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Not Your Best Look

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She didn’t think it looked too bad, to be honest. Not exactly what she wanted, but...well, it had been a surprise from her mates at Barts, a girls day out and a makeover, and she had supposedly gotten the best person at the salon, and she supposed the new length was lovely, but…

Really, Sherlock was going to hate it because frankly, she rather hated it.

She was honestly surprised she’d been let out of his sight long enough to go, to be quite honest, but she was fairly sure the other “clients” at the salon had been some of Mycroft’s favourite agents, as they looked quite familiar. Must not have taken much to talk them into a day at the salon to keep an eye on her. The job had to have occasional perks. But oh, it was horrid that they got to look so stunning and lovely and get paid for it while she walked out wanting to pull a paper sack over her head before walking into Baker Street.

And she wasn’t even lucky enough to have Sherlock in the bedroom he was using, having given up his for the time being for her to use. No, he was in the sitting room, sitting in his favorite chair, violin in his lap, running his bow absently across the strings. The look that crossed his face the minute he caught sight of her was enough to confirm it was as much of a debacle as she had thought it was. “It’s horrid,” she said with a sigh, tossing her handbag on the other chair and then collapsing on the sofa, pulling a pillow over her face.

“Dark brown is not your best colour,” he said. “Not that it’s bad, but with that makeup you look...”

“Like the undead?” she muttered into the pillow.

“Not my particular choice of words, but yes.” She heard some shuffling to her side and soon the pillow was plucked off her face and he was staring down at her. “Straight hair suits you, though, as does shoulder length. Also, you look younger with bangs.”

She gave him a faint smile. “I thought you’d think they made me look childish.”

“Well, they weren’t cut in a way that’s particularly flattering to your face, but that can be fixed.” He offered her his hand. “I know who to call.”

“Who?” she asked warily.

“Or rather text. If I involve my brother he’ll hold it over my head as a favour to owe me and trust me, as one woman to another, and seeing as how she has a fondness for you, she’d never allow you to show your face in public looking like this.” Molly frowned a Sherlock whipped out his mobile and snapped a picture of her and then began to text.

“Bloody hell, Sherlock. Delete that at once!” Molly said, reaching for his mobile. “I look absolutely atrocious!”

“Once it’s served its purpose,” he said, nearly dancing out of her reach. He hit send and within second there was a reply. “An appointment has been booked for you in an hour at Aenea Hair & Beauty Salon, Spa and Clinic in Clapham. It will be monitored by Mycroft’s staff, as you will be going after hours. The whole facility is open for your use, any services you choose. And Anthea says to consider going ginger.”

Molly tilted her head to look at him. “So I get kidnapped to one girls day out where I get a shite makeover and then I get this?”

“Anthea likes you more than your friends from work do,” Sherlock said, stowing his mobile.

“Well, there’s really no use getting all beautiful if I’m here most of the time,” she said, her tone slightly glum.

Sherlock moved over to her, standing in front of her. “Perhaps I have been a bit...overcautious, we could say. Keeping you here when you aren’t at Barts. We could attempt an evening out, if you would like?”

Molly’s eyes widened and a brilliant smile spread across her face. “I would like that a lot,” she said, moving to face him and playing with the lapel of his shirt. “I mean, I’m not much to show off now, but when this damage is fixed...”

Sherlock leaned forward and kissed her softly. “I would show you off like this or if you were as bald as the spot above Mycroft’s forehead or if you were as over bronzed as that buffoon running the United States.” Molly giggled. “It doesn’t matter to me how you look, really. I care about you, not your appearance.”

“That is very good to know,” she said before kissing him again. “I’ll remember that if I want to tattoo something on my forehead.”

“So long as we’re clear it’s to say ‘Girlfriend of Sherlock Holmes – Do Not Touch.’” This time she laughed more heartily and then she wrapped her arms around him and he embraced her back. “I could have gotten used to this look, you know, if you had liked it. But I’m glad I don’t have to.”

“I know. I’m glad I don’t have to too,” she said. “I suppose I should pick out something nice to wear?”

“I may call in an actual favour from Anthea for that,” he said. “I might like to stay like this until your car arrives. It is a rather nice position.”

“Yes,” she said, giving him a slight nod. “Yes, it is.”