Fic for lotherington, Ginger
Title: Ginger
Author: she_burns1
Word Count: 2,123
Rating: PG
Warnings: Unabashedly fluffy - FLUFFY TO THE MAX.
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Summary: Sherlock. John. Hair Dye. Gingers.
Disclaimers: I own nothing.
Author's Note: Okay, so...lame title is lame. But here's the thing, lotherington is one of the sweetest people EVER. And I am super happy she is my LJ friend now. She was having writer's block and requested prompts for drabbles - I gave her one and offered to write her something in return - she writes an awesome little drabble and I write this - this big ol' flufftastic piece. So. You know. Yeah. Also, I know Benedict is all gingery in real life but I took her prompt for me (secret ginger) and ran in a bit of a different direction. In conclusion, I hope you enjoy this, lotherington!
John knocked on the door again, “Sherlock! Let me in!”
“No.”
“Sherlock, you’ve been in there for over an hour! I have to use the loo!”
Suddenly John couldn’t hear Sherlock very well, but he thought he heard Mrs. Hudson’s name and he sighed loudly, “I’m not going downstairs to ask Mrs. Hudson if I can use her restroom! What...what are you even doing in there?”
Several ideas leapt to John’s mind, none of them pleasant. Sherlock certainly didn’t offer an answer. John could hear him muttering to himself, cursing, moving about and finally John broke, “All right. Fine.”
He stalked off and returned several moments later with a set of lock picks. Sometimes working with Sherlock had its’ advantages. For example, John now knew how to pick a variety of locks - their bathroom door was no exception and soon enough a loud click rang out, signaling his success. John turned the knob and could hear Sherlock’s gasp, “No, John! Don’t!”
It was far too late, however, and John entered the room. He was prepared to face anything. Corpse in the bathtub, kidneys in the sink, dynamite in the toilet bowl - anything. Or so he thought. But when he walked in and saw why Sherlock had locked himself in the bathroom he couldn’t help himself. He collapsed back against the door, wide eyed, “Sherlock?”
Sherlock tossed a towel over his head, but John had already seen it. Sherlock’s hair. A bright, fiery ginger. Ginger! Sherlock’s hair…all those tousled curls…ginger. Sherlock glared at him, “I told you not to come in! I was,” he actually seemed to struggle to find the words. Sherlock, of all people, struggled to explain something, “It was for a…case. Experiment. It was…I didn’t expect my calculations to be - stop laughing!”
This last bit was viciously hissed and John covered his mouth, shaking his head, voice strained, “’M not laughing.”
“You’re smirking.”
“Smirking isn’t laughing.”
“John-”
“You’re just…so…ginger.”
“I will kill you.”
“Naturally. Gingers are rumored to have short tempers.”
The sound Sherlock released was filled with so much exasperation that John took pity on him, “Dyed, I take it?” John found the dye box nearby and picked it up, “Did you follow the instructions?”
“Of course I followed them!” Sherlock exploded, “But I didn’t think it would be this…vibrant! I resemble a carrot, for the love of-you’re laughing again.”
This time John truly was chuckling, unable to help himself, “If you don’t want me to laugh, you should stop being so funny.”
“I am not attempting to be humorous, you unmitigated ass! You’re just taking pleasure in my predicament.”
“Oh, as if you wouldn’t, roles reversed.”
Sherlock held his tongue at this and John shook his head, examining the box, “Okay, so, you were embarrassed I take it-”
“I was not!”
“You were embarrassed,” John repeated, “that you somehow…miscalculated how this dye would turn out. Not a problem. Really. No reason to lock yourself in here. You probably made it worse by fretting over it instead of asking for help, which I will offer you, by the way, as I am more than capable of correcting your mistake.”
“Are you now?” Sherlock sneered and John gave him a little smile, “Harry considered being a hair stylist for a time. Mum made me help her. Her idea of trying to get us to ‘bond’. Like I said, we never got on, ‘sibling rivalry’ being a light term for what was between us so, there I was, forced to help her with the classes and books and the hair. It was bloody awful. She didn’t learn a blasted thing. Gave up. I, on the other hand…”
Sherlock raised an eyebrow, “You know how to style hair?”
