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Ever since John's moved back in, Sherlock's been a lot more careful. He stares at himself in the mirror, running two fingers over the livid, puckered knot of tissue. Eventually it will fade to shiny white scar tissue, and with his pallor it will be far less visible, but right now it's an unavoidable reminder. A reminder of everything they've both lost.
It's not that Sherlock's vain. Not exactly. Yes, the marring of his skin frustrates him, but more than anything he worries about how it will affect John. The furrow between his brows, the circles under his eyes, they're all so much more apparent lately. Since...
Sherlock frowns to himself and turns away from the mirror, slipping a cotton t-shirt over his head and pulling his dressing gown over his shoulders. The more layers, the better.
***
Several days later, for the first time in what feels like forever, Sherlock shuffles into the kitchen wearing nothing more than his loose pyjama bottoms. John is at work, and will be for at least another three hours, so this momentary indulgence should be safe enough.
After suffering through making himself a cup of tea, he slinks into the lounge and lowers himself into his chair, the pliable, worn leather conforming intimately to his body. This is where he belongs. He stretches out, feet propped up on the seat of John's tatty armchair, legs suspended delicately between the two, and closes his eyes.
Slowly, methodically, he works on rearranging several shelves of data in the mind palace. Old things, but not necessarily irrelevant. The work is soothing and repetitive, absorbing, and requiring all of Sherlock's focus. No room for errant thoughts here. He shoves them aside. Errant thoughts of scars, of imperfection, of John.
John! Sherlock opens his eyes, and John is standing there, smiling softly.
"What... when..." Sherlock scowls at his lack of words.
"Clinic was empty; I decided to come home early. Everything alright, then?"
Sherlock follows John's eyes, clearly taking in his bare torso. Scrambling, cursing, he fumbles and attempts to hide the scar. He harkens back to his earlier train of thought, kicking himself internally. Should be safe enough. How was he so blind as to rely on John sticking to known patterns and habits? How did he get so distracted, so caught up in his thoughts, that John was able to enter the lounge entirely unnoticed?
He pulls his feet off John's chair as if they've been burnt, leans forward and tries to hide his midsection with his arms. Not now, not like this. John doesn't want imperfection, weakness. John deserves better than that.
"Hey, hey... So. That's why." John sinks into his newly vacated chair, leaning forward. Close to Sherlock. Too close. Not close enough.
"Why? Why what. You know how much I enjoy you speaking in riddles." Sherlock snaps, angrier than he'd intended.
"Why you've been keeping yourself hidden. I'd. Well." John pauses, a flush creeping across his cheeks.
Sherlock cocks a brow, lips tightly pursed, waiting for the confession. He disgusts John. He keeps his arms folded protectively over his abdomen.
"I'd got fond of you wandering around shirtless." The words slip from John's mouth, entirely opposed to what Sherlock had expected. "You're ridiculous, you know. Hiding it. It's not like I'm going to forget it's there."
John reaches out, resting one hand on top of Sherlock's. His hand is cool, but it sets Sherlock's skin ablaze. Impossible, but it's happening nonetheless. Sherlock frowns, looking down at John's golden skin against his own.
"It's ugly. Embarrassing. Weak. Imperfect." Sherlock spits out his litany of reasons to stay hidden, and John, damn him, laughs. It's not a mocking laugh, at least. Low and gentle.
"Sherlock, none of us is perfect." John says, pulling his hand away, and Sherlock frowns again. But his reasoning becomes apparent as he pulls his jumper over his head, steadily unbuttons his own shirt, and shrugs out of it.
John's own scar gleams, bright white against his warm skin. It's not that Sherlock had forgot about it. Sherlock could no more forget any details about John than his own name or address. It's just that it has been such an intrinsic part of who John is from the day they met onwards that Sherlock can't imagine him without it. The fact that he usually remains hidden under multiple layers of clothing helps.
