Hello fellow fan-fictioners! I am currently HOOKED on the Sherlock series and the Sherlock Holmes novels by Conan Doyle. I am sure that you are too because, well, what else brought you here, haha? Anyway, I do hope you enjoy this little snippet I thought up when I was bored. I think I am going to continue this story because there's a little mystery to solve *wink* *wink*. Let me know what you think in the comments!
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or it's characters.
"Good day, Mrs. Hudson!" John greeted as he came into the hallway of the flat and climbed up the stairs.
"Good day, John! Have a good shift?" Mrs. Hudson replied.
"Eh, any day that isn't a bad day is a good day."
"I suppose that's true. Well, good day!" Mrs. Hudson went back to her late-night baking.
John climbed the steps to 221B and walked into the flat. Sherlock was sitting on the couch typing on his computer. He was already looking at John when he came in.
"Why did you smooth your eyebrows and tousle you hair before you came in, John?" Sherlock asked, eying John scrutinizingly.
John halted in his tracks at the oddness of the question. "Force of habit, I suppose? How did you know?"
Sherlock hesitated a moment, keeping eye contact with John. Oh boy, John thought, Sherlock is going to go into one of his long spiels.
Sherlock inhaled a deep breath for dramatic effect before he began. "Your eyebrows moved slightly when you popped your head in the door, but the muscles in your forehead and eyes did not. That leaves only one possible deduction: only the hairs on your eyebrows moved. Now, eyebrow hairs are usually rather stiff on typical humans with some exceptions; yours in particular lie somewhere between the stiffness of cat whiskers and boar bristle. Since eyebrow hairs are quite immovable without some force being applied to them, I assumed that yours had been moved by something other than mere wind. You generally keep things away from your face because it makes you feel slightly claustrophobic, hence the reason you don't wear scarves or hoods unless it is unbearably cold outside. The weather today is quite warm for London winter weather, and you are obviously not wearing any scarf or hood today so the hairs could not have possibly been moved due to the brushing of an item of clothing. Thus, you must have swept your eyebrows with your own hand; your own hand because no one was with you when you entered the hallway (Mrs. Hudson hovered in the door frame of her room to speak to you), yet the hairs moved when you came in, suggesting you very recently attempted to move them into a more presentable position.
Now your hair, on the other hand, is quite movable, so any stirring of wind or humid weather could have tousled it. The only evidence that made me conclude it was your own doing is the unattached strand of hair that is still lingering on your sleeve."
John had opened his mouth somewhere in the middle of that speech to counter the ridiculousness of his eyebrows being stiffer than cat whiskers, yet softer than boar bristle but Sherlock of course had not noticed. He now looked down at his sleeve, where there was, as Sherlock described, a piece of hair from his own head. John slowly plucked it off his sleeve, held it in front of him, looked at Sherlock pointedly and without breaking eye contact, dropped it onto the floor.
"Why do you think my eyebrows are thicker than cat whiskers, Sherlock?"
"Because I attained a hair from the bathroom sink one morning after you trimmed them and it refused to burn with just fire. I had to douse it in kerosene before it would light. Cat whiskers will burn with a little patience, but boar whiskers are practically impossible to light."
John's face became a mixture of shock, disbelief, and amusement. He finally settled on amusement and doubled over with laughter.
"I *pant* cannot believe *pant* that you actually *pant* tried to burn my eyebrow hairs *pant* to determine the thickness."
Sherlock seemed a little confused by this, but it eventually dawned upon him that that was a pretty unorthodox way of determining the thickness. He should have used one of his microscopes with a micro-ruler to measure it instead.
"Now even you have to admit that's funny Sherlock."
The corner of Sherlock's mouth turned up a little bit, even as he tried to control his expression. John could tell he was fighting back a smile, so he frowned in an exaggerated sort of way and looked up at Sherlock. Sherlock couldn't fight back the smile anymore, John just looked too silly when he did that, and he broke out into a grin and let out a few chuckles.
John, satisfied with this small accomplishment, wished Sherlock a good night and started to walk to his room.
"Wait, John?"
John stopped and came back into the living room. "Yes?"
"You still have not answered my question."
"What question?"
"Why did you smooth your eyebrows and tousle your hair before you came into the flat?"
"I told you, force of habit." John shrugged.
"It only became a habit quite recently, John. You never used to do it before."
"Well, perhaps I saw a pretty lady outside and wanted to impress." John stated non-committingly.
"You see a pretty lady that often just before you come into the flat?" Sherlock asked dumbfounded.
"Perhaps."
Sherlock scrunched his eyebrows deep in through for a few seconds. Then his whole face relaxed and turned into a smugly playful half-grin as he came to a conclusion.
"Ooooh, you're a bad boy John. Mrs. Hudson?!"
John started a little and then chuckled with the absurdity of Sherlock thinking such a thing. "Heavens Sherlock, no! I'm not saying she isn't pretty, she is lovely, but no, she's way out of my age range. Even with that said, I do like looking nice for other people, whoever they may be."
"Then WHO, John?"
"That," said John, grabbing a biscuit from a plate full of them that Mrs. Hudson had left out, "is none of your business." He yanked a bite out of the biscuit to convey the fact that the conversation was settled for him.
Sherlock just sat there, more puzzled than ever, but gave into the fact that the mystery would have to be solved another day. He settled back into the couch with a grunt and continued his typing.
"Good night, Sherlock." John started walking to his room again.
"Good night, John." Sherlock grumbled from the couch.
John smiled and got ready for bed. He knew it would be a long time before Sherlock got any information out of him. There was no way he was going to let his secret out that easily. John didn't stop grinning to himself until he finally drifted off to sleep.