Infestation

It had been a hell of a long day.

Really, it'd been a hell of a long week, but it was Friday night and he didn't have to work this weekend. And John was really, really looking forward to not having a single thing to do this weekend. Sherlock had just solved his case, so there was nothing on that front unless something came in - and, if it did, Sherlock was pulling a solo.

John just wanted to catch up on the back issues of papers stacking by his chair and get to bed early.

Instead, he was instantly apprehensive of the hesitant way that Sherlock approached him around seven-thirty later that night.

"... Whatever it is, no," John muttered, not looking up from his paper again. "Just no, not tonight, Sherlock. I'm not in the mood."

"I figured you'd say that, which is also why I've waited until you were off work for the week to bring it up," Sherlock said shortly. He sounded a little... subdued.

John looked up. "What?"

"Well, that case we've been working-"

"Get to the point."

Sherlock twisted his fingers around his hair. "... I think I've got lice," he said shortly. Yes, his voice was subdued.

John stared at him.

He was definitely not subdued when he exclaimed "Are you bloody kidding me?!" ten seconds later.

Sherlock was having a pout. Which, after John had gotten over his overworked incredulity, John realised was a perfectly acceptable thing to do after finding out your head had become a breeding grounds for tiny living organisms.

Which was also the reason that they were now both in the bathroom, door closed and window open, as John massaged shampoo into Sherlock's scalp.

"You should have told me earlier," he said shortly, flexing his fingers. "I know I was in a bad mood, but this is somewhat of a big deal, you know."

Sherlock's body leaned forward slightly, like he was going to thump his head forward onto the back of the toilet as he sat backwards on the closed lid. John gripped his head to prevent him from doing just that and Sherlock just sighed. "I was hoping I was wrong."

John's fingers paused.

Sherlock glanced over his shoulder. "Yes, I know, like I'm ever wrong," he said dryly. "This would have been one thing I would have been pleased to be wrong on. How long is this going to take?"

"The shampoo has to stay on for ten minutes before you can rinse, but then I'll have to work on combing out the nits."

"And how long will that take?"

"With your hair, I don't know. Awhile, and that's if you cooperate with me." John caught a bit of shampoo lather as it sludged down Sherlock's neck. "I hate to say it, but me living with you..."

"Means that you probably have them or have an incredibly high risk of obtaining them, yes," Sherlock interrupted.

"So, we're in the same boat here," John said dully.

Sherlock was quiet for a moment. "... I have longer hair."

"What?"

Sherlock glanced back at him again. "I mean, I have longer hair, curls, so, no, we're not exactly in the same boat. Theoretically, if you had to shave your hair off, it wouldn't make that much of a difference."

John knew better than to attack Sherlock on the comment; they'd be in a never-ending row if he did. "Well, let's hope it's not bad enough to need to shave it off," he said instead.

"Oh, yes," Sherlock said, and then fell silent, because a) Sherlock did that and b) Sherlock was incredibly fond of his own hair, so John suspected it was a touchy subject. Heaven forbid Sherlock wouldn't be able to ruffle his hair to take out his frustration.

Now, now, John, technically, he does have it worse. John sighed, and damned his doctor nature. He did that, occasionally, when he wanted to feel self-righteous about something that happened to Sherlock but knew he should help him instead.

"There," John said shortly, dragging his fingers up through Sherlock's hair once more before pulling back. "I think I've got it. Now get out of here before the smell asphyxiates you in this bathroom."

Sherlock swung his legs over the side of the toilet, spinning around. "Did you want me to do yours?"

John nearly dropped the shampoo. "... Are you sure these aren't radioactive lice and you've suddenly changed personalities?" he asked incredulously, looking back at him.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "No. At least, I don't think so. Would I be aware of it, if they were?"

John rolled his eyes. "I've got it, Sherlock. You can check to make sure it's good when I've finished."

Sherlock shrugged. "Fine," he said, vanishing out of the bathroom. "I'm putting tea on, if you're interested."

John resisted the urge to cough from the smell of the shampoo. "Sounds lovely," he called, and then sighed at his reflection in the mirror.

"Lots of flu, then?"

John's hands froze with the comb halfway to Sherlock's scalp. All he recognised from that statement was Sherlock was talking and the word flu. If the bloody git was getting sick, now, of all times-

"John?"

John felt the comb move; Sherlock had looked back around at him. He shook himself mentally- no, Sherlock did not say that he thought he was getting flu, so one step at a time. "Sorry, what?" he asked, swiping the comb back to Sherlock's scalp.

