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I had been aware for nearly the whole of our friendship that Holmes was quite an unusual man, with a mind that worked quite differently from the minds of others. As he was quite unique in every way, this would have been difficult to miss. His passions ran deep, and he could talk uninterrupted for hours about violins or mud stains. And I had not lived with him for long before I recognized that his idle scraping upon his violin soothed him as well as providing pleasure.
It had taken me far, far longer to have the same realizations about myself, however. I had always abided by society’s rules, for that felt far safer, and as a result I did not notice until much later in my life that my own mind differed from that of most men. My strict adherence to rules and my need for overall routine simply stood out less than Holmes’ admittedly erratic behavior.
By the time we retired to Sussex together, I had a better understanding of myself, and was not wholly surprised when I found myself frequently unsettled. The many changes at once left me somewhat destabilized.
Now, I at least knew one way to handle it. As Holmes toyed with his violin to calm himself, so I had a particular form of stimulation which soothed me.
“Holmes,” I asked one evening as we relaxed in bed together before slumber, “might I play with your hair?”
Holmes’ grey eyes lifted from his book, briefly landing on me. He did not make eye contact, as neither of us found it terribly comfortable, but he certainly seemed to see something in my face. “Dear me, dear me. Yes, I believe that would be for the best. As I have finished reading for the present, I shall just lie down and get a little more comfortable.”
He did, and I lay down as well. My hand shook slightly as I stroked his dark locks, my breath catching with something that was nearly reverence. It was how I often felt in these moments, when Holmes permitted me to touch him like this.
The soft, silky texture under my fingertips sent a flood of contentment through me, and my breaths calmed. Touching and petting Holmes’ hair was familiar, and while I very much liked our new home, I had been craving familiarity.
“Thank you.” Although I knew Holmes was not awaiting such appreciation, I needed to give it. The rules of etiquette soothed me too. “It’s still remarkable just how much better this sensation makes me feel. Your hair is so lovely, my dear Holmes.”
“As is your touch, my dear Watson.” Holmes smiled, his eyes remaining closed. “You may take all the time you need. My hair remains at your disposal.”
I continued to play with Holmes’ hair, grateful for the permission. Stroking my fingers through the soft locks soothed me, as did the permission to indulge myself. Holmes always knew just what I needed.
There had been many changes in our life of late, but things were still the same between myself and my dearest friend. And if I needed the comfort, I was certain that Holmes would let me pet his hair until I fell peacefully asleep.