Fic for mahmfic: Skin-Deep (Part 1)
Title: Skin-Deep Part 1
Author: neurotoxia
Recipient: mahmfic
Words: ~11,500
Rating: T
Characters & Pairings: Sherlock/John pre-slash, Mike Stamford, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade
Warnings & Contents: AU, tattoo!lock, non-graphic descriptions of violent crimes
Summary: John Watson looks for a way to commemorate his military service. Mike Stamford recommends the eccentric ‘consulting artist’ Sherlock Holmes -- and John ends up with much more than just a tattoo.
A/N: Dear mahmfic, I really hope you enjoy your gift! You gave me so many inspiring prompts, but your idea about the tattoos stood out. I had been planning a tattoo!lock AU for a long time and your prompt gave me the necessary kick to finally do it.
Also, I’d like to thank penombrelilas, who, despite being deprived of internet access, helped me as much as she could.
I work part-time at a tattoo parlour as a shop assistant, so I drew most of what I describe from my experiences there. Every artist works a bit differently, so my word here is not to be taken as gospel. Also, opinions stated herein do not necessarily reflect my own.
This fic is the first part of a planned series (which I hope won’t take me forever to complete), but it can stand alone.
Chapter 1
The tattoo attracts and also repels precisely because it is different.
-- Margo DeMello, Bodies of Inscription
The first thing John heard when he entered the studio was the distinct whirring of a tattoo machine somewhere in the back of the shop. Mike Stamford, whom John had followed here, smiled at him in encouragement.
It didn’t look like a tattoo parlour at first glance. There were a couple of mismatched, well-worn leather sofas and a dark, wooden coffee table to the right side, placed upon a Persian rug that looked like it had seen better days. The walls were covered in different wallpapers, from baroque patterns in black and white to peppermint-green with bamboo leaves. A cow skull wearing headphones hung on one of the walls next to a mirror, and a human skull -- an eerily genuine looking one -- loomed on a high shelf. A large desk with a computer to the left, two armchairs placed in front of it. All walls were lined with shelves containing a plethora of books; John was surprised to see not only books on tattoos, like the truly enormous volume on Japanese irezumi, but also books on anatomy and medicine (some of which he owned himself), serial-killers, typography, botany, zoology, cars, religion, architecture and -- oddly -- beekeeping. And those were only the ones he could identify. Mixed in were antique books that looked ancient enough to have been printed by Gutenberg himself. Colourful butterflies, bugs and other insects were displayed in glass show cases. There wasn’t much that gave away the shop as a tattoo and piercing parlour, the few items being an open photo album with presumably the artist’s work on the coffee table and a few cabinets displaying the different piercings and jewellry.
“Wow, Mike -- how do you know the place?”
“It’s popular with some of my students. And he’s been to Bart’s a few times. The artist is a bit of an underground rock star in the scene, from what I hear. Or the enfant terrible, depending on who you ask.”
“I can’t say I agree with either description,” sounded a deep voice from the left and John jumped a little, turning to the source of the new voice.
That had to be the infamous artist. Tall, dark-haired with pale skin and prominent cheekbones, wearing a pale blue dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Stretching out from under the right sleeve was an intricate tattoo that looked as if someone had taken a pencil, a brush and a set of watercolours to it. John was too far away to glimpse the particulars, but he was impressed by the bright display of scattered colours and sketched drawings. A skull drawing seemed to peek out from under the hem of the sleeve and John was fairly sure he could identify a few bees. The rest of the tattoo disappeared under a pair of nitrile gloves, smeared with blotches of black, turquoise and yellow. A crumpled paper towel with the same colouring in his right hand.
If not for the tattoo, he’d look more befitting of a position in a bank than a tattoo shop.
A set of eyes nearly as pale as the shirt he wore scrutinised John from the top of his head, down to the sole of his shoes and John shifted the hand on his cane, feeling a little nervous
“So, what shall it be? RAMC emblem or your unit?” The artist asked nonchalantly and John gaped at him.
“How...?”
“How did I know you were an army doctor? Please, it’s obvious. You lingered on the medical texts, you are a friend of Mike Stamford’s and you checked out the nitrile gloves, the shrink wrapped instruments and no doubt recognised the autoclave in the back room. Concerns about hygienic, sterile practises with a knowledge of medical texts and machinery? Doctor. Your haircut and stance say military, your tan lines don’t extend beyond collar and wrists, so you served a tour in Afghanistan or Iraq. The cane says wounded in action although your leg doesn’t seem to give you much trouble, so I’d say partly psychosomatic. You’ve been traumatically wounded, discharged and you now look to commemorate your service coupled with an attempt to bring you closure.” The man looked absolutely smug.
