Sherlock fic: The Body
The Body
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Mild slash (m/m)
Disclaimer: I own nothing of any interest to anyone. I'm just playing.
Summary: Drabble. Sherlock examines a body.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The body is still warm.
Cheeks flushed a slight pink, a very light sweat on the forehead - signs of mild exertion. Eyes closed, mouth parted ever so slightly. Sherlock moves his gaze downwards, catches sight of the tiniest imprint on the lower lip, consistent with teeth marks - he’d been biting his lip. He continues downwards, eyes landing on the purplish mark, right at the junction between neck and shoulder - an amorous lover, with a penchant for necks. His gaze drifts lower, finding a small, curved scar on the right side of the torso - appendectomy, five years ago at least, almost invisible now. There is another small scar on the left side, just below the ribs - a stab wound, a superficial cut, a lucky escape. His attention turns to the hands; only slightly calloused, not a labourer, likely in one of the professions. His gaze sweeps upwards, comes to rest on the largest scar, the one he had passed over on his way down: bullet wound on the left shoulder, healed badly, probably a lack of suitable medical facilities. He moves to touch it and a hand catches his.
“I’m not a corpse.”
“No, John,” he replies in amusement, “You’re not. You are, however, quite fascinating.”
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Mild slash (m/m)
Disclaimer: I own nothing of any interest to anyone. I'm just playing.
Summary: Drabble. Sherlock examines a body.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The body is still warm.
Cheeks flushed a slight pink, a very light sweat on the forehead - signs of mild exertion. Eyes closed, mouth parted ever so slightly. Sherlock moves his gaze downwards, catches sight of the tiniest imprint on the lower lip, consistent with teeth marks - he’d been biting his lip. He continues downwards, eyes landing on the purplish mark, right at the junction between neck and shoulder - an amorous lover, with a penchant for necks. His gaze drifts lower, finding a small, curved scar on the right side of the torso - appendectomy, five years ago at least, almost invisible now. There is another small scar on the left side, just below the ribs - a stab wound, a superficial cut, a lucky escape. His attention turns to the hands; only slightly calloused, not a labourer, likely in one of the professions. His gaze sweeps upwards, comes to rest on the largest scar, the one he had passed over on his way down: bullet wound on the left shoulder, healed badly, probably a lack of suitable medical facilities. He moves to touch it and a hand catches his.
“I’m not a corpse.”
“No, John,” he replies in amusement, “You’re not. You are, however, quite fascinating.”