John heard the bell above the shop door jingle and cursed under his breath.
"Oi, we're closed!" he called into the other room, not bothering to look up from the plastic case lying open on the worktop in front of him. He'd just got in a new shipment of red inks that he was sorting through and stowing away. He still hadn't found one he truly liked. They either weren't quite the right shade or had a nasty tendency to reject when used on sensitive skin.
He held one under the light of his desk lamp and scrutinised the label but kept one ear cocked for the sound of the bell. Hopefully, whoever had stumbled in would get the hint and leave. At this time of night, however, the drunks and vagrants tended to be persistent.
A moment later, something—or someone—crashed loudly to the floor.
"Bollocks," John muttered, replacing the bottle of ink and slamming the case's lid closed. "If some bastard's got pissed and knocked over the display again…" He whirled about and marched into the waiting room of Ink Inc. It was small, as all businesses in central London were, but it was brightly lit and had a big, squishy red couch shoved against the front window for patrons to sink into whilst they waited. The walls were off-white and the floor was covered in sleek black tile. Everything else was either chrome or glass—from the light fixtures to the end tables—which was hell to clean, but it gave the studio a pseudo-medical vibe that John favoured. The east wall was covered in large, moveable posters of tattoos John had done, and there were stacks of his portfolios on the coffee table.
Right now, however, the most notable feature in the room was a tall, shirtless man lying flat on his back in the centre of the floor.
John stared at him. The bloke had dark, curly hair and paper-thin skin so pale he almost looked anaemic. His long arms were thrown out to the side like a mock-up of Da Vinci's Vitruvian man, and he was wearing black trousers—leather trousers?—that were so tight John felt uncomfortable just looking at them.
John felt a pang of irritation mixed with something else.
"All right, mate," he said in a gruff tone, "time for you to get up and go somewhere else."
The man cracked an eye open and stared blearily at John. His pupils were so dilated it was almost impossible to make out the light blue rings about them.
Was he high? John took a step closer and peered at him. Or just drunk? He didn't seem to be breathing steadily. John hesitated for only a moment before bending over the prone man with the intention of checking his pulse.
"Afghanistan or Iraq?"
John startled and nearly jumped back. The man had whipped his head towards him and was now studying him with wide blue eyes.
"Er," John answered unthinkingly, "Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you—?"
"Your tattoo," the man said simply.
John glanced down at himself. He was wearing a tight-fitting, green T-shirt that left his arms mostly bare, and they were quite literally covered in tattoos. He chuckled wryly. "You'll have to be a bit more specific, mate."
"Sherlock."
John raised a brow. "Bless you."
The man sighed in a long-suffering way. "I'm not your 'mate.' My name is Sherlock. And I was referring to the RAMC tattoo on your left bicep. You were an army doctor, and you've clearly seen action recently judging by your tan lines and the intermittent tremor in your left hand. There are only two places where one might encounter enemy forces these days, which begged the question: Afghanistan or Iraq?"
The man fell silent, and John blinked owlishly.
All thoughts of throwing this man—Sherlock—out on his arse evaporated from his mind.
"That . . . was brilliant," John said slowly.
Sherlock picked his head up off the ground and stared at John. "Was it?"
"Of course." John grinned. "Bloody brilliant. I'm John, by the way. Let me help you up."
John grabbed Sherlock under the armpits and hauled him to his feet, ignoring the undignified squawking sound he made. Sherlock wobbled unsteadily for a moment and grabbed onto him for support. John tried not to react as the movement brought their faces a scant few inches from each other. John mentally forced himself not to lick his lips.
Now that Sherlock was upright, it was impossible not to notice how attractive he was, in a bizarre way. His features were exaggerated to the point of being comical, yet there was no denying the simple beauty of him. Blue eyes, a full mouth and eyes that flashed with keen intelligence. John was beginning to think that bout of experimenting he did whilst in the army wasn't just a result of being surrounded by men all the time. He swallowed thickly and tried not to think about the dried ink on his shirt—an unavoidable occupational hazard—and his three-day-old jeans.