“That was amazing,” was all John had to say. Because only the word “amazing” was about adequate to describe the extraordinary performance he had just witnessed.
“Hm. Most people tell me to piss off,” the man said and smirked. “Interesting.”
John cleared his throat, attempting to bring the conversation back on track and away from himself or the artist’s smile. Which was quite dazzling, if he thought about it. “Well, I’m not sure which to get. Both are important to me.”
“To be expected. Leave it to me.” He waved his hand as if attempting to swat away a fly. “Normally, there’s a four-month waiting period, but as it happens, somebody cancelled their appointment for next week.” He stressed the ‘cancelled’ and made a face as if he had just bitten into a lemon. John thought it better not to ask.
“I’ll take that, then.” John was unemployed, it didn’t matter when the appointment was. He had free time in overabundance -- and hated every second of it.
“The second of February at twelve. And I need fifty pounds as a deposit.” The artist muttered and jotted down the appointment with a pencil in his calendar. “Name?”
“Oh, so you can’t tell my name from the way I tie my shoes?” John asked with a teasing smile.
The other man rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “I observe, but I’m not psychic.”
“Could’ve fooled me. John Watson,” he answered and handed over a few bills.
John received a small card with his appointment noted down in return. The man had a nice handwriting, unlike John’s scrawl. But John was a doctor, he had to have a horrible handwriting to be considered a proper man of medicine.
“I suppose I’ll see you next week then, Mr. --” John then noticed that he didn’t even know the other man’s name.
“Holmes. But call me Sherlock, please. And no, it’s not an alias.” Sherlock offered with a smirk, once again leaving John feeling as if his mind had just been read. Despite Sherlock’s claims, he didn’t rule out psychic yet.
“Oh, okay.”
“I know some of my colleagues fancy themselves stars in need of an alias. Imbeciles.” Sherlock muttered and removed the nitrile gloves, sending them into the nearby bin in a graceful arch. “Well, I’ve got to dash, there’s a naked man in the back waiting for my return.”
While Sherlock Holmes vanished again into the back and Mike Stamford bounced on the balls of his feet as a man who was obviously pleased with his work, John Watson dragged his mind back out of the gutter.
***
“Boring. Get out!” That was the first thing John heard when he set foot in the studio a week later, although it wasn’t directed at him.
Sherlock Holmes was facing down an agitated potential customer, who was flushed red and waved the sheets of paper with some printouts in front of Sherlock’s nose. Unfazed, Sherlock had his arms crossed over his chest and wasn’t even blinking when the customer began to yell about abysmal service.
“Go elsewhere with this rubbish and come crawling back to me in five years when you want it covered up, “ Sherlock retorted. John suppressed an impulse to wince at Sherlock’s handling of customers. Was he always like that? To him, Sherlock had seemed a little distanced and blunt, but not rude.
The customer stormed past John, huffing a few more insults and threats how she would never come back and tell all her friends about this. John felt a little uncomfortable with the heavy silence afterwards, the classical music playing in the background only accentuating it.
“Uhm...hello.” John cleared his throat and took a step towards the counter.
“Ah, John. There you are,” Sherlock said. “Have a seat.”
“Difficult customer?” John asked, sitting down in the battered armchair in front of the desk. It was surprisingly comfortable.
“I don’t do boring designs. And if I see one more picture of a dandelion turning into birds, I’ll set fire to it. Or hunt down the ‘artist’ of that piece and make them sorry they were ever born.” Sherlock grumbled and flopped down in the chair behind the desk. Once again, he was in a dress shirt -- this time a deep burgundy red, top button undone and sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his tattoos peeking out from underneath. The dark denim jeans he had paired the shirt with made the colour of the shirt and his body art stand out even more. John would really like a few minutes to examine Sherlock’s arm. And more, if he was being honest with himself.
“Seems a bit harsh, don’t you think?”
“You see a dozen people bringing that exact picture to you within a month to have it tattooed and we’ll talk again. If you think stars are a plague, this one makes a serious competitor.” Sherlock waved his objection away as if it were a fly.
John wasn’t sure what to reply to that statement. His expertise didn’t exactly extend into the realm of tattoo designs and he wasn’t sure if Sherlock actually expected an answer. Probably not. He was still contemplating Sherlock’s collarbone when a piece of paper was placed on the desk in front of him. John blinked a few times to clear his head and focussed on the paper instead.
It wasn’t what he had expected. There were the two emblems of the RAMC and the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, drawn in red and blue pencil, almost like rough sketches. They overlapped just enough to be still recognisable on their own but effortlessly fused together. Bold typography ran below the emblems and it took John a few seconds of reading that it was parts of the Declaration of Geneva and the Oath of Allegiance. Dark red -- the same colour as Sherlock’s shirt -- splatters dotted along the paper, placed randomly and a few running through the emblems and typography.
