Fic: Upon John's Shoulder
Title: Upon John’s Shoulder
Writer: fanbot
Words: 769
Rating: G
John, Sherlock friendship
No warnings, nothing graphic, no spoilers. No gain except for feedback, please.
John has something more interesting than a scar on his back.
Sherlock knocked before he burst into the bathroom. Loudly. Once. John promptly cut himself shaving.
“Sherlock! I could have slit my throat!” He was only wearing a towel about his waist, but being in the army had robbed him of any body shyness.
“You exaggerate, John.” Sherlock said, opening the little supply closet. “You are using a double blade safety razor. At worst you would have shaved off a sliver and created a nasty cut which would bleed profusely.”
“Yes. Thanks. I am a doctor and have seen such things. What do you want anyway?” John asked as he stanched the cut.
“Rubbing alcohol.” Sherlock turned around, holding the plastic bottle and stopped, looking at John’s shoulder.
John watched him in the mirror. Here it was. Sherlock’s first sight of the ugly twist of a scar on his back.
“It’s not polite to stare at someone’s scars, Sherlock,” he said after the studying gaze went on for more than a minute.
“Hum?” His pale eyes flicked to the other shoulder for the briefest instance. “Dull.”
John realized his flatmate was looking at his unwounded shoulder.
Sherlock leaned down and peered closer. “This is much more interesting.”
John hesitated, then gave in. “Oh? Tell me then.”
“This word here,” a long finger traced it, and John barely kept from shivering. “There,” Sherlock read. “It was the first bit of ink. Perhaps sixteen years ago. Just when you went into medical school. It marked the occasion and celebrated your accomplishment.” His finger moved on. “A tattoo this size and detail is expensive, so you had it done a layer at a time. An accomplishment at a time. A map. A coastal area and far inland, but this is not a real place. First the outline. Then the mountains. Followed by the forests, and lastly the… landmarks. I don’t know these symbols. Two are perhaps towers. Finally touches of color were added, I would say upon your graduation.
“There are many years when nothing new is added. That was when you worked in the hospital and in private practice before going into the army. It faded and you perhaps felt satisfied and… grown up. Upon your decommission, the rest of the phrase ‘and back again,’ was added. You were happy to survive. You took some of your limited funds and had the whole piece touched up. By a more talented artist than the rest.”
He glanced up to meet John’s eyes in the mirror. “Tell me, were you relieved when you realized it was your uninked shoulder that was hit?”
John blinked. Had it been anyone else asking, he would have been offended. Because this was Sherlock and he had opened himself up for it, John just nodded.
“It clearly depicts your choice of symbols for the journey of your life, but why did you choose a place which does not exist in reality?”
John sighed and returned to his shaving. “You really should read a book that does not contain a single Latin word some time, Sherlock.”
Sherlock scowled before his eyes lit up. “Ah! Second shelf, set of four books, you have owned them most of your life and read them repeatedly.”
“Yes, that’s right. The Hobbit, and The Lord of the Rings.”
“What, exactly, is a Hobbit?”
“I have a suggestion. Go to the corner bookshop and buy your own copy and read it. And don’t say ‘dull.’ Or you can find it free to read on line.”
Sherlock frowned. “Why would I want to spend time reading something only to delete it?”
John shook his head. “You want to know about my tattoo? About me and Hobbits? Go read, Sherlock. I have to finish getting ready for work.”
“Why can I not read your copies?”
“Because they are mine. No one else has read them and they are now falling apart. Plus you’ve been known to fling books across the room.”
“Only when they do not provide the answers I need.”
John sighed. “Exactly. Out.”
When John came out of the bathroom, on his way out the door, he spied Sherlock’s long form hunched over his laptop, one finger on the touch pad and a frown between his brows. “They’ve apparently made a well-reviewed movie of the three books. Nine hours total. Should I just watch it instead?”
“No. It’s not the same experience. Read and enjoy!” John headed off to work with a small hope that Sherlock would keep himself out of mischief for a day at least.
Perhaps troublesomely, the thought kept coming to him all day that it was time to add more details to his life map. Or maybe he should wait and see how long he could survive being flatmate with Sherlock Holmes.
