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It was Sherlock’s intention that John would never find out. He had planned in great detail exactly what he would wear and how he would conceal it; he would wear long sleeves during the days, and never sleep without a t-shirt on. He would start locking the door while he was showering. It had been a foolproof plan, up until the point it really wasn’t anymore.
Sherlock had been extraordinarily exhausted after a case that had had him chasing shadows all over London. It had been pouring down incredible volumes of rain and it hadn’t taken long for him to be soaked down to his very skin. The adrenaline in his circulatory system kept him afoot; it numbed down the exhaustion and the cold.
John was in an equally dreadful state. Water was dripping down from his short hair and into his eyes, and his trousers – which were normally loosely fitted – clung to his skin tightly. He was angry, too, because Sherlock had disappeared off on his own after John had lost him behind a corner. It was only fair, John thought, that he was allowed to boss Sherlock around and hopefully avoid either of them catching pneumonia. Sherlock had been too tired to protest and too tired to think clearly.
When John demanded Sherlock take a hot shower, he hadn’t thought to protest. When John demanded he help taking his cold shirt off, he hadn’t thought to protest. It was only when he felt John’s caring fingers still behind him that he froze in realization. Shit, shit, shit, buggering hell.
‘Sherlock?’
John’s voice was uncertain, calm and full of pity. Sherlock loathed it.
‘What are those?’
Sherlock rolled his eyes to conceal the panic that was arising in his chest.
‘You know perfectly well what those are, John. Don’t be an idiot.’
‘Yes, but… when?’
‘Serbia,’ Sherlock answered and pulled away from John’s scrutinizing gaze. Silently he discarded the rest of his clothes and strode into the shower, turning the hot water on and letting it wash over him, softening his stiff muscles and joints. He heard John exit the bathroom and close the door behind him, and his barely contained panic came bubbling to the surface again. He had to bite down on his hand hard to not let out a loud sob as stinging tears formed in his eyes. He was so stupid. John would never want him like this. Everything he had done had been to protect John - his John – but now John would leave and Sherlock would be on his own again. Deeply, utterly alone like he had been in his years away. It had all been for nothing.
More sobs wracked through his chest and he sank down to the floor, resting his back against the hard tiled wall. He was so deeply lost in himself that he didn’t notice that John had entered the bathroom until he was face to face with two concerned eyes.
John was crouching on the ground beside him, his left hand uncertainly hovering near Sherlock’s face. Sherlock opened his eyes and wished the ground beneath him would swallow him whole.
‘Sherlock,’ John said hesitantly, his both hands coming to rest on either of Sherlock’s cheeks. ‘Look at me.’ He beckoned Sherlock’s face upward gently. ‘Whatever you are thinking—it’s not true.’
Sherlock begun shaking. This is it, he thought. Well, if things with John were ruined, he might as well ruin them properly. But then John’s fingers began caressing his face gently and he completely lost his train of thought.
‘I-‘ Sherlock began, unsure of how to express himself when John’s fingers were doing that. ‘Everything I did, I- it w-was for you.’
‘Sherlock. I can’t read minds’ John reminded him gently.
‘I—the fall, the t-torture. I was so alone and I—you were in danger, and I- I couldn’t. Not if you were hurt, you- John’ Sherlock was rambling without realizing it. He was hushed by John’s index finger on his lips.
‘Shhh, Sherlock. It’s okay, it’s okay.’
John let go of Sherlock’s face and turned the shower off, moving to the tower rack and handing Sherlock a dry towel. He wrapped it gently around his shoulders and grabbed him around his waist, gently lifting him to a standing position.
‘Can you walk?’ he asked, and Sherlock nodded. John led him out of the bathroom and to Sherlock’s bedroom, where he sat him down on the bed.
‘Will you let me take a look at them?’
Sherlock nodded weakly.
Silver stripes lined Sherlock’s pale back; there were narrow scars and broad ones, long ones and short ones. Some had healed poorly, John saw. Those were eerily pale and looked to be painful still. The rest had healed relatively well and showed no signs of previous infection. John couldn’t stop staring.
‘I- I understand if you will want to leave,’ Sherlock said quietly, pulling John from his trance. ‘It’s all fine, I- I will adjust.’
‘Leave? What are you talking about, Sherlock? Why would I leave?”
John sounded genuinely surprised, which confused Sherlock.
‘You- I understand if you wouldn’t want to be around me after—you were never meant to see this and, I-
‘Sherlock.’
John stepped away from his back and pulled Sherlock around to meet him. His eyes were riddled with fear, uncertainty and disgust, and it startled John to see Sherlock express such emotions. He placed his hands on Sherlock’s cheeks again hoping it wouldn’t startle him. Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned into the touch slightly.
Maybe it was the fact that this was the most intimate moment they had ever shared, or maybe it was the fact that they were so very close. John had no way of telling. Gently he pulled Sherlock’s face closer to his own and pushed their lips together gingerly.
Sherlock’s eyes shot open and John pulled away quickly, staggering backwards and stuttering apologetically.
‘Sherlock, I- I shouldn’t have, I’m sorry.’
‘You… kissed me.’
‘Yes, I’m so sorry, Sherlock. God, I-‘
Sherlock sprung up from where he was sitting on the bed and started John in the process.
‘You… don’t think I’m disgusting?’
‘No, of course not. Sherlock, I- it won’t happen again, I’m so sorry, I just. Your back- it’s?’
‘Defiled, I kno-‘
‘Beautiful.’
With one quick movement, Sherlock practically ran over to where John was standing, slammed the door shut behind him and forcefully pushed John up against the door, their lips mere inches apart. John pulled Sherlock against himself the last few centimeters and their lips met, eager and demanding.
‘What- do- you- want?’ John asked in between kisses.
‘You’ Sherlock said simply. ‘This. Always this. It’s always been you.’