I cut his hair myself one night; a pair of dull scissors in the yellow light
and he told me that I'd done alright and kissed me 'til the morning light.
John Watson put the kettle on, and reached for two mugs instead of one for the first time in three years.
His head was spinning, and in the months to come he'd look back on tonight and wonder just how he'd made it through the evening without collapsing in a heap on the floor. He rinses the mugs for the sake of giving his hands something to do. He's trembling, he notices, but he's not cold. The kettle clicks and John pours two mugs of good, old-fashioned, reliable English tea. He adds milk and sugar, and stirs, dragging the process out for as long as he can so he doesn't have to go into the main room and face the man standing there.
"John?"
Sherlock's voice cuts the silence and John jumps at the sound. He shuts his eyes, picks up the mugs, takes a breath and turns around.
Sherlock Holmes is standing awkwardly by his chair. He looks uncomfortable in the room, probably because it's clean and tidy and ordered. There is a precision to 221B that couldn't be found three years ago. Sherlock finds it claustrophobic but says nothing. He takes the mug of tea, and John notes that his fingers are filthy. The grit under his fingernails looks like it's been there for too long and his skin is darker, stained with dirt and (to John's mild annoyance) tobacco. He's wearing a pair of dark jeans and a shirt that look cheap and don't fit him well at all, though that could be put down to the eight and a half pounds John notes he's lost. His jacket looks like he took it off the back of a homeless man and frankly that's probably the case. John doesn't mention it, but Sherlock smells strongly of cigarettes, mould and piss.
"Thanks for the tea," Sherlock says. "I thought you might have packed my mug away, like everything else-" he trails off, realizing that his words sound like he's having a bit of a dig at John for doing the inevitable. He sips the tea and can't help closing his eyes at not just the familiarity of the drink, but also the smell of Baker Street, of John's living space, of home.
John looks closer at Sherlock. He's exactly the same man, but different. His face is mapped with the signs of scuffles and no sleep. John notices his nose is not as straight as it used to be. Probably broken in a fight, he thinks. His lips are dry and cracked and his eyes are bloodshot as he looks around the flat. His hair is what bothers John the most. It's silly, but true. There's a light amount of stubble coming through around his jawline and on his upper lip. His mop of dark curls has lengthened by a good few inches and John reckons he could probably wear it in a ponytail if he wanted. In any other situation the image would have made him laugh but here it makes him sad. He used to look so handsome, he thinks, and now he looks so dirty.
His mug is starting to burn his fingers so he puts it down on the table, and Sherlock does the same.
"Do you want to shower?" John asks. "Your clothes are in a box at the back of the wardrobe. You can get clean and I'll get them for you, if you like."
"You didn't throw them out?" Sherlock says, with something between surprise and affection in his voice.
"No," answers John, "it's sentiment. You wouldn't understand."
Both men give small smiles.
"I'll go in the shower then?" says Sherlock.
"It's in the same place, don't worry," John replies, "I'll go and get you your pyjamas."
Sherlock walks out of the room first and into the bathroom. John waits for the door to shut and then goes down the corridor to Sherlock's old room. He opens the wardrobe and pulls out the large cardboard box. He tears off the brown packing tape, and rummages through the neatly folded clothes until he finds Sherlock's favourite old pyjamas and blue dressing gown as well as some clean underwear. He kicks the box to the side of the wardrobe and closes the door. He's about to leave the room but his eyes flick to the bed and he puts the clothes down to straighten the duvet and pillow so that it doesn't look like he's been sleeping there.
He picks up the clothes again and goes down the hall. He knocks on the bathroom door.
"Come in," Sherlock says, "I'm decent."
John opens the door and finds Sherlock standing in front of the mirror with a towel wrapped round his waist. He can't stop himself thinking how thin Sherlock looks. His now long hair is dripping water down his back. John can see the protrusions of his spine through his skin.
"Can I borrow your razor?" asks Sherlock. John nods, and in a couple of deft sweeps Sherlock's face is back to being as smooth as it once was.
He catches John staring at him. "What?"
"Your hair looks bloody ridiculous," John answers, and lets out a short, sharp laugh. Sherlock rolls his eyes and grins.
"I'll need it cut as soon as possible," he says.
"I could do it, if you like?" John offers.
"Have you ever cut anyone's hair before?" Sherlock asks, raising an eyebrow. "Because I'm quite particular."
"I used to do my own when I was in Afghanistan, and I'd shave the heads of the some of the guys when it was getting too long," says John.
"I don't want it all shaved off!" Sherlock cries. "Just a couple of inches, and the fringe."
"Sit down," John commands. "I'll just go and get the scissors."
Sherlock considered getting changed into his pyjamas, but didn't fancy the idea of lying in bed with his collar full of itchy hair so moves the clothes to the radiator to warm up. He puts the lid down on the loo and sits in silence. John comes back holding a pair of kitchen scissors.
"It's all I could find," he offers as a response to Sherlock's look of perplexion.
"It'll do until I can get it neatened up," he shrugs.
John scowls at the light above him. "It's not exactly great for visibility in here. Just shout if I cut your ear off."
They laugh again. It feels bizarre to John, and to Sherlock, that they should be separated for three years and then one day, out of the blue, the latter turns up on the doorstep. And now John is spending their first evening back together cutting Sherlock's hair, joking as if that vast expanse of time and sadness and anger never happened.
He starts to cut away, and the dark hair falls to the floor in chunks. John works in silence, occasionally tutting and pushing Sherlock's head forward into some better light. Once he's done at the back, he comes round and sits on his knees to do Sherlock's fringe.
He's taken two snips when Sherlock grabs his hand.
"What is it?" asks John.
"Just…stop a second. I want to explain," Sherlock looks into John's eyes and realises suddenly and right there that he can't explain what he's done. All he can do is apologise, but it's something he's never really had to do before and he can't find the words in his head.
"Sherlock, I don't want to hear you explain anything right now. It can wait. All I want is to wake up tomorrow morning and find that this wasn't a dream. I want to go to sleep and get up tomorrow morning and not feel empty anymore. Because I've had enough of it," John looks straight into Sherlock's grey eyes. "I've had enough of being angry and resentful and taking it out on everyone who isn't you. I pushed people away and I'm so tired and -"
"- John, you've done alright," interrupts Sherlock, "you've done better than alright. You've put up with more than anyone could, should have had to put up with. You've done brilliantly," he smiles and adds, "you kept my pyjamas."
John lets out a bark of laughter even though his throat is uncomfortably tight.
"I'm so, so sorry, John." Sherlock's eyes are filled with tears. He tilts his head forward suddenly, and catches John's lips with his own. He presses in, and then lets go. John leans in and they rest their foreheads together.
"Things are going to change, aren't they?" whispers John. "I mean, between us."
"Yes," Sherlock whispers back, "I think they probably are."
John kisses Sherlock.
"I'm so glad you're home."