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“Mrs Hudson, for the last time, take them down!”
The cards, balanced on a bowing crimson ribboned string, swayed as Sherlock swatted at her reaching arm, sprinkling a shower of glitter down upon the floor, the rug, the coffee table, and down upon him. He spluttered, ruffling his curls, and shot a murderous glower at each individual card that was responsible for his unwanted, shining shower. There were a lot of them. More than John expected, more than he even remembered receiving. Cards of all sizes and materials, with illustrations of holly, of candy canes, of snowmen and the jolly, red figure of Santa Clause, smothered in a kaleidoscope of coloured reflective specks.
“Mrs Hudson!” Sherlock bellowed.
John wasn’t entirely sure on how long Mrs Hudson had been trying to pin up the Christmas cards, teetering on a set of rusty step ladders, box of drawing pins sticking out from her cardigan pocket, but judging from the amount of speckled chaos that stuck to every surface and the severity of Sherlock’s mood, he could only guess it had been at least a few hours or so before he’d left work to come home. Enough time to litter a large amount of the living room with glistening dust. The card that had yet to be opened, the one addressed to Sherlock from a smiling, winking Sarah, felt heavy with dawning ramifications in his hands as took it from his bag and John eyed it, wondering whether now was the right time to hand it over, or even if Sherlock would take it now that he'd been riled up by Mrs Hudson. Watching for only a second more, John finally made his presence known by shutting the living room door and giving a loud sigh, unable to do anything else but march into the fray. More card ammunition was not going to go down very well, yet it did no good hiding from Sherlock's childish behaviour.
“John!” Sherlock span to face him and animatedly pointed, sweeping his arms widely, limbs rigid and glittery in the light. “Tell her to stop! - Look at this place! Look at this mess! She clicks her tongue at me for leaving a few beakers out on the kitchen table, for allowing a pile of papers to grow in the corner, for ignoring the clutter in the sink, yet this, this, is fine? This utter carnage? How is that right?”
“Carnage?” John repeated with a raised eyebrow, straightening up to Sherlock's looming, domineering posturing, not allowing himself to be influenced. “It's a few flecks of glitter. You once left a disembowelled pig in the bath—”
“A few flecks? A few? - Are you blind?” Sherlock sneered and, with eyebrows lifted high beneath his fringe, gestured to himself, to the floor, to the fireplace, to the tree. “It’s everywhere!”
“It'll hoover,” John scoffed dismissively, walking over to stand on his tiptoes and kiss Mrs Hudson's cheek, passing Sherlock the thick envelope from Sarah as quickly as he could, like throwing something to distract a wild animal. It was snatched at and half-bent in a tensed, angry, white fist, and Sherlock scowled, and continued to scowl at him as John held up his hands in surrender, stepping back. “Did he make you a cuppa, Mrs Hudson?” Rolling his eyes, at Sherlock bared, clenched teeth, John headed into the kitchen, filling the kettle and flicking it on. “I bet you didn't even offer, did you?”
"Why would I give sustenance to a merciless harpy?"
John threw a glare over his shoulder, "Sherlock!"
When he looked away again, John shook his head at the immature banging around that followed, hard, angry, sullen footsteps pacing in a short line, “Not all of it will hoover!” Sherlock complained loudly. “Glitter is worse than sand. It gets everywhere and anywhere, and lingers. You end up still finding the bloody stuff for years afterward the initial contamination!” John let himself grin at Sherlock’s huffy and riled tone, listening as he all but dismantled the envelope in his grasp, ripping into it with an obvious split of paper. “Mrs Hudson, if you do not stop that, this instance, I am going to—”
There was another crisp tearing and then he abruptly choked to a stop, and John turned just in time to see the last rush of red glitter pour over him. The card which Sarah had given to be handed over to an unsuspecting Sherlock, was a glitter bomb. A glitter bomb that John had heard her talking about in the office to the receptionist, and two other doctors, about how she was sending one to her ex and another somebody who had royally annoyed her, but he hadn't anticipated that the latter would be Sherlock! He had expected, for a time, that this 'ex' she had mentioned to be him and had never once thought that she was targeting his flatmate.
Looking the man over, who was standing still, grinding his jaw, face, chest, and hands covered in glinting red, John couldn't help but giggle in reaction, pushing his hands over his mouth, “Sorry… sorry… I didn't mean to...”
