Archive of Our Own ^beta

Joan stood in front of her bathroom mirror the night before her first chemotherapy session, frowning at the reflection of the shears in her hand.

She knew she shouldn’t have put this off this late, she chastised herself. She really should have made an appointment with her hairstylist immediately after her oncologist had scheduled her chemo. Normally she wasn’t one to delay a difficult task; she didn’t want to wait until after her therapy started, for reasons both practical and otherwise.

Yet to her bemusement, it kept slipping her mind.

Every time she did remember, and reach for her hair scissors in the cupboard behind the mirror, she’d pause for a long moment, hand hovering over the handles, uncertain. And she’d withdraw it and close the door.

She had time, she assured herself. Still time--

Then she’d received the message about Moriarty, and had summoned Sherlock to return. She hadn’t been prepared for how the remaining time passed so quickly, until that morning when she realized she had no other choice.

Joan had prepared Arthur earlier that evening when putting him to bed, telling him that Mommy would have short hair tomorrow morning when he woke up. Kids were resilient, and Arthur more than most; his reaction was simply, “Okay Mom, g’night,” followed by a yawn and drooping eyelids. She’d lingered at his bedside for awhile after he dropped off, curled around him and tempted to take a short nap with him as she sometimes did, when she needed to be reminded how lucky she was, after a difficult case.

She roused herself from her reverie. “Just do it, Joan,” she said firmly, “come on.” She pulled a small section of hair away from her head, taking hold of it a few inches away from her scalp; she raised the scissors and opened the blades around the strands. It was just hair, she reminded herself, she trimmed her split ends all the time with no problem, she could do this. She had to; the docetaxel and doxorubicin in her chemo regimen would cause her hair to fall out within a couple of weeks. It was better to cut it short now, she reasoned, rather than wait until clumps of hair fell out to tangle in their vacuum cleaner or clog their drains.

Still she paused, her mind blank, her body frozen in place.

“Damn it,” she whispered after a moment. “Damn it.”

She couldn’t do it. Furious with herself, Joan let her hair go and bowed her head, gripping the lip of the sink. The scissors slipped from her grip and dropped into the bowl, where they skittered over the porcelain and clattered at the bottom. Her hair draped around her face; she squeezed her eyes shut against the sting of defeated tears that threatened to spill.

“How may I be of assistance, Watson,” Sherlock said quietly from the door.

It wasn’t a question. Joan looked up through wet eyelashes and falls of hair, at Sherlock’s reflection in the mirror as he moved to stand behind her. She met his reflected gaze indirectly, dismayed by the concern displayed openly on his features.

“Do you--?” she began finally, and cleared her throat, shrugging one shoulder. “Do you know how to cut hair? I was going to do it myself days ago, but we got so busy with Moriarty and time got away--” Her voice faded as she struggled to explain.

“Youtube is a most informative and expedient teacher,” he replied with a faint, sympathetic upquirk of his lips. “I am at your service.”

Joan nodded, a wave of grateful relief flooding her chest, and she raised her chin to meet his sober gaze fully. “Thanks, I appreciate it.”

“It would be my honour to assist. May I suggest, however, that we retire to the kitchen where there will be room for myself to maneuver,” Sherlock said. “In the meantime I shall retrieve the proper accoutrements forthwith.”

“Sure, that sounds good,” she said, her voice stronger, “I’ll meet you downstairs in a bit.” He nodded at her and disappeared from the room.

Joan sighed after he left, listening to his footfalls down the stairs. She stared at herself in the mirror for a minute, distantly cataloguing her pale skin, the dark circles under her eyes, her hollowing cheeks. Joan then swallowed the lump in her throat and nodded.

They hadn’t really talked about it, beyond their conversation a few days prior when she’d confirmed her diagnosis and Sherlock had decided to remain in New York. She’d waited too long now, she realized. Having witnessed her momentary weakness, Sherlock would fret over every hint of her discomfort from now on, right when she couldn’t bear that kind of attention on herself.

