y. Traveller for being my beta!

Most people had swirling objects and splashes of color, tattoos intertwining on their skin. Whenever anyone is born, they have a symbol of hope, or sometimes a warning of danger blossomed somewhere on their body. For John Watson, it was a sword on his hand. For Sherlock Holmes, he had a small red heart on his forehead, so small that it was hardly noticeable. John showed off his sword with a toothy grin, while Sherlock concealed his with his long curls, embarrassed by the heart given to him by birth.

Although it didn't happen often, these tattoos could disappear. Shatter. Disappear from existence. In the young, a rose could appear on the body, which usually meant great beauty in the child or in their life. If that beauty appeared to be wrong, the rose would wilt and remain permanently on the body, either as a punishment or a blessing, or it would shatter from the skin.

Sherlock Holmes was determined to shatter the heart on his forehead. He dissected any animal he came across, which he found gave him great glee. Still, the heart did not shatter. He insulted his peers and learned to deduce to piss people off, yet the heart did not shatter. He got detention nearly every day and was almost suspended countless times, saved only by his brother; but the heart did not shatter. He turned to smoking before turning to drugs; the heart stubbornly stayed on his forehead, only growing more complex and just a little larger.

The reason for these tattoos, was usually because of an event that had a great impact on one's life.

John Watson was proud of the sword on his hand. Of course, he immediately connected the sword to the fairy tales that his Mum always told him about. She didn't seem to believe them and yet she read them to John at night. John helped as many people as he could. He found things in the supermarket, told tourists directions and gave those people that Harry called icky on the street a few coins. At least, until his Mum said that most of them were probably spending that money on drugs. John spent his money on candy after that. Of course, being an 'idiot', as Harry called him, he shared his candy with his classmates, even the best ones.

Harry found it excruciatingly annoying. She found it even more annoying when John's sword only ever grew bigger and fancier. The first time that John kissed a boy, a red streak zipped around his arm, edging around the sword first. He laughed when it happened; locking lips with someone, he didn't expect to feel that tingling sensation zip through his arm, the signalling of another tattoo. The next boy he kissed, nothing happened. He supposed it was because he was angry, drunk, and in an unpleasant bar.

Eventually though, he had a nice little rainbow zipping around his arm. That one was quite literal, and to be honest it made his parents very angry. When Harry came out to her parents, lifting her shirt to show two stars circling around each other beneath her growing breast, which Harry explained symbolized her 'starry-crossed love with her true love', they'd started to scream and throw things. That was when John lifted his sleeve to show off this spiralling rainbow. When they moved out the next day, each had matching doves flying into the air in-between their shoulder blades, a splash of light blue behind the two birds.

John had a sun to the left of his dove, while Harry had been born with a moon to the right of hers. John's torso also had an imprinted butterfly from when he first stepped into school, a wooden stick on the bottom of his foot from when his first dog died, and a broken bike tire on his thigh from when he accidentally biked into a tree as he didn't know how to stop. Naturally, at the time, it had made perfect sense to speed up instead of trying to slow down.

Of course, not every event was marked on his body, and not every event that did show up on his body was a picture. A lot of the time, colors spread across peoples' bodies as they grew older. Many didn't specifically know why or when the color started to grow. John had bright and vibrant colors rippling across his skin, which was nice when he was naked, but a tad annoying when he was dressing for the day.

But while John had beautiful tattoos of swirling colors and intertwining images, Sherlock had words.

Indeed, something that only happened to a very small minority was that, instead of images depicting events, certain people had words scrawled across their bodies. Words that meant something to them. These kinds of words could be names, objects or places. If John had words instead of images, perhaps everything painted onto him would literally be replaced by the noun it was or what it meant. If people were lucky, poems were logged onto their skin. Very few had an ongoing poem about their life listed onto their bodies.

It was indeed awkward to have an ex's name drawn onto the chest or arm. Thankfully for Sherlock, he was in an even smaller minority than those with only words. Because he had his heart.

Not that anyone knew of it, of course; they only assumed he was the type of person to have words written across him. Naturally, that would happen. The first time that Sherlock had kissed a boy, he'd been caught. Within moments, the word FAGGOT was scrawled across his face in scraggly, thick letters.

Over time, Sherlock also had FREAK scribbled on his neck, POOF on his hand, FAIRY on his chest and every other slur or insult imaginable written somewhere on his body. He didn't have an image painted onto his body for a long time, only words like pansy and nance inscribed onto him.

The slurs were written in obvious places. He turned to drugs to forget about it. Instead, the words JUNKIE and ADDICT were written onto him. Both of his hearts were starting to die.

Even Mycroft obtained colorful tattoos. Albeit washed out and a bit literal, but still, he didn't have slurs scrawled across his skin like Sherlock.

And then, Sherlock met John Watson.

Like everyone he'd ever met, John was taken aback by the sharp, derogatory word permanently scrawled onto Sherlock's forehead. Sherlock found it best to find an aversion to the obvious questions concerning his face.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?"

That night, the words on his body started to crack. By the time he had shouted, "PINK!", the words were already starting to look worn out, despite Donovan's name-calling when he arrived. Thankfully, the Yard had enough sense to not call him the name literally written across his face. For that, he was grateful. That, however, did not mean that he liked the Yard, just that he was glad they had an ounce of pity and/or common sense.

On a night, similar to any other, the two men sat in their respective chairs.

A man who was colorful and who hardly had an inch of blank space on his skin anymore sat typing away at his blog. The other, tall and lanky, sat straight in his own chair, washed-out scrawls on his skin still there, as stubborn as the man they were painted on, holding up as best they could. John closed his laptop and glanced at the consulting detective across from him, hands pulled into a steeple underneath his plush lips.

