Title: On Haircuts Fandom: Sherlock (ACD, Grenada) Pairing: None, gen. Little bit of Holmes/Watson UST. Rating: PG (Mainly to be safe, there aren't even swears). Word Count: 1600 Summary: The late, great, Jeremy Brett suffered from bipolar disorder. Just before they filmed The Devil's Foot, he had a manic episode, and cut all his hair off (hence his very short hair in that one!) I took that and applied it to canon. Hurt/comfort stylez. Notes/Warnings: Mentions of probable mental illness. Beta'd by the very patient misanthropyray. She is brilliant! This one goes out to the good people of #bakerstreet, who persuaded me to get back on the horse and stop being such a little bitch about writing with the sheer force of their awesome.
I had a busy practice for a week or so, and had not had a chance to look in on my great friend, Sherlock Holmes. I supposed him to be involved in a minor case, or some small but complicated experiment, giving himself wholly over to his work- it was not unusual for him to go some time before contacting me. However, going home after a long day, I went past my friend’s lodgings, and was thrilled by a sudden shock of intuition; I had to look in on him. The curtains at 221B were drawn despite it only being five pm, and I felt a certain amount of trepidation as I knocked. Mrs. Hudson gave me entrance, and I felt my small hunch had not been in vain, as her lips were thin and her hands clasped in front of her. Mrs. Hudson was a stout-hearted lady, and her serenity was of such deep reserves that my colleague’s eccentricities did not bother her.
“Oh, I’m so glad you’ve come, Doctor,” she said, letting me in. “I’ve been that worried.”
“What’s happened?”
“He shut himself away three or four days ago and I haven’t seen hide nor hair of him since. I wondered if he was up to some experiment, but he hasn’t been asking for meals...” she followed me up the seventeen steps to the rooms.
“All right, Mrs. Hudson. Would you be so kind as to bring up some tea?” I rapped on the door.
“Holmes? Are you in there?” The door was locked and I rattled the doorknob impatiently. “Open up, if you’re there.” There was nothing from within, though I fancied I could hear something shifting about. Mrs. Hudson returned with a laden tray. “Do you have the key, Mrs. Hudson? I left mine at home... Ah, thank you.” I unlocked the door and the room smelt unaired and stifled. The fire was out, and papers and random clutter- pipes, test-tubes and oddly enough, a clockwork soldier were scattered about. Mrs. Hudson made a little noise of vexation.
“That’ll be all for now, Mrs. Hudson. I’ll call you if we need you,” I took the tray from her and shut the door. Carefully laying it down on the table, I called Holmes again. I heard a noise in the bedroom and it was with no little anxiety I pushed open the door. There was a shape on the unmade bed.
“Holmes?”
“Watson... Is that you?” the shape moved and grew into a form roughly like that of a man.
“Holmes, what are you doing? Are you sick?”
“No... Just... Tired...” he murmured. “Been sleeping,” I recalled the black moods that would take him every so often. He would sleep away most of the day in these moods, spending the rest of his time in a deep silence until he could find some new experiment or case (or often, needle) to occupy him.
“Well, I think you’ve had enough sleep now. Come and have a cup of tea,” he pushed the blankets back and swung his legs out the bed, and he was still wearing his day clothes. He perched on the edge of the mattress, rubbing his hands over his face, his lean back bowed like he was under some tremendous weight.
“I think I’ll just... Just freshen up,” he still spoke in the soft, thick tones of the barely conscious, so I left him. I opened the curtains in the living room, and threw open a window to air the room. The room appeared as though a whirlwind looking for a specific pencil had passed through in a hurry. I swiftly made space at the dining table for the tray Mrs. Hudson had brought. That thoughtful lady had thought to add scones and bread and butter.
“A veritable feast!” I remarked as Holmes appeared, wearing fresh clothes, and I stared for a moment, all usual sense of propriety gone.
