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Mycroft watches out of the corner of his eye as John fidgets, debating whether to step into the room or not. Holmes waits, allowing the man to decide for himself, pretending to be fully absorbed in his newspaper, a cup of tea on the coffee table among Sherlock’s detritus and used plates. He twitches at the thought of food contamination but says nothing, pressing his nose into the odorous paper, settled comfortably on the aged couch.
At last, John takes a step into the living room, but leans against the doorway between the kitchen, uncomfortable in his own flat. He clears his throat, eyes askance, and finally, knowing John will be offended by his faked indifference, looks up and smiles blandly at him.
“Everything okay?”
“Ah. Yes.”
“Did you want to ask me something?” John steals a glance at him, his cheeks flushing rouge. “You know I won’t judge you. Why don’t you come sit down?”
Mycroft sets the newspaper atop a fruit bowl full of pens and notebooks and scoots over to pat the seat next to him. John does so, haltingly, like a robot, but he relaxes when the man runs a gentle hand down the back of his head. A rapid scan of his surrogate son proves that Watson is in an adult mindset and is not in the mood to be babied, the deduction setting Mycroft into the correct headspace to deal with whatever the issue is.
“It’s. Well.” John sighs, hands gesticulating uselessly. “So the other day Locket asked me to braid his hair. But I couldn’t do it, so I said I’d do it in those little pigtails you and Greg do with the little butterfly bobbles. He got really upset and said it wasn’t right and I just feel so bad.”
Mycroft could guess with eighty percent accuracy what John is about to ask, but he does not make verbal assumptions. “How can I help?”
“I was wondering if, maybe, you could… teach me? To braid hair?” John laughs, still beetroot in the face. “I don’t know how that’d even work, but…”
“No problem at all. You’ll be braiding in no time. I’ll have to get back to you on that one.”
“Right. Thank you.” John relaxes properly, tension bleeding out of his body. “Do you mind if I put the footie on?”
“Not at all. As long as you don’t shout down my ear.” Mycroft waggles a finger at him. John smirks, promising nothing, and collects beer for himself and another tea for Mycroft.
John has almost forgotten his request until a couple of weeks later when Mycroft asks him to visit alone. He does so, Sherlock so absorbed in an experiment he does not even realise John has gone out, who received no acknowledgement when he announced his departure. He enters the manor through the front door, locks it behind him then follows the only light to the master bathroom upstairs.
“Ah, John. Perfect timing.” Mycroft stands in casual wear with the sleeves of his shirt rolled up.
“What’s all this?”
“I’m going to teach you how to care for Locket’s hair properly, and then we can learn to braid. One cannot simply plait unprepared hair, especially those with curls.”
Atop the counter are two large dolls that have been cut off at the tops of their shoulders. They look rather bizarre to John, like they have been decapitated and Mycroft has displayed them to ward off enemies. However they have what looks like realistic hair, one a male with hair nearly identical to Sherlock’s but in a lighter shade of brown, and the other a female with hair long enough to touch the counter, both curled.
“These are models that train professionals how to style and cut hair. I invested in the nicer versions than those dastardly cheap plastic toy ones. Though I know Locket will be stealing these for himself.”
“Wow, you went all out,” John gestures to the row of neatly organised bottles and combs. “I’m not sure I’m going to remember any of this.”
“Nonsense. It’ll all make sense once you know what each product is used for.”
Mycroft runs him through the general maintenance of washing curls, starting with lukewarm water they know would cause their little one to fuss but is pertinent to scalp health. They massage shampoo into the model heads, John learning a few tips and tricks to stop his common snagging problem when he tries to pull his fingers out of Sherlock’s hair. He rinses then adds a conditioner containing argon oil, using a wide tooth comb to work the product through the strands.
Before his very eyes the curls take better shape, bobbing up in tighter ringlets. They remain that way when he washes out the conditioner and applies a leave-in mask to protect the curls from heat damage. It gleams but does not squeak, and Mycroft demonstrates how to plop the hair by dipping it into a microfibre towel and gently squeezing out the excess moisture; now John understands why Lock’s curls are always frizzy when he dries them off with the same towel as his body.
“I debated whether to purchase a model with straight hair so you could practice braiding with better ease, but I decided against it.” Mycroft says as he cleans their station.
“How come?” John wipes the sink clean of the blobs of conditioner he spilt.
Mycroft guides them to his bedroom where a hairdryer is plugged in. “I thought it more beneficial for you to practice on the same hair you’ll be braiding. The texture and technique differ, and you’d find it significantly harder to transition to curly hair than if you’d learnt on curls in the first place.” Mycroft beckons him closer and hands him a strange contraption.
“I see.” John says. He holds the spiky plastic aloft. “What the hell is this?”
“A diffuser attachment. Screw it into place here, yes, just like that.” It clicks into place, making the hairdryer look like it’s growing a mutated creature. “This is how one should dry curls.”
John steps back to watch Mycroft work his magic. He resorts to holding the model for the man so he can explain how to ensure the scalp isn’t left damp without having to juggle with the awkward detached head. When he finishes the hair looks straight from a photo in a hairdresser’s window.
And then it is John’s turn. He finds the weight of the hairdryer unwieldy, an ache developing in his wrist. It doesn’t take long for him to make a mistake, his movements too clumsy which causes the hair to tangle into a ball. Mycroft helps him comb it out with the wide tooth comb but urges him to try again. For a few minutes the hair flies every which way like sheep in a field running from their pen, but once he gets the hang of it the curls dry as intended. It certainly isn’t as pretty as Mycroft’s, but in this instance it doesn’t matter because it’ll be pulled into a braid soon.
