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It had started with a single hair. So stark against his normally dark curls. He had turned this way and that, trying to see if it was just a trick of the light, but naturally it wasn’t. Time was a cruel friend, slowly but surely draining you until you were nothing more than a shriveled memory of your once youthful self. He did not want to grow old. He had seen what it had done to his parents, how they had given up everything and turned into ordinary puppets, letting the exuberant and energetic lives of their sons be their one saving grace. Age made you needy.
Just like how now he needed to find a way to stop it, to rid himself of the small patch of grey that was beginning to appear at his temples. He had researched dyes, bought boxed ones from the chemist down the street, even concocted his own, but they were temporary.
It wasn’t until one day when Molly returned home from work that she caught him in the loo, annoying rubber gloves on his hands and a bottle of dark, ammonia smelling goo on the edge of the sink that she stopped him. She reached out silently, her fingers carding through the grey hairs above his ear.
“You know, I’ve always thought that a little bit of grey in a man’s hair made him look so…reputable. Like he has seen or done things that no one else has. Each of those hairs is a story to tell. It’s quite attractive really,” she explained before dropping her hand and making her way toward their bedroom to change out of her work clothes.
Sherlock stared at his reflection in the drug cabinet mirror for a moment before grabbing the bottle and tossing it in the bin, the gloves following quickly after. “Reputable you say,” he growled softly, closing the door behind him as she giggled, which soon gave way to moans. Perhaps there was a benefit to age after all.