Y/N doesn't know how she got there, but she finds herself standing behind Sherlock as he perches on the narrow lip of the bathtub.
Their bath is lined with raised bobbly bits of plasticâto prevent fallsâand Sherlock's socked feet knead them distractedly as Y/N bites her lip.
Experimentally, she takes a curl, pulling it gently until it's straight. She lets it go and it springs back. She sighs. "Sherlock, this is stupid. I don't know what I'm doing."
"Sure, you do."
"I don't."
He shrugs. "So pretend you do."
"When people say 'Fake it 'til you make it' I think they're talking about self-confidence, or bravery or somethingânot barbery. "
"You can fake anything, I do it all the time."
"What? Like when?"
"Fixing that leak we had from the tap, filing taxes, that time I had to give CPRâ"
"Okay, okay, don't tell me any more, I'd rather live in ignorance." Sucking her bottom lip, Y/N cautiously takes another curl between finger and thumb.
The very end bit has gotten a little frayed, a split slicing the last centimetre in two.
Angling the scissors, Y/N winces as she snips it off.
The blades slide past each other with a satisfying clip.
She waits, expecting Sherlock to yelp as if she's severed a limb.
He doesn't.
"Okay...?"
"Yes. But maybe you could cut some of the other strands too? I mean, I love what you've done with it, the style is just brilliant, butâ"
"Okay, okay, okay, shut up, I'm doing it."
...
Several minutes pass, Y/N working her way slowly and carefully around the back of Sherlock's head with the scissors.
Their bathroom is a narrow rectangle of a space wedged between Sherlock's bedroom and the staircase like a bookmark, the farthest wall looking out over the back of the property. A thick, frosted window mars the less-than-picturesque view, and several shade-loving pot plants mar the glass.
Y/N had turned on the main light to compensate for the lack of sun, which had activated the bathroom fan.
Unable to turn it off, it hums quietly somewhere in the ceiling, breaking Y/N's thoughtful, concentrated silence.
After another five minutes, something else breaks her thoughtful, concentrated silence.
"Y/N, you still haven't answered me," Sherlock says.
He seems to like saying Y/N's name a lot when he's talking to her.
Maybe he likes the way it sounds.
Maybe it makes him happy to remember she's there.
"About what?"
She can't see his face but she knows what it's doing. His lip will be doing that smirky thing where it twitches just at one side.
"About you thinking I meant something else. When I asked where you wanted me."
Y/N pulls another curl straight. "Shh. I'm trying to concentrate."
"You can do two things at once."
"Not if you don't want a mullet."
He shuts up, his hands settling on his knees like a scolded schoolboy.
Eventually, Y/N gets bored of the quiet. "So why am I doing this?"
"Hm?"
"Why can't you go to Mr Candicci."
"Oh." Sherlock's fingers clasp each other, his knuckles turning pale. "I upset him."
"How did you upset him?! He barely speaks English!"
"I asked him after the health of his wife."
"Okay..."
"In front of his other wife."
"Oh."
"How was I supposed to know one was a secret?! I thought they knew!"
"How does someone even get two wives anyway?"
"Why? Are you someone's side piece?" He teases.
"Don't mess with me when I'm holding scissors to your head."
He laughs and it echoes off the bathroom tiles.
"You need to stop annoying people. You don't have any cases, you've been banned from your barbers, and that Co-Op down the street."
"Only when Markus is on checkout."
"What I'm saying is, if you're not careful you won't be able to leave the flat at all."
She'd meant it as a joke but he goes suddenly quite quiet. "...I don't...mean to annoy people."
Y/N's face falls. Softly:
"I know you don't."
She pulls another curl up and snips it, letting it spring back into place. They're all the same length on either side of his head, now, his signature style actually beginning to take shape.
Studiously---and admittedly a little smug---Y/N slides her fingers through the fluffy, blunted chocolate brown coils and draws them outwards.
Sherlock makes a tiny little sound.
Y/N furrows her brows, her scissors coming to a halt.
Silence.
