Written in Flesh and Blood - Johnlock

7 - Why

⚠️ Very slight trigger warning: self harm (sorta) ⚠️

~ John H. Watson ~

Sherlock just stood there, staring at John's arm with wide eyes. His mind looked as if it was simultaneously blank and working in overdrive. His hands were shaking, so slightly most people wouldn't have noticed, but John wasn't most people. 

He was almost in a state of shock. John guessed that would make sense, he had just told the poor sod that he was his soulmate, after specifically saying overwise no more than a week ago. John decided he would wait for Sherlock to speak, wait for that beautiful brain of his to catch up to what his heart was (hopefully) feeling. 

John watched Sherlock take a slow, shaky step towards him, and then another, he took one more and then he was right in front of him, so close that John could kiss him. John had always wanted to kiss Sherlock, even before he realized that they were soulmates. But he couldn't, he wouldn't, if his sister found out her big mouth would ensure the information made its way to his parents. He didn't care about his mother finding out, it was Hamish Watson that he was afraid of, even to this day that man ruled over his life, and John was still powerless to stop him. He made a vow to himself when he was 15, that he would never kiss a boy ever, not even his soulmate. But standing here looking at Sherlock, John wanted to break that vow, he wanted to shatter it into a million tiny pieces. 

Sherlock slowly wrapped his hand around John's exposed wrist, pulling it closer to him to examine the writing. He ran his thumb over the cursive white lettering then over the tangled twist of scars surrounding it. His touch was light, but it left John feeling exposed, he'd never felt so exposed in his life. 

"Why?" He said when he finally spoke up, "Why would you do this?"

Do what? Oh the scars, did Sherlock believe that he had done this himself? That he had cut his wrists? Attempted to remove the name of his soulmate from his skin, only for it to remain? 

"I didn't." John watched Sherlock's eyes grow wider, the expression on his face one of deep sorrow. He couldn't bare to look at it, so he looked down at the ground instead. He let out a deep sigh before he continued speaking, "My father didn't like the idea of me having a male soulmate." 

"So he - he cut you?" 

"Not all the time, just some nights when he'd had a bit too much to much to drink." Why was he defending him? It wasn't like the abuse only happened when he was drunk, it happened everyday, the liquor just made it all worse. 

Sherlock's thumb was still stroking John's wrist with the lightest of touches. He couldn't look sherlock in the eye, that man would be able to read him like a book. So he chose to look at that instead.

"And that's why you pretend not to care about soulmates." It was a question, but Sherlock posed it like a statement, a matter of fact, John supposed it was. "Why you date all these different women. Why you cover your wrist with that hideous watch."

John nodded slowly, his eyes fixed on the slow, circular, movements of Sherlock's thumb. Nothing but silence followed, and he realized that Sherlock was waiting for him to say something. He looked up into his eyes, those beautiful galaxy eyes, that were transfixed on him as if he were the most beautiful thing they had ever seen. These were the eyes that he wanted to spead the rest of his life staring into, to see that pure expression of love that spilled out of them. Looking into those eyes gave him the confidence to speak, to say the things he never thought he'd have the courage to say. 

"I was afraid, for so long, afraid that he would find out about my feelings for some of the men I met, for you. I was afraid that one night he would walk up those stairs in a drunken state and I would be a teenager again, cowering in a corner."

"I'll kill him."

The statement brought a smile to his face, a faint chuckle escaping from his lips. He loved Sherlock, oh god he loved Sherlock, and he was almost certainly inclined to believe that Sherlock loved him too. 

"Wait, you said you were afraid?" Sherlock asked. Why was he asking, since when did the great Sherlock Holmes need clarification?

"Yes." 

"You were speaking in past tense."

It wasn't a question, but he answered it anyway, "I was."

"And are you not afraid now?" Sherlock was confused, John liked when he was confused, he rarely was, knowing John made him confused caused him to smirk, just ever so slightly. 

"Oh I'm terrified for a completely different reason."

"What - "

John cut him off, reaching up and crashing their lips together. Sherlock gasped against his mouth, his free hand moving to grip John's jumper. John raised his hand to cup Sherlock's face, running his thumb over his jaw, his cheekbone, his ear, his fingers looped around the detectives chocolate curls, giving them a light tug. Sherlock moaned, the vibration of his lips on Johns driving him crazy. He wanted Sherlock. Wanted to kiss every last inch of him, claim him as his own. He started walking forwards, pushing Sherlock until his legs hit the desk behind him. John began to leave a trail of kisses down his neck, his leg slipping between Sherlock's long ones. Sherlock moaned again, tightening his grip on John's wrist, and John chuckled against the soft skin of his thoat. He kissed him there. He kissed him on his exposed collarbones. He kissed along the bottom of his jaw. He kissed his cheek and his nose. He kissed that big, beautiful brain of his. And then he kissed his mouth again, just because he could. He felt Sherlock smile into the kiss, and he realized he was smiling too. He kissed him again, and again, and again, his hand running up and down every inch of his beautiful body. 

Their first kiss was the feeling of hot lips, and shaking breaths. Of roaming hands and soft skin. Of passion and lust and that feeling of getting everything you never knew you needed. Of akward limbs and a constant reassuring hand gripping his wrist.