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It was always slightly chilly in Greg’s flat for some reason, but John was content, sitting on the rough floorboards in front of the sofa and letting the company of his mates and the beer in his hand warm him up. They were all sat in a circle, spinning an empty bottle and playing a good old fashioned game of truth or dare.
Greg, Mike and Tom were already more than a bit tipsy, and John could tell that Sherlock, who was sitting reluctantly next to him, was not amused. Sherlock hadn’t really wanted to join them, but John promised if he tagged along just this once that he’d let him keep one extra body part in the fridge that month. What he hadn’t mentioned, however, was that he really just wanted to spend as much time with him as possible, since he’d be leaving for the army in just a year’s time.
“Looks like Sherlock’s up next!” Greg announced as the bottle came to a stop to point at him.
“Oh, for god’s sake,” the man muttered under his breath.
“Right then, Sherlock, truth or dare?” Mike asked.
“Truth. Not that you’d ever be able to tell if I were lying to you, anyway.”
“Okay, tell us your middle name!” Mike demanded excitedly.
“William,” Sherlock said flatly. John giggled to himself, knowing that Sherlock wasn’t exactly telling the truth, but he wasn’t quite lying either.
“Bloody hell, that’s boring.”
“Mike!”
“Sorry, mate, just thought it’d be something with a bit more flair, y’know?” He chuckled.
“Yes, very funny, let’s just keep this moving, yeah?” John motioned to Greg, letting him know it was his turn to spin.
He and Sherlock sat back and tried to enjoy the game as the others took their turns along with more and more sips of their drinks. John watched them with a wary eye, knowing that it never took very long for the lot of them to get out of hand. John only had the occasional sip and Sherlock wasn’t drinking at all, so he felt safer with the knowledge that at least two of them would still be sane by the end of the night.
As the evening went on, the friendly warmth wore off, leaving behind the usual discomfort that John felt around his drunken friends and reminding him why he hadn’t hung out with them like this in a while. He really shouldn’t have dragged Sherlock along, he thought.
John was just about to nudge Sherlock and drop the hint that he was ready to leave when Greg took a large swig of his drink, reached forward and spun the bottle way faster than necessary, laughing at the way it spiraled out of control. Then after finally coming to a shaky stop, the bottle pointed right at John.
“Ooh, s’Johnny’s turn!” Tom slurred. When Tom started calling him ‘Johnny’ he was definitely past coherent thought at that point.
“Pick dare, John! C’mon, you’ve been playin’ it safe all night!” Greg whined.
“Yeah, John, ‘ave a little fun!” Mike joined in.
John cleared his throat awkwardly and attempted to shoot Sherlock a silent apology through his eyes.
“Look, guys, I’ve had a great time, but—“
“Oh, come on John! You’ve been pickin’ nothing but truth this whole time an’ now you’re just gonna leave? Let us have one dare, c’mon!” Greg pleaded. John grit his teeth and mouthed ‘sorry’ at Sherlock who only rolled his eyes fondly in response.
“Alright, alright. One dare, then we’re off. Clear?”
“Yeah, yeah, jus’ get on with it!”
“Oi, I get to pick the dare,” Greg asserted, a smug, bubbly grin on his face. “Okay, alright, I dare you...Right, I dare you to- no no, I dare you—“
“Oh for Christ’s sake, can we hurry this up?” Sherlock snapped.
“Give us a minute, yeah? Okay, I dare you to take off your shirt, and leave it off ‘til you get back to your flat!” Greg said, chuckling and basking in the laughter of his mates.
Immediately, John froze.
This was not good.
Realistically, as dares came, it wasn’t too bad. His flat was barely a five minute walk down the street, and the worst part would be the freezing winter air that he’d have to endure for about five seconds before he completely ignored the dare and put his shirt back on anyway. It’s not like they were sober enough to check that he’d actually do it, right?
Except that wasn’t the worst part. No, the worst part was the fact that ever since John got to uni, taking off his shirt around other people had been the one thing that he tried extremely hard to avoid. His friends and family would eventually find out what he had tucked underneath the layer of cotton over his chest, that was true, but he just wasn’t ready. And especially not now that the people around him were all hammered and likely wouldn’t let him hear the end of it if they saw what he was hiding.
John knew he’d have to do a dare before they let him leave, but it definitely would not be that one.
