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Sherlock thumped his fist against his desk as he gazed into his microscope. This was taking way too long for his patience to handle; the experiment he was conducting for how long skin cells last after the skin has been damaged before turning into a scar was taking hours. It was easy to just cut his own skin and take it from there, but ever since a certain army doctor banned all of that kind of thing, Sherlock had to collect all of his data from St. Bart's morgue.

That didn't always work.

He needed samples of skin cells, scars, scabs, particularly an old scar so he could...He looked up from the microscope. Oh. Sherlock leaped up from his chair and grabbed the kettle, filling it with water.

'John!' He called.

'What?'

'Come here?'

John snapped his laptop-lid shut. In a scenario with Sherlock involved, "come here", usually meant a.) The kitchen's on fire again, can you put it out please, or b.) I have my hand stuck in some sort of life-threatening machinery, can you free me please?

Instinctively, John grabbed the medical kit from the bathroom and dashed downstairs. 'What have you done this-' He frowned and placed the medical kit on the floor. 'What the Hell?'

Sherlock was holding out a cup of tea towards John, with a sickly grin plastered onto his face. 'Hello, John!' He said way too brightly to be considered legal. 'How are you this morning?'

John raised his eyebrow and glanced out of the window and back at Sherlock. 'It's half-past four in the afternoon.'

'I made you a cup of tea.' Sherlock replied, forcing it into Johns hand almost threateningly. John's eyes narrowed.

'What have you done to it?'

Sherlocks smile faded. 'I'm sorry?'

'You've poisoned it, haven't you?'

'Wha- no!'

'You have before; who's to say to say you wouldn't again?'

'I'm being nice! Is that so hard to believe?'

'Yes.'

'Why?'

'Because apparently is causes you physical pain to so much as apologise.'

Sherlock sighed. John rolled his eyes and took the tea from him. He gingerly sniffed it. Sherlock looked at him defensively. 'God's sakes, it's not poisoned!'

'Yes, alright.' The doctor replied, taking a sip. Sherlock nodded at him. As soon as he turned away, John spat the tea straight back out again and placed the mug on a nearby table. 'What do you want?'

'Well-' the detective paused and then turned back to him. 'How did you know I wanted something?'

'Spooky, isn't it? It's a gift I have.'

Sherlock coughed and dug his hands in his pockets. 'It...Could be a little difficult for you.' He said, suddenly turning serious.

John blinked at him. 'What is it?'

'It's for the experiment I'm doing at the moment.' Sherlock said, moving closer towards him. 'It's about skin cell damage and cell reproduction. I need some extracts of broken skin.'

'So?'

Sherlock looked at him, hesitant. 'I need to see your scar.'

John sighed inwardly and looked away. Sherlock dipped his head. 'I know you don't want me to see it, but it's important to my experiment that I collect this.'

'Mm.'

There was a long silence. Eventually John swallowed. 'Okay.'

'Really?'

John nodded. Sherlock smiled at him before strolling into the kitchen to pick up the necessary tools. When he returned, John was standing against the table, staring into space. Sherlock tilted his head and stepped closer to him. 'Can you, um...'

John looked at him and started to unbutton his chequered shirt whilst Sherlock placed the equipment on the table John was leaning against. There was a light thud which made Sherlock look back at John and then bite his lip. John had taken his shirt off and dropped onto the floor next to him. John looked at the wall behind Sherlock, refusing to make eye contact.

'Is it...Is it alright?' Sherlock said, taking yet another step towards him.

'Yup.'

Sherlock smiled briefly and grabbed a set of tweezers and a petri-dish. He paused, and carefully picked away at the reddened scar. John winced, but didn't complain. Sherlock slowly peeled away a small amount of dead skin. He did it as carefully as he could, but John still sucked in air through gritted teeth and unconsciously gripped onto Sherlocks fore-arm.

'Sorry, sorry.' The detective said quietly and placed the skin into the petri-dish. He snapped the lid over it and slid it onto the table. He looked back at John, glancing at the fingers digging into his arm. 'Um.'

John let go. 'Sorry.'

'Mm.'

Sherlock leaned towards him. 'Do you not like your scar?'

'Why would I? And I thought you were finished anyway.' John replied, still looking past him.

Sherlock nodded and raised his hand. He gently ran a finger across the broken skin in a lazy circle. John swallowed visibly. 'What...'

Sherlock opened his mouth oh-so-slightly. 'John.' He murmured, before dipping his head and closing his eyes, kissing Johns scar.

John let out a gasp. 'Sherlock...What are you-' He stopped talking when Sherlocks hand wrapped around the side of Johns neck. John sighed lightly. Sherlock paused, smiled slightly, and ran his tongue across the scar. John let out a moan and closed his eyes. 'Oh...my God.' He whispered. 'Sherlock...please.' Sherlock went to John's collarbone, teeth grazing over skin. Johns head lulled back, latching onto Sherlocks hair. 'Bloody hell...' He muttered. He gripped onto Sherlocks shirt, pulling his face towards his. John leaned towards him, going in to kiss the hell out of him. Sherlocks eyes were half-closed, smiling centimetres away from John's mouth. He licked John's bottom lip and moved away from his mouth. John growled in frustration. 'Sher...'

Sherlock dipped his head again and buried his face in the shorter mans neck, biting into it slowly. John arched his back. 'Oh my God! Ki...Kiss me!'

'I am kissing you.' Sherlock said smartly. Johns grip on the detectives' hair tightened.

'You...know what I...mean.'

'Do I?' Sherlock smirked and pressed against him, biting down hard into his neck, leaving red signatures across his skin. John moaned the detectives' name.

'Kiss me right now, you bastard!' He hissed.

'I won't do anything at all if you talk to me like that.'

John was panting now-he looked at Sherlock with almost completely black eyes. 'Then what do you want me to do?'

Sherlock raised his head again. His eyes flickered over to his riding-crop which was leaning against the fireplace. John followed his line of sight and then turned back to Sherlock, eyes wild with anticipation. Sherlock smiled mischievously.