"Well, this IS something."

John blushes a deep shade of pink and averts his eyes, staring at the ceiling. "Oh God."

Sherlock cocks an eyebrow in amusement, nestled in-between his lover's legs. John's trousers are bunched up low around his hips, and Sherlock has a finger crooked in the waistband of his boxers, pulling them down. He tugs them lower, exposing more of John's bare skin and a small, black mark low on his hip, just under the curve where his thigh meets his waist. Sherlock's mouth twitches in a devious smile.

"A tattoo, John? Really?"

"It was for a girlfriend."

"A girlfriend?"

"I was sixteen, okay!" John glares at him, trying to ignore the throb of his erection. "It was stupid, I know. Can you just drop it?"

Sherlock runs a long-fingered hand over the tattoo, gazing at it intently. "I wasn't saying I didn't like it. It was just..." he traces one of the lines with his nail, sending a shiver through John's body. "Unexpected."

John flushes. "Oh."

Sherlock leans down and presses his lips to the soft flesh. John gasps.

"A pleasant surprise," he mutters against John's skin before wrapping a hand around John's cock and squeezing. "Though I have a question. Did you know that the tattoo artist wasn't actually Chinese?"

"W-what? Of course- right there, Sherlock! Of course he was. That's the- Oh God, do that again- symbol for love in Chinese. He said s-OH!"

Sherlock pumps his hand up and down as John writhes beneath him, groaning.

"I hate to be the bearer of bad news, John, but what you have scribbled on your thigh for all eternity is actually the Chinese calligraphy for pineapple."

In the ten seconds before he comes all over Sherlock's hand, John's face registers surprise, lust, and mortification simultaneously.

It's really quite charming.