This is my first fanfiction for BBC's SHERLOCK! Set after Season 2 Episode 3 to deal with my Reichenbach Blues. After Sherlocks return. I haven't written fanfiction in ages, and english is not my native language, so if you find any mistakes you can keep them :)

Enjoy!

Studies in Ink

John tried desperately to ignore the pain in his right leg and suppressed the groan that was coming from his mouth. He pressed both of his hands against the wound and clenched his teeth, but the pain didn't go away.

He knew it wasn't fatal. He was a doctor after all. But that didn't mean that the spot where the knife that had slashed his jeans open and took a bit of his flesh with it didn't hurt like hell. But more than anything, it was annoying. He could see through his tear-blurred eyes, that the drug dealer he had chased was getting away.

Once again, the brave doctor tried to stand up, pushed one of his hands against the dirty and wet ground of the dark alleyway, but slipped and skinned his elbow instead.

„John?"

Suddenly, John tried hard not to laugh. Even though Sherlock had returned over three months ago, the army doctor still sometimes thought it was a dream, when he heard the voice of the worlds only consulting detective in his ears. He could almost feel the footsteps of him, and probably Lestrade and his team, coming closer, all of their voices shouting his name to find him.

It had been reckless to follow the drug dealer, he knew that, but he had done a lot more reckless things during Sherlocks absence.

His train of thought was interrupted, when the footsteps suddenly stopped and he heard the shocked gasps from his friends and colleagues at the end of the alleyway while he still pressed his hand against his bleeding injury.

"John!"

"Oh, my god.."

"Sally, call an ambulance!"

A few tears of pain escaped his eyes and he once again groaned as he felt the warm blood drenching his trousers, but still, he tried to get up.

Suddenly, he could feel one of Sherlocks ice cold hands on his face, the other one placed on his, pressing on the wound.

"Oh god, John, you're bleeding.", he mumbled, more to himself than to the injured army doctor. He could feel Sherlock lifting, just long enough for him to place his upper body onto his lap. Johns vision was still a bit blurry from the angry tears he had shed, but he could see the expression of concern and guilt on his flatmates face.

"Oh, come on Holmes, stop that..", he moaned, a cocky smirk suddenly appearing on his face. "It's just a scratch."

At least DI Lestrade believed him, because he didn't lose any time and asked John where the drug dealer had run off to. As soon as the Inspector was gone, Sally Donovan came running into the alley and bent down to the consulting detective and his friend. "The ambulance is on it's way.", she said, trying to catch her breath, before she started to run again to help Lestrade.

John didn't even have the chance to say anything to her, because suddenly he concentrated on the hand that pressed on his on his thigh. Sherlock was shaking.

"Sh-Sherlock..", John hissed, ignoring a painful pinch that soared through his leg. He knew it was just his muscles acting up, but still it hurt. "Sherlock, it's nothing, really. I can barely feel-"

"Shut up..", the consulting detective interrupted and clenched the hand that was supporting Johns shoulder into his jumper. "You got hurt. It's my fault."

The army doctor wanted to argue, but all of a sudden, his vision got blurry again. 'What the hell-'

"John?"

He could still hear Sherlock talk, but his mouth denied him the ability to speak to his friend. He wanted to tell him it was nothing. He wanted to tell him that it was not his fault. But he couldn't.

"John, stay with me. John? John!"

The last thing that John Watson saw, before he lost consciousness, was the concerned face of his favourite consulting detective, and he could have sworn, that he saw tears in his eyes. And then, everything went black.

The first thought that came to Johns mind when he woke up was: 'Damn you, Sherlock.'

It did not take him long to figure out the reason why he had fainted. The injury on his leg was really just a slightly bigger scratch, but all the running around across London, with nothing to eat but a small sandwhich on the run and less than two hours of sleep had taken its toll on John Watsons body.

He could feel that he was alone in the room and that it was in fact quite late – or early, however you thought about 3 A.M. John could feel the throbbing in his right thigh, but it was dull and he barely noticed it. Slowly, he opened his eyes and took a quick look around. He was lying on a hospital bet, covered in white, clean sheets that smelled of disinfectant. Other than the slight pain in his leg, he felt fine, but very, very tired. But he couldn't go back to sleep yet. He had to check if everything was still okay. He had to check that the secret he had kept from Sherlock had not taken any damage.

With an annoyed moan he pushed himself into a sitting position and shifted a little, so that the white sheets slipped off his right leg. Apparently the paramedics had removed his clothes to treat his wound. A terrifying thought suddenly took over Johns mind and he gulped. What if Sherlock knew? How could he explain? John was dressed in a simple hospital gown that barely covered his body. It was easy to slip it aside.

The army doctor sighed in relieve and carefully touched the ten fresh stitches that held the flesh together. The would was right under the few words that were written in ink, stitched into his leg almost two years ago.

"- don't care about the case right now, Lestrade! I'm going to check up on John!"

"Will you keep it down, Sherlock? We're in a hospital!"

"I don't freakin' care!"

"It's 3 o'clock in the morning, damnit!"

John hurried to cover himself up again and suppressed a laugh, when he heard the nurse scold the two men outside of his door for being so disrespectful and behaving like children in a hospital full of sick people who needed their rest. He also felt a touch of pride for the nurse when she said: "I don't care if you're from Scotland Yard, our patients are trying to sleep! So shut up or I'll have you both thrown out!"

Without a single thought, Sherlock burst into the room, fuming with anger, but stopped right in his tracks when he saw John, sitting up in his bed, fumbling with the sheets.

