rosa_acicularis (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
rosa_acicularis) wrote2011-04-03 10:07 am
rosa_acicularis) wrote2011-04-03 10:07 am
Entry tags:
Untitled Sherlock Genderbend Snippet 1/1
Characters: fem!John Watson, Sherlock Holmes.
Rating: All ages.
Warnings: None.
Summary: Joanna Watson considers a haircut; Sherlock shares some thoughts on the matter. A brief scene edited from a longer story that seems to stand just as well on its own. The original story is a witchy-type magic AU, but there's little of that here.
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For the first thirty-six years of her life, Joanna Watson wears her hair long – in a single, sand-coloured plait.
She is sitting in her armchair in Baker Street when she curls the plait around her fingers (strands twisting smooth against her skin) and reaches for a pair of scissors.
“I wouldn’t,” Sherlock says from his sprawl on the sofa, his voice muffled by the book lying open over his face. It is the first time he has spoken in more than eighteen hours.
Joanna slips her fingers through the holes in the handle and opens the scissors. Closes them again, cutting air. They make a satisfying, sibilant sound as blade brushes blade, and she imagines them cool at the back of her neck. She smiles. “It’s only hair, Sherlock. It’ll grow back.”
The book twitches over his face – a small, seismic expression of annoyance. “Yes,” he says. “Obviously.”
She studies him for a long moment. He’s still but for the slight rise and fall of his chest beneath his dressing gown, and she would think he were asleep if not for the wire-tense quality of his silence. He is waiting for her to ask the obvious question. (Why would you care?) He’s already prepared his answer; it’s probably withering.
Instead she says: “I’ve never worn it short before.”
He lifts his head, and the book slips down to his nose. His eyes fix on hers. “But you want to now.”
Joanna shrugs. Spins the scissors once around her finger, and feels the drag of their weight. “Can’t think of a reason why I shouldn’t.”
Sherlock sits upright. The book drops to the floor, its pages crumpling at his feet. His elbows rest on his knees, the long line of his body suddenly collapsed into new angles, acute and obtuse. A familiar geometry. “If you didn’t cut your hair for the army,” he says, “you aren’t going to cut it now.”
She bites down on a smile. “Deduced that, have you?”
His mouth twists, his annoyance turned briefly inward as he realises his mistake. “Now you’re going to cut it just to spite me, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” she says, “because I’m a horrible, petty person with so little sense of self that I’d chop off all my hair just to prove you wrong.” She leaves the armchair and crosses the room. Sherlock’s eyes widen as she turns and sits neatly on the edge of the coffee table, her back to him. She holds the scissors over her shoulder, offering them handle first. “I’ll let you keep the plait, after. If you want.”
Sherlock doesn’t move.
His hesitation surprises her. He’s always after her for samples of one kind or another, to be used in an endless, unfathomable list of experiments – cells from the inside of her cheek, clippings of her fingernails, and on one memorable, slightly life-scarring occasion a vial of her menstrual blood. Her hair probably isn’t quite as fascinating, but she’d thought he’d appreciate the gesture. Instead he sits perfectly still behind her, silent. Then:
“Joanna,” he says, her name a round weight in the low bell tone of his voice, and she almost turns to see his face. She can’t imagine what she’d see in his eyes when he says her name like that – like it’s something that should be contained. Something that’s escaped without his consent. She hears the soft slide of his pyjamas on the sofa cushion as he shifts closer. “Very well,” he says. “If you insist.”
He takes the scissors.
Rating: All ages.
Warnings: None.
Summary: Joanna Watson considers a haircut; Sherlock shares some thoughts on the matter. A brief scene edited from a longer story that seems to stand just as well on its own. The original story is a witchy-type magic AU, but there's little of that here.
++
For the first thirty-six years of her life, Joanna Watson wears her hair long – in a single, sand-coloured plait.
She is sitting in her armchair in Baker Street when she curls the plait around her fingers (strands twisting smooth against her skin) and reaches for a pair of scissors.
“I wouldn’t,” Sherlock says from his sprawl on the sofa, his voice muffled by the book lying open over his face. It is the first time he has spoken in more than eighteen hours.
Joanna slips her fingers through the holes in the handle and opens the scissors. Closes them again, cutting air. They make a satisfying, sibilant sound as blade brushes blade, and she imagines them cool at the back of her neck. She smiles. “It’s only hair, Sherlock. It’ll grow back.”
The book twitches over his face – a small, seismic expression of annoyance. “Yes,” he says. “Obviously.”
She studies him for a long moment. He’s still but for the slight rise and fall of his chest beneath his dressing gown, and she would think he were asleep if not for the wire-tense quality of his silence. He is waiting for her to ask the obvious question. (Why would you care?) He’s already prepared his answer; it’s probably withering.
Instead she says: “I’ve never worn it short before.”
He lifts his head, and the book slips down to his nose. His eyes fix on hers. “But you want to now.”
Joanna shrugs. Spins the scissors once around her finger, and feels the drag of their weight. “Can’t think of a reason why I shouldn’t.”
Sherlock sits upright. The book drops to the floor, its pages crumpling at his feet. His elbows rest on his knees, the long line of his body suddenly collapsed into new angles, acute and obtuse. A familiar geometry. “If you didn’t cut your hair for the army,” he says, “you aren’t going to cut it now.”
She bites down on a smile. “Deduced that, have you?”
His mouth twists, his annoyance turned briefly inward as he realises his mistake. “Now you’re going to cut it just to spite me, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” she says, “because I’m a horrible, petty person with so little sense of self that I’d chop off all my hair just to prove you wrong.” She leaves the armchair and crosses the room. Sherlock’s eyes widen as she turns and sits neatly on the edge of the coffee table, her back to him. She holds the scissors over her shoulder, offering them handle first. “I’ll let you keep the plait, after. If you want.”
Sherlock doesn’t move.
His hesitation surprises her. He’s always after her for samples of one kind or another, to be used in an endless, unfathomable list of experiments – cells from the inside of her cheek, clippings of her fingernails, and on one memorable, slightly life-scarring occasion a vial of her menstrual blood. Her hair probably isn’t quite as fascinating, but she’d thought he’d appreciate the gesture. Instead he sits perfectly still behind her, silent. Then:
“Joanna,” he says, her name a round weight in the low bell tone of his voice, and she almost turns to see his face. She can’t imagine what she’d see in his eyes when he says her name like that – like it’s something that should be contained. Something that’s escaped without his consent. She hears the soft slide of his pyjamas on the sofa cushion as he shifts closer. “Very well,” he says. “If you insist.”
He takes the scissors.
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Thanks for reading, dude. ;)
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Thanks for reading!
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Thanks for reading! ;)
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Thanks for reading!
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(Anonymous) 2011-04-09 03:14 am (UTC)(link)no subject
Thanks for reading! ;)
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You have such a lovely voice, and it's great how that translates from something as twisted as The Anatomist--which I adore, by the way--to something this domestic.
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Read: 'damn you woman, I have an exam in six days'.
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