I run my hands through my hair and stare into the mirror that hangs a few feet away. Damn that stupid fool. Damn him for suggesting we pose as a couple for a case. Damn me for saying yes.
I’m standing shirtless in the center of the room, my pants already chosen but my shirt still a major dilemma. I don’t exactly have any shirts that scream “I’m gay.”
My door creaks open and I whip around, suddenly feeling very exposed. Sherlock is standing in the archway, lips slightly parted, his eyes locked on my chest. My face reddens, and out of pure embarrassment I sputter, “What in the hell are you doing in here?” Without saying a word, Sherlock raises an arm, and for the first time I see the blue, silk shirt that he is holding. I chew at my lip, surprised but still a little worried. “What’s that for?” He remains silent, moving towards me and circling around my back. His lips brush softly against my neck as he whispers, “I need you to look absolutely stunning tonight.”
I do not object as his fingers encircle my wrists. He gently raises my arms, slipping my hands into the shimmering sleeves, one at a time. Then, grabbing me by the shoulders, he turns me to face him. The word ‘gorgeous’ slips from his mouth and he blushes, prompting me to turn my eyes towards the ceiling and away from the handsome detective.
I can feel his fingertips as they slide across my skin, accidentally (or purposely, more like) lingering a bit too long on my chest as he buttons my shirt from bottom to top. Then he raises his hands one more time, to fold down my collar. He takes a step back and just looks at me, his eyes taking in every inch of my body. I feel a bit self-conscious in my new clothes, but also a bit excited. I glance towards the mirror then back at Sherlock, just now noticing his own spectacular ensemble. His shoes are completely clean and his pants are pressed (he probably had Mrs. Hudson iron them). He is wearing his most beautiful shirt, the purple one that is tight in all the right places. His hair remains in its normal state, though it may have been brushed a bit, also at the suggestion of Mrs. Hudson.
He bites at his lip and scrunches up his face, hands planted firmly on his hips. His thinking stance. He’s definitely trying to determine what needs fixing, and as he’s looking right at my head, I can only assume that he wants to do something about my---
“Hair.” He picks up a small tub from my dresser and slides the top off. Dipping his fingers into the goop, he slathers them up and places the tub back where he found it. “Head,” he orders. “Down.” I reluctantly tilt my head forward a notch, but obviously it’s not good enough for him. He grabs me by the neck and pulls me towards him. His fingers entangle themselves in my hair, the product giving the strands a unique shine. He roughly runs his hands all over my scalp, making the experience enjoyable but painful. At last he’s finished. Ignoring my objections, he cleans his hands off using my topmost blanket. Then he pulls a comb from his back pocket - where the hell did he get that thing? - and reaches once more towards my head. After a slightly less agonizing ordeal, he drops the comb onto my dresser and just looks at me. And he smiles, obviously pleased with himself. Then he takes my hand in his, clutching tightly to my arm. He takes a deep breath, murmurs, “Let’s go,” and we’re off, fingers tangled together, shoulders brushing, and lips that might, at some point, do some kissing.