“I’d say it’d be easier on the baby however he’ll likely wriggle and become impatient, but it’s the effort that counts,” Mycroft chuckles. “You did good.”
“Thanks. So how do I braid? Does the prep ever end?” John fakes whinges, staring up at the ceiling for salvation. Mycroft snorts, producing a finely toothed comb connected to a thin metal handle with a spiked end. It looks more like a murder weapon to John, and he watches, fascinated, as Mycroft uses the spiked end to score partings in the hair.
“You could just use your fingers but it’s much neater, and easier I find, to use the comb. Just be careful not to dig the end into his scalp — I did that once when he was fidgeting and it bled. I’m not sure he ever forgave me for that.”
John blanches. “Erm. Maybe I’ll skip the comb.”
“Nonsense. Give it a try. Separate the front section of hair but keep hold of it.” John obeys, holding a small clump of forelocks. “Excellent. Now split that into three.”
Mycroft explains that the short hair will cause curls to spring out of place, that it will be messy no matter what, but that tightness in the braid is key. John must maintain the tension else the sections will slip free and the braid will fall apart. He finds the tautness straightens the curls and causes them to become less wayward in his grip, the comb helping to scrape the hair into place. Surprisingly, finishing the braid is the most difficult task, as he has to keep the ends tight in his hold whilst securing them with a tiny elastic that does not want to cooperate.
“Excellent job, John. I am most impressed.”
“It felt weirdly similar to applying sutures, even though it’s not remotely close.”
“Fascinating,” Mycroft remarks earnestly. “You just completed your first Dutch braid!”
“Dutch? You mean there’s…”
“I’ll show you the French version now.”
“Oh christ above!” John exclaims as Mycroft takes apart his creation, bringing him back to square one. “If only he had hair like my sister.”
“Did you style hers?” Mycroft asks as he tugs the curls back into their natural state.
“Only a couple of times, into a ponytail. Hers was straight as a pin though. She got it permed because she hated it so much.” John hums, then giggles. “Our dad used to suck Harry’s hair into the hoover and then slip a hair bobble over the nozzle to tie her hair up for school.”
“Good grief. How unhygienic!” Mycroft shivers, and then pokes the doll. “Back to it. No procrastinating!”
“Sir yes Sir!” John salutes then turns to the doll. “What now?”
He is most relieved to learn the French braid is identical to the Dutch braid except for which direction he weaves the sections. He finds the Dutch easier, working with the grain of the hair and folding it over, but with a few tries and Mycroft’s endless patience he gets the knack of the French braid too, tucking under rather than over.
“You learnt that extremely quickly! I know Locket will be delighted. You’re a good man, John Watson.”
He blushes under the attention, but his smile is dazzling.
—
“Jahn, help!”
John drops the tea towel and damp plate in his hands and rushes into the bedroom. “What’s happened baby?”
Locket is sat in front of the full length mirror with a random assortment of hair accessories scattered around him. “My hair stuck!”
“Oopsie daisy. Here, don’t pull, let me untangle it.” John crouches and carefully, mindful of tugging hair, removes several clips from Locket’s nest of wild curls. “All better?”
“No.” Locket harrumphs, crossing his arms. “It’s all in my face and I can’t see!”
John grins, knowing he can provide a solution. He hooks a finger under Locket’s chin to bring his head up, and the boy stares at him, curious. “Would you like me to braid it?”
Locket gawps. “Braid? You can?”
“Mmhm. Papa taught me.” John grins.
Locket’s voice pitches high into a shriek. “Yes yes yes! Now please, Jahn do it now please?”
“Such lovely manners. Come on then, cheeky chops, go sit in the chair.”
Locket is thrumming with so much excitement John has to break the strict parenting rules and allow him the iPad just to get him to sit still. He recalls Mycroft laughing along with him as he weaved curls into place, and huffs a laugh as a few errant ones spring free with a mind of their own just as Mycroft said they would. John works in silence, concentrating, tuning the god awful kid’s programme Locket is watching. To add some sparkle he picks a random group of hair screws out of the neat collection and twists them into every other V of the braid , and adds a lovely little butterfly hair tie to cover the ugly elastic keeping the hair in place.
Finally, he takes some gel and a coarse-haired comb and carefully rakes the front hairs unable to reach the braid down, curving them around his temples and smoothing his sideburns into tiny curls below his ears.
He taps Locket to let him know he’s finished and holds up a mirror in the bathroom so the child can see the back of his head. For a moment Locket is silent, fiddling with the edges John has slicked down to stop the forelocks tickling his forehead, which is a worrying sign. But then he takes in a shaky breath and turns around to yank John into a hug, squeezing him tight.
“I love it and I love you! Thank you thank you thank youuu!” Locket knocks the breath from him, nuzzling at his neck and almost chinning John as he bounces on his toes.
John pulls back to pepper kisses across his face, pretending he cannot see the glittery sheen over the baby’s eyes. “I love you too baby. And you’re very welcome. Shall we take some pictures to show daddy and papa?”
“Please! I’m so pretty!” Locket rushes back to his bedroom to pick out a nicer dress, wondering whether he has the time to find matching eyeshadow.
John laughs and as he follows after the little whirlwind of joy, he says, “yes you are. My beautiful princess.”
Oh yes, John is very happy he bit the bullet and asked for help. Locket is beaming, eyes twinkling whenever he looks towards his Jawn, whose heart swells at the cuteness.