#holmesxwatson

It hurts to lie to him, to pretend that this empty grave ought to be occupied, to wear the full-black of mourning, when I know my brother is alive - in Italyat the moment. It's for the best... it is. Anyone with any sense would be watching known associates to confirm if Sherlock's death is a clever fake. And Moriarty's senior men are not stupid, or else we would have them by now.

If Dr Watson believes, the world will believe. And so I must stand next to him, watching him hold himself together outwardly, when he can only be keening inside.

I recall the sight of him, that evening when he all but stumbled into my lodgings, days worth of stubble and the dust of travel still on him. He had, I deduced, come straight from the station, from Boat-train and Continent, whithout a care for himself

"Mr Holmes..." He rasped out the words to me,"I regret..." Words or greif choked him for a second, his hands clenching tight on his doffed hat "Your brother, Sherlock is dead." I give him all credit, he stood steady as he says it, although his face be drawn with exhaustion, eyes and cheeks marked with the echo of many tears he had shed quietly on the journey.

So different from the warm eyed, beaming fellow I had met alongside my brother at the Diogenes Club; had seen with Sherlock in their rooms.

"Moriarty?" I enquired, phrasing the question to not need a verbal answer. He managed a rough nod only.

'Take Care of Watson,' had been one of my brother's few edicts before he left. Perhaps we are, but looking at him now - standing by what he believes to be my brother's last and lasting memorial, I wonder.

Sherlock, do you know what you do? Can I not let him know somehow?

“Are you threatening me with scissors, Watson?”

“Only because you’re acting like a complete child. If you won’t go to the dresser’s, then I’ll do it myself.”

“I don’t need a haircut John. My hair is perfectly fine.”

“Oh, you mean the mop on your head that’s about to jump off and scuttle away from being so close to your giant, egotistical head?”

Sherlock stared at John over the edge of his book, lounging in his chair after having hoped to get some work done. 

“I may not be a master observer like you, but I know a decent haircut when I see one. Sit.”

John waved his scissors at Sherlock threateningly and pointed at the open bathroom door. Sherlock let out a loud, exasperated and whiny sigh and stood up.

John wrapped a towel over Sherlock’s shoulders, shoved him down on the bathroom stool and nearly tried to strangle him too but decided against it. In the dim light Sherlock took note of his  appearance and  agreed that okay maybe his hair is a little wild but it wasn’t indecent. 

Delicate snipping began as John began  trimming Sherlock’s unruly hair. From the stillness in his hands and he way he focused, Sherlock knew he wasn’t an idiot when it came to precise cutting and trimming. No war doctor ever was.

“Now tell me why you didn't go to the appointment I had booked for you,” John said. Sherlock rolled his eyes but didn’t move his head.

“Hairdressers and barbershops are boring. Too many chemical smells, and they’re never telling the truth when they try ‘chatting’ with you.”

“So what, you’ve just been trimming your hair yourself all these years?”

“No, don’t be ridiculous. Mrs. Hudson cuts my hair.”

John stopped. “Really?”

Sherlock shrugged. 

“Your landlady cuts your hair?”

“Yes, why do you always act so surprised over everything, Watson? We had a very similar discussion to the one you and I are having now, and she insisted on cutting my hair if I refused to go anyplace for it.”

“Huh.”

“Don’t tell her you cut my hair. It’ll upset her.”

“Since when have you cared about upsetting anyone?” John scoffed, cutting again. “She’ll notice anyways. There, done.”

Sherlock inspected his hair as he leaned closer against the mirror. “Hm.”

“What?”

“Mrs. Hudson cuts it better.”