Chapter Text
The shop Mike sent John to turns out to be an ugly and neglected shopfront in Bethnal Green. It has a door that sticks, paint peeling off the walls, and the smell of vintage clothing still heavy in the air even though the stock is long gone.
John signs the paperwork on the spot.
He spends a couple of days cleaning it all up, then sands and paints the walls himself. By the end of the week, every single muscle in John’s body is in agony and there’s paint permanently stuck in his hair, but at least he’s getting it done.
He’s never had a shop of his own.
Mary gives him a drawing Rosie did in nursery – just a tangle of multi-coloured lines – and John frames it and hangs it on his newly painted wall. First thing there.
He rents a van, and with Mary’s help John loads up his tattooing bench and gear, his inks and his appointment books, as well as two bin bags worth of clothes, his army duffel bag, and his gun.
He installs his tattooing bench and unpacks all of his equipment, and then, for the final touch, takes a step ladder out onto the street. John balances on it and uses a stencil to spray paint the logo he designed himself on a sign above the window.
John Watson. ADRENALINE TATTOO.
---
Episode Seven
John wakes up in a sweaty tangle of sheets, entirely alone. Again.
Sherlock is so good at the disappearing act it’s like he was never here at all.
Except for the packet of condoms on the bedside table, of course. The uncapped bottle of lube. The dried come stuck to John’s pubes, the bruised bite marks by his groin, the throbbing pain in his leg – he tried to kneel for a while there last night.
John sits up in bed and rubs his eyes.
Sherlock knelt for him, too. Sherlock sucked him off until John couldn’t stand it anymore, until he was balling his fists and panting and hanging on by a thread. And then Sherlock turned around and asked John to fuck him. He tried to draw it out as long as he could. John tried to feel everything possible in that one go, every sliver of feeling.
It was breathtakingly good.
All of it has been. Meeting Sherlock, getting to know him, sleeping with him. From the second they met, John couldn’t get enough - he wants to listen to Sherlock talk endlessly, to make him smile, to impress him. Or even just to be near him. John has never felt so right standing across from anyone in his life.
But that doesn’t mean this is…
Well, it’s got all the signs of a mid-life crisis, hasn’t it? Entering a competition and then suddenly fancying himself young and capable of anything. Capable of falling for someone new.
John gets out of bed and hobbles over to the bathroom. He needs a shower. Painkillers, too, and a good hard look in the mirror. Then a call home to ask Mary how she is and to ask about Rosie. Do your damn duty, Watson.
He texts her instead.
John isn’t sure whether the red hot feeling in his chest is shame. He should be ashamed, he knows that much. But mainly he wants to get down to the lobby early enough that he can catch Sherlock alone.
He takes the lift down to find Sherlock already waiting there, busily tapping on his phone. Sherlock looks up and meets his eyes in a bolt of blue.
“Good morning, Doctor Watson.”
John walks closer; aware he’s hooked on this - this feeling, whatever it is. There’s no getting away from it. John looks at Sherlock’s mouth as if his eyes are drawn there. “Morning.”
Sherlock’s eyes are flickering over his lips too.
“You wish to kiss me.” Sherlock’s voice is low, but it carries enough that it makes him shiver.
“Yes,” John admits. Now that he knows what it feels like to greedily grab Sherlock’s hips and pull him in, or to reach up for Sherlock’s neck and guide him down, or to stroke Sherlock’s cheek and angle his face towards his... He can’t stop wanting it.
But they don’t have time. There are production people all around, they’d notice.
John can imagine asking Sherlock up to his room anyway. How they’d kiss, clothes ripped open, hotly grabbing each other’s cocks, rushing for it. He’s a hairsbreadth away from offering - fuck today’s challenge - when Sherlock moves to go outside.
“Smoke?” he asks.
“Yes. Yeah,” John agrees. He’s right, of course. They have to go. “Sure.”
It’s a bright morning. The cold and rain have finally cleared off again, but John barely notices it while he’s trying to talk some sense into himself. He needs perspective here. Priorities.
Smoking doesn’t make it any better. John watches Sherlock’s lips close around a cigarette and feels a hot stab of frustration. Especially when Sherlock eyes him and sucks, purposely.
“God, you’re gonna kill me.” John turns away, stuck between a laugh and a cry.
“Am I?” Sherlock is smiling. “I imagine that is prudent, getting rid of the competition.” He inhales slightly, then blows the smoke into John’s face on purpose.
“Bastard.” John grins, awash in feeling.
“Hmm.” Sherlock’s eyes shine with pleasure.
-
Elimination Challenge (Day One)
There are only three tall chairs left in front of the stage.
“Weird, right?” Janine has taken the seat on the right.
“It is, yeah.” John leaves his cane next to his chair - he’s gotten good at balancing it there – and sits down.
Sherlock slides into the seat next to him silently.
There’s a strange tension in the air. This is it. Why they came here. Why John did, too. This has become more than just a competition now - he’s gotten a taste of what it feels like to really push himself, and he wants to show what he can do. John glances to his side. Maybe he wants to show Sherlock what he can do most of all.
The judges appear, along with Mike’s chipper, “Good morning contestants. Welcome to the final!”
And they’re off. The last part of this thing.
“For the next two days, the three of you will compete for a cash prize of one hundred thousand pounds, a feature in Ink Magazine, and the title of ‘Ink Master’.”
It never seemed all that real before. John didn’t think he’d ever come close to winning, but with a hundred thousand quid he could do a lot. Start his own shop, maybe. Tattoo only the designs he wants to tattoo.
“There will be no flash challenge today,” Irene takes over. “You will have the full two days to work on your elimination tattoo, and to create an absolute masterpiece.”
“…So it’d better be good.” Jim grins.
“You will have five hours to tattoo today, and seven hours tomorrow,” Mike instructs. “You each have a canvas who has their entire back available to you. They are open to any design, in any style. The choice is entirely up to you.”
Right. John glances at Sherlock just to see the possibilities amass in Sherlock’s eyes. He looks like he’s thinking through everything he could possibly do in the time. Janine is smiling calculatingly as well.
John’s got no idea what he’s going to do.
“And Sherlock?” Mike looks at him. “Because you were the winner of the art elimination challenge, you can assign the canvasses.”
Sherlock nods with some gravity. That’s a serious advantage right now and he seems to know it. He probably has a strategy of some kind in mind, John thinks. Knowing Sherlock, he has planned it all out in advance and he knows exactly what he’ll do.
Three clients walk into the studio. The first is a young bloke with a bright green mohawk, thick glasses, and some Hindi facial tattoos. Then a young woman in a fifties dress with a beautiful pinup on her leg. The last is an older man, bald, with two full Oriental arm sleeves.
Sherlock walks up to them, but he doesn’t ask them anything. Instead he studies them, a small frown on his forehead, while the clients awkwardly shift their weight from foot to foot.
“...You can ask questions,” Mike reminds Sherlock with an indulgent tone.
“No need.” Sherlock sounds haughty as hell.
The clients must think he’s weird, but it’s pretty hilarious, John thinks.
