Note: I did spend days looking for the ideal location for this story (Google maps, Google images, travel sites, etc), but could not find the right beach. So this town, the hotels, the beach remain as figments of my imagination, unnamed. Maybe they exist in France? I don't know, I didn't think they'd travel that far for a wedding.

Also, I did a lot of research on bullets (dull!), bullet scars (not as bad as I thought) and some medical possibilities (a bit dry), as well as the procedures in bringing injured British soldiers home (I felt a bit guilty that I was researching that to write FF, but I feel the utmost respect for all the brave men and women that serve in any country's army), a bit of anatomy (also dry), so hopefully this is somewhat credible. The injuries I describe are a barely educated guess. I had the perfect opportunity to ask American Army doctors about all this but chickened out. Next time perhaps. I'm sure I made mistakes, but I tried my best. John deserves it.

7. The scars

When they got to the hotel Sherlock was surprised to see the bedroom had two beds.

'John, you had planned to come here with Maria-'

'Marisa.'

'Yes, and you booked a room with two separate beds?'

'No, of course not. But as soon as you said you were coming I emailed the hotel to change the rooms. I didn't know whether or not they'd have a different room available, but it was worth a shot. Otherwise the guys would really be merciless in their teasing if they knew I had to share a bed with you. Trust me, I love these guys, but their teasing is brutal.'

'Ah. Good thinking,' he said, between relief and disappointment.

'Wow, look at the view, Sherlock.'

'Dull.'

'No, seriously, come here. See? You can see the shore to our right, and see that pool over there on the left? That's where the pool party will be. It's the hotel next door's, their pool is bigger. Our hotel does have a pool, a sauna, and a fitness room, though.'

'Marvellous,' he answered unimpressed.

'Oh come on. I'll certainly try their sauna. That's the one thing I wish I could have in my dream house.'

'Really? Why?'

'It's relaxing, really helps my shoulder and feels good. I do get a bit impatient after a while, but it's still enjoyable. Maybe I can try it tomorrow during the day.' John stepped away from the window and started to unpack his clothes.

A tantalising thought, mused Sherlock. He tried to dismiss it. He looked over to his left again. I can see the entire pool from here.

'Sherlock?'

Sherlock turned away from the window and was surprised to see that John had removed his shirt. He was visibly uncomfortable and a shade of red started to appear on his neck. He still held the shirt in front of him with both hands, squeezing his fingers a little too tightly, shoulders tense.

John looked into his eyes, then looked down at the floor. He knew he was feeling hot and embarrassed, but if he were to go to the pool party, there was no way Sherlock wouldn't see the scars. Best get this over quickly. He still couldn't explain, even to himself, why he felt that way. He had almost died from that shot. And in a sense, a big chunk of who he was had died that day. Maybe it had signalled the end of something he enjoyed doing. Maybe it was the loss of his identity when he was sent home. It was worse when some of his past girlfriends thought highly of him or his scars once seeing them. They romanticised it, made a big deal out of it. Some thought he was brave, a hero even. He didn't feel that way. He got shot. He had big ugly scars. End of.

And somehow he also felt sad that Sherlock had to see this. It was already upsetting that Sherlock had heard his nightmares when he had first moved in. As time passed the nightmares had lessened, but now and then he'd still have bad ones, that reduced him to a panicky and sweaty mess. It was embarrassing to show this weak side of himself to Sherlock.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He didn't want to see him looking, it was easier this way. Sherlock kept his distance and didn't move, only his eyes traveled down. He also noticed John had more scars, some quite recent, a by-product of their cases. There was also a purple bruise on his chest, where he had been hit in a fight with a criminal this past week. He felt a pang of regret that, in a way, John's recent scars were because of him.

He took advantage of John's eyes being closed and strayed around quickly, committing what he saw to memory. John's pink nipples stood out once exposed to the air. He only had a little dusting of chest hair, lighter blond and fine, almost invisible. A little bit more between his belly button and his jeans. John's physique wasn't excessively muscular as a bodybuilder's, but there was enough definition to look quite nice, much more so than his clothes suggested, which did not surprise him. He had guessed John would have a nice body, but to to actually see it was rewarding. The work out routine he had developed kept him in good shape. His pecs, arms and shoulders had clear definition and looked solid, wiry. His abs were almost the coveted washboard, and the inguinal ligament drew a line that went beautifully between his obliques and hip bones, down underneath the jeans that hung low on his hips... Focus!

The scar was on the left side, slightly below the collarbone, between the shoulder and the neck, a raised line about 4" long, almost horizontal, with the marks of the stitches. Or at least that's what it should have been, except that each line had blended into one another, making it more of a mass of brownish/whitish scar tissue.

'Tell me about it. Where were you, what were you doing, what time of the day did this happen?'

John kept his eyes closed, and his brow was now creased.

