Work Text:
Fingers.
Twitching, fiddling, searching.
Running over the inner seam of his pyjama bottoms before exploring the already well-known bottom seam at the end of the leg.
It looks haphazard.
(Isn’t.)
It’s a practical matter, the matter of his fingers.
Most things Sherlock does with his fingers seem impatient, restless. The way he throws and catches his phone when listening to John’s retelling of his run-in with a witness, the way he drums his fingers against any available surface when he’s waiting for something -anything- to finally come to an end.
It’s a trick, almost a magic trick:
Because it isn’t what it looks like, yet it is. It’s a disguise that he's turned into a tool, an underlining of what he wants people to see. The restlessness of his fingers will - used for drumming and tapping and throwing things - just accentuate the barely contained force of energy and sharpness that serves his official persona so well. It brings an edge to his intellect, and it keeps his fingers busy.
Another magic trick:
Here, in the dim light of the kitchen, his fingers are allowed other outlets. Outside, the night is slowly turning morning, and the white noise of the traffic outside mixed with the hum of their refrigerator signals to his fingers that they no longer need stick to a limited number of movements, that they can choose where they want to go, how they want to touch.
And the delayed circadian rhythm he’s endured for as long as he can recall makes sense at times like these. Because it’s in the midst of night, in the wake of the morning, that his fingers find their way into ringlets and tangles.
Twisting. Stroking. Untangling.
The ever shifting pressure on his scalp as he finds new strands to untangle, new ringlets to twist around his fingers. Hair that has only seen conditioner - never shampoo - for over a decade; a silky sensation as a single curl bounces from where it had been curled around his finger.
And most things Sherlock Holmes does seems deliberate, meaningful, if you look closely. Yet, many people wonder why he keeps his hair the way he does, why someone a bit shy of forty would keep a head full of cherub-like curls.
The reason is this:
As fingers work through curls, his mind works through hours and days worth of data. Untangling, easing knots and finding the solution that had been just out of reach.
It’s a practical matter, the matter of hair.
Twisting. Stroking. Untangling.