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A Bit Not Good	By : VulpineBeesKnees Category: S through Z > Sherlock (BBC) > Sherlock (BBC) Views: 2924 -:- Recommendations : 2 -:- Currently Reading : 3
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Chapter List
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Startled by the accurate deduction John sat agape, it had been far too long since he’d had Sherlock’s deductive reasoning pointed so directly at him. Even before it had not been something he could get used to. Pressing his lips into a firm line he quipped, “I told you she was just a friend, I wasn’t interested in her like that. Honestly I was fairly pissed that she’d lied just to get me there.” Desperately John checked the time again, six minutes, he found he was counting down, uncertain of how much information he wanted to give Sherlock.
“That’s not the only reason though is it John?” he let his eyes flick over the smaller man’s face and posture, “I know you’ve had plenty of sex with women you weren’t interested in previously. And It’s had to have been at least three years or more since the last time am I correct?” he didn’t wait to be answered, he knew he was.
“The conditions were ideal.... So why didn’t you? Was it guilt? Or perhaps you’ve given up on relationships since.....” he trailed off and mentally kicked himself for being such a prat. That was probably the worst thing he could have said at the moment.
“I think I’d like a cup of tea between this and the next bit if that’s alright. Maybe a biscuit too, I’m a little peckish.” he looked away and picked up the instructions to the chemicals currently in his hair, flipping them up so that he covered his face, looking very intently over all the safety precautions.
“Oh by all means,” John growled as he rose, snatching the thin paper from Sherlock’s grasp as he walked past, “don’t stop your little show on my account. Since what?” He walked through to the kitchen leaving the directions on the counter, looking at the small clock on the microwave he noted, three minutes. Irritated as he was, John still flicked on the electric tea pot before going back to sit on the couch, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees. “Come on. Out with it. What were you going to say?”
“Nothing.” he refused to look at John, but the stare was intent and when he looked back to see John very seriously staring him down, he pushed on, feeling like he was babbling. Not something he enjoyed doing. “I’ve quite forgotten now. It’s not important, forget I said anything. How long have we got now?” He looked away, searching for a clock, which was useless because he hadn’t paid any attention to the time they’d started.
Heaving a sigh, he kept his eyes averted, tapping his fingers in a familiar agitated pattern. He hated it when he was careless and broached this topic with the doctor. It always left him feeling just a little bit guilty and in need of a cigarette if not something harder. The tapping of his fingers did little to take the edge off the need rolling through his body, but he had firmly decided he was not going to let such a thing control him.
John considered the pressing the subject, part of him wanting to force them into talking about their many issues, but Sherlock’s nervous fingers halted him. He was supposed to be helping Sherlock, not pushing towards his addictions. Checking the time he sighed, “Just a minute.” Pushing off the couch he went back to the kitchen, the water was already steaming hot. He quickly prepared two cups of tea, which he left steeping on the counter. “It’d probably be easiest if you just duck your head in the sink.” He’d seen Harry do this when dying her hair when they’d been in high school.
The detective stood from his chair, happy that John didn’t press him, and followed him into the kitchen. He would be glad to get the burning chemicals off of his head, but he knew it wasn’t the last he’d feel of it. At least he’d have a break for a little while. Moving to the sink, he passed John by, careful not to touch him, remembering the way he pulled back a little too quickly earlier, and leaned over the sink, still holding the towel around his shoulders.
“Make sure to keep your eyes closed.” That was all the warning John gave before turning the water on. He quickly adjusted the temperature, muttering apologies as the frigid water hit Sherlock’s hair, drawing a gasp from the detective. Soon enough the water was a comfortable temperature and John began working through Sherlock’s hair with one hand. He continued this a little while after he was sure there was no more chemicals. John knew full well he was taking advantage of the liberty he’d been given by Sherlock.
Sherlock had closed his eyes just in time to keep them from being assaulted by the chemicals, and then John’s hands were in his hair. Having his eyes closed allowed him to feel every centimeter of the doctor’s calloused hands as well as the warmth from where he stood beside him to reach over and rinse his hair.. There were callouses on his hand from the grip of his pistol. He must have cleaned it every night Sherlock had been away. Then there was the one on the side of his left middle finger from where his pencil lay when he wrote. Oh Sherlock didn’t think he’d ever tire of being able to feel this content.
John turned off the water and squeezed out the excess before pulling the towel from Sherlock’s shoulders and dropping it on top of his soaked head. “Alright, all done. Dry it off.” He walked away to finish the tea he’d left steeping, leaving Sherlock with his head in the sink, a towel draped over him ridiculously.