Joan then reminded herself that despite Sherlock’s own misgivings about putting her and Arthur in danger, he’d decided to remain. She drew much-needed strength from it, took another moment to pull herself together, then trailed down to the kitchen where she was sure he was already waiting.

When she arrived, Sherlock had placed a beaten leather satchel on the table, and was setting out an impressive array of hairstyling implements: combs, brushes, scissors, clips, pins, mirrors, clipper, and towels.

“Where did you get all this?” she wondered, intrigued despite herself.

Sherlock continued to lay out his tools as he explained, “One of my aliases several years ago, before we met, was a quiet and unassuming chap named Benjamin Mäkelä, apprentice to the renowned Finnish hairstylist Tapio Virtanen of the Tapio Hair Salons in Helsinki. Among his many high-profile clients was the CEO of Finland’s largest bank who tipped me off to a money-laundering scheme that extended down the Baltic states, and through eastern Europe all the way to the Italian 'Ndrangheta crime syndicate in Calabria.”

“That was you? I read about it in the New York Times when I was a surgical resident. I suppose now you have them on your trail too?”

“Sadly, the shy and retiring Mr. Mäkelä met his fate in the rapids of the upper Kemi River. But not before he provided Finnish and international authorities with all the evidence needed to put the most senior don of the 'Ndrangheta away for a very long time.”

Joan nodded. “I suppose we’ll have to keep our eye on the local 'Ndrangheta now in case they put two and two together.”

“We are quite safe from them. I made quite certain that there was nothing left of Mr. Mäkelä for them to worry about.” He looked up, picked up a folded plastic square, and shook it out into a hairdressing cape. “If you would take your seat.” He nodded at the chair set just off to one side of the table.

Joan sat herself down and Sherlock draped the cape over her. He took handfuls of her hair and spread them over his palm, examining the strands closely. “Your tresses are in excellent condition, Watson,” he pronounced after a few minutes. “I should like to call my wig maker in Flatbush. We can salvage your locks so she may fashion a style to accommodate your chemotherapy-induced depilation should you desire to retain your current hair colour.”

Joan choked back a surprised laugh. “You have a personal wig maker. Why did I not know that?”

“Deirdre is one of my more irregular Irregulars. I’ve called on her expertise only thrice so far, but she has been indispensable in my continuing quest for the perfect unsuspecting camouflage.” He let go of her hair and pulled out his mobile to fire off a quick message.

The reply came just minutes later. “Deirdre would be delighted to see you tomorrow after your session for measurements and style assessment.” Joan raised an eyebrow, but before she could ask, he added, “Deirdre’s main area of expertise is crafting wigs for chemotherapy patients.”

“Oh.” Joan blinked, unfathomably moved by Sherlock’s quiet support. “I’d love to meet her then.”

“I shall advise.” Another quick text later, Sherlock said, “She has pencilled you in for three pm at her workshop in Flatbush tomorrow afternoon.”

“Sounds good.”

Sherlock stood back and spent some time tilting Joan’s head back and forth. “I can attempt a proper style if you’d like,” he said after he was finished. “A pixie cut would suit your facial structure while still appearing professional--”

“Styling’s not necessary. I just want it short enough so it won’t be obvious once it starts falling out later on,” Joan said.

“I see.” Sherlock pursed his lips in thought for a second. “A straightforward buzz cut should suffice for your requirements then.” Sherlock pivoted toward the table to pick up his hair clipper and guard, and fastened the comb attachment.

Joan did not fail to miss the subtle brusque disappointment in his reply. “You must have really enjoyed your undercover work with Tapio,” Joan said.

“I learned to appreciate the value and aesthetic of a good hairstyle, yes,” Sherlock admitted. He turned to face her, holding up the clipper with its guard. “I would recommend a number five cut. So named as its length is five-eighths of an inch, long enough to protect your scalp from the elements in the meantime, short enough not to be a nuisance when it detaches.”