“Holmes... My dear fellow, whatever happened?” His hair stuck out in all directions, as if someone had hacked at it at random with a pair of shears. Some of it was the same length as when I had last seen him, while other parts were close to the head, sticking out in peaks and horns. It gave him a most eccentric appearance. He rubbed a hand ruefully through what remained of his hair.
“It does look rather startling, doesn’t it?” he yawned. “Pour the tea, if you would,”
“What did you do?”
“Oh... I don’t really recall.” His expression, which had previously been sleepy but benevolent, solidified. “Ah. Jam.” He would not talk again until he had eaten his fill. I watched him over my own cup and saw with some relief the good food our landlady had provided seemed to go some way to restoring him.
“Are you free tonight, Watson?” he said, sitting back from the table and taking up the newspaper. “I understand that there is a soloist at the opera house who is supposed to be quite something,”
“Of course I am free, but you can’t go out looking like that. You look like someone has attempted to scalp you,” I tried to make a joke of it, but a certain vulnerability in the stance of my friend made me wish I’d bitten it back.
“I suppose it’s too late to see a barber,” Holmes ran a long hand through his hair again. “Oh well, a night in won’t do anyone any harm,” his eyes took on a lost cast that I had come to dread over the years. He was already sinking back into the black mood that had taken him over and forced him to cut his hair in such a haphazard way. I tried to smile.
“It might do Mrs. Hudson harm, I thought she was going to have a conniption when she saw the state of the room. I can tell she’s itching to dust. Come, I’m sure we can do something about this,” I poked around in the piles until I found the surgical scissors that had wrought such haphazard damage, lying alongside a few locks of dark hair. I touched one of them. It was yielding and pliant, but had that deathly brittleness of old hair about it that I was loath to associate with my friend.
With no little apprehension, I advanced on Holmes, wielding the scissors before me. He held up a long white hand to stop me in my tracks.
“What are you planning on doing? Forgive me, but I feel like a victim in a ha’penny murder story,”
“I am a doctor, Holmes. If I can’t reduce your hair to a uniform length then my training has been in vain!” I tried not to let my nerves show in my voice. I must have succeeded as Holmes stayed perfectly still as I picked up an old sheet from the floor and draped it round his shoulders as my own barber did. I held my breath and started to snip. Using my knuckles as an indication of length I slowly moved over Holmes’ head. His hair was soft, the longer parts like satin, the shorter parts softly bristling. The only sound in the room was the scissors, which snipped with a quiet assurance that I didn’t feel. I became completely absorbed in my task; it was fascinating to run my hand through the tufts of hair over and over again, the scissors busy at work over the curvature of my friend’s skull. This hair had the vitality that the locks littering the floor lacked. I looked in the shine of the coffee pot and saw Holmes’ eyes were shut, his face peaceful. He only shivered when the scissors danced close to the back of his neck- the cold metal made his hair stand on end. I murmured an apology and his reflection in the pot gave a small smile, but no other response. Finally, I stood back, and rested a hand on his shoulder. It seemed the kindest way to bring him out of his trance. His shoulder was completely relaxed, the wiry muscles slack under his shirt. I rubbed my thumb over the clean cotton and almost bird-like bone structure underneath, and the muscles tautened lazily.
“You should still visit the barber, but that should pass muster for the opera,” Holmes raised his head slowly, breathing in through his nose, and ran a hand through what remained of his hair, dislodging a few stray hairs.
“Thank you, Watson,” he gripped my hand for a moment, not quite looking up at me, and stood gracefully. He smiled crookedly. “Do you think we should perhaps go out for dinner? I’m sure Mrs. Hudson will want to get on in here, and we shall only get in the way,” still rubbing his hair, he went to his bedroom. I looked at the bright scissors in my hand. The other still felt the pressure where long fingers had pressed against the back of my own. I closed my fist to try to keep the sensation, feeling a little foolish as I did so. Then I laid the scissors carefully on the mantelpiece, and called for Mrs. Hudson.