“Close your mouth, John. You look like a goldfish,” Sherlock said and John looked up to see a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. He looked pleased with himself. “I’m sure you initially thought of getting one of the emblems in a straightforward manner on your upper arm but I chose the less traditional road to see how you would react. And I can’t say that I’ve been disappointed.”
“That is...amazing. I would’ve never thought of that!”
“Of course not. It’s so dull inside most people’s minds. Oh, don’t be like that,” Sherlock said as John scowled. “Shall we get started?”
“Well...” John began, feeling embarrassed. “The design is fantastic. I’d love to get it done, but I don’t think I can afford that. I suppose this is worth a few hundred quid, isn’t it? Hate to say it, but I haven’t saved up that much.”
John wished the floor would open up and swallow him whole. He hated being so short on money, but an army pension wasn’t much to live on while he was still looking for a position at a hospital or a surgery. There weren’t many places that would hire a doctor with a war trauma, a tremor and a bad leg, no matter how spotless his resume was.
Sherlock only looked mildly bored, eyebrow raised and fingertips drumming on the desk. “Don’t worry about it,” he said and got up.
“What? No!” John protested. Sherlock couldn’t be serious. They weren’t talking about fifty pence here.
“John, don’t be ridiculous.” Sherlock scrutinised him for a few seconds. John had his mouth set in a firm line and wore a frown.
“Ah,” Sherlock breathed. “You don’t want to accept charity, or pity for that matter. Rest assured that my motive isn’t quite so noble. I’m not known for being charitable, on the contrary. I’d much rather do an interesting, challenging tattoo for free than getting paid for something that bores me to death.”
John kept his brows furrowed. Sherlock had thrown out a woman just a while ago for bringing him boring ideas. He wouldn’t put that kind of attitude past the man before him. Still...
“Fair enough. But I still can’t accept that. It’s too much.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Oh for God’s sake. Quit being so modest, take your shirt off and get on the chair.”
In a different context, those words would have directed his blood flow elsewhere but he was too occupied with the issue at hand to be distracted by his libido. At the sight of John’s stubbornness, Sherlock sighed -- so dramatically, one would think John were a misbehaving toddler.
“Let’s do it like in restaurants in those idiotic films: you come here to work until the bill’s paid off,” Sherlock said, sarcasm very obvious.
John had to drag his mind out of the gutter yet again. He had seen too many films where bills were paid in alternative currencies. And Sherlock didn’t look as if he was talking about those kind of films. Shame. Though, not really. That would be a little too close to prostitution for him to walk away with his dignity intact.
“I could do that. It’s not as if I have another job to interfere.”
Now, Sherlock assumed the look of a goldfish. A bored goldfish. He probably hadn’t expected John to agree, but didn’t want to let it on. “John, it’s really not necessary --”
“I insist.”
Once again, Sherlock looked as if John was the unreasonable one. “I sometimes play the violin when I think. And I might not talk for days on end.”
“Okay…?” John wasn’t sure where this was going.
“Well, you should know what you have to deal with as an employee. Most don’t last longer than two weeks.” Sherlock shrugged, clearly not too put out by the way he burned through staff, which John found a little worrying.
“I’m sure I can live with that,” John said. Violin and silence didn’t sound like anything he couldn’t deal with. “I was in the army, remember?”
“Yes, yes. Will you please undress now?”
John needn’t be told twice.
***
The pain was a curious one, John pondered as Sherlock traced the outline with a fine needle. He had asked several of his comrades who had got a tattoo, but no one could quite describe it. Many had urged him to get it done during his tour, but at the time, he hadn’t been sure if he really wanted one -- and he didn’t think much of the makeshift parlours on the bases or in the Afghan villages.
Now, after his ungraceful discharge from active service, he wanted to commemorate it. His tags, the battered uniform and a mug was all that was left of John Watson, soldier and doctor. He wanted something more permanent.
Most people thought he should be grateful for coming home -- and mostly in one piece at that. While John was grateful for the latter, he couldn’t quite reconcile with the first. Lifelong civilians such as his sister couldn’t see why anyone would miss being shot at. Only other soldiers understood it, really understood it. Most of them could cope better with a firefight with Taliban in the desert than buying shampoo at a Boots in London when they were on their way home from a nine-to-five desk job.
In Afghanistan, at least he wouldn’t have to deal with people like his sister Harry. The two of them had never got on very well, ever since they were children. Only John’s sense of familial duty made him contact her at all.
