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The usual weather in London, in December, is chilly, damp, possibly some light snow here and there.
This explains why the Met Office forecasters sound completely gobsmacked every time John Watson turns on the television.
“This is the second day of what we are now calling Blizzard 2012, with no end in sight,” says the man in the dark suit on the BBC. His hair is carefully pomaded, and the skin on his face is a frankly alarming shade of orange.
Sherlock snorts. “How would he know?” He says derisively. “It’s clear he’s doing the weather from one of the field offices in the Mediterranean. Look around his eyes—clear outline of those goggles one wears in a tanning salon.”
Scorn aside, one fact remains: London is more or less paralyzed.
This is having a twin effect on 221B. On the plus side, John hasn’t been called into the surgery this week. All but non-essential personnel have been advised to stay at home, and any injuries or severe illness are sent to A&E. Indeed, the only vehicles seen in the past few hours have been ambulances, their tires fitted with heavy chains.
The minus side, of course, is that Sherlock has been without a case for going on three days, and he is, without a doubt, bored.
John is not an observant man like Sherlock, but he does pay attention to some things. When the possibility of a blizzard first came up, he took precautions to prevent the more destructive aspects of boredom. The gun has been emptied of its clip and the two have been hidden separately. Cluedo, which Sherlock loathes with a passion, has been stashed behind several textbooks on medieval chemistry, and all flammable, incendiary or explosive materials have been quietly disposed of or poured down the sink. While this makes for a much more peaceful snow-in, it also makes for an agitated Sherlock.
The detective himself is currently standing in the sitting room, staring out the window, his long fingers tangled in his thick curls; he’s so edgy he’s vibrating. “Isn’t it just the most revolting thing you’ve ever seen, John?”
“I happen to like the snow,” John says mildly. Sherlock yanks his hair.
“Oh, for God’s sake! Snow, it’s nothing more than crystallized water, and yet it has completely brought this city to its knees! London never shuts down when we get this much rain, but a little snow, and oh no, no one must go out, the roads must remain clear. Meanwhile, crimes are being committed, John, murders and blackmails and thefts with such fascinating details, and I am forced to remain indoors.” This last is said in a grated voice, as if Sherlock has to physically force himself to say the words.
“I loved snowfalls like this as a boy,” John comments. “Staying home from school, sledding with the mates or chucking snowballs at Harry, my mum making us proper hot chocolate, the kind with real chocolate shavings in milk, not that powdered stuff, and real marshmallows...” He is lost in his memories of his simple childhood, Sherlock sees. John’s eyes have that faraway look they get when he remembers times in his past, times the posh detective usually can’t relate to.
“Yes, well, when I was growing up it was all ‘You’ll catch your death, Master Sherlock’ and having to attend school anyway because I lived there. Although,” and he sniggers at the memory, “Mycroft did once stick his tongue to the wrought-iron fence in the side garden, and ended up having to rip it off. He couldn’t eat for two days, it was very amusing.” He sniggers again and gives his hair another tug.
“Are you telling me you’ve never been sledding?” John is not all that surprised. When he pictures child-Sherlock, he is most definitely not sledding in the winter; rather, he is collecting samples of frozen vegetation to examine under his microscope or is curled in a blanket by the fire, reading a heavy tome on genetics.
Sherlock turns from the window, rolling his eyes. “It was made very clear many times throughout our childhood that Holmes boys did not engage in such vulgar pastimes as sledding.”
“Didn’t you get any exercise at all in the winter? I can’t see you holing up, unless it was in a lab.”
“Oh no, we rode horses if it was nice enough. We went to Courchevel quite a bit and both Mycroft and I are acceptable skiers, although neither of us did very well on skates.” John laughs aloud; the mental visual of Sherlock on skates reminds him very much of a baby giraffe. “And at school, my main source of exercise was avoiding those idiot bullies who seemed determined to rub someone’s face with snow, or stuff it down collars or pants.” Sherlock shudders as he twists his hair more tightly in his fingers. “Barbaric practice. It’s a wonder no one got frostbite and lost a finger, or worse.”
“What is the matter with you? Why do you keep pulling your hair?”
Sherlock grimaces and removes his hands with a visible effort. “If you must know, it’s too long. I was supposed to go see Brigitte this week, and between the last case and all the snow, I haven’t been able to.”
John is incredulous; he doesn’t know whether to laugh or... well, laugh. He swallows hard and says carefully, “And this Brigitte is your... hairdresser?”
Sherlock frowns. “Hairdresser! She’s not some beauty-school graduate with her name on a shingle and a low-street storefront. Brigitte is my coiffeuse.” He is obviously resisting the urge to yank on his hair again.
