Fic: Sherlock's Hair
Sherlock has such lovely hair. I would love a story where it all has to be cut off: for a case; because he falls in a vat of glue; because he was captured and imprisoned for months and it got all matted..whatever. Sherlock has his head shaved. How does he/John/Lestrade/Mycroft etc. react?
Make Me A Monday - Week 18
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
John has walked in on many strange things since living with Sherlock. There was that incident with the dead chicken, the other one with the sombrero, yet another one with the Greatest Hits of Jon Bon Jovi. And that’s not even to mention the regular occurrences of Sherlock shooting holes in the wall, scraping out something that barely resembles a tune on his violin, or just plain moping. He’s getting kind of used to it now. He braces himself every time he walks in the door of 221b Baker Street, preparing himself for what he might find. But this… this came like a blow to the stomach.
John shoved his coat onto the coat hook and called out to his flatmate.
“Sherlock?”
There was no answer but he could hear a low buzzing coming from the kitchen and already, he could picture bees. Maybe flies.
“Sherlock?”
He rounded the corner and came to a halt, his mouth dropping open in a wordless cry. The newspaper he was carrying fell to the ground unnoticed.
Sherlock sat on a chair in the middle of the kitchen, a trimmer in one hand, with piles of dark hair scattered around him.
“Sherlock… what?”
John was horrified, his eyes flicking back and forth and back and forth between the hair on the floor and Sherlock’s half-finished buzz cut.
“Glue,” Sherlock answered calmly, raising the trimmer to his head once more and drawing a line through his hair. It fell to the side silently, joining the growing pile on the floor, and John had to swallow hard.
“But…” John didn’t know what to say, how to put the wrongness of it into words.
“I tried to cut it out but the damage was far too extensive,” Sherlock explained, “This was the most obvious solution.”
Even as he spoke, Sherlock continued in his movements, removing more and more hair.
“I seem to be having difficulty reaching the back. Would you mind, John?”
And then he was holding out the trimmer to John, eyes watching him expectantly. John stumbled forward, took the trimmer from Sherlock - and just stood there, staring at what was left of Sherlock’s hair, all half a centimetre of it. It was just wrong.
“John, I haven’t got all day, you know.”
Sherlock’s voice prompted him into action and he stepped forward, raising the trimmer. He could do this. It was just hair, after all. Sherlock obviously had no problem with it.
“John.”
John hesitated a moment longer, and then took the trimmer to Sherlock’s hair, removing what little was left in several short, efficient motions. He couldn’t even look at the floor anymore, at the black curls littering it.
Finally, the awful deed was done.
“Are you done? Excellent.”
Sherlock got to his feet, shook his jacket out and brushed himself down, and then turned to John.
“I thought we’d have Thai for dinner tonight.”
It wasn’t a question and Sherlock didn’t wait for an answer, turning on his heel and leaving the kitchen. Moments later, John could hear the sound of his laptop being turned on. But all he could focus on was the sea of dark hair at his feet. He knelt down, hesitated, and then reached out and pressed his hand against a particularly thick strand, twisting his fingers around.
“John, are you coming?”
Sherlock stood at the edge of the kitchen, looking annoyed and impatient, giving John a stern look. John quickly drew his hand back and stuffed it in his pocket.
“Yeah.”
He followed Sherlock from the flat, his eyes flicking every now and again to Sherlock’s head and to the thin layer of fuzz that now covered it. So wrong.
Make Me A Monday - Week 18
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
John has walked in on many strange things since living with Sherlock. There was that incident with the dead chicken, the other one with the sombrero, yet another one with the Greatest Hits of Jon Bon Jovi. And that’s not even to mention the regular occurrences of Sherlock shooting holes in the wall, scraping out something that barely resembles a tune on his violin, or just plain moping. He’s getting kind of used to it now. He braces himself every time he walks in the door of 221b Baker Street, preparing himself for what he might find. But this… this came like a blow to the stomach.
John shoved his coat onto the coat hook and called out to his flatmate.
“Sherlock?”
There was no answer but he could hear a low buzzing coming from the kitchen and already, he could picture bees. Maybe flies.
“Sherlock?”
He rounded the corner and came to a halt, his mouth dropping open in a wordless cry. The newspaper he was carrying fell to the ground unnoticed.
Sherlock sat on a chair in the middle of the kitchen, a trimmer in one hand, with piles of dark hair scattered around him.
“Sherlock… what?”
John was horrified, his eyes flicking back and forth and back and forth between the hair on the floor and Sherlock’s half-finished buzz cut.
“Glue,” Sherlock answered calmly, raising the trimmer to his head once more and drawing a line through his hair. It fell to the side silently, joining the growing pile on the floor, and John had to swallow hard.
“But…” John didn’t know what to say, how to put the wrongness of it into words.
“I tried to cut it out but the damage was far too extensive,” Sherlock explained, “This was the most obvious solution.”
Even as he spoke, Sherlock continued in his movements, removing more and more hair.
“I seem to be having difficulty reaching the back. Would you mind, John?”
And then he was holding out the trimmer to John, eyes watching him expectantly. John stumbled forward, took the trimmer from Sherlock - and just stood there, staring at what was left of Sherlock’s hair, all half a centimetre of it. It was just wrong.
“John, I haven’t got all day, you know.”
Sherlock’s voice prompted him into action and he stepped forward, raising the trimmer. He could do this. It was just hair, after all. Sherlock obviously had no problem with it.
“John.”
John hesitated a moment longer, and then took the trimmer to Sherlock’s hair, removing what little was left in several short, efficient motions. He couldn’t even look at the floor anymore, at the black curls littering it.
Finally, the awful deed was done.
“Are you done? Excellent.”
Sherlock got to his feet, shook his jacket out and brushed himself down, and then turned to John.
“I thought we’d have Thai for dinner tonight.”
It wasn’t a question and Sherlock didn’t wait for an answer, turning on his heel and leaving the kitchen. Moments later, John could hear the sound of his laptop being turned on. But all he could focus on was the sea of dark hair at his feet. He knelt down, hesitated, and then reached out and pressed his hand against a particularly thick strand, twisting his fingers around.
“John, are you coming?”
Sherlock stood at the edge of the kitchen, looking annoyed and impatient, giving John a stern look. John quickly drew his hand back and stuffed it in his pocket.
“Yeah.”
He followed Sherlock from the flat, his eyes flicking every now and again to Sherlock’s head and to the thin layer of fuzz that now covered it. So wrong.