“’S been a while, but it is one of my many, many, fascinating skills. I am rather talented.”
“Boasting doesn’t suit you.”
“Sorry. I agree. It’s a dreadfully bad habit. Picked it up from someone.” John said this with a twinkle in his eye and Sherlock groaned, “You are having far too much fun with this.”
“Not really, no, I think I’m not having enough fun. I haven’t even taken a picture.”
“Do it and I’ll have two skulls on my mantle.”
“I wonder how many death threats I am going to get out of you before this is over,” John murmured under his breath, then, patting Sherlock’s arm, he forked a thumb over one shoulder, “Look, get out, let me use the loo and I’ll fix your hair. Turn it back to normal. Promise.”
“I can fix it myself.”
John looked incredulous, “Yeah? Can you? Been in here over an hour and I see no improvement.”
Sherlock was grousing, obviously weighing his options as he tugged the towel tighter around his head. John’s lips twitched and his voice became gentler, “Sherlock, let me fix this for you. Please?”
With obvious reluctance, Sherlock nodded.
*
John soon discovered that fixing Sherlock’s hair was akin to giving a cat a bath.
In other words, it was extremely difficult.
Sherlock was fussy and annoying and sometimes when John had his head under the tap he seriously contemplated drowning him. It was as if Sherlock was going out of his way to be as infuriating and uncooperative as possible. John was beyond relieved when they reached the final stages of fixing the problem, Sherlock’s head slathered with the most bizarre mixture of dye and shampoo, the concoction resting on his scalp, waiting to be rinsed out. Once that was done and everything was dried, Sherlock would be back to his normal, dark haired self.
He sat now on the lid of the toilet, eyes narrowed, face pinched, lips finally, finally, blessedly closed. He had hurled so much abuse in John’s direction that John’s ears fairly burned. John himself sat on the ledge of the bathtub, arms crossed and face impassive. Sherlock spoke but, instead of surprisingly ruining everything or making it worse, he said, so quietly John almost missed it, “Thank you.”
John blinked, arms unfolding, “What?”
“I’m not going to repeat it.”
John went to get to his feet and Sherlock exhaled, saying more loudly, “Thank you, John.”
John sat back down, relaxing, “You’re welcome.”
“I…suppose I was taking some of my frustrations out on you.”
“No? You don’t say?” John said with such a mock air that Sherlock scowled, “It’s just that I am not used to…miscalculations.”
“Can’t be perfect at everything. After all, you’re complete pants when it comes to people, news, media-”
“Not entirely. Only on the things that are irrelevant.”
“A wide spectrum, considering it’s whatever you yourself deem as irrelevant. And, as such, you should take to heart that your miscalculation as far as hair dying goes was only inevitable. I imagine hair is, over all, a rather mediocre topic. As such, you wouldn’t learn or know much about it, so, in that regard, failing at it shouldn’t be such a burden.”
“I do, in fact, know a great deal about hair. Strands are often used in solving cases, pinpointing murderers to exact locations.”
“True enough, I suppose. Is that it then? Is that why you…did this?”
Sherlock shrugged, not elaborating, and John’s head tipped to one side thoughtfully, “Earlier you said it was for a case but then you followed that and said it was for an experiment. So? Which one was it?” Again Sherlock said nothing, so John continued, “No cases going on that I know of. Experiment makes more sense but then why toss out the case first? Unless…could it be, you dyed your hair for some other reason?”
One of the disadvantages of Sherlock being so pale is that when he blushes, which is very, very rare but when he does, it is extremely obvious. Pink blossomed over the bridge of his nose and his cheekbones and suddenly a rather astonishing thought occurred to John. He quickly dismissed it as foolish but then Sherlock announced it must be time to wash the mixture out of his hair and indeed he was right.