When John's hands left his hair, all the contentment and calm he'd felt spiraled down the drain with the water dripping out of his hair. Standing, he toweled his hair until it was fairly dry, and pulled the towel back down to his shoulders. His once curly hair now hung a little wavy from the dampness, but predominantly straight as it slashed over his forehead, length now fringing into his green eyes. He followed John, eyes set on the tea he’d requested earlier.
John slid the cup across the counter towards him, “We need to give it a bit to dry. The hair dye says to apply it to dry hair.” He leaned his back against the counter, now that he wasn’t distracted by the act of working his hands through Sherlock’s hair his thoughts wandered back to why he had turned Mary down. Sherlock had been the only reason, but that was something he didn’t even understand.
Sherlock was his friend, his best friend really and John had missed him desperately while he’d been away. Before he had met Sherlock John had been in a bad place. Unable to adjust to civilian life John had begun spiraling into a dark depression, but Sherlock had saved him, unknowingly perhaps, and had they not gotten the flatshare John wasn’t even sure he would still be alive. Then of course, John had been the first person Sherlock seemed to willingly let into his life. So it made perfect sense that they would have a special sort of bond, but now, now things were different. John physically craved Sherlock’s presence, his touch, and the thought terrified John.
Lost in his own thoughts John sipped at his tea, a sort of dazed look about him as he contemplated their situation. He knew it was only a matter of time before they would be forced to talk about everything, but seen as John didn’t know what sort of response would upset him more, or what his own desires really meant, he swallowed his questions.
Sherlock took his own cup and carefully sipped at the brew. Finding it still too hot for him, he set it down on the counter and raised the towel to rub his hair again. When he finished this time, it was dryer, fluffing up a little.
"Ugh... This is dreadful..." He reached up and tugged at the long hair. It had been a much more manageable length when it was curly. He was glad they had decided to cut it now. Eyes focusing past his fingers, he saw John deep in thought. Letting go of his hair and brushing it out of his face, he sidled up next to the blonde and lightly thumped his forehead, startling John and pulling him from his reverie.
"You look so serious John.... What are you thinking about?" He could deduce an idea if he wanted to, but he would rather John have the confidence to tell him.
John stowed the troublesome thoughts as he looked up at Sherlock and shook his head, “Nothing.” He took another sip of his tea before changing the subject. “So how do you want me to cut your hair?” John was fighting the desire to finger through the damp hair clinging to Sherlock’s forehead.
Breaking away from Sherlock’s gaze John stared back down into his cup, watching the tea swirl lightly. He didn’t need nor want Sherlock deducing what internal turmoil was rolling through him.
Sherlock cut his eyes at the doctor, effectively hiding the disappointment curling through his stomach. His insufferable curiosity made it almost unbearable to let the question go, but he bit it back and let John change the subject.
"I'm not sure, I haven't ever had a different hairstyle... It's been like this for as long as I can remember." He sighed and picked up his tea again, braving the scalding liquid in favor of a calming drink.
"What do you think would look good with the style of clothes I've purchased?" He asked, inclining his head back towards his room. "It wouldn't do to stick out I suppose..."
“No you’re right, it would defeat the purpose if we just drew more attention to ourselves.” Setting down his tea John moved to the living room to retrieve his phone. “Actually I did some looking around at my lunch break.” Hurrying back to the kitchen John offered his phone to show Sherlock the photo. It was of some posh actor, but his hair was longer on the top, a bit shorter on the sides, and styled in a way that it fell onto his forehead in a small curl. It was the only reference photo John had saved.
“What do you think? Probably go well with your whole look,” John shrugged his shoulders and bit at his lip.
Sherlock looked over the photo in detail. The actor in the photo actually had similar features to his own. A long face with chiseled cheekbones and a long,thin nose, however, the man in the photo had a little more weight on him than Sherlock. He supposed the hairstyle would go well with his new assortment of clothing, and it wouldn’t look half bad with his old clothes either once he was able to wear them again.
“I trust you. If you think it will look good, then I’ll allow it.” he stood back up from where he’d leaned over to peruse the photo, “I’m sure you’ll make it look good.” he took a longer sip of his tea now that it had cooled down some, and leaned back lazily against the counter, one leg bent, his damp hair falling over his eyes, and dripping down onto the collar of his t-shirt.
