Though this is posted as the second chapter of Friendship, it is not a continuation of the first chapter. It's just another ficlet related to friends.

I wrote 2/3 of this story a very long time ago and abandoned it to work on other projects. I only recently remembered I ever started it and unearthed the document. Let's just say I was pleasantly surprised with how much I'd actually gotten done and how little revising it needed. I think I've mentioned before that these Fragile ficlets range widely from pure fluff to hardcore angst, and this one definitely falls under pure fluff. Stay tuned afterwards for a sneak peak at my next full-length story "Sole Mates."

September:

September was leukaemia and lymphoma awareness month. Of course it never received as much attention as October did for breast cancer, but it was just as important, especially for those who'd been personally affected by the disease. Sherlock himself refused to acknowledge what he considered 'a frivolous way to relegate a disease which affected people all months of the year to only one,' but John felt some sense of duty both as a doctor and the friend of a survivor. He didn't parade around with an orange ribbon pinned to his shirt demanding anyone who would listen to donate to whichever charity, but if the opportunity arose, he wouldn't hesitate to share what he knew.

That particular September, Lestrade pitched an idea to John and several Scotland Yard employees. At first, John thought he was joking, but when his laughter was met with a glare, he knew the DI meant it. On second thought, it actually seemed quite considerate. And a tad funny. So he agreed. Sherlock knew nothing of their plot, and John intended to keep it that way.

On the first day of the month, he asked Sherlock if he even remembered why September was important. He wouldn't put it past him to delete the information. However, Sherlock answered bluntly and correctly: "This is the month where people are supposedly more considerate and understanding of people like me, and all the charities and research foundations come out of the sewers with those advertisements featuring sad, bald children and whatever celebrity is currently on a self-improvement kick. Remind me again why they insist on giving each type of cancer a month as if it's a birthstone?"

"Because most human brains can't handle being aware of all types of diseases for all months of the year," John explained, somewhat appalled by Sherlock's cynical-though-entirely-accurate description of the occasion.

"Makes sense." Sherlock shrugged and returned to whatever it was he was doing on his laptop. He'd spent the entire morning in the same spot on the couch, butchery blanket tucked around him, typing away. John still hadn't quite gotten used to the strange, stunted rhythm of Sherlock's new typing strategy. He refused to use only his index fingers, determined to somehow make it work. For the most part, he was fine, but it was easy to tell when a word had certain letters in it because the pace remarkably slowed. While one and a half fingers seemed like a relatively minor loss, it was shocking the effect it could have on such simple tasks.

Seeing as Sherlock was engrossed in whatever-it-was, John texted Lestrade, telling him the plan was on, and received the go-ahead a few minutes later. John walked into their bathroom and searched for the object he needed. When he didn't find it, he relented to asking Sherlock.

"Hey Sherlock?" he called.

"What?" the detective grumbled back.

"Where do you keep your razor?" John knew that Sherlock might deduce what he was about to do right then and there, but evidently he was too distracted to put the pieces together.

"Middle drawer."

"Thanks." John didn't expect a 'you're welcome,' and he didn't get one. But he opened the middle drawer and found what he was looking for. Staring at the razor lying innocently among the other things in the drawer, John had second thoughts. Was he really about to do this? And if he did, would it be appreciated? Or would Sherlock think he was making fun of him? Only one way to find out. He made sure the door was locked behind him and started shaving.

~0~

When he finished, he looked in the mirror and didn't recognize himself. He was reminded of the first time he saw Sherlock after the surgeons implanted the Ommaya reservoir. He hadn't been able to handle the shock, spewing his guts out in the nearest bathroom and collapsing to the floor. Hopefully, Sherlock wouldn't react similarly.

Taking a deep breath, he steeled himself and unlocked the door. He stepped into the hallway and made his way slowly towards the living room. He didn't want to draw too much attention to himself, so he grabbed a newspaper from the kitchen and brought it with him to his armchair. Before he could even sit down, the sounds of Sherlock working abruptly turned to silence.

"Please tell me I'm hallucinating," Sherlock stated, gaze fixed firmly on anywhere-but-John.

"Nope," John chirped, exaggerating the 'P' sound.

"Dreaming?"

"Nope," he repeated. "This is for real."

"Dear God, why? Is this a punishment?"

"No, it's not a punishment. Why would you think that?"

