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holmesticeTitle: The Case Of The Severed Foot
Recipient:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
innie_darling
Author:buttsnax
Characters/Pairings: Female!Sherlock/John, Sherlock/John
Rating: R
Warnings: violence, drug use, cats
Summary: A series of gruesome murders has London in terror, and it's up to Sherlock to find the killer, this time without John's help.
“No obvious sign of entry,” Sherlock observed as he scanned the window of the motel room where they’d discovered the body. Well, part of the body, anyway. The maid cleaning the room happened upon a severed foot in the bathtub, adding to the growing list of organs and appendages found scattered across London’s seediest motels: a hand in a dresser drawer, a heart floating in a toilet tank, a torso stuffed under a mattress. It seemed likely they were due for a head soon.
“It seems likely we’re due for a head soon,” said Lestrade nervously. He stood at the door, arms folded over his chest. This case had him tense--he was used to dealing with whole victims, not pieces of them. That in combination with his divorce proceedings had aged him considerably. Sherlock noted that for the past six months Lestrade had been covering up some white spots that had appeared along his hairline. He found a receipt for temporary coloring in Lestrade’s wallet during one of his pickpocketing games. He’d also found a small pamphlet entitled “How To Dismember A Corpse Without Getting Caught,” but he didn’t think anything of it.
Sherlock approached the tub where the severed part was found. The bathroom was spotless, indicating that the killer had murdered the victim before sawing off their foot and delivering it to the site.
With a gloved hand he picked up the foot and sniffed it lightly. “Interesting.”
Lestrade sighed. “Can you confirm it’s the Rag Doll Killer?”
“I can confirm athlete’s foot,” said Sherlock. He paused to place the appendage in an evidence bag. “Dismembered victim with no sign of struggle fits his M.O., so I can see why you’d think it’s him.”
He handed the bag to Lestrade, whose face twitched in disgust. The inspector took it but said nothing.
Sherlock strode to the window facing the street. “With each of the previous victims, though the scene appeared to have no signs of entry, each window sill was scarred with the telltale scratches of a grappling hook—a detail that was never released to the public.” He made his way to where Lestrade was standing and leaned his head out the door to peer across the corridor. “That’s not the case here. The killer came through the door, presumably while the maid was fetching extra towels, before dropping off our friend here--“ Sherlock indicated to the bag in Lestrade’s hands—“and making his escape down the hall.”
Lestrade frowned. “You think we’re dealing with a copycat killer?”
“At first I thought that perhaps our Rag Doll Killer had changed his tactics as this window wouldn’t be able accommodate a hook,” continued Sherlock. “But after examining the foot I realized—can I help you?”
A young woman in a crime scene jumpsuit suddenly appeared in the doorway behind Lestrade.
The woman pushed past the startled inspector and stepped into the room.
“You’re him, aren’t you?” she asked. “You’re Sherlock Holmes.”
“Oh good, I have a fan,” said Sherlock dryly, though secretly the attention pleased him. John hadn’t been accompanying Sherlock to investigations nearly as often after his latest breakup, this time with some woman named Marla he’d met in reception at his therapist’s office. As if that boded well. Sherlock refused to take responsibility for the demise of their relationship. (Though he did distinctly remember her saying “I’m leaving John because of you, Sherlock” as she walked out the door; she may have also muttered the words “severe co-dependency issues,” but that was neither here nor there.)
John was really quite immature about the whole thing, insisting on “setting boundaries” and “asking for space” and “needing to use the bathroom alone this time.” They weren’t even allowed to sleep in the same bed anymore—what was up with that?
With John absent on most cases, it meant Sherlock wasn’t being complimented for his brilliance when he made accurate deductions. His ego needed stroking—or at least some heavy petting.
“No, not a fan,” the woman said, stepping closer. Her face was mousy, like Molly’s, only one eye was slightly higher than the other, giving her the appearance of a Picasso painting. “Just an observer. I’ve noticed you don’t treat women well. ”
“That’s not true,” said Sherlock, thinking of his landlady. “I really love Mrs. Huh--ah, er. Hmm. I can’t think of her name right now, but she’s this old woman who lives with me and makes me tea. She’s great.”
The woman’s eye--the higher one, not the lower one--twitched, and within half a second she’d launched herself at Sherlock, pulling his arm up to her mouth and digging her teeth into his bicep. Sherlock screamed like a little girl--which he would later find ironic--and ripped his attacker off of him. She staggered backward before shoving past a bewildered Lestrade, and disappeared from view.
“Well that was startling and unfortunate,” Lestrade said after he recovered from shock. “But don’t worry; I’m sure this incident won’t dramatically change your life in any way.”
“What the hell?!” yelled Sherlock, who had failed to deduce this would happen. He clutched his arm to his chest as blood spilled from his wound. Lestrade called in an officer who immediately began searching the inspector for injuries.
“Not me,” said Lestrade, brushing away the officer’s hands. He nodded toward Sherlock. “Him.”
Sherlock looked at Lestrade accusingly. “Why didn’t you do anything to stop her?” he demanded. The officer approached him. “You better not bite me too,” he said bitterly, reluctantly surrendering his arm for cleaning and bandaging.
Lestrade held up the evidence bag in his hand. “I was holding a foot. What did you want me to do? Hit her with it? You know striking a woman with a severed foot constitutes a felony under the Dismembered Limbs Aggression Act of 1941. That’s how I lost my first wife.”
He stared off into space, his eyes moistening.“I miss her so much,” he whispered.
Sherlock winced as the officer wiped his wound with an alcohol-soaked towelette. “Yes, but hitting a woman under such circumstances isn’t illegal if done in self-defense.”
Lestrade shrugged. “I didn’t think her actions justified it.”
The officer finished wrapping the last bandage on Sherlock’s arm. “That should do it,” she said. “I’ve stopped the bleeding but you really should see a gynecologist. Just in case.” That should have been a tip off that something peculiar was about to happen, but Sherlock wasn’t listening, smug in his confidence that nothing a woman had to say mattered.
When they reached the parking lot, Lestrade turned to Sherlock and cleared his throat.
“I’ll have an officer take you to the emergency room.” He handed Sherlock £20. “And the cab home is on me.”
A police vehicle pulled up. Lestrade opened the door so Sherlock could crawl into the front seat. He snapped in his seatbelt with his good arm, holding the injured one to his chest protectively. He could feel the area tingling under his bandages. It wasn’t so much a painful sensation, but more as though the muscles underneath his skin were molting. Weird.
Before closing the door Lestrade stuck his head into the car.
“Say, why don’t you take the rest of the week off.” Lestrade cracked a smile. “That woman took a real bite out of you. You need time to recover.”
Sherlock didn’t fail to notice the inspector’s pun. “Oh come on, you really think a small fleshwound is going to put me out of commission?” he replied, smirking. “I’m fine.”
Lestrade shook his head. “Look, we don’t even pay you. Just . . . go away for a while. Take a vacation. Maybe even conveniently move to another city or something. You’ve done enough.” He slammed the door shut and turned back to the motel, his coat, his coat catching the air. Sherlock watched him shrink from view as the officer drove them from the crime scene.
Once in the emergency room, it didn’t take long for the R.N. to see him—must have been a slow day. He was sent him home with a two-week course of strong antibiotics and a week’s worth of codeine for the pain. A pretty good haul all things considered. Sherlock didn’t think he’d be prescribed codeine given his history of insatiable drug use, but then he’d lied about the pain. He’d also claimed he was bitten by a shark, though he didn’t think they bought that story.
The cab ride home gave him time to think. He had quite a few deductive thoughts on the events that had transpired at the crime scene, and possibly inductive thoughts as well. By the time he arrived at his apartment he had at least three fully formed theories and twelve less solid alternative hypotheses that could explain exactly why things had happened the way they happened. Unfortunately for Sherlock, they were all incorrect.
He opened the door to his apartment and was immediately greeted by the faint odor of cat urine.
“Mew,” said a cat, rubbing itself against his leg. Sherlock nudged it out of the way with his foot.
“Really, John?” Sherlock called out. “Another one? I thought we agreed six cats was the limit.”
Since his breakup with Marla, John had discovered a need for feline companionship, trading in one figurative form of pussy for another. He’d taken to acquiring cats the way Sherlock acquired drug habits, picking them up in dark alleys or sometimes even through theft. It was bad enough that John had asked for space. Now Sherlock couldn’t even enjoy his favorite reading chair without inhaling the fur of the last cat that sat on it. His experiments had been knocked over, his books gnawed on; he’d even found a small fecal deposit at the foot of his bed once. After enduring John’s cats for almost two months now, Sherlock was ready to strangle the next one that crossed him.
“You won’t believe what Bubbles did today,” said John when he saw Sherlock enter the common room. He was lounging on their couch, wrapped in a yellow paw-print sweater. Two cats occupied his lap, each claiming one thigh. The daytime soap “As The World Purrs” quietly played in the background.
Sherlock raised his injured arm to forestall him. “I’ve had a bad day,” he said through a sigh. “I don’t feel well.”
