Title: Studs
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Summary: He can't believe that he hasn't noticed this before. But in retrospect, Sherlock's ears aren't really the most striking thing about him, are they?
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson; Sherlock/John
Rating: R
Word Count: ~1,500
Spoilers: Mild for S2:01--”Scandal in Belgravia”
Warnings: None
Beta: The up-for-anything merlottetrollop, who agreed to take a look even though Johnlock isn't really her thing. Thank you!
A/N's: First time participant here! This is my second go at posting this today--the first time LJ introduced a lot of junk code that created spacing errors that weren't visible in the preview. April Fool's?

For the fan_flashworks challenge: Jewelry

One rare, lazy Sunday morning, John leans over the bed to hand Sherlock his tea and notices something curious about Sherlock's right ear. Something that warrants further inspection. Since he's got the time, he decides to conduct his inspection by climbing back into bed, stretching out on his side, propping his chin on his hand, and peering up at Sherlock.

Sherlock, sitting cross-legged with his back against the headboard and his nose almost literally buried in a book, doesn't seem to notice.

There's a tiny mark on Sherlock's earlobe, faint enough to be an errant freckle or even a trick of light and shadow—except John suspects it's neither. Late-morning sunshine is streaming into Sherlock's bedroom, bathing the skin of his face and one bare shoulder where his dressing gown has slipped off in a flattering glow. There is not a shadow in sight. A second glance reveals that it's not a freckle either, though the same genes that put the copper strands in Sherlock's hair have dusted his chest and back with a fair few of them.

Now that John's really looking (and isn't it marvellous that now he can gaze at Sherlock for as long as he likes; can really take his time and admire all the fascinating parts of him) the mark, which is round and smaller than the head of a pin, appears to be more of an indentation. Almost as if...

“Sherlock? Is your ear pierced?”

Sherlock is particular about his appearance, to the point of fastidiousness, but he doesn't follow trends. Though it's common these days for men to pierce themselves in all sorts of places, John can't imagine Sherlock with such affectation. He really can't.

“Mm?” Sherlock inquires without looking up from his book. He hasn't looked up for nearly an hour now, not even to accept his tea—he had simply stuck out his hand and expected John to put the cup in it. Which John had, of course.

“Your right ear,” John clarifies. “Is it pierced?"

“It was. It's closed up now.”

“Really?” John finds this fascinating, for reasons he can't quite explain.

“Both of them were,” Sherlock offers, eyes still fixed on the page.“The left one healed up perfectly. The right one, as you can see, did not.”

“Both of them!” John is astounded. He can't believe that he hasn't noticed this before. But in retrospect, Sherlock's ears aren't really the most striking thing about him, are they?

They are perfectly lovely ears, of course—there is no part of Sherlock's body that isn't lovely-- but to be honest, when it comes to Sherlock's face, John has spent far more time being mesmerized by the ever-shifting colors of his eyes, or staring the plump bow of his lips, to pay much attention to his ears.

John decides to rectify that oversight immediately. He reaches out and brushes the tip of his index finger along Sherlock's earlobe. It's of the attached variety, he notices. The skin is smooth, remarkably so, and except for the one mark, free of creases (that might indicate heart disease) or blemishes (that might be pre-cancerous). It's a very attractive ear.

“When did you have it done?"

Sherlock pulls in his breath at John's touch but doesn't look up from his book. His tone when he answers, however, is decidedly less bored than it had been.

“During my rebellious phase.”

“You mean it ended?”

“Very funny.”

“O.K. Seriously. When was this? When you were fourteen? Fifteen?” John pictures a teenage version of Sherlock, with a punk haircut, a more defiant attitude (is that even possible?) and studs through his ears. He smiles to himself.

“Last year."

“What? There's no way! Wait, there is no way. I was here last year, remember? Living here, with you. I saw you every day. It had to be before that.”

Sherlock quirks a smile. “You got me. It was.”

“When, then?”

“When I turned thirty.”

“Thirty! Stop it.”

“It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“Sherlock! You didn't. You did not pierce both your ears when you were thirty."

“I did.”

John waits to see if Sherlock is having him on again, but his expression is perfectly serious.

“Was it... for a case?”