Shrugging, she snips a rouge curl she had somehow missed, and bundles up another handful.
The back of Sherlock's neck has gone pink.
Once again stretching them tight, Y/N snips, and he hums, his head tipping back a little.
She moistens her lips. "Stop making moaning sounds."
The pink darkens by a few shades. "Sorry. It feels nice."
"It's not meant to! Do you make those sorts of noises when you're at Mr Candicci's?"
"No, but Mr Candicci doesn't do that."
"I'm trying to check the length!"
"Well, do you have to pull it!?"
"Yes! Do you have to moan!?"
"I'm sorry!" He exclaims---and he really does sound sorry. "I'll try to stop."
"Please do. It's distracting."
He's silent for a moment as if thinking. Then, his tone edged with what can only be described as curiosity:
"...Why?"
"You know why. Wouldn't you find it distracting if you were trying to look through your microscope and I kept going ugh, ahhhh, oh!"
Like paint has been tipped down it, the back of Sherlock's neck darkens to a chilli-pepper red that disappears into his pyjama t-shirt. He scratches it, his nails leaving little white streaks through the blush.
Y/N's hands have stopped snipping to watch the colour return, oddly fascinated.
"I think any man would enjoy that very much."
The scissors come to another abrupt halt.
He's smirking again.
She can hear it in his voice; he deepens it when he's messing with her, each syllable a rumble rather than a word.
She doesn't know if he does it on purpose.
"Just shush, I'm trying to think how I'll do this bit."
"You could pull it some more?" He suggests helpfully, and Y/N does her best to ignore him; it's taking her an embarrassing amount of time to get her scissors moving again.
"I can't decide how to make it sort ofâflow. It's long hereâ" she holds up a curl sprouting from the crown of his head.
Sherlock fakes a comical, over-exaggerated groaning sound.
Y/N blinks at the unexpected turn his sense of humour seems to have taken. Muscling on despite what she can't quite believe she's just heard, she continues, "---then it starts to get shorter hereâ"
Another loud, guttural moan.
"---but I don't know how to get them toâ"
"Ughhh."
"---JOIN UPâ"
"Hmmm." With his head tilted back dramatically, Y/N can see that, indeed, the corner of his mouth is twitching with not just a smirk but a grin. Through childish, cheeky chuckles, he feigns more aroused sounds untilâ
"Sherlock!" Y/N finally snaps, grabbing a handful of his hair and giving it a sharp, warning yank.
He groans.
But he's not smirking anymore.
His lips have parted in a little 'O', a very real, bitten-down noise of pleasure falling off his pink tongue.
The bathroom suddenly feels very very quiet.
In the ceiling, the bathroom fan still whirrs.
Meekly:
"Sorry." Sherlock clears his throat and straightens his back, his hands flexing on his knees. They're bunching up the fabric tight in his fists. "I'll stop now."
They'd rearranged the loo last year to fit in a bigger bathtub, and Y/N is glad they did. Thank goodness they moved the mirror onto the other wall; if it was still where it used to be, Sherlock would have a more than clear view of how red Y/N's face has become.
Those sounds---intended for comedic purposes as they may be---had no right sounding that way. Absolutely no right.
Y/N can feel the patches of a hot red blush setting her cheeks glowing and, discreetly, she wipes her clammy palms on her trousers. Maybe she could unbutton her cardigan without him noticing.
No, of course he'd notice.
He's Sherlock.
"What is with you? You're acting more strange than usual---and your usual is pretty weird."
"I'm bored!" He insists loudly, making Y/N jump. He seems to grasp the excuse from thin air and clutches onto it. "I've been alone for So. Long. And I'm sick of it!"
"I was only at work for, what? Six hours?!"
Folding his arms over his middle, he hunches over protectively, settling into a disgruntled huff, and Y/N sighs.
Collecting herself, she metaphorically smoothes down her ruffled feathers. Squinting at Sherlock's hair, lifting a few up between her fingers:
"I think I've finished the top. I'll do the back now. "
"Not too short."
