"Blond?" So he's focusing on the physical, these things happen. John turns an incredulous look up to Sherlock who, then, had been more willowy, more soft in appearance with dark curls that didn't go past his ears and some sort of hair care regimen that John never discovered but probably had to be quite extensive to keep him from frizzing up each time the London weather turned nasty.

He's found Sherlock's appearance to be one of great interest. Ginger eyebrows, but he's never noticed any dye used in his hair. And that eye colour-- People don't typically have eyes so green they might as well be silver with gold flecks. So incredibly otherworldly is Sherlock and yet his brother--

Mycroft had been so typical. Weaselly, perhaps. Long nose, regularly placed cheekbones. Portly. John's head tilts back further, his own strangely coloured eyes scanning Sherlock's face before his own breaks out into another grin. John has such even, white teeth, even now. They're almost impossibly uniform.

"I really can't imagine you blond. Wig or did you bleach? You bleached didn't you-- I'm not sure how I feel about that!"