Then Sherlock stumbled, and John had to haul him up again. He smelt strongly of alcohol, whiskey if John's nose was correct.
"Jesus, Sherlock, how much have you had?"
"Em," Sherlock scrunched one eye closed and appeared to be thinking, "not that much. I stopped when I realised the bottle was empty and then decided to get some air. Trust me, drinking is far more innocuous than the methods I previously employed when I wished to quiet my mind."
John raised a brow, but Sherlock just shook his head and brushed himself off. The movement brought attention to a tattoo on his upper right arm and another wrapping around his shoulder. The former was of a violin resting against a skull in dark sepia tones, and the latter was of what appeared to be a large hound chasing its own tail.
"Nice ink," John commented idly when Sherlock failed to say anything or move away. He gestured at the hound. "That looks new."
"Less than six months," Sherlock answered. His eyes were searching John's face as if he were trying to decipher something written faintly on it.
"So, how did you know?" John asked. "How did you know I was an army doctor from my tattoo? That could have meant anything."
"I didn't know, and it really couldn't have. You wouldn't have got it otherwise." Sherlock ran a finger slowly down the length of John's left arm. John forced himself not to shiver beneath the light touch. "There's hardly any filler on either of your sleeves. No stars or flat black or vines to take up space. You have a collection of things instead: the eye of London, a woman's face—a deceased mother or perhaps an aunt?—a skyline that if I'm not mistaken is most certainly Beijing, some medical instruments and then finally your army tattoo. It's unlikely that these are random choices, and I doubt you would have got a woman's face inked permanently onto your body if she didn't mean a great deal to you, so the obvious conclusion is that all these things are meaningful to you. Ergo, you served in the RAMC. That would make you an army doctor."
John whistled. "That is really bloody brilliant."
Sherlock smirked, and John felt his face grow inexplicably warm.
"So, what brings you to my parlour?" he quickly changed the subject, spreading his arms out to indicate his small shop. "We closed fifteen minutes ago, you know, and I can't ink you if you're pissed."
"I know," Sherlock said quietly. He reached a hand up and ruffled his dark curls. They fell artfully across his forehead.
Oh, that's just not fair, John thought.
"Truthfully, I'm not certain why I'm here," Sherlock continued. "I suppose I saw the light and drifted over like a moth. Though I do have an idea for a new tattoo in mind."
"Oh?" John asked in spite of himself. Not minutes before he'd had naught on his mind but getting to his flat and going to bed. Now, all he could think about was this strange man who'd quite literally stumbled into his life. "Come back to my workroom and tell me about it. You look like you could use a lie down."
John led Sherlock into the back room, pushing aside the curtain that separated it from the front and waving him inside. It was no bigger than the space they'd just left, and between all the equipment and the tattoo bed, there was only just enough room to move about. John helped Sherlock flop down on the soft black leather and then pulled up a chair beside him.
"So," he began, pretending to be more confident than he felt, "why don't you tell me about your other tattoos before we discuss a potential new one?"
Sherlock turned his head to the side so he could look directly at John. His eyes were bright, and his skin was alternately flushed at his cheeks and ashen at his throat. It was an aftereffect of the alcohol, no doubt. When he spoke, his voice was a quiet rumble that reverberated pleasantly in John's ears.
"I've played violin since I was a child, and I also happen to own a human skull. How I came upon it is a long story, but it and my violin are my prize possessions. You might call them my only two friends in the world."
"Don't be daft," John said. "Everyone has friends."
Sherlock shrugged. "I don't." His voice was flat. John wisely chose not to question him further.
"The other one is a bit personal. Suffice it to say, when I was a boy, someone I knew was driven mad because no one would listen to him."
"Like a boy who cried wolf sort of thing?" John asked. "Or cried hound, rather?"
Sherlock shot him an odd look. "Funny that you called it a hound. Most people say dog."
John shrugged. "What's the difference?"
Sherlock was still studying him, and John fought the urge to squirm.
"What indeed," Sherlock finally repeated. "The point is, in my line of work, I'm familiar with not being listened to, so I thought the tattoo was an appropriate homage."
"What do you do?"
"I help the police sometimes when they're out of their depth, which is always."