“That’s…that’s not even a good dare. Give me a better one,” he tried.
“What’s the matter, John? Bit insecure, are we?” Tom teased.
“Stuff it, Tom. Either give me a better dare, or I’m leaving.”
“No way, you said you’d do it!” he argued.
“Look, it’s late, Sherlock and I just wanna get home, and—“
“Get the shirt, boys!” Tom shouted, suddenly lunging at John and tackling him to the floor before he could do anything to stop it.
John’s back hit the hardwood with a resounding thud and before he even had time to yell or curse, Greg and Mike were at him as well, clawing at his shirt and fumbling to get it off him. He could vaguely hear Sherlock yelling something angrily over their roars of laughter and knew he would be trying to stop them but damn it, Tom was strong.
“Get off me!” John croaked, coughing amidst the heavy scent of booze on their breath.
Finally, they backed off, but only because Tom had somehow managed to pry John’s shirt off and was dragging it back with him victoriously.
Well, there was no hiding anything now.
“Holy hell, John!” Greg exclaimed, gaping at the mural of tattoos that adorned his shoulders and upper arms. Honestly, he thought he would have dissolved on the spot from embarrassment if anyone were to see his tattoos, but now, now he was just angry.
“Bloody hell, mate, didn’t you think you had it in ya!” Tom said.
John bit his tongue and stared daggers at his so-called friends before taking one hesitant glance up at Sherlock, who was stock still and staring in awe. Fantastic; the man who couldn’t leave a pile of cigarette ash alone because he wanted to study it was now seeing all his tattoos and probably would never stop asking questions about them.
John had to get out of there.
Steeling himself, John got up from the floor and didn’t look at anyone as he snatched his shirt out of Tom’s now slack grip and stomped to the door.
“You’re all a bunch of pricks, you know that?” he ground out before walking out and slamming the door behind him.
^^^^^
John tugged his shirt back on and tried to quell the anger and embarrassment bubbling in his chest as he made his way home. He couldn’t believe how fast the night had gone from a friendly round of drinks and some silly games to an absolute mess. He felt horrible for having dragged Sherlock along with him, too. And now he’d just left him with those drunken idiots. John hoped like hell they weren’t giving him a hard time.
Letting out a breath of bitter cold air, he unlocked the door to his flat with shaking hands and made his way up the steps. Once inside, John immediately took out his phone and fired off a text to Sherlock.
Sorry about storming out. If Greg and the guys are giving you trouble just let me know and I’ll come back over there and sock em one.
That won’t be necessary. I gave them a piece of my mind that seemed to sober them up in record time. On my way back now. SH
Also, they’re idiots. SH
John chuckled quietly at the message; at least Sherlock wasn’t angry with him.
He sighed wearily and sat himself down on the sofa. He really should have just gone to bed, but he supposed that there was no way of avoiding Sherlock’s questions about his tattoos, so he might as well get it over with now.
John closed his eyes and rested his head back, waiting to hear Sherlock’s familiar footfalls on the steps.
A few minutes went by and John had already begun to fall into an exhausted, drowsy haze when Sherlock came storming upstairs, startling him out of his sleepy state.
Surprisingly, Sherlock opened the door slowly and cautiously made his way in. John closed his eyes again and was so busy mentally preparing himself for the barrage of questions sure to come out of Sherlock’s mouth that it barely even registered that the man was simply fixing a glass of water in the kitchen.
He opened up his eyes when he heard the telltale thump of a glass being set down on the coffee table.
“Got you some water. Are you alright?” Sherlock asked quietly.
John stared up at him, at his tall form, his too long arms in a too short cardigan, the way his inky black curls glowed almost gold in the dim yellow light. God, why couldn’t Sherlock have just demanded to see his tattoos and made some borderline insulting comment? That would’ve been easier than this sudden warm compassion, the side that John always knew was there but never acknowledged because that would make him love Sherlock even more, wouldn’t it? And he couldn’t have that.
“Um, yeah. M’alright. Thanks,” John said awkwardly, reaching out to take a sip of his water.
“How about your back? They slammed you down pretty hard.”
John hadn’t even thought about that, really; he’d been so keyed up that any pain he might’ve been feeling didn’t quite register. Though now that he thought about it, he was definitely a little sore.
“Oh, er, it’s not bad. Guess I should’ve told you they tend to start roughhousing when they’re drunk. I just thought they would’ve been a bit more mature by now, y’know?”
