Jane and Sherlock have a bit of a domestic...
AN: Hahaha okay so this is what happens when insomnia meets Sherlock fan fic. Idon'teven...my brain sometimes. I hope you find it adorable and fluffy as much as I do. Sorry if there's mistakes, it's quite late (early) right now and I'm clearly off my head.
In conjunction with the chapter 'Strange Predicament' in The Colour of Light Part III
Fiasco
Sherlock was…furious. Which wasn't a new thing, but what was disconcerting was that all of that white hot fury was, for once, directed solely at Jane. She was used to his annoyance or impatience or general petulance, but this? Unbridled rage? It was new, and in her current state somewhere between 'fed up' and 'not giving a flying fuck,' it was almost amusing.
After the explosive conclusion of a particularly grueling case that ended in a Mexican Standoff on Waterloo bridge — her own gun pointed at her head while Lestrade leveled one at the suspect trying to talk him down, just before Sherlock caught him off guard and kicked the legs out from under him — Sherlock had engaged in a shouting match with Lestrade that Jane was barely cognisant of, and dragged her off in the direction of hailing a taxi. To which he unceremoniously stuffed her into and slammed the door.
Too exhausted to protest indignantly, she just allowed herself to be ushered about, and even endured Sherlock's hard glaring as he chose to sit across from her as if being in her direct line of sight at all times was a form of punishment. Punishment for what she had no idea.
Just as she was contemplating closing her eyes, he leans forward suddenly, and firmly cups her jaw with the fingers of one hand while he gingerly swipes her loose tangled hair off of her forehead.
"Ouch!" she hisses as he gently prods the gash over her eyebrow.
"Don't be an infant," Sherlock says quietly, however the smoulder is still there in his eyes as he examines the rest of her face. She can feel as his eyes linger over the throbbing bruise on her cheek, his eyes narrowing even further before releasing her in a huff.
She was just about to ask what his problem was, when she's cut off by the buzz in her pocket. She pulls out her mobile, and clicks on the inbox.
Tell 'Himself' that this don't get him out of paperwork, & I expect to see the both of u at the station first thing tomorrow. And I mean FIRST THING. This is gonna b a disaster as it is & I really don't want to b accused of cuttin corners.
GL
Jane grits her teeth. She wasn't Sherlock's goddam keeper.
"Greg is requesting our presence first thing tomorrow at Scotland Yard," Jane says tetchily.
"Oh god," Sherlock sighs while rolling his eyes to the ceiling of the cab.
Frustrated, Jane leans her head against the window, a migraine blooming at the base of her skull. She closes her eyes for just a moment, allowing herself a brief nap before they got to Baker Street.
Her eyes fly open as she is jarred against the side of the window when the cabbie suddenly slams on the breaks. Her temple smacks into the glass. It wasn't a hard smack, but with the impending migraine, pain suddenly exploded behind her eyes.
"Ow ow ow!" Jane says just as the cabbie curses avidly. Something about 'bastard fucking traffic jam!' and she groans again. Of course they would be stuck in traffic. As if the day wasn't already bad enough. She hunches over and puts her head in her hands.
"Jane?" Sherlock says, suddenly alert. "What's wrong?"
"Shh!" Jane says. She digs her fingertips into her scalp and massages.
"Jane?"
"Shut it, Sherlock. Seriously."
"Jane I think you should know —"
"Sherlock," Jane says cutting him off. She squeezes her eyes shut even tighter. "Please be quiet. Usually I let you run off at the mouth, but right now I'm not in the mood to entertain you during this ridiculous traffic jam. So if you could just suffer the boredom like the rest of us in peace I would be immensely grateful."
She hears him sniff disdainfully, and they spend the next half hour in simmering silence.
…
When they finally, finally make it back to Baker Street, Jane is in a right foul mood. And when the cab pulls to a stop Sherlock leaps out, and literally slams the door in her face, which causes another spike of pain to shoot between her eyes. Oh and of course he sticks her with the fare that's well over fifty quid. Fucking brilliant.
By the time she stomps up the stairs, her raging headache has temporarily rescinded due to anger.
She finds her man-child of a flatmate sitting haughtily in his armchair with the paper in front of his face.
"What is your goddam problem?" she shouts. He regards her indifferently from over the top of his paper for a second before ignoring her pointedly. She storms over and snatches the paper out of his hands.
He sighs. "Now you want to talk?"
"Don't be difficult," she snaps.
Suddenly, Sherlock's tepid apathy shifts to that boiling rage once more. He jumps to his feet and looms over her.
"I'm not the one who makes things difficult, Jane," he spits. She looks up at him, incredulous.
"Hang on…are you actually blaming me for what happened on the bridge today? Is this what this is all about?"
"You were careless!" he roars. "It only took one second, Jane. One second for you to become disoriented for a murderer to take your gun and nearly blow a hole in your skull!"
"Well I'm sorry if I couldn't help it if the man pulled my hair out when I bloody tackled the bastard to stop him from stabbing you!" her voice ends in an indignant shriek. It wasn't her fault that the wind picked up and caused her hair to cover her eyes while she had him at gunpoint. It's not like she could control the weather. "If it's so inconvenient for you maybe I should just cut it all off!"
Sherlock's ready made retort abruptly dies in his throat. Instead he says, "What? Don't be ridiculous. You're not cutting off your hair."
"Sorry?" Jane says. The heated argument they had been having has suddenly taken…some kind of turn, and Jane is admittedly lost.
