"I don't see why you can't just do a wig, Sherlock."

Sherlock ignored John, scanning the shelf intently, picking up boxes of hair dye. He glanced over the colors declared on the fronts of the boxes, scrutinized the hues of the models' hair and then pored over the ingredients lists.

"This one should do well," he declared triumphantly, snatching up a box sporting a man with a head of ginger-gold hair. He tossed the box in John's direction, who fumbled as he caught it. "Come along now, John," Sherlock quipped, marching down the aisle and to the front of the store.

John groaned in exasperation and followed him. His neck prickled as he struggled with the damnable chip-and-pin machine, running the hair dye across the scanner three times before it finally registered. He thrust the bag containing the dye into Sherlock's hands as they left the store.

"I honestly think it would save us a lot of effort if you just wore a wig. You only need it for a day, anyways, and this is hardly a vibrant red." Sherlock had taken some ridiculous case involving a 'Ginger-Headed Society,' a club which, obviously, was exclusive only to those with fiery hair.

"And again you miss the point, John," Sherlock sighed dramatically. "I'm not trying to become a member. I just need to get in for the interview and have a quick look around."

"Then why the hair dye?" John repeated for the umpteenth time, and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"They get thousands of red-heads clambering to get in whenever there's an opening, and I'm sure they've had their fair share of imposters as well – bound to happen when they're offering up money solely for an inherited trait. A wig would get me turned away at the front door."

"And you really can't dye it yourself?"

"I can't have any stains on my hands. Might give me away." He gave John a scathing look that said 'obviously,' and the doctor sighed with resignation, climbing the stairs to their flat and unlocking the door. Sherlock brushed past him, tossing the bag onto the couch and shedding his coat and scarf. "We'll have to bleach my hair first," he said, as he tugged his suit-jacket off as well. "There's hydrogen peroxide under the sink. The brown spray bottle; don't touch the white one."

"I'm going to have a massive headache by the time this is over with," John muttered with a shake of his head, but he went into the kitchen and located the brown bottle. When he re-entered the living room, Sherlock had his white shirt unbuttoned and halfway off.

Even in the year that they had been living together, John had hardly seen Sherlock unclothed. He supposed he shouldn't have been surprised, though, to see that his midsection was well-toned; the man had, after all, proved his strength against many an assailant. But with the minuscule amount of food that John managed to coax into him, he had expected the man to be emaciated.

He held the bottle up in the air for Sherlock to see. "This it, then?"

Sherlock nodded, removing his shirt the rest of the way then stooping over to snatch up a pair of gloves from the floor, back muscles shifting smoothly underneath pale skin. He tossed the gloves to John, then glanced down at his trousers with a contemplative expression before clicking his belt open and slipping it off swiftly.

"Wh-what are you doing?" John stammered as Sherlock unbuttoned the trousers and hooked his thumbs in the loops, yanking them downwards. The detective glanced up as the waistband slipped down his hips, one eyebrow arched.

"These were expensive. I'd rather not get any stains on them." With that he let them fall around his ankles, stepping smoothly from the pile of fabric. He gathered the trousers up and folded them neatly. "Problem?"

John closed his eyes and breathed deeply through his nose, then looked pointedly past Sherlock – nearly naked Sherlock, standing there in black underwear; an unnerving sight, he told himself firmly.

"Well, let's get this over with."

"In the bathroom. Mrs. Hudson won't be pleased if we dye her carpet." Sherlock was already down the hallway, reaching into the bathroom to flick on the light. He turned and looked at John expectantly. "Bring the hair dye."

John complied, snatching up the bag and making his way into the bathroom. Sherlock stepped aside to let him in, then perched on the edge of the tub, his endless legs sprawling in front of him.

He frowned as he yanked the gloves over his hands.

"Tip your head back. You don't want any of this getting in your eyes." Sherlock obeyed, letting his head fall back, baring his throat, curls fanning out in the air beneath him. John sat beside him on the lip of the tub, then sifted his fingers through Sherlock's hair, combing out the tangles. The strands were impossibly silky.

"This is going to ruin your hair," he said softly, and Sherlock simply grunted. John leaned behind him and twisted the tap on, filling a cup with warm water and pouring it over Sherlock's head. He was startled when the man let out an almost imperceptible sigh. He shut off the water once he had gotten Sherlock's hair fully saturated, cradling the back of his head with one hand.

John lifted a lock of dark hair in his fingers and raised the spray bottle, spritzing carefully. He wrinkled his nose as the fumes invaded his nostrils. It was a familiar smell – when Harry was younger she had gone through a phase where she dyed her hair every other week, enlisting John to help her on more than one occasion.