“What’s that? What's happened?” Mrs Hudson asked as she climbed down from successfully pinning the stringed cards up. She twisted faintly, only to blink, snort, and then burst into laughter. “Oh Sherlock! Oh my goodness!--”
“It’s not funny,” Sherlock uttered and then cringed, spitting and stumbling back, dropping the card to the floor at his glitter-smeared feet. “It’s in my mouth!”
“It's probably non-toxic… if that helps?” John replied, not able to look at Sherlock without bending into another peel of nose-crinkling giggles. “Oh god… I'm so sorry. - Do you want a drink?”
Sherlock grimaced and thumped his back into the wall, shaking his head and rubbing at his face, “It’s in my eyes!”
“Come on, let's get you to the bathroom,” John said after taking a few, breaths and walking to Sherlock's side, kindly and carefully taking his arm. He led him through the kitchen, opening doors and warning Sherlock of the various hazards along the way, leaving a red trail behind them. “Do you need anymore help?—”
“I’m blinded!” Sherlock exclaimed angrily, coughing and hacking and huffing glitter out of his nose, hands frantically scrubbing at his hair, his skin, and his dressing gown and pyjamas. Many of the shiny red dots fell to stick in-between the tiles of the bathroom, while some sprayed off to cling to John, getting into the folds of his clothes and the creases of his hands. “Get this off me!”
“Alright! Hang on…” John griped, helping strip Sherlock of his robe and then leaning over to turn on the shower. This was really not what he needed right now, to be undressing Sherlock and seeing him even a little bit naked. It was definitely, absolutely, not what he needed. "Just... just let's warm this water up for you."
“I think it’s in my ears…” Sherlock grumbled sullenly, wafting his t-shirt out by its centre, raining down more and more glitter, before he pulled it off over his head and flung it to the side. “I’m going to be finding pieces of this ghastly stuff in my excretions for days! Secreting it from my very pores!”
“Secretion, eh?” John asked, giggling once more as he held onto Sherlock to give him some balance, keeping one eye, the one Sherlock was nearest to, clenched shut so he didn't catch sight of anything he shouldn't. “What are you, part slug?”
“Every time I sneeze there’ll be glitter, just… all over,” he continued on, ignoring John while he also leaned and swayed against him, stepping out of his pyjama bottoms and throwing them over his shoulder, smacking John in the face with one of the flailing legs. “Tell Sarah to sleep with one eye open from now on.”
“That sounds incredibly ominous...” John responded, moving his gaze to fixated tightly on Sherlock's feet when he made a clumsy line into the shower blindly. He had never noticed how flexible Sherlock's toes were as he gripped and flexed them, a bit like a chimps foot. “I'll leave you to have a shower… you don't… need me here, do you?”
“No, why would I need you here?” Sherlock snapped and scrambled for the shower curtain to yank it closed. “Oh God, it's everywhere! - I hate you. This is your fault that this happened! You met that female! And you think glitter is all just fine. Not a problem at all! 'Oh, is it in your tear-duct? That's fine. It's just a few specks of glitter!--'”
“You're the one who hijacked our date,” John huffed, moving to collect and scoop up Sherlock's clothes to take to the washing machine, shooting a glower to the opaque curtain. “That's probably why she's a bit miffed with you. She missed out on this fine hunk of man...” He smirked and shrugged, moving for the door. "Plus, you know, we were kidnapped because—"
Sherlock, now wet, hair slicked back, face flecked with thick, tumbling water droplets, leaned out of the shower and grabbed him by the collar, yanking him close, “It was never a date,” he growled, pulling him nearer and nearer, dampening John's shirt. “I needed you to be near, for assistance sake. You and I were on a case. You do not turn your back on Work just to try and get yourself what would have been a disgustingly mediocre snog session. - At the time, you knew me well enough to know that I was not just going to do something for you without it giving me an advantage, without it benefiting what I wanted, what was needed to solve the case…” He trailed off, heated gaze cooling, and flitted his eyes over John’s face, lowering his voice to a deep whisper when he paused on John's mouth. “I don’t know why you bothered. I don’t know why you bother at all. Ever. You’re fooling yourself, John...”
