The Usefulness of the Death Frisbee
The moment Sherlock walked through the door with his deerstalker on, John was suspicious. The flaps were pulled down as far as possible, and Sherlock had the peak pulled down too. Sherlock slammed the door as he came in, giving John an obvious sign that he was mad.
"Good day?" John called from his chair, resuming his reading of the newspaper. Sherlock glowered at him.
"Tolerable," he snapped. John eyed him from his chair.
"You know, in the traditional British culture it is considered rude for a man not to remove his hat when indoors," John remarked, earning a glare from Sherlock.
"Fascinating," he retorted. "Do enlighten me some more with your thrilling facts, Dr Watson. I am riveted."
John raised an eyebrow at his friend's unusually sharp nature but still said nothing.
"I thought you said that thing was useless," he said, referring to Sherlock's deerstalker which still remained firmly on his head.
"So I did," Sherlock snapped.
"An ear hat," John continued.
"Indeed."
"A…death Frisbee, if I remember correctly," John finished, barely able to contain his laughter.
Sherlock slammed his fist down on the arm of the chair, gritting his teeth.
"Yes, John, I did say all those things," he growled, "but perhaps now I have changed my mind, if that is okay with you?" He sprang out of his chair and adopted a high and girlish voice. "The deerstalker is wonderful, gorgeous, positively magnificent, majestic, incredible, the next big thing, sexy. Why on earth would I pass up the chance to wear it now that I know just how beautiful I look?" He sank back into his chair; John was both completely curious and on the brink of hysterics.
"So…" he began, but Sherlock cut him off.
"No, because I love it so much, I am not going to part with it even for a second." He crossed his legs and gave John the glare of the century.
"So, what did you do today?" he tried an apparently less dangerous route of conversation.
"Had a rather nasty run-in with a vat of beetroot juice," said Sherlock shortly, as John's mind was beginning to piece together what he meant. Beetroot juice…
"This beetroot juice wouldn't have any link to you wearing your death frisbee now, would it?" he said innocently. Sherlock glared at him but did not deny it.
"Perhaps," he said shortly, and light bulbs began to flick on in John's brain, slowly but surely.
"Beetroot juice is red…" he said slowly.
"Well done," Sherlock snapped.
"Oh my goodness, Sherlock!" John shrieked. "Not…your hair?!"
Sherlock said nothing. John grinned and then began to laugh.
"Are you meaning to tell me that Sherlock Holmes, the smartest man I know, has had a run-in on a case…and dyed his hair red?!"
Sherlock's mouth formed a straighter and straighter line; his lips grew thinner and thinner.
"Okay, John!" he shouted. "Fine!" He ripped off his deerstalker to reveal his curls now stained a crimson colour. "Happy now?"
John couldn't reply, he was laughing too hard. Sherlock stared at him with a thunderous expression before storming off to his room, throwing the hat on the table in front of John. The door slammed.
After a few minutes, John was able to control his mirth and saw that Sherlock had departed, leaving only his deerstalker in his place. He picked it up and stared at it, a wide grin on his face.
Sherlock had finally found a use for his death frisbee.