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Mycroft Holmes sported a blooming red scrape on his pristinely shaved and usually smooth cheek thanks to the wall he had fallen against. It had been swabbed diligently and the alcohol was still stinging. His right wrist had a slight sprain thanks to the same wall. Using it to brace himself at that angle may not have been his brightest moment as the latter part of the fight had shown. However, both were minor and gave him almost no cause for concern. He would have gladly been at his office, with a glass of brandy, sifting through the letters they had managed to unearth from the turncoat. But there was the blow he had taken to his chest, and that had required a physician. The already darkened bruise with its brilliant hues from red to blue to purple could only be described as – livid. The darned thing hurt as if he had broken a rib! He hadn’t and not to repeat himself but he would have been happier back in his office if he could. But his man Pavers would have given him his silent disapproval for a week and he knew better than to dare it. So he was instead at the club being seen to by his doctor. Pavers approved of his doctor.
To Doctor Watson, ex-army man and lover of Mycroft Holmes, it was a familiar sight albeit one which he could not bear even after seven months of what he admitted only to himself as ‘making love’. Of course they couldn’t indulge frequently and sometimes, much to his disappointment, it had to be short and quick. But, those times when they did indulge, he had noticed the multiple scars on his lover’s body. While his combined experience as a soldier and physician told him the possible weapons and angles of attack that could cause them, he had never enquired into their origins. For one they seldom had the luxury to speak at length and for another he knew that the work his lover did for Her Majesty's government was highly confidential.
In fact, so far he knew of the origins of only two of those scars.
The first, was the one that had made their acquaintance essential. Doctor Hooper had been required outside London and as a poor ex-army man was taking a short-cut to his lodgings, a statuesque, polished stranger had kidnapped him (as he liked to teasingly refer to their meeting in the dark alley), to tender to a knife wound.
The second, was the one Mycroft got grappling with a traitor armed with a gun (the doctor’s nightmares had revisited after that episode).
Today, it had been the ivory head of a cane. It wouldn’t scar and the ribs underneath had been spared, but the almost fist sized bruise from the impact on that well loved skin left the good doctor just as livid as its appearance.
A soft sigh and a hand on his jaw pulled him out of his brooding, “Don’t be angry, John.”
The good doctor closed his eyes wearily and let out a breath. The lines of his face releasing the glower. He knew he was being unreasonable but he couldn’t help it. He lovingly caressed the pale flesh of his lover’s body. Couldn’t Mycroft understand why he was upset? Mycroft wasn't reckless like his sibling but the man did take too many risks. There were times when Watson wished that Mycroft was in fact a "minor official in the government" as he so often professed to be. He detested those thoughts but... He wondered if all soldiers were such hypocrites when it came to their loved ones? He dragged his hands down the pale but firm sides soothingly.
“Any of these could have taken you away from me,” he whispered in remonstrance. “I don’t even know where most of these come from. And I wasn’t there either to protect you or to help you heal.”
Mycroft quirked a smile, “My dearest friend. I have no secrets from you. I am sure that my soldier-doctor could guess the genesis of each pithy reminder of my misspent youth. What’s more I am even more certain that he could heal each one even after all this time.”
Watson gave a half amused scowl still distressed. He half turned to pick a towel and wiped his fingers of the salve. Then he stood and covered the bed with a linen sheet so the bedclothes wouldn’t get stained. “You are a silver tongued fox, Mr. Holmes. I am surprised Her Highness lets you leave her side. You would make a fine courtier. Lie down now and—”
Mycroft turned sombre, as he interrupted, “No, John. I am in earnest. You can heal me. Heal each of them. I won’t say how I got them. I daresay I don’t recall most of it.” He brought his hand to Watson’s face as he looked into his eyes, “But I stand by what I said— you could easily surmise the cause and while I cannot satisfy the soldier in you, will you nor allow my doctor to indulge me and treat them as he deems fit, please?” So saying he brought one of the doctor's hands to his heart and pressed it there.
John Watson looked up to his lover in wonder and marvelled that this spy, this keeper of secrets, would so easily lay himself bare to a common doctor. With infinite care he finished undressing Mycroft. Not taking his eyes off the man, he removed his unbuttoned waistcoat and his shirt. Next to go was the undershirt bunched to his armpits. Watson carefully eased it over his head. Then he pulled off Mycroft's shoes and pushed him gently on to the bed. It was still daylight outside and the windows let in the mild sun. It set off the English tone of the pale skin beautifully. Mycroft lay on his side. His eyes calm as he saw his doctor's agitation. Watson unbuttoned his fall and pulled down his trousers next and followed it with his stockings and finally his drawers.
