Written in Flesh and Blood - Johnlock

8 - Scars

~ Sherlock Holmes ~

Sherlock woke the next morning with his head on John's chest, their legs intwined. His arm was spread out over his stomach, their hands somehow finding each other in the night. Sherlock ran his thumb over the name on John's wrist. There it was, the first name he had never liked that had became his favourite word overnight, because it meant that John was his, and he was Johns. He was John's William, John's Sherlock. The thought brought a smile to his face.

He shifted, nuzzling his head into the crook of John's neck. He didn't know what the time was and he didn't care. He wanted to stay here like this forever. Images of last night came flooding back to him.

The fumbling of shirt buttons. 

The tugging of a jumper over a head. 

Hot breaths on his neck. 

Roaming hands running down his back. 

The weight of a body against him. 

The flick of a tongue. 

Skin on skin on skin on skin. 

Sweat on his forehead. 

Nails digging into John's shoulders.

John's tongue between his teeth. 

Breathy moans and whispered curses. 

The taste of John in his mouth. 

The sound of his name on John's lips.

The feeling of John inside him. 

Pain and euphoria all rolled into one. 

John. 

John woke not long after Sherlock, he felt him smile against him, placing a kiss in his hair. He wrapped the arm that Sherlock wasn't holding around him, pulling him even closer. John let out a content sigh, and it made all of the drama they had to go through to get there all worth it. Sherlock kissed him on the shoulder, lightly pressing his lips against the beautiful scar. John had a lot of scars, some of which Sherlock had only discovered last night. He had kissed every one of them. There were several from the war, those ones made him swell with pride, his John, the soldier, the fighter, the survivor. Others were from his childhood, from his fathers drunken nights and bursts of rage, those made him angry, furious, to think how a man who was supposed to love his children unconditionally could do that to his son, to John, Sherlock swore one day he would make that man pay. And then there were other little scars, reminders of silly little accidents, burns on his fingers from cooking without oven mits, a cut on his toe from stepping on glass, all the things that reminded him that John was so beautifully human. Of all John's scars the bullet wound was his favourite, the twisted, discolored flesh was far from pretty, but to Sherlock it was the best thing he had ever seen, because that bullet had set the wheels of fate in motion. That bullet was the reason he was lying here with John, his soulmate. 

Sherlock was pulled from his train of thought by the sound of a phone ringing, John's phone. When John reached for it his neck became fully exposed, showing Sherlock the extremely visible hickeys he had left. He really wanted to do that again, wanted to feel John's soft flesh beneath his mouth, wanted to make him moan and gasp his name. He remembered how it had felt like gospel. He wanted more. He needed more. 

So that's exactly what he did. Sherlock began to place a line of wet kisses up and down John's neck, causing him to tighten his grip on his phone. 

"Hello." He said to the person on the other end, desperately trying to stifle a moan. 

He hadn't checked the caller ID when he swiped to answer, he'd been too distracted. Good.

"Oh Mary." 

With the sound of her name Sherlock unattached his lips from John's neck, what he imagined was a very clear look of distain crossed his face. He didn't bother to correct it. He could vaguely hear the sound of Mary shouting though the earpeice, but even Anderson would be able to deduce what she was yelling about. 

"Look Mary, I'm sorry..."

More shouting, John stops talking for a while, frustration settling in across his brow.

John finally managed to find a break to speak, chucking in a hurried excuse. "I'm sorry but this isn't going to work out."

"Yes Mary I'm breaking up with you." 

More shouting. Something along the lines of 'Why? What? How could you do this to me?'

"Goodbye Mary." John states with a sigh, not waiting for her to respond before hanging up. 

He let out a deep sigh, dumping his phone on the nightstand and angling his body towards Sherlock. "Well that was tedious, now where were we?"

"I think we were just about here..." Sherlock replied, leaning in to place a kiss on the other mans lips. 

He felt John smile into the kiss before pushing Sherlock back down onto the bed and climbing on top of him. 

*****

AN//: Taking out the trash (Mary). Also enjoy the closest to smut you will ever get from me cause I can't write smut for shit.