Sherlock looked back ahead. "I was asking if there's lots of flu. At the... the clinic." He cleared his throat, shifting in the kitchen chair.

"... Why?" John asked slowly, frowning. "I thought 'talking shop' wasn't your forte."

"Just chatting," Sherlock muttered. "But, by all means, if you prefer to pick through my hair in silence..." There was the pout, again.

"Since when do you 'just chat'? What are you up to?"

"I'm not up to anything. I'm bored and uncomfortable. My scalp hurts," Sherlock added sulkily.

"That's because you've been digging at it for who knows how many days. You do realise we're going to have to have a major cleaning effort?"

"On the flat or our heads?" Sherlock asked absently.

"Both," John said sternly.

Sherlock just sighed in response and picked up a beaker from the table to inspect.

John thought that silence would be preferable compared to listening Sherlock babble on about cases or experiments or inane objects, but he quickly realised that he was so tired and, well, combing lice out of Sherlock's hair was just about the most mind-numbing thing he'd ever done...

"Yeah, there's lots of flu," he said shortly. "We're always run off our feet this time of year. Maybe you've noticed I've been gone a lot recently."

"Oh, have you?" Sherlock asked disinterestedly. "I hadn't noticed."

John snorted humourously. "Funny... I came home and there was tea on."

"So?"

"It was fresh."

"Yes, well, I guess I was keen on it."

John smiled to himself. "Right. I know you."

"Do you?"

It was that same detached, airy tone again, and John couldn't help but smile wider. "I do," he replied, "and I know you hit your best behaviour when I'm tired, which I appreciate," he added.

"Hmmm."

John laughed. "Sorry, Sherlock, I've known for awhile. I'm not stupid."

"Like I mentioned before," Sherlock said, "I have no idea where you got that idea from."

"Like after Sarah?" John probed. "And there was magically beer in the fridge?"

Course he had noticed it a long time ago. Sherlock being extra nice, for him, when things weren't exactly the best outside of the flat. He might not know the name of his girlfriends, but he knew when he broke up with them. John might not tell him how his sister was arrested again, but there would be his favourite scones on the countertop in the next couple days. And sure, Sherlock would give a little ugh under his breath when John asked him for tea when he was too tired to make it himself, but he always made chamomile and John always ended up relaxed afterwards.

He'd just never called Sherlock out on it, but... if they were talking like normal human beings and not like consulting detective and faithful best friend blogger tonight... if the shoe fit.

"I do notice some times, Sherlock."

Sherlock wasn't physically squirming, but John could tell he was, mentally, anyway.

"Why is it you have such a problem with accepting gratitude? Not many people say thank you to you, you know. Half the time, people don't even know you solve the Yard's cases," John said, folding a few pieces of Sherlock's curls away. They were starting to come out of being wet, starting to curl at the ends, which would make this infinitely more difficult if he didn't finish it off soon.

"You're welcome is just a delusional expectation of more favour," Sherlock replied.

"What?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Thank you is debt and you're welcome is expectation. When you say thank you, it's because someone has done something for you, typically a good deed. Now, you owe them. Saying you're welcome implies a certain amount of willingness to want to do something similar for the person again. I'm not in the habit of being in or having someone else be in debt to me, and I certainly don't do what I do to make people happy."

John raised his eyebrows. "So... you buy beer when women break up with me for...? What reason, exactly? Because... it's not like you drink it, and there's nobody else here except me..."

Sherlock shifted. Ohh, that was definitely a squirm.

John shook his head, smiling again. "You know, for a genius, you can be really stupid sometimes."

Sherlock sniffed. "Seldomly."

John was definitely glad he hadn't let this conversation go. "Don't worry, Sherlock. I won't go spilling the beans," he teased.

Sherlock straightened up, back straight against the chair, shoulders back. "I have no idea what you're talking about. Don't forget you're in the hot seat next," he added, glancing over his shoulder slightly.

John was about to roll his eyes when he realised that Sherlock was right. He wasn't even finished with Sherlock's hair yet.

It really was going to be a long night. They were definitely going to need that tea.

I've been wanting to write this idea (the lice) for, like, a year, but I never knew what to go with it, so I just did some fluffy caring Sherlock and finally got around to it. Yes, I love Mary, I love John being married, I love the trio's interactions, but I really prefer pre-3 where it was just the boys...

I do not own Sherlock. Thank you!