“You are working with Janine.” Sherlock addresses the younger bloke first. He then points at the woman, who looks somewhat taken aback. “I am choosing you.” And then at the older man. “And you are with John.”
The man nods at him, and John nods back. Fine, yeah. He seems all right.
“You will have all morning to meet with your clients and sketch,” Mike tells them.
Sherlock solemnly shakes the hand of his girl. Janine comments on her client’s face tattoos with an interested smile, and John walks up to his client and shakes his hand as well. “Hiya.”
They all guide their clients to their various shops, but it’s nothing like the mayhem the first challenges were. Three artists in a space this big are barely noticeable – once they’re in his shop, John can’t even hear Sherlock’s voice, or see much of Janine.
John focuses on his client. “You mind showing me your back?”
Despite his age, this bloke’s got fairly good skin. Did Sherlock see that? He’s pale, without a lot of sun damage.
John takes a huge sheet of paper and routinely outlines the available space while he thinks about what the hell he’s going to tattoo. There’s no way he can do a full back piece on this bloke in twelve hours. Not old school for sure. Maybe Janine can splash some watercolour on there and call it a back piece, but with old school there’s heavy coverage, deep blacks and colour – to do this right would take at least twenty, if not more hours. John has done back pieces with over forty hours of work in there.
After getting an idea of the space available, there’s nothing more to ask the client, considering they’re free to design whatever they want. John shakes the man’s hand goodbye - they’re coming back at two - and then that’s it.
He’s sitting there, holding a huge sheet of paper.
John can see Janine collect her tablet, newspapers, and a collection of paints, and bring it all to the large table in the middle of the studio.
“Finally, right?” She directs at Sherlock while she ties up her hair with a red bandana around her head. “I’ve had this tattoo in mind since day one.”
“I have been considering my design as well.” Sherlock strides over, carrying what looks like a pile of technical drawing tools – John sees rulers, a protractor, a compass, and even adjustable set squares. Sherlock sits down on the studio floor and spreads out all of his equipment in a radius around him.
John could join them, but…
He needs a think.
His leg is protesting at every step but he doesn’t care right now - John walks out of the studio and through the familiar doors, his cane tapping on the floor as he makes his escape.
It’s dead quiet outside. No one is here now the judges announcing the challenge has been filmed and the clients are gone. John walks a slow circle around the building, not sure what he’s doing.
His eye falls onto the low wall where he found Sherlock napping after one of the first challenges, so he walks to it and sits down.
He breathes for a bit. The air carries some cool wind from the water, but the sun’s heating up. John’s never been here much, by the docks. It’s not even that far from where he lives, but it’s not… He never thinks about doing stuff like this. Going out just to be outside. They’ve always got something on, especially now Rosie’s here.
Sherlock was lying down here back then, with his eyes closed – John remembers it well.
John can still feel the shape of Sherlock’s cock in his mouth from last night too. The weight of him on his tongue. The taste of him, the smell, the needy feeling of sucking him. He would like to go over there and...
Right - focus. John looks around. He assumed the last challenge would be an assignment of some kind. A style he had barely heard of again, or something with weird guidelines. But this?
A masterpiece. Easier said than done, that.
In the very first challenge they had free rein too. John did an anchor and roses on the pigskin then. He could do that again, something like that but bigger, some traditional old school piece, done by the book. It is what he would have chosen to do two weeks ago, for sure. But it doesn’t really appeal all that much to him today. Not for this.
He tries to think back to what else he’s done. A gypsy head, then the space cover-up, that wasn’t all that good. The gun pin up John enjoyed a lot more. Then the snake – he spent more time drawing that damn boa constrictor than he’s ever spent on any drawing, but it was good, in the end. The trash polka face, then the Thai tattoo, and the Gustav Klimt copy.
And the heart, of course. The anatomically correct heart between Sherlock’s shoulder blades.
Last night, while he was fucking Sherlock, John saw nothing but that heart on Sherlock’s pale back, etched into his skin over the knots of his spine. John wanted to kiss it. Lick it, bite it - John feels a throb of heat even thinking of it.
It’s his favourite thing he’s done here by far.
He won with it, too. It was simple, and clean. Steady linework. John can feel an idea take shape - he could go big with that style, because he can run his machine fast and steady, he’s better at speed than Sherlock is, and more precise than Janine.
It would be a risk to go illustrative, but John can’t see the fault in that. He wants to. He wants to be that artist.
He takes another minute to get it all in order in his mind, then he uses his cane to stand up with a whine of pain and goes back.
When John walks into the studio, Sherlock looks up from his work. No matter how focused he was, Sherlock still noticed that he left, John knows. He smiles to show that he’s good – got an idea now.
Sherlock nods back, then focuses on his own stuff again.
John collects his laptop and sketch pad, sits down at the table on the other end of Janine’s paint project, and figures out what to Google. Anatomy again? It does lend itself well to that style, plus Sherlock would geek out over it, John knows.
He finds what he needs easily enough, there are plenty of old medical textbook illustrations online he could base his design on. They all have tons of detail, though. Each wobble would show in a tattoo like that, each hesitation, every single mistake. Colour work is much more forgiving. So is old school, with the thicker lines. But the more he looks at it, the more John’s sure. This is what he’s going to do.
Sherlock walks over at a certain point, looks over his shoulder, and hums. “Anatomy. Not traditional old school.”
“Yeah.” John looks up. “Not traditional old school.” He slides over one of his initial sketches. John’s nowhere near as talented at drawing as Sherlock is, but...
“A skull?” Sherlock sounds fascinated. “Anatomically correct.”
It feels like a victory already to look at him and say, “Thought I’d do several, actually.”
Sherlock’s answering smile is enough to want to thrill him.
Sherlock goes back to working on his project, and John starts sketching out various perspectives on skulls. Does he want a straight-on skull, or a side view, or a jawbone separately? He debates adding the musculature, as well.
The morning passes quickly.
A stretch of time later, an assistant already brings trays of food for them. “Time for lunch, everyone.”
John looks at Sherlock. He’s still sitting on the floor, bent over his work - he likely didn’t even hear the announcement. He’s definitely not going to stop, so John takes a sarnie and a cuppa and brings it over to him.
“What are you up to, then?” John hadn’t wanted to disturb him, but he is curious to see what Sherlock has chosen as well.
Sherlock spreads out the giant piece of paper and shows him. “Observe.”
Observe? Right. John puts the sandwich and tea down for him and looks at the design.
It’s got a lot of lines and little squares. They interconnect with delicate, beautiful fine line work, but below is that structure, and John’s eye comes back to that. It kind of reminds him of Sherlock’s own chest piece actually, it’s the same style. But it’s more than that, these aren’t random patterns, it’s… “Chemical makeup. Those are chemical formulas!”
Sherlock grins at him proudly.
“Serotonin.” John looks closer and tries to recognise them. “Testosterone.” And… at the top corner, behind the heart, “Adrenaline.” He checks with Sherlock.
“Yes.” Sherlock adds, “Also norepinephrine, dopamine, and oxytocin.” He glances at him.