Harry was no different in that regard-- after John had been sent home, Harry had urged him to stay with her, because she felt that she had to offer. She was unable to cope with a brother that needed help all of a sudden instead of a courtesy call every now and then and a Christmas visit. John had actually seen the relief on Harry’s face after he had declined. She had pushed her phone on him afterwards, and John had taken it, because he had needed one and wanted to get away from Harry’s look of discomfort and pity. Not that Harry’s gift had been selfless: she had needed something to soothe her conscience and she had wanted to get rid of the phone. The engraving was a glaring reminder that Harry had mucked up her marriage and walked away instead of trying to fix it.
“John, you’re becoming tense,” Sherlock said behind him, sounding very distant for a second before John had shaken himself out of the gloomy reverie that had set upon him. Right, he was getting a tattoo, not a therapy session with his internal psychologist. He stopped fingering the phone through his trouser pocket.
John cleared his throat. “Sorry, hadn’t noticed.”
“You’ll do yourself a favour trying to stay relaxed,” Sherlock said, finishing off a long line that had hurt quite a lot. “Whatever’s bothering you, wait until we’re done before you have a sulk.”
Well, Sherlock certainly didn’t hold back.
“Clients never go tense from the pain?” John asked in an attempt to deflect.
“They do. But you’re not tensing up because of the pain, so I’m telling you to stop it.” Sherlock said, dipped the tip of the needle in one of the small pots filled with black ink and wiped across the tattoo with a dry paper towel before starting the machine again. John thought the dry paper towels hurt more than most of the tattooing.
“Why do you think it’s not the pain?” John couldn’t help but ask. Sherlock’s intelligence and observational skills were fascinating.
Instead of answering straight away, Sherlock snorted. “Oh please. You were shot, a tattoo is a walk in the park for you.” He ran a gloved finger across the scar on John’s left shoulder that still stood out like a sore thumb. The scarring itself wasn’t too bad considering the infection he had battled, but the tissue was still pink and looked a bit like a spiderweb gone wrong. John wasn’t really surprised Sherlock recognised the scar as a gunshot wound.
“You got me there,” John said with a smile on his lips. Not that Sherlock could see it.
“And since you’re fiddling with your phone, you’re probably expecting an unpleasant call or something similar. Family, if I had to guess,” he spoke over the buzz of the machine.
“Almost right. Although, an unpleasant family call isn’t out of the question,” John sighed and thought about Harry’s calls that occurred every third day, asking about his well-being before descending into inane small talk, because his sister had no idea what to speak about with him. They had lost touch with each other’s interests after Harry had moved out to go to university. John had no idea which films his sister liked, what her favourite dish was or if she had read any books recently. All he knew was that she had been working in the office of a property management firm for five years now and stuck with a particular fondness for pouring brandy into her coffee and rum into her tea.
“There are pleasant family calls?” Sherlock asked with a dry note and John couldn’t help but chuckle.
“No, I supposed not.”
After three hours of constant tattooing and wiping, John had to admit that the area was beginning to feel irritated. The places where Sherlock traced the skin several times for shadowing and texture were starting to protest a bit under the assault. At least the pain was still bearable.
They took a short break which John used to go to the loo.
Towards the end of hour five, John hissed when Sherlock touched certain areas with his fingers or worse, his machine.
“Ah, are we feeling the pain?” Sherlock asked, humour in his voice.
“No, I was just trying a new way of breathing,” John retorted and winced a little.
“Don’t move,” Sherlock warned him. “We should be done in twenty minutes.”
“Thank God,” John sighed and gritted his teeth for the last stretch.
Sherlock hadn’t been lying at least. Twenty minutes later, he wiped down the tattoo with green soap and spread a layer of ointment over the area. Then, he took a roll of cling film from a drawer and tore off a large piece which he fastened on John’s back with a few strips of medical tape.
“Remove the cling film in three to six hours, eight maximum. Wash it with lukewarm water and ph-adjusted soap and dab it dry with anything that doesn’t give off fluff. I recommend paper towels. No soaking in the tub, swimming or sunbathing for the next two weeks. If you go to the gym, don’t put too much strain on the area. No bandages, covers or plasters. I assume I don’t have to tell you about basic hygiene,” Sherlock rattled off and thrust a flyer at John that contained the instructions in more detail.
“No, I remember a thing or two about that,” John smirked and took the glossy fold-out, folding and putting it in his back pocket.
“Otherwise, I’d fear for the medical profession,” Sherlock said while John gingerly worked to put on his t-shirt. Moving his arms hurt and the skin on his back was thrumming with a burning sensation.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, then?” John asked when he had managed to dress himself.
Sherlock removed the ink-filled caps from his worktop and deposited them in the bin.
“I suppose so, since you insist on paying,” Sherlock said and removed the needles from the machines.
“I do.” John would remain firm on this.
“Then I will see you tomorrow,” Sherlock smiled at him.
