A/N: I did my best to britpick it myself based only on a semester abroad and whatever knowledge I could glean from the interwebs. Feel free to rip it apart in the reviews.

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"I believe I may have sustained a concussion," Sherlock said, as if that explained why he had unceremoniously laid on the couch beside John and placed his head on his lap like a dog. John didn't look up from the book he was holding, but used his other hand to card a hand absently through Sherlock's wavy locks.

For whatever reason, Sherlock had switched barbers and had come home three weeks ago with a haircut that tested every fibre of muscle in John's face from breaking out into a hysterical grin. It looked as though every single curl on the detective's head had been snipped off and had left him with puffy, frizzy hair more commonly seen on an ungroomed poodle than on a man's head. John had taken a mental picture and still reflected on it occasionally after a long day at the surgery or after a particularly unsettling case, and it frequently raised his spirits.

The look of defiance and anger, as though Sherlock was daring John to laugh, had mingled with horrified embarrassment. John had managed to keep a straight face until after he had returned from the bottom drawer of the linen cupboard. "At least you've got a hat," he choked, tossing the deerstalker hat at the disgruntled detective, at which point he croaked out laughter. Sherlock's nostrils had flared, his lips had pinched together and he had fled to his room where he remained for the next two days. Before he made it, however, John had caught sight of Sherlock's cheeks lighting up like a traffic light. It was with astonishment that he had just been privy to what he had thought was an act Sherlock was mentally and biologically incapable of.

It had grown out a bit and didn't look as bad if Sherlock put mousse in it, but the curls were hesitant to return, and he had to admit, he kind of missed them though he couldn't figure out why.

"John, did you hear me? I have a concussion!" Sherlock insisted, though he hadn't moved an inch. John flipped a couple of pages forwards and wondered if he would have time to finish the chapter before his flatmate started huffing.

Unlikely.

Sherlock hadn't been outside for so much as fetching the paper in over three days, and John was mildly interested in what excuse Sherlock would make up for why he believed he had suffered a concussion.

"Perhaps your brain threw itself against your skull in an attempt to evacuate your body," John quipped, marking his page before setting the book down.

So far he had been quite accommodating in his attempts to quell Sherlock's dignity, but this being the fourth time in a month, John was beginning to wonder why either of them were going through the motions of this ruse anymore.

When John had come into the flat one day, three months previous, to find the shade's drawn, the lights off and a very faint underlying scent of vomit, he'd immediately sympathised with the huddled whimpering mass on the sofa. He had curled into a ball beneath a black sheet and, upon hearing him enter the room, flipped over twice as if to make his miserable presence known.

John didn't dare ask the question of what was wrong, for he knew, and could guess what kind of snark he could expect by pointing out the obvious. Instead he set down the meagre bag of groceries and went to check the dark kitchen for chamomile tea. Using his mobile as a light, he flipped on the kettle while trying to avoid making any noise. When he'd finished preparing the tea and adding a small bit of ginger, he set it on the floor in front of his best friend and pulled the sheet gently back to his neck. He ignored the instinct to leave the sad, pitiful man alone and softly ran his fingers through the dishevelled hair, waiting for the shower of abuse bound to follow.

The detective responded with a groan and John paused a moment, uncertain if it had been a pleasant or miserable noise. "John," Sherlock had sounded… strange. "Are you familiar with the pressure points capable of relieving a migraine?" Strange wasn't the word… though it certainly fit the situation. No, Sherlock had sounded… embarrassed and needy.

Without responding, he had sat down on the narrowly unoccupied section of the couch and somewhat reluctantly lifted his friend's head and placed it upon his lap. Sherlock's hair wasn't unpleasantly course, nor was it abundantly silky, but it was soft and the warmth coming off of his brow was just enough to be relaxing and slightly make him miss having a dog.

John wasn't sure how long he sat there, alternating between the various techniques he had learned from med school and some he had watched his mother use on his father, who also frequently suffered migraines. Other times he would simply run his hands through his friend's curls. He continued long after Sherlock had fallen asleep, the tea had become cold, and his fingers had become sore. Eventually he had fallen asleep as well and was awoken three hours later to Sherlock pulling on his scarf and coat and telling him they had a case, as if he had never had a migraine at all.

Though the case was what Sherlock deemed to be boring, he had hardly ever seen his friend in better spirits as they ate dinner, even agreeing to get ice cream afterwards. When three weeks later, Sherlock had a repeat occurrence, John didn't hesitate to duplicate his previous ministrations.