Sherlock remained still as John methodically coated his hair with hydrogen peroxide, eyes closed, breathing so softly that he hardly moved. When John's fingers slid out of his hair he opened his eyes. "We need a plastic bag now."

"Under the sink," Sherlock grunted, and when John went to stand his head spun and he grimaced.

"You owe me for this, just so you know," he said as he pulled a bag from under the sink and returned to Sherlock's side. The detective's lips quirked slightly upwards. "Head up," John commanded, and Sherlock straightened his neck, pushing it forwards so that John could wrap the bag around his hair.

John stepped back, surveyed his work, and burst out laughing.

"What? What's funny?" Sherlock demanded, rising to his feet. John was doubled over, clutching at his stomach and fighting to contain his near-manic giggles.

"You, in nothing but a… plastic bag…" he was nearly choking on his laughter now, "and underwear. It's – it's bloody hilarious!"

"The fumes have gone to your head," Sherlock snapped. John straightened himself up, slowly gaining control but still bursting into small bouts of laughter every now and then. He swayed on his feet.

"Yes, yes, that's a fair deduction," he spluttered, tipping forward slightly and thrusting an arm out to steady himself. He sobered up immediately when he felt his fingertips come into contact with bare skin. He snatched his hand back, but not before he registered how the thin layer of hair on Sherlock's chest was even softer than the hair on his head.

"I need air," he said quickly, stumbling out of the bathroom. Sherlock followed behind him, unfazed. "Don't go taking that off," John warned him. "It'll need to stay on for 15 minutes or so. In the meantime I'm going to grab something to eat."

John bustled into the kitchen and busied himself preparing his food – just toast, unfortunately; they hadn't been shopping in ages and Sherlock was doing an experiment on the cheese. He could hear the detective grumbling impatiently from the living room.

Sherlock promptly tore the plastic bag from his hair upon re-entering the bathroom and John mashed his lips into a flat line to stop from roaring with laughter again. They quivered at the edges, though, and Sherlock glared at him, but he had lost any means of intimidation – his hair was grey and frizzy from being trapped inside the plastic, and he looked like a mad scientist more than he ever had before. When he started baring his teeth, though, John ducked his head to hide a silent chuckle then grabbed the box of hair dye, skimming the directions before emptying its contents onto the counter.

"Rinse your hair off," he said, mixing the dye into the plastic bottle and giving it a shake.

Sherlock emerged from the tap, hair plastered to his face and neck, droplets of water running down his chest and stomach, catching in the sparse trail of hair leading to the waistband of his underwear. He didn't look quite so ridiculous now, with his hair darkened and smoothed by the water. John blinked rapidly and quickly rolled up his sleeves, looking away. "Erm, you'll have to kind of… straddle the tub. So I can get behind you." He winced at his choice of words. "I mean, I need to be able to get at all of your hair," he said hastily.

Sherlock smirked, grey eyes flashing, but he obliged, slipping his long legs over the sides of the tub. John sat behind him, placing the bottle of dye on the floor and pulling a towel off the rod on the wall. "Just going to blot off some of this water," he muttered, spreading the towel between both hands and covering the back of Sherlock's head with it.

John rubbed the towel over Sherlock's hair and the man melted – there was no other word for the way his muscles seemed to sag, to the point where he was nearly leaning against John's chest. The doctor felt his own heart stutter, mere inches from the smooth skin of Sherlock's back. He shook his head, dropping the towel to the floor and retrieving the bottle.

Sherlock shivered when John squeezed some dye onto his scalp, and when John set to rubbing it in firmly with gloved fingers he seemed to stop breathing.

"Sherlock?" John inquired, stilling his fingers and leaning over to glance at Sherlock's face. One of the detective's hands flew up and seized his motionless wrist.

"Don't stop," Sherlock spat between his clenched teeth, and John's breath quickened slightly as he spread his gloved fingers along Sherlock's scalp once more and watched the man's eyes slide shut. He pressed firmly, working the dye deeply into the bleached hair, and he heard a sigh float up from Sherlock's lips.

John paused to apply more dye, and when he did Sherlockgroaned, deeply and with impatience. He returned his fingers, and it was undeniable; the noise petered off into a soft, gentle moan. He massaged Sherlock's skull, slipping his hands to either side and rubbing just above his ears and the man moved his head in time with John's fingers, pressing hard into the contact.