It is amazing. It really is. The way he combined it all together, the artistry, plus the sheer scale of the whole thing. “You’re doing her entire back, aren’t you? Full back piece?”
“Hm.” Sherlock nods.
“You being ambitious over there, Sherlock?” Janine calls out. She has a smudge of paint on her cheek, but she does not seem to care one bit.
They go over to have a look at her work as well. Janine has a picture up on her ipad of a young woman with a headscarf, and then her painting is of the same image, but in the brightest possible colours.
“Malala Yousafzai,” she says.
“A pop art inspired new school portrait.” Sherlock inspects it closely.
“Yes!” Janine has that light in her eyes that John’s seen before when she talks about art. “The posture is derivative of Rosie the Riveter obviously, the text and the colouring somewhat Lichtenstein, combined with more modern influences. Plus Malala – she’s Pakistani like myself, and tattooing is activism. All art should be.”
Sherlock nods. “Well chosen style, it will work within your capabilities. As well as an interesting subject.”
“Yes, yeah. Good that.” John doesn’t really know what else to say.
They all end up working straight through lunch. John eats while he sketches, taking a bite out of his sandwich with one hand, pencil in the other.
Janine is the first to finish and to go print off her final stencil, but John ends up with five and he needs all the detail in his, the more the better. He can’t go improvising lines in the middle of tattooing, not on this.
Sherlock seems to be making several stencils as well that he’ll then put together like a puzzle. He probably added in space to allow for the natural curves of the back, John thinks, there’s a lot of adjusting in terms of body shape when it comes to geometrical tattooing. It’s a proper headache actually; it all needs to fit perfectly. John doesn’t envy him.
When Sherlock passes by, hurrying towards the printer, John offers, “Cigarette before we start?”
Sherlock hesitates. He’s still working. They really don’t have to if he’s too busy. “Ten to.”
“All right.” John focuses on his own sketches again.
He could do with a break really. His leg’s aching from sitting on the chair. John can’t imagine what it’d be like if he had sat on the floor like Sherlock all morning. He wouldn’t be able to walk.
John draws right until it’s time to go, then looks up to see Sherlock already packing up his stuff.
They move to the exit together.
When John’s side brushes against Sherlock’s, John looks at Sherlock, feeling a throb of warmth for him. For this incredible person, this brilliant artist. Jesus, he’s so clever. And John will have him in his bed tonight.
At least until he sneaks out again, anyway.
They halt just outside the studio doors, and Sherlock lights a cigarette for himself, then hands one along with the lighter to John.
John breathes, then pushes the words out. “Stay? Tonight. The whole night.”
“...You want me to stay until morning.” Sherlock eyes him like he was speaking a foreign language.
Maybe it’s not fair on Sherlock to ask something like that. They’re competing tomorrow. It’s the final. It’s not like they can cuddle away the night. John amends, “Whatever you want.”
“I want to.” Sherlock speaks quickly.
“Right.” John smiles at Sherlock’s instant reply. “Right then, well.” He looks at Sherlock and lingers in his eyes. “That’s settled.”
“Yes.” Sherlock seems so solemn John wants to kiss the carefulness off his lips again. He wants to shake him, tell him, let him know that... What? What is he going to say? That it’ll all be okay as long as they’re together?
That’s a lie if he’s ever heard one.
Half a cigarette later, John asks, “You ready for this tattoo then?”
“Naturally.” Sherlock seems sure. He has never wavered on his artistic ability, John knows that. It’s John himself who’s going to have to tattoo better than he’s ever done.
They go back in.
-
Their clients are already waiting in the studio, ready to start their back pieces. Mike wastes no time and says, “Contestants, your five hours start... Now!”
John motions his client closer. “I just have to print the stencils, and then we’re good to go.”
This is going to be a marathon. John is planning to tattoo each piece separately, skull by skull. It’ll be like composing five entirely separate tattoos, instead of one piece like Janine and Sherlock are doing. But his client has the oldest skin, and John really needs to be careful in terms of trauma - bruising, blow-outs, swelling, even tearing the skin is a real danger here - so it’ll be easier if he doesn’t have to tattoo over the same spots again tomorrow.
John spends some time placing his stencil onto the back, making sure it works with the space available. And then he asks the client to lie down, pours his inks, and assembles his triple-coiled machine.
Time to start this tattoo.
Outlining a skull is detailed work, but without any colour gradients or graywash it’s fairly straightforward as well. John has tattooed for thousands upon thousands of hours by now, and it’s a comfortable process to sink into. The buzz of the machine in his hand, the bright lights, his whole world sinks down to just this stencil. Line by line.
John’s thoughts drift off.
To Sherlock, of course. Asking him to stay tonight, was that stupid?
Sherlock’s amazing in bed. Judging by how incredible it feels when they move together, Sherlock has a lot more experience at all of this than John does. And why wouldn’t he - Sherlock’s a single gay bloke. Why wouldn’t he fuck around, right?
John imagines Sherlock in dance clubs and gay bars after this. Finally free to go out again, on the prowl, scoring some hot young thing instead of having to spend the night next to John’s middle aged arse.
It stings, thinking that.
Two hours in, John takes a break. He makes his way over to hear Sherlock talk to his client over the buzzing of his machine, “…any boyfriend exhibiting such behaviour is certainly not worth your time.”
John can feel that sting, too. He knows it’s not about him, but it is what Sherlock thinks, probably. John’s not worth the hassle, after this. He’s a decent distraction, but that’s all.
“Chatting about men, are you?” It comes out harsher than he wanted it to.
“A situational comment.” Sherlock is not giving anything more away, but his client smiles. She’s clearly at ease with him.
It reminds John again that Sherlock is out. He is gay, and he doesn’t hide it. He’s out there chatting to his client about boyfriends like he does it every day. And maybe he does. John doesn’t know.
John stares at Sherlock’s work – large guiding lines, sprawling over the client’s back, ready to divide off into smaller squares later. He watches Sherlock’s hand deftly guiding the machine.
Instead of getting into it, John goes off again and gets back to work. He needs to worry about his tattoo and pulling the right lines, nothing else.
John tattoos fast and steady for the next hour or so. He’s not rushing, but he’s getting that ink in there solid.
It gets harder for his client to endure around the ribs. John can see goose bumps appear on his skin in response to the pain, even though he’s clearly trying to be stoic. John takes a page from Sherlock’s book and attempts to distract him by chatting, aware he’s barely said two words to the man. “What do you do then?”
“I am a retired Major of the Royal Marines.”
Of course he is. Of course Sherlock gave him the bloody veteran.
John stays silent, but now he’s done it, because the client nods in the direction of John’s cane, leaned against the wall, and asks, “You saw some action?”
“Got shot,” John says. “Afghanistan.”
He has never managed to make a neat little story out of it. He has never found the right tone, the right sense of restrained bravery needed so people say they’re sorry and then he can smile and it’s all fine again. Instead, there’s always a tense pause.
The client doesn’t ask any further. Good. John’s not in the mood for it.
There’s nothing right about a body being ripped apart - he pissed and shit himself, does this bloke want to know that? John blacked out and came to several times, hearing a loud wailing, then realising it was his own voice.