John sat up, dislodging a cat, which yelped and ran into the kitchen. “What happened to your arm?” he asked, concerned.
“It’s nothing,” said Sherlock as he headed upstairs to his room. John scrambled after him.
“Wait, Sherlock, you can’t just—“
Sherlock closed his door, then opened it again to eject a cat that had fallen asleep on his pillow. He could hear John comforting the dejected feline outside his room, but didn’t care.
Sherlock hadn’t been lying--he really did feel awful. Since leaving the hospital the pain in his arm had increased tenfold. He dug through his nightstand and found a baggie of white powder. He needed a fix.
A combination of cocaine and prescription pain meds would do the trick. Some weed would have been nice too but one of John’s damn cats had discovered his stash and made a quick meal of it earlier that week. He’d discovered the digested remains inside one of his slippers.
He swallowed six codeine pills and snorted a few lines right off the bedside table before falling back onto his mattress. The cocaine buzzed pleasantly through his skin. Soon the codeine would take effect and he’d be able to think.
He heard knocking at the door but ignored it. John said something about one of his cats—something about how Bubbles had learned to read. Sherlock wasn’t really listening; cats were one of those things he didn’t understand, like women and cupcakes. Why would you want your cakes to be smaller?
Eventually the knocking subsided; John must have given up. Good.
The pain in his arm was beginning to fade. He could now focus on untangling the events of the day. He closed his eyes as his mind wandered back to the crime scene. Why had that woman bitten him? How long had she been observing him? Was it related to menstruation? Sherlock was relatively certain women did that.
The questions confounded him, but he had to understand.
***
“Who’s a pretty princess?” asked John as he scratched his cat’s chin. “Who’s a pretty princess?”
He held Queen Purr-Purr V up to his face and nuzzled her belly. Queens Purr-Purr I, II and II had been poisoned by some angry neighbors, and Queen Purr-Purr IV disappeared mysteriously less than twenty-four hours after being taken home, god bless her soul.
Queen Purr-Purr V--a grey tabby with a broad face--did not purr as her name would suggest, but did tolerate affection.
“Mew,” said Snapdragon, pawing at John’s leg.
Snapdragon was by the far the friendliest of John’s cats. He was a fat Maine Coon who loved belly rubs and cannabis, as John found out when he discovered Snapdragon scarfing down some Purple Kush in Sherlock’s bedroom. Sherlock hadn’t been too happy about that, but maybe he shouldn’t have left an open bag of the stuff on his desk.
John set Queen Purr-Purr V down on a couch cushion to make room for the tom.
“I hope Sherlock’s alright,” John thought aloud as Snapdragon nestled into his lap.
“Murrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr,” Snapdragon rumbled contently. The Queen began biting an itch on her backside.
“He’s been in his room for a few hours now, and it’s far too early for him to nod off.” Why wouldn’t Sherlock tell him what had happened?
John sighed. “He’s acted like a total arse since I requested a break from casework. After what happened with Marla, what does he expect?” It was bad enough that Sherlock had walked in on them having sex. When he then told Marla, “John likes it when you tug his nipples,” she flipped out, and rightly so. John was heterosexual, though he did share an unusual closeness with his roommate that occasionally involved platonic spooning and lingering, non-romantic blowjobs. You know--the stuff best friends do.
Still, John was unhappy with the current state of things. He wanted to date, but meeting a woman Sherlock could tolerate was proving to be a difficult, if not impossible task.
He’d really liked Marla—she was the one who suggested he get a cat, which turned into two, then six, and now seven, with Sherlock Jr. (John hadn’t told Sherlock he’d name the cat after him yet; he still wanted Sherlock to think he was mad at him).
Since becoming a cat owner he’d learned so much about this amazing species. Who knew that the common housecat could travel at speeds of up to 49 kilometers-per-hour for short bursts of time?
John bit his lip. “I don’t know, maybe this whole requesting space thing wasn’t such a great idea. What do you guys think?”
Snapdragon said nothing but instead pounced off of John’s lap. By that time Queen Purr-Purr V had already left the room.
John looked over at Maverick and Goose, who continued to sleep curled up together on a recliner on the far side of the room. They must not have heard him. It didn’t matter--those two weren’t very good at giving relationship advice, anyway.
He heard a door open, and the light pitter-patter of footsteps coming down the stairs. As he was currently unburned by a feline--a rare state for him these days--he got up and headed to the base of the stairwell.
“You okay?” he called out, peering up.
Oh.
A young woman with dark hair stumbled down the steps, dressed in the shirt he’d seen Sherlock wearing earlier.
John hadn’t expected this.
“M’fine,” she mumbled. Her foot landed on a step that wasn’t there and she tumbled to her knees. John’s military reflexes kicked in and he dashed up the stairs to catch her. She fell into his arms, nearly knocking him backward, but he found his footing before a serious accident could occur.
“Okay, mebbe not so fffine,” she said, eyes half-lidded. John could see she was in her mid-thirties, with ivory skin and strong cheekbones. He glanced down and noted that she was—gulp--most definitely not wearing any pants.
This would be an awkward time to get an erection, John thought as he got an erection.
There was just something about her face, though. She looked so familiar and yet John was quite sure he’d never seen her before. He felt a strong urge to befriend her and begin solving crimes together—but he already had a friend he did that with.
Bubbles came trotting down the stairs and began sniffing the woman’s ankles.
“Not now,” said John, sticking his foot in Bubbles face to deter him. Bubbles begrudgingly trotted down the stairs, later expressing his displeasure in the form of a steaming cat turd on John’s comforter.
The woman laughed, and John could have sworn he’d met her somewhere before. “Nnncats,” she said, dazed.
“They’re rather unpredictable at times,” John replied awkwardly, studying her face. Realizing he was being rude, he quickly added, “I, ah--I don’t think we’ve met before. I’m John.”
She stepped free of John’s arms, only to lose her balance once again and fall to the floor.
“Maybe standing isn’t a good idea just yet,” said John, helping her back up. “Why don’t you sit down, uh, miss . . .?
“Sherl . . . oh, hi Mizz Hudson,” the woman said as John’s landlady entered the room with a tray of biscuits. Mrs. Hudson’s face went white, then red as she saw the woman’s state of undress. She mumbled something about needing to grab a shirt from the laundry and disappeared into another room. John would have to explain this all to her soon, but now wasn’t the time. It also wasn’t the time to explain that a cat was capable of jumping up to five times its own height.
John guided the woman over to the couch. “Cheryl, was it? Well, nice to meet you, Cheryl. I’m a doctor, and I’m going to ask you some questions, okay?”
Upon examining her it became clear Cheryl was high on some combination of intoxicants, one of which was definitely cocaine, though coke usually didn’t cause this kind of incoherency. He noticed she was wearing several nicotine patches.
Strange. The only other person he knew who wore that many was Sherlock. He hadn’t realized they were that popular.
Other than her apparent intoxication, the woman seemed to be in good condition. Physically she was beautiful, slender but strong—he could feel the muscles in her shoulder when he caught her on the stairwell. They reminded him of how a cat’s purr was caused by vibrations within its larynx, where a muscle opens and closes the air passages twenty-five times per second. Cheryl’s face was a striking blend of features that on another woman might have been unattractive, but on Cheryl seemed to fit just right.
Perhaps she was a model of some sort. That would explain why John had found her so familiar.
The bigger question remained, though. What the hell was she doing coming out of Sherlock’s room? He hoped Sherlock wasn’t doing some sort of experiment on her. He usually reserved those activities for John. Could she have been a lover? Sherlock hadn’t expressed much interest in the fairer sex before, but anything was possible.
He cleared his throat.
“So, uh,” he continued. “How do you know Sherlock? Are you two, uh, seeing each other?”
The woman shook her head and tried to stand up. “No girlfriend,” she said, swaying slightly. “No time for women.” She sounded bitter.
Ah. So she was dating Sherlock—or at least sleeping with him.
John tried to imagine what Sherlock having sex with a woman might look like, but stopped when he saw Cheryl’s face. She looked so unhappy. Sherlock probably treated her terribly. He was so bad with women.
John’s heart swelled with compassion. He decided to comfort her.
“Hey,” he said, placing a consoling hand on Cheryl’s shoulder to steady her. “I understand. It’s difficult, trying to be with a man like that.” The statement came from personal experience. “He can be callous, but underneath he means well.” Also, his penis isn’t covered with one-hundred-twenty to one-hundred-fifty backward-pointing barbs like a cat’s. It was probably better that he didn’t say that part aloud.
Cheryl swayed forward and John caught her again.
This time though, their eyes locked, and after a tense few seconds, Cheryl leaned in and kissed him. It was completely unexpected, and definitely inappropriate considering the situation. John should have ended the kiss immediately, but Cheryl’s lips were soft and inviting, like the extremely fine fur of a Cornish Rex: the softest breed of cat. If Mrs. Hudson didn’t think they were fooling around before she would certainly think so now.
He came to his senses as he felt a tongue enter his mouth and pulled away. Cheryl froze, then mumbled, “I feel sick.” She bent over and heaved onto the floor, her vomit splashing John’s shoes.
