Melancholock

2: Kink Shaming :2

"Fuck, that one hurt!"

"Well, since you didn't hold still, it didn't yank out all the way. You never learn."

Sherlock held John's face steady with his left hand, gripping the tweezers with his right.

"Close your eyes and stretch your face, like I taught you," Sherlock quipped, and John did as he was told. He felt the cold metal against his brow bone, slowly scooping up a thick hair, then deftly ripping it out. John winced. Squeeze and pull, squeeze and pull, squeeze and pull. He felt the little comb smooth over his eyebrow again as Sherlock surveyed for more new hairs that were growing against the shape he had dictated.

The day was Sunday, and every Sunday was Eyebrow Maintenance Day.

On Sundays, they sat facing each other in front of their shared bedroom closet, which had two sliding doors, each covered completely in long mirrors. The natural lighting from the window was ideal for Sherlock to see each and every little hair that he might have missed if he were working under the yellow light of the bathroom.

"Beauty is pain," Sherlock tutted under his breath.

And beauty definitely was pain, John had found. He dreaded Sundays; he dreaded the process of having his hair removed by force, and he dreaded the thought of something sharp and metallic near his eyes. But Sherlock was a true artist. He knew how to look at your face and determine how your eyebrows should be sculpted to best suit you. And John would be lying if he said he didn't like having nicely shaped brows.

John didn't feel the need to fill his in, however, a step Sherlock didn't often skip. Sherlock liked makeup, he thought it was fun, which was pretty cool in John's opinion. Not many men could bring themselves to enjoy makeup. John was one of those men.

"You're almost done, John."

Though Sherlock liked makeup, he rarely went very far with it. No bright lipstick (not to say that he didn't have any), no shimmery eye shadow, no intense or "in-your-face" looks. He stuck with browns and blacks, sometimes reds. On special occasions he flicked his eyeliner out into a wing.

Having a makeup-savvy friend was helpful in the event of a sudden breakout. Sherlock was good at blending a ton of creams together and carefully brushing them onto your "problem areas." He also had this green stuff that cancelled out the redness so you could apply the creams more easily. He'd explained it to John once, something about the color wheel, but John couldn't quite recall all the details. Makeup was very confusing sometimes.

"Relax your face, now." Sherlock combed out John's other eyebrow, then started shaping to see where the new hairs were growing again.

Pitter-patter pitter-patter pitter-patter pitter-patter.

John opened his eyes when he heard the knocking, and he grinned at Sherlock, who looked very frustrated.

Bonka-bonka-bonka-bonka-bonka-bonka.

Sherlock stood up as the knocking continued, an annoying drum beat resounding throughout the apartment. John stayed put, knowing that company wouldn't interrupt Sherlock's meticulous shaping and plucking; especially since John could tell exactly who was at the door.

He heard the creak of the old door, followed by a loud, "Heh-heh-hey, buddy!"

Sherlock muttered, "You don't have to knock out a whole song onto the door every time you come over."

"Don't be ridiculous, of course I do!"

Sherlock came back in the bedroom, followed by none other than Greg Lestrade.