He still hears it in his nightmares.
Afterwards was worse, knowing he’d never come back from it. Not really. Then London, dull, grey London, loneliness and uselessness wrapped in one nice blanket of disability.
John thinks of what Mike did for him then. Tattooing gave him a reason to get up in the morning.
It was the only reason he lived on.
That’s why John’s doing this, all of it. He built a life after getting shot. He’s here for Mike, for Mary, for Rosie, for everything he became after. For everything he’s supposed to be. He’s making a name for himself with this, he can do better at the shop, he can get them out of debt, he can…
“It’s a straight line, go over it in one pass.” Sherlock comes over, pulling him out of his thoughts.
John does as Sherlock instructed and follows the entire line with his machine, pulling it in one go without a single hesitation. Then he looks up to see Sherlock’s eyes quickly scan his progress.
He takes a breath and asks, “How you doing then?”
“My preferred style holds little difficulty for me.” Sherlock seems confident in his work. As he should be, it seemed like he was doing well.
But there’s something though, something in the way Sherlock looks him over… if he didn’t know better, John would think Sherlock took a break just to check up on him. To know he was all right.
Sherlock nods and leaves again, but John’s whole body feels more present. He’s here. Right now. John tattoos on with a steady hand.
It’s his life, this. Med school, army tents, grinning boys and men and scars and sadness. John made the choices he could make. He did what seemed right at the time. He always has.
John works on. Steady, calm, do what you can today. Thirty minutes to go. Ten.
He is still working, aware that today’s time is nearly over but determined to make the most of it, when Mike’s voice sounds out, “Three, two, one... Artists, finish for the day!”
John stops his machine. He cleans off the bleeding skin - red and swollen from all these hours of tattooing - and helps his client up. He spends some minutes wrapping the fresh tattoo, and then cleaning off his tattooing bench and disassembling his machine before finding Sherlock again.
Sherlock is still cleaning up his shop as well. John walks past Sherlock’s client on her way out and says, “You gave me a veteran on purpose.”
“High pain tolerance, even toned skin. You can handle the age factor.” Sherlock eyes him. “Not good?”
“No, he…” He sat well. John can’t complain about Sherlock’s choice. “He’s fine.”
Can’t be upset at that, can he? John’s been back from Afghanistan for years, it’s about time he moves past it. Plus, Sherlock meant well.
“Why’d you take the girl, then?” John tries to grin. “Besides to talk about men?”
“Simple.” Sherlock eyes him. “She had the smallest back.”
John laughs, not entirely sure it’s a joke, until Sherlock smiles back mildly.
They start walking out together. Janine’s still talking to her client, their laughter ringing through the studio, so they get to eat alone for once. Last evening. John tries not to think about it too much.
They go sit in the restaurant, and it’s easy, the way they move together and talk, relaxed. But there’s nothing easy about what lies beneath all of this.
In the middle of dinner, Sherlock is speaking about Janine’s tattoo, claiming, “The subject will be received well, I imagine.”
“You sure? A lot of UKIP voters in this country.” John’s not sure it was the best move for her, really.
“I believe Janine is aware of that.” Sherlock has a small smile. “And so is her client.”
John says, stupidly, “Mary would like it, too.”
There’s a second of silence, and suddenly he can feel all of the tension fall back onto his shoulders. Christ, Mary. John looks down at the table.
“Your wife is a new school artist,” Sherlock offers it cautiously.
Sherlock seems willing to talk about her, but John can’t. He can’t do this, he can’t say Mary’s name, he can’t...
“Want to go up?” John stands up brusquely, leaving Sherlock little choice. But why not. They both know what they’re doing here, don’t they? Fucking for a bit, then leaving it. It’s as simple as that.
They leave their food mostly uneaten, and the drinks still full, but John doesn’t care. He knows Sherlock doesn’t, either. None of that matters, none of the pretence. John just wants to feel Sherlock’s body next to his own. That’s what he wants to do with every single hour of this last night.
They stand close in the lift. John can feel the heat of Sherlock’s shape next to him, and every part of him feels like it’s burning – guilt, shame, lust, he’s not even sure any more. Maybe it doesn’t matter.
John walks through the corridor with Sherlock right on his heels. He opens the door, closes it behind them both, turns the lock, and then looks at Sherlock and does what he’s been longing to do all day - he pulls Sherlock’s head down and kisses him.
He wanted to build it up, to start out slow, but Sherlock answers him by grabbing him harder, by kissing him needily, achingly intense. Sherlock kisses like he wants to crawl inside of his skin and John replies in kind, but it’s not enough, it’s never, it’s not going to be… enough.
John pulls back a little. Sherlock’s eyes are like a stormy sea.
They both know it’s the last night. Last chance.
Sherlock takes a shivering breath, and John rubs his cheek against Sherlock’s, then finds his lips again, and kisses him deeply, full of everything he can’t say.
Sherlock starts on his shirt buttons, so John pulls at his own shirt as well. He wants to feel Sherlock, to see him naked, to hold him close. While they strip, John gazes at Sherlock and tries to memorise him just like he is now. His stunningly intricate tattoos, his body, all of him.
“You’re staring,” Sherlock says. He has that little frown again, as if he doesn’t quite get why John would do that.
John tries to smile away whatever is constricting his throat, whatever he’s feeling, because that doesn’t matter right now. “Well, you’re gorgeous.”
Sherlock looks at him. “I don’t require… compliments.”
“Why, ‘cause you’re already naked?”
“Indeed.” Sherlock smiles lightly. “You do not have to talk me into bed, John. I am already here.”
“I am allowed to enjoy the view though.” John exaggerates his look up and down. “And I do.” He hopes Sherlock knows that. John’s heart thuds just watching him like this. The slight blush. The redness to those clever lips.
But it’s more than that. It’s about who Sherlock is. It’s about who John can be when he’s here with him.
John always thought it was easier to go along with the idea people had of him. Straight. Soldier, doctor, tattoo artist, they’re all the best covers, the best hideaways so no one sees...
John touches Sherlock’s cock with his fingertips.
The skin is velvety soft, and John brushes there gently, just feeling the texture while looking downwards at his hand as he strokes him. He wants, God, too much. All of it.
“Top tonight?” John surprises himself by asking.
He has done it before. Mary owns a few toys, and John’s tried them when she wasn’t around. Sneakily wanking himself crazy with one in his arse, feeling a burn of shame and then coming until he saw stars.
He asked James, too, back in the day. A few times.
Not often.
If Sherlock’s taken aback at all, his tone doesn’t betray it. He says, his voice reverberating lowly, “Yes.”
John closes his fist around Sherlock’s cock and starts pulling him off in earnest, but Sherlock draws him into a kiss that feels so sincere John can feel his toes curl.
They sink onto the bed together, limbs tangling, kissing lazily. Sherlock kisses John’s neck, his shoulder, the middle of his back, then a quick kiss to his ear that makes John smile.