“Shit,” said John as he propped her back onto the couch. “Uh, look, you clearly aren’t well. Maybe you should just lie down for a while. I can make you some warm tea.”
He returned shortly with a steaming mug and noticed she was looking around.
“Home,” said Cheryl softly.
“You want to go home?” asked John, surprised. He scratched his head. “Well, if you really do think you’re okay to leave, I’ll call you a taxi. Shouldn’t take too long for it to get here.”
Cheryl said nothing, so he assumed that meant yes. She seemed to be in a trance, staring at a book on the coffee table while twiddling her fingers. She must have picked that habit up from Sherlock. God, John couldn’t believe his roommate would leave a woman alone in such a state. This was completely out-of-character, even for him.
John would have to have a talk with him later. Sherlock may have never had a girlfriend before, but it didn’t excuse how irresponsible this was.
The taxi arrived within twenty minutes. As he helped Cheryl into the cab, she looked up at him and smiled. He found himself smiling back, mesmerized. It felt like they’d known each other for years. He wanted to grab her and kiss her again, but resisted. It was bad enough that he allowed it the first time; he needed to stay in control. Cheryl wasn’t in any position to consent to such things. Plus, she probably tasted like vomit now.
“That should cover it,” he said as he handed the cabbie £15, plus an extra £10 for good measure. There was a phone number listed in the note’s bottom corner. “And that’s my cell. If she looks like she’s having trouble getting into her place give me a call.” Hopefully someone would be there when she arrived home.
The cabbie nodded and John watched them drive off, realizing that he’d forgotten to get Cheryl’s number. He was dying to learn more about this mysterious woman—how she met Sherlock, what she did for a living. He wanted to know anything and everything there was to know about her. He had to.
John marched back inside the house and up the stairs to interrogate his roommate, but the consulting detective was nowhere in sight.
***
Some hours later, Sherlock woke up.
Using his keen mental powers, the first thing he noticed was that he was curled up inside a soggy cardboard refrigerator box. Okay. Probably not a good sign, but certainly not the first time that had happened.
The second thing he noticed was his breasts. He was pretty sure those were new.
“Shit,” he muttered.
He—she—poked her head out of the box, only to find that the deserted alleyway she’d apparently slept in was not a significant improvement to her current surroundings.
Sherlock took a quick mental inventory--shirt, underwear, box that smelled of urine, surprise vagina. Not a lot to go on, she thought, but at least she had enough clothes on to avoid being charged with public indecency.
The last thing she remembered was inhaling a cocktail of cocaine and pharmaceuticals, then laying down on her bed. In all Sherlock’s years of using, no one ever mentioned spontaneous sex change as a side effect. Her left arm throbbed, and she suddenly recalled being bitten by a strange woman recently, but immediately dismissed the incident as irrelevant.
Searching the box, she found several razor blades, a jar full of what looked to be urine, a tin can full of change, and a baggie with about half a gram of hash. Cool.
She pocketed the hash and sorted through the coins. £2.42--that would be plenty. She crawled out of the box to further assess the situation.
It was morning, and the spray of sunlight on her face made her head throb. This hangover was nastier than usual. Judging by the smells wafting in from a nearby restaurant and the particular ironwork of the streetlights overhead, Sherlock quickly worked out that she was somewhere just outside of West End. She made her way through the area, careful to take less-travelled cross streets to the nearest phonebooth.
She inserted some coins into the pay slot and immediately dialed Lestrade’s cell. The phone rang and rang, but no one picked up.
C’mon, thought Sherlock. Answer your damn phone.
“You’ve reached the voicemail of Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade. I’m not available at the moment, but I can tell you it’s definitely not because I’m out dismembering prostitutes or anything. Leave me a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”
“Damnit,” Sherlock said, slamming the phone back on the hook. It then dawned on her that it might have been for the best that Lestrade hadn’t picked up; this was the kind of situation that called for a feminine touch. She dropped in some more coins and dialed the number of the first woman she could think of.
“Hello?” said the voice on the other end of the line.
“Molly, thank god,” said Sherlock, relieved. “I didn’t think you would pick up. Look, I need your help.” It was strange. Even though she sounded entirely different, Sherlock still recognized her own voice.
“Who is this?” asked Molly.
“Oh, right.” Sherlock leaned against the booth. “It’s Sherlock. So, I’m kind of—well, no, I’m definitely—a woman now. Yes, it’s gross, I know.”
Sherlock picked at her shirt and noticed it had a smell. “Oh, and I’m half-nude, covered in what I believe to be hobo piss, and very hungover. Please come get me.”
She heard Molly take a deep breath.
“Um,” Molly said when Sherlock was finished. “Wow. That’s, uh, quite an announcement. Actually, I shouldn’t be that surprised, given what happened at the crime scene yesterday.”
“Wait,” said Sherlock, suddenly confused. “What does that have to do with anything? And how do you know what happened?”
“Lestrade told me,” said Molly as though the two of them were best friends. “Anyway, it makes sense that you’re a woman now.”
“It does?” asked the master detective.
“Well, tonight’s going to be a full moon,” Molly replied matter-of-fact.
“I-I don’t understand,” said Sherlock, who didn’t understand. An older woman carrying a small child walked past and gave Sherlock a dirty look, probably because of the pants thing.
“Sorry, I thought you knew,” said Molly. “When a woman bites someone, that person becomes a werewoman. So now whenever there’s a full moon you’ll turn into one of us.”
Sherlock was speechless.
Molly continued. “I mean, it should have been obvious. They teach this in grade school to little kids.”
“That . . . doesn’t seem scientifically sound,” Sherlock managed.
“Oh, it makes perfect sense if you think about it,” said Molly. “You know, what with chromosomes and DNA things. Or are you really so oblivious to women that this is new to you?” She heard Molly sigh through the phone. “Wait, what am I saying? Of course you are. You’re a serial misogynist.”
Nothing made sense. Sherlock’s head throbbed with the thought of it all. Yes, she occasionally mistook women for household objects. And sure, she had on multiple occasions taken her dirty laundry down to the women’s shelter. But to be cursed to become a woman as punishment? It was too cruel.
“Look, it’s bad enough that I’m in this situation. You don’t need to make it worse.” Sherlock swallowed both her pride and a fly that had flown into her mouth while she was passed out. “Molly, I need you. Will you help me figure this out? Please?”
Molly was silent for a moment, then sighed.
“Okay, I guess I’ll help you. Tell me where you are so I can come pick you up.”
“Thanks,” said Sherlock, who was maybe even almost grateful. She gave Molly the nearest cross street. “Oh, and could you bring some pants with you? I guess they must have gotten lost somewhere without my massive penis to hold them up. Honestly I don’t know how women—hello?”
Molly had hung up. Figured. Sherlock shielded herself behind a dumpster and waited for her friend to arrive.
***
John stared at the front door to their apartment, hoping Cheryl would somehow return to thank him for taking care of her the night before. He knew it was unlikely, but he had to see her again. He couldn’t even think of worrying about where Sherlock had gone. Since their first meeting John had become more and more certain that he and Cheryl were destined for each other. The only other person in the world he’d had that kind of intense connection with was Sherlock, but unfortunately for John their genitals were more or less incompatible for long-term mating.
Kissing Cheryl was electrifying. It was something he wanted to do again and again, if he got the chance. But he had to find her first.
“I wonder what I should do,” said John before taking a sip of his tea. He worried Cheryl may have been a one-night stand for Sherlock. If that was the case, it’s possible he wouldn’t see her again. The thought had his chest in a vice grip.
“Mew,” said Todd encouragingly. Todd was John’s Norwegian Forest Cat. Despite his sturdy body, which was slightly longer than the feline average of forty-six centimeters, Todd had a limp, a common ailment for that breed as it was prone to suffering from hip dysplasia.
After several hours of deep contemplation, interspersed with tummy rubs, feedings, treats, chase the mousey, and one instance of scolding and hairball clean-up, John decided to utilize the power of the internet.
He pulled his laptop out and typed in the URL for Craigslist, making sure it was set to the London residential neighborhood where he and Sherlock resided. He clicked on the “personals” section and began to craft his note.
(Click for full-size)
“There,” said John, after hitting the submit button. “God, I hope she finds this.”
“Murr,” said Sherlock Jr., John’s finicky Tonkinese, who was unimpressed by John’s efforts. Sherlock Jr. really wanted to lay on John’s laptop, but John kept shooing him away.
“You’re right,” John said, nodding. “I need to get out there and be proactive.”
He stood up and grabbed his coat. “It’s time to hit the streets.”
***
“Great, you’re here,” Sherlock said as she climbed into Molly’s sedan. “Tell me everything you know about women.”
“Uh, that’s a lot of ground to cover in one car ride,” Molly said, pulling out of the backstreet where Sherlock had been hiding. “Also: where are we going?” She glanced over at Sherlock’s face. “You know, I didn’t think you’d look good as a woman, but you actually turned out really pretty.”
“What does it matter,” moaned Sherlock dramatically. “I was a golden god before that damn woman gnawed on me. I mean, you saw my body. I was glorious.”
