marielikestodraw:
“The Army Doctor”
Note to self: When in doubt, just paint John Watson. Possibly wearing little clothes. No matter how indulgent it is.
Old art bunny of John having a RAMC tattoo, talked about many times back in the day with inarduisfidelis. (Might be canon in Mazarin221B’s verses, if I remember well :D) Lights all over the place, bit rough, I just needed to get something out after the frustration of last night. And a bit of a thank you to everyone for the kind messages.
Hope you like it :)
Marie, once again you have inspired me to write! (bowing to your inspirational genius)
In Arduis Fidelis
The desire had come when he was invalided home, sleeping and waking and eating and doing nothing more than breathing in that dull beige of a flat. He needed the pain. He needed to remember.
The tattoo parlour was just around the corner from his flat; a small, clean place, the walls covered in flash art, the counters filled with small vials of colors, sterilized needles, an autoclave.
On your right shoulder, yeah?
Yes.
He pulled his jumper and collared shirt up and off, baring his white tank undershirt. First came the cold swipe of antiseptic, tingling his skin as it cooled; then the blue guidelines laid onto his flesh, snake/rod/leaves/crown ready for inking.
The first needle, the outliner, burned with silver fire, like sharp glass slicing into his skin. The needle buzzed ink mere millimeters into his body, drawing blood with every stroke.
The edges of his vision flickered with white sparks as the tattoo artist etched the pattern into him, stopping every now and then to start a new curve. Then came the second needle, wider, filling in the hard lines with soft, painful shadows.
With every swirling slice of ink, the exquisite, singular pain slipped deeper into his skin, touching his nerves, sparking his memories: the shocking split of gun fire, his comrades’ blood in the gritty grass, the sound of his voice calling out for God, the fever that burned through his body for days.
If he closed his eyes, he could almost still feel the bullet shooting through him.
It was only then, in the chair, the wave of endorphins and the memory of death in his blood, that he finally, finally started to cry.
Be amazed by the brilliance of “Sherlock” artists and writers.