“Yes. Thanks, Sherlock. Good night.”
“Good night, John.”
Author: neurotoxia
Recipient: mahmfic
Words: ~11,500
Rating: T
Characters & Pairings: Sherlock/John pre-slash, Mike Stamford, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade
Warnings & Contents: AU, tattoo!lock, non-graphic descriptions of violent crimes
Summary: John Watson looks for a way to commemorate his military service. Mike Stamford recommends the eccentric ‘consulting artist’ Sherlock Holmes -- and John ends up with much more than just a tattoo.
A/N: Dear mahmfic, I really hope you enjoy your gift! You gave me so many inspiring prompts, but your idea about the tattoos stood out. I had been planning a tattoo!lock AU for a long time and your prompt gave me the necessary kick to finally do it.
Also, I’d like to thank penombrelilas, who, despite being deprived of internet access, helped me as much as she could.
I work part-time at a tattoo parlour as a shop assistant, so I drew most of what I describe from my experiences there. Every artist works a bit differently, so my word here is not to be taken as gospel. Also, opinions stated herein do not necessarily reflect my own.
This fic is the first part of a planned series (which I hope won’t take me forever to complete), but it can stand alone.
Chapter 1
The tattoo attracts and also repels precisely because it is different.
-- Margo DeMello, Bodies of Inscription
The first thing John heard when he entered the studio was the distinct whirring of a tattoo machine somewhere in the back of the shop. Mike Stamford, whom John had followed here, smiled at him in encouragement.
It didn’t look like a tattoo parlour at first glance. There were a couple of mismatched, well-worn leather sofas and a dark, wooden coffee table to the right side, placed upon a Persian rug that looked like it had seen better days. The walls were covered in different wallpapers, from baroque patterns in black and white to peppermint-green with bamboo leaves. A cow skull wearing headphones hung on one of the walls next to a mirror, and a human skull -- an eerily genuine looking one -- loomed on a high shelf. A large desk with a computer to the left, two armchairs placed in front of it. All walls were lined with shelves containing a plethora of books; John was surprised to see not only books on tattoos, like the truly enormous volume on Japanese irezumi, but also books on anatomy and medicine (some of which he owned himself), serial-killers, typography, botany, zoology, cars, religion, architecture and -- oddly -- beekeeping. And those were only the ones he could identify. Mixed in were antique books that looked ancient enough to have been printed by Gutenberg himself. Colourful butterflies, bugs and other insects were displayed in glass show cases. There wasn’t much that gave away the shop as a tattoo and piercing parlour, the few items being an open photo album with presumably the artist’s work on the coffee table and a few cabinets displaying the different piercings and jewellry.
“Wow, Mike -- how do you know the place?”
“It’s popular with some of my students. And he’s been to Bart’s a few times. The artist is a bit of an underground rock star in the scene, from what I hear. Or the enfant terrible, depending on who you ask.”
“I can’t say I agree with either description,” sounded a deep voice from the left and John jumped a little, turning to the source of the new voice.
That had to be the infamous artist. Tall, dark-haired with pale skin and prominent cheekbones, wearing a pale blue dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Stretching out from under the right sleeve was an intricate tattoo that looked as if someone had taken a pencil, a brush and a set of watercolours to it. John was too far away to glimpse the particulars, but he was impressed by the bright display of scattered colours and sketched drawings. A skull drawing seemed to peek out from under the hem of the sleeve and John was fairly sure he could identify a few bees. The rest of the tattoo disappeared under a pair of nitrile gloves, smeared with blotches of black, turquoise and yellow. A crumpled paper towel with the same colouring in his right hand.
If not for the tattoo, he’d look more befitting of a position in a bank than a tattoo shop.
A set of eyes nearly as pale as the shirt he wore scrutinised John from the top of his head, down to the sole of his shoes and John shifted the hand on his cane, feeling a little nervous
“So, what shall it be? RAMC emblem or your unit?” The artist asked nonchalantly and John gaped at him.
“How...?”
“How did I know you were an army doctor? Please, it’s obvious. You lingered on the medical texts, you are a friend of Mike Stamford’s and you checked out the nitrile gloves, the shrink wrapped instruments and no doubt recognised the autoclave in the back room. Concerns about hygienic, sterile practises with a knowledge of medical texts and machinery? Doctor. Your haircut and stance say military, your tan lines don’t extend beyond collar and wrists, so you served a tour in Afghanistan or Iraq. The cane says wounded in action although your leg doesn’t seem to give you much trouble, so I’d say partly psychosomatic. You’ve been traumatically wounded, discharged and you now look to commemorate your service coupled with an attempt to bring you closure.” The man looked absolutely smug.
“That was amazing,” was all John had to say. Because only the word “amazing” was about adequate to describe the extraordinary performance he had just witnessed.