"I've lived with you for goodness knows how long and not once have you changed your hair. I know how short."
By a barley perceptible inch, he unfurls a little. "...You notice things like that?"
"Yes. You're not the only one who can notice things, you know; I'd be a pretty stupid best friend if I didn't know what your hair looks like." She can feel him smiling again, but it's not a smirk this time.
"Go on then."
"Go on what?"
Interested:
"What else have you noticed about me?"
Suddenly on the spot, Y/N is surprised to find herself a little embarrassed. She shifts some curls around, pretending to only be half-paying attention to the conversation. "Well. You wear some of your t-shirts inside out because the tag itchesâbut only the ones from M&S. And there's a mole on your neck. Here."
She touches the pad of a finger to it softly, knowing where to find it without looking; in line with his Adam's apple and slightly to the right. "And one of your eyes has a bit of gold mixed in with the blue." Her lip curls. "And you wear a Medium shirt but your buttons wish you'd wear a Large."
The back of his neck dusts with a slight rosy pink hue.
"And," she adds, finding her stride, "when you smile, like really really smile, your mouth turns down at the corners, not up."
There's a pause where Sherlock seems to think about this. He's completely unfurled now, alert and interested, his earlier tantrum forgotten. Then, curiously:
"Which eye has the gold in it?"
"The left."
"My left or yours?"
"Mine."
"Okay...what's my blood type?"
"B positive."
"Allergies?"
"Pollen and pine nuts. And you say crustaceans but that's just because you think they're disgusting."
"If you'd seen my grandma inhale a shoal of shrimp you'd feel the same way. Height?"
"Exactly six foot."
He holds up a finger. "Six foot one."
"No."
"Fine. Am I right or left-handed?"
"Right. That's an easy one."
"Favourite song?"
"You claim it's Nocturne by Chopin."
"But?"
"But you always play 'Reet Petite' when you're cooking. You say it reminds you of your dad. And whenever Ray Charles' 'Mess Around' comes on you beat the piano solo into the counter with a spatula." The memory makes her smile.
By the sound of his voice when he answers, he's smiling too. "There's one more you're forgetting."
She smirks. "Baby Got Back?"
"What? No! You know it's 'Money For Nothing'."
"Oh. How does that one go, again?"
"You know! I play it all the time!" He waits for her to remember but when she seems to remain at a loss, he sighs, exasperated. "It goes like 'we got to install microwave ovens, custom kitchen deliveriesssssss, we got to move these REFRIGERATORS, we got to move these colour TVsssssssss." He stops because she's giggling. Outraged:
"Hey!"
"Of course I know it, you idiot, I'm sorry, I just wanted to hear you sing it."
"Well, now you have, so congratulations."
Outside, somewhere far in the distance, a car beeps its horn.
A dog barks.
Y/N's scissors snip snip snip.
Then Sherlock says, his voice contemplative:
"I used to play the Dire Straits really loud to annoy Mycroft. One day I enraged him so much he moved his whole bedroom down the hall."
"That's not the only reason you were separated, was it?"
"No."
Her lip twitches. "And the other reason was....?"
"I got a raisin stuck in his ear."
Y/N giggles, and he chuckles with her.
"I forgot Mother told you that story."
"It's one of my favourites." Mimicking a wide-toothed comb, Y/N fluffs the back of his hair up to see how it settles over his ears.
They're a little pink and flushing pinker each time her fingertips catch his skin.
"...Okay, I think I'm done. Wait." She snips one last stray and stands back to admire her work. "Okay, now I'm done."
Lifting his long legs out of the bath, Sherlock turns around where he sits, tilting his head. His reflection in the bathroom mirror tilts his head too, then smiles. "Thank you. See, who needs Mr Candicci, or what's his face from down the road, or that imbecile from CoOpâor anyone for that matter, when I've got you?"
Y/N gives the top of his head a gentle, brisk little slap. "You need them, Sherlock. You can't go your whole life just speaking to me," she warns firmly, because she knows he would, if he could.