John sighed, shaking his head at himself; he was never one for smooth transitions. He said, a little louder than he'd meant to, "How did you get them?"

Breaking the silence, it also broke Sherlock out of his Mind Palace trance. He took a breath as well, placing his arms on the armrests, fingers impatiently tapping at the fabric. He gave John a tired glance. "Get what?"

"You know ..." John trailed off, motioning with his hands.

Sherlock glared. "You mean my tattoos?"

"Yeah," John replied, glad to get that part out of the way. He pressed his lips together for a moment before readjusting so that his ankle could rest on his leg, while his finger toyed at his lips. "I've been a bit curious. Although, you know, if you don't want to say, that's fine too."

"Well," Sherlock said, waving a hand around his face. "I suppose this one's a bit obvious."

"Banged a guy?"

The mere suggestion seemed to make the doctor's flatmate flush.

"No," Sherlock denied. "Just kissed one. You know, at Eton. Got caught." He swallowed quickly. "Not a big deal."

"It's stayed with you for what? Twenty years?"

"Unimportant," Sherlock said, waving his hand flippantly. "You don't need to know about the others."

While John frowned at that, he knew better than to push. The tattoos could be intensely private and personal, and Sherlock probably wouldn't open up any more about it anyway. So, that was that.

"SHERLOCK!"

"Sorry, John. It's just ..." Molly paused, biting her chapped lip. "Procedure. You know that."

John nodded, tucking his hands behind his back. Molly unzipped the bag to Sherlock's waist. Greg hovered behind her. The doctor was taken aback, flinching when the bag was unzipped. Though the cruel words were still imprinted on the skin, over the heart were written familiar words. Beautiful, long, curving, small words, the cursive impeccable.

Brilliant, it wrote. Friend, it wrote. Amazing, it wrote. Fantastic, it wrote.

Yet written in the familiar text of crooked, broken letters that John had to look at every day, over top the caring, sentimental words, was one more. DON'T.

"No. Don't," John said, shaking his head, swallowing. And then, moments later, Sherlock jumped anyway.

It was decidedly one of the worst decisions of Sherlock's life. But then, his life was over anyway.

"I asked for one more miracle. I asked you to stop being dead."

"I heard you."

Somehow, they fell into bed that night.

John kissed every slur that had been etched onto Sherlock's skin. One by one, they were shattered as John whispered everything that Sherlock was, because Sherlock was amazing, brilliant, fantastic and beautiful, and he didn't even know.

When John fell asleep that night, short body curled up and pressing against Sherlock, arms wrapped around his waist, Sherlock ran his fingers through John's hair, wide awake at half-past three in the morning.

It was a strange feeling to be loved. It was a strange feeling to feel as though needles were injecting on nearly every part of the body while having sex, while simultaneously feeling like glass digging into every muscle as each tattoo broke on the skin.

Sherlock quietly pushed John's arms away, sliding his own body off the bed. The taking-one's-clothes-off part was done, so he sat down on the bed again as he waited for his eyes to adjust. He felt John roll over, his face probably shoved against Sherlock's pillow. He'd no doubt turn over again within a few minutes. In the meantime, Sherlock stood to stare at himself in the mirror.

He didn't see FAGGOT staring back at him. Nor did he see FREAK around his neck or FAIRY on his stomach. He saw the word Brilliant written on his shoulder. He saw the word Fantastic written across his stomach. And he saw Amazing written on his hand. The slurs and insults had dissipated.

The best part, however, was written on his face. Across his eyelids and nose was a word that had never quite felt right. It was a word that Sherlock had never once been called. It was a word that had been truly trivial and only sentimental. Until now, when it was written clearly on his face.

Beautiful.

A word that had never belonged to Sherlock. The word that was splashed in a color that looked just like John's eyes. In fact, that gray-blue hue was splashed all over his body. Not colorful at all, but simultaneously ... the most color that Sherlock had ever had. And the most color that he would ever need.

John stirred on the bed, after relentlessly tossing and turning.

"Sh'rl'k?" he murmured, voice overpowered by sleepiness, eyes refusing to open. Instantly, Sherlock's lips crashed onto John's. Needless to say, John was awake at last.

In the throes of love, one doesn't usually notice details. But as John pulled at Sherlock's hair, which sounded much less sexy when not in the moment, he saw something he never imagined he would see.

"Sherlock?" John asked, perfectly conscious now. He received a positive hum in return.

"You have a ... heart," John said, stopping abruptly. He heard Sherlock starting to whinge. The doctor continued, hesitant. "On your forehead."

He caressed the spot, the heart painted so clearly on the right side of Sherlock's head. It looked so pained. Damaged.

"Had it since birth," Sherlock replied, his voice husky and clipped, his mouth too busy making love to John's neck.

John moved away. Sherlock frowned as he pulled back also.

"No, you don't understand," John stammered. "When I met you, I got another tattoo. One of the reasons why I had to move in with you."

Sherlock's eyes immediately trailed down to where John's heart was. It was a small, intricate brain.

That Sherlock had missed. He scowled. "I didn't notice that."

"Does this mean we're true loves?" John asked, suddenly moving closer. "Meant to spend eternity together, God help us?"

"No," Sherlock said, voice rough. He didn't push John away. "I don't believe in such sentiment."

John frowned, lips stopping short of Sherlock's. "That was supposed to be romantic, you know."

"Will 'love of my life' do?" the detective snorted. He moved to get out of bed, face contorting into something disgusted, like the face a child would make if they bit into a lemon.

"Where are you going?"

"To wash my mouth out with bleach. Sentiment is ever so disgusting on my tongue."