Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.

So this is my first oneshot, just a little thing I did for fun. It's based off of two prompts from the kinkmeme - you're allowed to do that, right? I'll put them at the bottom, as to not spoil the story.

Also, this is probably all completely unrealistic, and a bit OOC, especially the last bit. But like I said, this is just a fluffy fic I did for fun, so I hope you enjoy it, even though it is rather ridiculous. :)

This humiliating trait of his had been discovered when he was just a baby.

Sherlock had been just a few months old, lying in his cot, when something upset him - possibly the abysmally boring mobile of the solar system rotating slowly above his head. Whatever it was, it caused the infant to whimper, which turned into shrieks, which became full-fledged screams...all within the course of thirty seconds.

Naturally, nobody except for Mycroft was with Sherlock in the nursery. The eight year old boy dropped the book he had been reading, rushing to the side of the cot. He looked around in a panic, but nobody was in sight - of course the nanny would choose now of all times to suddenly disappear. As Sherlock's screams grew in intensity, Mycroft looked down at him helplessly, not having the slightest idea what to do.

In desperation, Mycroft reached down into the cot, and began to stroke Sherlock's surprisingly full head of hair. To his delight, the baby's cries were immediately reduced to quiet sniffles. As Mycroft continued to run his fingers through the dark curls, Sherlock offered up a contented smile, clearly enjoying being petted. Within a few short minutes, his eyes began to droop, and Sherlock nodded off, much to Mycroft's relief.

Naturally, after discovering such an effective way of controlling his younger brother, Mycroft took full advantage of it. Whenever Sherlock was sulky or bothersome, all Mycroft had to do was run a hand through his hair, and the boy would immediately quiet, relaxing into the touch.

However, this isn't to say that Sherlock liked it. On the contrary, he absolutely hated that his brother held this power over him.

Of course, being the older brother, Mycroft had always been taller, meaning he could easily reach down to smooth a hand over his brother's head. Therefore, Sherlock was sorely disappointed when, after being fully grown, he was still shorter than Mycroft - by a mere inch.

Luckily, Mycroft eventually ceased this humiliating behavior. Sherlock made every effort he could to avoid Mycroft as much as possible, only meeting with him when others were around. After all, Mycroft couldn't just go around petting his brother like a bloody animal.

For years, Sherlock managed to keep his quirk a secret. He couldn't have something like that spreading around, ruining the cold, stoic reputation he had made for himself.

But of course, it could only last for so long.

It hadn't been anything particularly important, just another day lounging around the flat after a solved case. He had been curled up in his chair, mindlessly plucking at his violin as John responded to an email from an old friend.

Mrs. Hudson had wandered in, bringing each of them a cup of tea to "celebrate a job well done."

She set the mug beside Sherlock, muttering something about him looking too thin, that he needed to eat more. Nothing out of the ordinary. But as she turned to leave, Mrs. Hudson ruffled his curls in a motherly way.

Sherlock couldn't help himself. He had been without that soothing touch for so long. As her fingers mussed his hair, his shoulders relaxed, and he pushed his head back into her hand.

His movements were practically imperceptible; Mrs. Hudson didn't even notice. But as Sherlock glanced over, he saw John staring at him with a perplexed smirk on his face.

Neither man said a word about the incident, and Sherlock had begun to hope that John had forgotten about it.

Unfortunately, John wasn't as idiotic as he sometimes seemed.

It was only a matter of time before Sherlock went too long without a case, and descended into that horrible, boredom-induced insanity.

The man sat in his chair, every muscle in his body screaming in agitation. His feet tapped against the floor madly, his fingers frantically dancing on the armrests.

All evening, John had been snapping at Sherlock, telling him to relax, breathe, just find something to do instead of fidgeting around like a nervous rabbit. Now, exasperated, he stood in front of the restless detective, looking down at the man's desperate expression.

"Get me a case."

"There isn't one, and there won't be one for a long while after what you did last time."

Sherlock growled in frustration.

John sighed, and then a thought came to him. A ludicrous, stupid idea that probably wouldn't even work. But as he looked down into those frantic grey eyes, he decided it was worth a shot.

Slowly, hesitantly, John reached a hand out toward Sherlock. Sherlock didn't protest, only stared up at him in silent shock, so John began to card his fingers through the soft hair.

