The very lovely br0-harry (and if I weren’t so computer illiterate there would have been a nice link to that blog) gave me permission to use a piece of very gorgeous fanart, and the equally lovely Daniel at East Street Tattoo made this fantastic tattoo from it.
And the maybe not quite as lovely me is very happy with it. Very happy indeed.
ASDFGHJKL;ASDFDG AFSDGFH ASDF F HJ K hello this pic is now inked on human’s body
should i mention that i’m honored? asdfghjkl;
A JOHNLOCK TATTOO!? Holy fucking hell, that’s really well done. Someone has to show the Sherlock lot this!
the year is 2066. physical contact has been outlawed. hug dealers tenderly embrace people in the dead of night and shady people hold hands in dark streets
i want to read this novel
woops, I ficc’d it.
The sight of the victim makes John’s chest feel hollow. He stares down at her, his eyebrows knit. Her body is covered in fingerprints. The air around her smells like loneliness. Desolation.
Lestrade looks sickened. His lips are turned down, and his skin has taken on a honeydew hue. He watches as Sherlock kneels next to the body.
“An addict,” Sherlock says. “Affection.”
The alley is silent for a few beats.
“How can you tell?” asks Lestrade. His voice is tight when he speaks.
“Clothes. She was embracing someone when she died.”
Sherlock looks up and finds John’s eyes. John kneels next to him without saying a word. Lestrade flinches at the sight—Sherlock and John have always shared more personal space than most people find comfortable.
“Strangulation, obviously,” says John. He leans in closer and uses a long wooden paddle to shift the body so he can see the victim’s neck. “Definitely. Look at the bruise over her hyoid.”
Lestrade peers over, grimacing.
“God,” he says. “All this for a bit of contact.”
John nods. He doesn’t say anything.
The cab ride back to Baker Street is quiet, and John spends most of it staring out the window, eyes looking first at the lights outside, then at Sherlock’s reflection in the glass. Sherlock is facing in the opposite direction. John wonders if he is staring back.
They climb the seventeen steps up to 221b and shut the door heavily behind them. Sherlock throws his coat on the sofa. He goes right to the windows and pulls the drapes closed, then he stalks back across the room. John is reaching for him.
They crash together like a train wreck. John’s hands slip around Sherlock’s waist, then smooth over his back, feeling each muscle—the opposite side of each rib. Sherlock’s hands curl under John’s arms, hook onto his shoulders, locking him in tight.
Sherlock clings and John caresses. It is always like this—holding and roaming and feeling. John’s fingertips have memorized the textures of Sherlock’s skin. His back is like still water, gnarls of scarred skin like river rapids. His neck is warmer and smooth. Crème brûlée, maybe. The silky custard underneath the shell. Sherlock is soft but angular.
And his hands—Sherlock’s hands are a prize that John is honoured to have won. His fingers are impossibly long, burned by chemicals and scarred because of…every reason imaginable, really. He’s missing a fingerprint on one ring finger. He chews the nail of his right index when he thinks no one’s looking. When he has a hangnail on his thumb, he toys with it until it bleeds, and John insists on covering it with a plaster.
When Sherlock’s hands touch John’s skin, it feels as though they’re exothermic.
After embracing for the better part of an hour, they sit on the sofa, and turn on the telly. There’s nothing on, but they aren’t really watching.
“I can’t imagine anyone else touching me,” John says.
Sherlock looks down at John’s hand in his. He doesn’t say anything.
“Have you ever touched anyone else?” John asks.
Sherlock shakes his head. He still doesn’t speak. John rubs his thumb over the side of Sherlock’s hand.
“Sometimes I think about kissing you,” he whispers.
He watches Sherlock’s lips part, and he leans in closer.
John has always liked danger. And Sherlock has never followed rules.
Dawn and dusk. Dusk and dawn. Since the beginning of time, that’s all they’ve had. A few scant minutes per cycle, twice a day.
John is drowsy, pink and aflame with oncoming sleep. Sherlock thinks he’s beautiful that way. He warms them both - bright rays of sunset reflecting off Sherlock’s silver surface, casting the faintest hint of pink across his cheekbones.
A more sentimental Moon would say Sherlock was blushing.
As John sets, as Sherlock rises, for a moment they are level in the sky. They reach out to one another, fingertips locked together, as if gripping each other this way will prolong it. And for a moment, everything is perfect. Everything is in balance, their eyes meeting, lips smiling.
And then Sherlock feels the pull, feels the sky calling him. Feels John falling, setting for the night. They cling together, hands tight, for as long as they can.