His Hands
How ridiculous. Here he was - a man who spent hours manipulating tiny pipettes and handling delicate microscope slides, yet a kitchen knife was his downfall.
His hands were his livelihood and the gateway to his passion, the violin. His hands told the tale of his life. Here was a scar from the blackberry brambles that lived at the back of the house. How he loved those sweet, juicy blackberries. Many a late August afternoon was spent lying in the tall grass, plucking blackberries off the brambles and popping them into his mouth. He paid no mind to the scratches he earned.
On the side of his right hand was a long burn mark, the result of a momently lapse of concentration and a lit Bunsen burner. The finger tips on his left hand were slightly calloused from years of violin.
He was quite vain about his hands, with their long, slender fingers and immaculate nails. He took great care of them. Regular manicures and moisturizing made them a thing a beauty.
And now … another scar to add to the collection. They say dull kitchen knives are a danger; Sherlock can attest that sharp ones are a danger too.
"John," he called as he stood by the sink washing the blood away from his index finger. "I need a bandage!"
A/N: It is obvious I'm slightly obsessed with Benedict Cumberbatch's hands?