Disclaimer: I own nothing.
A/N: For my friend Mia's birthday, because she was watching Sherlock Holmes and wanted "Holmes and Watson, except it's Shawn and Gus." Enjoy. : )
"I," Shawn said, slowly, deliberately, like he was giving his words a great deal of thought before he spoke them, "need a pipe."
I barely looked up from my computer, because that wasn't even close to the most random and/or ridiculous comment Shawn had ever made. Not in that lifetime, that month, or even that week. In fact, compared to the in depth discussion we'd had last week on invisibility, and the week before that on opossums, pipes didn't even rank. I decided against responding, knowing that if Shawn really was hell bent on smoking, he would probably pester me relentlessly until I did too, at which point I could tell him how much of an idiot he was.
"And you need a mustache," Shawn added, almost as a second thought.
That time I did look up. "Care to tell me why you're taking up smoking and I'm growing facial hair, or should I just refuse right now?"
Shawn sighed. He was currently laying on top of his desk, his head hanging over one side, and his feet over the other. With someone else, the pose might have been dramatic and pensive, but with Shawn, his head just hung awkwardly while it was upside down. Craning his neck to look at me, Shawn said, "How can you possibly be protesting this? Don't deny how good you would look with a mustache."
I unconsciously ran my hand over my upper lip before realizing what I was doing, and I shook my head. "Women like a smooth face, Shawn. Something you would know if you shaved once in awhile," I pointed out.
Shawn smirked, the insult not even appearing to faze him. However, I didn't miss him running a hand over his chin in what could have been thought, but was more likely vanity.
"Besides, after the...incident with yours after high school, I thought we agreed never again."
"We also swore never to speak of that," Shawn whined, looking put out by the mere memory of his pseudo-mustache. Oh, God help me, I was making up words like pseudo-mustache. That was a sign that I've been spending way too much time around Shawn.
My friend lifted his head with difficulty, and eventually seemed to decide that his odd position wasn't worth continuing anymore. Adjusting himself so that he was once again vertical, Shawn finally saw fit to explain his thought process to me. He only said two words, but really, with a debate as strong as his, he didn't need more than that.
"Jude Law."
Shawn had clearly come prepared to seriously discuss this with me, while all the time I had simply assumed that his brain was just spitting out random words from his stream of conscious thought process. That also explained why he wanted to get a pipe I suppose, so he could be just like Robert Downy Jr. in Sherlock Holmes.
Though I had to say, the comparison wasn't a bad one. I could definitely do worse than being the Jude Law to his Robert Downy Jr...but then I remembered, mustache.
"Civil War generals," I argued, knowing it was a weak protest. "Have you seen their mustaches? Not a pretty sight, Shawn."
Shawn rolled his eyes at me, as if what I was saying was absurd, which it wasn't, by the way. "No, Gus, I can honestly say I've never seen a Civil War general's mustache, because I'm proud to say that I'm not a virgin, and therefore don't even know what a Civil war mustache looks like."
"Jude Law is an exception to the mustache rule is the point I'm trying to make," I grumbled, frustrated at Shawn's inability to get the simplest of historical references. I mean, come on, it was Civil War.
Shawn was disinterested in the history of one of our country's greatest wars, however, and seemed more preoccupied with his special mission of Get Gus To Grow A Mustache (And Make Him Look Like An Idiot). I wasn't sure if the parentheses were actually there, or if I had added them in paranoia, but I privately suspected the first.
Shawn looked at me for a moment, quiet in reflection. And then, in all of his joking seriousness, he said, "Who's to say you can't be the exception too, Gus? Who's to say you can't rise above the ranks of ugly facial hair and sit alongside champions? Who's to say you," and here he paused, in what was no doubt supposed to be dramatic effect, "can't be Jude Law?"
It was at this point I realized that there was no way out. Like it or not, I was going to grow a mustache, of possibly questionable Jude Law-yness...wonderful, another made up word. I swore if I survived the embarrassment of growing that thing on my face, Shawn would pay. Possibly by trying out that punch Jude Law gave Robert Downy in the movie. Yes. That was a distinct possibility at that point.
"Fine," I scowled, and Shawn grinned with victory. He looked positively smug, but at the same time I could tell that he thought this was clearly a brilliant idea, so I smiled too, reluctantly.
"But just so you know," I added, "you only get a toy pipe, not the real thing."
Even resigned to the plastic toy, Shawn looked happy, and I could see that the decision in growing a mustache was, well...elementary, in the end.
A few week's later...
Despite Shawn's repeated attempts to call Lassiter Lestrade, and his constant referencing to Juliet as Miss Adler, not much changed in the time which I referred to as my post-mustache period. There was pre-mustache, and post-mustache, and they were pretty much the same. That made me wonder why I had thought growing a mustache would change anything, aside from our Halloween costumes that month.
Of course, Shawn only gave a small smile when I brought this up and took a "puff" on his pipe. The former action worried me, though the second was becoming commonplace enough at that time. It was clear that he thought those events wouldn't be the end of the post-mustache period.
While Shawn was frustrating when he was wrong, he was even more frustrating when he was right.
It was about a week after Halloween when Shawn and myself had gone to a bar, not going there for women, but definitely keeping an eye out anyway. Only ten minutes after we had sat down, Shawn jerked his head ever so slightly to the right. It was almost a subtle move, if Shawn knew anything about subtly.
I looked over to see a woman looking over at me, about my age. Brunette, and very much my type. She caught me catching her staring, which barely made sense when put onto paper, but as she flashed me a smile, I suddenly didn't care so much about that.
"It's the mustache," Shawn whispered conspiratorially, and I scowled at him. However, when I looked over again, she seemed to have a strange fascination with my upper lip.
I sighed, but smiled. When all possibilities were eliminated, and all that...
I drained my beer and got up to talk to her, but not before giving my friend a fistbump in thanks.