John is carefully holding it together. “My goodness, Sherlock, I knew you were posh, but I never guessed you saw a... coiffeuse.” The French word is foreign on his tongue and he knows his accent is abominable; confirmation of this is provided when Sherlock’s mouth twitches.
“Yes, well, as I’m sure you’ve noticed, my hair can be... unruly. Brigitte tames it into a semblance of order that doesn’t require much maintenance.”
It can’t be held back; a loud laugh comes bubbling out of John’s stomach and he doesn’t bother swallowing it this time. “Not much maintenance! Not much maintenance! Sherlock, your conditioner costs fifteen pounds per ounce and I’ve seen that glop you comb through it every night! How is that not much maintenance?”
Sherlock looks affronted. “That’s not maintenance, that’s just good grooming,” he sniffs.
It might be the cabin fever or the absurdity of Sherlock’s last statement, but the ludicrousness of the conversation gets to John and he can’t hold back. Pounding on the arm of his chair, he laughs until he cries. Every time he’s close to pulling himself together, the sight of Sherlock twisting his curls sends him off into fresh gales of laughter.
Finally, with a last, shuddering breath, he gets out the last of his giggles and wipes his eyes. Sherlock is standing before him, face pinched, hair grasped so tightly his knuckles are white. “Jesus, Sherlock, I’m sorry,” John says, a little breathlessly, “but you have to admit, the idea of you sitting in a chair while some French coiffeuse runs her hands through your hair and makes small talk is pretty hilarious.” Sherlock snorts.
“Brigitte and I don’t make small talk,” he answers, sounding appalled. “We discuss politics, among other things. Before she left Paris, she was worked for Madame Mitterrand, and she’s maintained her contacts there. She’s quite knowledgeable about the political climate on the Continent. Besides, she’s very good at what she does. You seem to enjoy her work,” he adds, giving John a sly, sidelong glance.
John feels himself flush. It’s true; he finds Sherlock’s hair to be rather.... alright, unbelievably sexy, the way the curls in the back just brush his collar, the silky feel of them in John’s fingers, the way Sherlock moans when he tugs them just so...
He shakes himself, aware Sherlock is watching him with his tiny smile, and shifts in his chair. “So you can’t go to see her, and long hair bothers you?”
“It’s in my eyes and it’s tickling my neck. I can’t focus when it’s this long.” He pulls it again, and then lets it go. With all the abuse it’s been enduring, the hair in question is sticking up in tufts, making him look like a Byron-Einstein hybrid.
“Why not cut it off?”
“Because then my face looks too long. We can’t all handle a military buzz cut, John.”
John feels mildly affronted. His hair is short, true, but it’s hardly buzzed.
“If I had a case, this wouldn’t be bothering me,” Sherlock continues, “but I’m so bored, this is all I can think about. God, John, how do women stand having something like this hanging off them all the time?”
John shrugs. “It’s what one gets used to, I suppose. I remember when Harry cut her hair off, she complained she felt naked for three weeks.” He stands up and takes two steps towards Sherlock. “But if it’s really bothering you, I can cut it, if you want.”
Sherlock’s eyes narrow and his fingers twitch; John just knows he’s trying not to yank again. “You know how to cut hair?”
The blond doctor shrugs again. “Well, no coiffeuses in Kandahar province, are there? In the army, we make do. Yours certainly wouldn’t be the first hair I’ve cut, that’s for sure.”
Sherlock tilts his head and looks at John; he’s seriously considering the offer, John can see.
“Come on, Sherlock, if I can stitch you up, I’m pretty sure I can trim your hair. If you don’t like what you see, I’ll stop.”
“I suppose that’s true...” But he sounds hesitant.
John rolls his eyes. “Sherlock, honestly, I knew you were fond of the way you looked, but I had no idea you were so vain! I think I can manage a little trim, and it will grow back, you know.” He threads his own fingers through the black curls. “I mean, I have smaller hands than you do, this is almost too much for me to hang on to, yeah?” He gives a little tug and brushes his thumb against the back of Sherlock’s neck, and isn’t surprised when his pale eyes widen and his breath hitches. For all his protestations, Sherlock is human, after all, as susceptible to his baser instincts as anyone else. And he does so love it when John pulls his hair.
Sherlock pulls himself together. “Fine. But just scissors, no clippers.”
“We don’t have clippers anymore. You dismantled them for parts for your miniature buzz saw, remember? Don’t worry, Sherlock, I know what I’m doing.”