“Go ahead.”

“Would you like to use your hair trimmings for a wig for yourself, or donate them to someone else?”

Joan raised an eyebrow; that was something she’d never considered. “Sure, we can do that. Donate them, I mean. I don’t see myself needing a wig for awhile.”

Sherlock paused for a moment. “Are you sure about that?” Sherlock asked, in a tone so gentle Joan ached.

“I’m tired of being blonde anyway,” Joan said, “I think four years is long enough.”

“As you wish.” Sherlock laid out layers of tissue paper in a stack from a box on the table. “To keep your hair from tangling when we bring it to Deirdre,” he explained. “I shall cut your hair to a one and one-half inch length first, to maximize the usable length for wig-making, then use the clipper to bring it to the desired length on your head.”

He stood behind her, combed her hair out fully and parted it into sections, securing them out of the way with plastic jaw clips. He then carefully moved to the front and began at her crown, snipped and set aside the cut lengths on layers of tissue paper so they wouldn’t tangle. Joan sat still, her eyes closed, not wanting to watch the shears so close to her face.

“I haven’t had short hair since I was eight,” Joan mused over the whisping of the scissors. “Soon Arthur will have the longest hair in the family.”

“You have informed him of what’s happened and what is to come?”

“Of course he knows, in an age-appropriate way. He’s been taking it well so far. The most important factor is that he feels supported and safe throughout my treatment. With you and Rose and Marcus and Tom Gregson looking out for him, he will be.”

Sherlock paused briefly and sniffed at that, but Joan didn’t open her eyes, afraid of what she might find in his expression. However, within seconds he picked up another section of hair and snipped again.

The gentle tugging rhythm on her scalp felt almost peaceful, lulling her to a quiet contemplation. As Sherlock progressed, Joan felt the weight on her head grow lighter, her skin on her forehead cooler. She almost shivered at the sensation.

“It will take some time to grow accustomed to the lack of insulation,” Sherlock acknowledged.

Joan huffed a laugh in spite of herself. He moved around to the sides, then to the back, methodically cutting and organizing each shorn-off section on the tissue paper.

About twenty minutes later he finished. “Watson,” he murmured gently, startling her back to awareness.

Briefly disoriented, Joan’s eyes flew open. “Wait, what? Are we done already?”

“The initial trim, yes. I have left precisely one point five inches as agreed.” He twisted over, set down the scissors and picked up two wide hand mirrors, giving Joan one of them. “For your inspection before I proceed to the next step.”

She held the mirror up, tilting her head at her reflection. It didn’t look half bad, she thought, although at this short length her roots were more noticeable, not that she minded. Sherlock held his mirror up behind her so she could inspect the back.

“So what do you think? Shall I continue with the clippers? My offer to style your hair properly is still open.”

Joan gave Sherlock a small, sad smile in her reflection. “I really don’t know. All your effort you put in, it won’t last long enough to make a difference.”

“That does not matter to me. You are worth the work it takes to love you, Watson.”

Joan blinked at that, then turned around to face him. His sober gaze did not waver, nor did he smile at her, but there was a softness in his features and his voice that tugged at her.

“I love you too, Sherlock,” she replied simply, reaching out to squeeze his free hand.

He squeezed back, his grip warm and broad and comforting. After a moment Sherlock cleared his throat and let go of her hand. “I will say that this length suits you supremely well,” he continued lightly.

Joan peered at how the short hair framed her face. “It does,” Joan agreed, “it really does.” She studied herself closer. “I like it a lot. Tapio would be proud.”

Sherlock beamed at her. “After your treatment ends and your hair begins to return, it will resemble peach fuzz at first,” he said.

“Yes, that’s the first stage of hair regrowth after chemo,” Joan agreed.

"Afterwards, however, you may find it will not return quite the same as your current coiffure. Indeed, it most likely will return with waves or curls rather than straight, and possibly a different colour as well.”

