Joan had slept poorly the night before, kept up by the sound of violin. It wasn't so much that it was unpleasant as it was completely distracting. When your mad genius flatmate is playing with passion at midnight, you can't help but give it a listen. Even if it doesn't stop until three, then starts up again at four, though with an attempt at a lower volume. It ended again with a screech across the instrument at 6:45 and was accompanied by stomping noises. At 7:15, when Joan crawled out of bed, more tired than she was when she climbed in eight hours before, the violin had begun again, at the lowest volume yet.
Tea, she thought, that's what I need to wake up. Tea and a nice flat to myself and sex. Lots of sex and tea.
She walked into the kitchen, paying no heed to the madwoman playing violin in the living room. Methodically, she pulled one of her mugs out of a cabinet and placed it on the table. She then grabbed the kettle and walked to the sink to replenish the water. Looking into the sink as the water rushed into the kettle, she saw a plait of dark brown hair, still braided, sitting at the bottom, looking, if she could say so herself, quite soft and sad.
"Sherlock," she shouted, "is this your hair in the sink?"
The other woman appeared in the doorway, clad in her old pyjamas and customary blue dressing gown and holding her violin almost carelessly. Her hair, her once glorious nearly down to her ass curls, was nearly completely shorn. It lay in wisps around her ears, perhaps curlier for the lack of length.
"It needed gone," she replied with a shrug.
Joan put the kettle on then pulled the hair out of the sink and raised a brow at her flatmate.
"And why exactly was it in the sink?"
"It would be absurd to waste something I could use for experiments, Joan."
"Right, well, the sink isn't a place to store things for experiments. Next thing I know I'll be going to make a cuppa tomorrow morning and there will be a human brain sitting there."
"Absurd, a brain would be of no use to me in a sink."
"Right well. Why exactly did you do this, then?"
"I said it needed gone. It was a hindrance. I can now safely run without getting whipped in the face by useless hair fiber."
"I thought you loved your hair?" Joan bit her lower lip in an attempt to repress any remaining words. Telling your flat mate that you loved her hair? That you dreamt of waking up every morning to the smell of it? That you actually liked helping her brush out her tangles on those nights she was too petulant to deal with them herself? A bit not good.
"You should cut yours too, it's getting rather long, but too short to pull back. An inconvenient length for running around London."
"Long hair is a civilian comfort that I intend to fully enjoy. It will be long enough for a ponytail soon enough. I just need to have something called patience, perhaps you've heard of it. You didn't answer my question."
"I needed a change, hair is an absurd thing to be hung up over."
Sherlock ventured farther into the kitchen, pulling out a mug for herself and placing it down next to Joan's.
"You're still not answering me. Why did you do it? You never have a simple reason. You wear skirts to chase criminals all the time, hair can't be that big of a hindrance."
"Two sugars, Joan. I'll be in my room with the violin now that you're awake."
"How considerate of you."
Joan knocked on Sherlock's door and then slid in immediately after. She placed the tea mug on the night stand and then went back to the doorway, grasping her own beverage.
"I have work today," she said, "but when I get home we're going to talk about the hair."
Joan had learned that physical changes usually meant there was something going on in her flatmate's brilliant mind. She stopped wearing jewelry whenever she was in a black mood. She only wore blue while on a case. She only left her hair down when she wasn't on the case. Cutting off her hair was something new that she didn't understand the meaning of.
"You're not my mother," Sherlock, who had previously been facing the window whipped around, drawing the bow over her violin to produce a screeching sound.
"Save the obnoxious violin noises for your brother's next visit."
Joan arrived home at a normal time, two Tesco bags in hand. Sherlock was nowhere to be found, which didn't surprise her in the least. However, Joan was resolved, and wouldn't let her flatmate win this battle. After putting the milk away, secreting the biscuits in her most recent hiding place, and removing her coat she settled down on the sofa with some crap telly.
The lock of hair had somehow made its way to the coffee table, and Joan couldn't help but pick it up and inspect it. She lifted it gingerly to her nose and inhaled the scent. She could detect shampoo, her own and not her flatmate's, and the smell of peppermint. Underneath was the faint smell of cigarette smoke, but that confrontation would have to wait until another night. This was about why Sherlock had spent the whole night playing the violin and deciding to chop her hair off. Joan lowered the braid unto her lap and without thought began stroking it gently, as though it was still attached to her friend's head. Not long after, her flatmate burst in, two bags in her gloved hands.
"I did the shopping," she exclaimed.
"I just bought milk."
"I bought us some more tea and some things I need for my hair experiments. I expected you to remember the milk and the biscuits, which are currently in the back of the mug cabinet."
Sherlock went into the kitchen to store away whatever it was she had purchased. Joan, frankly, had given up on either asking or wanting to know.
"Nope," Joan replied triumphantly, "And I'm not letting you do anything with this hair until you've fully explained to me why you decided you need to do without it."
"Why do you need to know?" Sherlock nearly whined.
"Because when your flatmate is a recovering addict who doesn't express their emotions but physically exhibits mental states, you have to make sure that her cutting off her hair doesn't mean 'I did two lines of cocaine last night.'"
"Ah, well. Be safely assured, I have not touched any drugs."
"Always a comfort, but still not an answer to the question."
Joan watched as the other woman strode over toward her and snatched the hair out of her hands.
"It is really none of your business why I did it."
"I said you could have that back when you answered."
Joan rose and attempted to reclaim her prize, but Sherlock held the hair high above her head and fairly well out of her considerably shorter friend's grasp. She resolutely set her gaze up towards the hair, half out of determination and half out of wanting to escape the sudden closeness.
"I will make you give it back to me," Joan glowered, "unless you tell me why the fuck you cut off all of your beautiful hair."
"Because you like it."
"Because I like it? Has this game become that childish that you're doing things simply to irritate me."
"Don't be absurd, Joan. I simply observed that you like to look at my hair for extended amounts of time, especially in the morning hours and," Sherlock's voice delved into a more serious tone and Joan expected her to begin explaining an experiment, "I liked that you like looking."
"Is this a self-esteem thing, then? That you don't think you're pretty?" Joan's voice wavered between interrogation and genuine questioning.
"No," Sherlock replied, "It was distracting, and then I realized it was only the hair and that I was letting something so trivial be of a distraction to me. The only logical course was then to do away with the temptation altogether."
"You thought I was admiring your hair? I mean, yeah, I was looking at your hair, but how dumb can you be? I look at everything, your lips, your eyes, your feet, your ass, your hands: every fucking thing. The only reason it might look like I'm looking at your hair is because I try to look away whenever you look back at me and that seems like the safest place to stare."
"I'm looking at you now, and you're still staring at my hair."
"What part of me are you looking at, then?" Joan asked as she flicked her eyes down.
"Your hair, your eyes, your nose, your neck, your lips," Sherlock chuckled, "some other things."
"Other things?"
And that's when it happened. Sherlock slowly moved down her arms, leaning down gently to place the plait of her hair back on the coffee table and on the swoop up she pressed her lips against the suddenly expectant mouth of her friend. Then there were hands everywhere, touching, not looking. Joan's hands went into Sherlock's hair, twisting at the curls. Just the right length for kissing, Joan thought as Sherlock pulled her deeper into the kiss and onto the couch.