"What about this?" He held the box to his head.
"Mm, no. Too light."
"You say everything is too light."
"That's because it is. Why do you have to do this?"
He huffed, turning back to the shelf of hair dye. "You know why."
She sighed, standing on her tip toes to ruffle his curls. "Do you have to cut it too?", she questioned begrudgingly, and he rolled his eyes. "It's just hair, Molly, relax. It'll grow back." She grumbled and he sneered at the options in front of him. "Why would anyone need so many choices?"
She tapped a box to the left of his previous suggestion. "This one, then." He picked it up, glancing at her over the lid. "You said the other was too light, but you pick this?" She shrugged, and walked toward the till. "Let's just get this over with."
Sherlock followed her up to the till, avoiding the security cameras. He pushed his drugstore glasses further up his nose.
She'd burst out laughing when he'd first put them on. The rims were thick and tortoiseshell, and she told him he looked every ounce the gawky science nerd he was. He retorted that he didn't fake his death twice just to have some idiot on the street blow his cover. "Sherlock," she had laughed, "you're a tall, gangly man in a big black coat, with wild dark hair and cheekbones to cut yourself on. You really think a pair of specs are going to make you blend in?"
He had frowned, and turned to glance in the mirror. Molly had a point; he still looked distinctly like.... well, like Sherlock Holmes. So they had ended up buying scissors and hair dye, much to Molly's chagrin. He'd left the coat at home, saying it didn't feel right anyway, it wasn't the same as his old one. She knew for a fact it was identical, but he was still mourning the loss of his original. He'd broken it in just right, worn it religiously and had many adventures in it; he missed it. And Holmes' did not like change. She smiled and folded the castoff replacement, laying it gently on the bed before following him out the door. He noticed this and smiled, but turned away before she saw.
Back in the hotel room he ordered room service, and they ate as she pulled a chair into the middle of the room, laying newspaper down to catch the hair. "Go have a shower," she called out to him, and she heard him saunter into the bathroom and turn the faucet on. She sighed, running a hand through her own hair. Wandering over the large mirror, she pulled it up to brush the top of her collarbone. I should probably make some changes too. She fiddled with the scissors in her right hand, biting her lip.
"Don't!"
She whirled around, surprised at the shirtless interruption. Sherlock crossed the room at an alarming speed, snatching the implements from her grasp. "What do you think you're doing?", he asked agitatedly, water still dripping from his doomed curls. Molly stared up at him in confusion. "Well," she floundered, "you, you are cutting your hair off, to be disguised, and I, I thought -"
"You thought wrong," he blurted, and she felt her face grow hot. Why is he so upset? What did I do this time? Good lord, he smells delicious. She looked away and he sighed, putting his hand to his eyes. "That was ridiculous of me," he muttered. "I'm sorry."
What?
"I just....," he began, his eyes fixed on her silky hair. Her eyelashes fluttered shut when he ran his fingers through it, leaning into her. "I don't want you to cut it," he whispered, his lips pressed to her ear.
She tried to quell the chills running up her spine. "It's just hair, Sherlock. It'll grow back."
He sulked at her turning his words against him and moved away, but she pulled him back against her by the beltloops. "Well," she added slyly, in spite of her blush, "perhaps I should threaten to cut my hair more often, since it gives you the desire to tackle me halfnaked."
The tips of his ears reddened, and she chuckled as he condemned her to perdition. "Devil woman," he spat, a furious blush overpowering his words. Molly took the scissors back and patted his chest, sidling towards the chair. "Sit," she ordered, and he grumpily obeyed. "Don't make it ugly," he muttered.
They spent the next hour and a half in silence, minus the occasional whisper to 'turn your head, Sherlock'. He closed his eyes for much of the time, focusing his nervous system on her. How her slender fingers felt on the back of his neck as she worked, occasionally sliding down to his shoulders and back to brush stray hairs away. How her thermal energy touched him, so that he could feel her leaning closer to inspect the evenness of her cuts. He shivered at the feeling of her breath on his ear, blowing away fine bits of trimming. He revelled in it all. Every moment their skin didn't connect was a moment lost in his mind.
Much to her own dismay, Molly cropped all his lovely curls off, and lightened his hair to a golden brown. She cleaned up the newspapers and loose strands, bemoaning all the fallen heroes.
"What, not going to save one of my tresses?" He wrapped his arms around her thin waist. She ought to eat more. "I'm sure we could find you a suitable locket to put it in." She smiled smugly in return, craning her neck to look him in the eye. "I've got the man right here, what use have I for a memento?"
His smile faltered briefly, but she didn't see. He turned her round in his hold, to see his new style. "What do you think of your handiwork?"
She pushed a few fallen pieces back, smoothing out the lines and sighing sadly. "It's nice."
"Nice?"
"Mm."
"And?"
"You look very different."
"And?"
She rolled her eyes, leaning against his chest. "And, I miss the old Sherlock and I want him back as soon as possible."
He smiled gently at her, an unusual softness in his expression as he leaned his forehead against hers. "He's still here."
____
They stayed holed up the rest of the day, Sherlock texting and reading case files with his head in Molly's lap, and Molly alternating between reading up on the Moran family (a long and prestigious line) and devouring novels. At the moment, she had Persuasion in hand, enjoying it for the hundredth time.
She stroked his hair slowly, and he stopped texting, his eyelids closing. "Sorry," she murmured, lifting her hand from his short do. The boy's eyes shot open, pupils constricting in the light, irises exquisitely coloured. They looked greener with his hair lightened.
"No, don't stop," he responded quickly, and reached for her hand, placing it back on his head. She laughed and continued the rhythm she'd ceased, watching his facial muscles relax. "It feels good," he mumbled, steepling his fingers under his chin. Molly couldn't think of a happier moment in time.
Let time stop here. Let us live this second for eternity.