Before he can muster up any more arguments (not that he’s trying, his hair really is bothering him), Sherlock is seated in a kitchen chair with a towel wrapped snuggly around this neck. On the table John has placed their sharpest scissors, Sherlock’s plant mister, a wide-tooth comb and another towel.
“Right. How much do you want off?” He furrows his brow in concentration as he wets Sherlock’s hair and attempts to comb it into some semblance of order.
“A centimetre and a half, perhaps? Leave it so it’s just above my collar.”
“Sounds good.” And John gets to work.
It’s quiet in the kitchen, the only sound the soft snick of the scissors as he uses the tips to snip off the ends of Sherlock’s damp curls. Sherlock is exceptionally good at holding still, and in the reflection of the sitting room window he can see John, his face a picture of concentration, the tip of his tongue pointing out between his lips.
“Did you really cut each other’s hair in the military?” Sherlock asks after a few minutes.
“Hmm? Oh, yes, among other things.” John’s voice is calm as he combs and snips some more. “I don’t think the average member of the public realises it, but it’s not like the army’s exactly flush with cash; look at the constant push for more funding. Whatever money they do have goes to equipment and personnel, not extras like barbers.”
“I’m hardly an average member of the public,” Sherlock sniffs.
He catches a quick grin in the window. “Of course you’re not, but I doubt it’s something you ever thought much about, right? No, usually one soldier sort of... sets up shop, if he has a special skill. You know, he might be good at cutting hair, or darning socks, or patching trousers, or getting stuff on the black market or something. Then everyone else works out a barter system, patching clothes for a haircut or a pack of cigarettes or something.”
“You were a patcher of trousers.”
“You’re right.” John uses his fingers to make the back is even, and then moves to Sherlock’s left and starts combing hair over his ear. “But you know I can sew; I patch you up often enough. And it kind of goes with the job, right? Sewing fabric is easier than skin, after all.” He snips a few stray curls. “I think I’ll leave it a bit longer on the sides, okay? I like it curling over your ear. But yeah, I patched my share of trousers. Darned lots of socks, too.” He wets Sherlock’s hair again and combs it into place, then uses the fingers of one hand to pull it straight up while he snips it with the tips of the scissors. “There wasn’t any one guy who really was a barber, though, so we all took turns. Of course, it’s easier when you just run a set of clippers over a bloke’s head, although that comes with its own risk.” He chuckles at the memory. “Once I was waiting my turn for one of the pilots to give me a quick buzz, while he finished with another guy. Captain Richards, I think his name was. He wasn’t particularly good at staying still at the best of times. Anyway, here’s Jeff—the pilot—running the clippers over, when one of the captain’s mates walks in and hollers ‘Oi, Richards!’” He laughs harder. “Richards turned his head without even thinking, and got a long strip buzzed down right to scalp, right here.” He runs a diagonal stripe up Sherlock’s scalp with his index finger, and doesn’t miss the way the skin tightens and the hair stands up. He smiles to himself and continues trimming the soft black tufts that curl around his fingers damply. “How long have you been seeing Brigitte?”
“Since I was sixteen.” Sherlock extends his arms in front of him to stretch his back, but doesn’t move anything above his shoulders. “She was recommended by a boy at school.”
“And you took the recommendation?”
“He was slightly less of a git than the rest. And he had very nice hair.”
John chuckles. “Is that all you noticed about him, his hair?”
“Well, as I said, he was less of a git than the others. He had other attractions, as well.”
John holds his breath, but keeps his hands as steady as he can. He’s very aware that he is being offered a rare glimpse into Sherlock’s formative years. He feels privileged, yet nervous; he knows Sherlock’s hiding some skeletons in his closet, but knowing about them and being face-to-face with them are two different things.
Sherlock shrugs imperceptibly, but keeps his head stationary. “He was a gifted linguist, and spoke eight languages fluently and three more passably. He was an above-average chemist, but a talented biologist. He was also one of the most brilliant pianists I have ever played with.” There is a smile in his voice when he continues. “And he had nice hair.”
John finishes the left and asks Sherlock to turn around so he can do the right side. Once accomplished, he sets about wetting and combing again. “Was he your friend?”
“Hmm? No, nothing so mundane. No, we rehearsed together, and worked on our schoolwork together, but that was it.” He pauses, and then adds, “I suppose you’ll find it significant that he was my first kiss.”
John freezes in his actions; after, he notices it was a good thing, since he very clearly had a chunk of Sherlock’s ear in the path of the scissors. He breathes shallowly and tries to sound casual. “Oh?”
“Yes, in our final year.” Sherlock tilts his head so John can comb a little straighter. “It wasn’t a planned thing, or anything. We were in the chemistry lab one day, and he leaned over to see my notes, and I turned my head and it just—happened.” He knots his fingers in his lap, and then releases them. “We kissed a few more times, but then the year ended and we went our separate ways.”