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Coloring Sherlock’s hair went about as well as the chemical straightener had gone. Plenty of complaining from the detective, but none of the awkward conversation they'd had before. Both men had seemingly found their comfort again, and soon enough John was holding out a lock of Sherlock’s hair with one hand, bearing a small pair of scissors in the other. Sherlock’s hair was still wet from the round with the hair dye and draped down into his eyes dramatically. A sort of anticipation built up in John as he hesitated, scissor poised and ready, but when he finally let them cut through and the small bunch of hair floated to the floor he breathed out a sigh of relief and got to work.
They were about half way done with the buzzer rang through the flat. Setting down the scissors and comb John started towards the door. “Uhm, just. . . stay here.” He laughed at the ridiculousness of that request, there wasn’t much Sherlock could do what with his hair half done, trimmings sticking to him just about everywhere. The detective frowned and shooed him away to the door without answering.
When John reached the door he was a little surprised to find Lestrade standing out on the stoop, but then again, who else would be calling on them.
“Don’t tell me we have another one?” Turning to the case was John’s instant reaction to seeing Greg without notice like this, a worrisome look crept onto his face causing his brow to furrow slightly.
"No, nothing so dismal, Mycroft sent me to come check on you boys, make sure everything is going according to plan." He patted John on the shoulder and stepped into the entryway.
"What have you heard from the crime scene?" Came Sherlock's voice from the sitting room.
"Looks like both victims were drugged with some sort of mind altering drug. We’re not exactly sure of the effects. Molly has some blood samples at Barts for you to examine when you get the chance." The DI started heading up the stairs as he spoke.
"Fingerprints? The girl?"
Lestrade stopped at the top of the stairs and had to stifle a laugh at Sherlock's half finished haircut, to which the detective shot him a withering glare.
"No fingerprints but ours, the girl is fine. She lost a lot of blood, but she'll recover.. Physically. She's been unconscious since shortly after we found her. No ones been able to talk to her yet..."
John followed Lestrade into the room, the silent exchange between the two other men didn’t go unnoticed. “Well, just be sure to let us know when things change. In the meantime, Mycroft should be pleased to hear that we are just about done.” Moving back around to the other side of Sherlock John picked up where he had left off on his hair.
“Didn’t really do all that much for me today at work mind you, but hopefully it will help at the crime scenes.” He paused for a moment, sizing up his work so far, “So Mycroft just sent you to make sure we were doing as we were told?” There was a hint of bitterness in this, Mycroft of all people should know John wanted to keep them both safe, even if Sherlock was insistent on being obstinate toward his brother at every turn.
"Yeah, he just doesn't want to take any more chances... Despite what Sherlock likes to say, Mycroft really does worry about him..." Lestrade rubbed the back of his neck, "You wouldn't know it but he's pretty frazzled with everything that's going on."
Sherlock sniffed as let his eyes roam over the man for a quick second before speaking. "So tell me Lestrade, did you stay the night with my brother again?" He wasn't sure where the sudden surge of petulance came from, whether it was because his brother thought he needed to be coddled like a child, or because Lestrade had agreed. Either way the words left a bitter taste in his mouth.
The DI looked taken aback and started to stutter a denial, "I well.. I didn't..."
"Save your pathetic attempt at lying. Your clothes are wrinkled when normally your suit is very pristine, your shoes are scuffed from taking them of haphazardly and dropping them on the floor. You also have a bit of down on your stubble from some very nice pillows, pillows you couldn't afford. Your blushing tells me that you indeed stayed over last night, and probably most nights that you can. The fact that you are being his lap dog and running his errands for him, along with the close proximity you keep also supports that conclusion, the only question that remains is, do you truly care for my brother or are you just shagging each other for the hell of it?
Sherlock wasn't sure why but that thought angered him a little. He wrote it off to the fact that Mycroft seemed happy and that was never something the detective was particularly glad for.
Lestrade opened and closed his mouth for a moment as if trying to think of someway to come back to the detective’s snarky deduction. John’s hands had froze in mid-air, halfway through Sherlock’s mini tantrum. His mouth dropped open slightly as he watched the DI search for a response. John was just about to tell Sherlock to shove it, break the painful silence when Lestrade finally lashed out his reply, "Like you should talk? What's your problem? You have the same relationship with John!"
Instinctively John took a step back from Sherlock, the scissors almost slipped from his hand before he had a chance to drop them on the table. Now John was mirroring Lestrade's previous motions, his mouth opening wordlessly. One hand splayed out on the table for support as John shook his head and his eyes locked pointedly on the DI.
