A/N My first fic! A one-shot I wrote a few months back, based on the Benedict Cumberbatch-is-ginger cartoon/idea floating around at the time. Points for those who spot canon references. Very silly. Please review.
"Sherlock, the bins need doing."
"I know, John."
"Are you going to do them?"
"No, John."
Big surprise, John thinks. He could just buy the shopping once in a while… or clear up his experiments… or not leave heads in the –
"Ugh!"
He was wondering where the last souvenir from the hospital had gone.
"Sherlock, there's an ear in the bathroom bin."
"Ears, John. A pair."
So there's another one to look forward to.
"Why is there a pair of ears in the bathroom bin?"
"Well, where else was I supposed to put them?"
"You could just leave them in Bart's morgue! Did that not even occur to you?"
He pauses. "It was for a case. A pair preserved in rock salt; I wanted to compare the effects of different preservatives on the ears. I believe those were the specimens stored in vinegar. The results were rather disappointing, to be honest."
I'll take that as a no, then, John grumbles to himself. He gingerly picks up the ears and drops them into the plastic bag he's carrying. He peers into the bin. There is a small white bottle at the bottom. The rim is smeared with some kind of thick black gunk. He studies it closely.
It's hair dye.
No, he thinks, No, it must be something else. He looks again, more carefully this time.
It's definitely still hair dye, and it's definitely still Sherlock's.
John walks slowly through to the living room. "Sherlock," he says, "What's this?"
His flatmate looks up from yelling at Jeremy Springer. His eyes widen.
"It's – uh –" he recovers himself, "I think it should be fairly obvious even to one as unobservant as yourself that it's a bottle that until recently held black hair dye."
"It's yours." It isn't a question.
"It was needed for a case." His smile widens, along with John's suspicions.
"Which case was this?"
"Open and shut murder for Gregson – remember, Lestrade's colleague? Simple, predictable, dull, but I needed the hair dye to" – he hesitates. It's almost unnoticeable, but John notices all the same – "double check. For the – finer details, you know."
"Right." John doesn't believe a word of it. "What finer details?"
Silence again. John smiles.
I understand you have a question for me – MH
John sighs. How does Mycroft get away with this? Does the rest of the British government honestly not mind him spending their time and money stalking his little brother and everyone he knows?
Yes.
Sherlock is going to kill me for this, he thinks. But, for the first time, he doesn't really care. He leans back in his chair, thankful that his flatmate is out.
Why? That one word has been going round his head, a dog chasing its tail. Why would Sherlock Holmes – who never cares in the slightest what anyone thinks – dye his hair?
He said it was for a case, he reminds himself.
He was lying; he's always lying.
But why?
And so on.
Get into the car outside – MH
John groans and picks up his walking stick. He walks slowly down the stairs and is greeted by a very smart-looking BlackBerry, attached to a hand.
"Hello." He smiles, always hopeful. But…
"Hmm?"
"How are you?"
"Fine, thank you." She looks surprised to see him here. "The car is just outside."
"Thanks… Holly?" It was Holly last time, at least.
"Marlene."
"Oh."
As usual, the rest of the journey passes in silence.
"Good evening, Doctor Watson."
John looks around at the abandoned warehouse they stand in. It's as imposing and threatening as ever, or at least is meant to be. John finds it more than a little ridiculous.
"Hello, Mycroft. Couldn't this be done over the phone?"
"I never text, Doctor Watson, as I'm sure my brother has told you. It was about him you wished to speak, I believe?"
John shifts, uncomfortable.
"Yes."
"Excellent." Mycroft smiles widely. "You wanted to ask about the bottle of black hair dye you found."
"How –?"
"Please, doctor, you insult me. Traces on your hands. Even without the surveillance I could have seen that."
"Right, okay, sorry. Er…"
"You wanted to know why my brother was using hair dye."
"Yes, he said it was for a case, but –"
"But you think he was lying. He was, of course." "So he used the hair dye to – actually dye his hair?"
Mycroft nods.
"Why? It doesn't make sense…"
"Sherlock has, in the past, been – ah – embarrassed by his natural hair colour. This embarrassment has continued into his adult life."
"What?" John is nothing short of confused. "Why?"
Mycroft clears his throat. Suddenly, he looks a little uncomfortable.
"Sherlock is, er… ginger."
"What did my brother want to speak to you about?"
Damn. John had hoped, vainly, that Sherlock wouldn't notice.
"Just about… things," he says vaguely.
Sherlock is unimpressed.
"He offered me money again…?"
"What did my brother really want to speak to you about?"
"I – don't be angry – but…" He trails off, suddenly scared of his flatmate's reaction. "I was curious," he says defensively, "I didn't think you were telling me the truth about the hair dye. I wanted to know."
"Mycroft told you?" Sherlock is horrified.
"I'm sorry!" He really is; his friend looks as if he is about to cry. "I – I'll forget it, delete it, or whatever you call it. I won't mention it again."
But they both know he is lying.
It isn't easy, finding things to tease Sherlock Holmes about. Always cold and detached, unruffled by almost everything. But there is always something. John has been making a list.
One – Sherlock does not know that the Earth goes round the Sun.
Two – Sherlock is afraid of the dark.
Three – Sherlock is ginger.
John smiles.
A/N So, did you like it? I had a lot of fun writing it, but would like to know how to improve - please let me know what you think, thanks!