johnlock oneshots

Scars

It was almost the middle of the night when John woke up. He streched his limbs and yawned. He was peckish and felt like going downstairs for a nice warm cup of tea. And maybe a toast. Or a carrot. Really, anything that was classified as food would do because John couldn't even remember his last real meal.

He and Sherlock have been on a case for the last six days - it's been a hard one, almost an eight and a half- and they both have been feeding themselves of quarters of orange and energy drinks for all that time. So, right after the case was closed, John just went straight to bed and collapsed from fatigue. He had slept until now.

It was nice having his old life back. After the fall, everything went to hell. He had thought he would never come out of this alive and was sometimes still surprised he was walking this earth anymore. Going on cases made everything feel normal again and from time to time John had the feeling that nothing ever happened. 

So, the doctor put on his dressing gown before shuffling down the stairs. He tiptoed toward the kitchen, careful not to wake Sherlock up. Once he was in front of the kettle, he  realised a major flaw in his plan : both the kettle and the toaster were very noisy, especially at night.

John sighed and reached for a toast, munching on it while standing before the counter, staring into the void in front of him. He was almost done and was considering Moving the kettle in his room to muffle the noise when the sound of a familliar voice behind him made him jump :

"I'm awake, you can make your cuppa. I'd like one too, no sugar, no milk, but I assume you remember that."

Sherlock was standing in front of the fireplace, a sheet wrapped loosly around his waist, Yorick the skull in his hand. John shivered, his heart thumping between his ribs from the fright his friend gave him yes but from something else too. Something he wasn't sure, what it was.

"Sherlock! You scared me! How long have you been here?" Sherlock didn't answer, but John didn't hear the lanky man coming into the room, so he assumed his flatmate must have been standing there from the start. John shrugged and put water in the kettle to heat it.

Once the two cups of tea were ready John brought one to his friend and walked toward the window. He drew open the curtains and look up in the sky, catching a glimpse of the shining full moon that hung between the stars. A fluffy cloud darkened the room for a few seconds and John turned around, facing Sherlock's naked back.

At first, nothing shocked John. It was his flatmate, his friend, drinking a cup of tea. Half-naked, indeed -and that strange feeling running through his veins- but his friend nonetheless. But suddenly, the cloud passed by and the full moon's light flooded the sitting room, its rays landing delicately on my friend's back, flourishing with silver the albaster scars that ran through his shoulders.

John's breath caught itself in his throat. Those scars weren't on Sherlock's back before the fall. Horror filled him to the core of his heart, coursing through his nerves, seeping through his bones, colder than ice, heavier than molasses in his lungs and far more sickening.

John felt his knees going weak, his arms were shaking. Every square inch of his friend's skin was filled with dozens, with hundreds of white lines. Some were thin, others thick. Some had sharp edges, others looked like they were made by barbed wire. Some were long, others shorts. Every single one of the, was unique and John's gaze was locked on them, morbidly fascinated and yet at the verge of fainting from shock.

His cup fell from his hand and shattered on the floor, breaking the eerie silence that filled the flat. John could hear his heart thumping in his hears. Sherlock turned around to face his flatmate and worry crossed in his eyes when he saw John's expression.

"John, is everything alright? What happened? Maybe you should go to bed, you are most certainly sleep deprived from the case."

John didn't answer and took a step forward. And another one. And again. And again. And again until he was behind Sherlock, facing the scarred back of his best friend.

Neither of them was speaking, not even daring to breath too loudly. Slowly, so very slowly, John raised his hand to the height of his chest, his fingertip lingering a few milimeters away from Sherlock's skin. John took a deep breath in and closed the space between his hand and his best friend's back.

The feeling of his flatmate's fingertip sliding down his back made Sherlock shiver. It was the most intimate act anyone had ever made toward him. John was carefully outlining the shape of every scar carved into his friend's skin and that sent a shock down the lanky man's spine.

When John's finger quivered, Sherlock had to will his tears away. He was not going to cry now. He never did in four long years, he was not going to break down now. He had to be strong just a little bit more, just a few minutes more and then, everything would go away. All the pain would be gone, and he wouldn't have to think about anythink, even just for a few hours. He just had to wait until he could retreat to his bedroom. He couldn't push John away, not once more, not after all the pain he caused him.

So, he let his flatmate touch his back, flinching when the path of his hand brought back memories he would prefer to forget, leaning slightly in when it felt good, focusing himself on the shaky breaths of his friend.

After a long time, John's hand pulled away from his back and Sherlock relaxed himself a bit. He closed his eyes and was about to go back to his bedroom when John's desperate whisper cut through the silence of the room :

"I am so sorry Sherlock, so sorry I didn't know I should have I am sorry."

His voice was broken, barely audible and filled with sorrow and regrets. It was too much for Sherlock. He knew he wouldn't have time to run to his bedroom, he knew he wouldn't have time to get to his syringe, he knew there would not be escaping it this time. And he broke down.

The great detective fell to his knees, tears running down his cheeks, sobbing wildly. He could barely breath.

John joined him on the floor and wrapped an arm around his shoulders, pulling him into a tight hug, rocking his shaking body back and forth gently. Tears smeared his dressing gown but he couldn't care less. He nuzzled his head in the crook of sherlock's neck and they both stayed here until the bright light of the sun replaced the one from the moon.

There, at the point of dawn, they fell asleep in each other's arms, curled up together, Sherlock half-naked, John in his dressing gown, the remains of the cup scattered around them.

That's how Mrs Hudson discovered them a few hours later while bringing Sherlock's morning teacup. She smiled softly and wrapped them up in a warm and fluffy blanket before tiptoeing out of the sitting room, letting them sleeping peacefully.