Chapter Text
Sherlock paused, then rewound John’s last statement. He studied his face, measuring his words against his expression. He’d always thought John wore his heart on his sleeve and his thoughts on his face, but if what John was saying was true, he’d been hiding enormous feelings too deeply for Sherlock to have seen them. What to believe? His own keen observational skills—ones that hadn’t failed since he’d got clean almost five years before—or the unbelievable but oh-so-sweet words of his friend?
His body betrayed him, only letting a small “John?” spill out of his mouth, when he had wanted scathing words to spew out, to protect him and keep him sane. Romantic entanglement was– but it was John, saying the words he most longed– but loving made him weak and– but John …
He was saved from spiraling deep into his mind when John took a few steps forward and raised a hand. He felt the solid warmth of John as his hand cupped Sherlock’s face, thumb caressing cheekbone. He only felt the moisture as John wiped it away. He couldn’t be crying. He hadn’t cried in years. He was better than that, stronger.
“Oh, Sherlock,” John breathed out as more tears fell and Sherlock pushed his head further into John’s hand, trying to draw strength from him. His hand slid down Sherlock’s neck and shoulder, and his other arm wrapped around Sherlock until they were pulled close in a tight hug. How long had it been since Sherlock had been hugged? Mrs. Hudson would pat him and kiss his cheek, and it was lovely in that mothering way he pretended to hate, but there was something comforting and grounding about a solid hug. He’d forgotten about that. He could smell John’s hair—a combination of shampoo and natural body oils—the spicy scent of his aftershave, and the lavender smell of the lotion Sherlock had concocted to put on tattoos while they healed. He wanted to wrap himself in the smell forever and let it protect him from the rest of the world.
If this was what requited love felt like, perhaps it wasn’t such a weakness after all. Perhaps it could make him stronger. John already made him better, just by being his friend. What more could happen if they promised more to each other—partnership, support, acceptance?
“You … do … ?” was all he could get out, hoping John understood, given the too-long gap since John had spoken.
“Yeah, Sherlock. I do.” He tightened his arms around Sherlock. “And you … ?”
Unable to speak quite yet, he settled for a vigorous nod into John’s shoulder.
John huffed into Sherlock’s neck. “Okay. Good.”
He wasn’t sure if his tears were of relief or happiness. It felt like all the energy and emotions that had gone into making John’s tattoo were now pouring out of his eyes. It felt good. Releasing. Cleansing. They stood there, silently embracing, for several minutes. It wasn’t awkward, and neither felt the need to move away or speak, which helped Sherlock believe that John meant what he said. He wasn’t getting impatient or annoyed. He was holding Sherlock close, letting him process and adjust. It was very John, and therefore perfect. How could someone so ordinary be so perfect? Not perfect, full stop. Perfect for Sherlock. Someone who understood his foibles and loved him—loved him—all the same.
Sherlock finally pulled back just enough to look in John’s face for one last sign. He wore a soft smile, the one he used when he liked something Sherlock did—whether that be a sketch, a finished tattoo, or a deduction.
“Okay?” he asked softly, hands moving back to Sherlock’s face.
“Yeah,” Sherlock tried to say, but it came out as a mere breath, so he nodded.
“I love you, Sherlock,” he said again, as if he knew Sherlock needed to hear it, now that he believed it might be true.
He wanted to say it back—so much—but couldn’t find his voice yet, so he let his body take over. He moved his own hands to mirror John’s and pulled him in for a kiss. He wasn’t particularly experienced with them, but he knew John would help him out.
And after a surprised breath, he did.
***
“It’s the one from your private sketchbook. The one at the end.” John’s words were soft. They were lying on Sherlock’s—their—bed a few weeks after they’d shared their feelings with each other.
They’d taken things slowly since that first declaration and kiss, and only now had Sherlock felt comfortable enough to show John his back—or more accurately, his soul. The tattoo had been the result of a year of sobriety—first filled with self-hatred, then growing to acceptance, then moving to renewal—and all the emotional work that entailed. It was his declaration that he wouldn’t let his body rule him again. His mind and his art were worth more than any substance that could only briefly make him feel on top of the world.
But that wasn’t precisely true anymore. He still didn’t let his body rule him, per se, but he let his emotions out, let them flow through him and into John. Sometimes it was as simple as a hand on a back as they passed one another in the flat. Sometimes it was a kiss, noses nuzzling softly. And now, it was also the heated passion that came from the love they felt for each other.
And given their new physical intimacy, Sherlock finally felt ready to show John the tattoo that meant the most to him. He turned over on the bed they now shared and bared his back to John. John propped himself up with an arm, his face serious, as if he understood why Sherlock so rarely showed his tattoos to the world. He softly traced the outlines with a finger.
