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John had not actually harbored a secret desire to know what his hair would feel like with massive amounts of product in, but he had found out anyway. Some sort of waxy paste, which not only stiffened his hair but stained it inky black, had gone into working it into spikes, because that was apparently what it took for a 38-year-old veteran who favored woolly jumpers to fit in at a punk show. He hadn’t asked Sherlock, but he feared it was shoe polish.
Now he hurried to keep up as the detective – looking suitably renegade in skinny jeans and ripped tee – stalked along the perimeter of the club floor, wove his way to an outer door and shoved through.
John took only a moment to savor the cool air on his face after the close heat of the club. Turning to Sherlock, he asked “so what did you find?”
“What? Find?” Sherlock grasped at his own hair in annoyance. “I didn’t find anything. It’s impossible! How is anyone supposed to locate so much as a coherent thought when subjected to that kind of unremitting aural assault?”
John rubbed his head, accidentally disturbing his coiffure. “What, the music?”
Sherlock glared. “That tripe is not music.”
John grinned. “Next time, we’ll try to find a killer with a taste for Joan Baez.”