“Hm. Most people tell me to piss off,” the man said and smirked. “Interesting.”
John cleared his throat, attempting to bring the conversation back on track and away from himself or the artist’s smile. Which was quite dazzling, if he thought about it. “Well, I’m not sure which to get. Both are important to me.”
“To be expected. Leave it to me.” He waved his hand as if attempting to swat away a fly. “Normally, there’s a four-month waiting period, but as it happens, somebody cancelled their appointment for next week.” He stressed the ‘cancelled’ and made a face as if he had just bitten into a lemon. John thought it better not to ask.
“I’ll take that, then.” John was unemployed, it didn’t matter when the appointment was. He had free time in overabundance -- and hated every second of it.
“The second of February at twelve. And I need fifty pounds as a deposit.” The artist muttered and jotted down the appointment with a pencil in his calendar. “Name?”
“Oh, so you can’t tell my name from the way I tie my shoes?” John asked with a teasing smile.
The other man rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “I observe, but I’m not psychic.”
“Could’ve fooled me. John Watson,” he answered and handed over a few bills.
John received a small card with his appointment noted down in return. The man had a nice handwriting, unlike John’s scrawl. But John was a doctor, he had to have a horrible handwriting to be considered a proper man of medicine.
“I suppose I’ll see you next week then, Mr. --” John then noticed that he didn’t even know the other man’s name.
“Holmes. But call me Sherlock, please. And no, it’s not an alias.” Sherlock offered with a smirk, once again leaving John feeling as if his mind had just been read. Despite Sherlock’s claims, he didn’t rule out psychic yet.
“Oh, okay.”
“I know some of my colleagues fancy themselves stars in need of an alias. Imbeciles.” Sherlock muttered and removed the nitrile gloves, sending them into the nearby bin in a graceful arch. “Well, I’ve got to dash, there’s a naked man in the back waiting for my return.”
While Sherlock Holmes vanished again into the back and Mike Stamford bounced on the balls of his feet as a man who was obviously pleased with his work, John Watson dragged his mind back out of the gutter.
***
“Boring. Get out!” That was the first thing John heard when he set foot in the studio a week later, although it wasn’t directed at him.
Sherlock Holmes was facing down an agitated potential customer, who was flushed red and waved the sheets of paper with some printouts in front of Sherlock’s nose. Unfazed, Sherlock had his arms crossed over his chest and wasn’t even blinking when the customer began to yell about abysmal service.
“Go elsewhere with this rubbish and come crawling back to me in five years when you want it covered up, “ Sherlock retorted. John suppressed an impulse to wince at Sherlock’s handling of customers. Was he always like that? To him, Sherlock had seemed a little distanced and blunt, but not rude.
The customer stormed past John, huffing a few more insults and threats how she would never come back and tell all her friends about this. John felt a little uncomfortable with the heavy silence afterwards, the classical music playing in the background only accentuating it.
“Uhm...hello.” John cleared his throat and took a step towards the counter.
“Ah, John. There you are,” Sherlock said. “Have a seat.”
“Difficult customer?” John asked, sitting down in the battered armchair in front of the desk. It was surprisingly comfortable.
“I don’t do boring designs. And if I see one more picture of a dandelion turning into birds, I’ll set fire to it. Or hunt down the ‘artist’ of that piece and make them sorry they were ever born.” Sherlock grumbled and flopped down in the chair behind the desk. Once again, he was in a dress shirt -- this time a deep burgundy red, top button undone and sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his tattoos peeking out from underneath. The dark denim jeans he had paired the shirt with made the colour of the shirt and his body art stand out even more. John would really like a few minutes to examine Sherlock’s arm. And more, if he was being honest with himself.
“Seems a bit harsh, don’t you think?”
“You see a dozen people bringing that exact picture to you within a month to have it tattooed and we’ll talk again. If you think stars are a plague, this one makes a serious competitor.” Sherlock waved his objection away as if it were a fly.
John wasn’t sure what to reply to that statement. His expertise didn’t exactly extend into the realm of tattoo designs and he wasn’t sure if Sherlock actually expected an answer. Probably not. He was still contemplating Sherlock’s collarbone when a piece of paper was placed on the desk in front of him. John blinked a few times to clear his head and focussed on the paper instead.
It wasn’t what he had expected. There were the two emblems of the RAMC and the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, drawn in red and blue pencil, almost like rough sketches. They overlapped just enough to be still recognisable on their own but effortlessly fused together. Bold typography ran below the emblems and it took John a few seconds of reading that it was parts of the Declaration of Geneva and the Oath of Allegiance. Dark red -- the same colour as Sherlock’s shirt -- splatters dotted along the paper, placed randomly and a few running through the emblems and typography.