"John! You're awake!", he said, grinning like an idiot. The doctor watched his friend with concern. Sherlock seemed so out of character, but suddenly he couldn't bring himself to care. It was kind of sweet. Sherlock sat down on the edge of the bed, dangerously close to his injury, and John did his best not to look down nervously.

Lestrade came in only a few seconds later and sighed. He looked awfully tired and exhausted, but as soon as his eyes locked with Johns, he smiled.

"Glad to see you're awake John. How are you feeling?", he asked and turned on the lights before closing the door behind him.

Greg did not stay for very long though. What confused John though was, that Sherlock kept quiet during his whole conversation with the Inspector. Lestrade informed him that he and Sally had succeeded in catching the drug-dealer because John had delivered a massive punch to his head that made the guy so dizzy, he had fainted only three streets away. There were still a few lose ends on the case, which was why he had been looking for Sherlock, who had waited patiently for the last six hours at the doctors side.

With the promise to come by Baker Street soon, Greg left the room. "Feel better soon.", he said, before closing the door behind him.

Sherlock didn't waste a second.

"Let me see it."

"I'm sorry, what?"

Subconciously, Johns hands grabbed the sheets around him tighter, and he knew by the look on Sherlocks face, that he had not missed the movement. Confused, he looked down and watched the doctors hands, while speaking.

"Your injury. It's my fault that you got stabbed. I want to see it.", he said, reaching for the sheets.

Suddenly, Johns face turned an alarming shade of red. He would NOT show his leg to Sherlock. Absolutely not.

"No."

The detectives eyes met his again and his confusion grew.

"Why not?"

"Because!"

Sherlock snorted and with one strong pull, threw the sheets away from Johns lap all the way down to his knees. He rolled his eyes.

"Oh please, John. Don't tell me you're shy. You're an army doctor. And your anatomy is not different from any other man."

Sherlocks hands made their way to the end of Johns hospital gown. As fast as he could, John grabbed the detectives wrists and pressed them onto the matress.

"Stop it, Sherlock.", he hissed, but couldn't ban the embarrassed look from his face or the pleading sound in his voice.

"Seriously, John, don't be dull.", Sherlock complained, trying to free himself, but John fought. He did not want Sherlock to see. He couldn't let him see. So he grabbed Sherlocks wrists tighter.

But due to all the fighting and shifting, he did not notice the hospital gown slipping, exposing his injury and unfortunately, the tattoo that hewas desperately trying to hide. John didn't seem to notice at first, but as soon as he saw the shocked expression on his flat mates face, his eyes pinned to his right thigh, he knew that Sherlock had seen. He was not fighting any longer, didn't try to break free from Johns grip.

The doctor, seeing no point in restraining the young man anymore, let go of his wrists and placed his hands onto his own eyes instead, moaning and resting his back down onto the pillows.

"J-John..".

Sherlocks voice was shaking. The last time Watson had heard his flat mates voice this shaky, he had been standing on the edge of St. Bart's hospital, right before jumping off the roof.

John tried not to shiver as he felt Sherlocks tentative fingertips tracing the words on his thigh that had been stitched into the flesh, to stay for the rest of his life.

In simple, black ink, five words graced John Watsons skin:

'I believe in Sherlock Holmes'

"I don't understand.", the consulting detective finally confessed, hoping for an explanation. A laugh escaped Johns throat, but it almost sounded like a sob. He knew he had to tell him now.

"It's kind of embarrassing.", John admitted, finally looking at Sherlock again, smiling timidly. "I had it made four months after you... you know." After all this time he still couldn't say it. Ignoring the burning feeling in his eyes, he shook his head to tell the story.

"The newspapers, the journalists, the tv-reports. It was just too much for me. Everybody kept telling me that you were a fake, a fraud. Even though Lestrade solved the mystery behind Moriartys body on the roof and somehow proofed that you were not, they didn't seem to believe him."

Suddenly, as if he was afraid that he was talking to a ghost, John rested his hand on Sherlocks, that was still placed on his tattoo, and squeezed it.

"Everybody wanted me to believe that you were a fake. Even you. But I didn't buy it, because I had proof."

Absent mindedly, he wiped away the single tear that was running down his left cheek, before he continued. He was ashamed. "You cured my psychosomatic limp. And that was my proof. So I decided I would do something to remind me that you are not a fake. Something that would remind me that you were my friend, every single day. And what better spot to put such a reminder than my former psychosomatic limping leg?"

Before John could look into Sherlocks eyes (perhaps to see disgust, embarrassment, rejection) his breath got caught in his throat, because the consulting detective was encircling him in a bone-crushing hug.

"I've never been a fan of tattoos..", Sherlock confessed, making Johns stomach clench for just a second. "but I think I like this one. A lot."

John couldn't help but smile after hearing these words and responded to his friends hug. He could feel Sherlocks hair tickling his neck, his breath teasing the exposed flesh on his shoulder.

After a few moments though, they both coughed nervously and a little embarrassed, and John began to cover himself up again.

John was allowed to go home the next day to rest his leg at Baker Street, dressed in a fresh pair of jeans that Mrs. Hudson had brought for him to wear. The fabric stretched over the bandages that had been placed over the injury to prevent the friction between the trousers and the stitches. But other than the nurse and him, only sherlock knew that the fabric also covered up the proof of Sherlock Holmes, being a hero and a true friend – at least for John.

That was it! A little cheesy, huh? I don't know if I will continue this. I had the idea because I really like tattoos, but they have to have a meaning. If you just get stitched and don't like the motive a year later, it's a waste of time and money. And I thought it would be something that John would maybe do, just to remind himself that Sherlock was real.