#Curlock
I should be working on “The Vapor Variant” but I came across this ficlet in my writing folder and had to finish it. After a wonderful thread on Sherlock’s hair started by @jbaillier, I (of the same hair type as Sherlock), felt a connection to the subject and couldn’t resist. So, without further ado:
“I can’t believe you’re taking this case. It’s not even a two.” John watched as Sherlock flitted about the flat, doing up the last buttons on his shirt with one hand as he tilted his head back and quickly drained the last of his tea. Sherlock had practically leapt from his desk chair upon receiving the e-mail from “Rowan Davis,” and his quick summary of the problem to be solved left John puzzled.
A family heirloom that went missing after a distant cousin came to visit, and who now refused to answer their phone? That was the kind of basic, boring thing Sherlock never gave a second thought. Hell, he barely even gave it a solid first thought. These were the types of e-mails he deleted before he even finished reading them. He often refused to leave the flat for anything less than an eight, but he was rushing around like his arse was on fire for this?
“The police can handle this blindfolded, Sherlock. What am I missing?” John said, crossing his arms and taking a step to the side to place himself in Sherlock’s path and block his way to the stairs.
Sherlock stopped short and rolled his eyes impatiently at John, shoving his wallet and keys in his pocket. “Rowan is an … important professional acquaintance of mine. I owe him.”
“I’ve never once heard you mention this ‘Rowan’ in my life.” John tried to pretend he didn’t hear the tinge of jealousy in his own voice. “And you owe him? Since when have you ever owed anyone anything? If I’m giving up my quiet Sunday morning to go off and help track down his sticky-fingered family member the least I could ask is a little backstory.”
“All right. Fine,” Sherlock huffed, putting a hand on his hip and gesturing to his head with the other. “Rowan is responsible for THIS. All of it. He saw potential where others saw only problems. Even my parents were frustrated and had no clue where to begin. Mycroft tried to pretend I didn’t have it at all, better to deny the problem than admit he was out of his league, I guess. Rowan taught me what to do … how to harness what nature had given me. What so many dismissed as hopeless and crazy and out of control, he turned into something manageable. Through him, I was able to stop being ashamed of the gift I had and start appreciating it.”
John realized his mouth was hanging open and closed it. “He … taught you to do deductions? How to … use your mind?” John asked, even though it didn’t seem right. How could someone so pivotal to Sherlock’s brilliance have never come up before? John suddenly had a vision of a young Sherlock studying alongside a wise but faceless elder, learning to channel his raging thoughts into the power to piece together puzzles others were boggled by. The whole thing was very Karate Kid, but knowing Sherlock and his bizarre family, it somehow didn’t seem farfetched.
Although if this Rowan was a mentor to Sherlock, why couldn’t he solve his own outrageously basic mystery on his own?
John might as well have told Sherlock he had quit the surgery and bought an ice cream van. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, and he opened his mouth as if to speak but stopped and took a quick breath. He regarded John as if he were an adorable alien.
“Not my mind, John. My hair. Rowan is my stylist.”
“Your… what? You mean your barber?”
Sherlock sneered in disgust. “No, not my barber,” his mouth formed around the word as if it physically disgusted him to speak it. “Barbers run two bit chop shops for hair. For the average man, I’m sure their talents suffice, but move beyond a 2b on the Andrew Walker hair typing scale and they’re lost, John.”
“I’m sorry, a two…what?”
“A 2b, John. Hair is ranked on a scale, taking into account the tightness of the coil and the overall texture. Your hair is straight, which is considered a solid 1. Personally I think my hair is a 3A, but Rowan insists it’s a 3B. One of the only things we ever argue about,” a small smile at the thought of the inside joke tugged at his mouth before he caught the disbelieving look on John’s face and snapped his head up in annoyance. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, close your mouth, you’re going to catch flies gaping like that.”
John’s jaw snapped shut and he shook his head and rubbed at his right eye, trying to make sense of all of it. Beyond the fact that he had never seen Sherlock’s poncey brand of shampoo and conditioner on the shelf at any chemists he’d ever been to, John hadn’t given it much thought. Sherlock liked nicer things, and it was no secret that his daily outfit probably cost more than John’s entire wardrobe. It was just one of those things that John associated with Sherlock’s finer tastes and public school upbringing.
In the bathroom, alongside his expensive shaving kit and silver tube of French hand lotion, the bottles and jars of Sherlock’s other grooming products hadn’t earned a second glance from John. It’s not as if they shared a bathroom space while they got ready, like a couple might … though now that John thought about it, he’d love to be a fly on the wall and observe Sherlock in his normal grooming routine.
John tried to push aside the odd feelings that the idea of watching Sherlock half-dressed after a shower had summoned, and luckily Sherlock spoke up in time to pull him from his musings.
“My point is,” Sherlock continued, before John could form a coherent thought, “barbers never knew what to do with all of this,” he ran his hands through his hair quickly, fluffing it to emphasize the wild curls. “A lifetime of bad hair cuts and a childhood of… nicknames…” he swallowed, looking repulsed, and shook his head. “My parents never knew what to do with it, and when I was young, quite frankly I didn’t care. It was wretched. In the English rain, it often turned to what my classmates referred to as an “afro.” Barbers cut it as if it were straight, and it dried unevenly. The results were horrid. They thought I could just comb it like every other boy. I’ll never go to a barber again.”
Realizing he was sneering, Sherlock reset his expression to calm and collected again. “Rowan’s technique is advanced. He studies each coil and wave with expert scrutiny, then cuts each curl individually until the appropriate length and style is achieved. He understands my hair, John, and what’s more—he appreciates it.”
John shook his head, trying to wrap his mind around this new, random information. He’d never really considered what it might be like to live with Sherlock’s curls before. “I … had no idea,” he finally managed, shaking his head a little in dumb fascination.
“No, I don’t suppose you would,” Sherlock muttered, eyes narrowing with thinly disguised jealousy as he took in John’s calm, orderly, easy-to-maintain haircut. “In any event,” he continued, turning again toward the door, “I can’t afford to risk my relationship with Rowan. He has called, so I will answer, no matter how boring or easy the case may be. If he asked me to find his misplaced spectacles I’d have no choice but to acquiesce. Now, are you coming or not?”
He twirled around John, grabbed his coat and scarf off the hook by the door, and bounded down the stairs.
John frowned, self-consciously smoothed his hand over his head, then snatched his own jacket and followed.