John blinked, entranced, feeling the splashes of the shower spray hitting his cheek and side of his ear as the water rebounded against the curtain, it soaked his skin, some of his hair, but he didn't care, all he could focus on was the shining of Sherlock's mercurial eyes, the sheen of his lips, the pale, soft flesh of his neck and clavicle, “Fin-finish washing...” John breathed after a moment, swallowing heavily, blinking again, and clearing his throat. “And then I'll... I'll comb through your hair and get the remaining glitter out.”
With that said, he took hold of Sherlock's fingers, uncurled them from his collar, turned on his heels and marched through the door in a hasty retreat, grasping hold of the kitchen worktop as he stumbled away, catching Mrs Hudson's attention, “Everything okay?” she asked with a small, soft chuckle, pinning up more cards. “He can be so dramatic, can't he?”
“Mm? Yeah. Yep. Fine. Totally cool,” John heard himself ramble, rubbing his face and realising a moment too late that he had smeared glitter across his cheek. “Everything is fine and dandy.”
She frowned slightly, “Are you sure, dear? - Was he nasty to you? You know he doesn’t mean those things he says!”
“No! Yes… What?” John barked, struggling to concentrate, “I... I need to take these to the washing machine.” Without waiting for a shocked Mrs Hudson to reply, he rushed out of the room and down towards her washer. God, this was bad. This was very, very bad. He wanted to kiss him! Why did he want to kiss Sherlock so much? He shouldn't want to kiss Sherlock, should he? “Fuck, fucking fucking fuck!” John threw the clothes in and added powder, slumping nearby as he turned it on. This could all go badly. So very badly indeed.
He stayed for several long, long, minutes beside the filling and then spinning machine, before pacing and snarling to himself, burning from the inside out and completely overcome. John didn’t know how to deal with it. Couldn’t believe it. He trembled, bubbling over with emotions he couldn’t understand, that he didn’t want to understand, that he just couldn’t deal with, not now, not in this moment. Raking his hands through his hair, thumping the wall beside him, and trying, miserably, to slow his racing heart, John crouched and covered his face, lost, confused, and suddenly hateful of himself, his actions, his thoughts. What the hell was he doing? Why was this happening so often?
When he returned to the living room, he cleared up as much of the red glitter that he could, tried his best to admire the work Mrs Hudson was doing, and then went back to the kitchen to flick the kettle back to boil, needing that cup of tea now more than ever. Everything had been fine, had been normal, before December, so what was it? What had shifted? Why was he doing this to himself?
Making himself a decaf coffee instead - caffeine wouldn't help in this situation – John made Sherlock one too and carried them to the sofa, putting them onto the coffee table, which he quickly rubbed a hand across, pushing the glitter that lay there onto the floor to clean up later. He sat down, crossing his legs, then uncrossing them, putting his left over the right and his right over his left, jittery with energy. Mrs Hudson shot him a worried look when she had finally finished and he sighed, sitting straight with a pillow quickly squeezed in his grip, attempting to look normal, to look natural, in a way he knew must have seemed totally the opposite.
It took a torturous amount of time for Sherlock to be done in the bathroom and once he was, instead of coming out and reentering the living room, John heard him stomping about, then a door open and slam close as he evidently went into his bedroom, “I haven’t heard the hoover, John! - Get rid of it all!”
“I thought I'd leave the hoovering until we sorted your hair. Seems pointless doing two lots of it,” John called back in answer, attempting a neutral tone of voice. “I'll get a towel if you get your comb. We'll brush out any remaining—”
“I am not going back into that glittery hell!” Sherlock snarled back.
“Oh for --” John groaned, pushing thumbs into his eyes until he saw sparks. Now Sherlock expected him to go into his room? The room where Sherlock slept? Where he changed? Where he... no, John wouldn't let himself think about anything else. He stood and lifted the mugs, squaring his shoulders. He was a soldier, he had been into battle, he could do this. Taking a breath, lifting his chin, John made his way to Sherlock's bedroom and gave him a greeting nod. “Hi.” He winced as his voice broke like a teenage boy's and stopped, closed his eyes, and cleared his throat. “I made coffee.”
