The sound of Sherlock rummaging around in the medicine cabinet got John's attention. He toddled down the hall and peered into the loo just in time to see his lover doing his trousers back up, sitting on the closed lid of the toilet.
"You alright in here?"
Sherlock shifted uncomfortably, looking vaguely like a kid who'd been caught in the biscuit tin.
"John, do we, um, do we have any burn ointment?"
John smiled fondly and leaned forward, kissing Sherlock gently on the forehead.
"What did you do this time, you ridiculous man? Do I want to know how you got burnt under your trousers? Or why I wasn't involved?"
Again, Sherlock grimaced in some strange combination of shame and pain.
"That's not entirely true, John."
"What?"
"You are involved."
"Sherlock, if you got hurt below the waist and I was involved, I'm sure I'd remember."
Shoulders set, Sherlock relented and undid his trousers again, pulling them down at his hips, along with his pants. There, just above the waist band, tracing his hip bone, were the letters J.W in a rather old-fashioned font. The letters were livid red and swollen, recently having been seared deeply into his pale flesh.
Of course, a tattoo would have been too mundane for Sherlock Holmes. He'd had to have gone and gotten himself branded.