Sherlock Isn't a Girl's Name (Formerly Some Assembly Required)

Part 8

Sherlock is thirty-three. He's been living with John for three years now, solving crimes and generally annoying the hell out of his flatmate.

He's finding it harder and harder to come out to John.

~~~

''Jesus, Sherlock!'' John exclaims, covering his mouth and nose with his coat. He's just walked into a huge cloud of smoke, no doubt caused by the detective.

Sherlock's almost amused. ''Hello, John.'' He says, more cheery than most people would be with a severed tongue in one hand and a small fire burning on the counter. It almost sounds fake to John.

Strange.

''Have you figured it out yet?'' John asks, opening a window and fanning out the horrid smell of singed human flesh. ''What the murderer's been doing with the tongues?''

Sherlock doesn't answer, apparently absorbed in his work.

John sighs and sits down with a newspaper. Sherlock's been acting weirdly for weeks, even by Sherlock standards. But John rarely gets an answer to his questions, or even more than a greeting or goodbye.

The next day, Sherlock vanishes. Just gone, without a trace. John's slightly worried, but he knows Sherlock. He gives it a day before trying to track his friend down.

John looks everywhere, tries everything. He can't find Sherlock.

Even that high-and-mighty bastard of a brother, Mycroft, is keeping his answers sufficiently vague. John's not getting any information from him.

His next, more logical solution is to ask Lestrade to help.

''Yeah, he's gone off and gotten himself the surgery.'' Greg nods over the phone, momentarily forgetting that John can't see him.

''Surgery?'' John asks, raising his eyebrows.

Lestrade lets out a surprised and slightly confused sound. He's assumed that John already knows.

Apparently he doesn't.

''Ask Sherlock when he gets back.''

John sighs in frustration and relief. At least Greg knows where he is. If John wants more information, he can always try Lestrade. But this surgery worries him. Is Sherlock sick or hurt? John hasn't seen any signs of that.

John hangs up the phone, sitting down in his chair and letting out a long sigh.

Three days later, Sherlock's back.

He's still acting strangely. He refuses to move for cases, though he demands that John bring him things to solve. John's getting worried about the amount of painkillers he's taking. But in a moment when Sherlock's asleep, he notes that they're prescribed to him. Well, Greg did mention surgery.

Sherlock finally gets up. John was getting used to the detective staying in bed all day and all night, but apparently Sherlock decided to change that.

''You're worried.'' John hears near his ear, nearly making him drop his toast.

''Yeah, Sherlock. What the hell have you been doing? Don't tell me it's for a Goddamn murder. I phoned Lestrade. I'm a bloody doctor, tell me next time something like this happens.''

Sherlock seems to shrink a little, like a child being reprimanded by a parent. ''John... there's something I've been meaning to tell you. I've just been unable to.''

Now John's curious. Sherlock is trying his best to not tremble, but John can see it. Sherlock doesn't want to lose him.

''John, I have had a surgery, as Lestrade told you. I've had my breasts removed, and my chest reconstructed into a more typical male shape.''

John takes a moment to process this.

''So you're-''

''Still male. I am a man. I was assigned female at birth.''

''Transgender.''

''Yes.''

John lets out an almost laugh, clearly relieved. ''God, Sherlock. I thought it was something life-threatening.''