“We’re not... ” He stared, his eyes dropping to the back of Sherlock’s neck before snapping back to Lestrade's, as if begging him to take those words back. They weren’t shagging no, but they were sleeping together, rather intimately and for whatever reason John felt the need to keep their lack of a relationship completely and utterly exclusive.
Even though it was the truth, John's sudden denial stabbed through his chest. Was it so disgusting to think of being in a relationship with him? The more he thought about it, the more offensive it became. A particularly annoying bit of his brain questioned why he was reacting so strongly to John's quick denial. In the span of only a few seconds, his brain flickered through all of the new things he had been feeling, all the strange changes that had taken place within him since he'd come back.
Sentiment had once been described to him by Mycroft as wanting to be beside someone for the rest of your life, no matter how annoying and horrid they could be. Was that... Did he feel that way for John? Nonsense, he didn't feel sentiment, he'd forced himself not to a long time ago. Even through his denial, a small part of his him knew he was protesting too much.
Lestrade could see Sherlock deep in thought, and John’s eyes were begging for him to diffuse the awkward situation. He cleared his throat and started to speak, "I... I'm sorry I didn't realize it was such a sore topic... I'll just."
"Yes, I believe it's time you took your leave Detective Inspector. You've upset my flatmate and frankly, I'm not too keen on you either at the moment. Tell Mycroft that we are following orders like good little soldiers. Contact us know if anything progresses with the case. Besides that I think you've quite worn out your welcome for the day.."
Lestrade looked like he wanted to argue, but all he ended up doing was nodding to John. "I'll let myself out." He said and left the two to their awkward silence.
As Sherlock was telling off the DI, John’s vision dropped again, not wanting to meet that gaze any longer. After the door slammed downstairs, and a particularly painful prolonged silence John stepped forward again, combing through Sherlock’s hair softly as he picked back up the scissors. His hands were shaking slightly, but he kept working, desperately trying to pretend the entire affair had not happened.
“Almost done.” he muttered softly as a few more snippets of hair toppled to the ground around Sherlock. Carefully breaching the subject John cleared his throat before speaking, “So Greg and Mycroft. Didn’t see that coming.”
"Yes, well it's none of our business really now is it? He was being annoying and I was trying to embarrass him. I think it quite backfired though." His voice trailed off and he closed his eyes. His fingers began tapping their agitated rhythm again. Finding himself at a loss for words John didn’t respond.
Tap ta-ta-ta tap tap
"Are you almost done John?" He asked softly.
“Almost,” John muttered, flipping the longer bits of Sherlock’s hair this way and that, looking for any stray bit’s he’d missed.
Tap ta-ta-ta tap tap
"I think i've had a bit too much domestic fun for today," the word even tasted snarky in his mouth, "It's high time I start on my experiments again. I've had this theory about the size of sewer rats..."
“Mm.” John offered, the only sign that he was even listening to Sherlock’s ramblings. His own mind far from the conversation.
Tap ta-ta-ta tap tap. Tap ta-ta-ta tap tap.
His fingers were tapping faster now as he grew more and more agitated. He couldn't think about these things. Not here, with John's calloused fingers in his hair. "I'd like to go collect some before it gets too dark..."
Feeling utterly mad, he knew needed to get out of the flat to sort these things out. John's presence was for once only serving to befuddle him further, and suddenly he felt desperate to be free of him. His mind, refusing to obey his constant struggling to quiet it, played through the past few days and the jealousy and sentiment he'd begun feeling towards his best friend. It was all tedious and foreign and Sherlock didn't like that he was oblivious to it all until pointed out by a bumbling police officer. No matter,he told himself internally, he would squash this feeling like he had all others at some point in his life, and without any indication from John that he was feeling these same things it was idiocy to continue to harbor them. Of course he had become much more intimate with the detective, even going so far as to sleep in the detective's bed, but John had a severe hero complex, always trying to help and fix people at the detriment of himself. No, Sherlock could not see the sentiment returned and therefore he would not allow himself to fall into this dangerous trap.
"I shouldn't be gone more than an hour and a half." He wasn't sure why he was babbling about his experiment, but he suspected it was to keep the awkward silence from returning.
As if he’d finally dropped back down to earth John set down the scissors and leaned around the side of the chair so he could just see Sherlock’s expression. “You want to go collect sewer rats and bring them home? Here?” His own eyebrows were raised questioningly.
