John woke the next morning to see Wayne in the toilet. He had a pair of scissors in hand.
“Good morning, Wayne--- WOAH. What are you doing?” John gasped.
Wayne was standing on a piece of outdated newspaper, snipping here and there in front of the mirror. On the newspaper were wisps of pale white hair.
“Cutting my hair, obviously,” Wayne answered indifferently. He sighed at his reflection. “Always hated those thick locks, myself. Takes tons of time to tidy it and such.”
John shrugged. “Well, you’d probably make an attractive girl. You’ve no wonder how many girls would envy those thick and bushy hair.”
“I’m a boy,” he sighed again, making a funny grimacing face. John frowned.
“No, no. But honestly, back out, I’m gonna wash my hair again. The little wisps will prick your neck and back if you don’t wash them away,” Wayne said, slamming the door. John sighed. He needed to convince himself that this was Wayne, not Sherlock in disguise.
Speaking of which, Sherlock had just opened his bedroom door groggily.
“You’re not a morning person. Why’re you up this early?” John asked.
“Experiment purposes.”
“What experiments again? The blood of the torso in the fridge had already froze,” John groaned.
“Exactly.” Sherlock said, brushing past John’s shoulder and heading to the fridge. That sent a shiver down John’s spine for some reason. Why would he suddenly overreact to any touch from Sherlock like that?
Five minutes later, John found Wayne sitting on the floor (again), drying his newly short wet hair with a towel. He noticed Wayne’s pale legs, which the left one was stretched out while the other one was put crossed, resembled a lot like Sherlock’s: bony, thin, and hairless. He had seen enough of Sherlock’s legs through his bedsheets.
John turned at the sound of footsteps from the stairs. “Mrs Hudson?” he called.
“It’s Lestrade,” Wayne mumbled, throwing his balled towel at the picture of the skull hung over the sofa. He missed.
“We’re going back today, with the boy this time--” He stared at Wayne. His now dried hair, which turned out to be quite curly, sprang up everywhere, making him look even more like Sherlock, minus the high cheekbones.
“We’ll get changed soon,” Wayne frowned. He went to his duffel bag again (Is he Doraemon with his 4-dimensional pocket? John thought) and fished out another baggy t-shirt after a lot of digging. He tore off the one he was wearing and put the new one on. “What?” he frowned, for Lestrade and John found it weird he just changed in front of them like that. He didn’t even try to find some privacy.
“I’ll come in the police car,” Wayne said after the three of them stood there for three solid minutes.
“Remember to bring Rosie,” he stopped at the door and said. Then, turning back to facing the stairs, he walked as if nothing happened.
Lestrade hesitated a bit before turning, which gave him just enough time to see Sherlock emerging from the kitchen. “Woah! What the-- WHY ARE YOU WRAPPED ONLY IN A BEDSHEET?” he cried. It’s probably the most frightening morning he’d ever had. Sherlock merely shrugged.
“But there’s something,” he said, suddenly in a serious tone, “Be aware of the boy’s actions and report them time to time to me. That’s part of investigation,” he added the last part, annoyed at the expression on Lestrade’s face, who was completely convinced he was out of his head.
YOU ARE READING
Adopted to be a Holmes
Fanfic"A couple have been murdered. now, i need you two to come and investigate." Sherlock and John arrived at the crime scene, and on the swing in the garden, sat a boy wrapped in a shock blanket. He, Wayne Ballard, is the son of the murdered couple. "So...
