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Sherlock was counting the days he had left to throw his binder in the rubbish bin. The doctor advised him to wear it for five more weeks in order to promote a good healing, but what once was comfortable now itched and Sherlock wanted to rip it off and never see the face of it again. He wanted to look at himself in the mirror while putting on a shirt and not see the grey binder covering his – now completely flat – chest, wanted to feel the silk rub against his nipples and more than that, wanted not to hate how his body looked. He was halfway through those dreadfully long weeks and would have to admit that the only reason why he managed not to drive himself completely crazy was John’s constant presence.
John had never been the most subtle man, especially when it came to his own bodily reactions – or the simplest movements, really. Sherlock had come to an agreement that he would never dwell too much on those little things because he knew John couldn’t help himself, not just with him but also with everyone else. John was a lover. He had grown accustomed to the touches of women, dates every other week, and the lack of it could and would mirror on how he acted with Sherlock on a daily basis.
Upon noticing that the frequency of John’s dates had diminished considerably since Sherlock’s top surgery, the man concluded that the Doctor side of John took over the control. While Sherlock should have told him he didn’t need the help, that he could perfectly grab all cups and plates and make his own tea much like he’d done his entire life, a small, needy part of him enjoyed it more than anything and if possible would take full advantage of how caring his flatmate was.
He liked the way John reached his strong hands and touched his elbow, wrists or neck, liked when the man took charge and used his commanding tone when Sherlock – purposely – didn’t do as advised. He knew the reason behind everything was only that John was concerned about his post operational routine and blindly denied himself that it was the only reason. Maybe the only thing John needed was a little push to realise they could be more, and if Sherlock’s surgery happened to be it then it had worked well on more ways than just one.
Sometimes they sat on the sofa, and watched some stupid detective show John loved and Sherlock dreaded but there wasn’t much he could do. John was so nice to him, so warm, so present. He took care of Sherlock when Sherlock felt too cranky to do things, knew how much Sherlock wanted to go back to their work, how frustrating it was. He needed to heel, Sherlock knew that, but sometimes it was just so bad. Because of that, they were talking more than before and about other things than just cases and Mycroft and the flat. John told Sherlock about the day his mother died and Sherlock told him about his dog. If Sherlock could give anything back, let it be the mere watching crap telly together. He wouldn’t say who the killer was, and John would occasionally look at him with a fond and strange smile.
As the days progressed, they sat closer and closer, until there was nowhere to go. Sherlock’s thigh pressed to John’s and John’s arm draped over the backrest of the sofa, fingertips brushing just slightly to Sherlock’s shoulder. He occasionally asked how Sherlock felt, if the scars bothered, if it itched or if Sherlock needed water. Sherlock never lied, and John always helped. Sometimes John looked at Sherlock and the detective wondered just how it would feel to just lean forwards, end the distance between them with a kiss.
When they finally kissed, it was gentle enough for Sherlock to want more and dizzying enough for him to back away at the same time. John’s hand was soft on his chest, his thumb stroking the area just above the collar of Sherlock’s shirt although he would never move anywhere further. They would kiss and kiss for a long time, always on the sofa, never taking it somewhere else. His binder was still a restraint, and Sherlock didn’t feel good enough about his body to show it to someone else. He wasn’t used to feeling proud of it. Proud of his scars, proud of the fact that he was just one surgery away from being the man he was supposed to. Until then, he didn’t know how he could ever properly be with John, didn’t know where the man’s boundaries laid beyond the casual snog.
Which was why he felt so confused the day John climbed the down the stairs from the bedroom to the kitchen still not wearing a shirt. The red clothing was there on his hands, and he quickly covered his arms and buttoned it from down to up, but why had he gone through the trouble of doing that in front of Sherlock? John smiled, ran his fingers through Sherlock’s hair and left for work with the certainty that Sherlock wouldn’t do anything bad so close to the day he would be free of his binder.
This went on for two days until John simply decided to sit on the sofa, switch the telly on and stare at it as if nothing was wrong. Which wasn’t, except for the fact that it was fifteen degrees and he had no shirt on. Sherlock gave up on trying ignoring what his mind couldn’t, and turned on his side to stare at John. His gaze fixed on John’s dark blue eyes for a long time before moving down, staring at the man’s chest. He had explored that same chest a couple of days ago, but couldn’t actually see what he was doing as his hand had only roamed under the stripped jumper. Sherlock now had the chance to properly look and savour the details from the curve of John’s chest to the soft tone of the hair trailing down his trousers.
When his gaze finally fell to the faint scar on John’s shoulder, he knew.