++++
I've been translated into Russian!! Weeee!
http://www.diary.ru/~sherlockbbc/p163803454.htm
Writer: fanbot
Words: 769
Rating: G
John, Sherlock friendship
No warnings, nothing graphic, no spoilers. No gain except for feedback, please.
John has something more interesting than a scar on his back.
Sherlock knocked before he burst into the bathroom. Loudly. Once. John promptly cut himself shaving.
“Sherlock! I could have slit my throat!” He was only wearing a towel about his waist, but being in the army had robbed him of any body shyness.
“You exaggerate, John.” Sherlock said, opening the little supply closet. “You are using a double blade safety razor. At worst you would have shaved off a sliver and created a nasty cut which would bleed profusely.”
“Yes. Thanks. I am a doctor and have seen such things. What do you want anyway?” John asked as he stanched the cut.
“Rubbing alcohol.” Sherlock turned around, holding the plastic bottle and stopped, looking at John’s shoulder.
John watched him in the mirror. Here it was. Sherlock’s first sight of the ugly twist of a scar on his back.
“It’s not polite to stare at someone’s scars, Sherlock,” he said after the studying gaze went on for more than a minute.
“Hum?” His pale eyes flicked to the other shoulder for the briefest instance. “Dull.”
John realized his flatmate was looking at his unwounded shoulder.
Sherlock leaned down and peered closer. “This is much more interesting.”
John hesitated, then gave in. “Oh? Tell me then.”
“This word here,” a long finger traced it, and John barely kept from shivering. “There,” Sherlock read. “It was the first bit of ink. Perhaps sixteen years ago. Just when you went into medical school. It marked the occasion and celebrated your accomplishment.” His finger moved on. “A tattoo this size and detail is expensive, so you had it done a layer at a time. An accomplishment at a time. A map. A coastal area and far inland, but this is not a real place. First the outline. Then the mountains. Followed by the forests, and lastly the… landmarks. I don’t know these symbols. Two are perhaps towers. Finally touches of color were added, I would say upon your graduation.
“There are many years when nothing new is added. That was when you worked in the hospital and in private practice before going into the army. It faded and you perhaps felt satisfied and… grown up. Upon your decommission, the rest of the phrase ‘and back again,’ was added. You were happy to survive. You took some of your limited funds and had the whole piece touched up. By a more talented artist than the rest.”
He glanced up to meet John’s eyes in the mirror. “Tell me, were you relieved when you realized it was your uninked shoulder that was hit?”
John blinked. Had it been anyone else asking, he would have been offended. Because this was Sherlock and he had opened himself up for it, John just nodded.
“It clearly depicts your choice of symbols for the journey of your life, but why did you choose a place which does not exist in reality?”
John sighed and returned to his shaving. “You really should read a book that does not contain a single Latin word some time, Sherlock.”
Sherlock scowled before his eyes lit up. “Ah! Second shelf, set of four books, you have owned them most of your life and read them repeatedly.”
“Yes, that’s right. The Hobbit, and The Lord of the Rings.”
“What, exactly, is a Hobbit?”
“I have a suggestion. Go to the corner bookshop and buy your own copy and read it. And don’t say ‘dull.’ Or you can find it free to read on line.”
Sherlock frowned. “Why would I want to spend time reading something only to delete it?”
John shook his head. “You want to know about my tattoo? About me and Hobbits? Go read, Sherlock. I have to finish getting ready for work.”
“Why can I not read your copies?”
“Because they are mine. No one else has read them and they are now falling apart. Plus you’ve been known to fling books across the room.”
“Only when they do not provide the answers I need.”
John sighed. “Exactly. Out.”
When John came out of the bathroom, on his way out the door, he spied Sherlock’s long form hunched over his laptop, one finger on the touch pad and a frown between his brows. “They’ve apparently made a well-reviewed movie of the three books. Nine hours total. Should I just watch it instead?”
“No. It’s not the same experience. Read and enjoy!” John headed off to work with a small hope that Sherlock would keep himself out of mischief for a day at least.
Perhaps troublesomely, the thought kept coming to him all day that it was time to add more details to his life map. Or maybe he should wait and see how long he could survive being flatmate with Sherlock Holmes.
++++
I've been translated into Russian!! Weeee!
http://www.diary.ru/~sherlockbbc/p163803454.htm