Sherlock Holmes is not a violent man.

He has no particular fondness for weapons; for him they are simply a means to an end. He appreciates it when the criminal element of London uses them to construct interesting puzzles for him to solve but, contrary to popular belief, he does not derive pleasure from the suffering of others.

Sherlock reminds himself of this whenever he thinks of a certain bullet and feels tremendous gratitude towards the person who shot it. The image of hot lead marring flesh turns his stomach and tightens his chest and yet. And yet were it not for the bullet tearing through John Watson's shoulder, missing his heart by inches, this brilliant doctor would never have found his way to this broken detective.

In the stillness of the wee hours, long after John's breathing steadies, Sherlock contemplates the scar with his fingers, lips, cheeks, eyelashes. John calls it ugly because he still sees the sprawling, tangled lines in the shape of an explosion, but Sherlock lavishes it with the same love he gives to every part of John's body. Sherlock can read the map in the lines, the map from Kandahar to London, the map that lead John to him.

His breath ghosts over the beautiful scar as he sighs and gives thanks for this one bullet.

xxxxx

My first Sherlock fanfic! I'm breaking in with a "221b," a 221-word fic, last word starting with B. Please tell me what you think!