Sherlock takes a moment to study the rest of John's bare chest, a treasure so rarely shared. His nipples are tiny and dark, darker than Sherlock's own, and slightly protuberant. There is a faint smattering of gold-blond hair over his sternum, sparse and thin. There's a red flush below John's collarbone, up towards his throat. Shame, or excitement? His eyes are impossible to read. Sherlock's fingers itch to explore every square inch of exposed skin, run his thumbs over John's scar, over his nipples. Instead, he drums them against his own ribs, the noise echoing in his ears.
"Sherlock? Say something." John's voice is somehow hesitant and commanding all at once as he stands up, closing the space between them. Yet another logical impossibility. He reaches out and gently coaxes Sherlock's arms open, exposing the wound. He stretches his hand out, palm resting flat on Sherlock's torso, thumb and index surrounding the worst of the scar while the thin, spiderwebbing lines -- remainders from the surgery afterwards -- disappear under his fingers.
John's hand is trembling against him.
No.
Sherlock is trembling. Why is he trembling? This is illogical.
"We match now, Sherlock. You don't have to hide. And, well. I suppose I don't either."
He drops to his knees between Sherlock's legs, hand firmly fixed against Sherlock's body, never breaking contact. Unthinkingly, Sherlock leans forward and sucks in a breath. John tips his head up, and Sherlock is drawn to him like a magnet. Their foreheads press together, the touch more intimate than any kiss. John sucks in one long, shuddering breath and Sherlock is relieved. Confirmation that he's not alone right now.
"You're an idiot, you know." John's words are warm and soft on Sherlock's cheek; their faces still a hair's breadth apart. Sherlock huffs quietly, a noise that could be amusement or disagreement or confession.
"I'm imperfect now."
"Sherlock..." John trails off, letting his eyes fall closed. Sherlock is relieved, the contact was overwhelming, but he couldn't have brought himself to break it even at risk of death. "You've always been imperfect. Just like me."
The words should sting. Sherlock strives for precision, and exactness. Except here. John, as always, is the only exception. Around John he has always been free to be sloppy, to be relaxed. To be wrong. Without risk of judgement. Disappointment, yes. Hurt, yes. But never judgement.
And it is that knowledge, the knowledge that John trusts him, despite everything that has come to pass between them, which allows Sherlock to close his own eyes, to tip his head slightly. The first brush of lips is awkward, the angle less than ideal, and yet Sherlock feels John melting against him.
The noise John lets out is not quite a moan, not quite a sigh. It sounds like years of pent-up frustration, arousal, and fondness, all given form.
Abruptly, John breaks the kiss and stands up, and Sherlock feels the bottom drop out of his stomach. He's coming to his senses, he's realising he's made a mistake. The panic must be clear on Sherlock's face, no matter how hard he tries to fight it, because John reaches down and runs one hand through Sherlock's hair. The noise that escapes Sherlock's lips is similar to John's moan from earlier, and is utterly mortifying.
"Hey, hey. It's okay. It's all okay." John's voice is soothing, a steadying presence in the eye of the storm in Sherlock's head. "My knees just can't handle squatting like that for so long."
Without a second thought, without any concern for hiding himself, Sherlock is unfolding himself, standing up, crowding against John. John's arms, bare and smooth and burning hot, wrap around Sherlock's waist, pulling them together.
"I'm..." John tilts his head back, looking Sherlock in the eyes for a moment, before resting his head on Sherlock's naked shoulder. John's hair against his skin is soft and dusty, and it should tickle. But it doesn't. Sherlock's list of confusing impossibilities relating to John continues to grow apace.
"I don't know what the bloody hell I'm doing here, Sherlock. I'm going to fuck up."
Sherlock runs one hand up John's spine, splaying out beneath his shoulder blade. The bare skin is hot and smooth and shocking.
"Wouldn't be the first time, John." Sherlock's aiming for smooth and sarcastic, but his voice fractures slightly as he speaks. John chuckles.
"You're supposed to say something like Me too, John. We're both new at this. , you arse."
Impulsively, Sherlock rubs his cheek against John's temple. "Why should I take advice from you, John? You just admitted you had no idea what you were doing."
"At least this time I won't be alone in my cluelessness, yeah?"
"No..." Sherlock's arms tighten, possibly to the point of discomfort, but John makes no move to free himself. "Not alone, no. Not this time. Not any more."