Molly had seen Sherlock’s body, and it had been glorious, but she didn’t want to feed what was already a bloated ego.
Sherlock began typing an address into Molly’s phone. “I need you to take me to the research library on Dervish. There are some books I want to check out. After that I was hoping we could head to your apartment.”
Molly frowned. “My apartment? Why?”
“I need a change of clothes, and judging by your proportions I think yours will fit me, though they might be a little loose around the thighs.” Sherlock eyed Molly’s body appraisingly.
Molly stopped at a light.
“Becoming a werewoman hasn’t changed you much, I see,” she said. “That’s good to know.”
They were both silent for a while. Sherlock had closed her eyes and began massaging her temples, deep in thought. Molly briefly wondered if she would be asked to explain various female biological functions—she hoped not. She was pretty sure it would traumatize both of them, and part of her still maintained the hope that one day Sherlock might return her feelings.
Suddenly Sherlock’s eyes flew open.
“Gah!” she cried.
“Jesus, don’t do that!” yelled Molly, who’d been jolted out of her thoughts. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“I felt something,” said Sherlock, touching her chest.
“You felt . . . something?” asked Molly, confused.
Sherlock nodded. “It was weird. I was thinking about my predicament—about how terrible it is that I’m a woman—no offense—and suddenly my chest began to feel heavy. It felt like someone was stepping on my heart.” Sherlock looked at Molly. “What do you call that?”
Molly blinked. “Those are emotions, Sherlock.”
“My god,” Sherlock replied, pulling down the passenger mirror and examining her face. “Being a woman is worse than I thought. First vaginas, then emotions? Next you’re going to be telling me women only receive 78 cents for every dollar a man makes doing the same level of work.”
A trip to the library and a change of clothes later and Sherlock had hit the books. She’d set up camp at Molly’s dining room table, surrounding herself with research papers and ancient texts, and was currently pouring through one on herbalism. Molly, embarrassed that Sherlock might find her apartment messy, began tidying up.
A couple hours went by. Sherlock sighed and closed the dusty tome in front of her.
“How’s it going?” asked Molly, peeking over Sherlock’s shoulder.
“Not good,” said Sherlock, sighing.
Molly picked up the book. “The Egyptian Book of the Dead.” She frowned. “Why’d you borrow this?”
Sherlock didn’t look up. “The British Museum has several mummies--I thought maybe one of them could curse me to reverse the effects of the bite.”
“That’s ridiculous,” said Molly, laughing. “Mummy curses aren’t real.”
Sherlock stood up. “How do we know that though? I mean, I just found out that werewomen were a thing. There must be some sort of supernatural solution out there. A witch doctor, an enchanted stone—something.”
“I don’t think so,” said Molly as she carried a laundry basket full of clean clothes into her bedroom. Sherlock followed her. “I’ve been in school long enough and I’ve never heard of a cure.”
Sherlock stopped to examine herself in front of Molly’s full-length mirror, assessing the new body she’d been dealt. “Ew.”
“Oh come on, it’s not that bad,” said Molly, folding a shirt. “Why are you still here, anyway? Shouldn’t John be the one helping you find a cure or something?”
Sherlock shook her head. “John can’t know. The news would completely change the dynamics of our partnership. He’d probably make me do the laundry.” Sherlock sniffed. “I mean, imagine if he developed a crush on my female form. Think about how that could affect my work.”
Molly scoffed. “So it’s okay if two men who work together share an ambiguously homoerotic relationship but if a man and woman do the same thing it’s a bad idea.”
“Don’t be silly,” said Sherlock, rolling her eyes. “A man and woman can’t share a homoerotic relationship. Where would the penis go? Besides,” she continued. “I don’t want John to underestimate me just because I’m a bleeding, blubbering mess four days a month.”
“You know what--nevermind,” Molly said, frustrated. She finished hanging up the last of her blouses.
“Say,” said Sherlock when she began pairing off socks. “Do you know any shamans I might be able to talk to?”
***
Three days later Sherlock returned to his apartment. The moon was now waning and his body had changed back into his male form in what was an incredibly painful but luckily very brief process. Also, Molly had kicked him out of her place at around the same time in what he had to assume was a coincidence.
The timing worked out well, however, as by then Sherlock had worked out his next move. The solution had been under his nose the entire time. Or rather, under his bed.
Sherlock unlocked the front door with nary a sound and slipped inside. He knew John would make a fuss when he saw him, and he didn’t want to deal with the onslaught of questions as to his whereabouts just yet.
He tiptoed up the stairs, but just as he reached the top step his foot landed on a squeaky toy. Suddenly one of the cats—the fat one—poked its head out of John’s room.
“Mew,” it said upon seeing Sherlock was home. “Mew mew.”
“Shut up,” Sherlock hissed. “Shut up or I’ll—“
“Sherlock, is that you?” He could hear John’s muffled voice through the wall.
“Uh,” said Sherlock, retreating toward his bedroom. “No?”
John stepped into the hallway.
“Where the hell have you been?” he demanded. "You’ve been gone for almost four days, with no note, no explanation.”
“I, uh, I had some personal issues to deal with,” Sherlock stammered, trying to evade more discussion of what he’d been doing the past several days.
“Yeah, no shit,” said John, crossing his arms. “I called Lestrade to see if he knew where you were and he said you’d taken a vacation. A vacation. I was sure you’d O.D.ed considering the state you left Cheryl in.”
“Cheryl? Who’s Cheryl?” Sherlock tried to remember if he’d met this woman but the name didn’t ring a bell.
“You know,” John motioned with his hands. “Your girlfriend with the dark hair. She was here four nights ago, high out of her mind.”
“Don’t remember her,” Sherlock said, taking a couple more steps toward his room.
“Of course you don’t remember,” said John bitterly. “You were probably passed out God knows where. You left her in the apartment all alone. She was wearing only your shirt when I found her halfway fallen down the stairs.”
Uh oh, thought Sherlock. He didn’t like where this was going. “What did this Cheryl look like?” he asked, slowly.
“Brown hair, kind of curly, pale skin, green eyes,” said John. He frowned. “She looked a lot like you, actually. Why?”
“I, uh, I think I might be remembering her--this ‘Cheryl’ person you speak of,” Sherlock said with haste.
John’s voice softened. “She and I . . . we had a real connection. But I haven’t seen her since that night. So if it’s alright with you, I’d very much appreciate it if you could put me in contact with her.”
Sherlock shook his head vigorously. “I can’t do that,” he said. “I, uh, lost her information.”
“You could help me track her down using your acute, cat-like senses,” John said eagerly. “Though you lack their 200-degree field of view.”
Sherlock backed into his room.
“Please,” John begged. “I’ve been searching for her for days. I have to find her.”
“Sorry, too busy,” said Sherlock as he shut his door.
“Fine!” John yelled from the hall. “That is just like you!”
He heard John stomp back to his room.
With his roommate off his scent, Sherlock reached under his bed and pulled out a dusty box. The words “ABU DHABI” had been neatly penned across the cover.
Sherlock smiled in satisfaction. He didn’t notice Bubbles, who was sitting on a nearby shelf licking his shoulder. Seeing the name written atop the box, Bubbles stopped what he was doing and hissed. Cats are keenly attuned to the supernatural world and the artifact inside that box was steeped in more occult energy than John’s cats had ever encountered before. That wasn’t why Bubbles hissed though; he was just a bigot.
Sherlock carefully lifted the ornate oil lamp from the box and began the task of rubbing it. The overhead light sputtered and a greenish, oily smoke began pouring from the lamp’s spout.
Bubbles yowled and ran into the closet, for at least two different reasons. He would later discover the need to poop, bringing the total number of reasons up to three.
The smoke billowed and eventually coalesced into the shape of a broad, heavyset man.
“Wherefore hast thou summoned me?” bellowed the genie.
Sherlock prostrated before the mystical being.
“O’ genie of the lamp, I beseech thee,” Sherlock began. “I am Sherlock Holmes, London’s great consulting detective. I’ve been cursed with a terrible sickness that strikes every full moon. I beg thee to remove the curse so--”
“Hang on there,” said the genie, stopping him. “I remember you. You’ve already used all your wishes.”
“What?” cried Sherlock, stunned. “That’s impossible.”
“No,” said the genie. “I definitely recognize you. We genies possess excellent memories in order to stop guys like you from pulling fast ones.”
Sherlock couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
“B-but--I just spent the last two days trying to track down where I put this lamp!” he exclaimed.
“You called on me two years ago,” mused the ancient djinn. “Let’s see. I believe your exact wishes included ‘Cocaine’, ‘Maybe a little pot,’ ‘Like, some ecstasy or something’, and finally ‘Yeah, more cocaine—definitely more cocaine.’
Sherlock counted on his fingers and scowled. “I thought genies only granted three wishes.”
“They do,” said the genie. “You just bribed me with cocaine to give you another one.” He chuckled. “Man, that was a crazy night.”
Sherlock dug into his pocket and whipped out the bag of hash he’d found three days earlier.