Now he’s said it, he wants to get on with it. John reaches up to the side table and finds the lube - he’s doing this himself. Sherlock doesn’t comment when John lies flat on his back and reaches down. He applies the lube, pushes in with one finger and spreads it around, then adds a second finger and widens them in a scissoring motion. It’s easy. Practiced. Medical standard.
It is different doing this knowing Sherlock is watching though.
Sherlock must have slept with dozens of men who just lube it up and go for it. Instead, John needs time to even do this. He feels exposed, prepping himself like this.
John is embarrassing himself, that’s what he is doing. He tells Sherlock, “This can’t be all that hot for you.”
“It is… pleasing to witness.” Sherlock’s voice wavers, and John looks at him. Sherlock’s eyes are trained on him while Sherlock’s hand wraps around his cock, and he gives himself a slow stroke.
John dribbles more lube onto his fingers, and then pushes back in. He uses three fingers, like it’s Sherlock’s cock. Then four. All he needs is a bit more and he’s ready. As he moves them, he can hear himself, the sloppy, wet sound.
John can feel his face heat up as Sherlock leans over to watch. He can feel him breathing onto his cock, and it’s making him mildly dizzy.
It’s even worse when Sherlock captures his cock between his lips and gently licks him.
“Jesus, come on, that’s enough!” John pulls his fingers out, impatient now.
But Sherlock takes a moment finding and opening a condom. Then he moves John’s leg a little so it is more supported. Then he grabs the other pillow and hands it over and John quickly pushes it under his arse. “Come on!”
“Patience, John.” Sherlock smiles, but he doesn’t draw it out any further. He leans between John’s legs, and there’s the pressure of Sherlock’s slippery cock at John’s arse. He needs to push quite hard, but then the muscle lets him in.
John breathes out slowly. Fuck. He’d forgotten what this is like. It feels more intrusive than John’s fingers did. Different than any of the dildos as well, it’s big. Breathe.
Sherlock groans next to his ear.
John’s erection is waning. He can feel sweat pearl up on his forehead. The feeling starts from the inside now, filling him with an endless pressure.
A few more breaths, and Sherlock pulls back slightly, then thrusts in again. He is going slow and careful, getting him used to it. It’s doable, but not much more than that.
John remembers doing this on his stomach with James over him. Or on his knees, too. He should turn around, but he can’t, not anymore. Or not without pain, anyway. Yet another thing that doesn’t work the same way without a decent fucking leg. John sighs.
Sherlock slows his movements. He looks at him critically, then takes John’s good leg and pushes it up to bend against John’s stomach. John’s willing to go along with it, although he doesn’t quite see the point. Then he changes his angle and -
“Hn!” John sucks in a sharp breath. That’s it. Right there.
Sherlock repeats the movement but slower, more controlled. “Yes?”
“Yes.” John breathes. Yes, whatever you’re doing, yes, bloody...
Sherlock obeys and moves just like that, in slow, deep thrusts. John closes his eyes. He can feel rushes of goose bumps appear all over his skin. It’s not even his cock, it’s all of him, a full-body sensation of pressure, John can barely breathe with how good it is.
Then Sherlock picks up the pace. He is building a rhythm, faster, deeper, until he’s taking him in bright slaps, fucking him, oh, the sound…
“Ah!” John cries out unwillingly.
He meets Sherlock’s eyes with a stab of shame.
“You enjoy this.” Sherlock’s breathless voice has never sounded so proud.
Does he? Yes, no, all of it. John’s everything right now, all of him throbbing in time with his heartbeat. Sherlock is giving him small, teasing thrusts, looking for a reaction before he’ll continue, but John can’t admit to... He quickly says, “I do, yeah.”
“Good.” Sherlock smiles, something genuinely relieved in his face for a moment, then he starts fucking him again in earnest.
John’s head falls back into the pillow. Christ. He feels wave after wave of pleasure as Sherlock breaches him. Sherlock touches his cock and starts pulling him off in time with his thrusts, and it’s so good, so right, John can barely hold on and feel it all. He looks up and meets Sherlock’s eyes, razor-sharp even like this, all of his attention on him.
“Come here.” John wraps his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders and pulls him in. Sherlock leans more of his weight on top of him, while he rocks back and forth inside of him still, and John closes his eyes. They’re close, forehead to forehead.
Their breaths are heavy between them.
John captures Sherlock’s mouth, and they kiss. They’re both damp with sweat, heat is radiating between them, Sherlock’s hip bones are bruising the inside of John’s legs but he doesn’t care, he doesn’t mind about any of it because it feels like an endless moment, a haze of pleasure.
When Sherlock hits his prostate again, sparks fly behind John’s eyelids and he moans into Sherlock’s mouth. Please. Please.
“John…” Sherlock’s hips stutter a little as he pushes back in, he’s clearly trying to keep from coming.
John sees him up close, eyes hazy, both their mouths opened, breathing each other’s breaths. He moves his hips up so his cock pushes against Sherlock’s stomach.
He does it again, pushing his hips up, desperate for it.
“Ah.” Sherlock shudders and pulls out nearly all the way, then thrusts in again.
“Hmmm…” John grabs Sherlock’s shoulders as Sherlock presses up against his prostate, and all of him seems to waver, he’s so bright, so near. “Like that,” John breathes and then bites his own lip, needing the sting of pain so he can hold on.
Sherlock leans on his arms for leverage, then starts fucking him with quick snaps of his hips again, and Jesus, John can feel that. He starts shaking.
“Yes …” John pulls Sherlock over him; he grabs his arse and pulls him in, more, more.
Sherlock looks at him, eyes wide in silent pleasure, his chest heaving. Then he shudders and suddenly stills as he comes - John can feel him pulse inside of him.
John’s so close too. Sherlock reaches between them to pull John off, and he starts moving his hips again and keeps on fucking him with his spent cock. It doesn’t take much at all. John’s eyes roll back into his head as a wave of unstoppable pleasure builds within him and he comes, arse spasming around Sherlock’s cock.
It’s pure bliss.
John comes down to feel the weight of Sherlock on top of him, skin stuck together with sweat, both of them breathing as one. John tilts his face and kisses him - wet, open-mouthed kisses, lazy and desperate at once.
Then Sherlock slips out of him. The bed moves, and he rolls away.
John lets him. He’s too sated to move. He’s a mess of lube and come and he feels like he’s sinking into the mattress with that orgasm.
He barely registers it when Sherlock returns to lie down next to him. His tired limbs are feeling heavy, now. John wraps an arm over Sherlock’s stomach and pulls him close. He leans into him and finds sleep.
-
John blearily opens his eyes to see Sherlock looking back at him. The room is filled with sharp light.
“Hi you.” John’s voice breaks.
“Doctor.” Sherlock smiles lightly.
It feels like the best possible way to wake up. Oh, sure, John’s bladder is full, he’s in desperate need of a shower and his leg is already promising a world of hurt. But this... He rolls closer, and Sherlock hesitantly opens his arms. John leans his cheek to the side of Sherlock’s neck and drifts back into almost-sleep.
John can smell Sherlock this close. Sour sweat, sex, the musk of his body, the scent of cigarettes in his hair, a hint of disinfectant around his hands. John breathes him in selfishly. One breath. One more.
