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“Why does your skin look all funny?”
James Watson was sitting cross-legged on the bed between his uncles. Greg was already under the blankets and half-asleep, but Sherlock was still awake. Technically, James should have gone to bed an hour ago, but Sherlock had a habit of spoiling their godson, and he was permitted to stay in their bed until he fell asleep, at which point Sherlock would carry him back to the spare room.
“It does not look funny,” Sherlock said.
He was stretched out on his back on top of the blankets, shirtless and clad in pyjama bottoms, a book propped open on his chest. His mobile was on the pillow next to his head, as he had been texting John intermittently. John and Mary were out of town with their eldest child, Alanna, and Sherlock had been dutifully keeping them up-to-date on what their son was up to. It was a bit obsessive, Greg thought in amusement, but endearing. Sherlock had always been heavily involved in the lives of the Watson children.
“Yeah, it does,” James insisted. Greg cracked open his eyes to see James point at a mass of knotted flesh on Sherlock’s left shoulder. “What’s this?”
“It’s a scar,” Sherlock said, his concentration still on his book. James felt the small bullet wound with his tiny fingers. John had once teased Sherlock by saying that they had matching scars now, but that hadn’t elicited a laugh from Sherlock and he hadn’t mentioned it since.
“From what?”
“A gun,” Sherlock said shortly.
“Uncle Sherlock got shot once,” Greg put in gently, fearing that Sherlock would snap at the child. He adored James and displayed a seemingly-endless amount of patience with the boy, but he was also tetchy about a handful of his scars, and that was one of them. “Just like your dad.”
“Here, too?” James poked a thin white line across Sherlock’s left side, and Greg watched the muscles tense just under Sherlock’s skin. He fought down a smile. Sherlock was horrendously ticklish, and it was taking everything he had just to remain still.
“No,” Sherlock said, catching James’s curious hand in his own. “That was from a knife.”
“Oh,” James said thoughtfully. “Why?”
Sherlock opened his mouth, seemed to think better of what he was going to say, and simply said, “It’s a long story.”
“And here?”
Sherlock marked his page and dropped his book to the floor. He removed his reading glasses and set them on the bedside table, and then he pushed himself into a sitting position. He patted his thighs, and James climbed into his lap.
“Has your father talked to you about what scars are?” he asked. James nodded.
“It means you got hurt.”
“Yes. A long time ago.” Sherlock pointed out the various marks on his torso, the thin white lines and the jagged red marks and the knotted flesh that would never go away. “These are all scars. They are all places where I was injured. Some were made by knives, and some by guns, and some by… other weapons.”
“Did bad men hurt you?”
“Yes,” Sherlock said after a moment, clearly feeling that the simplest explanation would be best at the moment. When James was older, he would be able to grasp the nuances of Sherlock’s work and all he had gone through to keep his friends safe.
“Do the scars hurt?”
Sherlock shook his head. “Not any longer.”
“Do they make you sad?”
Sherlock’s mouth twisted. “Sometimes.”
“Oh.” James turned his gaze to Sherlock’s biceps. “What’s that?”
There was a different mark high on Sherlock’s left arm, one that had been made by ink rather than a knife or gun. Years ago, back when Alanna had been born, Sherlock had had her name tattooed on his arm. The letters of her name had been shaped by thin, elegant vines that wrapped around his arm. James’s name had been added to the design five years ago.
Sherlock twisted his arm so that James could see the letters. “Your names. Alanna and James. See?”
“Why?” James ran his fingers over the letters on Sherlock’s arm, tracing the twisting words. Sherlock rested his chin on top of James’s head, his gaze sliding away to rest on the far wall.
“Because there are some marks I don’t mind being permanent,” he said quietly, and though James couldn’t have understood, he didn’t question it.
James eventually fell asleep in Sherlock’s arms, and he carried him back to the spare room. Greg turned off the lamp, and he was nearly asleep by the time Sherlock returned to bed. Normally, they slept apart in the bed, but when Sherlock settled on his side, Greg rolled over and draped his arm across Sherlock’s waist, pulling him close so that they were lying back-to-chest.
“I’m fine,” Sherlock sighed.
“I know.” But there were scars that James didn’t yet understand, the kind that couldn’t be seen, and Sherlock carried those with him as well. Sometimes he woke in the middle of the night, short of breath, panicking after yet another nightmare. He rarely discussed with Greg the years when everyone thought he was dead, and the only information Greg had gleaned about that period of time had come from the words Sherlock uttered under his breath whilst in the throes of a nightmare.
This - holding Sherlock, keeping him close and keeping him well - was the only way Greg knew how to help.
Greg kissed the nape of Sherlock’s neck and closed his eyes, Sherlock’s curls brushing the tip of his nose. Sherlock rested an arm on top of the one Greg had around his waist and laced their fingers together, and he slept quietly the whole night through.