“Might I bribe you to grant me one more wish?” he asked, holding out the bag in offering.
The genie put up a hand. “Nah, man, I’m clean now.”
“Damnit,” Sherlock cursed. “You were supposed to be my cure.”
“Sorry,” said the genie, shrugging. He patted Sherlock on the back consolingly and in a slither of smoke disappeared back from whence he came.
Sherlock collapsed to his knees, the lamp rolling from his hands and clattering to the floor. He felt tears form in the corner of his eyes and realized he was experiencing emotions again. Even as a man he couldn’t escape the lingering effects of womanhood.
Overwhelmed by the feelings welling inside of him, he lost his tenuous grip on masculinity and transformed into a woman once more.
“No,” she sobbed softly, arms at her side. “It can’t be like this.” Was she doomed to be a werewoman forever?
“Dear child,” said a sweet voice near Sherlock’s ear. “All is not lost.”
Sherlock looked up. A small bright spot danced just out of her vision, blurred by tears.
She wiped her eyes and tried to focus.
“Who . . . who are you?” she asked, reaching toward the spot.
“Why, I’m nothing less than your fairy godmother,” it replied. In a burst of sparkles the spot morphed into a woman the size of a hummingbird. Her wings fluttered gently as she floated mid-air.
“Can you help me?” Sherlock asked, sniffing.
“Of course I can,” answered the tiny fairy. “The power to do so was within you all along. Well, technically it was within me, but I’m contractually obligated to say that every time I appear.”
Sherlock clasped her hands in front of her. “Please, just end this curse,” she begged. “There is literally nothing worse than being a woman.”
The fairy nodded and raised her wand, waving it in a figure-eight direction. The shadows followed her, swept up in the motion of her arm. The fairy pointed her wand at Sherlock, who felt her body tingle as the shadows passed over her.
Finally, thought Sherlock. Enough of this werewoman stuff. She looked forward to once again enjoying the privileges that came with having a penis.
Sherlock felt her body begin to transform, but her exhilaration turned to terror when she realized something was wrong—very wrong.
“It is done, child,” said the fairy godmother, her grin exposing a row of fangs. “But perhaps you should be more careful about what you wish for.”
Sherlock wasn’t turning into a man, but something else entirely. Her fairy godmother’s twisted visage filled her vision, becoming larger--or was her godmother becoming smaller? Sherlock couldn’t tell.
“I don’t understand,” she managed to croak out.
The fairy chuckled. “Everyone has one of those fairy godmothers.” She quickly clarified. “You know, the evil kind. I normally wouldn’t have responded to your cries for help, but none of your good fairy godmothers were willing to assist, I’m afraid. I guess that’s what happens when you call them cunts during a three-day coke binge.”
She laughed again, tapped her wand against her leg, and—pop!—vanished into the air.
***
John sat in Sherlock’s reading chair drinking a mug of tea and alternating between petting Goose and rubbing Snapdragon’s belly. His Craigslist post has gotten no responses other than lucrative potential business opportunities from Nigerian princes or offers to suck his cock for a suspiciously low sum of money.
He’d even gone through Sherlock’s Rolex and called anyone who appeared to be female, operating under the hope that ‘Cheryl’ might have been a false name. All he’d gotten in return were dial tones and a kind but firm call from the police station to stop harassing witnesses.
“That’s it, then,” John moped. “I guess I’ll never see Cheryl again.”
“Murr,” said Goose.
“I know, I know,” replied John. “I should apologize to Sherlock for the way I blew up at him yesterday. It wasn’t really fair of me. How could he have known Cheryl and I would have such chemistry?” He took a sip of tea and rubbed his lips. “Maybe I’ll start joining him on cases again—spend more time with him. Asking for space only seemed to make things worse.” He looked down at his cat. “I miss him, Goose.”
Just then Sherlock Jr. jumped onto the arm of John’s chair. Something wriggled in his mouth, trapped by the cat’s canine teeth--of which Sherlock Jr., like all cats, had four, as well as twelve incisors, ten pre-molars, and four molars.
“What do you have there?” asked John, setting down his tea and pushing Snapdragon off his lap to make room for the newcomer. Three months later Snapdragon would pee on John’s socks, but John would never connect the two incidents.
Sherlock Jr. deposited a large toad onto John’s lap.
“Mreow,” he said, pawing at John’s chest.
“Oh, ew,” said John when he saw what it was. “I think it’s still alive.”
It was quite fortunate that Sherlock Jr. had discovered the toad, as Queen Purr-Purr V would simply have eaten it. Sherlock Jr. had a rather poor opinion of John’s hunting abilities, however, and wanted him to have some extra protein.
“This is probably one of Sherlock’s experiments,” John mused aloud as he held the toad up to the light. “He keeps all kinds of weird things in his room.” He poked the toad’s belly and it croaked in response. “I wonder if he ever uses it to get high. I worry about his addictions.”
John had heard of people licking toads to experience their psychedelic effects, but he’d never seen anyone actually do it.
Why the hell not? he thought. Everyone else seemed to be enjoying themselves. Maybe this would help him get over Cheryl. If it didn’t work, no harm done.
He lifted the toad to his lips and cautiously ran his tongue along its lumpy body.
That was basically close enough to a kiss.
There was a fizzing noise, and then a succession of popping sounds. The cats hissed in terror and hid under the dining room table.
After the noise subsided John was quite surprised to find Cheryl seated on his lap. Realizing he’d just licked her face, he pulled his tongue back into his mouth.
Cheryl wore a diaphanous pink gown wrought with seed pearls and golden embroidery. Atop her curly hair was a pointy hat tied with ribbons that flowed downward in every direction.
“John,” said Cheryl. “It’s me, Sherlock. A crazy lady bit me during an investigation, which turned me into a werewoman. Did you know that was a thing? Apparently it’s a thing. Anyway, the genie wouldn’t take my weed so my evil fairy godmother turned me into a toad, with the caveat that if my true love kissed me I’d become a princess.” Sherlock shrugged. “You sort of kissed me, so here I am.”
“Oh,” said John, still stunned.
Sherlock made no move to leave John’s lap. Finding his courage, John tucked a curl behind Sherlock’s ear and lifted her face so he could look at her. He stared into her eyes and recognized the boredom twinkling within them. Sherlock’s eyes always twinkled when he was bored.
“It really is you,” he said, cupping her cheek.
“Yeah,” said Sherlock. “I’m not happy about it but I can definitively say that being a princess is better than being a toad.”
John was overjoyed. Sherlock was everything he’d ever wanted in a woman. He could now fuck his best friend without it being gay (okay, maybe it was still a little gay, but so what).
Their lips touched, and everything was right in John’s world.
“I love you,” he said, holding Sherlock close. “I think I have since the moment we first met, but it was only when you became a woman that I understood my feelings for what they really were.”
Sherlock chuckled. “Glad you finally came to your senses.”
She kissed John’s cheek.
“My prince,” she whispered into his ear. As a princess she was contractually obligated to say that.
And so John carried consulting princess detective Sherlock Holmes up to his bedroom where they had sex, explicitly.
Recipient:
innie_darlingAuthor:
buttsnaxCharacters/Pairings: Female!Sherlock/John, Sherlock/John
Rating: R
Warnings: violence, drug use, cats
Summary: A series of gruesome murders has London in terror, and it's up to Sherlock to find the killer, this time without John's help.
“No obvious sign of entry,” Sherlock observed as he scanned the window of the motel room where they’d discovered the body. Well, part of the body, anyway. The maid cleaning the room happened upon a severed foot in the bathtub, adding to the growing list of organs and appendages found scattered across London’s seediest motels: a hand in a dresser drawer, a heart floating in a toilet tank, a torso stuffed under a mattress. It seemed likely they were due for a head soon.
“It seems likely we’re due for a head soon,” said Lestrade nervously. He stood at the door, arms folded over his chest. This case had him tense--he was used to dealing with whole victims, not pieces of them. That in combination with his divorce proceedings had aged him considerably. Sherlock noted that for the past six months Lestrade had been covering up some white spots that had appeared along his hairline. He found a receipt for temporary coloring in Lestrade’s wallet during one of his pickpocketing games. He’d also found a small pamphlet entitled “How To Dismember A Corpse Without Getting Caught,” but he didn’t think anything of it.
Sherlock approached the tub where the severed part was found. The bathroom was spotless, indicating that the killer had murdered the victim before sawing off their foot and delivering it to the site.
With a gloved hand he picked up the foot and sniffed it lightly. “Interesting.”
Lestrade sighed. “Can you confirm it’s the Rag Doll Killer?”
“I can confirm athlete’s foot,” said Sherlock. He paused to place the appendage in an evidence bag. “Dismembered victim with no sign of struggle fits his M.O., so I can see why you’d think it’s him.”
He handed the bag to Lestrade, whose face twitched in disgust. The inspector took it but said nothing.
