Hey! I thought this was going to be a oneshot, but a couple of people wanted to see John's point of view. So here it is! WARNING: Sherlock/John, angst, swearing.
Someone wise once said, "Scars can come in useful." John wouldn't have removed his scar even if he was able to, it was a helpful reminder of the cost of his efforts. One tiny mistake or slip up and your dead, right there, in the time it takes to breathe. The puckered red mark festered on his shoulder as a constant momento, a subtle admonition to check and recheck his actions, otherwise God knows what could happen.
He used to think it was ugly. The florid dappled skin looked out of place against his tanned flesh, a tangled mass of ruined tissue. But he'd grown use to it, and don't tell, but he was rather fond of it. It was as much a part of him as his eyes or his hair. An imperfection, perhaps, but a sign of his own mortality. Before, he'd been a boy, running on arrogance and adrenaline. Now, he was a man.
Sherlock didn't deal with his injuries nearly as well as John did. Whilst John had escaped with simply a few cuts and bruises, the left side of Sherlock's face had been torn apart by the force of the explosion. First, it had simply the been his inability to work that had irritated him; but the hurtful remarks and repulsed looks of others had wounded him far more deeply than he had thought possible.
John, on occasion, flinched when he saw the crevice carved into Sherlock's face, and he would see the detective's face soften and his eyes lose their hard sheen. It took him a few weeks to realise why this happened- Sherlock thought he found him disgusting. Nothing could be further from the truth.
"So you see, Greg, the killer was the brother in law. He was the only one with access to the lake house."
Greg smiled at Sherlock. "You're certain?"
"Definitely."
Greg picked up his phone and began to dial, eventually beginning to speak. "Hey, Toby? It's Greg- Sherlock's got some news on the Samson case for you."
Anderson frowned, as Lestrade continued his conversation with Gregson. "It's not all his work."
Sherlock smiled. "Quite correct, for once, Anderson. John was the one who spotted the footprints leading to the second body."
John smiled bashfully, but Anderson frowned. "Big hooray, your little pet actually did something for once. It doesn't mean that my work is any less important."
Sherlock glared coldly at him. "You didn't notice it. That says something about your so called forensic skills. And John isn't my pet."
Anderson barked a cold laugh. "Oh please. That's the only reason you keep him around, you want someone who tells you how brilliant you are and then shags your brains out."
Sherlock flushed red. "We're not-"
"Not fucking? Sure. Though I'm surprised he wants to with that on your face."
The atmosphere cooled. Greg stopped talking midsentence, his mouth a little open. John stood up. "Say that again," he replied calmly.
"Say what?" Anderson sneered. "That your boyfriend's got a deformity? Because he has, John, even you realise that."
John took a step closer to him, and Sherlock stood up too. "Come on, John. Let's go home."
John gave Anderson one last look of contempt, before he turned to leave. They had reached the door, and were about to shut it behind them when there was a noise.
"Freak."
John stopped dead. "John," Sherlock said warningly.
John paid no attention to Sherlock's tone. He swivelled around fast and walked swiftly back over to Anderson, fiddling with his jumper. Anderson looked puzzled, until John forcefully yanked his collar down to reveal the skin of his shoulder. The scarlet scar that had blossomed on his chest was visible. Anderson swallowed hard.
"Do you know what this is?" John asked coldly. "This is what I got for fighting in Afghanistan. This scar, a psychosomatic limp and a shit load of bad memories. Does it disgust you?"
Anderson flinched at the penultimate word, seeing the anger in John's eyes. "That's different."
"How?" said John, his voice still steady but dangerously low. "Sherlock has saved people's lives, Anderson. He had solved crimes that you couldn't even comprehend, and he's greeted by people like you?"
Anderson attempted to speak, but John interrupted him. "How fucking dare you speak to him in that way. How dare you insult him, my friend, the man I-" John stopped himself, biting his lip. Sherlock let out a strangled stutter.
"John?" Sherlock asked, a thousand unspoken questions in this single word.
"…Come on," John spat through gritted teeth. "Let's go home."