Sherlock turned from where he was standing, or rather sulking, next his bedroom window, clad in another dressing gown, and only the dressing gown, “Why?” he complained with a petulant pout, gesturing for John to place the coffee down on the bedside table. “Look, what is the point to this? I fail to see why we should waste time combing my hair? It won’t do any good. It’s not as simple as just brushing it out. - Not to mention that I have a lot of hair. Thick hair. Annoyingly curly hair!”
“Yeah. I know. It's... I like your hair...” John mumbled, wincing again and slamming his mouth shut, putting the mugs down as instructed. With a small glance in Sherlock's direction, at his still very sodden tresses, he left to grab two dry towels from the airing cupboard and went back to stand at the side of Sherlock's bed, nervously hovering. “Okay, listen, we... I mean… we don't have to do this, I just thought… it'd be better with another set of eyes? I can see in places that you can't. No matter how skilled you are with a mirror.”
Crossing his arms, Sherlock scowled at him, “I have several combs and brushes, which do you want?” he muttered, moving off to gather them. “I even still have one of those head lice combs.” He gave said comb a wiggle and padded over to John, eyeing him up. “How exactly are we going to do this?”
“Well… how about you sit on the floor between... between my legs, facing away with your back to me? Pressed against the bed if you need something to lean against?” John suggested, blushing a little and cursing himself for it. “And I'll use that fine-toothed comb and get as much of the remaining glitter off onto the towel.” He gestured with one of the towels in his hands as emphasis. “You can brush it first though, so it's not too knotted beforehand?”
“Fine,” Sherlock grumbled, looking at the floor. “Sit then.”
John did so, perched primly onto the edge of the mattress, marvelling at how soft and luxurious it felt compared to his much cheaper one. Draping one towel over his spread legs, he then reached across and lifted one of Sherlock's pillows up, placing it on the floor between his feet to be covered with the other towel, in case of any sort of glitter spillage. As he did so, however, he found himself partly distracted by the fluttering of a picture that had been beneath it. The image looked fairly scrunched up, like it had been under there for a while, and John wondered for a second, with a jolt of embarrassment, if perhaps it was some sort of intimate thing. Unable to stop his curiosity, to halt the movement of his hand, John watched as if from outside his own body while he picked up the paper and turned it over, frowning when he recognised a picture from the blog. It was a relatively old picture, one of the first ones he had uploaded of them, and John stared at it, finding the whole thing extremely touching for Sherlock to have something like it so close to him.
He was barely able to hold it for more than a second before it was snatched away by Sherlock, his expression sharp and mouth tense, “Do you mind?” he reacted curtly, scrunching it up further with a glare.
“Sorry… I didn't mean – I just thought...” John struggled, giving a half shrug, mouth dry when their eyes met. “Why... why is that there?”
“... I have a penchant for scrapbooks,” he intoned, stuffing the picture into his dressing gown pocket. “Evidently this piece got away from me. Not uncommon. I have often fallen asleep during the gluing process a few times before.”
“Oh,” John replied, nodding sagely. “Yeah... that makes sense.”
“...Not that it matters, nor that it is any of your business, but here,” Sherlock muttered nastily, kneeling rapidly to lug out a large, dark leather bound book from under his bed, shoving it into John’s chest. “See for yourself.”
“I wasn't bloody accusing you of anything!” John insisted, but righted the book and opened the cover, looking at the first few pictures and articles that greeted him. It seemed that Sherlock had logged their friendship and working relationship from the start. Between the documentation were hand drawn diagrams of things that were relevant to the case. The wedding ring of the woman in pink, her phone, her bag, the pills of the poisoner. It was fascinating to look back over at it all, at their recent history, from Sherlock's point of view. “This is – beautiful.”
Sherlock shuffled on his knees, “You… you think so?” he murmured gently, almost timidly.
“It's incredible...” John replied, seemingly breathless as he turned a page and saw an immensely detailed drawing of his own hand holding his gun after it had just been fired. “You did this?”
“I’m not an artist, I know,” he huffed in humble humiliation and reached to try and take the book back. “I don’t document everything either, of course. Just the interesting things. Things that I… that I wish to remain physical.” Sherlock tapped at his temple at John’s questioning look. “Everything is up here. Everything I want, I need. All stored for later use. However, I do like to sometimes have the physical evidence of certain situations and events. To be able to… touch it with my hands…”
“Yeah... I can understand that -- Not an artist? Really? You say that when you do this?” John scoffed, refusing to give the book back until he flicked through a few more pictures, looking at the Chinese symbols and shaking his head fondly. “God. You are incredibly talented, Sherlock. This – this is art. I know I don't know much about art but this? Its beautiful, Sherlock. Really. Truly.”
