Rated: M

WARNING: There is some pretty graphic sexual play with scars as the title hints at. Just huge warnings on this, sexually.

Sherlock/John

John brushed his teeth with short brisk strokes, his routine efficient and rigid as it had been molded during his service in the military. He stared directly into his own eyes in the mirror, fearing to move them elsewhere and break the fragile moment lacing the room. Standing next to him was none other than Sherlock Holmes, the man John had killed for having known him not 24 hours and also, his flatmate. Adjusting to Sherlock's multitude of habits, quirks and oddities was proving to be a hobby of John Watson's, intrigued as he was by the odd man.

Tonight, Sherlock had wandered into the restroom, mumbling to himself and obviously quite lost in his own thoughts as barely seemed to register John's presence. He had rummaged through a cabinet then turned with a grunt of disappointment, clearly not having found what he was looking for. As his eyes passed over John, something peculiar had happened. Sherlock quite literally froze mid step and then simply stared at the ugly knot of scar tissue on John's chest, precariously near to his heart.

John was watching the man's reflection in the mirror but he continued his routine, re-capping the toothpaste and beginning to brush his teeth. He understood almost immediately that this was Sherlock's first time seeing him without a shirt and therefore his parting gift from the war. Sherlock's eyes met his in the mirror and John reflexively jerked his gaze back to his own.

They stood like this as John finished his routine and it was just as he capped the toothpaste and set it back in it's drawer that Sherlock finally moved. In two short steps, the gap between them was closed and Sherlock ran tentative fingers across John's shoulder. He somehow managed to look up at John while looking down and the question was obvious: may I?

John smiled encouragingly but felt a warning twinge in his chest but if Sherlock knew he must have ignored it for his fingers were immediately sliding against the slick skin of John's scars. They would fade more but for now they were red and hot, a gnarled mass on his left shoulder that John still hadn't quite become accustomed to seeing in the mirror.

His fingers were slow and precise as they traced individual arcs and bumps but the touches quickly became firm and Sherlock inched ever so slightly closer to John. John who was all too aware that being backed against a counter by Sherlock was a very bad thing for a man such as himself. A man who may be tempted in a situation such as this, both of them in only pajama bottoms as it were.

John raised a hand, aiming to push the taller man firmly away from him but jumped when he found his wrist encircled and then-.

And then, oh god. And then his index and middle finger were enveloped in something so hot, so wet, so slick and John would have run if his damned legs would have just moved. Sherlock ran his tongue along the underside of John's fingers, his left hand encircling John's wrist as his right lay palm down over the shorter man's scars. He hummed around the wet digits in his mouth, eyes closed to slits as he drifted ever closer to John.

The vibration around his fingers was mind numbing and every one of John's repressed feelings for his flat mate were forced to the forefront at once, to his frustration. Sherlock released his fingers from his mouth and John inhaled, taking the moment of freedom to collect his thoughts even as hands fell to his waist. They gripped and pushed, prodding insistently until he found himself sitting on the bathroom counter. John was still in the process of collecting his thoughts, a process he estimated was at 20% completion, and was therefore vastly unprepared for the detective's next move.

The back of his head hit the mirror with a startling crack but the sharp pain was nothing compared to the throbbing ache that was Sherlock's mouth sucking at his scars. His lips would catch at the puckered flesh, his tongue laving the hot skin and every inch of John was taut and shuddering. Bony hips nudged his thighs gently apart and the gratifying weight of Sherlock's erection ground against his own. Later, he would reflect that even with the benefit of hindsight, he still would have given into Sherlock, he'd only wanted it longer than he'd admit to anyone but the man himself.

One of Sherlock's hands rose to cradle the back of John's head, a silent apology for the bump, the other sank savagely into John's hip, a stark contrast to it's gentler twin. John's throat was thick with heat and the sounds Sherlock forced from him emerged slowly, nearly tortuously, as he struggled to breathe. His scar was livid, Sherlock's breaths, panted in between open mouthed exploration were painfully hot on his scar. Then he seared his way down John's chest, biting and sucking a trail of red marks that left John dizzy and swearing.

Fisting his left hand in dark curls, John wrenched Sherlock's lips to his own, biting down ferociously and drawing blood. His right hand clenched Sherlock's waist as he began thrusting mindlessly. Again and again he ground them together, Sherlock matching him stroke for stroke as he began to bite desperately at John's neck. Their rhythm increased until it became unbearable and just as John felt he would snap from the tension, Sherlock pulled a hand from his waist and slid two of his fingers into John's mouth.

His groan was cut short by a pained moan at the sudden loss of friction against his cock but sensing his distress Sherlock merely shoved his fingers deeper into John's mouth and hissed at him, "Suck." The sounds John made after that, as he began to work his tongue pleadingly, were encouraging enough that Sherlock was forced to pause for a moment, grabbing the counter with his free hand as he stifled a moan. John would always remember it as the one time that seeing a man's knees buckle nearly forced him to orgasm instantaneously.

As it was, he refrained and Sherlock, regaining his momentum, soon had both his and John's pants low enough that their erections were freed. Without hesitation Sherlock took his hand, fingers glistening with saliva, and slicked them both as best he could before wrapping his long fingers around both of them and pumping. Their groaning soon became frantic cries and just as John felt orgasm reach him, Sherlock darted down and latched his lips onto his scar, sucking hard and running his tongue along it's length.

The bruises his hands left on Sherlock's hips stayed for days and the detective swore forever after that it wouldn't have been half the shag without them. They both came hard, Sherlock following moments after John, provoked over the edge by the cry of his name that accompanied the doctor's release. Shuddering and numbed from the exertion, Sherlock slumped forward against John and rested his head on his shoulder, breaths puffing heavily on his neck.

Sherlock would always remember those moments of post coital bliss as some of the most peaceful in his entire life. A growing ache in John's back began to build and just as he was inhaling to speak, Sherlock began to stand. John straightened and slid off the counter as Sherlock took a neat step back and arched a wry brow at their reflections. When he turned to look John couldn't help his burst of laughter.

"Utterly scandalous, grown men in this state." Sherlock's deadpan baritone couldn't disguise his amusement and John didn't have to force the smile he felt when looking at his flatmate's reflection.