“Close your mouth, John. You look like a goldfish,” Sherlock said and John looked up to see a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. He looked pleased with himself. “I’m sure you initially thought of getting one of the emblems in a straightforward manner on your upper arm but I chose the less traditional road to see how you would react. And I can’t say that I’ve been disappointed.”
“That is...amazing. I would’ve never thought of that!”
“Of course not. It’s so dull inside most people’s minds. Oh, don’t be like that,” Sherlock said as John scowled. “Shall we get started?”
“Well...” John began, feeling embarrassed. “The design is fantastic. I’d love to get it done, but I don’t think I can afford that. I suppose this is worth a few hundred quid, isn’t it? Hate to say it, but I haven’t saved up that much.”
John wished the floor would open up and swallow him whole. He hated being so short on money, but an army pension wasn’t much to live on while he was still looking for a position at a hospital or a surgery. There weren’t many places that would hire a doctor with a war trauma, a tremor and a bad leg, no matter how spotless his resume was.
Sherlock only looked mildly bored, eyebrow raised and fingertips drumming on the desk. “Don’t worry about it,” he said and got up.
“What? No!” John protested. Sherlock couldn’t be serious. They weren’t talking about fifty pence here.
“John, don’t be ridiculous.” Sherlock scrutinised him for a few seconds. John had his mouth set in a firm line and wore a frown.
“Ah,” Sherlock breathed. “You don’t want to accept charity, or pity for that matter. Rest assured that my motive isn’t quite so noble. I’m not known for being charitable, on the contrary. I’d much rather do an interesting, challenging tattoo for free than getting paid for something that bores me to death.”
John kept his brows furrowed. Sherlock had thrown out a woman just a while ago for bringing him boring ideas. He wouldn’t put that kind of attitude past the man before him. Still...
“Fair enough. But I still can’t accept that. It’s too much.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Oh for God’s sake. Quit being so modest, take your shirt off and get on the chair.”
In a different context, those words would have directed his blood flow elsewhere but he was too occupied with the issue at hand to be distracted by his libido. At the sight of John’s stubbornness, Sherlock sighed -- so dramatically, one would think John were a misbehaving toddler.
“Let’s do it like in restaurants in those idiotic films: you come here to work until the bill’s paid off,” Sherlock said, sarcasm very obvious.
John had to drag his mind out of the gutter yet again. He had seen too many films where bills were paid in alternative currencies. And Sherlock didn’t look as if he was talking about those kind of films. Shame. Though, not really. That would be a little too close to prostitution for him to walk away with his dignity intact.
“I could do that. It’s not as if I have another job to interfere.”
Now, Sherlock assumed the look of a goldfish. A bored goldfish. He probably hadn’t expected John to agree, but didn’t want to let it on. “John, it’s really not necessary --”
“I insist.”
Once again, Sherlock looked as if John was the unreasonable one. “I sometimes play the violin when I think. And I might not talk for days on end.”
“Okay…?” John wasn’t sure where this was going.
“Well, you should know what you have to deal with as an employee. Most don’t last longer than two weeks.” Sherlock shrugged, clearly not too put out by the way he burned through staff, which John found a little worrying.
“I’m sure I can live with that,” John said. Violin and silence didn’t sound like anything he couldn’t deal with. “I was in the army, remember?”
“Yes, yes. Will you please undress now?”
John needn’t be told twice.
***
The pain was a curious one, John pondered as Sherlock traced the outline with a fine needle. He had asked several of his comrades who had got a tattoo, but no one could quite describe it. Many had urged him to get it done during his tour, but at the time, he hadn’t been sure if he really wanted one -- and he didn’t think much of the makeshift parlours on the bases or in the Afghan villages.
Now, after his ungraceful discharge from active service, he wanted to commemorate it. His tags, the battered uniform and a mug was all that was left of John Watson, soldier and doctor. He wanted something more permanent.
Most people thought he should be grateful for coming home -- and mostly in one piece at that. While John was grateful for the latter, he couldn’t quite reconcile with the first. Lifelong civilians such as his sister couldn’t see why anyone would miss being shot at. Only other soldiers understood it, really understood it. Most of them could cope better with a firefight with Taliban in the desert than buying shampoo at a Boots in London when they were on their way home from a nine-to-five desk job.
In Afghanistan, at least he wouldn’t have to deal with people like his sister Harry. The two of them had never got on very well, ever since they were children. Only John’s sense of familial duty made him contact her at all.