Immediately, Sherlock's manic squirming stilled, and his body went embarrassingly limp as every muscle in his body relaxed.

To Sherlock's surprise, when John petted him, it wasn't nearly as unpleasant as when Mycroft did.

He closed his eyes, pushing up into the warm hand that had begun to gently scratch is scalp.

"Is this alright?"

"Hm? Oh, yes, fine…" Sherlock murmured sleepily.

John chuckled softly. "Listen, I'll talk to lestrade, see what I can do. In the meantime, try to relax, alright?"

"…alright."

Like Mycroft, once John discovered how easy it was to calm Sherlock, he took advantage of it.

However, Mycroft had used Sherlock's quirk to get his brother to quiet, to stop bothering him.

John used it in order to soothe the detective, not control him.

So whenever it was a "danger night," whenever Sherlock couldn't sleep due to a particularly difficult case, whenever he came home surly from a bad encounter with his brother or, God forbid, Anderson, all John had to do was a run a hand through the man's hair. Sherlock would instantly relax, leaning trustingly into John's hand.

Sherlock had no intentions of letting John how much he enjoyed it.

John woke up to the sound of loud construction outside of the flat.

"Bloody hell…" he muttered as he slammed his window shut, making the noise marginally quieter.

As John made his way to the kitchen, he was nearly plowed down as Sherlock stormed past him, pulling all the blinds in the flat shut.

"Sherlock?"

The man appeared to not have heard him, as he continued to whirl through the flat like a madman.

John sighed. It wasn't like he was unused to being ignored by the detective.

Having closed all the blinds, Sherlock's eyes darting around the room, seemingly unable to focus on anything.

"Sherlock? Are you alright?" John asked carefully, raising his voice to be heard above the noise.

"What? Fine, I'm fine," the man snapped.

"No you aren't."

Sherlock gestured vaguely towards the loud sounds of construction coming from the windows.

"Just-just a little sensory overload. As someone who registers everything, too much at one time can be...uncomfortable."

"We can go somewhere else, get away from the noise."

"Don't be stupid."

John shrugged. "Your choice.

Several hours later, the racket outside showed no signs of stopping, but Sherlock's condition had deteriorated greatly.

The detective was huddled on the sofa, hands clamped over his ears.

John had tried once again to convince Sherlock to go somewhere else. However, this was clearly not an option, as the detective was unable to stand up without shaking uncontrollably, and would eventually collapse if John had not been there.

John sat by his side, unsure of what to do. He wondered if he should attempt to stroke Sherlock's hair, but was reluctant to touch him, afraid of adding any more sensation in the detective's current state.

His decision was made when Sherlock raised his head, looking at John with silent tears in his pleading eyes, and muttered one word. "John. Please."

Without hesitation, John sat down beside Sherlock, pulling him into his side. He began to run his fingers through his hair, scratching his head softly.

To his surprise, Sherlock all but purred under him, humming contentedly. Sherlock buried his face in John's jumper, seeking more comfort from the cacophony outside. Eventually, everything was drowned out except for the soothing fingers in his hair.

At some point, Sherlock fell asleep; a miracle for anyone due to the deafening noise. John didn't dare move, grateful that the poor man was at last able to relax. So he continued to smooth against Sherlock's head as the man nuzzled into his chest.

John could almost laugh at the absurdity of the situation. Here he was, with the great detective Sherlock Holmes, who many doubted was even human, curled into John's chest, comforting him. Only John knew just how incredibly human this brilliant man actually was.

So clearly I like writing cuddly Sherlock. Sorry. (Not really.)

Like I said, probably completely unrealistic, especially the panic attack part. Once again, sorry if it's completely wrong, I hope it wasn't too terrible.

Also, here are the two prompts, slightly shortened.

1. Sherlock has the complete inability to: stay mad, agitated, or tense in any manner when someone is petting/scratching his hair/scalp.

2. Sherlock has a sensory overload while construction goes on outside Baker Street. He has a panic attack and John tries to help.

The links to the full, original prompts can be found on my tumblr (link on my profile, or my username is just corinneshaden) under the tag "very sensitive follicles"

I hope you enjoyed this fic, please let me know what you thought of it! :)

-Corinne Shaden