A/N – Thanks to ScopesMonkey, again! :o)

Before

He's in the shower when I get home. He takes at least two a day, which I understand after being in the hospital for 8 weeks. He says he can still smell the hospital, which is completely ridiculous. My olfactory sense is vastly superior to his and the scent of the hospital hasn't been present in our flat since I washed all of the laundry that we'd had there.

I don't tell him this though; I let him enjoy his showers. I think it has more with his ability to bathe himself than getting clean or removing any unexplained scents. He is still very weak and showering is one of the things he can manage without help. He is very frustrated, but, being John, he is trying to act as if he is not. He's a very proud man.

I set the files on the desk and I hear the water shut off. He'll probably want a cup of tea, so I head to the kitchen to put the kettle on. The water is just boiling when the bathroom door opens.

"Hello," I call out, "I'm making some tea." I pour the water into the mugs.

I hear his slower than usual footsteps in the hall. He's tired. He must have been awake for a while. He can usually manage about 4 hours now without having to get some sleep. Unless he exerts himself, then it's significantly less.

"Hi," he says as he moves into the kitchen. His hair is wet and he has dark circles under his eyes. He's wearing the new dressing gown that Harry bought him for his birthday last week. It's a warm brown and it makes me want to wrap myself around him and hold him close. I can't, not yet. That's still several weeks away. I am continually surprised by the things I miss more than sex. I miss him with me on cases. I miss holding him against me while I sleep. I miss his strong constant presence. He's still here all the time but, he's weak and tired. He is my John in every way that matters, but my John is still recovering.

I raise and arm and he gingerly moves against me to settle his weight against my side and bury his head into my chest. I settle my arm gently across his shoulders and kiss the top of his head.

"How's the case?"

I've taken a simple case at John's insistence. It was just a series of elaborate muggings that were taking place in and around Trafalgar Square. It was a group of local teens who were so unsophisticated that they were actually fooling the police. The whole thing took me about 7 hours to figure out. The Met has been working on it for 7 weeks.

"Solved it," I say. "Simple."

He chuckles against me. "Naturally," he tightens his grip around me for a second. "I'm going to put some clothes on. I'll be right back."

I kiss his head again before he pulls away. I watch him walk slowly out of the kitchen, then I quickly toss the tea bags and follow him. He's pushed the door partially closed and I kick it with my foot.

He's sitting on the bed, pulling on a pair of sweat pants. His chest is still bare.

Naturally, I've seen him undressed through this whole ordeal, but for some reason I'm shocked by it today. He looks too thin, his ribs prominent where they usually aren't, and he has scars. The old familiar bullet would looks pronounced on a bonier than normal shoulder. The way his collar bone jutting out is distorting the bottom half of the scar. It looks stretched out and awkward, unfamiliar.

The surgical scar on his chest is dark red, almost black in places, the incision and suture marks clearly visible. It looks like the scar of someone who had heart surgery, although repairing a punctured lung was probably equally severe. I don't like to think about that.

He also has one just below and to the right of his navel. That's where they repaired his perforated bowel. It still has a reddish hue, but has already lightened significantly. It will appear to be just an ordinary scar soon, not much different than one for an appendectomy.

A sudden chill crawls up my spine and I try to shake it off.

"I'm sorry they're so ugly." His voice draws my eyes to his face. He's frowning, looking down at his chest. He presses his fingers tenderly next to the scar there. Even though it is technically healed, he says that it is still sensitive to the touch. He compares it to having a bruise.

"Don't be ridiculous," I say and he looks up at me. "They were necessary, their attractiveness is inconsequential."

He smiles at me, "My attractiveness is inconsequential?" There is a playful glint in his eyes; he is being purposefully dense.

I roll my eyes. "Yes, that is exactly what I mean. Clearly you are horribly disfigured now." I close the distance between us and set the tea on the bedside table. I kneel in front of him and gently place a hand on either thigh. His legs had some scrapes and bruises but no major damage. They are the only place that is safe to touch all of the time. "That is why I've agreed to marry you. I pity you. Obviously no one else will have you because of approximately 1/10,000 of your body being scarred." I rub my thumbs in circles just above his knees. "You should praise me continually for the service I'm doing for you."

He laughs, a hearty John laugh, and then he winces, grabbing his side and setting a hand lightly over the scar on his chest. His ribs and sternum still ache on occasion, especially if he laughs too hard. I feel a wave of guilt at causing him pain, but the smile never leaves his eyes. He insists that he enjoys laughing, even if it's painful on occasion. I have no reason to doubt his truthfulness on this matter.

As the pain passes he takes his hand from his chest and rests it on the side of my face. I turn so that I can place a quick kiss into his palm and he runs his thumb across my lips.

"Can I touch it?" I ask gesturing to the scar. I haven't touched it properly yet because of the pain. I've helped him bathe and seen it in various states of healing, but since it's been closed I have had no reason to.