Joan turned to look at him, genuinely impressed. “I’ve heard of that, but it wasn’t something we covered in depth in oncology rotation.”

“Nor did I, until I met Deirdre. She imparted quite the thorough education on the process of post-chemotherapy hair regrowth.”

Joan absently patted her now-short hair. “It makes sense, I mean, the shape and texture of hair is based on the shape of the follicle, and follicular cells divide rapidly, so they’re one of the first cells chemo kills off--”

Joan looked at Sherlock expectantly, but he simply stood there waiting, until she answered herself. “The drugs take awhile to leave the system completely after treatment ends, so the follicle cells don’t all grow back at the same time, which produces an uneven shaft, leading to wavy or curly hair and difference in pigmentation.”

Sherlock looked delighted. “That is precisely how Deirdre explained it to me. Any change in texture or colour is unlikely to remain permanent, however.”

“I’ll just have to wait and find out.” She shook her head, thinking how odd that it seemed like something to look forward to. “In the meantime I’ll keep this for now. The buzz cut won’t be necessary. Thank you, Sherlock.”

“Always my pleasure.”

With that, Joan yawned, feeling exhaustion set in, and she glanced at the wall clock. “It’s getting late.”

“An early night is it, Watson?” he asked, sounding surprised.

“My first session starts at nine tomorrow. They want me there for eight-thirty to fill out paperwork.” Joan reached up to untie the cape and slid it off. Wayward strands of cut hair slid to the floor around her feet.

“Shall I accompany you to the clinic?” Sherlock asked, somewhat diffident.

Joan nodded, secretly relieved at his offer. “That would be nice, thanks. I’ve asked Rose to be here for seven. We can stop off at a coffee shop for breakfast on the way if we leave early enough.”

“I’d hoped perhaps we could spend some time with a cup of chamomile and reacquaint ourselves with--”

Joan yawned again. “I think I should just go to bed now,” she said, then sighed as Sherlock’s face fell. She said gently, “It’s just that I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep well tonight so I want to get as much as I can.”

“Perfectly understandable,” he agreed, somewhat clipped, “you must have a great anxiety weighing on your mind. Perhaps I shall bid you good night now--”

“I want you to stay with me tonight,” Joan said quickly.

She’d thought about it during her lull, decided she should talk to Sherlock more in-depth before tomorrow, have a proper conversation about it; she sensed he was ready to discuss it too. But after earlier this evening, she didn’t want to hold it where she’d feel too open to his probing.

Sherlock’s mouth dropped comically. “I – I beg your pardon?” he spluttered.

Joan turned away for a moment, raising her hand to her mouth to hide her smirk behind a cough. “Not like that,” she admonished when she was satisfied she wouldn’t laugh. “I want you to stay and talk to me. And sleep. Only sleep. I don’t want to be alone with my thoughts. And we haven’t really talked about this since--” She waved her hand between them.

Sherlock nodded once and bounced on his heels. “Understood. I shall be delighted to keep you company tonight. And every night going forward if you so wish.”

“Tonight’s perfect for now,” Joan said, a lump forming in her throat at his offer. “We can discuss the rest later.”

“Right then. I shall finish cleaning up here and meet you in your room presently.” He pivoted on his heel and strode out of the kitchen to fetch a broom and dustpan from the closet while Joan headed upstairs to prepare for bed.

By the time Joan finished her bedtime routine and donned her pyjamas, Sherlock had already finished his own ablutions and was waiting for her in her room. They climbed under the covers, and Joan rolled onto her good side, facing away, avoiding extra weight on her lumpectomy scar. Sherlock lay on his back beside her, hands folded on his stomach. Joan had to admit privately, Sherlock’s presence and warmth were soothing.

She hadn’t wanted Tom Gregson to tell Sherlock about her diagnosis, but in hindsight she was grateful he’d fielded the most difficult part for her. She sensed Sherlock had questions—ones she wasn’t sure if she could answer, but she owed it to him to try. She was more afraid, however, of how he might respond once he learned how much she was going to need him over the next year.