“Honestly, John, you have far too much faith in people.”
John smiled. “Maybe I do, yeah.” He turned his head away and bit his lip, suddenly very nervous. He had to do this, though; deep down, he wanted Sherlock to see. “Listen, if you wanted to- I mean I know you’re probably curious so I just, if you wanted to look at my, erm, my tattoos, you can. If you…if you want.”
John looked up to see Sherlock clearly trying to contain his excitement. “You mean it?” he asked.
“Yeah, I do.” John patted the seat next to him. “Come on, before I change my mind.”
As soon as Sherlock sat down, the entire feeling in the room changed. There was a sudden and undefinable electricity buzzing in the empty space between their bodies. Perhaps John had drunk more alcohol than he’d thought.
But no, that wasn’t it. He was fine, Sherlock was fine; there was nothing different about the two of them sitting together now than when they would sit and watch telly together. Well, except for the fact that John was about to take off his shirt.
“Right. One question at a time, and I reserve the right to not explain something if I don’t want to,” John said.
“Yes, yes, now let me see,” Sherlock squealed, sounding a bit like an impatient toddler.
“Alright, alright.” John raised his arms and shucked his shirt, taking a deep breath to calm his nerves. No one had seen his tattoos save for the person who did them, and that had been over a year ago. John had gotten all of it done over the course of a few months and hadn’t been living with Sherlock at the time, else he would have surely noticed. He kept telling himself he’d be comfortable showing them off eventually, but eventually was a more difficult place to get to than he thought, it seemed.
There was also one tattoo in particular that he really did not want Sherlock asking about, but that one was further down on his chest and relatively small, so he’d just try to hide it by leaning forward a bit more and shielding it from view.
Sherlock hadn’t said anything yet except for the small gasp he let out after John took his shirt off. John couldn’t bear to look at his face.
“Well?” he asked.
“John, this is...these are…extraordinary,” Sherlock breathed. He held his hand close to John’s shoulder, not touching, just ghosting his fingertips over his skin.
John felt his whole face flush red. “You really think so?”
“Quite extraordinary. Can I…touch?”
John swallowed hard and tried to clear his throat, knowing his voice would likely come out shaky and uneven.
“Er, yeah, if you’d like.” John didn’t question him; Sherlock always had his own unique way of observing and taking information in, and if he needed some tactile input to study John’s ink then well, that was more than fine.
The first touch of Sherlock’s fingertip to the warm skin of his back was like a tiny bolt of lightning. God, how he’d always wanted Sherlock’s hands on him. He tried to soak in the feeling as much as he could, to memorize that delicate touch tracing over the lines embedded on his skin, because he knew that it wouldn’t be long before he was off to the army, and this was probably as close to Sherlock as he was ever going to get.
“This one here, the lion, what’s it for? I keep trying to deduce it but I can’t quite come to any conclusions,” Sherlock said.
John chuckled. “You’ll think it’s stupid.”
“Probably, but I’m curious,” he teased.
“That one’s for my mum, actually. I know I told you how she left when I was six, so I don’t remember her much, but she’d always tell me I was brave, usually for something silly like sleeping without a nightlight. Used to call me her little lion all the time.”
“Ah, sentiment. I see.”
John frowned. Of course Sherlock was probably thinking now that all his tattoos were just sentimental drivel.
“I like it,” Sherlock said. “These are all very well done. They look…good.”
“Oh, thanks. I’d always wanted them. Tattoos, I mean. But I never had the money, and as if my dad would’ve let me, y’know? Should’ve seen ‘im when Harry came home with a little flower one on her wrist.”
“I can imagine.” Sherlock was still tracing lines over the images, and John imagined him making deductions about each one. “Can I?” he asked.
“Can you…?”
“Deduce.”
“Oh, go ahead, yeah.”
“Let’s see…an anatomical heart; that’s easily to show your love of anatomy and dream to be a doctor. The night sky with various stars and constellations; simple, that’s to do with you and your strange fascination with astronomy.”
“Sherlock, it’s not strange to care about the solar system.”
“Well it is to me. Anyway, then there’s the RAMC symbol; also too easy considering where you’ll be going next year. Hmm…a paw print for the dog you had as a child, some flowers for Harry, and your number on the rugby team you were on as a teenager?”
“Oh, shut up.” John shot him a small smile.