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On Haircuts
May. 3rd, 2011 01:58 amFandom: Sherlock (ACD, Grenada)
Pairing: None, gen. Little bit of Holmes/Watson UST.
Rating: PG (Mainly to be safe, there aren't even swears).
Word Count: 1600
Summary: The late, great, Jeremy Brett suffered from bipolar disorder. Just before they filmed The Devil's Foot, he had a manic episode, and cut all his hair off (hence his very short hair in that one!) I took that and applied it to canon. Hurt/comfort stylez.
Notes/Warnings: Mentions of probable mental illness. Beta'd by the very patient
I had a busy practice for a week or so, and had not had a chance to look in on my great friend, Sherlock Holmes. I supposed him to be involved in a minor case, or some small but complicated experiment, giving himself wholly over to his work- it was not unusual for him to go some time before contacting me. However, going home after a long day, I went past my friend’s lodgings, and was thrilled by a sudden shock of intuition; I had to look in on him. The curtains at 221B were drawn despite it only being five pm, and I felt a certain amount of trepidation as I knocked. Mrs. Hudson gave me entrance, and I felt my small hunch had not been in vain, as her lips were thin and her hands clasped in front of her. Mrs. Hudson was a stout-hearted lady, and her serenity was of such deep reserves that my colleague’s eccentricities did not bother her.
“Oh, I’m so glad you’ve come, Doctor,” she said, letting me in. “I’ve been that worried.”
“What’s happened?”
“He shut himself away three or four days ago and I haven’t seen hide nor hair of him since. I wondered if he was up to some experiment, but he hasn’t been asking for meals...” she followed me up the seventeen steps to the rooms.
“All right, Mrs. Hudson. Would you be so kind as to bring up some tea?” I rapped on the door.
“Holmes? Are you in there?” The door was locked and I rattled the doorknob impatiently. “Open up, if you’re there.” There was nothing from within, though I fancied I could hear something shifting about. Mrs. Hudson returned with a laden tray.
“Do you have the key, Mrs. Hudson? I left mine at home... Ah, thank you.” I unlocked the door and the room smelt unaired and stifled. The fire was out, and papers and random clutter- pipes, test-tubes and oddly enough, a clockwork soldier were scattered about. Mrs. Hudson made a little noise of vexation.
“That’ll be all for now, Mrs. Hudson. I’ll call you if we need you,” I took the tray from her and shut the door. Carefully laying it down on the table, I called Holmes again. I heard a noise in the bedroom and it was with no little anxiety I pushed open the door. There was a shape on the unmade bed.
“Holmes?”
“Watson... Is that you?” the shape moved and grew into a form roughly like that of a man.
“Holmes, what are you doing? Are you sick?”
“No... Just... Tired...” he murmured. “Been sleeping,” I recalled the black moods that would take him every so often. He would sleep away most of the day in these moods, spending the rest of his time in a deep silence until he could find some new experiment or case (or often, needle) to occupy him.
“Well, I think you’ve had enough sleep now. Come and have a cup of tea,” he pushed the blankets back and swung his legs out the bed, and he was still wearing his day clothes. He perched on the edge of the mattress, rubbing his hands over his face, his lean back bowed like he was under some tremendous weight.
“I think I’ll just... Just freshen up,” he still spoke in the soft, thick tones of the barely conscious, so I left him. I opened the curtains in the living room, and threw open a window to air the room. The room appeared as though a whirlwind looking for a specific pencil had passed through in a hurry. I swiftly made space at the dining table for the tray Mrs. Hudson had brought. That thoughtful lady had thought to add scones and bread and butter.
“A veritable feast!” I remarked as Holmes appeared, wearing fresh clothes, and I stared for a moment, all usual sense of propriety gone.