Sherlock strode to the window facing the street. “With each of the previous victims, though the scene appeared to have no signs of entry, each window sill was scarred with the telltale scratches of a grappling hook—a detail that was never released to the public.” He made his way to where Lestrade was standing and leaned his head out the door to peer across the corridor. “That’s not the case here. The killer came through the door, presumably while the maid was fetching extra towels, before dropping off our friend here--“ Sherlock indicated to the bag in Lestrade’s hands—“and making his escape down the hall.”
Lestrade frowned. “You think we’re dealing with a copycat killer?”
“At first I thought that perhaps our Rag Doll Killer had changed his tactics as this window wouldn’t be able accommodate a hook,” continued Sherlock. “But after examining the foot I realized—can I help you?”
A young woman in a crime scene jumpsuit suddenly appeared in the doorway behind Lestrade.
The woman pushed past the startled inspector and stepped into the room.
“You’re him, aren’t you?” she asked. “You’re Sherlock Holmes.”
“Oh good, I have a fan,” said Sherlock dryly, though secretly the attention pleased him. John hadn’t been accompanying Sherlock to investigations nearly as often after his latest breakup, this time with some woman named Marla he’d met in reception at his therapist’s office. As if that boded well. Sherlock refused to take responsibility for the demise of their relationship. (Though he did distinctly remember her saying “I’m leaving John because of you, Sherlock” as she walked out the door; she may have also muttered the words “severe co-dependency issues,” but that was neither here nor there.)
John was really quite immature about the whole thing, insisting on “setting boundaries” and “asking for space” and “needing to use the bathroom alone this time.” They weren’t even allowed to sleep in the same bed anymore—what was up with that?
With John absent on most cases, it meant Sherlock wasn’t being complimented for his brilliance when he made accurate deductions. His ego needed stroking—or at least some heavy petting.
“No, not a fan,” the woman said, stepping closer. Her face was mousy, like Molly’s, only one eye was slightly higher than the other, giving her the appearance of a Picasso painting. “Just an observer. I’ve noticed you don’t treat women well. ”
“That’s not true,” said Sherlock, thinking of his landlady. “I really love Mrs. Huh--ah, er. Hmm. I can’t think of her name right now, but she’s this old woman who lives with me and makes me tea. She’s great.”
The woman’s eye--the higher one, not the lower one--twitched, and within half a second she’d launched herself at Sherlock, pulling his arm up to her mouth and digging her teeth into his bicep. Sherlock screamed like a little girl--which he would later find ironic--and ripped his attacker off of him. She staggered backward before shoving past a bewildered Lestrade, and disappeared from view.
“Well that was startling and unfortunate,” Lestrade said after he recovered from shock. “But don’t worry; I’m sure this incident won’t dramatically change your life in any way.”
“What the hell?!” yelled Sherlock, who had failed to deduce this would happen. He clutched his arm to his chest as blood spilled from his wound. Lestrade called in an officer who immediately began searching the inspector for injuries.
“Not me,” said Lestrade, brushing away the officer’s hands. He nodded toward Sherlock. “Him.”
Sherlock looked at Lestrade accusingly. “Why didn’t you do anything to stop her?” he demanded. The officer approached him. “You better not bite me too,” he said bitterly, reluctantly surrendering his arm for cleaning and bandaging.
Lestrade held up the evidence bag in his hand. “I was holding a foot. What did you want me to do? Hit her with it? You know striking a woman with a severed foot constitutes a felony under the Dismembered Limbs Aggression Act of 1941. That’s how I lost my first wife.”
He stared off into space, his eyes moistening.“I miss her so much,” he whispered.
Sherlock winced as the officer wiped his wound with an alcohol-soaked towelette. “Yes, but hitting a woman under such circumstances isn’t illegal if done in self-defense.”
Lestrade shrugged. “I didn’t think her actions justified it.”
The officer finished wrapping the last bandage on Sherlock’s arm. “That should do it,” she said. “I’ve stopped the bleeding but you really should see a gynecologist. Just in case.” That should have been a tip off that something peculiar was about to happen, but Sherlock wasn’t listening, smug in his confidence that nothing a woman had to say mattered.
When they reached the parking lot, Lestrade turned to Sherlock and cleared his throat.
“I’ll have an officer take you to the emergency room.” He handed Sherlock £20. “And the cab home is on me.”
A police vehicle pulled up. Lestrade opened the door so Sherlock could crawl into the front seat. He snapped in his seatbelt with his good arm, holding the injured one to his chest protectively. He could feel the area tingling under his bandages. It wasn’t so much a painful sensation, but more as though the muscles underneath his skin were molting. Weird.
Before closing the door Lestrade stuck his head into the car.
“Say, why don’t you take the rest of the week off.” Lestrade cracked a smile. “That woman took a real bite out of you. You need time to recover.”
Sherlock didn’t fail to notice the inspector’s pun. “Oh come on, you really think a small fleshwound is going to put me out of commission?” he replied, smirking. “I’m fine.”
Lestrade shook his head. “Look, we don’t even pay you. Just . . . go away for a while. Take a vacation. Maybe even conveniently move to another city or something. You’ve done enough.” He slammed the door shut and turned back to the motel, his coat, his coat catching the air. Sherlock watched him shrink from view as the officer drove them from the crime scene.
Once in the emergency room, it didn’t take long for the R.N. to see him—must have been a slow day. He was sent him home with a two-week course of strong antibiotics and a week’s worth of codeine for the pain. A pretty good haul all things considered. Sherlock didn’t think he’d be prescribed codeine given his history of insatiable drug use, but then he’d lied about the pain. He’d also claimed he was bitten by a shark, though he didn’t think they bought that story.
The cab ride home gave him time to think. He had quite a few deductive thoughts on the events that had transpired at the crime scene, and possibly inductive thoughts as well. By the time he arrived at his apartment he had at least three fully formed theories and twelve less solid alternative hypotheses that could explain exactly why things had happened the way they happened. Unfortunately for Sherlock, they were all incorrect.
He opened the door to his apartment and was immediately greeted by the faint odor of cat urine.
“Mew,” said a cat, rubbing itself against his leg. Sherlock nudged it out of the way with his foot.
“Really, John?” Sherlock called out. “Another one? I thought we agreed six cats was the limit.”
Since his breakup with Marla, John had discovered a need for feline companionship, trading in one figurative form of pussy for another. He’d taken to acquiring cats the way Sherlock acquired drug habits, picking them up in dark alleys or sometimes even through theft. It was bad enough that John had asked for space. Now Sherlock couldn’t even enjoy his favorite reading chair without inhaling the fur of the last cat that sat on it. His experiments had been knocked over, his books gnawed on; he’d even found a small fecal deposit at the foot of his bed once. After enduring John’s cats for almost two months now, Sherlock was ready to strangle the next one that crossed him.
“You won’t believe what Bubbles did today,” said John when he saw Sherlock enter the common room. He was lounging on their couch, wrapped in a yellow paw-print sweater. Two cats occupied his lap, each claiming one thigh. The daytime soap “As The World Purrs” quietly played in the background.
Sherlock raised his injured arm to forestall him. “I’ve had a bad day,” he said through a sigh. “I don’t feel well.”
John sat up, dislodging a cat, which yelped and ran into the kitchen. “What happened to your arm?” he asked, concerned.
“It’s nothing,” said Sherlock as he headed upstairs to his room. John scrambled after him.
“Wait, Sherlock, you can’t just—“
Sherlock closed his door, then opened it again to eject a cat that had fallen asleep on his pillow. He could hear John comforting the dejected feline outside his room, but didn’t care.
Sherlock hadn’t been lying--he really did feel awful. Since leaving the hospital the pain in his arm had increased tenfold. He dug through his nightstand and found a baggie of white powder. He needed a fix.
A combination of cocaine and prescription pain meds would do the trick. Some weed would have been nice too but one of John’s damn cats had discovered his stash and made a quick meal of it earlier that week. He’d discovered the digested remains inside one of his slippers.
He swallowed six codeine pills and snorted a few lines right off the bedside table before falling back onto his mattress. The cocaine buzzed pleasantly through his skin. Soon the codeine would take effect and he’d be able to think.
He heard knocking at the door but ignored it. John said something about one of his cats—something about how Bubbles had learned to read. Sherlock wasn’t really listening; cats were one of those things he didn’t understand, like women and cupcakes. Why would you want your cakes to be smaller?
Eventually the knocking subsided; John must have given up. Good.
The pain in his arm was beginning to fade. He could now focus on untangling the events of the day. He closed his eyes as his mind wandered back to the crime scene. Why had that woman bitten him? How long had she been observing him? Was it related to menstruation? Sherlock was relatively certain women did that.
The questions confounded him, but he had to understand.
“Who’s a pretty princess?” asked John as he scratched his cat’s chin. “Who’s a pretty princess?”
He held Queen Purr-Purr V up to his face and nuzzled her belly. Queens Purr-Purr I, II and II had been poisoned by some angry neighbors, and Queen Purr-Purr IV disappeared mysteriously less than twenty-four hours after being taken home, god bless her soul.
Queen Purr-Purr V--a grey tabby with a broad face--did not purr as her name would suggest, but did tolerate affection.
“Mew,” said Snapdragon, pawing at John’s leg.
