Blood Lines II, a Sherlock fanfic
Title: Blood Lines II
Word Count: 1,412
Rating: PG
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Disclaimer: I don't own this. Wish I did, but you know.
Summary: Sequel to Blood Lines but can stand alone. AU. Life after John finds himself at a tattoo parlour where he meets talented tattoo artist, Sherlock Holmes.
If you ask John Watson if he has any tattoos, well, he’ll smile gently and slowly remove the tarnished white gold band from his ring finger. And underneath, you’ll see a set of initials, faded and blurred with time but still legible, written in skin for all time. SH.
*
Sherlock Holmes is covered in bees. Small, blackwork bees tattooed on like woodcuts. John discovers this one day when he is reading the paper when he notices Sherlock’s sleeve has rolled back over the white taut skin of his left wrist and underneath, over pulsing veins is a delicately designed honey bee. Without thinking, John reaches out a finger and presses it against the insect, taking in the sensation of soft skin and blood rushing underneath it.
“There’s a bee on you.” He says, drawing back his hand embarrassed. Sherlock pulls his sleeve up further, revealing a pattern of bees spiralling around his arm up to the crook of his elbow. All in the same style, some more faded than others, some more jagged and less defined.
“When I first started, I tattooed myself. I didn’t want to use anyone else’s skin until I was sure that any mark I made would be an improvement. It was an experiment, recreating the same piece of art until it was perfect. As you can see, some of them are poorly executed but I’ve been told it adds to their charm.” Sherlock explains, running a finger down the bees, tracing their dancing path.
“Why bees?” John asks, intrigued.
“I have an idea that one day I shall move to the countryside and keep bees. It’s silly, I know. They’ve always fascinated me, their intelligence, their organisation, their communication through dancing. All things I envy, except maybe the dancing.” Sherlock replies, a smile tugging across his face.
“I can’t see it, somehow. I don’t think you’ll ever stop what you’re doing. How could you ever slow down? You’d sooner die. Though I’d love to see you in a beekeeper’s outfit.” John grins at the mental image, though he knows, if anyone could pull off such an outfit, it would be Sherlock.
*
It’s early morning and they’re lying in bed, the covers pulled down to their waists in an attempt to beat the summer heat. John props himself up with an elbow and maps Sherlock’s body with his eyes. The bees seem to cover him, whilst at the same time they’re sparsely spaced and kept to the left side of his body. A half-thought flickers through John’s mind and he asks:
“Have you ever let anyone else tattoo you?”
“No,” Sherlock replies, his voice grumbly from sleep. “It’s not that I rejected the idea, more that I never wanted for it. I tattoo other people and I see the pleasure it brings them, the permanent mark on their skin, a tribute, a memorial, or a passing fad, but I’ve never found anything worth the effort.”
“Except your bees.” John smirks. How strange a man Sherlock Holmes is, so seemingly unattached to the world, yet so constantly aware of it, so knowing. He wonders what it’ll take to get under his skin, and whether he, John Watson, will ever manage it.
*
Greg Lestrade remembers the first time he saw Sherlock Holmes, a young boy, barely eighteen carrying a backpack full of his worldly possessions and a sketchbook under his arm. His eyes were underlined with deep dark bruises and he seemed far too skinny to be healthy. However he looks though, Sherlock is confident, approaching the counter Greg stands behind and plonking the sketchbook down on top of it. When he opens it, Greg is astounded. In the ten years he’s been tattooing he’s rarely seen art like it. Couldn’t come close to reproducing it himself. The images leap off the page, they could be called photo-realistic except they’re more three dimensional than a photograph. Greg takes another look at the black haired boy in front of him and considers him. Before he can speak though, the boy says:
“I want to learn to tattoo.”
And it’s all Greg can do to reply:
“I think we can arrange that.”
*
Greg pulls some strings with an old friend of his, Mrs Hudson, who owns the flats next door to the studio. He installs the boy into one of her flats, 221B, with the promise of payment in trade. Though not as young as she was, Mrs Hudson enjoys the ambience of the shop and boasts more piercings under her clothes than is decent to suggest. Greg knows he is investing well in the young man, and knows one day the boy will repay his debts in full.
And that is how Sherlock Holmes was gifted with the world’s shortest commute.
*
Sherlock takes to texting John to check how his blood lined tattoo was healing. John never thinks to ask how Sherlock got his number, something about the man just leads John to believe it’s better not to question it. Sherlock asks John back to the studio to check on his arm, and john finds himself leaping at the opportunity to see Sherlock again. Each text had sparked something in his belly, a small frisson of excitement that could not be denied. He arrived at the studio to see Sherlock waiting at the counter. John produces his arm for Sherlock to inspect, which the man does, running his fingers over the still slightly raised skin, the word long since indistinct. John tries to separate his mind from the feeling of Sherlock’s fingers, the sparks in his stomach turning into fireworks.
And then Sherlock releases his arm and focuses on him.