Sherlock moved his hand to grip weakly at John's knee when the doctor began to work his fingers towards the base of his neck, and when they reached their destination he snapped his head back, locking his pale eyes against John's and purring his name.

It was then that John's pants became more than a little uncomfortable, and he was fighting to keep his hands steady as he carded them slowly through the hair at the nape of Sherlock's neck, angling his fingers so that the nails were scraping at the soft skin; Sherlock inhaled noisily, chest heaving, and John's eyes flew immediately to his nipples, dark and stiff, pointing straight into the air. He yanked his hands from the curls abruptly.

"Alright, I think we're done here," he stammered, unnerved. Or maybe that wasn't quite the word for the reaction he was having to Sherlock's reaction; and no, it was quite an incorrect description for suddenly too-tight jeans, breathing-that's-nearly-panting, heat across cheeks and in his belly and building steadily between his legs. "Th-thirty minutes this time, till you rinse it out," he remarked, rising from the tub.

Before he could turn Sherlock had stood and darted his hands out, forming manacles around John's wrists. John eyes shot up, bewildered, and Sherlock stared at him, eyes uncharacteristically soft, their silver somehow warm. The detective held his gaze as he lifted John's wrists and guided his fingers back into his hair, and then he stepped forward, backing John against the wall. He slid his fingers to John's elbows and rested their foreheads together.

"Please," Sherlock whispered shakily, eyes shifting from warm to burning in an instant. And John was undone, because Sherlock was begging, and damn him if it wasn't the most arousing thing he had ever seen, bowed lips parted in a pout, eyes locked beseechingly with his own, tiny, delicate tremors wracking that lithe body.

John massaged the sides of Sherlock's head gently, winding the thick hair through his fingers, and when he tugged on the dye-darkened locks, just a little bit, the detective collapsed against him. A moan bubbled from the pale man's throat, and John could feel something hot and heavy against his thigh. He tightened his fingers in Sherlock's hair and pulled again, listening to the catch in the detective's breath.

"Look at me," he murmured, and Sherlock did, with heavy dark eyelids and lips reddened from where he had been digging his teeth. John crooked his fingers at the base of Sherlock's neck, digging blunt nails through latex and dragging, making Sherlock exhale noisily and clutch at his arms even tighter. He rubbed up through Sherlock's hair with his palms, then glided in the other direction with all fingertips, untangling the knots he had made. Sherlock shifted against him, heat rubbing against his thigh, hands sliding up to wrap around his shoulders.

John tugged one glove off with his teeth, ignoring the heavy musk of the dye, and slipped his bare fingers down Sherlock's long throat, thumb sweeping over his jumping adams apple, his collarbones, before smoothing over the fine sheen of hair on his chest, while his other hand worked circles against Sherlock's skull.

"Jo-ohn," Sherlock moved forward to breathe in John's ear and the doctor pushed him back firmly with the hand on his chest, but he followed forward with his own mouth at Sherlock's ear and his head tilted carefully.

"I don't want dye in my hair…" he pulled Sherlock's head to the side and back, putting his stained locks a safe distance away from his own hair. Sherlock panted out a gasp and rutted against his hip, fingers scrabbling between John's shoulder blades and making him shiver. John tightened his fingers experimentally in Sherlock's hair, tugging again, and was rewarded with a low, broken moan that zipped right down his spine and coiled tightly in his groin.

"Christ." John leaned his forehead weakly against Sherlock's collarbone, slid his naked hand down the detective's chest then moved it to the button of his own jeans, popping it open and swiftly undoing the zipper. He groaned softly against Sherlock's skin, swept his tongue up Sherlock's throat, tasting the salt of his sweat. He snaked his hand around to the small of the other man's back, splaying his fingers on the smooth skin.

John shifted his hips, aligning them with Sherlock's but just barely abstaining contact. He licked a desperate stripe across Sherlock's lips and then pulled back an inch. "Open," he demanded breathlessly, punctuating the word with a tug at Sherlock's hair and when the man complied he stretched up, pushed his head down and joined their parted lips. For a moment they stood there, breathing each other's air, then John slipped his hand down to cup Sherlock's arse and yanked him forward, jamming their pelvises together and swallowing the choked noise that rumbled deep in Sherlock's chest.

From there it was all heat and movement, friction-laden contact of straining fabric and John's hands carding swiftly through Sherlock's hair; Sherlock rucking his hands up the back of John's shirt and rubbing indiscernible shapes into his skin with the type of gentleness he normally reserved for delicate experiments. John felt nails scrape across his back when he rolled his hips and pushed his tongue past lips and teeth, sliding it against gums and cheeks and the detective's soft palate.

