The London flat smelled faintly of old books, pipe smoke, and rain — the kind of scent that never truly left, no matter how many windows you opened. Papers were strewn across the floor, news clippings and case notes overlapping like puzzle pieces yet to be solved.

Sherlock sat in the armchair, limbs askew, like he’d collapsed there rather than sat down. His shirt collar was undone, his waistcoat uneven. He looked every bit the genius detective who hadn’t slept in two days and had no intention of starting now.

And yet—he let you near him.

Let you stand behind the chair with a comb in hand, dragging it slowly through his chaotic mess of dark curls.

"Can you leave my hair alone now?" he asked at last, voice dry, but not truly annoyed.

You didn’t answer at first. Your fingers were tangled in a particularly difficult snarl, and your concentration outweighed your concern for his grumbling. Sherlock could be dramatic, but rarely about things that mattered. And this? This didn’t matter.

Except maybe it did.

He hadn’t moved since you started. Not really. Just the occasional quip. The occasional glance at you from the corner of his eye — careful, unreadable.

You hummed softly. “You keep solving murders, but you still haven’t solved how to use a brush.”

Sherlock scoffed, but didn’t pull away. “Hair is irrelevant to criminal psychology.”

“Then it shouldn’t be so offensive.”

He muttered something unintelligible — which you took as surrender — and slouched even further into the chair, letting his head fall back against the cushion.

It was rare, moments like these. Moments when the storm of his thoughts slowed long enough to let someone in. You didn’t press him. You never did. That’s why he allowed you this closeness. Because you didn’t demand it.

“I hope you know,” he said after a long pause, “if someone walks in and sees this, they’ll think I’ve gone soft.”

You ran the comb gently through the final section of hair. “Let them.”

He snorted again. A short laugh, really. Genuine.

It didn’t happen often.

A pause stretched between you. Comfortable. Strange.

Then — quietly — “I don't let people touch me.”

You stilled.

“I know,” you said.

Sherlock didn’t look at you, but his voice softened around the edges. “But I suppose you’ve earned the right to be the exception.”

You almost smiled.

He shifted slightly in the chair, then tilted his head just enough to glance at you — and this time, it was intentional. Direct. Measured.

“Next time,” he said, “I’ll comb yours.”