"It feels like a punishment," Sherlock remarked, finally returning his gaze to look John in the eye.

"It's not a punishment!"

"Then please tell me what it is before I jump to any more conclusions that might haunt me."

"It's September."

"That is not an explanation; that is a statement of a fact of which I am well aware. You asked me this morning about September, and I told you. Did you not like my answer?"

"Your answer was fine, although a tad too naturalistic for my taste. I think there are people that genuinely want to help; it's not always a self-improvement kick."

"It's usually a self-improvement kick," Sherlock countered.

"Doesn't matter. Famous faces are successful at getting donations, donations that help people."

"You still haven't explained why you shaved you head. And 'it's September' is not an adequate explanation.

"I decided it was something I could do to show my support. If you have a problem with that—it's too late now," John teased.

"I don't even recognize you. If we were lost on a crowded street, you would literally be the last person I check to see if it's John. Even afterwards, I'd probably throw you back and keep looking."

"Now, that's not very nice."

"Neither was doing that without consulting me first." John was worried. Sherlock seemed legitimately upset with what he'd done; that was not the reaction he'd hoped for. Ideally, he thought Sherlock would be amused.

"You would rather I have come to you and asked, 'Hey Sherlock, mind if I shave my head?' Seems a bit contrived."

"No. I'd have rather you not done this at all."

"Do you find it offensive?" John asked concernedly. Of all the possible reactions, Sherlock taking offense to his gesture was the last one he wanted.

"No. I'm just a little… put off. You barely even look like you, and it's weird," Sherlock admitted.

"Now you know how I felt."

"Unfortunately, I do. However, I had very little choice in the matter. The hair was coming out whether I wanted it to or not. The same cannot be said for yours."

"Maybe I just wanted to try bald, since you seem to make it work so well."

"I must admit, it's rather convenient."

"My head feels naked," John confessed.

"Welcome to my world. Although, a good portion of my scalp can't feel anything at all." While John could match him in baldness, he would never be able to mimic the extensive scarring. Not that he wanted to. Some people lost limbs or organs to cancer and its results; Sherlock lost skin, hair follicles, and nerves of the infected portion of his scalp. That was something John could never fully commiserate with. "Don't ask to borrow any of my hats," Sherlock said. "You brought this upon yourself."

"Fair enough," he relented.

"Can I have some of the hair?" Sherlock asked.

"What?" John wasn't sure he heard him properly.

"Your hair. Can I have some of it?"

"Why?"

"To look at under the microscope. I'll memorize it so I'll know if any hairs I see in the future may belong to you."

"Okay," John relented. It wasn't like he had any use for it. He fetched Sherlock a stray lock that hadn't been disposed of along with the others. "Do you want me to ask anybody else for theirs?" John asked with half of a laugh.

"This wasn't just you." Sherlock sounded not only surprised as he stated this, but afraid.

"It was Lestrade's idea. A couple blokes from the Yard did it too."

"Greg started this…this conspiracy."

"It's not a conspiracy. He thought it would be a neat way to show our support for September. Of course we haven't endured what you did, but this is a painless way for us to be able to empathize just a little bit more."

"Painless? John, it looks like you nicked yourself at least three times." He was right. John wasn't used to shaving anything but his face; he was unused to the curves of the crown of his head, and he had drawn blood once or twice in the process.

"I haven't had the practice you have. For my first time, I think I did pretty well."

"Well enough. Better than whoever did mine the first time. They managed to poke a hole right through my skull."

"Is that an Ommaya reservoir joke?" John hadn't heard Sherlock make light of anything so closely related to his treatment before. It was a little unsettling, while also amusing at the same time.

"Yes. Brilliant of you to catch on."

"I'm looking forward to not having to wash my hair for a bit," John admitted. It never took him long, but not having to do it gave him a sense of liberation.

"It seems nice. But when you step into the shower for the first time, be prepared for unfamiliar sensation," Sherlock warned.

"What do you mean?"

"Your scalp isn't used to being pelted with water directly. There's been a cushion of hair there for almost your entire life."

"I never really thought about it."

"Neither did I until my head felt like it was being pelted by thousands of tiny hailstones."

"Duly noted." Now John wasn't so much looking forward to showering without hair.