“Holmes... My dear fellow, whatever happened?” His hair stuck out in all directions, as if someone had hacked at it at random with a pair of shears. Some of it was the same length as when I had last seen him, while other parts were close to the head, sticking out in peaks and horns. It gave him a most eccentric appearance. He rubbed a hand ruefully through what remained of his hair.
“It does look rather startling, doesn’t it?” he yawned. “Pour the tea, if you would,”
“What did you do?”
“Oh... I don’t really recall.” His expression, which had previously been sleepy but benevolent, solidified. “Ah. Jam.” He would not talk again until he had eaten his fill. I watched him over my own cup and saw with some relief the good food our landlady had provided seemed to go some way to restoring him.
“Are you free tonight, Watson?” he said, sitting back from the table and taking up the newspaper. “I understand that there is a soloist at the opera house who is supposed to be quite something,”
“Of course I am free, but you can’t go out looking like that. You look like someone has attempted to scalp you,” I tried to make a joke of it, but a certain vulnerability in the stance of my friend made me wish I’d bitten it back.
“I suppose it’s too late to see a barber,” Holmes ran a long hand through his hair again. “Oh well, a night in won’t do anyone any harm,” his eyes took on a lost cast that I had come to dread over the years. He was already sinking back into the black mood that had taken him over and forced him to cut his hair in such a haphazard way. I tried to smile.
“It might do Mrs. Hudson harm, I thought she was going to have a conniption when she saw the state of the room. I can tell she’s itching to dust. Come, I’m sure we can do something about this,” I poked around in the piles until I found the surgical scissors that had wrought such haphazard damage, lying alongside a few locks of dark hair. I touched one of them. It was yielding and pliant, but had that deathly brittleness of old hair about it that I was loath to associate with my friend.
With no little apprehension, I advanced on Holmes, wielding the scissors before me. He held up a long white hand to stop me in my tracks.
“What are you planning on doing? Forgive me, but I feel like a victim in a ha’penny murder story,”
“I am a doctor, Holmes. If I can’t reduce your hair to a uniform length then my training has been in vain!” I tried not to let my nerves show in my voice. I must have succeeded as Holmes stayed perfectly still as I picked up an old sheet from the floor and draped it round his shoulders as my own barber did. I held my breath and started to snip. Using my knuckles as an indication of length I slowly moved over Holmes’ head. His hair was soft, the longer parts like satin, the shorter parts softly bristling. The only sound in the room was the scissors, which snipped with a quiet assurance that I didn’t feel. I became completely absorbed in my task; it was fascinating to run my hand through the tufts of hair over and over again, the scissors busy at work over the curvature of my friend’s skull. This hair had the vitality that the locks littering the floor lacked. I looked in the shine of the coffee pot and saw Holmes’ eyes were shut, his face peaceful. He only shivered when the scissors danced close to the back of his neck- the cold metal made his hair stand on end. I murmured an apology and his reflection in the pot gave a small smile, but no other response. Finally, I stood back, and rested a hand on his shoulder. It seemed the kindest way to bring him out of his trance. His shoulder was completely relaxed, the wiry muscles slack under his shirt. I rubbed my thumb over the clean cotton and almost bird-like bone structure underneath, and the muscles tautened lazily.
“You should still visit the barber, but that should pass muster for the opera,” Holmes raised his head slowly, breathing in through his nose, and ran a hand through what remained of his hair, dislodging a few stray hairs.
“Thank you, Watson,” he gripped my hand for a moment, not quite looking up at me, and stood gracefully. He smiled crookedly. “Do you think we should perhaps go out for dinner? I’m sure Mrs. Hudson will want to get on in here, and we shall only get in the way,” still rubbing his hair, he went to his bedroom. I looked at the bright scissors in my hand. The other still felt the pressure where long fingers had pressed against the back of my own. I closed my fist to try to keep the sensation, feeling a little foolish as I did so. Then I laid the scissors carefully on the mantelpiece, and called for Mrs. Hudson.