When John moved his hand from Sherlock's backside and ran his fingers along the trail of coarse, wiry black hairs the man tossed his head back, rubbing into the fingers tangled in his hair while his legs trembled.

John pressed his lips to Sherlock's throat, caressed his temple, and then dipped his fingers beneath his waistband. When he grazed the moist tip of Sherlock's cock with his knuckles he had to stop for a moment, because the man's legs trembled so badly he thought they might give out. When they grew steady again he slid his hand in farther and wrapped it around the silky heat of Sherlock's arousal.

The detective's head fell forward; his hips began to roll rhythmically with John's hand. "John – yes, John." It was a chant that increased in time with the pace of John's hand and Sherlock's hips, that broke when John swiped his thumb firmly over the weeping tip. He pulled Sherlock's face back to his, nipped at his jaw and his earlobe, ignoring the pungent smell of hair dye as he sucked in the man's lower lip.

Sherlock groaned and snaked one of his hands around to join John's, a shock of white against the tan of John's hand and the darkness of his own cock. He quickened the pace, making needy noises in his throat in place of his earlier chanting now that his mouth was otherwise occupied. He was trembling all over now, lips sloppy, free hand digging into John's skin, probably drawing blood, making John's fingers flex in his hair and the hand around his cock tighten.

Sherlock went rigid, every muscle in his body tensed; he wrenched their mouths apart and cried out, jerking forwards, overflowing over their weaved fingers and John's pants. John stroked him through, wringing out shock after shock; Sherlock's knees finally gave out as he slipped from John's grasp and onto the tiled floor, his body dragging down the entire length of John's, drawing a staggered moan from the doctor's lips. He stared up at John, stormy eyes slightly glazed, then turned his focus to the prominent bulge that drew John's boxers tight. John's hand found its way back into Sherlock's wild hair, a silent affirmation.

Sherlock drew John's boxers down slowly, the friction making the doctor hiss. The detective leaned forward, breath ghosting over the swollen, dripping head, and John quickly pushed the tangles from where they had fallen onto Sherlock's forehead, stared down into his eyes, and gave a quick jerk of his head. Sherlock wasted no time after that, flicking his tongue out to swipe away the liquid gathered on the head, and John's moan was deep and rough, his ungloved hand flying into Sherlock's hair, any worries about stains dissipating.

Sherlock took the tip in his mouth, tongue swirling maddeningly, lips suckling, and John had to restrain himself from pushing him down further; he couldn't, however, stop from digging his nails into Sherlock's scalp, and the man made a noise in the back of his throat and slid down, cheeks hollowed, tongue still working away, and then oh – head bobbing, humming, and then – "Shit, do you not have a gag reflex? Jesus Chri-i-i…"

Linguistics abandoned him after that, reducing him to breathy gasps, throaty moans and "Sherlock,Christ,yes." When Sherlock pulled almost all the way off, scraping his teeth very, very gently, John slammed his head into the wall with such force that he was sure there would be a dent. But he had no time to worry about what Mrs. Hudson would say because Sherlock had swallowed him down again, redoubled the suction, and he was almost there, soft wet heat surrounding him and he was so damn close, he couldn't help it, he pushed himself in deeper, Sherlock moaned around him and then – the world shattered in a series of explosions and swallows. He slid down the wall dizzily, settling in front of Sherlock.

They stared at each other for a long time, panting. Sherlock's lips were swollen and slick and red, and John leaned forward, gave him a gentle kiss, pushed back his hair, and then it dawned on him.

"Oh – w-we'd better rinse this out." He stood, legs still unsteady, pulled Sherlock up and directed him towards the tub. Sherlock sighed with pleasure – really at this point it couldn't be called anything else – as John worked the dye out of his hair under warm water.

He pulled Sherlock from underneath the tap, scrubbed his head with a towel, and then observed his work.

For the second time that day, John was doubled over in a bout of painful laughter. Sherlock snapped back to his usual self in an instant, eyes sharpening, brow wrinkling.

"What is it this time?"

"Left it in too long, you're – Christ, you really are a bloody ginger now!"

Sherlock's vibrant hair landed them in a spot of trouble when he actually did gain entrance into the Ginger-Headed Society, and they refused to take no for an answer. Now they were stumbling home, breathless, a bit battered but not much worse for the wear.

As they passed by the 24-hour Tesco Sherlock suddenly seized his arm. "What is it?" John asked, massaging a bruise he could feel forming on his side.

"Well," Sherlock replied with a smirk. "We're going to have to dye my hair back, aren't we?"