Scars And Nightmares

“Tell me, John.” Sherlock smiled, nosed at John’s jaw, the post coital glow still warming his skin. “Tell me a secret. Tell me something you’ve never told anyone else.” John smiled, rolled onto his side, knees tucked up slightly, hand resting on Sherlock’s hip, thumb drawing slow circles. “What kind of a secret?” His voice was lowered, as if the entirety of the time between them was a secret, to be kept precious and hidden from the rest of the world. In a way, he supposed, it was. “I don’t know,” Sherlock began. “Something I can’t deduce, couldn’t know, from looking at you.” John considered a moment. “I think you know everything.” The amused snort came quickly. “No, John. Not everything.” Sherlock grinned, lips curving, feeling flattered, almost. “Well, then? What don’t you know?”

Sherlock considered, eyes glinting as he appraised John carefully, wandering through the rooms of his mind palace, finding the gaps. “How, exactly, did you get your scar?”