“I have a room to spare.” He says.
“Huh?” John replies, eloquently.
“I live next door. You’re still living in some godforsaken bedsit, putting up with a bed which is both uncomfortable and too small for you. You need somewhere to live, I have a room.” Sherlock says, as though it’s obvious. Maybe to him, it is.
“Oh.” John says.
Then a voice calls through from the back of the shop:
“Oi, freak! Phone call for you!” And Sherlock has to leave, though before he does, he nods to John and their eyes meet for a fraction too long. After Sherlock has gone, John lingers for a minute, long enough for a man to clatter down the stairs. He eyes John and smiles to himself.
“You’re John Watson, Sherlock’s one o’clock. Don’t know what’s gotten into him but I’ve never seen him interrupt a tattoo to text someone back before. I’m Greg, by the way.” He holds out a hand, John shakes it.
“He wants me to move in with him.” He says.
“Of course he does, he’s smitten with you. You’d do well to consider it. Mind you, rather you than me, the state the living room was in last time I saw it… well. Maybe he needs a housekeeper, not a boyfriend.
“I’m not his boyfriend.” John splutters.
“Not yet.” Greg remarks. Because he knows when Sherlock wants something, he tends to get it.
And you know what? The next week John Watson moves in with Sherlock Holmes and John becomes a permanent feature at Forever 1895 Tattoos, hanging out with Greg and Sally and Molly the piercer and most of all, keeping Sherlock company. He’s never sure if Sherlock planned it, and at what stage they went from friends to lovers. If they were ever just friends at all.
*
Sherlock Holmes wears a white gold ring too. They waited a long time before getting married, finally tying the knot in a small registry office near the studio, much to the chagrin of Sherlock’s brother, Mycroft, who’d secretly hoped for a church wedding and a seat near the dashing Greg Lestrade. Sherlock knows of course, and maybe one day he’ll bestow on Greg the same kindness the older tattoo artist bestowed on him, by pairing him with his insufferable older brother. In the meantime, Sherlock and John are content, Sherlock tattooing and John running the studio’s blog, writing up each new tattoo and Sherlock’s astute remarks about the client. They bumble along, and though it seems Sherlock will never retire to the countryside to tend his bees, he’s found something better.
And that’s why, if you ask him to remove his ring, you’ll see two wobbly letters, scarred slightly from a needle that went a little too deep, displaying the wielder’s inexperience. JW.
Sherlock's bees are based on these and Sherlock's artwork and tattooing is based on this artist.
Word Count: 1,412
Rating: PG
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Disclaimer: I don't own this. Wish I did, but you know.
Summary: Sequel to Blood Lines but can stand alone. AU. Life after John finds himself at a tattoo parlour where he meets talented tattoo artist, Sherlock Holmes.
If you ask John Watson if he has any tattoos, well, he’ll smile gently and slowly remove the tarnished white gold band from his ring finger. And underneath, you’ll see a set of initials, faded and blurred with time but still legible, written in skin for all time. SH.
*
Sherlock Holmes is covered in bees. Small, blackwork bees tattooed on like woodcuts. John discovers this one day when he is reading the paper when he notices Sherlock’s sleeve has rolled back over the white taut skin of his left wrist and underneath, over pulsing veins is a delicately designed honey bee. Without thinking, John reaches out a finger and presses it against the insect, taking in the sensation of soft skin and blood rushing underneath it.
“There’s a bee on you.” He says, drawing back his hand embarrassed. Sherlock pulls his sleeve up further, revealing a pattern of bees spiralling around his arm up to the crook of his elbow. All in the same style, some more faded than others, some more jagged and less defined.
“When I first started, I tattooed myself. I didn’t want to use anyone else’s skin until I was sure that any mark I made would be an improvement. It was an experiment, recreating the same piece of art until it was perfect. As you can see, some of them are poorly executed but I’ve been told it adds to their charm.” Sherlock explains, running a finger down the bees, tracing their dancing path.
“Why bees?” John asks, intrigued.
“I have an idea that one day I shall move to the countryside and keep bees. It’s silly, I know. They’ve always fascinated me, their intelligence, their organisation, their communication through dancing. All things I envy, except maybe the dancing.” Sherlock replies, a smile tugging across his face.
“I can’t see it, somehow. I don’t think you’ll ever stop what you’re doing. How could you ever slow down? You’d sooner die. Though I’d love to see you in a beekeeper’s outfit.” John grins at the mental image, though he knows, if anyone could pull off such an outfit, it would be Sherlock.
*
It’s early morning and they’re lying in bed, the covers pulled down to their waists in an attempt to beat the summer heat. John props himself up with an elbow and maps Sherlock’s body with his eyes. The bees seem to cover him, whilst at the same time they’re sparsely spaced and kept to the left side of his body. A half-thought flickers through John’s mind and he asks:
“Have you ever let anyone else tattoo you?”