John had a chair tipped back against the sink and Sherlock sat in it, neck craned uncomfortable back against the lip so that his hair rested just beneath the tap. John ran his fingers through Sherlock’s curls, motions careful and concise and he watched Sherlock’s eyes close, throating working, Adam’s apple bobbing.
The water ran dark with chemicals and John knew he couldn’t stop rinsing Sherlock’s hair until the water ran clear so he let his mind drift, thoughts settling back over why Sherlock might have dyed his hair. In particular, the rather astonishing thought that John had dismissed as foolish. Because it had to be foolish.
Right?
It had been two weeks ago. He and Sherlock had been on a case and a witness they had interviewed had caught John’s eye. Sherlock had made note of it, his voice dripping with disdain when he had remarked on it and John had merely shrugged, confessing, “It was her hair.”
“Is hair a pathetic euphemism for breasts?”
John had laughed, “What? No! It was just...pretty shade, that’s all.”
“It was red. Significantly so.”
“Nah, more strawberry blonde.”
“Hmm. Well. Dull either way.”
And there the issue had dropped. Or at least, so John had thought. But now, thinking on it, Sherlock’s attempt - while a failure - had been rather similar in color to what the witness had had. That same subtle mix of blonde and red - a gentle ginger.
“JOHN.”
John blinked, startled, at the sharp, loud voice and merely let out a questioning sound. Sherlock groaned, eyes open, glazed, and glaring at him, “I’ve said your name several times now. Have you gone deaf? Are you or are you not finished?”
John looked down and the water was finally running clear. He coughed and drew back, discomforted as he replied, “Yeah, yeah. You’re good.”
Sherlock eased the chair back upright, cringing as he rubbed at his neck. John grabbed a towel and gently placed it over Sherlock’s head. Sherlock hands ushered John’s away and he took over drying his scalp, muttering under his breath about how he was glad this whole dreadful episode was finally over.
John didn’t know why but suddenly words were leaving his mouth without another thought, “You know, I like you the way you are.”
Sherlock’s hands stopped moving, face obscured by the towel. John swallowed and, for whatever godforsaken reason, found himself continuing to talk, “I mean, it’s…your hair…’s nice the way it is. The…color it...suits you.”
Sherlock did not respond and John felt a bigger and bigger fool as each minute passed. He concluded with a hushed, “That’s all.”
John turned all his mental capabilities into making his limbs move, legs taking him towards the restroom door and away from this rapidly growing awkward situation when a voice behind him gruffly asked, “Do you?”
John stopped moving but he didn’t turn around, “Do I what?”
This was met with an exasperated sigh, “Do you truly like me the way I am?”
John’s lips twitched and he shrugged, “Well, I’m not a particularly huge fan of the one hundred and one ways you manage to call me an imbecile but, yes, over all, I do…like you.”
A heavy pause.
Then, “How much?”
“Do you mean something along the lines of whether my like for you is smaller than a breadbox or-”
“Shut up. You know exactly what I mean.”
“Oh?”
“John, it is exceedingly rude of you to toy with me.”
John couldn’t help but chuckle and he finally turned to see Sherlock sitting there, arms crossed, towel around his shoulders, damp, curly hair back to the dark shade he was used to seeing. John came over and, a little self-consciously, bent down to place a quick, chaste kiss on Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock’s arms unfolded, his eyes wide as John drew back and stood up right, clearing his throat, “There. Answer your questions?”
Sherlock rose to his feet, looking down at John curiously as if he were a variety of creature he had never seen before, “Not quite. Need more evidence.”
Sherlock drew John to him, gave John the exact same kiss once, twice, the third time John’s mouth dropped open a little and Sherlock reacted with a pleased hum, his own lips parting, their tongues meeting tentatively. When they finally drew away from one another, slightly breathless, John found himself unable to keep a giddy giggle from escaping him, “You were ginger.”
“Shut up.” Sherlock muttered but with a hint of mirth
“You went ginger for me.”
“I said shut up.”
“Mmm, no. No, can’t quite accomplish that. Not on my own.”
“Very well. I am more than capable of correcting your mistake.” Sherlock whispered against John's lips before he kissed him into silence.
