Glass: Reader Requests

Mere Exposure

Margaux surprises Sherlock with a drastic haircut.
For @aephereal

*

Summer had been unforgiving in its heat. Clear blue skies left no barrier between the scorching sun and the earth below, and even in the shade, the air itself was suffocating; thick and damp, torturously humid.

The tall windows of 221B had turned to magnifying glasses, sending concentrated beams of hot, searing sunlight into the otherwise dark living room, dancing along the dust particles that swirled with every movement of the occupants inside.

John sat in his armchair, his usual button-up replaced by a light cotton T-shirt, legs sweltering beneath a pair of jeans, nose red with a streak of sunburn. He had been sat there for a while, his back melting into the fabric of the chair, eyes fixed on Sherlock who was sitting at the table.

Unlike John, Sherlock hadn't altered his wardrobe for the weather, instead opting to roll up the sleeves of his dark shirt, collar unbuttoned slightly lower than usual. His hair had coiled tighter in the humidity, falling into his eyes as he glared at the object in front of him.

It was a plate, on which sat a brick of butter topped with chopped fresh parsley. Yet he had been watching it as though it was the most interesting thing in the world, fingers steepled at his lips, crystalline eyes fixed on every small, golden drip.

John couldn't remember the last time either of them spoke. He couldn't even recall the last time he'd saw his friend blink. The silence was growing itchy, like a prickly heat, and with each minute that went by, he was finding it harder and harder to stay quiet.

"Alright," he finally said, clearing his throat and sitting forward in his chair. "I'm going to need you to explain now."

"Explain what?" Sherlock replied as he continued to stare at the plate.

"Why watching a block of butter could in any way help solve this case."

"Because they're saying Pauline Abernetty committed suicide."

"Mm, still not getting it."

"Did you not find it curious? The butter on the table in the Abernetty home...?"

John pursed his lips, furrowing his brow in confusion.

Sherlock groaned, as if it were all completely obvious. "The depth which the parsley had sunk into it? And on such a hot day?"

"Honestly I wasn't paying much attention to the food on the table. Was a bit distracted by the dead body lying on the floor right next to it," he replied sarcastically.

"That's your problem. You see but you don't-"

"Observe. Yeah, I know." He rolled his eyes. "So what about it then?"

"What about what?"

"The bloody butter, Sherlock! What else!?"

"Alright, John, no need to shout!"

"Another domestic already?" Margaux's voice chimed from the doorway behind them. "God, you only just kissed and made up from the last one."