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
John poured cold vodka into two shot glasses and placed them on the coffee table.
And waited. And then waited some more.
His knee bounced in agitation as he listened to the woman rummaging around Sherlock’s bedroom. Hearing her going through Sherlock’s dresser drawers and ripping through the closet made it difficult for him to keep his thoughts in one place. He knew enough to assume that Sherlock wouldn’t have brought a woman home, gotten her naked and given her his robe. Even if Sherlock was remotely interested, he wouldn’t be, well, remotely interested. Maybe he took her here to hide her from someone?
“Miss?” John tried. “Everything okay in there?”
“It’s fine,” another drawer slammed closed. “Just drink.”
John drained his shot and poured himself a new one. He’d collected all the small paper messages, and shuffled them like cards in one hand. Go Away. Now. Leave things. Go take a holiday. Sherlock had been here, and definitely before he sent John shopping because John had come to recognize the man’s careful script anywhere. Rubbing at his temples he felt the start of a sharp headache. Drinking more seemed to help.
“Miss! Oh. Yes. Hello.”
She had reappeared in the doorway wearing a little more than she had been. Under the robe were one of Sherlock’s T-shirts and some pajama bottoms that seemed to fit her perfectly. John felt a twinge of annoyance at her feeling so comfortable with Sherlock’s belongings. Not to mention John's own name.
And she was staring at him again.
John wanted to say she was a beautiful woman but that wasn’t really quite the right word. Short hair, far too slender for her height, lots of angles where there should have been curves. It was sort of like the time he’d seen a runway model in actual life and not amongst her own kind. Very startling and note worthy, but not very real.
“All done?” she asked.
“Drinking? John ventured. “No, not at all.”
Taking a seat opposite him on the sofa, she took her shot and downed it. That immediately was followed by a fit of coughing that wracked her entire body, but it wasn’t from the drink. John could see the faint flush of fever in her pale cheeks. John also noted the trembling in her hands. In fact, her entire body. How stiffly she sat. A hand kept going to her shoulder. Her stomach. Her upper left arm.
“Are you okay?”
She dug briefly into the sofa cushions and brought out a crumpled pack of cigarettes. Where the hell had that come from? Pulling one into her mouth, her eyes fluttered closed in relief.
Eyes still closed, she held out her hand.
Oh. Matches. John fetched them from the kitchen and dropped them into her waiting hand. Her blood stained hand. He thought about the blood and he wondered why he was sitting here with a bottle of vodka and not on his phone. The stuff sure was going right to his head.
“You seem to know my name,” John said. “But I’m also a doctor. If you are injured I could-”
“John,” she interrupted. “I need you to really look at me.”
“No, not like that,” she flicked her hand dismissively, cigarette smoke curling lazily around her face. “I mean really look at me.”
“Why don’t we start with your name?” John suggested. “And where did Sherlock go? I know he was here. Here with you.”
“Well, you aren’t half wrong,” she held out her glass to be refilled. “But still, as usual, mostly and completely off.”
“Look, this isn’t going to be a conclusion you will leap to on your own,” she said. “This is going to take a bit of… faith on your part.”
“Did you hire him?”
“Are you some friend of Mycroft’s?”
“All I want to know is," he felt his voice rising but he couldn't help it. "Who are you and what is this about!”
She met his determined look and all but shrank back into the sofa, her delicate features shifting to apprehension. It was a tired expression, so weary and pained that John swallowed back a lump in his throat. He hadn’t meant to sound so angry. Head down, she dropped her cigarette into the shot glass and drew her shaking hands into her lap.
“I shouldn’t have come back here,” she said quietly to herself. “It was a mistake.”
The lost look was suddenly replaced with resolution, as if some decision had been made.
“Yes, you are?”
“I’m very late.”
“I’m sorry,“ John cleared his throat. “Did you say late?”
“Yes, I’m very late. I should go,” she stumbled hurriedly to a stand, her voice getting louder as she started to speak faster. “I’ll contact Sherlock later. He’ll sort this all out. I’m very sorry to have disturbed you. Very sorry. I won't bother you again.”
John drank right from the bottle this time.
“I’ll just uh, I will get dressed and go on my way,” she smiled shortly. “Won’t be a minute.”
When she came back out she was in one of Sherlock’s suits and white shirts. Both of which, like the robe, fit her almost as well as the man who owned them. Even the shoes. His head buzzing slightly John thought about rephrasing ‘not quite beautiful’ to ‘oddly elegant’. Then he thought ‘haughty’ and then he started laughing to himself because his buzz was starting to be a full on drunk.
“He said I could have it,” she quickly explained. “Borrow it, I mean.”
“Pay attention, John,” she sniffed. “The clothes?”
John severely doubted Sherlock did any such thing but he didn’t feel like pushing the issue. He just wanted this bizarre woman out of here. He didn’t want her to be witness to the meltdown he was going to have when Sherlock dragged his half frozen carcass back home and tried to explain away why he liked to drive John utterly insane.
The woman hesitated at the top of the stairs.
John followed her gaze as it went forlornly to Sherlock’s black coat hanging by the door. It occurred to him that when Sherlock had left, that meant he’d left without his coat into the freezing rain. Fantastic. But then that lead him to realize she was about to leave without putting on a coat of her own. Looking around, John hadn’t remembered seeing an extra one laying around anywhere. The sound of the sleet hitting the window made him shiver.
“Don’t you have a coat?”
“It’s… it’s in my car.”
"Well," he managed a smile. “Hope it‘s not far.”
He shut the door, listening to her walk down the steps and trying hard to stifle her cough. But something made him open the door one last time to make sure she’d actually left.
She’d stolen the bloody boots.