“Fire. Pain. Anger …” His finger skimmed across the tattoo. “Passion. Hope. Renewal. The initial sketch was gorgeous, amazing, but this …” John breathed. “I thought only Mrs. Hudson’s tattoo compared to my own, but this …”
“It was … intensely personal. A promise to myself, not to let–” Even though he knew John knew about his past, it was still hard to say it out loud. John saw him as this amazing, brilliant, strong person, and he hated to remind him of what he really was. Broken.
“And you haven’t,” John answered back fiercely. “You’ve done so well. Moving on, getting better, being strong. I can’t even imagine–”
“Of course you can,” Sherlock cut in, just as fiercely. He turned his head to see John better. “You went to war. You came back full of pain—and I don’t mean just the physical pain—and then you moved on. You got better, stronger.”
John grimaced. “I wasn’t doing so well when we met. But you … you gave me a challenge, something to focus on besides myself. I don’t know what would have happened if we hadn’t met.”
Sherlock looked at his beloved face, bathed in light from the lamp he’d turned on so John could see the ink. “You would have found another way. You don’t give up, John Watson. You had a setback. We all have those. You would have found help, one way or another. I know you would have.”
John gave a lopsided smile and went back to studying the tattoo. “Maybe.”
Sherlock let his head fall onto his crossed arms as the caress of John’s fingers lulled him to quiet. John’s touch was like a tattoo needle. Not the biting, adrenaline-inducing part, but the part that let him zone out and get away from his spinning brain. Both the needle and John’s touch just let him be. It was a relief after a long day dealing with his thoughts.
“Are they similar on purpose?”
“Hmm?” His thoughts were a gentle buzz at the back of his mind. He might be able to fall asleep soon.
“Our tattoos—yours is fire and mine is water, but they still seem sort of the same.”
Sherlock shrugged. “You’re the one who saw my sketch and wanted it for yourself. I just gave you what you wanted.”
“So …”
Something in John’s voice made him lift his head and prop it on a hand. “So?” He asked softly.
“So, your own feelings didn’t play a part in creating it …”
“Oh, John.” Sherlock reached out his other hand and rested it on John’s cheek. “The only thing I’ve poured more feelings into than your tattoo is my own. I was so afraid you’d fall in love again and leave me. I wanted to leave some small part of myself with you, for you to hopefully remember me fondly by.”
John smiled and leaned in to leave a soft kiss on Sherlock’s lips. “I did fall in love. And I do think of you fondly. And this bloody tattoo is going to cover practically all of my back, so it’s not exactly some small part of you.”
Sherlock shrugged and looked away, self-conscious and pleased all at once. “It really was your idea, and it’s you that’s represented in it. My creativity and ink are a small part, comparatively.”
“If you say so.” John went back to tracing the lines. “It’s gorgeous. Both of them are. And Mrs. Hudson’s. Your art is amazing, always, but when you let your feelings show … you’re incandescent.”
Laying his head back on his arms, Sherlock smiled. “You’re luminous, in your own way. A torch, lighting the way for others. For me. I can’t decide which would be better. Letting you develop your own tattoo skills to become an artist in your own right, or wanting you to work as my assistant so I can continue to improve my own art.”
John’s caress changed into a gentle shove. “Letting me, huh? You think you have a say in the matter.” His tone was teasing, letting Sherlock know he hadn’t messed up the compliment too badly. It was a work in progress. They were a work in progress. It was good.
“This is true. You are quite stubborn.” The silence lasted long enough after Sherlock’s pronouncement for him to open his eyes again and look at John. “You are stubborn, you know.”
“No, yeah. I know,” John finally replied, then bit his lip. “You think I could?”
“Could what, John? Despite what you think, I can’t read minds.” He actually did know what John meant, but he needed him to say it.
John picked at a stray thread on the sheet near his hand, bowed face hidden from Sherlock’s gaze. “Be a– do tattoos? Create something people would want on their bodies forever?”
He hadn’t shared out loud his dream of stepping into the tattoo world, but Sherlock had read it in his actions. He increasingly sat in on Sherlock’s sessions and had been sketching regularly for months now. He asked questions, and he showed a level of interest for it that he hadn’t shown for anything since they had first met. It was nice, having another thing to share and connect them. And as for John’s (ridiculous) question …
“John, you not only invaded Afghanistan, but you survived and came home after, started a new life completely unlike your old one, and took a chance on me. You can do anything.”
John lifted his head. “You really mean that?”
Sherlock leveled a stare at John. “Do I lie?”
“Not even to save someone’s feelings,” John said with a chuckle.
“Then believe me when I say, as both an accomplished tattoo artist and your partner, I believe in you, John Watson. And …” Sherlock took a deep but slightly shaky breath, “I love you and will support you doing this, if it’s what you really want.” John had said it several times, but though he knew that John knew he reciprocated those feelings, this was his first time actually saying it out loud. He was glad he’d waited until this moment, it felt right.
John’s face softened, and a small smile played at his lips. “Good, because I love you too.”