“No,” Sherlock replies, his voice grumbly from sleep. “It’s not that I rejected the idea, more that I never wanted for it. I tattoo other people and I see the pleasure it brings them, the permanent mark on their skin, a tribute, a memorial, or a passing fad, but I’ve never found anything worth the effort.”
“Except your bees.” John smirks. How strange a man Sherlock Holmes is, so seemingly unattached to the world, yet so constantly aware of it, so knowing. He wonders what it’ll take to get under his skin, and whether he, John Watson, will ever manage it.
*
Greg Lestrade remembers the first time he saw Sherlock Holmes, a young boy, barely eighteen carrying a backpack full of his worldly possessions and a sketchbook under his arm. His eyes were underlined with deep dark bruises and he seemed far too skinny to be healthy. However he looks though, Sherlock is confident, approaching the counter Greg stands behind and plonking the sketchbook down on top of it. When he opens it, Greg is astounded. In the ten years he’s been tattooing he’s rarely seen art like it. Couldn’t come close to reproducing it himself. The images leap off the page, they could be called photo-realistic except they’re more three dimensional than a photograph. Greg takes another look at the black haired boy in front of him and considers him. Before he can speak though, the boy says:
“I want to learn to tattoo.”
And it’s all Greg can do to reply:
“I think we can arrange that.”
*
Greg pulls some strings with an old friend of his, Mrs Hudson, who owns the flats next door to the studio. He installs the boy into one of her flats, 221B, with the promise of payment in trade. Though not as young as she was, Mrs Hudson enjoys the ambience of the shop and boasts more piercings under her clothes than is decent to suggest. Greg knows he is investing well in the young man, and knows one day the boy will repay his debts in full.
And that is how Sherlock Holmes was gifted with the world’s shortest commute.
*
Sherlock takes to texting John to check how his blood lined tattoo was healing. John never thinks to ask how Sherlock got his number, something about the man just leads John to believe it’s better not to question it. Sherlock asks John back to the studio to check on his arm, and john finds himself leaping at the opportunity to see Sherlock again. Each text had sparked something in his belly, a small frisson of excitement that could not be denied. He arrived at the studio to see Sherlock waiting at the counter. John produces his arm for Sherlock to inspect, which the man does, running his fingers over the still slightly raised skin, the word long since indistinct. John tries to separate his mind from the feeling of Sherlock’s fingers, the sparks in his stomach turning into fireworks.
And then Sherlock releases his arm and focuses on him.
“I have a room to spare.” He says.
“Huh?” John replies, eloquently.
“I live next door. You’re still living in some godforsaken bedsit, putting up with a bed which is both uncomfortable and too small for you. You need somewhere to live, I have a room.” Sherlock says, as though it’s obvious. Maybe to him, it is.
“Oh.” John says.
Then a voice calls through from the back of the shop:
“Oi, freak! Phone call for you!” And Sherlock has to leave, though before he does, he nods to John and their eyes meet for a fraction too long. After Sherlock has gone, John lingers for a minute, long enough for a man to clatter down the stairs. He eyes John and smiles to himself.
“You’re John Watson, Sherlock’s one o’clock. Don’t know what’s gotten into him but I’ve never seen him interrupt a tattoo to text someone back before. I’m Greg, by the way.” He holds out a hand, John shakes it.
“He wants me to move in with him.” He says.
“Of course he does, he’s smitten with you. You’d do well to consider it. Mind you, rather you than me, the state the living room was in last time I saw it… well. Maybe he needs a housekeeper, not a boyfriend.
“I’m not his boyfriend.” John splutters.
“Not yet.” Greg remarks. Because he knows when Sherlock wants something, he tends to get it.
And you know what? The next week John Watson moves in with Sherlock Holmes and John becomes a permanent feature at Forever 1895 Tattoos, hanging out with Greg and Sally and Molly the piercer and most of all, keeping Sherlock company. He’s never sure if Sherlock planned it, and at what stage they went from friends to lovers. If they were ever just friends at all.
*
Sherlock Holmes wears a white gold ring too. They waited a long time before getting married, finally tying the knot in a small registry office near the studio, much to the chagrin of Sherlock’s brother, Mycroft, who’d secretly hoped for a church wedding and a seat near the dashing Greg Lestrade. Sherlock knows of course, and maybe one day he’ll bestow on Greg the same kindness the older tattoo artist bestowed on him, by pairing him with his insufferable older brother. In the meantime, Sherlock and John are content, Sherlock tattooing and John running the studio’s blog, writing up each new tattoo and Sherlock’s astute remarks about the client. They bumble along, and though it seems Sherlock will never retire to the countryside to tend his bees, he’s found something better.
And that’s why, if you ask him to remove his ring, you’ll see two wobbly letters, scarred slightly from a needle that went a little too deep, displaying the wielder’s inexperience. JW.
Sherlock's bees are based on these and Sherlock's artwork and tattooing is based on this artist.
