There was only so much a man could take.
Before Captain John Watson had ever heard of Sherlock bloody Holmes, he'd lived his life according to strict rules. He was a soldier, an officer, a doctor. He was accustomed to turning chaos into order - to giving orders and having those orders obeyed, thus holding the chaos back for another few days or hours or even minutes. He'd held lives in his hands, for God's sake.
That was before he'd ever come near Sherlock bugger-society's-rules Holmes.
The particular rule in question, currently being buggered all to dramatic hell, by the Diva Sherlock, was that a grown man should find something to do other than swanning about the flat in an dressing gown, an inside-out T-shirt, and pyjama bottoms. Something like, say, getting off the bloody couch and eating the breakfast that John had prepared and that Sherlock had ignored, just as he'd ignored dinner and lunch the previous day. Or perhaps peeling off clothes that were surely close to needing medical attention themselves and having a bloody shower.
At the very least, he needed a bloody fucking haircut. Because at the moment, John thought as he stared at the consulting six-year-old who sprawled languid on the couch, was that Sherlock looked like one an emaciated sheepdog. Dark, once soft curls tumbled over his high forehead to lie across his eyes and tangle with his lashes. The ends were split and ragged, the strands greasy with neglect.
"Bored!" came the battle cry once again.
John ground his teeth and binned Sherlock's cold, untouched breakfast, plate and all. He turned, squared his shoulders, and met Sherlock's eyes.
Or where his eyes would have been, if not for the definitely-not-regulation hair.
Taking a deep breath, John summoned up his best officer voice and answered - commanded - "Haircut!"
Then, before Sherlock could answer, John turned on his heel and went out the kitchen door to the stairwell. Mrs Hudson would be far more civilised company than Sherlock. Or at least better groomed.
That exchange set the pattern for the next eight interminable days. Oh, Sherlock the Stubborn Arse did leave the couch eventually, if for nothing else then to use the loo. He stormed about, trying to find the cigarettes John had binned weeks ago. He slammed cupboard doors and nearly toppled the fridge in hopes of inciting John to make him a meal, because he couldn't be arsed to open a tin of bloody beans for himself.
Stoically, John ignored it all.
He nibbled away at the backlog of cases to post on his blog. He did a bit of locum work at a colleague's practice. He had tea with Mrs Hudson and once, when the cupboard-slamming grew particularly loud, took her out to dinner. He met up with Lestrade at the pub and got so pissed he couldn't see his own shoes and somehow ended up at Lestrade's bachelor flat the next morning with no memory of the previous night.
All the while, Sherlock "I can outstubborn a cat" Holmes continued his prolonged temper tantrum.
But John had drawn the line in the sand. Every cry of "Bored!" was met with the same command: "Haircut!"
Out of some unhealthy enthrallment, John knew he would eventually surrender to Sherlock's insanity in many ways. Witness the biohazardous refrigerator. The chemical nightmare of the kitchen table. The incident with the elephant calf John had come home to find looking adorably cute until it laid a good three kilo pile of post-elephant food on the living room carpet.
But John had his limits, and Sherlock had tested every single one - occasionally more than once. Nuclear waste. Venomous animals that were still alive. Booby traps and IEDs.
And Sherlock's damned hair.
It had become a symbol of this impasse to which the two flatmates had so dramatically come during this, London's longest dry spell of a boring, uncreative criminal class. The now lank, greasy, overgrown mop was Sherlock's biological protest, his silent way of railing at their lack of interesting crime.
Captain John Watson, retired, would not associate with his more-juvenile-than-the-bloody-elephant-calf flatmate until the Haircut Situation was resolved to his satisfaction. In a way, it was self-preservation. If John didn't fixate on Sherlock's hair, he might find himself praying for another run of serial bombings. And it was wrong, he told himself time and time again, to wish death and chaos upon London just so Sherlock Bored Holmes could get his lazy arse off the couch and into the bloody shower.
On the ninth day, just as John was considering which pubs might offer the most likely prospect of comfort later that night, Sherlock moved.
In and of itself, this was unremarkable. He did move, because movement drew the eye - especially the eye of a soldier who had seen the exhilarating horror of battle. This time, though, Sherlock's move was to actually leave the couch, which was remarkable.
John watched, eyes narrowed suspiciously, as Sherlock rolled off the couch and onto his feet, stuck his nose into the air, and swept away to the bathroom.
Probably had to take a piss, John decided, and went back to trawling Yelp for good prospects.
Captain John Watson was and always would be a soldier, yes, but some things could be forgiven, such as the dulling of a soldier's senses after living for so long in a flat plagued by odd noises at all hours. John never heard the rattle of pipes or the rustle of the shower curtain because in his mind those sounds were normal, scarce as they had been for nearly a fortnight.
Still, when Sherlock came back into view, John was admittedly shocked.
Gone were the dressing gown and ripe T-shirt and equally ripe pyjama bottoms. In their place, Sherlock wore his customary neat, too-tight, too-expensive clothes: shirt properly buttoned, dark trousers sharply creased and free of lint, shoes polished.
And his hair, no longer greasy, hung in still-damp curls. Over his eyes.
Through the veil of wet strands, cold silver-blue eyes met deep blue eyes full of resolve.
Is this good enough? those silver-blue eyes seemed to ask.
John straightened in his seat, a minuscule shift of his spine that was all the answer Sherlock needed.
Haircut.
With a disdainful flare of the nostrils, Sherlock left.
"John!"
The shout came not an hour later, followed by the gunshot-bang of the door flying open.
Much as John was furious with Sherlock, that particular shout, not heard for far more than a fortnight, was a battle cry that made John's blood sing. He was on his feet in a heartbeat, cataloguing what he carried at all times, out of habit: wallet, pocket knife, nitrile gloves.
Sherlock appeared in the doorway, brilliant silver-blue eyes shining and visible, neatly trimmed hair washed and cut and groomed to the side. "John!" he declared, a mad grin lighting up his face. "There's been a murder. Lestrade needs us."
For the first time in over a fortnight, John smiled at Sherlock. "I'll get my coat."