Harry was no different in that regard-- after John had been sent home, Harry had urged him to stay with her, because she felt that she had to offer. She was unable to cope with a brother that needed help all of a sudden instead of a courtesy call every now and then and a Christmas visit. John had actually seen the relief on Harry’s face after he had declined. She had pushed her phone on him afterwards, and John had taken it, because he had needed one and wanted to get away from Harry’s look of discomfort and pity. Not that Harry’s gift had been selfless: she had needed something to soothe her conscience and she had wanted to get rid of the phone. The engraving was a glaring reminder that Harry had mucked up her marriage and walked away instead of trying to fix it.
“John, you’re becoming tense,” Sherlock said behind him, sounding very distant for a second before John had shaken himself out of the gloomy reverie that had set upon him. Right, he was getting a tattoo, not a therapy session with his internal psychologist. He stopped fingering the phone through his trouser pocket.
John cleared his throat. “Sorry, hadn’t noticed.”
“You’ll do yourself a favour trying to stay relaxed,” Sherlock said, finishing off a long line that had hurt quite a lot. “Whatever’s bothering you, wait until we’re done before you have a sulk.”
Well, Sherlock certainly didn’t hold back.
“Clients never go tense from the pain?” John asked in an attempt to deflect.
“They do. But you’re not tensing up because of the pain, so I’m telling you to stop it.” Sherlock said, dipped the tip of the needle in one of the small pots filled with black ink and wiped across the tattoo with a dry paper towel before starting the machine again. John thought the dry paper towels hurt more than most of the tattooing.
“Why do you think it’s not the pain?” John couldn’t help but ask. Sherlock’s intelligence and observational skills were fascinating.
Instead of answering straight away, Sherlock snorted. “Oh please. You were shot, a tattoo is a walk in the park for you.” He ran a gloved finger across the scar on John’s left shoulder that still stood out like a sore thumb. The scarring itself wasn’t too bad considering the infection he had battled, but the tissue was still pink and looked a bit like a spiderweb gone wrong. John wasn’t really surprised Sherlock recognised the scar as a gunshot wound.
“You got me there,” John said with a smile on his lips. Not that Sherlock could see it.
“And since you’re fiddling with your phone, you’re probably expecting an unpleasant call or something similar. Family, if I had to guess,” he spoke over the buzz of the machine.
“Almost right. Although, an unpleasant family call isn’t out of the question,” John sighed and thought about Harry’s calls that occurred every third day, asking about his well-being before descending into inane small talk, because his sister had no idea what to speak about with him. They had lost touch with each other’s interests after Harry had moved out to go to university. John had no idea which films his sister liked, what her favourite dish was or if she had read any books recently. All he knew was that she had been working in the office of a property management firm for five years now and stuck with a particular fondness for pouring brandy into her coffee and rum into her tea.
“There are pleasant family calls?” Sherlock asked with a dry note and John couldn’t help but chuckle.
“No, I supposed not.”
After three hours of constant tattooing and wiping, John had to admit that the area was beginning to feel irritated. The places where Sherlock traced the skin several times for shadowing and texture were starting to protest a bit under the assault. At least the pain was still bearable.
They took a short break which John used to go to the loo.
Towards the end of hour five, John hissed when Sherlock touched certain areas with his fingers or worse, his machine.
“Ah, are we feeling the pain?” Sherlock asked, humour in his voice.
“No, I was just trying a new way of breathing,” John retorted and winced a little.
“Don’t move,” Sherlock warned him. “We should be done in twenty minutes.”
“Thank God,” John sighed and gritted his teeth for the last stretch.
Sherlock hadn’t been lying at least. Twenty minutes later, he wiped down the tattoo with green soap and spread a layer of ointment over the area. Then, he took a roll of cling film from a drawer and tore off a large piece which he fastened on John’s back with a few strips of medical tape.
“Remove the cling film in three to six hours, eight maximum. Wash it with lukewarm water and ph-adjusted soap and dab it dry with anything that doesn’t give off fluff. I recommend paper towels. No soaking in the tub, swimming or sunbathing for the next two weeks. If you go to the gym, don’t put too much strain on the area. No bandages, covers or plasters. I assume I don’t have to tell you about basic hygiene,” Sherlock rattled off and thrust a flyer at John that contained the instructions in more detail.
“No, I remember a thing or two about that,” John smirked and took the glossy fold-out, folding and putting it in his back pocket.
“Otherwise, I’d fear for the medical profession,” Sherlock said while John gingerly worked to put on his t-shirt. Moving his arms hurt and the skin on his back was thrumming with a burning sensation.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, then?” John asked when he had managed to dress himself.
Sherlock removed the ink-filled caps from his worktop and deposited them in the bin.
“I suppose so, since you insist on paying,” Sherlock said and removed the needles from the machines.
“I do.” John would remain firm on this.
“Then I will see you tomorrow,” Sherlock smiled at him.
“Yes. Thanks, Sherlock. Good night.”
“Good night, John.”