“It is time we address the proverbial elephant in the room, is it not?” Sherlock said after a few moments of awkward silence.

“It is.” She didn’t roll over to face him, however; it just seemed easier for her to speak into the darkness. “I’m sorry we didn’t talk about it earlier, after you agreed to stay. Nothing like leaving it to the last minute.” She laughed mirthlessly.

“I have been pondering how best to approach the topic with you,” Sherlock admitted, with the stiff formality that Joan knew meant he was struggling to contain his emotion. “I have always felt comfortable with my own mortality, but-- I find it almost impossible to even reconcile the spectre of yours.”

“I understand,” Joan whispered, “I do too, to be honest.” Unconsciously she reached up to ruffle her hair, still surprised by the difference in how it felt.

“The fact that you are taking chemo as adjuvant therapy means that it is further along than initially assessed. Stage Two A, am I correct? Triple receptor negative?”

“You’ve been googling again.”

“How can I not?”

Joan winced at the plaintive tone in Sherlock’s voice. “I’m sorry, I should have informed you of all of that myself.”

“I did not want to pry, I assumed you would eventually tell me when you were ready.”

Joan drew a large breath. “It’s funny, as a doctor I know exactly why each chemotherapeutic drug is included in my regimen. I understand their mechanisms of action, their side effects, the odds of five and ten-year survival after treatment at each stage. I know my odds are excellent.”

Joan curled up tighter around herself. “But it’s different now that I’m a patient,” she continued. “That was all academic before. Now it’s personal, in a way I never imagined it could be.”

“Knowledge is power, and it is key to your battle,” Sherlock murmured. “‘Know thine enemy’ is the first rule of any conflict.”

“Yes, I know, but – I wanted to be strong for myself, for Arthur, through all this. I wanted to be strong for you. But I’m not strong at all, I’m scared.” She paused, realizing she owed Sherlock the whole truth about her feelings; then she clarified, “No. I’m not just scared, I’m completely terrified.”

Her voice faded at the end, and she blinked rapidly at the enormity of her crisis staring her down. She wasn’t going to cry tonight, she’d thought earlier, there would be plenty of time for that later when she was alone. But despite her resolve, her eyes began to prickle.

Sherlock grabbed Joan’s hand lying over her hip and squeezed it gently. “You are the strongest person I know, Joan Watson,” he murmured with a conviction so complete, Joan felt an ache in her chest. “I assure you, personal fortitude is the very last quality you lack.”

“I couldn’t even bring myself to cut my own hair tonight—”

“Which is why I chose to stay. We complement each other in both strength and need, you and I. Where one of us falters, the other invariably steps up. You require my help now, as I have depended on yours so many times in the past to carry me through my travails. It is my turn to reciprocate and carry you through yours now.”

Joan sniffled and blinked hard. “Sherlock, I --”

“I am deathly afraid, Watson, for you and myself, for I cannot fathom the possibility of losing you. Yet courage is only the act of overcoming our fear. I have always admired how your fear has only served to make you more formidable, never less.”

“Wait until I’m doubled over on the toilet for hours at a time gushing from both ends,” Joan countered wryly, “and we’ll see how ‘formidable’ I am then.”

Sherlock only snorted, then rolled onto his side too and draped an arm over her waist, taking care to avoid her still-healing breast. “Then I shall be honoured to hold your hair back if you so wish.”

Joan laughed out loud at the irony, and her eyes cleared. “I’m glad you’re here with me, Sherlock,” Joan said into the dark, “I’m glad you stayed. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“The feeling is very much mutual.” Sherlock’s arm tightened around her waist, and she felt him lean his forehead against her back. “I will always be here for you and Arthur, for as long as you both need me. We will travel on this journey together, no matter where it takes us. You have my word.”

“I know you will. And thank you.” She squeezed his hand and settled back against him, both of them breathing slow and deep cleansing breaths, until she centred herself again and her eyes fluttered closed.