I do
Title: I do
Author: goldenfish_jz
Fandom: 09'Sherlock Holmes
Pairing & Characters: Holmes/Watson
Rating & warnings: PG-13, for little consented violence
Disclaimer: I own nothing but my feverish mind.
Author's note: Ninth t fic of my Great Self Challenge 30 days 30 fics! In honor of my liebste amaraal who keeps cheering me to finish this Challenge even when I'm not confident of it myself.
Summary: Holmes can't ask Watson to marry him, but he can mark the doctor as his own. Mind the fluff!
When I arrive home there is a small cardboard box over the mantel piece, but I pay it no heed since as soon as I pulled my jacket off Holmes came into the room.
“Dear Watson” he greets and I open my arms allowing him to snuggle up my chest.
“How was your day?” I ask and he puffs. “It never ceases to amuse me how unfit London police can be...” is his answer. “Things aren't half as fun without you, my dear.”
I smile at him and he cups my face carefully. There is an extra suavity in his round dark eyes and it pleases me.
“You are too harsh on them, dove” I say. “They can't be blamed for not being as bright as you.”
“Watson... John” he calls softly and I stand at attention, he never uses my christian name recklessly. “There are no words to say what you mean to me. Even saying that I'm a better man because of you is a gross understatement. Saying that I love you is a poor mimicry of my true feelings” I look at him with unguarded eyes, trying to say with them how reciprocated his feeling were. “I know you know how important you are to me, and I also know what I mean to you. If we were in a fairer world I'd ask you to marry me.”
I hug him tight, bringing his lithe frame impossibly closer to mine. “I would gladly accept” I say and my voice is small and fragile, my throat raw with emotion.
“John, come with me, please” he asks and moves towards his - our - bedroom. He brings the small box in his steady hand. In the room the shades are shut and there are candles lit over the already stained furniture. He sits in the bed and pats the spot near him, I sit by his side and look as he unwraps the box and open it.
Inside the box lay two signets, he hands me one of them. They are marked “SH” and “JW” in beauty calligraphy. Strong lines twisted in harmonic curves, his handwriting. He holds my wrist carefully and brings the metal stamp over the fire of a candle and holds there until it turns a light orange.
He lets go of my hand but I keep the signet over the fire as he slowly unbuttons his shirt and let it fall open. “Mark me, my husband...” he asks, pleads, without voice; just his dry lips moving soundlessly.
I lean forward and kiss a spot over his heart before gently pressing the burning metal to his skin. He grits his teeth in pain and I kiss his face and neck before taking the signet away. The mark is a perfect “JW” with all the swirly details he had put in this. The skin is bright red and orange and it must be hurting like hell - I'd know soon - but from experience I knew it wasn't unbearable and it would scar neatly with minor treatment.
I put the signet aside and kissed his lips as I opened my shirt and pulled it down my shoulders. Holmes picks his own signet and put it over the fire as we kiss lovingly, the heat on his skin slowly fading into his normal temperature. He pulls away when the signet is burning and looks me in the eye before doing any thing. I nod, locking my cyan eyes to his brown ones. He too kisses the spot near my heart before pressing the signet to my skin.
It burns so badly and it is so near my scar that I'm afraid I'll collapse from the memories rather than from the pain itself. Holmes' hand is cradling my face and he's whispering soft praises in my ear. I don't try to pull away even if my brain is screaming for me to run and duck. He kisses me as the pain input stops, the still warm signet pulled off of my skin and put near my own in the table. I'm still shivering when I look down to the mark.
Once again it was perfect red-orange and shiny, a SH neatly burned onto my skin. It'll be a fine scar in one month, maybe less but it'll never fade completely. I'm drenched in sweat and so is my husband and we kiss slowly, tentative fingers almost brushing burnt skin but never touching.
“I love you, Sherlock” I say and it sounds stronger than ever even in my weak, pained voice.
“And I love you, Mr. John Holmes” he replies softly, burring his face in my right shoulder and pressing a little kiss to my fluttering pulse.
It is difficult to sleep with the burn still fresh on my flesh, but as my fellow soldiers say: pain fades, glory remains and ladies dig scars.