Archive of Our Own ^beta

Drip. 

Drop. 

Drip. 

Drop. 

The sink isn't leaking again. It's just dripping because John didn't have the energy to turn it all the way off. He stares at the pair of scissors in his hand. 

Drip. 

Drop. 

Combing his fingers through his hair, John sighs and looks up at his reflection. Tired. He looks absolutely knackered. Shattered. Broken beyond repair. 

Drip.

Drop. 

Who'd want to repair this, anyways? 

Drip. 

Sherlock. 

Drop. 

Mariana, Stamford and Nadia, his mum--

A soft whine came from the doorway. Archie watched his owner with wide, worried eyes. He smiled despite himself. 

The sink has stopped dripping. He looks into his own eyes again. 

John hasn't cut his hair. He hasn't been too upset too, not before her, but he still let it grow out. It was just past his shoulder blades when Sherlock had stretched out a strand curiously. 

He grunted at the force he had to use to comb through it again. He hasn't washed his hair. 

He looks at the scissors. 

Archie whines again, this time looking up and behind him. 

"What are you doing, Watson?"

John flinches, catching Sherlock's cool gaze as he leans against the doorframe, arms loosely crossed. His eyes are quiet and searching, analyzing for any sense of John's state. 

"Ah-- ehm-" He snips the scissors idly, "Thinking." 

Sherlock squints slightly, turning his expression from manually unreadable (which tends to be bad, when he schools his features into something that appears blank) to obviously concerned. 

"About...?"

"My, uh--" Something clicks when the blades close together again, and John sputters. "I'm-- I wasn't, nothin like that, I swear--" 

"I figured not." Still, Sherlock's posture relaxes at the reassurance. It makes his heart ache a little. "About what, then?" The way he inquires is so soft, like he's afraid even the slightest wrong tone will make John burst into tears.

It might. Her voice was so soft. 

"My hair. It's, ah, getting long, I guess." 

"It is." Cautious, Sherlock comes near, bringing a hand up to comb through some of John's hair. He melts into the touch immediately, and he honestly can't help it. Everything hurts so much, and Sherlock's nails feel so wonderful against his scalp. 

"I was under the impression you were pleased with this." He pulls on a strand, watching the curl stretch out, then spring back into place when released. 

"I was." Sherlock strokes his beard and John almost passes out, leaning into his touch like a needy kitten. "I, uhm--" Very coherent, Watson, you sound like a drunk bastard over some light petting, "I changed my mind." 

"I-- I think a cut would be nice. Freshen up a little." He'd done this before, when they got the news that his dad wasn't coming back-- chopped it all off in a fit of emotion and just felt so much better, like it'd lifted some miniscule weight off his shoulders. That weight came back, of course, resting innocently on his shoulder like a bird, still lingering, even now. 

That was his first time, though. He's lost people before, he should know better now-- he should know better than to drown himself in silence and memories and then never discuss it with anyone else once his month or two of rightful brooding had passed. He should know better. He does know better. 

"Hmm." Sherlock looked at John's reflection with consideration, then reached for another pair of scissors. 

"I'll join you, then." 

"Huh?" The detective reached up and pulled his hair down in one clean motion, shaking his head wildly so that dark locks fall into their natural places. The way Sherlock managed to be so flawlessly beautiful without any effort on his end makes John's stomach twist in a mix of deep affection and jealousy.

"I said," He combs through his hair, taking a section and watching the scissors in the mirror, "I will join you." 

"Yyou don't have to--" 

Snnnip.

They slice through Sherlock's hair with ease, a long chunk of black hair falling to the bathroom floor. John just stares, transfixed as Sherlock continues to cut his hair. For him. To join John in this strange semi-ritual. 

As though it's nothing at all. 

Sherlock begins to comb through it again, this time with an actual comb instead of his fingers. He begins to texturize it manually. 

John swallows, taking a deep breath. He looks at the scissors in his hand. They aren't so daunting anymore, nor so shameful. 

"...You aren't alone, Watson. You don't... Have to do it alone." 

His gaze flickers to the floor, the growing pile of cut hair at Sherlock's feet. He smiles. 

"I know. Thanks, Sherls."