Angel, PG13, John/Sherlock
Title: Angel
Rating: PG13
Word Count: 707
Pairings: John/Sherlock
Spoilers/Warnings: None
Summary: Inspired by the prompt "When John sees Sherlock's shirtless for the first time, he finds out Sherlock has angel wings tattooed all down his back."
A/N: None
Sherlock let the dark amethyst shirt cascade down his back, pouring the fabric onto the floor as he freed his arms from its confining sleeves. He stood in a sullen apprehension, awaiting judgment from the soldier that was soaking in the image only a short distance away.
Sherlock’s eyes were cast down as John drank deep - reveling in his exposure, his breath caught in his throat. John had been surprised when Sherlock agreed to show him, though he noted, with trepidation. He was mesmerised.
Marked upon the consulting detective’s back were angel wings, intricate and soft, contrasting with alabaster skin. The black ink was harsh in comparison but the wings complemented the curvature of his body, decorated every jut of bone and yielded the realistic detail of feathers, dark and overlapping.
One of his earlier cases had him eager, had him curious - had him walking straight into the arms of a psychopath, longing for answers that couldn’t be given without being the victim, experiencing those crucial, final moments and waiting for clarity.
The case had entertained him for days, and he simply couldn’t handle it anymore.
Sherlock had told him about the serial killer who took his victims on a final day of pleasure before he killed them, forced them to live one day without inhibition, free and unrestrained. Let them live their final twenty four hours before dissecting them in his basement, seemingly searching for the emotion he had made them feel. The consulting detective had been lucky to survive.
The man had desired to see life through the eyes of a person who was dying, experience the joys and pleasures in a world that had become mundane to him. But he lived for the the blood lust that had consumed his mind and body, so never procured the art himself.
Sherlock had anticipated Lestrade discovering the house before they arrived there, had bargained his life on it. And like always, Lestrade had come through for him in the end.
What he hadn’t anticipated, however, was the permanency of the mark it would leave on him. A tattoo served as the only physical reminder of that day, one he hadn’t the liberty to choose himself (the days activities were entirely dictated by his captor). The man, touched though he was, had taken a fancy to calling him ‘angel’ with an accented purr and to complimenting Sherlock’s “angelic“ face. Not too surprisingly, he had also decided a set of dormant wings would complete his figure.
He took to the idea of a ‘fallen angel’ with the delight of a child, hell-bent on corrupting his “virtue”.
Sherlock could still remember the needle, the cold of metal, surgical steel and warmth concealed under plastic medical gloves. The spirits that had been forced on him had robbed him of his equilibrium, created a memory that was purely sensory, depth of feeling instead of depth of thought. Even now, he could recall the burn of liquor as it traveled smoothly down, the resulting warmth in his stomach tainted with nausea.
“Sherlock…” John whispered in wonderment and curiosity, bringing Sherlock back to the present, tense. Sherlock had trouble predicting John’s reactions at the best of times, and was now lost in its vagueness.
“John.” His voice held warning, unease, and blue-grey eyes flashed at him.
John knew of the man’s fragile temperament and threw him a settling look, dissolving his concern and discomfiture as he got to his feet and crossed over to him.
There was silence then, as Sherlock let rough, and calloused fingers brush over the softness of his flesh.
He shivered involuntarily.
“It’s beautiful.” John murmured, spanning his fingertips over its width, hardly believing the conflict between what he saw and what he felt - the promise of a downy pelt shattered by the smoothness of skin.
John could feel him easing under his touch, his rigid posture beginning to relax under each stroke.
“It’s hardly-“Sherlock began his criticisms, but was startled to feel gentle lips pressed to his back, affectionate and warm against the chill of the apartment and fell silent. He inclined his head toward John, perplexed, but was met by a fond smile.
Hands carefully cupped Sherlock’s face and John leant up to kiss him.
Rating: PG13
Word Count: 707
Pairings: John/Sherlock
Spoilers/Warnings: None
Summary: Inspired by the prompt "When John sees Sherlock's shirtless for the first time, he finds out Sherlock has angel wings tattooed all down his back."
A/N: None
Sherlock let the dark amethyst shirt cascade down his back, pouring the fabric onto the floor as he freed his arms from its confining sleeves. He stood in a sullen apprehension, awaiting judgment from the soldier that was soaking in the image only a short distance away.
Sherlock’s eyes were cast down as John drank deep - reveling in his exposure, his breath caught in his throat. John had been surprised when Sherlock agreed to show him, though he noted, with trepidation. He was mesmerised.
Marked upon the consulting detective’s back were angel wings, intricate and soft, contrasting with alabaster skin. The black ink was harsh in comparison but the wings complemented the curvature of his body, decorated every jut of bone and yielded the realistic detail of feathers, dark and overlapping.
One of his earlier cases had him eager, had him curious - had him walking straight into the arms of a psychopath, longing for answers that couldn’t be given without being the victim, experiencing those crucial, final moments and waiting for clarity.
The case had entertained him for days, and he simply couldn’t handle it anymore.
Sherlock had told him about the serial killer who took his victims on a final day of pleasure before he killed them, forced them to live one day without inhibition, free and unrestrained. Let them live their final twenty four hours before dissecting them in his basement, seemingly searching for the emotion he had made them feel. The consulting detective had been lucky to survive.
The man had desired to see life through the eyes of a person who was dying, experience the joys and pleasures in a world that had become mundane to him. But he lived for the the blood lust that had consumed his mind and body, so never procured the art himself.
Sherlock had anticipated Lestrade discovering the house before they arrived there, had bargained his life on it. And like always, Lestrade had come through for him in the end.
What he hadn’t anticipated, however, was the permanency of the mark it would leave on him. A tattoo served as the only physical reminder of that day, one he hadn’t the liberty to choose himself (the days activities were entirely dictated by his captor). The man, touched though he was, had taken a fancy to calling him ‘angel’ with an accented purr and to complimenting Sherlock’s “angelic“ face. Not too surprisingly, he had also decided a set of dormant wings would complete his figure.
He took to the idea of a ‘fallen angel’ with the delight of a child, hell-bent on corrupting his “virtue”.
Sherlock could still remember the needle, the cold of metal, surgical steel and warmth concealed under plastic medical gloves. The spirits that had been forced on him had robbed him of his equilibrium, created a memory that was purely sensory, depth of feeling instead of depth of thought. Even now, he could recall the burn of liquor as it traveled smoothly down, the resulting warmth in his stomach tainted with nausea.
“Sherlock…” John whispered in wonderment and curiosity, bringing Sherlock back to the present, tense. Sherlock had trouble predicting John’s reactions at the best of times, and was now lost in its vagueness.
“John.” His voice held warning, unease, and blue-grey eyes flashed at him.
John knew of the man’s fragile temperament and threw him a settling look, dissolving his concern and discomfiture as he got to his feet and crossed over to him.
There was silence then, as Sherlock let rough, and calloused fingers brush over the softness of his flesh.
He shivered involuntarily.
“It’s beautiful.” John murmured, spanning his fingertips over its width, hardly believing the conflict between what he saw and what he felt - the promise of a downy pelt shattered by the smoothness of skin.
John could feel him easing under his touch, his rigid posture beginning to relax under each stroke.
“It’s hardly-“Sherlock began his criticisms, but was startled to feel gentle lips pressed to his back, affectionate and warm against the chill of the apartment and fell silent. He inclined his head toward John, perplexed, but was met by a fond smile.
Hands carefully cupped Sherlock’s face and John leant up to kiss him.