Blindspot — Johnlock Ficlet
Writing from Creative Prompts For Writing's prompt list Kissing their body.
Prompt: 4. Kissing each fingertip
The strangest—no, the most frustrating, beguiling thing about trauma was that some triggers are entirely unpredictable.
Sherlock's mind palace had entire rooms dedicated to John Watson. His prose, his words, his faces, the things he wouldn't talk about, his mannerisms, the things he kept tidy, the things he found important, his nightmares, his dreams, the smell of his jacket, the sound of his footfall. He can predict the likely-hood of a nightmare with 89.76% accuracy, previously 72.3%, before he knew what it felt like to have John in his bed.
It was always, always in hindsight that he would know one of John's triggers. To him, a paper bag in the road was a paper bag. To John, it could mean the death of his unit. The articles on the effect of PTSD on the logical brain are fascinating but entirely useless to him when in the face of it. It was all an infuriating blindspot.
John's hand was shaking. He could feel the tension in his arm, the near imperceptible tremor of it hidden underneath the train car's table. It happened recently, John would have sat across from him instead of beside him if he knew his tremor had reappeared.
What caused it? He shuffled through their sequence of events as they got on the train. Was the trigger still present? His eyes flicked around the train car.
"A kid had a nosebleed." John leaned in, voice low and without tone. "His mum sat him down while you were putting our luggage up, tall bastard."
Poor attempt at humor. A bad sign for John's coping, a good sign for John's awareness. A nosebleed... John worked with people all day at the clinic, had certainly handled children's nosebleeds before.
"He was South Asian," John looked out the window, swallowed, "He looked... familiar."
The tip of John's hand grazed his thigh, flexing it open and closed without much effect. A quick, deep breath in and John pulled his hand towards his chest.
Sherlock caught it on the incline.
John turned away, fighting with the clear impulse to pull away. Sherlock would let him.
Sherlock turned John's hand around in his. The wish, however childish, to be able to take away John's distress was wrong. The urge, however dark, to peel away each layer slowly and methodically and make it all better. He could not do either.
John's nail was cold, his cuticles rough against the soft skin of his lips. Sherlock had memorized meters of John's skin with his lips but had he ever taken his mouth to these hands? Just like this? Worshipped these hands that protect life, that battle death, that cause it both in equal measure? He kissed each nail, cut down to prevent tearing nylon gloves. He kissed each callous, cultivated over decades of work. He barely resisted the urge to lick at each fingertip to memorize John's fingerprints with his tongue. He kissed the lines of his palm. The life line.
That took John to the battlefield. That put that bullet in his shoulder and set him home. That brought John to him. Sherlock supposed he could live with a few blindspots.
