"Come on Sherlock, it's a gorgeous day!" John Watson tugged at the hand of his best friend, who had more recently gained the title of boyfriend. "We don't have to go straight back to the flat – let's get a drink in the park first."

The sun was high in the blue London skyline, and it seemed like the entire population of London had flooded out into the streets and parks to bask in the warm glow of the sun. Sherlock and John had just finished wrapping up a case – or in Sherlock's case, gloating about the case – and they were on their way back from the centre of London.

"No – John, I've got things I need to do today." Sherlock refuted, resisting the tug of John's hand.

"What have you got to do that is so important that you can't spend half an hour out in the sunshine with me?" John questioned, stopping abruptly and causing Sherlock to stop also.

"I… well... oh – nothing." Sherlock spluttered, frowning slightly. "Just half an hour though! Then we go back to the flat."

"Deal." John nodded, "Come on, let's get a drink and sit on the grass." They weren't the only two who had thought to do this, the grass verges were packed so there was hardly a square foot of space that didn't have someone on it. The sound of the crowds made it sound like some kind of open air festival – there were groups having picnics, some reading books, and others sunbathing, trying desperately to soak up a tan.

John dragged Sherlock over to a small peak in the grass verge that was slightly shaded by several large trees planted at the top. Sherlock rolled his eyes as John removed his thin cardigan and sat down on the ground, stretching out.

"Come on Sherlock," John encouraged, patting the ground next to him; Sherlock reluctantly sat down, but remained stoically upright, gripping his knees tightly. "God Sherlock…" John laughed watching Sherlock perching awkwardly. "Have you never been out in the sun before?! Take your jacket off idiot!"

"No, I'm fine…" Sherlock replied.

"Take it off – or I'll take it off for you!" John threatened playfully; he was tugging at the sleeves as Sherlock slowly pulled off his outside jacket. Underneath he was wearing a long sleeved shirt that was buttoned right up under his chin. "Jesus Sherlock – how are you not melting?" John asked in disbelief; he was in short sleeves and he felt like he might just dissolve with the heat.

"I'm fine, I just – can we go yet?" Sherlock asked tetchily – perhaps the heat made him restless.

"You promised half an hour." John argued, he grabbed Sherlock's upper arm. "Come on, lie back with me." He tried to pull Sherlock back onto the grass – Sherlock seemed to be having great difficulty with this, he looked immensely uncomfortable, but he relented to lying down next to John. "See, it's quite nice!" John said, Sherlock couldn't disagree – the grass was dry and it tickled the back of his head. "You can just lie, and listen to the wind, and feel the sun on your skin…" John had begun to unfasten the cuffs of Sherlock's shirt sleeve.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked suddenly,

"I was just going to roll your sleeves up – let the sun get on you." John explained smiling, but to his surprise Sherlock's reaction was not the one he expected.

"No, stop!" Sherlock pulled his arm fiercely away from John's grip.

"Sherlock, I was just –" John began, confused.

"No, I'm going home." Sherlock had grabbed his jacket, leapt to his feet and was storming away from where John was sitting, utterly baffled by Sherlock's reaction. Sherlock had stormed away at such a speed that John couldn't even see him in the park anymore – he felt a little embarrassed, the people sitting around him on the grass had probably witnessed and heard everything of their interaction.

John closed the front door to the flat and paused at the bottom of the stairs, he wondered whether Sherlock had come back here – or whether he would wander around for a while. John wasn't quite sure what he had done to make Sherlock react in the way he had, and he wanted to understand… At the top of the stairs he came across something that he had never thought he would see – Sherlock was sat in his armchair, with his head in his hands and, if John wasn't mistaken, he was crying.

Sherlock!" John called out in surprise, standing frozen in the doorway. "What's going on?" At the sound of John's voice Sherlock had sniffed suddenly and began furiously swiping at his face, removing all traces of the tears across his cheeks. "Did I say something? I'm sorry –"

"No." Sherlock cut across John, he was shaking his head defiantly. "No, it's nothing." John's brain seemed to have kicked into action again and he moved forwards, kneeling down in front of Sherlock's chair.

"Shut up. Don't lie to me Sherlock." John told him firmly, reaching out his hand and placing it on top of Sherlock's. "What's wrong?"

"I just…" Sherlock started and stopped, then he looked up at John who was kneeling in front of him. "I know I overreacted, I just don't like being exposed."

"How do you mean?" John questioned; for a few long moments Sherlock stared right into John's eyes, then he dipped his gaze from John and began to unfasten the cuffs of his sleeves. John didn't understand what Sherlock was doing, but he remained silent – not wanting to inadvertently upset Sherlock again. Sherlock rolled back the sleeves of his shirt to just above his elbows, and John couldn't stop himself from gasping. John couldn't recall ever seeing Sherlock in a short sleeved shirt, and now he understood why… Sherlock's arms weren't pale and smooth like the rest of his skin, but patterned and crisscrossed with hundreds of cicatrices, line upon line of them. Most of them were indented, white marks which were slightly darker around the edges; but they were so clinical, so straight – there was no way he had gotten these by accident. There were marks, pinpricks in the creases of his elbows too – dark puncture holes, souvenirs from where he had injected himself in his younger years. This was what Sherlock had meant by being exposed, he didn't like people seeing these scars – but here he was… exposing himself to John. John felt very privileged; Sherlock must trust him…

"These – these are from when you were younger?" John asked, his mouth had gone very dry.

"When I was at school…" Sherlock murmured in reply, "It was never easy – being the freak." He explained quietly.

John took in the enormity of this for Sherlock; revealing part of his soul to someone, to John. Very lightly, John stretched out his fingers and ran them across Sherlock's skin; he could feel every dent, every raised edge – John heard Sherlock take a sharp intake of breath as he did this.

"You're not a freak – and these?" John indicated to the scars on Sherlock's arms. "These are part of your story. Nothing to be ashamed of, I promise." Sherlock's eyes flickered between John's eyes – as though trying to detect that one of them was making fun of him, or disgusted with him.

"You mean that?" He asked disbelievingly.

"I do." John confirmed, leaning forwards and gently kissing Sherlock's wrist, on top of the scars.

"I… thank you." Sherlock seemed stunned, and the tears in his eyes were there because of gratitude.

"I love you Sherlock, scars and all…"

A/N: I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it! I'd love to know what you think :)