'We had received information about a site suspected to be a terrorist cell hide-out. It was early morning when our troops stormed into the building to investigate. As it turned out, it was a trap. They were surrounded and there was an exchange of fire. We were called as backup, but it took us a while to get to them and there were heavy casualties that day. I was part of the support medic team, following at the very back. Soon I was also scrambling for cover. The terrorists had snipers spread out everywhere. I was kneeling behind a wall when the bullet pierced my armoured vest and went through my shoulder blade. I never got to help the first group.' John opened his eyes.

'It's quite massive and impressive. But it seems to be mostly from the surgery afterwards,' he commented, keeping his eyes on the scar, aware of John's open eyes.

'Yes. Usually bullet wounds are surprisingly small. But the bullet pierced the top of my lung and curved inside, which made the exit wound bigger than it would've been, had it gone straight. It always depends on what kind of ammunition they use. The one that hit me was the kind that produces more damage precisely because it doesn't travel straight upon impact. Luckily it missed the subclavian artery and the heart. The cut you see is from the surgery to repair all the damage. I had a collapsed lung and after the surgery they kept a tube inserted here to drain the air and help the lung to expand back to normal. They also had to drain the blood so I had a second tube stuck on me. The bullet broke the scapula on the exit, which required pins and plates. And it damaged the muscles around it.'

'Did they operate on you in Afghanistan? How long was your recovery?' He was carefully watching John's face now, attentive to any signs of distress.

John was now staring into space, remembering, with a troubled look in his eyes. 'The standard procedure is to helicopter the injured to the field hospital at Camp Bastion to stabilise the patients. Then airlift them to the Kandahar Airbase and fly them direct to Birmingham with a medical team on board, keeping the patients stable. I just never expected to be one of them, as illogical as it may sound. I'm glad to have been sedated throughout most of it. The flight to Birmingham alone takes 14 hours. Once back in the UK, I was in the ICU at the Selly Oak Hospital in Birmingham for 5 days. By the second week after I woke up they started trying to make me get up and move, but then I got pneumonia. That required 2 weeks of antibiotics to clear. It weakened me and I ended up spending almost 2 months in hospital, followed by a month more in a rehab centre at Headly Court, Surrey. Then I was discharged and came to London, where I continued doing rehab at an outpatient facility and started seeing a therapist. I was living in a bedsit, with no one around, limping between appointments when I met you.' His eyes met Sherlock's, but as soon as the next question came, he looked away again.

'Does it still hurt you?'

'The scars themselves are still tender to the touch. Sometimes it hurts inside, depending on the weather. It also hurts if I get hit on that spot. My lung capacity changed a bit, so it's harder for me to run for extended periods of time. My range of motions was also affected, depending on the task. Anything that involves the pecs shows how much weaker I am on that side. That's why I run and exercise. It's mainly physical therapy to keep the damage under control. Unfortunately it looks bigger than it should because of all the keloids. The back looks worse.'

Sherlock walked around to look at the exit wound. It was indeed, messier than the one in the front. There was no definition between the stitches and cut.

'May I touch it?'

John was surprised and nervous, but nodded while keeping his head facing forward, his ears turning red. Sherlock tried to be as gentle as possible as he touched the many keloids formed. Goose pimples immediately spread throughout John's back, neck and arms. He recoiled involuntarily at the touch. The scar tissue was taut, yet soft.

'When did your limp start?' Sherlock stole a glance over John's entire back, cataloguing the other scars and marks, admiring the muscles. John's skin irradiated warmth and smelled good. His current soap was coconut scented, he could still faintly detect it. His jeans were old, faded, comfortable, and belonged to a heavier version of John. They hung loose and low on his hips.

'Soon after the pneumonia. Once I was able to walk, I found out it hurt and I was limping. Even though I understood it was most likely psychosomatic, it still felt very real, permanent and crippling. I never would have imagined that I'd ever walk without the cane again.'

He continued circling John until they were facing each other again, this time closer. He touched the entry wound scar, moving his fingers over its entire length gently.

John was embarrassed and didn't know where to look, so he just kept his eyes lowered. 'Nowadays, in hindsight, I figure that the long hospitalisation must've given me the sense that I was a broken, damaged man. Day after day, week after week in hospital, it made me feel useless, angry, anxious, guilty, restless. Useless for being crippled, angry that it happened to me, anxious for the future, guilty for surviving and yet not being there, restless because I had no purpose. I knew my military career was over, all that I knew or was, was gone. I would be discharged, then what?'

Sherlock did not want to pull his hand away just yet, but he did. 'Now I understand why this had so much psychological impact on you. I, em - Thank you. For trusting me,' he said awkwardly. He could tell how difficult it had been for John to show himself like this. He was crimson and tense, forehead all wrinkled, slightly hyperventilating, pulse visibly accelerated on his neck, pupils dilated due to stress, knuckles white against the shirt he was holding, as if he could hide himself behind it. Only this kept Sherlock from feeling aroused. He needed to be respectful of the trust given to him. Looking into his eyes he thought, They look so much darker today, almost navy.

John gave a small smile. He was hiding himself behind the shirt.