A Man .

chapter 2

I guess that's where it started,  wearing it every day, Mummy didn't approve, I didn't tell her exactly what it was that had changed but something had.

She said I was wearing clothes that made me look flat, that I was dressing like a boy.

The final straw was when I was in my room and took scissors to my hair and black hair dye to the ginger curls and left the room, hood drawn up and tight, my hair left in the bin upstairs,  scissors on the side.

It wasn't intentional.

I wanted to see if I would feel better, i wanted to fix myself, but once I started I didn't want to stop. This hatred of my shape and look just grew.

It wasn't until I left school, left home, finished uni and started working with the police, my first encounter with lestrade when he asked me my name and age.

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes"

A name on the spot, sherlock my birth name and holmes my forever surname, followed by my dead fathers names. 

It was then I realised Mummy was wrong.

She didn't have a girl and a boy.
She had two sons.

But I'd been in denial and so had She. Unwilling to believe I would sin in the way I had by doing something so tragic and against everything she believed. 

*timeskip to current day but now I'll tell you the story as your narrator*

John Watson woke to the sound of whimpering, a pained noise escaping from the downstairs bedroom. Curious and concerned the doctor headed down to the bedroom to check on his friend, the one and only Sherlock Holmes.

Opening the door gently having not received an answer to his knock to see the young man lying tangled in his sheets, a spot of red on the sheets of the mattress.

"Sher-?" The doctor started uncertain befire he went towards the bed before realising what was going on.  The stupid git had yet again forgot his testosterone shot and in the process was now menstruating because of it.

John decided not to wake him and instead went to the bathroom through the adjoined door after locking the detectives bedroom door and began running the bath, adding some bath salts and making sure the water was just the safe side of too hot befire getting some fresh pyjamas laid out and some paracetamol popped out just in case before going back to fetch his friend.

"Sherlock, can you wake up for me, sherl" John whispered quietly as his friend began to stir.

With blinking eyes his friend sat up with a groan and looked around before registering the situation he was in, realisation dawning like a sharp knife.

"Joh-"

"Shh no stop thinking, I've run you a bath, I'll get this cleaned up, I just want you to hop in the bath for me alright, that's all I'm asking"

Nodding dumbly the detective got up on shaky legs barely remembering the journey as he stripped and dropped slowly into the bath, his body aching and hidden beneath the water , unable to see his chest below the bubbles.

John in the meantime, stripped the bedsheets and got softer ones out, fleece lined for the winter and put the others to wash.

Making sure it was all comfortable and everything was arranged including a fresh cuppa on the side, John left the room leaving sherlock to regain his dignity and exit the bathroom without feeling like he was being watched.

Exiting the bathroom and pulling the pyjamas on , shocked to see pads in place hidden amongst his briefs before pulling out his binder , unlike his first one this one fitted him perfectly and pulled his chest flat making it look almost masculine despite the mild ache in his ribs. Finally he pulled a tshirt over his head before wrapping the thick warm duvet around himself and headed to the lounge, his curiosity of how John could possibly know being more important than his lack of dignity.

How could John know?