“I’m, uh, I’m glad you think so,” he said and gave him a shyly pleased sort of smile, flushing at the praise. “I just... I was more of a technical drawer. Technical drawing was a hobby of mine for quite a while. Until I wanted to draw something… else.”
“I can barely draw a stick figure...” John laughed, running his fingers across a drawing that depicted the outside of the museum where there was the shoot-out. Sherlock really had an eye for details in John's opinion. It felt as though he was there all over again. “I'd like to see more of your drawings one day… if that's not too cheeky?”
“No, it’s not,” he replied, watching intently, his foul mood from earlier entirely erased, “I have a sketchbook, somewhere. It’s a bit lacklustre though. I tore a lot of the pages out.” Looking away, Sherlock then shifted and turned his back to John, sitting down on the provided pillow, head bowed enough to expose his damp nape. “As I said, technical drawing was what I did. For years. There are very few drawings of anything else, but there are some.”
“Have you done any other pictures of me?” John asked, putting the album to the side so not to get it wet, he didn't want to spoil any of the perfectly drawn artwork with glittery water.
“No. Why would I do more?” Sherlock retorted in a low mumble. “I only needed a few. Enough for the book. To explain the case…”
“Maybe you should?” John suggested quietly, clearing his throat a second later. “So… hair… er – I'll just brush it first? Unless you want to do it? Like we discussed? You agreed that, didn't we? Or do you want me to do it?”
Sherlock hummed in agreement, “Yes. You. - I ran my fingers through it in the shower, but that never seems good enough,” he told him, twisting to choose the brush. “Use this one.”
"Yeah, okay, thanks," John said appreciatively, taking it and noticing, immediately, how posh it looked and felt compared to his own tattered cheap one that he'd had for so long, that many of the bristles were missing. Careful to lift the hair from Sherlock's nape, John began brushing it from the ends first, shifting upwards gently and working out any large tangles, before running the brush through again and again.
“... Seen any yet?” Sherlock rumbled a few minutes in, wriggling on the pillow and plumping the sides of it with an irritated huff. “Make sure to check all the way down to my scalp, please.”
“I'm getting there,” John replied, running his fingers back from Sherlock's hairline to collect the curls and gather them all into a bunch that he could brush properly. “Just working on the bird's nest first." At Sherlock's indignant huff he chuckled. "Your hair is very smooth though, and very soft.”
Stretching out his legs along the floor, crossing them by the ankles, Sherlock then rolled his shoulders and folded his arms, letting out a small sigh, “So it should be. It needs a lot of maintenance and styling,” he replied as explanation, not that he needed to explain it. John lived with him. John had seen the stash of products hidden away in the bathroom. “And I use a lot of conditioner.”
“It's worth it though,” John smiled, working on a knot with his fingers, then running the brush over it. “I've seen people intoxicated by these your curls… have watched them swooning at the perfect curve of a single ringlet.”
“Oh shut up, you have not seen that!” Sherlock snorted, bouncing and rocking one of his feet in what looked like anxiousness or agitation.
“I did!” John snorted, putting down the brush now that most of the hair was untangled and picking up the comb, parting Sherlock's hair to one side to work at his scalp. Keeping an eye on his feet. “There was a binman in Putney, you smiled at him, flicked your hair, and I saw him swoon like a maiden--”
Sherlock was almost tempted jerk his head around to glare at him, John was sure of it, but instead chose to give another irritated huff, “I do not flick my hair. I have never and will never flick my hair. Not once,” he groused, tightening his folded arms and drumming his fingers. “And what binman? I don't remember any binman. I've not met many binmen.”
“Yeah, there wasn't a binman,” John confessed. “It was a metaphorical binman. We're all swooning binmen when it comes to your hair.”