“Well, that’s all the ones on your back and upper arms, but I recall seeing another one when we were back at Greg’s flat. It was closer to your heart, yes?” Sherlock asked, leaning forward to try to get a look at John’s chest.
“No, wait!” John quickly covered up the tattoo with one hand and gently pushed Sherlock away with the other.
“Oh, is that one…private?”
“Sort of, yeah,” John sighed. “I want to show you, but Sherlock, I..” he trailed off, looking Sherlock in his ice blue eyes. Those gorgeous eyes stared back at him with such innocent curiosity, and in that moment John decided to hell with his doubts and fears; he would have to tell Sherlock eventually and there really wasn’t going to be a better time than right now. “Okay, you can see it, but just let me explain. No deducing this time.”
“Deal.”
Slowly, John turned towards Sherlock and moved his hand away to reveal a rather innocent looking tattoo; it was just a simple black and white illustration of a honey bee, right next to his heart.
Sherlock narrowed his eyes at it, ran his finger over it once and looked up to John for an explanation.
“It’s um,” John started, “it’s for you.”
“For…for me? I loathe to admit this, but I don’t understand.”
“Oh come on, you with your bloody bee studies all over the place, your chattering on about how you’re gonna keep bees when you retire, not to mention the amount of honey you—“
“Alright, I get the picture now, but I don’t understand why it’s there.”
John licked his lips and shook his head fondly. “It’s- god, you’re gonna think I’m a right sap when I tell you.”
“I already think that. Please tell me.”
“Sherlock, I’m leaving in a year. Who knows how few and far between my leaves are gonna be, or when I’ll get to see you again. And, Christ, I want to see you all the time. I miss you when you’re in class, I miss you when you go pretend to get the milk, and I’m gonna miss you when I’m gone. I got this tattoo to remind me of you. Do you get what I’m saying?”
Sherlock looked half shocked and half confused, which John supposed was better than angry or disgusted. His mouth was hanging open slightly, and for once it seemed that Sherlock Holmes himself was speechless.
“Sherlock? You okay?”
“So you mean…what you’re saying is—“
“What I’m saying is that I care about you, very much. There’s a reason why I wanted it tattooed by my heart. I know it’s lame, it’s cliché, but it’s also true. I…I love you, Sherlock. You have to know that.” John swallowed back tears, suddenly wondering how he ended up here. A drunken game of truth or dare to confessing his most private feelings; at least he could say it was a productive evening.
John waited with bated breath for Sherlock to say something, but in lieu of responding, he simply reached out and trailed his finger over the tattoo again, sending shivers down John’s spine.
“You love me.” Sherlock said, as if getting accustomed with the concept. “But you’re not- What about Mary? Or Sarah? Or...”
“Or what? What are you saying?”
“You’re not gay.”
John smirked to himself. “No, I’m not.”
“But you’re— Oh, you’re bisexual! How did I not see that? There’s always something.”
“Hit the nail on the head, yeah.”
“So you were flirting with that barista that one time.”
“Oi, don’t bring that up, he was way out of my league. Plus it’s not like I could go out with him after I realized I was in love with you, you big git.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have to apologize.”
“Right. Then I suppose I should tell you that I…” Sherlock looked suddenly nervous, his bottom lip quivering with the unspoken words.
“Sherlock, you don’t have to say anything; it’s fine.”
“I love you as well, John.” He moved in closer until their legs were touching and this time placed his whole hand on top of John’s heart, the heat from his palm spreading fire through his chest. “But I never thought you felt the same. How did I not see it?”
John put his hand over Sherlock’s. “Because you were too busy breaking things apart that you didn’t see the whole bloody picture. Don’t overthink this, yeah?”
“Alright.”
John smiled warmly and pulled Sherlock into a bruising hug. It felt like a huge weight had been lifted off his chest, like he was lighter than air and didn’t have to worry about anything anymore.
“I never thought I’d say this, but I really have to thank my friends for being absolute arseholes tonight.” He laughed.
“No, I think I would have deduced it eventually.”
“No, you wouldn’t have.”
“I know.”
John pulled back and rested his forehead against Sherlock’s, feeling comfort with those soft curls tickling his skin.
“Can you deduce what I want to do now?” he asked, staring down at Sherlock’s lips.
“John, do give me more credit.”
“So I can kiss you, then?”
“Please do.”