Snapdragon was by the far the friendliest of John’s cats. He was a fat Maine Coon who loved belly rubs and cannabis, as John found out when he discovered Snapdragon scarfing down some Purple Kush in Sherlock’s bedroom. Sherlock hadn’t been too happy about that, but maybe he shouldn’t have left an open bag of the stuff on his desk.
John set Queen Purr-Purr V down on a couch cushion to make room for the tom.
“I hope Sherlock’s alright,” John thought aloud as Snapdragon nestled into his lap.
“Murrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr,” Snapdragon rumbled contently. The Queen began biting an itch on her backside.
“He’s been in his room for a few hours now, and it’s far too early for him to nod off.” Why wouldn’t Sherlock tell him what had happened?
John sighed. “He’s acted like a total arse since I requested a break from casework. After what happened with Marla, what does he expect?” It was bad enough that Sherlock had walked in on them having sex. When he then told Marla, “John likes it when you tug his nipples,” she flipped out, and rightly so. John was heterosexual, though he did share an unusual closeness with his roommate that occasionally involved platonic spooning and lingering, non-romantic blowjobs. You know--the stuff best friends do.
Still, John was unhappy with the current state of things. He wanted to date, but meeting a woman Sherlock could tolerate was proving to be a difficult, if not impossible task.
He’d really liked Marla—she was the one who suggested he get a cat, which turned into two, then six, and now seven, with Sherlock Jr. (John hadn’t told Sherlock he’d name the cat after him yet; he still wanted Sherlock to think he was mad at him).
Since becoming a cat owner he’d learned so much about this amazing species. Who knew that the common housecat could travel at speeds of up to 49 kilometers-per-hour for short bursts of time?
John bit his lip. “I don’t know, maybe this whole requesting space thing wasn’t such a great idea. What do you guys think?”
Snapdragon said nothing but instead pounced off of John’s lap. By that time Queen Purr-Purr V had already left the room.
John looked over at Maverick and Goose, who continued to sleep curled up together on a recliner on the far side of the room. They must not have heard him. It didn’t matter--those two weren’t very good at giving relationship advice, anyway.
He heard a door open, and the light pitter-patter of footsteps coming down the stairs. As he was currently unburned by a feline--a rare state for him these days--he got up and headed to the base of the stairwell.
“You okay?” he called out, peering up.
Oh.
A young woman with dark hair stumbled down the steps, dressed in the shirt he’d seen Sherlock wearing earlier.
John hadn’t expected this.
“M’fine,” she mumbled. Her foot landed on a step that wasn’t there and she tumbled to her knees. John’s military reflexes kicked in and he dashed up the stairs to catch her. She fell into his arms, nearly knocking him backward, but he found his footing before a serious accident could occur.
“Okay, mebbe not so fffine,” she said, eyes half-lidded. John could see she was in her mid-thirties, with ivory skin and strong cheekbones. He glanced down and noted that she was—gulp--most definitely not wearing any pants.
This would be an awkward time to get an erection, John thought as he got an erection.
There was just something about her face, though. She looked so familiar and yet John was quite sure he’d never seen her before. He felt a strong urge to befriend her and begin solving crimes together—but he already had a friend he did that with.
Bubbles came trotting down the stairs and began sniffing the woman’s ankles.
“Not now,” said John, sticking his foot in Bubbles face to deter him. Bubbles begrudgingly trotted down the stairs, later expressing his displeasure in the form of a steaming cat turd on John’s comforter.
The woman laughed, and John could have sworn he’d met her somewhere before. “Nnncats,” she said, dazed.
“They’re rather unpredictable at times,” John replied awkwardly, studying her face. Realizing he was being rude, he quickly added, “I, ah--I don’t think we’ve met before. I’m John.”
She stepped free of John’s arms, only to lose her balance once again and fall to the floor.
“Maybe standing isn’t a good idea just yet,” said John, helping her back up. “Why don’t you sit down, uh, miss . . .?
“Sherl . . . oh, hi Mizz Hudson,” the woman said as John’s landlady entered the room with a tray of biscuits. Mrs. Hudson’s face went white, then red as she saw the woman’s state of undress. She mumbled something about needing to grab a shirt from the laundry and disappeared into another room. John would have to explain this all to her soon, but now wasn’t the time. It also wasn’t the time to explain that a cat was capable of jumping up to five times its own height.
John guided the woman over to the couch. “Cheryl, was it? Well, nice to meet you, Cheryl. I’m a doctor, and I’m going to ask you some questions, okay?”
Upon examining her it became clear Cheryl was high on some combination of intoxicants, one of which was definitely cocaine, though coke usually didn’t cause this kind of incoherency. He noticed she was wearing several nicotine patches.
Strange. The only other person he knew who wore that many was Sherlock. He hadn’t realized they were that popular.
Other than her apparent intoxication, the woman seemed to be in good condition. Physically she was beautiful, slender but strong—he could feel the muscles in her shoulder when he caught her on the stairwell. They reminded him of how a cat’s purr was caused by vibrations within its larynx, where a muscle opens and closes the air passages twenty-five times per second. Cheryl’s face was a striking blend of features that on another woman might have been unattractive, but on Cheryl seemed to fit just right.
Perhaps she was a model of some sort. That would explain why John had found her so familiar.
The bigger question remained, though. What the hell was she doing coming out of Sherlock’s room? He hoped Sherlock wasn’t doing some sort of experiment on her. He usually reserved those activities for John. Could she have been a lover? Sherlock hadn’t expressed much interest in the fairer sex before, but anything was possible.
He cleared his throat.
“So, uh,” he continued. “How do you know Sherlock? Are you two, uh, seeing each other?”
The woman shook her head and tried to stand up. “No girlfriend,” she said, swaying slightly. “No time for women.” She sounded bitter.
Ah. So she was dating Sherlock—or at least sleeping with him.
John tried to imagine what Sherlock having sex with a woman might look like, but stopped when he saw Cheryl’s face. She looked so unhappy. Sherlock probably treated her terribly. He was so bad with women.
John’s heart swelled with compassion. He decided to comfort her.
“Hey,” he said, placing a consoling hand on Cheryl’s shoulder to steady her. “I understand. It’s difficult, trying to be with a man like that.” The statement came from personal experience. “He can be callous, but underneath he means well.” Also, his penis isn’t covered with one-hundred-twenty to one-hundred-fifty backward-pointing barbs like a cat’s. It was probably better that he didn’t say that part aloud.
Cheryl swayed forward and John caught her again.
This time though, their eyes locked, and after a tense few seconds, Cheryl leaned in and kissed him. It was completely unexpected, and definitely inappropriate considering the situation. John should have ended the kiss immediately, but Cheryl’s lips were soft and inviting, like the extremely fine fur of a Cornish Rex: the softest breed of cat. If Mrs. Hudson didn’t think they were fooling around before she would certainly think so now.
He came to his senses as he felt a tongue enter his mouth and pulled away. Cheryl froze, then mumbled, “I feel sick.” She bent over and heaved onto the floor, her vomit splashing John’s shoes.
“Shit,” said John as he propped her back onto the couch. “Uh, look, you clearly aren’t well. Maybe you should just lie down for a while. I can make you some warm tea.”
He returned shortly with a steaming mug and noticed she was looking around.
“Home,” said Cheryl softly.
“You want to go home?” asked John, surprised. He scratched his head. “Well, if you really do think you’re okay to leave, I’ll call you a taxi. Shouldn’t take too long for it to get here.”
Cheryl said nothing, so he assumed that meant yes. She seemed to be in a trance, staring at a book on the coffee table while twiddling her fingers. She must have picked that habit up from Sherlock. God, John couldn’t believe his roommate would leave a woman alone in such a state. This was completely out-of-character, even for him.
John would have to have a talk with him later. Sherlock may have never had a girlfriend before, but it didn’t excuse how irresponsible this was.
The taxi arrived within twenty minutes. As he helped Cheryl into the cab, she looked up at him and smiled. He found himself smiling back, mesmerized. It felt like they’d known each other for years. He wanted to grab her and kiss her again, but resisted. It was bad enough that he allowed it the first time; he needed to stay in control. Cheryl wasn’t in any position to consent to such things. Plus, she probably tasted like vomit now.
“That should cover it,” he said as he handed the cabbie £15, plus an extra £10 for good measure. There was a phone number listed in the note’s bottom corner. “And that’s my cell. If she looks like she’s having trouble getting into her place give me a call.” Hopefully someone would be there when she arrived home.
The cabbie nodded and John watched them drive off, realizing that he’d forgotten to get Cheryl’s number. He was dying to learn more about this mysterious woman—how she met Sherlock, what she did for a living. He wanted to know anything and everything there was to know about her. He had to.
John marched back inside the house and up the stairs to interrogate his roommate, but the consulting detective was nowhere in sight.
Some hours later, Sherlock woke up.
Using his keen mental powers, the first thing he noticed was that he was curled up inside a soggy cardboard refrigerator box. Okay. Probably not a good sign, but certainly not the first time that had happened.