"With that thing you do? You see things they can't see and help them catch criminals?"
Sherlock favoured him with a small smile. "Very good, John."
John felt his face heat up and coughed into his elbow to cover it. "Er, thank you. What tattoo were you thinking of getting?"
Sherlock closed his eyes, and for a moment John wondered if he'd got vertigo from lying down whilst drunk. Then, slowly, Sherlock drew his leg up and indicated his thigh. "I was thinking of getting a dog."
John furrowed his brow. "Like your hound?"
"No, that was more of an abstract idea. This would be a portrait." Sherlock reached into the pocket of his—good God, those are tight—trousers and produced a photo of an Irish setter. "His name was Redbeard."
John took the photo and studied it. The dog was standing on his hind legs and looking directly into the camera. His front paws rested on the thighs of the person taking the photo. Judging by the distance his nose and the camera lens, the photographer was either a child or a very small adult.
"He was your dog?" John asked cautiously, noting Sherlock's use of past tense.
"Yes, and he taught me a very important lesson."
"What was that? Compassion? Loyalty?"
For the first time since John had laid eyes on him, Sherlock looked completely sober. "Caring is not an advantage."
John felt a sharp pain in his chest. He handed the photo back to Sherlock, suddenly feeling as tired as the clock said he should.
"Well, I can't ink you tonight as you've been drinking, and frankly I'm knackered. If you'd like to come back another time, you're welcome to."
John stood up, and Sherlock did the same, dusting himself off again even though there was clearly nothing on his bare torso.
John frowned. "Wait a tick, you don't have a shirt on."
"Brilliant observation, John."
John rolled his eyes. "No, you git, it's bloody freezing outside. How do you not at least have a jumper or a coat?"
If it were possible, Sherlock's voice got even deeper. It brushed against John's skin like vibrating bass strings. "I was a bit cold before, but now I find I'm quite warm."
John swallowed and tried to ignore the heat blossoming in him again as Sherlock lingered near him.
"Thank you for not throwing me out, John," Sherlock said quietly. "I feel much better now."
"Right, of course," John said, and in a moment of boldness, he glanced up and met Sherlock's eyes. It hadn't occurred to him how close they were standing until now. Sherlock was just tall enough to make him crane his neck but still close enough that he could see every fleck of blue, grey and green in his keen eyes. He could feel the heat from the other man's body brushing against his skin. Beneath the feverish haze of alcohol and the obvious intelligence in his gaze, John could see a hint of something predatory in Sherlock's expression. It made him dizzy with the implication.
God, please kiss me, he thought deliriously. But a moment later, Sherlock stepped away, and the spell shattered like delicate glass.
"You might just see me again, John," he said as he began to walk towards the front door. "I've enjoyed our time together."
John struggled to think of something to say, but his mind was irritatingly blank as he watched Sherlock leave. He could have sworn the man was purposefully putting a bit of sway in his hips. Sherlock reached the front door and glanced at him one last time before nodding his head and disappearing into the night.
John stared after him for a solid minute before he looked at the clock and swore. "Bollocks. Should have thrown his arse out after all. He probably just wanted a warm place to sober up and had no intention of getting a tattoo at all."
Even as the words left John's mouth, he pictured the look on Sherlock's face, so beautifully sad, when he'd said "Caring is not an advantage."
John shook his head as if to dispel a bad dream. No sense in fretting about it now. Sherlock was gone. John put away the inks he'd been sorting before he was interrupted, made sure all the electronics were turned off and gave the shop his customary final once-over.
When he reached the tattooing bed Sherlock had occupied, he stopped short.
He had no clue how he hadn't noticed before, but there was something on the head rest.
It was the photo of Redbeard.
John picked it up and glared at it as if he could force it to explain. He couldn't say how he knew, but even drunk he doubted Sherlock would have been careless enough to accidentally leave it behind. That meant … he'd left it on purpose.
John glanced at the door, half expecting to see Sherlock standing there with a smug look on his face, but the street outside Ink Inc. was empty.
"Hm," John said softly to himself, grinning, "perhaps I will see him again."
…