He sat on the edge of the bed as his eyes roved the lithe form. Where should he start? He bent to place a soft whisper of a kiss on the grazed cheek. He then blew cool air on it. Hoping to soothe it. He smoothed the ruffled hair with care.
Drawing his fingers down his face, his neck, his shoulders all the way to his wrist, he lifted Mycroft’s hand and rubbed his face on the inside. He glanced at his lover as he caressed the inside of the right forearm with his cheek, his eyes, his chin. “This bone has been reset,” he pronounced. Mycroft merely nodded. "A fall?"
"From a horse," was the reply.
He climbed on the bed, crouching on his knees and touched the side of Mycroft’s ribs next. He felt the scar that had brought them together. He placed his palm over it. Covering it fully. It had been a short sharp blade that had sliced into the back. A better angle, a more skilled hand and… No he wouldn’t dwell on it. He slowly turned Mycroft onto his stomach. Watson placed his mouth over the scar and breathed in deeply. Then he opened his mouth and sucked the flesh in. Hard. A hiss escaped Mycroft. A few moments later he released the flesh. It had reddened. An imprint of love upon the lingering traces of cruelty.
He traced a scar that wound its way from the middle of Mycroft’s back all the way to his left buttock. His touch raised goose bumps on the flesh. It had definitely been made by a well-honed blade. He ran his blunt nails along it, scraping it softly. Mycroft groaned, and turning he said, “Don’t make me keen on begetting more scars my love. It is either that or envy them.”
Watson gave a huff of laugh in response. His melancholy was receding. Mycroft had of course known that, the wily man. He made Mycroft lay flat on his back and moved to settle between Mycroft’s legs. Resting on his knees. He pulled up the right leg slightly. There was a small faded but ugly scar on the outside of his knee that had been stitched. “Given that this is most probably the result of some childhood mischief, I highly doubt you have ever had an aversion to scars, sir.” He taunted and scraped it with his teeth.
The muffled “Umpf” from above, accompanied by an aborted squirm, was most satisfactory. Keen on more scars was he? He would have to make sure that he marked Mycroft with love bruises more often, thought the doctor.
He trailed tiny nips from the knee to the thigh, skipped over an overeager and thankfully unharmed part of Mycroft and kissed him on the left hip. An almost round scar marked the left hipbone. Possibly the end of a very hot metal pole or a heated coin was the cause. Torture? He shuddered at the thought and bit it. When Mycroft drew a sudden breath, he soothed the skin with his tongue, circling it to draw soft whimpers from Mycroft. But that wasn't enough to draw them away from the thoughts that had intruded, so Watson opened his mouth and suckled that spot savagely.
“Joooohn!”
The plea from Mycroft did not let Watson dwell too long. He could sense that the mood had turned. For the better. He would ensure that it stayed that way. They saw enough pain elsewhere and he would be damned if he let Mycroft linger over it with his own excessive brooding. So once again he went to battle. Armed with the knowledge of his lover's body, he charged with all his artillery to ensure that the body beneath him wouldn't be a mere map of scars. It would be their atlas of love. He opened his mouth to the smooth skin where the thigh met the belly. Tongue, lips, teeth, all assaulted that delicate and sensitive skin. Experience had taught him that it was a favoured area. The soft whimpers continued as he left splashes of red all over. Watson dragged his rough jaw down (it was the end of the day and the delicate skin was bound to burn with the scrape of his heavy whiskers) so he could bury his nose in the crease. He inhaled and the delicate shudder that ran through Mycroft told him that it was time. Mycroft’s cock rested eagerly against Watson’s cheek and ear. Watson opened his mouth to breath out warmly.
“Please, John,” Mycroft was all too ready with another plea.
His tongue darted out and he lapped at the crease of the thigh to soothe and provoke. Long firm strokes caressed Mycroft’s flesh. He seemed to be laving every inch between Mycroft’s thighs, save for the aching core pulsing with need.