Author: she_burns1
Word Count: 2,123
Rating: PG
Warnings: Unabashedly fluffy - FLUFFY TO THE MAX.
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Summary: Sherlock. John. Hair Dye. Gingers.
Disclaimers: I own nothing.
Author's Note: Okay, so...lame title is lame. But here's the thing, lotherington is one of the sweetest people EVER. And I am super happy she is my LJ friend now. She was having writer's block and requested prompts for drabbles - I gave her one and offered to write her something in return - she writes an awesome little drabble and I write this - this big ol' flufftastic piece. So. You know. Yeah. Also, I know Benedict is all gingery in real life but I took her prompt for me (secret ginger) and ran in a bit of a different direction. In conclusion, I hope you enjoy this, lotherington!
John knocked on the door again, “Sherlock! Let me in!”
“No.”
“Sherlock, you’ve been in there for over an hour! I have to use the loo!”
Suddenly John couldn’t hear Sherlock very well, but he thought he heard Mrs. Hudson’s name and he sighed loudly, “I’m not going downstairs to ask Mrs. Hudson if I can use her restroom! What...what are you even doing in there?”
Several ideas leapt to John’s mind, none of them pleasant. Sherlock certainly didn’t offer an answer. John could hear him muttering to himself, cursing, moving about and finally John broke, “All right. Fine.”
He stalked off and returned several moments later with a set of lock picks. Sometimes working with Sherlock had its’ advantages. For example, John now knew how to pick a variety of locks - their bathroom door was no exception and soon enough a loud click rang out, signaling his success. John turned the knob and could hear Sherlock’s gasp, “No, John! Don’t!”
It was far too late, however, and John entered the room. He was prepared to face anything. Corpse in the bathtub, kidneys in the sink, dynamite in the toilet bowl - anything. Or so he thought. But when he walked in and saw why Sherlock had locked himself in the bathroom he couldn’t help himself. He collapsed back against the door, wide eyed, “Sherlock?”
Sherlock tossed a towel over his head, but John had already seen it. Sherlock’s hair. A bright, fiery ginger. Ginger! Sherlock’s hair…all those tousled curls…ginger. Sherlock glared at him, “I told you not to come in! I was,” he actually seemed to struggle to find the words. Sherlock, of all people, struggled to explain something, “It was for a…case. Experiment. It was…I didn’t expect my calculations to be - stop laughing!”
This last bit was viciously hissed and John covered his mouth, shaking his head, voice strained, “’M not laughing.”
“You’re smirking.”
“Smirking isn’t laughing.”
“John-”
“You’re just…so…ginger.”
“I will kill you.”
“Naturally. Gingers are rumored to have short tempers.”
The sound Sherlock released was filled with so much exasperation that John took pity on him, “Dyed, I take it?” John found the dye box nearby and picked it up, “Did you follow the instructions?”
“Of course I followed them!” Sherlock exploded, “But I didn’t think it would be this…vibrant! I resemble a carrot, for the love of-you’re laughing again.”
This time John truly was chuckling, unable to help himself, “If you don’t want me to laugh, you should stop being so funny.”
“I am not attempting to be humorous, you unmitigated ass! You’re just taking pleasure in my predicament.”
“Oh, as if you wouldn’t, roles reversed.”
Sherlock held his tongue at this and John shook his head, examining the box, “Okay, so, you were embarrassed I take it-”
“I was not!”
“You were embarrassed,” John repeated, “that you somehow…miscalculated how this dye would turn out. Not a problem. Really. No reason to lock yourself in here. You probably made it worse by fretting over it instead of asking for help, which I will offer you, by the way, as I am more than capable of correcting your mistake.”
“Are you now?” Sherlock sneered and John gave him a little smile, “Harry considered being a hair stylist for a time. Mum made me help her. Her idea of trying to get us to ‘bond’. Like I said, we never got on, ‘sibling rivalry’ being a light term for what was between us so, there I was, forced to help her with the classes and books and the hair. It was bloody awful. She didn’t learn a blasted thing. Gave up. I, on the other hand…”
Sherlock raised an eyebrow, “You know how to style hair?”
