Warnings: Sherlock was born male and always been male but falls under a gender-switch curse. Much mention of monthly female biology.
Disclaimers: BBC Sherlock is owned by its various creators.
Summary: male!Sherlock gets cursed and turns into a chick and all that comes with it... John(and Sherlock)react as expected. h/c
The weather hadn’t let up in three days.
In fact, all the papers and newscasts were cheerfully letting the people of London know that they should expect to be blessed with a very uncharacteristically white Christmas. John groaned when the wind gusted brutally into his face and undid his damp scarf. All he knew was that if any more bloody sleet came down he’d seriously consider staying in bed for the duration of the season. Glancing up at the festive holiday wreath hung on the front door of 221 B, he stomped his wet boots before shoving himself inside.
“Mrs. Hudson?” he called. “I can put those string lights up later if you’d like.”
No answer. Probably out on errands. Or her bridge club.
John hovered over the hissing radiator to let the feeling seep back into his face. Tapping his boots off, he frowned at the sight of the other pair of boots left by the door. He’d bought them a week ago at the Army Surplus to make up for Sherlock‘s complete lack of anything practical for weather. Over the ankle lace ups, and nicely waterproof. But the shiny black leather was infuriatingly dry which meant Sherlock hadn’t come home yet (in the last 3 days), or Sherlock preferred to break his face on an ice patch.
It was much warmer upstairs, the smaller radiator under the window turned all the way up. He hadn’t left it on like before he’d left for work. Shrugging off his jacket, he realized it made the flat a little too warm. But to his relief he saw Sherlock’s jacket (damp) hanging by the door. It had been a while (3 days 3 days 3 days) since he’d seen or heard from him.
Sherlock’s bedroom door was closed.
“I see you haven’t bothered with your boots yet.” John leaned against the doorframe. “They’re used as assault boots in combat for Christ sake. Do you know what I had to do to find them in your size-”
John was interrupted by something at his foot.
A piece of paper had been slid from under the bedroom door.
Blinking down at it, he wasn’t quite sure what it was supposed to be. Then to his bewildered surprise, another slip of paper suddenly appeared. He bent down and picked them up. They were hand written notes.
The first was easy enough: Go Away.
“Sherlock?” John studied the odd perfection of the handwriting. “Uh, are you all right?”
The second was more to the point: Now.
John was accustomed to being told by Sherlock to piss off in many myriad and colorful ways, however he’d never gotten it in print. Annoyed, he tried the doorknob but it was locked.
“I’m not going anywhere,” John impatiently banged his palm on the door. “No where! You‘ve been missing for days!” He stared defiantly down at the wood floor, waiting for another bloody note.
And after a few moments another appeared.
Fine. Need you to go the shop.
The next piece of paper just had a short list. A strange list. “Gauze. Vodka. Chamomile tea… uh, don’t we have bleach? And plenty of gauze for that matter, I have some in my…” That was when he noticed his medical kit dumped open all over the kitchen floor. More notes suddenly began hissing out across the floor.
Used all the gauze.
Could use a drink.
Spilled the bleach.
“Look, if you’re hurt you’d had just better let me in!” He carefully pressed his ear against the door, straining to hear anything at all. “Do you hear me Sherlock- ow!” A well place fist on the other side of the door had punched the exact spot he’d been leaning his head, sending a ringing pain from his ear down to his cheekbone.
And don’t forget the tea.
John let the shopping bags drop onto the floor before he hustled to the radiator. His hands turned a painful red as they tingled back to life. Getting pneumonia so Sherlock could have cleaning materials and lovely tea wasn’t anything we was going to be doing again soon.
“I’m back.” he sighed. “I got everything you asked for.”
Not to his surprise, Sherlock’s door was open and the room was empty. The squeak of the bathtub faucets confirmed that he had relocated to the bathroom upstairs. John took the moment to flick on the lights and take a look around the bedroom. Nothing was out of the ordinary. No splattered blood on the walls, no broken windows. Just some clothes on the floor and a stripped bed.
John hefted the bulk of gauze sealed in plastic and headed up the stairs.
“Sherlock!” he called over the sound of bath water. “I’ve gotten your things!”
“You hear me in there!”
To his disbelief, another note slid between his feet.
Leave things. Go take a holiday.
That’s when John saw a small smear of blood on the edge of the note paper. He growled, the doorknob rattling in his fist. “That’s it,” he warned. “I’m coming in.” Right when he slammed his good shoulder to the flimsy door he heard a strange voice. He couldn’t tell if it sounded angry or distressed but he decided to worry about that later. It took three tries to break the lock before the door swung in on its hinges.
There was a dark haired woman standing in the bathroom. A very tall woman was standing as far as she could from him and clutching a robe up tightly around her neck. Her chest was heaving and her pale eyes glittered. For a moment John almost started to stammer an apology until he remembered it was his flat.
“W-Who the hell are you?”
She just stared at him, her jaw muscles clenched. He stared back with his mouth hanging open. When she carefully bent to shut off the rumble of the bath water, John's shock faded enough for him to notice something even more odd.
“Excuse me, but did you…” he pointed at her in a daze. “Did you borrow that robe?”
The woman clutched the blue silk closer, bringing it almost to her chin. It had taken even a few more moments to register, but John finally saw the blood on the pale skin of her hands and white porcelain of the sink. She abruptly steeled herself up to her full height and gave a short resolved sigh. John was too astounded to react when she shoved him firmly aside and grabbed the bag of gauze he’d dropped.
She addressed him as she strode down the stairs.
“I certainty hope you bought that vodka, John,” she said. “I think you’ll be needing it more than I.”