"You can't cut your hair, Jane. That's not an option."
"Um…I think that's my decision. Y'know. It's my hair."
"Wrong. It wouldn't be your decision, it would be forced upon you due to circumstance," Sherlock replies.
"And that's…no good?" Jane says a little thickly. The pounding in her head was back, and she couldn't quite understand why they were arguing about her…hair.
"Of course it isn't, Jane. It's contrary to your nature. You hate being controlled, have been ever since you were discharged from service. Anything conformist makes you cringe. If it didn't you wouldn't have let your hair grow out to the length it is now."
"Maybe I just haven't had time to go to get a trim," she says raising her chin. She doesn't want to acknowledge that maybe Sherlock is a little bit right, now that she thought about it. After it grew past the awkward stage, the thought of her cutting it or smoothing it back into its customary bun never appealed to her.
"We both know that's not true," Sherlock says, his voice softening a little. "It makes you who you are, regardless of its inconvenience." He absently tucks an errant strand behind her ear.
She blinks up at him, surprised. Sherlock always had an eerie way of revealing things about Jane that even she didn't know until it was put to words. "So what do you suggest we do about it?" she asks a little weakly. Between the adrenaline crash and the nagging headache, she's suddenly shattered.
Sherlock frowns, a new puzzle at his fingertips. "I'll think of something. Go tend to that cut in your forehead," he says and pulls out his mobile.
"You always do," she says rolling her eyes and heading to the bathroom
It's only when she's affixing a few butterfly bandages to the wound above her eye does she realise how ridiculous that entire argument was. She nearly hits her head on the tap, doubled over in laughter.
"Are you concussed?" Sherlock asks from behind her, his eyebrow inching towards his hairline in amusement.
"It's possible," she giggles wiping her eyes. "A mild one. Barely there, probably," she says.
"What an astute diagnosis, Doctor," Sherlock says sarcastically. She grins, and then suddenly winces as her bruised cheek twinges in protest. He comes over to her and inspects the slight swelling, and his eyes darken. "He hit you harder than I realised."
"Oh I've been hit worse," she replies. "Although, not with the butt of my own gun. That's a whole new level of humiliation. I'm almost ashamed to call myself a Captain."
"That reminds me, when we go in tomorrow and talk with Lestrade we tell him that the gun was the suspect's, and it must have fallen into the Thames during the fray."
"All right. I'm assuming it didn't really fall into the Thames, though, right?"
"Of course not. I pickpocket the badges right off the man, surely I can get away with a firearm concealed in my coat in the midst of such a considerable distraction."
Jane purses her lips as she frowns. "I'm not sure if that's a good thing or not. And I'm almost certain he knows about my gun, Sherlock."
"Whether he does or not it'll be less paper work for the all of us. Clearly the utilitarian option is best?" he smirks, and steers her out of the bathroom by her shoulders.
He plunks her on the couch and disappears into the kitchen. "Oh god please say you're making tea," she groans, her face really starting to hurt at this point. After a moment she hears the kettle flick on. "Bless you, you eccentric madman, you," she mumbles with her eyes closed.
"Open," Sherlock says and hands her a cold pack wrapped in a towel to which she presses against her cheek gratefully. "Sit on the floor with your back to the sofa."
"Why?" she asks but complies all the same.
"I think I have a solution to our problem," he says and settles in behind her, one long leg on either side. "Would it be too much for you if you attempted to multitask?" he sneers.
"No, you git. What's this about?"
Instead of answering, Sherlock hands her his phone where there is a diagram up on the screen with step by step instructions. She twists around to look at him her mouth slightly agape and eyebrows raised.
"Shut up and hold it steady," he snaps peevishly, and Jane snickers but does as she's told holding it up like some sort of Statue of Liberty and Sherlock sets to work, his long fingers twining in and out of her hair.
It takes a bit longer than she thought, Sherlock having to start over a couple of times with a muttered curse of 'Damn!' or 'Blast!' or her favourite 'Stecore!' which if she had to guess, was Latin for something not nice. Leave it to Sherlock Holmes to make swearing sound posh.
Jane felt her arm getting heavy rather quickly, and after her wrist was yanked up for the second time, Sherlock just snatched it back from her saying he got the basic principle of the thing anyway. Which was fine with her, because she was beginning to relax under his ministrations, her eyes drooping as his cool fingers caressed her scalp.
Finally, after what seemed like a long time Sherlock announced: "There. Finished."
"Hm?" Jame hums and traces her fingers over the top of her head. Her index finger follows the elegant ridge of the French plait all the way to the tip. "Sherlock Holmes. How very domestic of you," she teases fondly.
"Oh please," he scoffs. "It's the most practical solution to keep the hair out of your eyes, and it shouldn't fall out no matter who you tackle in the future. Besides, now that I've done it I can teach you so you can from now on."
"Who says I have the patience for this?" she says and laughs as she hears the familiar shutter noise behind her that meant Sherlock was taking a picture with his phone.
"You don't think you have the patience to plait your own hair? What kind of girl are you?"
"The kind who could hardly be arsed about her hairstyle half the time," she snorts.
"It's not about appearance, Jane. It's about utility."
"You are ridiculous."
"You're the one always saying we need to have these systems in place. If you won't do it, I will. Besides, there's a tutorial on something else I want to try," he says, and begins to unthread the weaves of her hair.
C'mon Sherlock. Admit it. You just want to play with Jane's hair cuz it's purty.