“’S been a while, but it is one of my many, many, fascinating skills. I am rather talented.”
“Boasting doesn’t suit you.”
“Sorry. I agree. It’s a dreadfully bad habit. Picked it up from someone.” John said this with a twinkle in his eye and Sherlock groaned, “You are having far too much fun with this.”
“Not really, no, I think I’m not having enough fun. I haven’t even taken a picture.”
“Do it and I’ll have two skulls on my mantle.”
“I wonder how many death threats I am going to get out of you before this is over,” John murmured under his breath, then, patting Sherlock’s arm, he forked a thumb over one shoulder, “Look, get out, let me use the loo and I’ll fix your hair. Turn it back to normal. Promise.”
“I can fix it myself.”
John looked incredulous, “Yeah? Can you? Been in here over an hour and I see no improvement.”
Sherlock was grousing, obviously weighing his options as he tugged the towel tighter around his head. John’s lips twitched and his voice became gentler, “Sherlock, let me fix this for you. Please?”
With obvious reluctance, Sherlock nodded.
*
John soon discovered that fixing Sherlock’s hair was akin to giving a cat a bath.
In other words, it was extremely difficult.
Sherlock was fussy and annoying and sometimes when John had his head under the tap he seriously contemplated drowning him. It was as if Sherlock was going out of his way to be as infuriating and uncooperative as possible. John was beyond relieved when they reached the final stages of fixing the problem, Sherlock’s head slathered with the most bizarre mixture of dye and shampoo, the concoction resting on his scalp, waiting to be rinsed out. Once that was done and everything was dried, Sherlock would be back to his normal, dark haired self.
He sat now on the lid of the toilet, eyes narrowed, face pinched, lips finally, finally, blessedly closed. He had hurled so much abuse in John’s direction that John’s ears fairly burned. John himself sat on the ledge of the bathtub, arms crossed and face impassive. Sherlock spoke but, instead of surprisingly ruining everything or making it worse, he said, so quietly John almost missed it, “Thank you.”
John blinked, arms unfolding, “What?”
“I’m not going to repeat it.”
John went to get to his feet and Sherlock exhaled, saying more loudly, “Thank you, John.”
John sat back down, relaxing, “You’re welcome.”
“I…suppose I was taking some of my frustrations out on you.”
“No? You don’t say?” John said with such a mock air that Sherlock scowled, “It’s just that I am not used to…miscalculations.”
“Can’t be perfect at everything. After all, you’re complete pants when it comes to people, news, media-”
“Not entirely. Only on the things that are irrelevant.”
“A wide spectrum, considering it’s whatever you yourself deem as irrelevant. And, as such, you should take to heart that your miscalculation as far as hair dying goes was only inevitable. I imagine hair is, over all, a rather mediocre topic. As such, you wouldn’t learn or know much about it, so, in that regard, failing at it shouldn’t be such a burden.”
“I do, in fact, know a great deal about hair. Strands are often used in solving cases, pinpointing murderers to exact locations.”
“True enough, I suppose. Is that it then? Is that why you…did this?”
Sherlock shrugged, not elaborating, and John’s head tipped to one side thoughtfully, “Earlier you said it was for a case but then you followed that and said it was for an experiment. So? Which one was it?” Again Sherlock said nothing, so John continued, “No cases going on that I know of. Experiment makes more sense but then why toss out the case first? Unless…could it be, you dyed your hair for some other reason?”
One of the disadvantages of Sherlock being so pale is that when he blushes, which is very, very rare but when he does, it is extremely obvious. Pink blossomed over the bridge of his nose and his cheekbones and suddenly a rather astonishing thought occurred to John. He quickly dismissed it as foolish but then Sherlock announced it must be time to wash the mixture out of his hair and indeed he was right.
