A/N: Yes, I stole the title from a line in Hamlet. The 'verse here is nonspecific -you can pretty much read it for whatever Holmes 'verse you favor.

Written for the shkinkmeme prompt: So to make a long story short (too late) Holmes is showing signs of aging. Gray at the temples, gray stubble when he doesn't shave. Watson thinks it's sexy. Canon would be loved, but any verse is fine.

The first time Watson noticed and mentioned the presence of a single grey hair on Holmes' head, Holmes dismissed it as a trick of the dim light in the bedroom. Their ongoing activities at the time made him disinclined to argue, so he took Holmes' word for it. When he looked for the hair the next morning, it was gone.

The second time Watson noticed a grey hair peeping out of Holmes' thick dark hair, they were in the sitting room in broad daylight, so it couldn't possibly be an illusion of the light. Holmes was seated in his chair, reading the paper, and Watson passed behind him to fetch something when he was distracted by that single strand of silver. He stopped to stare.

"You might as well pull it out," Holmes commented without looking up from the agony columns.

"Pardon?"

"The hair. If it so distracts you, pull it out. You'll save me the trouble of finding and removing it later."

"But why? Having a few grey hairs is normal as one gets older."

"It has nothing to do with age. I have had errant discolored hairs for most of my life, so I pluck them out. Really, Watson, this is hardly worth discussing."

Feeling a strange sense of reluctance, Watson grasped the hair and pulled. He almost succumbed to a temptation to keep it, but tossed it on the fire before he could get carried away. It was utterly ridiculous and sentimental, even for him.

.

As time passed, the lone light hairs appeared with some regularity but never multiplied, so Watson had to concede that Holmes' assessment of the situation was correct. Somehow this disappointed him; surely even Holmes wasn't immune to the changes wrought by time and age! But Holmes' appearance remained as flawless and perfect -and attractive, of course- as ever. For himself, Watson knew that the years would bring a thinning of the hair, a slight receding of the hairline, and a bit of thickening at the waist. If Holmes would remain unchanged in the meantime, well, Watson wasn't going to complain.

But he was amused when he first noticed a few silver hairs at Holmes' temples. He didn't comment, however, more than happy to simply stare in appreciation and contemplate how well they suited him. There were few enough of the hairs that he was sure none of their acquaintances or even Mrs. Hudson had observed them, and Watson found he rather liked the idea that they were for him alone.

Apparently even Holmes didn't pay them any heed, until Watson saw him heading out the door in disguise and asked how old his character was supposed to be. "Thirty-seven. Why?"

"You might want to color the hair at your temples, then."

Holmes raised an eyebrow in mild puzzlement, then dug a mirror out of his desk drawer to examine himself. "By Jove, you're right. You have a better eye than I give you credit for, my dear Watson."

Holmes fixed his hair and Watson felt quite pleased with himself, even as he mourned the hiding of the grey. He consoled himself that it would reappear soon enough.

.

After that case was concluded, Holmes endured a period of no work that had him morose and lethargic, hardly budging from the settee for any reason other than to fetch more tobacco. Watson mostly left him to himself, knowing too well that coaxing only served to make him more irritable. He was concerned, of course, and watched him whenever Holmes didn't seem to be paying attention.

Three days of not shaving or otherwise seeing to his appearance led to a very scruffy, disheveled Holmes. Watson thought that Holmes looked quite fetching in his tousled state, and drew nearer to watch him more closely as he slept. Holmes' whiskers were getting long, and Watson delighted in the fact that the stubble, too, had some grey and silver. He wanted to touch it, to taste it, to stroke it, and he only barely managed to restrain his hands.

He tried to satisfy himself with more looking, noticing that the stubble drew attention to the creases and furrows worn into Holmes' face over the years. How foolish he had been to think that Holmes had been untouched by time! There were the creases from pursing his lips around his pipe, and there, the lines from his various frowns and scowls. And others elsewhere; the lines of exhaustion beneath his eyes; the furrow in his forehead from creasing it in thought, a line re-emphasized as he watched Holmes' expression shift from slack to puzzled.

Watson finally touched him then, smoothing the furrow with his thumb and caressing Holmes' cheek with his fingertips before leaning in to press his lips to a grey patch on Holmes' jawline. He licked and kissed along Holmes' jaw, the stubble prickling his lips, while his fingers continued to stroke Holmes' cheek.

When Holmes shifted and seemed about to speak, Watson kissed his mouth instead. Holmes' reaction was slow and sleepy, but no less welcoming for it. When Watson started to pull away, Holmes tried to follow, but Watson held Holmes' face in both his hands, his thumbs brushing along Holmes' cheekbones. "Watson?" Holmes asked without being certain quite what he was asking.

"I was just thinking how very beautiful you are," Watson replied, letting one of his hands stray into Holmes' tangled hair. "Especially with the grey."

Then Watson had a whole new set of wrinkles to admire as Holmes smiled.