“That just isn’t true,” Sherlock replied, fidgeting and arching his back, “You like it, fine. Molly likes it, obviously. And there may be others who find it appealing to look at and who think it suits my face. Okay, yes, all right. But it has not sent anyone swooning--”
“There are Sherlock Holmes' hair fanclubs across the land,” John snickered, tapping Sherlock's head in playful reprimand when his shifting began causing too much disruption to the slow, methodical hair combing. “People walk around with pictures of your hair on t-shirts. When you enter a town there's a Beatles like frenzy. Teenage girls scream themselves hoarse just by the mere sight of your hair.” John knew he was probably taking it too far, but he was enjoying it, even as silly as it was. “Men threaten one another with duels to determine who gets to have the same hairstyle.”
“I’ll cut it all off then,” Sherlock said with the clutching quiver of a quiet laugh. “That should sort it out. - Have it like I used to as a boy. Short back and sides.”
“You will not! This hair is a part of your trademark look! - I will tie you to the bed until it grows back if you ever get it lobbed off!” John told him with a laugh, falling silent when it occurred to him what he had just said. “No. Wait, this sounded—I meant… I just meant… Christ, it doesn't matter.”
Sherlock laughed aloud then, letting it shake his shoulders, and turned his head enough to glance back at him, “Funnily enough, that’s more or less how it did grow back. After many years of having it cut, of course,” he murmured. “During the time I stopped using. Considering you tend to be shackled to the bed if you’re overly violent.”
“Oh, Jesus...” John whispered. “That's – awful. I'm sorry. - God, for how long were you tied to a bed?”
“John, don't act so shocked. You’re a doctor, you know that if a patient exhibits aggressive behaviours, to others and themselves, they are often tied down for everyone’s safety,” Sherlock told him lowly, maintaining eye contact. “I was aggressive. I did not want to be where I was taken. So I fought to leave. Fought to leave my brother’s care and then the care of others.”
“Yes, I do know that people are restrained if they're aggressive, but... well, I suppose I hadn't imagined that would be you. I mean… you're mostly quite put-together and it… it upsets me to think of you, of your mind, suffering like that. Of you feeling scared and helpless. It's not a nice thought,” he said as he gently pushed his thumbs into the back of Sherlock's neck, a sweet gesture of sympathy.
“You’ve seen my moods, John. Are you really so surprised that they were once even worse?” Sherlock asked in a small whisper, looking away. “You should know, that if… if I need that again, at any time, you have my full permission to administer the treatment. No matter what I say to the contrary after the fact.”
“No. I don't think I could—I'd never tie you to the bed,” John insisted, “I might straddle you, or sedate you. I might follow you around like a shadow, but I won't let that happen to you. Not again - But, if you ever need that type of care, I'd rather do it. I'd rather be your doctor. Do it all at home. With me. I wouldn't ship you out to a bunch of strangers. We're friends, that's what we do.”
“Yes, I know, but you can’t guarantee that I won’t just--” Sherlock snapped his mouth closed and shifted on the pillow again. “You’re an idiot...”
“You are too. But I'd look after you,” John whispered tenderly, a pang in his chest as he went back to Sherlock's hair and continued to comb through it as gently as he could. “Is there anything I could be doing now to, er, stop you getting to that point? - Is there anything else you want from me that I could give you to stop the urges?”
“You know what helps, John. I need to be distracted. I need to work on something. I need to get what I would normally get from that somewhere, from something else,” Sherlock murmured in reply, rubbing a hand over his face with a gusty sigh. “I don’t know what more you can do. I doubt there is more. Just as I doubt it will ever go away. I will always want it, think about it, miss it…”
John reached down and squeezed Sherlock's shoulder, lingering and feeling the heat bleeding through the material of Sherlock's robe, “We'll see what cases come up soon then, but Christmas is always pretty quiet. You'll just have to deal with me annoying you instead...”
“Mm. Another reason why I dislike Christmas. Mainly petty crime around this time of year,” he said around a large, exaggeratedly miffed puff of breath, sliding a few fingers to John’s hand seconds before he took it away.
“What about if we go hang around the Christmas markets tomorrow?” John suggested with a wicked smile to the back of the man's head. “We can look out for pickpockets and take it in turns to do the most dramatic flying tackle?”
“I detest Christmas markets,” Sherlock sniffed and folded his arms again, squirming and clenching his toes. “I’d rather do literally anything else.”