It’s late already. John’s aware of it like he knows his own body - they have a limited amount of time left. Just moments before they have to get themselves together and face it all.
But not yet. He leans against Sherlock’s shoulder and kisses the skin there. Lazily. Softly. Sherlock’s hands grip John just as tightly.
They hold on.
Eventually, John can’t stand the pressure in his bladder any longer. He sits up. “Sorry. Got to.”
“Of course.” Sherlock reaches under the other side of the bed and hands him his cane. His curls are a mess in the morning. Seeing that almost makes John smile. Almost.
John stumbles to the bathroom, pees, and swallows a few painkillers, aware it’s the first goodbye of today, this.
When he looks back into the room, Sherlock is getting dressed in yesterday’s clothes. Sherlock wears his shirt, hiding his heart tattoo, and John wants to say something – I did mean it like that. Do you know? I did. – but that won’t help anything, not right now.
“See you downstairs?” John walks closer and pulls Sherlock in.
Sherlock gives him a soft kiss. It’s closed-mouthed, almost formal, but so gentle it makes something hurt in John’s chest. “Fifteen minutes.”
He leaves with a barely audible thud of the door, and John is left to get ready on his own. Last clean outfit he packed. Last of everything. As he showers off yesterday’s activities, then shaves and dresses, the nerves start coming in full. He needs to tattoo for one hundred thousand pounds today. The most important tattoo of his career.
Christ.
Sherlock is waiting for him in the lobby.
He sits right where everyone has seen him wait for John every single day, and John’s aware of what that might look like, but he doesn’t care. Not today.
They walk outside together.
Sherlock is beside John, and that washes over him and surrounds him. It makes him feel like he’s lifted off the ground, and at the same time as if he’s more present than he has been in years.
John feels whole. Like he’s a doctor again, like he’s worth something, walking next to Sherlock.
Like he's a competitor.
-
Elimination Challenge (Day Two)
Mike allows them all to get settled in their shops with the clients again, then he says, “Three, two, one… tattoo!”
John sits down, and his arse throbs as a reminder of what he did last night. He stretches to reach for the black ink, and his muscles twang. His lips feel kissed, his while body feels wrecked, his eyes burn with lack of sleep.
He’s not ready for this. For the final, for it to be over - any of it.
Regardless, John pours his inks. He assembles his machine, wears his gloves, and he gets going. The skin is still visibly tender around the skulls he got done yesterday. There is a fair amount of swelling around them as well, but because John foresaw this and spread his work, it’s easy enough to apply the next stencil now. Three skulls to go.
It’s easy enough to think while he works, too.
He’s been selfish. Naïve. A bloody mess, that’s what he is. Cheating on his wife, and why? So he can feel how much this – John swallows.
What are you doing, Watson? With Sherlock, all of this. What does he think is going to happen?
John adds in the detail automatically. As he works on, John’s reminded of Harry. She divorced. Or well, Clara left her, years ago now. Harry hasn’t stopped drinking since. John hasn’t talked to her in years either; she’s too bitter, too selfish. Too much like him, probably.
He feels hung-over, in some distant way.
Maybe he’s just wishing he could blame it all on the booze. Maybe that’s it.
John thought this final day would feel crystal-clear in his mind, that he’d be nothing but focused on what he needed to do, but instead it’s this heavy haze.
Too soon, Mike announces, “Time for lunch. Tattoo machines down please!”
John gives his client a quick temporary wrap on his back. The whole morning is gone, and he isn’t even close to being done.
“Okay?” Sherlock catches his eye.
“Fine, yeah.”
They sit close together and eat, but they don’t talk much. Janine’s having lunch with her client; they can hear them talk together, something about stealing van Eyck’s Adoration of the Mystic Lamb. Janine laughs loudly.
“They’re getting along.” John chews mechanically. He barely tastes the sarnies. His head’s too full with everything.
Sherlock answers easily, “Yes, she wanted a man.”
“Wait, you set them up?”
“Hm.” Sherlock has a sip of his drink. “Polyamorous Art History student. Thought she’d enjoy that.”
“...right.”
When he’s done eating, Sherlock gets up, and John follows him out.
They wander a bit out of sight, behind the building.
Sherlock’s hand trembles slightly as he takes a cigarette and lights it. It’s barely there, but it is and it feels... John swallows. Dammit. “How are you doing?”
“Perfectly fine.”
Sherlock’s work is doing fine, there’s no doubt about that. John knows Sherlock’s client will end up with a gorgeous back piece. But whether Sherlock is…
He doesn’t say any of the words, though. The ones John’s been thinking. Don’t go back. You’re so unhappy there you’re barely alive. John doesn’t even know whether he wants Sherlock to say anything. It’s easier if they pretend it isn’t true.
John’s eye falls on his cane. Sherlock’s the most devastating thing that’s happened to him since getting shot, is that what he’d like to hear? John can’t say that. He doesn’t want to be told that he means nothing at all to Sherlock. That none of this did.
Right before they enter the studio again, Sherlock says softly, “You will win, John.”
“Yeah, you think so?” John scoffs as he looks at him. “You’re brilliant, Janine’s got a great design. We all know I’m going for third place here.”
“You will win.” Sherlock repeats it as they walk.
“Well then.” John sighs. “Glad you’re confident.”
They go back to their shops.
Mike waits until they’re set, then counts down, “Three, two, one – and for the very last time… tattoo!”
John looks at his work. He knows he can finish it, but he’ll have to be fast about it.
The last hours of the tattoo, John focuses only on what he needs to do. He has pure tunnel vision. One line after the next, every detail is magnified for him, and he doesn’t think of anything else because there’s no space left for anything else.
Sherlock doesn’t come by, either. Somewhere in the back of his mind John misses his presence, but he’s in no position to stop. It’s a race to the finish for all of them now. It’s just the sound of the three tattoo machines, buzzing in unison.
Three artists, attempting to do the very best work of their careers.
The cameras pass by regularly to film their progress as the time ticks down, but even those are mostly respectful and don’t get in the way too much. They film them wiping the tattoos, checking every line, pulling another line here and there, adding, adjusting, frantically hoping that this is good enough, and that the work will speak for itself.
The production assistant comes by to give them a thirty minute warning. Then twenty, then ten.
“Artists…” Mike’s voice booms, a hint of tension even there.
John tattoos one more line, tiny, just a darker hint behind the eye sockets.
“This is it. Your time is up. Please put your tattoo machines down.”
John turns his triple-coiled machine off. The sudden lack of buzzing feels strange, and he can still feel the rumble in his hand when he carefully sprays the freshly tattooed skin and wipes down the lymphocytes and blood.
The cameras come over, and John helps his client up to look at it.
“Good, that.”
John nods tiredly. He can feel the weight of all of this piling on top of him now. He made it to the final. This is what he wanted to do, but now he made it this far, he can’t be sure it’ll be enough.
He looks at the tattoo one more time, his illustrative black work skulls.
There is nothing more he can do.
His client leaves, and John cleans off his work space. He’s not sure what to do with all of his machine parts. The pile of tissues and cling film goes in the bin, but his inks – does he need to pack them already and get his suitcase ready? There will be enough time after, won’t there?
