(Prompt from @dynamics-of-an-asteroid: “Jim teasing Sherlock over his hair care routine because as obsessed as he is it never dawned on him he has to put effort in to those curls.”
“What am I seeing right now?” Jim asks, mouth falling slightly agape. It isn’t a sarcastic exclamation, he really can’t process the plastic wrap in the sink, the wide-toothed combs, and bottles of conditioner strewn about the counter.
He’d initially come to check on Sherlock, who’d been in the bathroom, done with his shower, for over thirty minutes. Usually he would’ve let it be, but since it’s Valentine’s day, and they have quite the reservation coming up… but all thoughts Jim had about the restaurant flew out the open window the moment he’d opened the door.
Not even the fact that his beloved is still in his towel could detract.
“This isn’t what it looks like?” Sherlock offers, hand frozen around the comb, in the middle of shaping one of his still-wet, inky curls.
“Then what is it? Because it looks like you’re preening.” Sherlock Holmes. Spending a significant amount of time on his appearance. Somehow the two ideas didn’t connect. The man, to Jim at least, had always seemed so effortless. With a very aloof mindset on top of that…
But now it seemed so painfully obvious: curls were, by their very nature, difficult to maintain (much like Sherlock himself).
“Frizz isn’t very becoming of a public image.” Sherlock shrugs, pointedly refocusing his gaze into the mirror, running the comb very slowly into a curve.
“You… just uttered the word ‘frizz.’ Seriously.” Jim shakes his head, the sensory input, sight, sound, even the smell of product in the air is too much for him to process.
Sherlock rolls his eyes, “My genetics are high-maintenance, and I don’t fancy being shorn. Concessions must be made.”
“Why is there plastic wrap lining the sink?”
“Watson gets upset when I clog it.” The taller man points out the black, wavy strands that have fallen against the thin barrier. “It can just be thrown out this way.”
Maintenance and caring about inconveniencing another person. These are things Sherlock does. Is doing. He pinches the bridges of his nose, half-dizzy, half-amused. “I… I need to go sit down.”
“Go ahead, then. I’ll be out in a moment.” Sherlock barely acknowledges him. “And do try not to vomit, we’ve got dinner.”
“Mhm. Love you.” Jim waves as he exits, heading to Sherlock’s room. “I’m going to pick out your suit, since apparently you haven’t done so already.”
“How domestic.” Sherlock smiles to himself, setting down the comb, pulling out a blow-dryer. “Love you too.”