Mycroft bucked his hips and writhed helplessly. Gah! He wished he didn’t bruise so easily. The man would leave him black and blue without any effort. He wasn’t even sucking hard enough to take off the edge of his arousal.
Watson held him firmly around the arse, his fingers digging hard enough to just shy from pain. But his crotch was throbbing worse. That part remained almost untouched. Almost because it would get a ghost of touch at times. John seemed to ignore it but as he changed sides his cheek brushed it, or his hair slid against it, then his breath ghosted on it, but the fingers and the mouth stayed away. He seemed hell bent on biting and laving and suckling everywhere except his cock. In short, John was driving him mad.
He had Mycroft babbling with need. Mycroft begged with frustration, “Please please please please.” He cursed, “Darned tormen..!” Blasphemed, “Oh God! Anything, just anything. Oh God”. He threatened, “Wait till…I... just you… I…”. And grovelled, “Just a touch. Just one. Please John. Please.” He helplessly tugged and pulled at Watson’s hair, his fingers clawed at those stubborn shoulders and he tried to thrust up ineffectively.
Finally, Watson had mercy on his lover and wrapped one hand around his penis. Mycroft shuddered furiously with relief. It was rather short-lived as Watson smoothly pulled his hand to the tip and caressed the swollen tip with his thumb. He circled it smoothly, spreading the pearly drop. The curses had now given way to shuddering sighs and whimpers.
“I don’t think I will last!”
John raised himself on his knees and smoothed away the hair from Mycroft's forehead. “That’s fine. Brace yourself. If possible bite onto something. Here," he fumbled in his pocket, "Take my handkerchief.” Mycroft was too aroused to heed to the shame that his dear doctor knew how loud he could be in the throes of his need. He obediently did as he was told and received a kiss on his cheek.
Still on his knees, Watson anchored himself with one hand around his lover’s arse and the other stroking his penis. He bent and wet it thoroughly with his tongue, all the while stroking it with his hand. Then he took Mycroft in his mouth. Just the crown. A muffled shout was followed by an aborted thrust of hips. Watson soothingly caressed Mycroft and looked up to reassure himself. The sight of Mycroft eyes scrunched as if against pain (or too much pleasure), skin flushed a bright red, jaw rigid, mouth clamped on a folded bit of soft cloth, left him breathless. No words were enough to describe his lover in the throes of passion. Watson took a deep breath to anchor himself. He softly sucked at the tip, letting his tongue rest against the furrowed underside. The grip on his hair tightened and he heard a sob. He circled it with his tongue and felt the frantic thrashing of his lover. He twirled the tip of his tongue round and round the edge. Lightly at first and then more firmly with each pass.
Mycroft wasn't sure if this was the hottest heaven or the sweetest hell. That tongue that could soothe and cuss in equal measure now mercilessly drew out pleasure. It lapped at his flesh and encircled it tantalisingly, it darted in small pecks and thrust daringly at the slit, it soothed the nips from the teeth, and it left him burning. The sobs turned into a continuous soft keen. Perhaps it was enough of a signal because Watson opened his mouth, relaxed his grip on Mycroft and inhaled deeply. Immediately, Mycroft thrust inside the moist warmth.
Watson felt the length of his lover’s penis freely sliding into his mouth. He removed his hand to fondle his sac. Mycroft started to pump his hips almost sans conscious thought. Within moments Watson felt his balls start to draw tight and he used his tongue to push Mycroft’s cock it against the roof of his mouth. The effect was instantaneous. At the very first touch of his palate, he felt the muscles beneath him going rigid, the strong lithe form under him drew taut as a mongol's bow and arched just as beautifully, and Mycroft gushed out with a long drawn muffled groan.
When Watson looked up after lapping the seed, Mycroft lay flushed and pliant, slack-jawed, eyes shut in blissful languor. He crawled up and removed the handkerchief from the now slack mouth. “Sorry,” Mycroft mumbled.
“Shhhh.” He turned his lover on the side, and then lay down against his back, curling around him. His own comfort grew as he felt Mycroft calm beside him. The anger had long faded and even the raised scars on his lover’s body couldn’t bring it back. He sighed and caressed the bruises on Mycroft's thighs. He knew the origin of these very well.
They were all caused by one John Watson and his love-making. They wouldn’t hurt but they would blossom on this fair English skin like crocuses in snow. Then they would fade slowly and as they faded they would heal the other wounds that time had left.