This Is Real

Chapter Eight

"I need a haircut."

"Excuse me?"

"I need a haircut," he repeated, pulling a dining chair out from under the table and into the centre of the floor, starting to unbutton his shirt. "Just an inch or so."

Evelyn stared at his fingers as they worked on the buttons down his torso. "You want me to do it?"

"The last time I went to my usual place you were upset with the results. If you do it, you can only blame yourself."

She frowned. "Upset? I wasn't upset."

He raised his eyebrows, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Yes you were, I could tell. They'd cut quite a lot off and you didn't like it," he folded his shirt over the table. "Come on, I brought the scissors down from the bathroom, they're behind you."

Eve turned to see the small case of hairdressing tools were in fact on the countertop. They'd only bought those to trim the children's hair whenever the need arose. Matthew screamed when they took him for his first haircut. "It wasn't that I didn't like it–"

"Yes it was." He said, matter of fact.

She glared at him. "No it wasn't! I was just... surprised. I'd never see your hair that short before, but you still looked bloody gorgeous so it didn't matter," Sherlock smiled smugly, crossing his arms over his bare chest. She narrowed her eyes. "Don't get cocky."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Look, just give me a trim, I know you like my hair, you certainly enjoy tugging on it, and I'm very much a fan of that myself, so an inch or so off should be fine."

Eve wished she wasn't blushing so profusely, it just proved his point. "You can't seriously want me to do it?"

"Why ever not?"

"I'm– I'm not a hairdresser!"

"No, but you're a doctor, you have remarkably steady hands as well as an appreciation for my person that anyone else would not," he shrugged. "I trust you."

He was using his puppy dog expression, eyes round and wide, somehow turning his features into a softer, more boyish appearance. He knew it worked, it always worked, that's where their children get it from. I really am doomed, she thought.

"Please, Evie?"

She groaned and snatched the equipment from the counter, pulling out the scissors and a comb, gesturing for him to sit down in the chair he'd set up. "Fine, if it goes terribly it's on you."

"It won't," he dropped into the chair. "You'll do brilliantly."

"Mm. We'll see," she reached up to touch his head, feeling the thick, smooth tresses. She really does love his hair. She loves running her hands through it, pulling on it, coiling the curls around her fingers. She pushed her hand over his scalp several times to assess the length and decide how much she can stomach to cut off. He was right, it was getting too long and needed a trim, but it still felt painful to do so. Her eyes widened when she heard the sound of a low moan. "Sherlock, are you seriously–"

"I can't help it, I know it's you, so it feels good."

She took a steadying breath. "We'll never get anywhere if you end up turned on."

"I can control myself."

Eve scoffed, shaking her head. "That is one thing you can't do," she took the comb from her other hand. "Do you not think you should wash it first?"

Sherlock waved a hand. "We'll do that after."

"We?"

"The stylist usually does the washing, do they not?"