Trans-Male Imagines

Sherlock Holmes

A request from 1Focusgirl

Trigger Warnings: Self harm, use of a gun, suicidal themes, homophobic slurs, vomit. Please be safe when reading, I would hate for anyone to be affected by my writings. This is a work of fiction. And as always- (Y/N) is your name, (Y/B/N) is your birth name.

You ascended the steps up to 221B wearily, footfalls dragging in the quiet hallway. Shrugging off your coat at the door, you entered the apartment to find one of your flatmates, Sherlock Holmes, sprawled over the couch as though he would never move again. You didn't doubt that he might not. Your somewhat wild speculations are disproven, however, as he cracks open an eye to look at you as you hang your satchel on the coat-rack.

"You weren't at work, (Y/N)." He says it so casually, so nonchalantly, as though anyone could tell.

"Do enlighten me. How did you know?" you say, only a hint of incredulity left in your voice. He was, after all, still a detective.

"Your coat is creased diagonally across the seam, a kind of pattern that standard office chairs wouldn't produce. You wouldn't have worn your coat at all if you were in the office, anyhow, and due to the marks the buttons have left on your hands and collarbones, you haven't taken it off." He smiles, a little smugly. "Also it's a Friday, and you go to a therapist on Fridays."

Now you are incredulous.

"Where did you learn that?" you exclaim. He 'hmm's in response. You tug down the sleeves of your jumper just a little more, and if he notices (which you're sure he does), he doesn't make a comment. Rather perturbed now, you cast him a wary glance and trudge to your room. You shut your door just as you hear John arrive home from the clinic. You lean against the door and sigh as you can make out John's voice asking where you've gone.

Your weekly trip to the therapist doesn't seem to be making an impact on your life- everything is still dull and bland and monotone. Red is the only colour that seems to make an effect on you; dark red as blood soaks through the cuff of your navy sweater. You choke down a sob and quell your emotions as you roll up your sleeve. A mess of lines in red, pink, and white litter your arm like a Valentine's Day card put through a shredder. You sigh as your internal monologue starts up again. Add another love letter, (Y/B/N). No one else will make you a real one.

You sigh heavily, picking up a small screwdriver from off your desk. You unscrew the bolt holding the blade to your pencil sharpener, and write six more letters- all addressed to you, all signed: Hate, (Y/B/N).

~

You are rudely awoken the next morning by none other than the consulting detective himself, and you rouse yourself enough to bury your arms under your pillow, despite the burn.

"We have a case. Get up." As always, Sherlock's manner is brisk and blunt, and you let out a groan as lights hit your eyes.

"Doesn't John go with you on cases?" you question blearily, rubbing your eyes with your unmarked arm.

"John is otherwise occupied," Sherlock goes on to state. "Hurry up." He breezes out of the room, taking any semblance of composure you had with him. You yawn tiredly, tempted to ignore him entirely, but you decide you'd rather wake up than let Lestrade deal with the detective on his own. You drudge to the bathroom, taking a fast shower, cringing at the sight of yourself in the mirror. Why can't you just look manly? You're too curvy, your face is too round- you cut off the voice with another swipe of your sharpener, bandaging the slices carefully. You throw a shirt on over your binder, and a pair of jeans and your shoes, and are out the door behind Sherlock not twenty minutes later.

~

When you arrived at the scene, you were made to stay outside the building whilst Sherlock conducted a sweep of the body and the evidence, despite both of your protestations that you had been to many a crime scene before. Anderson was put on 'guard dog duty', or so he liked to complain. You fidgeted with your sleeves and stared off into the distance at the mist floating down and coating the trees. Anderson scoffed as he looked down at you.

"Faggot."

You start a little, glancing upwards.

"Excuse me?"

"Everyone knows you only live with Sherlock to get into his pants. It's disgusting, you're just a silly girl. He'd never love anyone. Never you."

You don't here the rest of his self-righteous speech; you turn and flee into the building, ducking under strips of yellow police tape. You'd rather have dead bodies than hear him. You'd rather be the dead body.

You are stopped cold upon entering the room of the crime. Sherlock, and Lestrade are fretting around (well, Lestrade was fretting) what you believe to be a body in the bathtub. Steeling yourself against the coppery smell of blood, you step forward to stand next to Sherlock. You realize then that it may have been a bad decision. You choke as you look at the scene. A man not much older than you lies in the tub, clothes still on and soaked with water. You can see the shadowy outline of a chest binder under his white shirt. There are identical vertical slashes running down his wrists. The water in the tub is red. You feel tears spring to your eyes, and can sense the tingling of vomit the back of your throat.

"Sherlock..." you manage to squeak out. He turns with an inquisitive noise.

"Ah, (Y/N)! I'm glad you're here. Now you can back up to Lestrade that this was clearly a murder, look at his left hand-"

You turn and sprint back outside, even as Sherlock calls after you, even as Anderson jeers from behind you. You pitch yourself behind a geranium shrub as you retch up what little food you ate that morning. You fall to your knees right as Sherlock sprints out of the house, quickly locating you behind the bush.

He folds his arms around you a little awkwardly, and his hand brushes your wrist. You let out a hiss and jerk away from him, dissolving into sobs. Sherlock takes your arm gently, folding up your sleeve. He frowns at the angry red lines. Happy Valentine's...

"I'm so sorry," he begins. "I shouldn't have brought you here, I should have done something before. (Y/N), I'm so sorry." You lean against his chest, tears subsiding, chest aching. He continues, "I know it's hard to stop things that you are addicted to, believe me, I know. But you're going to end up seriously hurt, and, murderer or not, I could not stand to see you end up like the man upstairs." You sniff quietly.

"Thank you, Sherlock," you let out in a sigh. Even now, even after the horrid events in the house, he would not abandon you. Wouldn't let you abandon yourself.

"We're going back to the apartment, and John will bandage you up, and we will find you a new therapist. I care for you, (Y/N). I will not let you end like this."