His heart clenched, and he gaped for a small moment before looking away immediately. It was time enough for John to flinch, and even though the man didn’t cover himself – he didn’t have anything to put on – Sherlock felt in his skin how conscious John still was about his scar, after all the years since he got it. It made Sherlock wonder about his own scars, and how he felt about them.
John had always been there next to him, from the simple acceptance when Sherlock told him who he was and how he felt about his body to the first consulting appointment with his surgery doctor. He held Sherlock’s hand, corrected whoever misgendered him and even went through the trouble of punching a very stupid person at a bar. He walked with Sherlock to Regent’s park every day just because the doctor said it would be good for healing. Sherlock had always felt like he was a freak, but after he met John things seemed to click perfectly into place. Not that John was the only one there to help, though. Sherlock had his few friends, and would never forget the first time he walked into the NSY and Sally Donovan introduced him as the world's only consulting detective and the most annoying man she had ever met.
Although comforted by the prospect that John was willing to open himself to Sherlock so deeply enough to show him a sensitive part of his body - and soul -, the detective didn’t acknowledge it out loud and for the next couple of days carried on as if he didn’t bother about John’s scar at plain sight and everything behind it. He didn’t know how John felt about him ignoring the issue, but it wasn’t as if he could just come and talk about it out loud. He wasn’t as good at talking about it as he always thought he was.
When the five weeks were over and Sherlock felt secure enough to remove his binder before showering to never, ever put it on again, he felt the shock of relief weighing down on him, and as he folded the dark binder his eyes were wet and he couldn’t stop smiling. A soft chuckle escaped his lips and he stared at himself through the mirror, not the first time since he went through the surgery but now something in his guts told him this was it, this was real. The scar was there, but it wasn’t as bad as he thought it would be. The oil he applied had clearly helped, just like his doctor – and John – insisted it would, and even though they couldn’t really jump into cases that needed heavy body work, Sherlock felt happier. He felt free.
He walked out of the bathroom with his usual dark trousers and a white towel on his hair. His arms were lifted as he dried his dark curls, his eyes closed as he knew his way around the flat well enough not to hit a wall.
Instead of going to the bedroom as he would normally do after a long shower, Sherlock turned and went to the kitchen. The soft breeze coming through the open window was welcomed and new, and he smiled at it. Nothing would make him stop smiling at that point, he figured. He went straight to that window, paused in front of it and stared down at the street. It would be a long time until he could take a long bath in the tub, or even swim at a beach without feeling bad, but those small possibilities were now what pushed Sherlock forwards, making him feel so alive and want everything all at once.
He heard John’s footsteps coming from upstairs and turned, letting the towel drop by the armchair as his eyes fell on John’s bare chest - much like his own, for a change. John’s eyes widened and he smiled in a way that took Sherlock completely off guard. He didn’t know what he was expecting, maybe that John ignored the circumstance like he had done the past few days, but the fondness on those lips made his chest throb and his arms move up protectively to cover himself. The smile on John’s lips trembled as the man walked forwards, taking Sherlock’s hands and moving them to his sides.
“It’s all right,” John said, with that stupid and warm and mind blowing smile coming back to his face. He let go of Sherlock’s hands and although Sherlock flinched them upwards, as if going to cover himself once more, he never stopped staring straight into the detective’s eyes.
Sherlock could swear he spotted John’s eyes smeared, and didn’t really know if it was his own stupid tears dripping from his face.
“You are so brave for doing all of this.” John kept going. Sherlock felt the man’s warm hands on his waist, and shivered as they moved up his back. It was such a new, lovely feeling, so overwhelming, and Sherlock couldn’t get enough of it. “I’m so happy for you, Sherlock, you beautiful, beautiful man.”
It was the first time they were actually talking about it - well, except for the very first one in which Sherlock sat John down and told him everything - in a way that didn’t involve bandages, oils, treatments and medical talk. Sherlock didn’t know how he hadn’t just combusted and became dust yet. His cheeks hurt from the smile he couldn’t stop showing, and he nodded frantically at John.
His arms wrapped around the doctor’s shoulders, pulling him closer and hugging him tightly in a way he could hide himself in the small space between John’s neck and his own arm. John held him tightly as well and Sherlock felt safe in those arms. They had done that before, but it felt completely different. Sherlock's bare - and flat - chest bumped against John's also naked one, and the sensation was so good Sherlock didn't see himself moving away at all. Neither of them had to hide who they were, what they had been through to get to the point where they were together. They had their battle scars, and Sherlock had never felt so proud.