Sherlock BBC: Four Dioptres to Love

"No, no, no, where is it?!" Sherlock was muttering to himself incessantly, turning his whole room upside down. He had spent almost half a day on a futile searching spree and his scarce patience reserves were almost used up. Good thing though that John was still at work and didn't ask any inconvenient questions.

Every person has a secret they won't ever disclose, especially to their loved ones, because they're simply ashamed. Sherlock wasn't an exception and he would curl up and die if John were ever to find out that the world's only consulting detective is short-sighted. To top it all, with quite significant sight defect – more than four dioptres in each eye. Sherlock treated this minor impairment like a heinous flaw on his perfect image of a demi-god, who is beyond all petty human weaknesses. Besides, he looked idiotic in glasses and John would surely burst out laughing if he saw him wearing them. Sensitive ego of the youngest Holmes wouldn't survive such a blow.

That was the reason why Sherlock was wearing single use contact lenses, which were easy to get rid of discreetly. He always went to bed last and got up first so that no one would discover his well-guided secret. Today he was unlucky, though. When he reached to the box to get another pair of lenses, it turned out that there were none left. Still, he wasn't bothered too much because he was sure that he had another box somewhere. Right? Nope, as he soon discovered much to his dismay, rummaging through his possessions. Sherlock sighed with irritation. What was worse, today was Sunday, so he couldn't even go to the shop to restock. Oh well, he just needed to survive till tomorrow, it couldn't be that bad after all. It wasn't as if he needed to go out and he knew perfectly well the layout of the flat. John surely wouldn't notice that something was amiss...

In precisely that moment, Sherlock's cell phone rang. He dashed headlong to the living room and dived under the armchair where he had dumped his cell in fury before. After some groping around he grabbed the phone and moved the screen close to his face. Hm, Lestrade. A case, most likely. Sherlock was torn between wanting to stay at home, guiding his unmentionable secret, and the urge to take up a challenge and feel the adventure that had already started to buzz in his veins. All in all, the curiosity had won. He picked up the phone with a loud "who and where?".

After a while, Sherlock was tying his scarf around his neck, putting his coat on and running down the stairs, driven by the need to solve the enigma. A mysterious murder of a young woman right in the middle of the city had intrigued him immensely, he loved that sort of puzzles.

Before he opened the door though, he stopped suddenly and the cold sweat broke out on his skin. What kind of a detective he would be if he couldn't see all the key details vital to the investigation? If he didn't notice something obvious he would only make a fool of himself. He couldn't risk his reputation of a genius who is never mistaken. Sherlock let out a pained sigh and returned to his room. He reached to the very bottom of the wardrobe where he kept in a secret hiding place the object of his utter disgrace – a case with a pair of glasses inside. At least John was still busy at the hospital and didn't know anything about the new investigation. Sherlock planned to threaten Lestrade and his assistants with a certain and violent death if they dared to spill the beans about his imperfection to John. He was ready for anything just to keep his secret. Holmes slipped the case inside the pocket of his coat and rushed to the crime scene without further delay. 

* * *

"...and that is precisely why the limping, middle-aged man with eczema, who has been recently to the barber to trim his beard, is the murderer." Sherlock recited, standing up from the body. The mystery wasn't overly demanding, but he still felt proud of himself when he looked at the perplexed and awestruck faces of the policemen. These morons wouldn't be able to tie their laces without his help.

Lestrade told his subordinates to ask the witnesses about the man matching the description and check the footage from CCTV. Sherlock was never wrong so there was no point in challenging his theory. None of the policemen said anything about the detective's new appearance for fear of retaliation, but a few of them, including Anderson, cast him amused glances. A dark cloud moved across Sherlock's face. It was high time to get back home and...

"Sorry I'm late, I couldn't leave work earlier," John explained in an apologetic tone, putting his hand on his lover's shoulder and turning him around to greet him with a quick kiss. "What do we have--"  He started but the cat got his tongue when he saw glasses with dark, thick frames on Sherlock's nose.

For a moment they both just stared at each other in absolute silence. John was in shock. The thought of his boyfriend having sight defect had never even crossed his mind. He didn't see him wearing glasses before, it seemed to him that Sherlock had no problem with seeing whatsoever. Was he wearing contact lenses? Must have. There was no other explanation. Why did he hide it from him though? Was he ashamed? He didn't trust him?

Sherlock misinterpreted John's silence as a token of aversion. Anger exploded within him and embarrassment coloured his cheeks red. What an absolute disaster! Why did that idiot Lestrade have to summon John here! Sherlock quickly tore the glasses off his face and went briskly in the direction of a taxi rank, not looking back over his shoulder even once.

"Sherlock! Sherlock, wait!" John shouted after him but to no avail. The detective entered the first cab and told the cabby to drive off with a screech of the tyres. John mumbled a few curses under his breath. Sherlock tended to behave like a spoiled brat sometimes. Okay, more often than sometimes.

For the rest of the day Holmes was avoiding his flatmate like the plague. He holed up in his bedroom and categorically refused to go out. Any attempts to make contact with him or eager assurances that he looked gorgeous in glasses were invariably ignored. John finally gave up. When Sherlock was behaving like a wronged prima donna there was no way to talk some sense into him. Since John felt really tired and tomorrow he had to go to the hospital again, he went to take a shower and then he lay down in bed in his old bedroom, which he hadn't used in months. He only hoped that Sherlock would un-sulk soon, because he didn't like to sleep alone. John missed the feeling of that bony body with hands and feet that were always icy beside him. He needed to think of something. An idea started to form in his mind...

* * *

"Sherlock, I'm back!" John announced cheerfully, entering the living room. Sherlock, sprawled on the couch with a newspaper in his hands, didn't even grace him with a look. He was obstinately pretending that he was reading. He still held a grudge against his boyfriend and he definitely didn't want to talk with him. That cold behaviour didn't discourage John, though. He paced slowly to his partner.

"Is it true that people with glasses appear more intelligent than the ones without them?" John asked casually, lowering the newspaper with his finger to see Sherlock's face. The detective was about to glare daggers at him when suddenly the expression on his face turned from anger to a grimace of genuine surprise.

"John..." He mumbled in disbelief, looking at the new clear glasses with thick frames that John was wearing proudly on his nose. It took Sherlock a longer while to understand what he was really seeing but when he finally comprehended how much love and acceptance John felt towards him, his lips widened in a bright smile. "Sorry, John, nothing can help you in that matter." He chuckled, grabbing his boyfriend's shirt. He pulled him closer, giving him a long and approving snog. Soon, the glasses ended up on the floor along with the rest of their abandoned and forgotten clothes.