John had a chair tipped back against the sink and Sherlock sat in it, neck craned uncomfortable back against the lip so that his hair rested just beneath the tap. John ran his fingers through Sherlock’s curls, motions careful and concise and he watched Sherlock’s eyes close, throating working, Adam’s apple bobbing.
The water ran dark with chemicals and John knew he couldn’t stop rinsing Sherlock’s hair until the water ran clear so he let his mind drift, thoughts settling back over why Sherlock might have dyed his hair. In particular, the rather astonishing thought that John had dismissed as foolish. Because it had to be foolish.
Right?
It had been two weeks ago. He and Sherlock had been on a case and a witness they had interviewed had caught John’s eye. Sherlock had made note of it, his voice dripping with disdain when he had remarked on it and John had merely shrugged, confessing, “It was her hair.”
“Is hair a pathetic euphemism for breasts?”
John had laughed, “What? No! It was just...pretty shade, that’s all.”
“It was red. Significantly so.”
“Nah, more strawberry blonde.”
“Hmm. Well. Dull either way.”
And there the issue had dropped. Or at least, so John had thought. But now, thinking on it, Sherlock’s attempt - while a failure - had been rather similar in color to what the witness had had. That same subtle mix of blonde and red - a gentle ginger.
“JOHN.”
John blinked, startled, at the sharp, loud voice and merely let out a questioning sound. Sherlock groaned, eyes open, glazed, and glaring at him, “I’ve said your name several times now. Have you gone deaf? Are you or are you not finished?”
John looked down and the water was finally running clear. He coughed and drew back, discomforted as he replied, “Yeah, yeah. You’re good.”
Sherlock eased the chair back upright, cringing as he rubbed at his neck. John grabbed a towel and gently placed it over Sherlock’s head. Sherlock hands ushered John’s away and he took over drying his scalp, muttering under his breath about how he was glad this whole dreadful episode was finally over.
John didn’t know why but suddenly words were leaving his mouth without another thought, “You know, I like you the way you are.”
Sherlock’s hands stopped moving, face obscured by the towel. John swallowed and, for whatever godforsaken reason, found himself continuing to talk, “I mean, it’s…your hair…’s nice the way it is. The…color it...suits you.”
Sherlock did not respond and John felt a bigger and bigger fool as each minute passed. He concluded with a hushed, “That’s all.”
John turned all his mental capabilities into making his limbs move, legs taking him towards the restroom door and away from this rapidly growing awkward situation when a voice behind him gruffly asked, “Do you?”
John stopped moving but he didn’t turn around, “Do I what?”
This was met with an exasperated sigh, “Do you truly like me the way I am?”
John’s lips twitched and he shrugged, “Well, I’m not a particularly huge fan of the one hundred and one ways you manage to call me an imbecile but, yes, over all, I do…like you.”
A heavy pause.
Then, “How much?”
“Do you mean something along the lines of whether my like for you is smaller than a breadbox or-”
“Shut up. You know exactly what I mean.”
“Oh?”
“John, it is exceedingly rude of you to toy with me.”
John couldn’t help but chuckle and he finally turned to see Sherlock sitting there, arms crossed, towel around his shoulders, damp, curly hair back to the dark shade he was used to seeing. John came over and, a little self-consciously, bent down to place a quick, chaste kiss on Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock’s arms unfolded, his eyes wide as John drew back and stood up right, clearing his throat, “There. Answer your questions?”
Sherlock rose to his feet, looking down at John curiously as if he were a variety of creature he had never seen before, “Not quite. Need more evidence.”
Sherlock drew John to him, gave John the exact same kiss once, twice, the third time John’s mouth dropped open a little and Sherlock reacted with a pleased hum, his own lips parting, their tongues meeting tentatively. When they finally drew away from one another, slightly breathless, John found himself unable to keep a giddy giggle from escaping him, “You were ginger.”
“Shut up.” Sherlock muttered but with a hint of mirth
“You went ginger for me.”
“I said shut up.”
“Mmm, no. No, can’t quite accomplish that. Not on my own.”
“Very well. I am more than capable of correcting your mistake.” Sherlock whispered against John's lips before he kissed him into silence.