John is struggling to keep his hands steady; since Sherlock’s hair is so curly, a few uneven cuts won’t show, thankfully. “And that was it? The year ended, and you never spoke again?”
Sherlock straightens his head as John makes a few last cuts, puts down the scissors and starts squeezing out the excess water with the clean towel. “We exchanged a few letters, but in the fall I was off to university and he was going to Italy, so it wasn’t logical to get involved. And Mycroft would have disapproved.”
“Why? Before you answer that, what’s that stuff you put in your hair every night? I’ll comb some in for you.”
“Moroccan oil. Dark bottle, in the bathroom cabinet.”
John returns with the blue-labelled bottle. “How much?”
“About the size of a pea is fine, John.”
He carefully pours a small amount of the thick, orangey oil in his palms and rubs his hands together. The smell takes John back to a brief layover in Africa, warm, mild vanilla and something sweet and indefinable. He runs his fingers lightly through Sherlock’s damp hair and slicks the product through, then combs it carefully. “Why wouldn’t Mycroft approve?”
Sherlock sighs. “It’s so stupid. His family was... he would have said, ‘not our sort’. Mycroft used to be terribly concerned with propriety.” He says this last with a sneer in his voice. “Bloody git. I don’t know why he was so obsessed, Mummy certainly wouldn’t have minded, I can tell you that.”
Well...” John’s voice is measured as he pulls out pieces of hair to check that they’re even, “back then, some upper-class families wouldn’t like their boys to be taking up with other boys.”
Sherlock snorts. “So tedious, John. It was the 1990s, after all, not the 1890s.” He cracks his neck to one side, and then the other. “Are you finished?”
“Nearly.” John unpins the towel and pulls it from Sherlock’s neck. “Hang on, you’ve got some stray hairs.” He blows them away softly, then runs his fingers through the nearly-dry curls. “There, is that better?”
Sherlock feels the back and sides with his long white fingers and smiles. “Much.” He catches one of John’s hands with his own, and locks eyes with John. They’re bright and blue, and the pupils are blown wide. “Can I get up, now?”
John’s breath catches in his chest; he knows that look. “Of course.”
With one swift movement, Sherlock is out of his chair and pinning John against the table, his face buried in John’s neck, lips at his throat. ‘Good,” he growls, and the doctor feels his blood drain from his head and pool below his waist. “Sitting still, having you run your fingers through my hair, again and again, actually breathing down my neck, was agony.” He nips lightly at John’s pulse, and exhales when he feels the smaller man squirm against him.
“I assume you don’t pay Brigitte this way,” John says breathlessly.
Sherlock purrs against his throat and rolls his hips; John feels his eyes roll back in his head. “Of course not,” he says into John’s collarbones. “Brigitte is an excellent coiffeuse, as well as being intelligent and politically astute. But you may have noticed, during your... ministrations...” and he sucks on the tan skin in the hollow of John’s throat. “... My scalp is extremely sensitive.” He presses a leg between John’s thighs and feels the doctor’s knees shake. “But, as Brigitte is female, her hands have no effect on me whatsoever. And since I usually cannot afford to be distracted by a simple haircut...” He moves his thigh up slightly to press into John’s erection. “I go to see her, since having a woman touch my hair isn’t distracting in the least.” He presses his hips meaningfully against John.
“I, ah, see what you mean,” John wheezes; his body has shut down all non-essential functions including, apparently, breathing, to divert blood to his cock.
Sherlock pulls away a bit, runs his hands into John’s hair and grips the sides of his head, using the nails on his index fingers to scratch lightly on the man’s scalp behind his ears. “Now John. Despite my distraction, I seem to recall you said that in the army, the soldiers often traded services to each other, correct?” When all John can do is nod, he smiles devilishly. “Well, I believe you have just rendered me a service, and most excellently, too. Since you don’t need a haircut, or any clothes repaired, and since the black market does not operate in our flat, how can I repay you?” He puts his hand on John’s belt buckle, and the other man groans loudly. Sherlock smiles again and sinks to his knees, taking John’s zipper as he goes.
John can do nothing but clutch at the table while Sherlock shows his appreciation for his haircut. When the younger man hollows his cheeks and sucks hard while running his tongue over the fraenulum, John heaves a shuddering cry and comes hard, pulsing into Sherlock’s mouth. His cock slips free as his knees collapse, Sherlock catching him as he falls.
When he catches his breath, he kisses Sherlock hard. “Payment accepted.”