~0~

For the first time ever, John saw Sherlock hesitate to rush over to Scotland Yard after Lestrade called him for help. Not because he feared the case wouldn't hold his interest, but because he feared what he might find among his coworkers. "Sherlock, you've never said no to a case like this as long as I've known you. Don't start now," John told him sternly. "They have no idea that you already know what they did for you. Don't ruin their fun."

"I'm already a convicted fun-ruiner," Sherlock retorted. John silenced him with nothing more than a look. Reluctantly, he followed John out the door and down the stairs. Outside, the chilly air nipped at John's now-bare head. Sherlock, who had donned the navy blue cap Molly had given him for his birthday years ago, smirked at him.

"Hey, I'm new at this," John defended. He gritted his teeth and hoped Sherlock would hail a cab sooner rather than later. Fortunately, he didn't have to wait too long. Before they walked through the doors at the Yard, Sherlock removed the hat and shoved it into a pocket of his coat.

"Wouldn't want to draw attention to myself," he remarked ironically.

"At least act a little surprised when you see Lestrade," John pleaded. "This was all his idea, and I wasn't supposed to tell you about anyone else who was doing it." Sherlock didn't deign to offer John a verbal reply, just nodded his head stiffly. Lestrade met them halfway down the hallway to his office.

"Thank goodness you're here," he said. John had to commend Sherlock on his performance; he looked genuinely shocked to see a bald Greg Lestrade. Actually, knowing that someone had shaved their head and seeing the aftermath were two very different things. "What's wrong?" Lestrade questioned, feigning ignorance.

"You always say I make you want to tear your hair out." Sherlock smirked at his own joke. "I didn't think I'd ever actually drive you that crazy." A few other men walked behind Lestrade on their way out, also bald-headed. They pretended not to notice the current conversation between the DI and the consulting detective. "Them too?" Sherlock asked. Lestrade nodded. "What exactly is the point of all this? There hasn't been a lice infestation, has there?"

"No." The DI shook his head. "It's September."

"Ah, yes. September. John's been quite relentless in his interrogation about the significance of this month."

"Calling it an interrogation is a bit of a stretch," John interjected. "But I refused to let you ignore it like you ignore everything else: we don't have a king, the Earth goes around the sun, and September is leukaemia awareness month."

"Okay, only one of those things is even of mild importance to me. And while I appreciate the thought, really I do, I fail to understand why so many of you agreed to this. Half of those people that just walked by, I've never even spoken to."

"That doesn't mean they don't know who you are," Lestrade reminded him. "You're somewhat of a celebrity, especially within these walls."

"And…?"

"They wanted in. I mentioned it at a meeting, asked for a show of hands who would participate, and they all did."

"Why?"

"Because they care," John explained. "You may fail to notice it more often than not, but people around here genuinely care about you. They know they'd be lost without their consulting detective, so they decided to demonstrate that." Pensively, Sherlock nodded. John could practically see the gears turning in that brilliant brain of his, the same brain that failed to understand why a few near strangers would shave their heads for him. In reality, it was a small price to pay for everything that Sherlock had done over the years for Scotland Yard. He'd gotten them out of rather a lot of tight spots and helped them meet rather a lot of deadlines.

Finally, Sherlock seemed to get it. He blushed when some of the guys who'd shaved their heads glanced his way, but he didn't glare menacingly as John had feared he might. Despite the initial impression of the case's difficulty level, he happily solved it within hours, calling everyone involved an idiot. John knew he wasn't too preoccupied if he expressed his disdain for the intelligence of Scotland Yard employees.

On the way home, Sherlock surprised John by asking the cabbie to take them, not back to Baker Street, but to the nearest fabric store. "Why would we go there?" John asked.

"We have some orange ribbons to make."

Okay, advertisement time. Anyone who enjoyed this series, particularly the original 'Fragile,' should find my next work to be right up their alley. Anyone who didn't enjoy this series...why are you here at the end of the chapter? Anyways, I am overly excited to begin sharing this next work. It has many similar themes to Fragile, but it goes deeper on all of those and includes some new ones. I know that sounds vague, but I don't want to give too much away. I will, however, provide the summary:

He hates the stump. Not just for the obvious physical hassle and disability, but for everything it represents. He is less than whole, a mere part of a man. It represents everything he has lost in the rough course of his lifetime, a battle he ultimately lost.

What will it take for him to finally accept it?