He leaves it all and gets up instead. John’s leg is more than stiff, he can barely bend it as he walks, but he goes to find Sherlock. “Hey, you.”
Sherlock is cleaning off his bench, and he looks up as soon as he sees him. “John.”
Sherlock’s voice is warm, and that alone is enough, John thinks. To see him for a bit longer, to have him here, both of them going through the exact same thing.
“You nervous?” John asks. He isn’t, particularly.
“While a certain amount of adrenaline can indeed enhance performance, nervousness at this point would be useless.” Sherlock says it seriously.
John laughs. Oh, Sherlock. “Yeah, you’re right.”
The two of them walk over to the chairs and sit down. Janine joins them, and the judges walk up, ready to start the judging for the very last time.
Mike says, with certain seriousness, “Time to judge your tattoos, and decide who has what it takes to become… Ink Master.”
John takes a deep breath. This is it, then.
“Sherlock.” Mike turns to Sherlock. “You specialise in geometric and dotwork tattoos. You work from a private workspace right here in central London, in Baker Street.”
“You first distinguished yourself in this competition by executing a difficult black and grey scar cover-up with great finesse,” Irene picks in. “And your Van Gogh was exemplary as well.”
“Let’s see what you chose to show us today.” Mike smiles.
Sherlock’s geometrical back piece is shown onto the screen.
It’s meticulous, that’s the first thing John sees. The lines on paper somehow managed to transfer to a curved body and still appear entirely perfect. The technical work needed to accomplish that alone is insane.
“I love seeing big work like this. It’s impressive,” Mike starts off. “I think the coverage you get in this amount of time is extraordinary.”
“Very technical,” Jim says. “Near-perfect.”
“You actually pulled off a full geometrical back piece.” Irene seems proud. “There’s nothing missing here. It’s intricate, incredibly detailed, and beautifully structured.”
John feels in awe as well as they zoom in on the smaller lines. Christ, Sherlock lined an entire back single needle. It’s easy to forget, but Sherlock is an artist with international fame. He’s known all over the business, and for very good reason. No one does what he does the way he does it. Very few out there even could come close.
While John is nothing. A bloke who works in his wife’s shop.
“This looks like art, and it is, but more importantly it’s workmanship as well,” Mike says. “Any tattoo artist looking at this will know that this takes technical ability and a deep understanding of how to design a tattoo to work with the anatomy.”
John tries to see the meaning underneath the lines. The chemical clusters are there, but they’re also hidden enough that it’s not at all obvious, like a code of some sort. None of the judges seems to pick up on it.
“It’s a dynamic piece. It’s readable, crisp, and applied flawlessly.” Irene seems convinced.
“Interesting choice of topic, though.” Jim grins. “How did you come up with that, Sherlock?”
“I design my bodysuits based on a variety of biological and scientific samples, then reproduce and multiply said patterns to create a design that is both factual and aesthetically pleasing.” Sherlock rattles it off.
“...Well, beautiful work,” Irene says.
Before Jim can comment again, Mike turns to Janine. “Janine. Not only do you work as a tattoo artist at Baksheesh Ink in Clapham, you have a master’s degree in modern art, and have had several exhibitions as an Irish-Pakistani street artist here in London.”
John didn’t even know half of that.
“You first distinguished yourself in the very first flash challenge by tattooing a new school pig holding an axe,” Irene says. “As well as winning a second time in the trash polka challenge with your bright and daring Cheshire Cat.”
“Let’s see what you chose to tattoo for the final challenge,” Mike prompts.
Janine’s pop art portrait tattoo of Malala Yousafzai is shown.
Her work is bright. John can see her modern art influences, the shapes, dots, colours, and then the image itself. Even if he hadn’t seen her paint it, John could recognise it as being Janine’s for sure. There’s a certain funny, sarcastic quality about it. She knows exactly what kind of artist she is, and she’s not afraid to stand for what she believes in.
“Well Janine, I think you definitely hit this one out of the park. The colour play - the brightness of the colours and the juxtapositions of the cool to the warm tones - one of the nicest tattoos I’ve seen you do,” Mike says.
“You were the only one to do colour, or a portrait,” Irene notes. “And I think it paid off. The colour choices bring this portrait to life. And the subject…” She shakes her head. “Using Malala’s image was a great idea. We can’t say that you played it safe!”
“The look, the motion, the flow, as well as the idea. I think it’s a killer job,” Jim says.
“And lastly… John.” John’s pretty sure he can hear more than a hint of pride in Mike’s voice. “John, you are an army doctor, a veteran wounded in Afghanistan who came to tattooing only after returning to London. You interned at my own shop, St. Bartholomew’s, and you are now working at AGRA tattoo.”
“You distinguished yourself in this competition by winning the graffiti flash challenge, as well as the illustrative blackwork challenge where you drew an anatomically correct heart without reference,” Irene says. She smiles. “Let’s see what your back piece looks like.”
John can see his own work on the screen. It’s different to see it like this than when he was working right on top of it. He’s not sure about the cohesion, but the tattoos themselves are strong, he thinks.
“I do love me some skulls,” Jim says gleefully.
“It’s really unexpected for an old school artist,” Irene says. “Such an original approach. It’s like you threw all you knew out of the window and finally decided to tattoo as yourself.” She looks at him. “I like it.”
Mike nods. “That’s when an artist really grows, when you know all of the fundamentals as well as John does, and then decide to push past that and create something that’s entirely your own.”
“It was brave,” Irene says. “The risk of the contour and shape of the client’s back messing with the dynamics of the linework alone. And despite the minimal shading or light source, you have created a lot of contrast.”
John nods numbly. Good. They didn’t hate it. But then they didn’t find fault with anyone’s today.
Mike echoes his thoughts when he says, “All three of you are talented artists. You have proven that time and time again, and today was no different.”
Right.
“But only one of you has what it takes.” Mike looks stern. “Only one of you will win the cash prize of one hundred thousand pounds, a feature in Ink Magazine, and the title of ‘Ink Master’!”
John shares a look with Sherlock. He seems a bit pale, but he meets his eyes without hesitation.
“The judges have deliberated, and we have decided.” Mike has a piece of paper in his hands. “Irene, what is your choice?”
Irene sits up. “Someone who was the dark horse in this competition. This person was in the bottom several times, but they kept on fighting. They never gave up, and they never stopped believing. They ended as one of the strongest voices in this competition.” She smiles. “Janine.”
Janine inhales loudly next to him.
“Jim?” Mike turns towards him. “Do you agree, and did Janine’s choice of topic and her colour work win it for you?”
“Well…” Jim laughs, a strange twist to his mouth. “No.”
There’s a flicker of surprise on both Mike’s and Irene’s faces that is smoothed out quickly. Did they think he was going to agree?
“I think someone else should take it. Someone who grew the most, a good competitor, nice steady hands… John.”
“Your vote is for... John?” Mike repeats.
“It sure is!” Jim winks at him.
