Summary: A silly little one-shot where Sherlock is forced to come face-to-face with the consequences of the aging process.

A/N: Once again, thanks to my wonderful beta, sarajm

Spectacle

John had noticed something a little … odd … about his flat mate recently. Well, to be honest, there was usually something a little odd about the Consulting Detective, but his recent actions had been stranger than usual, even for Sherlock.

Sherlock was known for crawling around crime scenes and was often found hunched over evidence (i.e. the deceased) giving it his patented stare that absorbed every tiny tidbit of information that could be found. However, John had noticed over the past few weeks that the Consulting Detective seemed to be almost lying on top of whatever body he happened to be examining, and once John even found him spread-eagled on the floor with his nose buried in the shag carpet.

At the moment, the dark-haired detective was peering intently at some paperwork sitting on a desk, his nose about a quarter-inch from the pages spread out before him. He hadn't moved for several minutes and John was just about to ask if everything was okay when he heard the distinctive tread of Lestrade's brogues behind him, immediately followed by a loud sniff from the detective in front of him.

"Okay Sherlock, what have you …? Sherlock, are you …? Is he sniffing the papers?" asked Lestrade incredulously as he gave John a 'what gives?' look. John just shrugged his shoulders as if to say 'It's Sherlock. Why does he do anything?"

Straightening up, Sherlock turned to the DI and said, "Lestrade, you'd be surprised at the amount of information that can be obtained through the proper use of one's olfactory senses. Unfortunately, there's nothing here. But no matter, the case is solved. It was the ex-boyfriend. I'm sure you'll find him at home, and if he's got a bottle of 'Old Speckled Hen' in his refrigerator, he's your man. Now go, arrest him!" With that pronouncement Sherlock twirled around, Belstaff flaring elegantly about him, and headed out the door, almost hitting the door frame on his dramatic exit.

Sherlock was already at the curb with a taxi waiting by the time John had made his usual apologies for his flatmate's behaviour, said his good-byes and exited the crime scene.

As they settled into the back of the cab, John turned to Sherlock and said, "So. What was that little spectacle all about?"

Sherlock stared intently out the window and spoke to the passing scenery, "What are you talking about?"

"The sniffing, the peering, the almost smashing into the door frame. I've noticed recently that you seem to be a little more … um … how shall I put this? You seem to get a little more 'close up' than usual when examining evidence. Is there something you need to tell me?" asked John.

The frigid silence emanating from the other side of the cab was all the response John got. Looking over at his friend John could see, in the reflection of the window, Sherlock draw his hand up almost parallel with his nose and squint at his wrist. Suddenly John knew what was wrong.

"Oh my God. You need glasses! That's what the crawling on the floor and almost cuddling the body was all about. You're longsighted."

Sherlock turned to John with a grimace on his face and snapped, "First of all, I can see just fine; and second of all, you're a doctor so please use the proper medical term. It's known as 'incipient presbyopia.'"

"Well, that seems to be a rather specific analysis for something you supposedly don't have," answered John with a smile. "Anyway …. glasses huh? Well, it happens to the best of us. I'll presume, considering you seem to be quite up on your diagnosis, that you've already been to see an optometrist. What did he say?"

With a sniff of indignation, Sherlock turned back to the window and muttered, "Yes, well, turns out I do need glasses for close work. Mind you, the doctor was an idiot. It was obvious that he graduated in the bottom half of his class and from the state of his offices he clearly hasn't kept up on the latest advancements in ocular technology, so I'm not even sure I trust his diagnosis."

From the tone of voice, it was blatantly evident to John that his flatmate was extremely upset at the whole situation, and knowing his friend as well as he did, John figured he should try to do something to diffuse the situation or he'd be stuck dealing with a stroppy Consulting Detective for who knew how long. Just as he was about to speak, the cab pulled up in front of 221B and Sherlock was out of the car and through their front door before John had even pulled out his wallet to pay the fare.

As John gently shut the front door of 221B behind him, trying to think of what to say to his friend, the frenetic sounds the agitated violinist was forcing from his violin stormed down the stairs and assaulted John's eardrums. With a deep sigh, John hurried up the steps hoping to mitigate the damage and prevent another round of complaints from Mrs. Hudson, Mrs. Turner and even Mrs. Turner's "married ones".

John entered the flat in time to see Sherlock viciously toss his bow onto the sofa and commence pacing around the room, violin in hand but apparently forgotten. Tea, thought John, tea will help, as he walked into the kitchen and flicked on the kettle.

Walking back into the sitting room a few minutes later, a mug of tea in each hand, John placed one mug by his chair, pointed to Sherlock's chair and said "Sit!"

Sherlock had been so lost in his own thoughts that he hadn't even realized that John had entered the room, let alone made him tea. The barked command surprised him enough that he collapsed into his chair like a marionette with its strings cut and sat there staring, the violin still clasped in his hands. John reached over, gently pulled the violin from Sherlock's hands and replaced it with the second mug of tea. Sherlock blinked several times and, taking a sip of the soothing brew, relaxed back into his chair.

After John placed the violin and the bow, which he rescued from the sofa, on the desk, he sat down in his chair, took a sip from his own mug and leaning back said, "All right; what on earth is the matter with you? You can't be this upset over having to wear glasses, can you?"

"You don't understand," said Sherlock, in a petulant tone. "All my life, the only things I've been able to rely upon completely are my brain and my senses. The Work is all I've got, and to do what I do, I need to know that whatever I demand of my body will be given without hesitation. Now, it seems that I need glasses. But what's next? Will my knees give out? What about my dexterity? I can't perform my experiments if my hands shake. And worst of all, what if my thought processes become muddled over time? Besides how would it look if I, Sherlock Holmes, have to pull out a pair of glasses every time I need to read a note or scour a crime scene for clues?!"

As he sat in his chair listening to his friend's rant, John's eyebrows rose higher and higher until they were almost at his hair line and the beginnings of a smirk started to show on his lips.

"In other words, what you're telling me is … you're afraid to grow old?"

"Honestly, John. That is patently ridiculous. I'm not afraid to grow old; everyone grows old. I just don't want to be … ordinary!" the Consulting Detective snapped.

At that, John burst out laughing and had to put his tea down on the table beside him before he ended up wearing it. In fact, John laughed so hard that tears began to spring from his eyes, and he couldn't catch his breath. Meanwhile, Sherlock just stared at his friend and became more and more incensed.

"Well," the Detective growled, "I'm glad to know that I amuse you!"

"Oh, Sherlock," responded John as his roars of laughter settled down into the occasional snort of amusement. "Honestly, with your coat collar and your cheekbones, I don't think you ever need to worry about being ordinary!"

It was two weeks later when John finally saw Sherlock's glasses. As John entered the flat heading towards the kitchen, arms laden with Tesco bags, he glanced over at Sherlock who was sitting at the desk, his face hidden behind John's laptop. With an exasperated sigh, John placed the bags on the kitchen table and, walking over to his flatmate, asked, "Is that my laptop? Why do you never use yours?"

"Yours was closer," was the response as Sherlock straightened up from behind the screen. He was wearing his new glasses, but what a pair of glasses they were! They were peacock blue with flecks of silver and white and framed Sherlock's face perfectly.

With a smile, John gestured at flat mate's glasses and said, "And you were worried about being ordinary!"