Since then, Sherlock had suffered headaches at least twice a month and John had pretended to believe that they were real. Occasionally he would come up with some other excuse, such as vertigo, ear ache or neck strain, but it was always mentioned into John's knee as he pressed his shoulder up against John's thigh and sighed contentedly. He even occasionally made John go through the motions of being a doctor; looking in his ears and eyes, checking his balance and reflexes and palpating the affected areas.

Knowing the benefits of doing this for his flatmate far outweighed any desire to take the piss out of him for it, he'd kept his mouth shut, feeling slightly honoured that Sherlock had deigned to allow someone to touch him in an intimate way and praying Mrs Hudson or Lestrade wouldn't walk in unexpectedly while this was going on.

But he couldn't help being curious if this was something Sherlock really enjoyed or simply allowed to happen occasionally because it helped him to relax.

Sherlock had been sulking quietly for the past minute since his comment, and he quietly complied with his unspoken request for dignity and asked, "What were you doing to give yourself a concussion?"

"I was reaching for a pen beneath my desk when my phone went off and I reacted unfavourably," John was immediately reminded of the car backfire and the boomerang that Sherlock had explained to him in a drugged haze and a slurred voice. The sound of a phone going off wouldn't produce such a jumpy reaction in so elegant and graceful a person unless Irene Adler had come back from the dead and begun texting him once more. Not to mention the fact that Sherlock would have called, texted or shouted for him had he actually needed to have his pen rescued.

"And what makes you think you have a concussion?"

"Simple medical knowledge, John. I'm not wholly unfamiliar with the field, it being closely linked to science after all. I have a headache, dizziness, my ears are ringing and I feel tired."

"Do you feel nauseous?" John asked, trying to hold back the smirk making its way across his face.

"I do."

"Any memory loss?"

"I'm having trouble remembering the atomic weight of zirconium, and I'm unsure if the 87th digit of pi is a four or a two." John managed to hold back a chuckle, but his chest shook from the effort and Sherlock turned to look up at him frowning.

"Those are both critical pieces of knowledge, John. I'll thank you not to mock the minor gaps in my memory."

"Sherlock…" he was full out laughing and his friend sat up in one fluid motion and rolled his legs out in front of him. Clearly an act a concussed man would be capable of without crippling effects…

"What is it, John?"

"Sherlock, are you listing off symptoms that you read off the mayo clinic website?"

For the second time that month he detected a hint of colour in those illustrious cheekbones of his. "Why ever would I do that, John?"

"Because you want me to rub your head, for whatever reason…"

The huffing commenced and John got a kick out of watching Sherlock purse his lips and cross his arms.

"Are you saying that there's nothing wrong with me?" Sherlock asked, shrilly.

Oh, there was something wrong with him, but it wasn't a concussion… John hoped this wasn't going to turn into a full-blown case of Munchausen.

"It's fine, Sherlock… I don't mind doing it. I just don't understand why we have to go through these pretences when you could simply ask me if I would stroke your hair."

"It's not as though I like it! It helps me think, John! Better than nicotine patches, nearly as well as cocaine did… I haven't the slightest clue why, but it has nothing to do with enjoyment. This certainly isn't sentiment, if that's what you're implying!"

Suddenly it became clear as day to him why his friend was so intent on having John touch him. Sherlock, who could see, hear, smell, taste and feel his way to any conclusion had nothing to work with. No great mystery to unfold, no clues to spot, no chemical property to taste, or distinct footsteps to hear. Nothing of any great consequence. Perhaps the first time had been a migraine, but John wondered perhaps if it was more to do with sensory overload than actually suffering any physical pain. Too much information and nothing to focus on was what inevitably drove him to using their flat for target practice.

Having John run fingers through his hair was enough tactile sensation to dull the others. It gave his friend a moment of peace from useless outside distractions, and, at least in the short-term, gave him a sense of calm. John had a horrible rush of guilt at mocking his best friend for wanting something so simple from him that meant so much.

"Come on, then, lay down," he said, using his soothing voice and patting his lap. Sherlock looked at him with distrust and John could have kicked himself for putting it there. The great unknowable Sherlock wasn't the only one that could be a bit obtuse to emotion sometimes. "It's alright, Sherlock, I'm sorry I laughed."

"John," Sherlock said quietly, placing his head in John's lap and allowing him to continue the comforting act. Honestly, John wasn't complaining. The whole thing was relaxing and domestic. It was slowly dawning on him that if this was intimacy, he could stop running himself ragged trying to find it in the bed of the nearest girl. "I don't really think I have a concussion."

"I had gathered as much 'Lock. It's okay."

"It really does help me think, though."

"I know Sherlock."

"John?"

"Yes Sherlock?"

"I miss my curls."

"Me too, Sherlock. Me too."