Sherlock Holmes & The Knights Templar

John's Tattoo

John lay back in bed watching Sherlock get dressed, it was a process that he never tired of. First Sherlock would gracefully make his way to the mirror where he could steal glances at John’s reflection, then his robe would flutter to the ground and for a moment Sherlock would stretch letting John feast his eyes on his pale white body. However, this morning was different for instead of dragging out the process Sherlock hastily put on a long sleeve shirt, the underwear next and then his trousers.

John frowned for that wasn’t like Sherlock at all for as much as he loved what he termed, “new”, Sherlock also craved ritual, “So why the change in his dressing habits?” John thought as he got out of bed and made his across the room to where Sherlock stood. Wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s waist, John kissed him on the neck and then before Sherlock could react, John slipped his shirt off. In a panic, Sherlock reached for his robe, however John was ready for him as he grabbed Sherlock’s wrist in a vice-like grip.

“Show me your arm,” John hissed as he forced Sherlock to expose the inside of his arm and there they were the fresh pucker marks that John dreaded. They marred the perfect skin on his arm and as John studied Sherlock’s body intently, the puckered marks were on his legs, the top of his feet and even the femoral vein just above his groin.

Sherlock pushed his way past John and sat down at the end of the bed, “John, I don’t want a lecture. I’ve done my best I really have, but you have no idea the kind of anxiety I face on a daily basis. People look at you, John and they understand PTSD, and they think poor John Watson, the soldier, the kidnap victim, the deserted, the jilted, the poor bastard that has to put up with Sherlock Holmes and his massive intellect. But they look at me and see nothing, they don’t see the exhaustion it takes when one’s mind rushes ahead 24/7, the lack of sleep, the boredom, the fear of becoming ordinary, the fear of losing the person that one loves most in this world, the desire, the lust the self-relieving practices that are messy and degrading, the feeling of overall dread. John, it’s enough to kill a person.”

John looked down and silently clasped his hands tightly in his lap. Sherlock scooted closer to him and laid a moist cheek on his shoulder. John sighed, “Sherlock, what am I going to do with you?”

Sherlock smiled down at John and said, “Keep me pleeeeeeeeease.”

John leaned back on the bed as Sherlock crept over and kneeled over him, his eyes glassy, his lips parted slightly as he struggled to catch his breath. “John,” Sherlock whispered as he slipped his hand underneath John’s upper thigh, “John, you have poisoned me, you have ruined me, for you have unleashed in me desire, lust, basically you have turned me into an idiot.” Sherlock said as he attempted to take a deep breath. When his hand touched John’s brand, John flinched.

“John, I’m sorry does it still hurt?” Sherlock asked as the desire in his eyes changed to concern.

John looked up a Sherlock and then closed his eyes, “Sherlock, I hate that thing, but no it doesn’t physically hurt.”

Sherlock jumped up and ran over to a drawer and pulled out a piece of paper and handed it to John. John took the paper and studied it, it was of a beautiful lion, its long mane framed its eyes, and John smiled for its eyes were Sherlock’s. “It’s beautiful did you draw it?”

Sherlock nodded enthusiastically, “Yes, I figured out that I could tattoo this over the brand.”

John measured the paper against his brand, it covered it perfectly. “How did you know the exact measurements of my brand? Have you been measuring my ass while I sleep?”

Sherlock’s eyes glazed over as he answered John as if he were in a trance, “I know the measurement of everything on your body, John.”

John grinned at Sherlock and motioned for him to come closer, as Sherlock hovered over him John reached up to touch him, “Sherlock, don’t think this distraction is going to save you from a talk about your dangerous drug habit.”

“Yes, John,” Sherlock said as he kissed John’s cheek.

John sighed, “Sherlock, I mean it.”

“Yes, John,” Sherlock whispered, moving his fingers to a place where he knew John would lose all rational thought, as his fingers worked their target John arched his body toward Sherlock.

“You bastard,” John said as he gasped in pleasure when Sherlock moved his tongue over John’s stomach.

The next day John watched Sherlock in fascination as he laid out everything he would need for John’s tattoo, like a surgeon he double checked all of his instruments, and then snapped on a rubber glove as he grinned at John wickedly, “Do you want me to check for polyps?”

“No, maybe later, just get to it.” John laughed nervously.

Sherlock wiped off the area he would be tattooing with an alcohol swab and then John could hear the buzz of the needle.  Sherlock’s touch was so gentle that John was surprised that the needle felt no worse than the sting of a cat scratch. During the whole process Sherlock spoke gently to John, asking if he needed a break was the pressure too much, etc.  After a few hours the buzz of the needle silenced and Sherlock rubbed some ointment on his artwork and covered it with a bandage wrapped in plastic wrap.

“Now, take a nap on your stomach,” Sherlock said as he playfully swatted John on the rump.

John chuckled, “Come over here, Sherlock.” Sherlock pranced over, kneeling down at John’s eye level. For the first time John noticed what Sherlock was wearing, his shirt the tight purple shirt that John loved, his pants black jeans, his feet were bare, around his neck was a black studded collar, and his eyes were rimmed with black kohl. “Jesus, Sherlock, you look, you look wonderful, too bad we have to wait to fool around until the ink sets.”

Sherlock’s bright eyes met John’s as he held up a finger, “One memento, por favor.”

A few moments later he came back with a strange looking object that he handed to John. John studied it and then his eyes widened, “Sherlock, is this what I think it is?”

Sherlock grinned, “Possibly, should we test it and see?” Then Sherlock’s grin faded, “John, we haven’t tried anything this ambitious since you were kidnapped. I’m not sure if…”

John reached out, grabbed Sherlock and as his fingers curled around Sherlock’s wrist, Sherlock felt light headed.

John encircled his cold fingers around Sherlock’s warm wrist, each one’s eyes locked on the other, not moving, not blinking, drawing strength from one another’s touch. Then Sherlock stood up and prepared John’s body with his fingers and tongue, for the trip to ecstasy and back.