He nods immediately and doesn't tell me to be careful. He trusts me not to hurt him and that makes me feel warm inside.

I bring my fingers up and gently set them dead center on the scar. It's warm to the touch, warmer than John's body temperature. The skin is soft and feels fragile, most likely because it's so new. This part of John is less than 10 weeks old. I brush them lower, barely making contact with the mark. John shudders but it is easily recognisable as a pleasurable reaction instead of a painful one. I don't stop.

I reach the bottom and let my fingers move past it and onto the more familiar feel of John's upper abdomen. I lean forward and place a kiss just an the junction where new scar meets old skin and touch it quickly with my tongue.

John lets out a quiet moan and it makes me smile to hear those noises coming out of him again, even if it will be weeks before anything more happens. I can wait.

He'll still be in my bed every night and each night I can be closer and closer.

He's still my John, warm and familiar, with a crooked smile and loving eyes that always look at me like I'm special, special just because I'm me, not just because I'm smart. He'll still help me with the cases and before too long will feel up to returning to the field with me. He's weak but getting stronger every day.

After

He settles his weight on top of me fully, something he'd still been reluctant to do until recently. It feels different than before the attack but not uncomfortable. He sits up enough so that he can look down at me.

"I thought we were going down to the pool again?" I ask, bringing my hands up to rest on his back, just where the swim trunks meet his waist, or rather lower than his waist actually.

"I did enjoy the pool two days ago," he says his voice taking on the slight whiny tone. "But you kept your shirt on the whole time. I'd prefer to stay up here where there will be fewer clothes."

"And less Paolo?" I ask. He scrunches his face up in distaste. I laugh.

"We've left the room one whole day. We need to go down to the pool again. I'll take my shirt off, I promise." I glance down seeing the top of my scar poking out between our bodies. "And that will probably take care of your Paolo problem too. They aren't exactly appealing."

He frowns at that, following my gaze. He looks up again, meets my eyes and looks to my shoulder.

"Then he's an idiot," Sherlock says. "I love them and find them very appealing." His face has lost the playfulness it had a few minutes ago. He's serious, very serious, and he wants me to know it. He's never reacted negatively towards any of my scars, but that's a long way from loving them or finding them appealing.

My disbelief must show because he frowns and adjusts his weight up my body just enough so that he can reach the scar on my shoulder. He traces the edge of the bullet hole with his tongue and then dips his tongue into the cavity. I bring a hand up to run my fingers through his hair. He turns his head slightly so that he can whisper in my ear.

"This one brought you to me. It hurt you and I hate that it did that. I hate that it made you suffer in any way at all, but without it I would never have met you." He turns and kisses it again. "And you changed me and I changed you. You were broken and I helped fix you. I was broken and didn't even know it until you started to fix me. I hate that it hurt you, but am grateful for it as well."

He pushes up and moves down my body. He pushes my own swimming trunks down just enough to kiss the scar there. It's pale already, having healed very quickly and very well. He kisses it; it's small enough that he can almost flatten his whole tongue against it. "This one and…" Then he moves to the bigger one on my chest.

His tongue starts at the bottom of the scar and he doesn't lose contact until he reaches the top. He curls the tip of his tongue as he lifts off as if he was actually lapping something off of me. I groan at the sight despite my best efforts not to.

"…this one…"

He brings his head even with mine. He pushes up on his arms so that he towers over me. He adjusts so that he is straddling my hips. I glance down and see the too tight swim trunks pulled even tighter by this position. I wonder momentarily if it's comfortable, but his words distract me. I look up and his eyes are alight with emotions that I can't immediately identify.

"…show me every day, every single day, that you are alive and here with me. They show me how close I came to losing you. I don't ever want to forget that. Ever."

He leans down and gives me a quick kiss, before pushing away again.

"They are the reason that you are here right now. They are the reason that you are my husband and I am yours."

He pushes himself into sitting position, and settles his hand on either side of my scar. He starts to brush it gently with his thumbs.

He whispers, his gaze focusing on them fondly. "You are alive because of them. I am alive because of them. Alive."

He looks back up at me, "If it weren't for them I would be unable to be jealous of the way Paolo continually eyes your ass. And if he's too stupid to understand that these are the reason that he has an ass to look at, then he's too stupid to be allowed to continue to admire."

He looks down at the scar again and then his eyes shoot back up to mine. "From afar, he's too stupid to be allowed to continue to admire from afar. He doesn't get to touch."

I almost laugh. "I had no intention of letting him touch. I wouldn't mind if he stopped admiring, it feels a little weird to be stared at across the pool like a piece of meat."

A seductive smirk crosses Sherlock's face. It surprises me. "Oh, I don't mind if he looks." My husband plants his hands on either side of me and shifts his hips down, bringing the front of his too tight swimming trunks into contact with the front of my much looser swimming trunks. "He can look as long as he knows that you most definitely belong to me."