Is this, is he serious? John’s not sure what to think of that. Are they going to give each of them a vote or something, the last vote will be for Sherlock then?
Mike unfolds his piece of paper and he raises his eyebrows. He looks at the paper again, reads it, then he looks directly at John. John can feel his stomach tense. No.
Sherlock turns his head to look at him as well, an anxious smile playing on his lips.
“The winner of the UK’s first edition of Ink Master is...” Mike takes a breath. “John Watson.”
WHAT? John swallows.
“You are the winner of a cash prize of one hundred thousand pounds, a feature in Ink Magazine, and the title of...”
John doesn’t listen to it. His head is spinning. He won. He bloody won!
Irene steps down from the podium, reaches out a hand, and says, “Congratulations!” Mike follows her, then Jim, Sherlock by his side, Janine’s there - John tries to stand, he nods and smiles and replies even though he has no idea what to say.
“And we have one more surprise.” Mike raises his voice to be heard. “We have brought your families!”
A group of people appear into the studio - the first ones John doesn’t recognise, but then he sees Mary, running up with Rosie on her arm. Rosie is looking teary, but Mary is absolutely beaming.
“John!” She gives him a one-armed hug and says rapidly, “We watched backstage, I saw.” She shakes her head and smiles so widely, so happily. “John, you won!”
She pulls him in for a hug again, Rosie stuck between them, and John can feel the realisation hit him again and again. He won. He won.
John catches a glance of Sherlock over Mary’s shoulder – he’s with an older woman who is looking at him proudly – but Rosie starts wailing between them, clearly overwhelmed by the noise and the crowd around her.
“Here, I…” John takes her from Mary. Rosie’s warm, and John automatically shushes her while she hides her face in his shirt.
He scans the crowd for Sherlock again, and this time John meets Sherlock’s eyes. It feels like a shot, with Rosie held close to his chest. John can feel his heart stutter.
Sherlock nods at him, clearly. Then he walks off.
John can feel the breath leave him. No, don’t...
He’s gone.
Mike is there, talking over Rosie’s cries and Mary’s grip on his arm. “John, such good work. You surprised all of us with that last one, really solid-”
Irene is saying, “-always had the talent, improved so much-“
Rosie wails against his chest, and John… He hands Rosie back to Mary.
“I’m gonna -” John goes after Sherlock. He needs to see him. Christ, at least to say goodbye!
John hurries through the crowd, leaning heavily on his cane. He takes the corridor towards the exit, throws the door open, but Sherlock’s not there, like he assumed. He’s not under the awning, either. Thinking about it, John’s not even sure he saw Sherlock go this way. Did he go backstage instead?
John walks back into the studio and scans the room.
The old woman who was with Sherlock is now happily inspecting Irene’s tattoos, John can hear her say, “I’ve got a chest piece too, you know. Sherlock did it for me.”
Janine’s family is everywhere, Mike is tickling Rosie and trying to make her laugh, Mary looks at John oddly – but Sherlock is gone.
John’s stomach twists sharply. He didn’t want it to go like this. He thought they’d have the whole evening to say goodbye still, he thought…
He didn’t think, that’s it.
John tries backstage. He pushes past a door, then walks through a long corridor, not even sure what he’s looking for. Why would Sherlock have come here? John’s looking around, finding no one, when he hears the by now familiar sound of Jim’s voice behind a door.
He’s not sure where it came from, but one door is not fully closed, so John pushes it open. He’s expecting to see Jim on the phone or something like that.
Instead, John looks straight into a large mirror.
Jim is there, standing up. And Sherlock is on his knees in front of him. Sherlock's head is moving back and forth, steered by Jim’s hands around his neck.
John turns around and walks off.
He marches back into the studio. There are people everywhere, speaking to him, laughing, saying congratulations. John pays them no heed. He packs up his studio space, fast, his hands automatically dissembling his machines and sorting them into his aluminium travel case.
Mary comes over, her voice full of concern, and he claims something – pain, need to go, Rosie needs a nap – John doesn’t even know what he says. He waves at everyone on the way out, feeling like there’s not a breath left inside his chest. Feeling like he might throw up, if he were to think on it.
John walks out of the film studio along with Mary and Rosie, a white-hot haze around his head.
He doesn’t look back.
---
It still smells like paint.
John’s brand new shop only has the tattooing bench, so John is sitting on that. He turns his laptop off - the final episode’s over, and the credits are rolling. It’s all over now.
John won it all.
It’s late summer; it’s been almost five months since the competition. John walks out of his shop, locks it behind himself, and takes the tube. It’s boiling, even in the evening, but he barely feels it.
221b Baker Street.
All this time, Sherlock has lived only a tube ride away. But he never came, he never called. It ended right then and there with Jim, and John got that message – loud and clear.
Or he thought that he did. But it turns out he can’t live with that. Not anymore.
John gets out at the Baker Street tube stop and strides up to the house, his cane thudding urgently on the pavement. Number 221b. There’s no shopfront, just a doorbell shared between “Mrs. Hudson” and “Sherlock Holmes tattoos.” John rings it.
The older woman John saw at the final opens the door. Mrs. Hudson, John presumes. Her eyes widen and she practically shouts, “John Watson!”
“Is Sherlock-” John is halfway though asking, when he hears a sound from upstairs. There are heavy thumps, then a door slamming open, and John looks up to see Sherlock appear there.
It’s like looking at a complete stranger.
Except Sherlock says, “Go away Mrs. Hudson, now!" while he hurries down the stairs as if John might disappear into thin air, and if John didn’t know it before, he knows it now.
It’s in Sherlock’s face, when he stills in front of him.
“You did it for me.” John thought he’d convinced himself. He thought it was just what he wanted to think, but it’s not. “Jim.”
Sherlock’s mouth opens. “John, whatever he might have told you…”
“He didn’t tell me. I saw.” John swallows. “His dressing room.”
“...Ah.” Sherlock looks like he has been slapped in the face. He takes a breath and says, “The competition was rigged from the beginning, I merely -”
“Yeah.” John deflates. He thought so. He knew it, really. He just didn’t want to see it.
It’s the why that John came for. Why Sherlock did all that for him, when they were never going to see each other again. Because John thinks he’s got it figured out.
“Your back piece. Serotonin, testosterone, adrenaline, norepinephrine, dopamine, and oxytocin.” John thought it was interesting at the time, but nothing more. He didn’t think. “It’s, um, love.” He checks with Sherlock. “You tattooed love.”
Sherlock says, carefully, “Infatuation does not equal-”
“Not infatuation.” John stands there, on the threshold, hoping that it’s not too late. “Or not for me it wasn’t.”
There’s a hope blossoming in Sherlock’s eyes. It’s a knife’s edge of want that John can feel press against his own throat as well. Please.
“John...” Sherlock says quickly, “Tattoo my back. All of it.”
“Do my hands,” John counters. He spent months imagining Sherlock’s work there and regretting he didn’t go for it. “My neck, too. I’m a bloody Ink Master - I can get away with it.”
“Clearly.” Sherlock smiles, so hesitantly.
And that’s it. John reaches out, and Sherlock meets him halfway.
Finally.