BBC Sherlock unfinished fic: Magical sexchange
Another one I found in the depths of the WIPs folder. It’s a shame I’ll never be able to finish it, because I’m pretty fond of this one.
***
Sometimes John is a she, and he doesn’t think it’s that complicated.
“How does it work?” Sherlock asks.
John shrugs. “It just does. Mum says she got cursed by a witch when she was pregnant.”
He smothers a laugh because Sherlock looks horrified. “You don’t really believe that.”
John turns around from the pan of eggs. “Sherlock, I’ve been on this planet for 38 years. I’ve studied medicine. I’ve been all over the world, and I’ve talked to people from all over the world about it. I don’t have a better explanation. Do you?”
Sherlock burrows his head under the sofa cushions for an hour and sulks for three days.
***
John wakes up in the morning, looks down, and decides that today is a lingerie day. She doesn’t always have a rack, and by god it’s looking fabulous today. The girls are getting treated to lace.
Plus, shh it’s a secret, but she loves the way she can feel her shirt rub against her nipples through a lacy bra. There are worse ways to go through life than constantly secretly turned on.
After she’s dressed–if she’s going to break out the expensive underthings then it’d be a shame to waste it with a high-cut neckline and frumpy trousers–she walks out and bruises her nose on Sherlock.
“You are not wearing that.”
“You what?” John pushes him to the side. If the clot’s going to stand there like a door, he gets treated as one. “Was there a bit in the lease I missed about you getting to dictate how I dress?”
“I can see your nipples. We have a case, John. They’re all going to stare and they’re useless enough when they aren’t distracted.”
She cocks her head and looks up at him for a good minute, till she can see he’s thinking about fidgeting. And then she smiles. “Oh, Sherlock. You’ve never seen how fast a lad can move when he’s motivated.”
With the right smile and a roll of hip, lads can move very fast indeed.
But the best thing is, as Sherlock crows over Chinese after, “They looked so confused! I think you’ve given half the force a sexuality crisis, John.”
“Yeah, well.” John grins around a mouthful of rice. “They’re good for the soul. Everybody should have one at some point.”
Sherlock chuckles and steals one of her mushrooms.
***
John’d had his share, after all.
Mum claimed John had been born with a penis. He wasn’t sure how much that counted for, but since he’d spent the formative pre-pubescent years of his life being dressed and treated as a boy, he tended to think of it as his default state.
It wasn’t till puberty that it’d seemed to matter. And then that…well. That’d been rough. Sometimes there’d been tits (probably for quite some time before they’d got large enough to notice). Sometimes there’d been a cock. Some days there’d been tits and a cock. And for a while John had tried to just be a boy and get on with things regardless.
What’d put the kibosh on that hadn’t been the periods, or even the tits, which had ended up pretty attention-grabbingly spectacular if John did say so.
It’d been one of John’s girlfriends.
***
“How do you know?” Sherlock asked one day, lying on his back on the floor.
John looked down at him. “Know what?”
“Which you are on any given day?” He flapped a hand. “You haven’t got a penis in your pants today, but you’re still a him.”
John closed his laptop and put it on the side table, ignoring the blush on his own face. “Well, how do you know?”
“It’s in the way you carry yourself.”
“No, not me. How do you know what you are?” John sat forward, elbows on knees, and twiddled a finger in the general direction of Sherlock’s lower half–still ignoring his blush. “If your, ehm, penis,” he could be an adult about this, he was a doctor, he talked about this all the time with grown-up words and all, “hopped off and went away suddenly, would you stop being a him?”
***
Sherlock frowned down at him. “Come on, John, you have to get up.”
“No.” John curled up tighter and hugged the pillow as Sherlock tried to pull it away. “I’m on my period. I don’t have to fucking do anything.”
“You don’t even have a uterus!” Sherlock snapped, and wrenched hard enough to de-cushion him.
“I was on my period yesterday, and if I wake up with a uterus tomorrow, I’ll be on it tomorrow.” He stood up, took the pillow back, hit Sherlock with it and then tossed it onto the sofa while he headed into the kitchen. “You’ve got no damned idea what an intermittent uterus does to my lower back, so sod off.”
“Why don’t you have it removed?”
John spun around. “Because it’s my uterus! Do you go cutting bits off just because they’re inconvenient to you?”
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