"Yes here. It's not as if I have a secret laboratory stashed somewhere. If I had I wouldn't need a flat." He frowned at John's expression and continued, "they won't be alive John."
He said it like that made it better somehow.
For whatever reason the idea of live rats had seemed more appalling than the assorted body parts that seemed to make their way to the fridge, and alive or dead John wasn’t keen on the idea. Of course there was also the fact that John didn’t want Sherlock to leave. He needed to figure out what was going on between them and that wasn’t going to happen with Sherlock swanning off.
He pulled back and began dusting he stray hairs from Sherlock’s neckline before removing the towel from around his shoulders, “I was thinking we could have a night in, it’s sorta been nothing but excitement since you got here. What with the case on Saturday and. . . well last night.” He didn’t want to rehash that.
Sherlock stood and brushed off a few hairs John had missed and turned around to look down at the doctor. He was closer than Sherlock had anticipated, they were almost toe to toe and he felt every cell of his being screaming out in confliction both for John to touch him, and to get away from him. No longer was his body just transport, it was demanding things of him, and he couldn't ignore it any longer. Shaking his head a bit, the small section of his new slightly wavy fringe fell in his eyes as the dark verdant hues searched John's face for answers he knew he wouldn't find.
A part of John still wanted to argue against the whole idea, but he froze up. He had held his breath as Sherlock turned to face him, his own body aching to lean forward into the man. Sherlock’s penetrating gaze felt as though it was tearing John apart, piece by piece, John couldn’t help but wonder what the detective could see.
"I'm feeling a bit cooped up presently." He said softly. "I'll only be gone for a bit. I'll give you your night in after as a thank you, for this." He reached up, flipping the fringe back and out of his face. When he looked down again, he was transfixed by the lines of John's face, the curve of his nose...
Damnit stop that!
He grit his teeth and looked away, moving to his room to change clothes before he left.
The flash of anger that spread across his features was so quick John almost missed it, not quite though.
As Sherlock stalked away John gathered his breath and his thoughts. Whatever Sherlock had been able to deduce, he hadn’t liked it. Maybe John had become too physically attached to the detective, maybe he was putting too much emotion into something the detective considered convenience.
Without a word John began cleaning up the evidence of their domestic pursuits. His heart was beginning to ache, and a part of John had an inkling as to why.
Sherlock came out, once again in the blue and black he'd donned earlier that day, pulling on the leather jacket, and sliding the hood over his head, hiding everything but the sweep at the front. The detective turned back at the door and looked like he was about to say something, but instead he only watched John clean up for a moment before turning and jogging down the steps.
John glanced over his shoulder as he heard the descending footfall, and was surprised at his own disappointment. All the same it left John to his thoughts. His mind wandered back to the moment before Sherlock had walked away from him. When they had stood toe to toe and Sherlock had held him with that look that sent shivers down John’s spine. It shouldn’t, but it did.
It hadn’t been the first time John had been felt that way of course, it was just something that up until now had been pleasantly ignored by the both of them. If John was honest with himself he had felt like this after every deduction, every silent conversation, every time Sherlock made it a point to show off, not for everyone else, but for John.
Finishing with the mess John pushed the table back into the kitchen, leaving the flat looking rather untouched, as if nothing had changed. But everything had changed. In the past three days everything that could possibly have changed had and now, as John wandered into Sherlock’s room to hang up the forgotten clothes from the morning, he began to honestly consider that his feelings for Sherlock were something real.

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This time around Lestrade didn’t bother to text Mycroft to let him know he was in trouble, this was getting ridiculous. This was the second time the bastard had sent him into that flat to confront Sherlock unprepared.
As always, the elder Holmes was held up in his office, pouring over god knows what. Lestrade pushed through the double doors dramatically and straight up to Mycroft’s desk.
“Don’t you dare give me that look,” He growled, slamming a hand down on the front of the desk. “I told you... God Dammit Mycroft I told you not to send me in like that again!”
Mycroft’s brows knit together and his head cocked to this side, seeming genuinely perplexed by the outburst. “I don’t know what you mean? Is Sherlock not cooper-”
“You know damn well what I’m talking about.” Lestrade cut him off quickly with a flourish of his hands before pointing back at Mycroft with one finger, “You told me they were sleeping together. I just made an arse of myself. God. John looked mortified.”
“Oh Greg,” Mycroft chuckled, lacing his fingers together atop his desk, “Yes. I said they were sleeping together, I didn’t say they having sex. Do keep up.”
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A Bit Not Good