A shaved head does not an Avatar make
After his "death," Sherlock travels to Tibet and picks up an... unusual appearance.
Sherlock was beginning to see why a person might shave their head. There was something incredibly liberating about it. If he were the poetic type at all, or indeed enjoyed nature in the least, he might have said something stupid about being closer to the sky... which was probably the precise reason for the tradition, come to think of it. A fleeting smile crossed his lips as he stood up from the chair. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew John would be appalled at this, but there was so much about the whole plan that John would object to that it didn't seem worth the trouble to dwell on it.
The abbot returned his smile, well-practiced wrinkles appearing at the corners of his eyes. "Morning meditation will be at five o'clock," he said, to which Sherlock just nodded. That part would be easy. There were many times he didn't sleep at all, and no reason it should be different now, just because he was halfway across the world.
Besides, he was going back. It was only a question of timing.
He continued to wear the robes, even once he'd reached Heathrow. As a disguise, it worked well, despite being the furthest thing from inconspicuous, because it automatically conferred respectful treatment from most people— and oddly, more than when he'd tried to pose as a reverend. (Then again, that had been for Irene Adler's benefit, and she hadn't been taken in for a minute, so. Bad example.) He did, however, attract a lot of staring, which he could have done without... as long as no one connected to Moriarty's spiderweb was among the ill-mannered, it should be all right.
He was waiting for his luggage (what a tedious process) when he felt a tug on his robes. It would have been so tempting just to ignore it, but he was playing a part, and like any good actor, was committed to remaining in character, so he turned to face— nothing? Ah. He was looking too high. His assailant came up to his waist and was a pert, dark-eyed boy who stared up at him with a mixture of confusion and awe. Keeping his tone neutral, Sherlock asked him, "What is it?"
"Where's your arrows?" he asked, and within seconds Sherlock had decided that a genuine monk would be just as puzzled by this question as he was, and let it show on his face.
"Y'know, the tattoos! You're supposed to have blue tattoos here—" the child seized Sherlock's hand and jabbed it with a finger— "and there—" he appeared to be pointing to his face, or possibly his forehead. "I mean, you are trying to look like Aang, right?"
He felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. John had been doing his level best to educate him on pop culture references, but whatever this was, it wasn't something he'd ever encountered. Even if he'd deleted it, he would have at least had a feeling like deja vu. This elicited nothing. But if it was television or comic books, well, monks didn't have time for that, so he felt safe in asking, "I am sorry, but I don't understand."
"Aang? The last Airbender?" When Sherlock's expression didn't change, the child's collapsed into disappointment. "Aww, you're not dressed up like the Avatar. Sorry."
Swallowing his irritation, the "monk" smiled at the boy and said, "That's quite all right, my child. Go in peace."
As the boy wandered off, Sherlock reflected that the old maxim about disguises being an extension of yourself was dead wrong. This was nothing like him, which just now, was what made it such a good one. But he still didn't consider it good enough to fool John, so instead of risking a trip to Baker Street, he reached into the folds of his robes and touched the threads he'd cut from that jumper. John probably thought the hole was caused by moths.
A reasonable deduction, of course, but certain assumptions (namely: Sherlock's death) would lead him to eliminate the real solution. Smiling bitterly to himself, the "monk" collected his luggage and set off again, undeterred from his mission.