“Nope. Just felt like it. You should have seen the look on Mycroft's face.”

“Get the hell out of here! You're saying you pierced your ears to irritate your big brother? At age thirty?"

“No, I pierced my ears because I was having a bit of a mid-life crisis, and I didn't have the money for a sports car. Irritating Mycroft was just a bonus... no, of course I didn't do it at thirty! I was a teenager, as you originally surmised. I had it done about a month before my fourteenth birthday."

Sherlock's deadpan manner dissolves into sniggering laughter. John narrows his eyes.

“Sherlock!“

"Oh, John, you should have seen your face. You're too gullible.”

“No, I'm not. I didn't believe you for a minute.”

“You were starting to.”

The thing is, John had been starting to believe it. After all, Sherlock had once shown up at Buckingham Palace dressed only in a bed-sheet to spite Mycroft and the client who had unceremoniously summoned him there. Sherlock piercing his ears to annoy Mycroft; to thumb his nose at the expectations of how a man of thirty was supposed to behave; or even just because he was bored, was starting to seem quite plausible, now that John thought about it.

Still, he's not about to just let that comment go. He pinches Sherlock's earlobe between his thumb and index finger, hard.

“Ow! What was that for?”

“Taking the piss, when I'm just trying to make pleasant conversation on a Sunday morning. And you can't tell me that hurt.”

“It did, a bit. It turns out my earlobes are rather sensitive. It's why I let the holes close up. They kept getting infected and even when they weren't I could only wear the earrings for a few hours at a time. It wasn't worth it.”

“Not even for the look on Mycroft's face?”

“Not even for that. Though that was particularly satisfying.” Sherlock's laugh is a low rumble in his chest. “You should have seen it, John. He was only twenty-one but dreadfully old-fashioned, even then. You'd have thought I shaved my head and put a ring through my nose the way he kept gaping at me. Said I totally ruined that Christmas dinner. Strangely enough, no one else seemed to care.”

“I bet that was disappointing.”

Sherlock shrugs. “I'd already decided that they weren't for me. I took them out after dinner that night and never wore them again.”

John, who still has hold of Sherlock's earlobe (and isn't it interesting that Sherlock hasn't pulled away yet) presses down lightly, marveling at the small bump he feels underneath the skin. Keloid tissue, his brain supplies. A bit of scar tissue that moved in to fill the hole. That's what  had caused the tiny mark.

It had been there all this time, and he'd never noticed.

John strokes the silky skin of Sherlock's earlobe again, and imagines a silver metal stud pushing through it. He pictures it remaining there, hard metal lodged in soft, vulnerable flesh. A vision of Sherlock, not teenage Sherlock but his Sherlock, clad in his blue dressing gown and tousled hair as he is now, sporting a small silver stud each ear, appears in his mind's eye.

These mental images are surprisingly arousing. John arches upward and presses his tongue against the small dent.

Sherlock pulls in his breath. “John...”

John runs his tongue across the entire earlobe, then sucks it into his mouth. It's surprisingly cool to the touch (unlike the rest of Sherlock, who always seems run a bit hotter than normal) and doesn't taste like anything in particular. This close, Sherlock smells faintly of tea, milk, and the faint spice of last night's cologne.

Sherlock exhales sharply and closes his eyes.

“Sensitive earlobes, eh?” John murmurs against Sherlock's cheek, close enough now to feel the prickle of Sherlock's stubble against his chin.

“Something tells me that I might... regret revealing that bit of information.” Sherlock's voice is steady, but John doesn't miss the slight hitch in his breathing.

“You might indeed,” John grins. “How about the rest of your ear?” He edges closer on the bed, and runs his tongue slowly up the side of Sherlock's ear. Then he nibbles at it.

Sherlock makes a faint noise that might be the beginning of a moan, quickly suppressed. He puts down his book, and leans back against the headboard.

Putting down his book: the Sherlock Holmes equivalent of appearing starkers in the bedroom shouting, “Take me now”. John's grin widens.

He'll find out just how sensitive Sherlock's ears really are. And then he'll proceed on from there, comparing their sensitivity to that of other parts of Sherlock's body. As many body parts as he can. John licks his lips in anticipation.

It is going to be an interesting morning.