Mycroft's car picked him up from school and took him to Mycroft's office.

"What am I doing here?" Sherlock asked the driver.

"Mr. Holmes advised me to bring you here."

"I'm Mr. Holmes, and I want to go home."

"You're not the Mr. Holmes that pays me."

Sherlock huffed and got out of the car, slamming the door. He trotted up to Mycroft's office and barged in without stopping at his secretary's desk. She followed him.

"Uh, Mr. Holmes, young Mr. Holmes is here!" she shouted into the door as Sherlock stepped in and slammed it on her face.

"Why am I here?"

"I told you, I'm taking you to get it," Mycroft looked from his papers to Sherlock's head, "Fixed."

"I told you, I don't want it fixed."

"I told you, Mother's not ignoring you. She's just very busy."

"Doing what, exactly?"

Mycroft smiled and chuckled, "You don't need to know."

"I'm going home."

"You can't take my car home unless you get your hair changed back to normal."

"Nothing about me is normal, Mycroft."

"Who is he?"

"He?"

"The boy you were trying to get to notice you. This obviously isn't just about Mother."

"I-I-" Sherlock couldn't stop stuttering out of embarrassment, he cleared his throat, "I don't know what you mean."

"You shouldn't have changed for him."

"I didn't."

"Brother," Mycroft often calls him 'Brother' when he's trying to be caring, "Soon enough you won't have to change for the boy you want."

"I didn't."

"Whatever you say, Brother. Just don't change too much, ok? If he doesn't like you, if he didn't notice you before you went through all of this," Mycroft waved a hand up and down Sherlock's new, nicely clothed body and blonde hair, "He's obviously very shallow, and let me tell you something: men that are that shallow are not worth it because all they want is you physically, not mentally or emotionally. Your brain is far too important to waste on an idiotic boy."

"Thank you, Mycroft, but I assure you it's nothing like that."

"Ok, Sherlock."

"I'm leaving now."

"Not in my car, you're not."

"I'll get a cab!" Sherlock shouted as he exited Mycroft's office. He quickly turned back and went back to Mycroft, "Can I borrow some cash?"

Mycroft rubbed his eyes, "Just take a car."

The whole way home, Sherlock thought about what Mycroft said. He didn't realize it, even about himself, that he was seeking some sort of approval from Jack. But Mycroft was right, if he had to change for Jack then Jack shouldn't be worth it. However, Sherlock did like part of his change. The blonde hair was too much, but the shirts were nice. He looked more grown up, more clean, and sophisticated; like Mycroft. He caught his reflection in the mirror and winced. He looked ridiculous.

Sherlock's mother noticed his hair that night, right before dinner.

"Sherlock! What did you do?"

"Oh, Mother."

"Your beautiful black curls! Gone!"

"I know, I know."

"Why did you do this?" She grabbed at his head.

He pulled away, sighing, "Experimental purposes."

"What experiment were you trying to conduct that made you do this? When did you do this?"

He looked at her with the most pathetic blue eyes he could produce, without even meaning to, "Over a week ago."

His mother picked up on it right away, "Oh, Sherlock." She pulled him close for a hug.

"Anyway, the experiment was contaminated. I'll, I don't know, shave it or something in a few days."

"No, no. No hair is worse than blonde hair."

"You're suggesting I leave it?"

"Until it gets long enough to cut."

Sherlock sighed and sat down for dinner.

"You look more like Mycroft, my love."

Sherlock winced harder than he did in the car, "Yes, I know."

"It's all right, it'll grow back."

A month and a half later, Sherlock's roots came out long enough for him to cut it and it didn't look ridiculous. Jack stopped talking to him after that, and Sherlock fully realized that Mycroft was right. From then on, Sherlock decided not to care what other people thought whatsoever. If a boy didn't like him for him, who cares? If a person didn't like his marvelous brain, who needs 'em?

Sherlock didn't think about that experiment until eight months after John moved it. Sherlock was slipping on his blue jeans and a faded gray t-shirt. He learned how to relax and not be so uptight when he and John were having a night in. He smoothed over his t-shirt and smiled at himself in the mirror.

"He likes me for who I am," he whispered to himself.