John huffed with laughter and tilted Sherlock's head so he could work on combing out a patch of glitter that had suddenly caught this eye, a particularly stubborn patch, which was stuck on Sherlock's scalp and the roots of his hair, "God, your hair does not want to give up this bit!" he griped, deciding to get rid of the comb and use his thumb to rub and smooth the glitter away instead, digging his digits into the scalp in an impromptu head massage.
Sherlock tensed, arched, shuffled, angled his hips, and writhed the harder and longer that John pressed, “...Yes. I… I had noticed…” he grunted as one of his legs began to tremble slightly. “Try not to… to… to get it everywhere else!”
“You can always have another shower!” John grumbled, going back to the comb and using it to pull away excess clumps of glitter, then going back in with his fingers again. “Might be better off having another shower anyway, actually. Although this robe will need a wash now too. It's a bit sparkly.”
“Oh for fuck sake,” Sherlock growled and shuddered, slipping down as he scrambled to shrug it off his shoulders, trying to look, his nape and cheeks blotchy. “I hate this.”
John was momentarily stunned at Sherlock's outburst, it wasn't that Sherlock didn't swear – he often did – but he didn't usually look so red whilst doing it, “It's alright,” he frowned, giving a half shrug with dismissal. “There's really no use being so furious about it. - You're going to make your cheeks explode if you go any redder--”
Suddenly and rigidly incensed by John’s words, Sherlock twisted and surged up onto his knees once more, pushing between John’s legs with a snarl, “No use? - I’m getting sick and tired of your nonplussed reaction to being covered in fragments of non-recyclable plastic!” he said and grabbed the towel on John’s legs, shoving it onto his face, over his hair, and getting the glitter he’d brushed from Sherlock onto his own skin, in the corner of his own mouth, and within his own hairline. When Sherlock removed the towel, he arched an eyebrow, face still very flushed. “Enjoy.”
John laughed and shook his head, catching sight of the glitter as it fell into his lap and onto Sherlock's bed, although he hoped Sherlock hadn't seen that, “It's glitter, it's not contaminated sheep's blood. I've had much, much worse on me. It'll fall off eventually...” he replied, wiping at his face with his sleeve and noticing, quite quickly, how dark the skin of Sherlock's now visible chest had flushed. Nipples pebbled. John looked down at the floor to avert his gaze but froze, noticing something else about him, something he had never seen or thought of seeing before. Did Sherlock have an erection or was it a trick of the light? Perhaps it was the folds of Sherlock's gown?
“I hate glitter,” he seethed, seemingly unaware of John's discovery, and pushed up onto his feet. John continued to stare because, yes, he did in fact have an erection. An extremely prominent one at that. “It digs into my flesh and always, always, manages to get into my eye! Under my eyelid especially, where it scratches and scratches and scratches!” Sherlock turned, covered his shoulders again, or rather one of them, and marched to his wardrobe, throwing it open to rummage inside. “It’s an irritant!”
“Er… yeah?” John agreed, although he had no idea what he was actually agreeing to. For all he knew, he could have agreed to sell his liver. “You… uh… I should...” He thumbed at the door. “Should I go?”
“Yes. Bugger off!” Sherlock snapped and turned back around with a compact, wireless hoover in his grasp, erection still very much evident, leaving nothing to the imagine when the dressing gown ruffled over it. “I don’t know why I even thought you could help. You’re useless! You are unsympathetic! And you have only made this day worse!” He switched it on and walked over to John, pressing the hoover to his sparkling legs first, then what was left on the towel. “I hate you. You and Mrs Hudson both. I shall remember how you laughed, how you shrugged it all off, and I shall make sure to repay you in kind.”
“Mmhm – yeah, that's – fine.” John stood up when Sherlock moved away and headed immediately to the doorway, where he lingered for a second and thought about mentioning the erection.
When he had been in the army, it was a well known, well joked about topic – many of the lads would make a fuss if they caught one of the other lads with a stiffy and then for a few days, he would be the butt of jokes. Gentle mockery, just camaraderie with friends, but John wasn't sure he could have that sort of thing with Sherlock. Wasn't sure if he wanted to shine a light on the reason why Sherlock was aroused, if there even was a reason. Deciding to just leave and forget he had ever seen it, John went back to the living room and gazed into the middle distance, glistening floor a blur as he attempted to sort out his thoughts.
Life at 221B was never dull. Never.