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.
Can you… can you imagine Lestrade walking in to find Sherlock cradling John? Portraying the most emotion Lestrade has probably ever seen? I just…
I will not have these feels forced upon me.
God, do you think they even knew it would be their last night together Could they feel it? Did Sherlock see something in John that could warn them? So they could spend that last bit together?
Or did Sherlock’s world end in the bright hours of the morning? As he blinked weary eyes open and turned to his love, only to see the stillness of John’s chest, feel the chill of his flesh?
And hours later, after receiving no response from numerous texts and calls, Lestrade finally arrives at an eerily quiet 221b. The detective checks the sitting room, kitchen, bathroom; even hesitantly peeking in to check Sherlock’s old room.
But it’s the subtle noise of a guttural moan from upstairs that finally clues in Lestrade on the soul-wrenching scene that’s being played out. Greg climbs the stairs to the second bedroom slowly, trying to prepare himself for what’s to come.
It’s no use, nothing could prepare him for what he sees as the door swings open.
Sherlock sits with his back resting against the headboard. Head hanging down, his dark curls covering his face from Lestrade. His sleep shirt pulled off his right shoulder slightly, and his pyjama pants hiked up his long legs from his movements. Feet planted firmly on the mattress and knees spread to allow John’s body between them. Long arms wrap around John’s chest, hands fisted in the front of the doctor’s shirt.
Lestrade take a few tentative steps into the room, shoulders slumping in resignation. “Sherlock?”
Sherlock’s hands tighten, knuckles turning white with the strain. “Algor mortis would have set in immediately, obviously, but rigor mortis has been slow to start. Probably due low levels of lactic acid in Jo-,” Sherlock’s voice cracks, but he continues on, “in the body. There are still parts that are living, you know? For the next few hours some cells will continue to reproduce, bacteria will survive, possibly for days.”
“The skin dis-colorization is expected, the blood has already began to pool in the lower extremities.”
“Sherlock, please,” Lestrade says, barely above a whisper as he moves a few steps closer to the bed.
“There was a case, do you remember? Of course you do, you must. The extra body that appeared in the hospital morgue, brought in supposedly after that multi-car crash. The attendant just thought the number had been reported wrong, but no, that wasn’t the case. All the signs, all the tells from the body were all wrong. It was obvious the victim had been killed long before the others but the killer saw an opportunity he could not let pass.”
“Sherlock!” Greg finally shouts, his voice cracking momentarily as the tears begin to form in his eyes.
At that, Sherlock’s head whips up. His eyes are red and watery, and his face is contorted in pain, marked by long tear streaks down his cheeks. Sherlock’s chest begins to heave as he takes large, gasping breaths. “It’s my fault! It’s all my fault! I should have looked harder! I should have found a cure, something, anything to save him! What good am I if I can’t even save John?!” Sherlock buries his face against John’s shoulder, pulling his legs in tighter, holding on to the empty shell of his lover, his friend, his equal. “What good am I now?”
Sherlock’s loud, shuddering sobs fill the room as Lestrade can only look on in silence.