The second thing he noticed was his breasts. He was pretty sure those were new.
“Shit,” he muttered.
He—she—poked her head out of the box, only to find that the deserted alleyway she’d apparently slept in was not a significant improvement to her current surroundings.
Sherlock took a quick mental inventory--shirt, underwear, box that smelled of urine, surprise vagina. Not a lot to go on, she thought, but at least she had enough clothes on to avoid being charged with public indecency.
The last thing she remembered was inhaling a cocktail of cocaine and pharmaceuticals, then laying down on her bed. In all Sherlock’s years of using, no one ever mentioned spontaneous sex change as a side effect. Her left arm throbbed, and she suddenly recalled being bitten by a strange woman recently, but immediately dismissed the incident as irrelevant.
Searching the box, she found several razor blades, a jar full of what looked to be urine, a tin can full of change, and a baggie with about half a gram of hash. Cool.
She pocketed the hash and sorted through the coins. £2.42--that would be plenty. She crawled out of the box to further assess the situation.
It was morning, and the spray of sunlight on her face made her head throb. This hangover was nastier than usual. Judging by the smells wafting in from a nearby restaurant and the particular ironwork of the streetlights overhead, Sherlock quickly worked out that she was somewhere just outside of West End. She made her way through the area, careful to take less-travelled cross streets to the nearest phonebooth.
She inserted some coins into the pay slot and immediately dialed Lestrade’s cell. The phone rang and rang, but no one picked up.
C’mon, thought Sherlock. Answer your damn phone.
“You’ve reached the voicemail of Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade. I’m not available at the moment, but I can tell you it’s definitely not because I’m out dismembering prostitutes or anything. Leave me a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”
“Damnit,” Sherlock said, slamming the phone back on the hook. It then dawned on her that it might have been for the best that Lestrade hadn’t picked up; this was the kind of situation that called for a feminine touch. She dropped in some more coins and dialed the number of the first woman she could think of.
“Hello?” said the voice on the other end of the line.
“Molly, thank god,” said Sherlock, relieved. “I didn’t think you would pick up. Look, I need your help.” It was strange. Even though she sounded entirely different, Sherlock still recognized her own voice.
“Who is this?” asked Molly.
“Oh, right.” Sherlock leaned against the booth. “It’s Sherlock. So, I’m kind of—well, no, I’m definitely—a woman now. Yes, it’s gross, I know.”
Sherlock picked at her shirt and noticed it had a smell. “Oh, and I’m half-nude, covered in what I believe to be hobo piss, and very hungover. Please come get me.”
She heard Molly take a deep breath.
“Um,” Molly said when Sherlock was finished. “Wow. That’s, uh, quite an announcement. Actually, I shouldn’t be that surprised, given what happened at the crime scene yesterday.”
“Wait,” said Sherlock, suddenly confused. “What does that have to do with anything? And how do you know what happened?”
“Lestrade told me,” said Molly as though the two of them were best friends. “Anyway, it makes sense that you’re a woman now.”
“It does?” asked the master detective.
“Well, tonight’s going to be a full moon,” Molly replied matter-of-fact.
“I-I don’t understand,” said Sherlock, who didn’t understand. An older woman carrying a small child walked past and gave Sherlock a dirty look, probably because of the pants thing.
“Sorry, I thought you knew,” said Molly. “When a woman bites someone, that person becomes a werewoman. So now whenever there’s a full moon you’ll turn into one of us.”
Sherlock was speechless.
Molly continued. “I mean, it should have been obvious. They teach this in grade school to little kids.”
“That . . . doesn’t seem scientifically sound,” Sherlock managed.
“Oh, it makes perfect sense if you think about it,” said Molly. “You know, what with chromosomes and DNA things. Or are you really so oblivious to women that this is new to you?” She heard Molly sigh through the phone. “Wait, what am I saying? Of course you are. You’re a serial misogynist.”
Nothing made sense. Sherlock’s head throbbed with the thought of it all. Yes, she occasionally mistook women for household objects. And sure, she had on multiple occasions taken her dirty laundry down to the women’s shelter. But to be cursed to become a woman as punishment? It was too cruel.
“Look, it’s bad enough that I’m in this situation. You don’t need to make it worse.” Sherlock swallowed both her pride and a fly that had flown into her mouth while she was passed out. “Molly, I need you. Will you help me figure this out? Please?”
Molly was silent for a moment, then sighed.
“Okay, I guess I’ll help you. Tell me where you are so I can come pick you up.”
“Thanks,” said Sherlock, who was maybe even almost grateful. She gave Molly the nearest cross street. “Oh, and could you bring some pants with you? I guess they must have gotten lost somewhere without my massive penis to hold them up. Honestly I don’t know how women—hello?”
Molly had hung up. Figured. Sherlock shielded herself behind a dumpster and waited for her friend to arrive.
John stared at the front door to their apartment, hoping Cheryl would somehow return to thank him for taking care of her the night before. He knew it was unlikely, but he had to see her again. He couldn’t even think of worrying about where Sherlock had gone. Since their first meeting John had become more and more certain that he and Cheryl were destined for each other. The only other person in the world he’d had that kind of intense connection with was Sherlock, but unfortunately for John their genitals were more or less incompatible for long-term mating.
Kissing Cheryl was electrifying. It was something he wanted to do again and again, if he got the chance. But he had to find her first.
“I wonder what I should do,” said John before taking a sip of his tea. He worried Cheryl may have been a one-night stand for Sherlock. If that was the case, it’s possible he wouldn’t see her again. The thought had his chest in a vice grip.
“Mew,” said Todd encouragingly. Todd was John’s Norwegian Forest Cat. Despite his sturdy body, which was slightly longer than the feline average of forty-six centimeters, Todd had a limp, a common ailment for that breed as it was prone to suffering from hip dysplasia.
After several hours of deep contemplation, interspersed with tummy rubs, feedings, treats, chase the mousey, and one instance of scolding and hairball clean-up, John decided to utilize the power of the internet.
He pulled his laptop out and typed in the URL for Craigslist, making sure it was set to the London residential neighborhood where he and Sherlock resided. He clicked on the “personals” section and began to craft his note.
(Click for full-size)
“There,” said John, after hitting the submit button. “God, I hope she finds this.”
“Murr,” said Sherlock Jr., John’s finicky Tonkinese, who was unimpressed by John’s efforts. Sherlock Jr. really wanted to lay on John’s laptop, but John kept shooing him away.
“You’re right,” John said, nodding. “I need to get out there and be proactive.”
He stood up and grabbed his coat. “It’s time to hit the streets.”
“Great, you’re here,” Sherlock said as she climbed into Molly’s sedan. “Tell me everything you know about women.”
“Uh, that’s a lot of ground to cover in one car ride,” Molly said, pulling out of the backstreet where Sherlock had been hiding. “Also: where are we going?” She glanced over at Sherlock’s face. “You know, I didn’t think you’d look good as a woman, but you actually turned out really pretty.”
“What does it matter,” moaned Sherlock dramatically. “I was a golden god before that damn woman gnawed on me. I mean, you saw my body. I was glorious.”
Molly had seen Sherlock’s body, and it had been glorious, but she didn’t want to feed what was already a bloated ego.
Sherlock began typing an address into Molly’s phone. “I need you to take me to the research library on Dervish. There are some books I want to check out. After that I was hoping we could head to your apartment.”
Molly frowned. “My apartment? Why?”
“I need a change of clothes, and judging by your proportions I think yours will fit me, though they might be a little loose around the thighs.” Sherlock eyed Molly’s body appraisingly.
Molly stopped at a light.
“Becoming a werewoman hasn’t changed you much, I see,” she said. “That’s good to know.”
They were both silent for a while. Sherlock had closed her eyes and began massaging her temples, deep in thought. Molly briefly wondered if she would be asked to explain various female biological functions—she hoped not. She was pretty sure it would traumatize both of them, and part of her still maintained the hope that one day Sherlock might return her feelings.
Suddenly Sherlock’s eyes flew open.
“Gah!” she cried.
“Jesus, don’t do that!” yelled Molly, who’d been jolted out of her thoughts. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“I felt something,” said Sherlock, touching her chest.
“You felt . . . something?” asked Molly, confused.
Sherlock nodded. “It was weird. I was thinking about my predicament—about how terrible it is that I’m a woman—no offense—and suddenly my chest began to feel heavy. It felt like someone was stepping on my heart.” Sherlock looked at Molly. “What do you call that?”
Molly blinked. “Those are emotions, Sherlock.”
“My god,” Sherlock replied, pulling down the passenger mirror and examining her face. “Being a woman is worse than I thought. First vaginas, then emotions? Next you’re going to be telling me women only receive 78 cents for every dollar a man makes doing the same level of work.”
A trip to the library and a change of clothes later and Sherlock had hit the books. She’d set up camp at Molly’s dining room table, surrounding herself with research papers and ancient texts, and was currently pouring through one on herbalism. Molly, embarrassed that Sherlock might find her apartment messy, began tidying up.
A couple hours went by. Sherlock sighed and closed the dusty tome in front of her.
“How’s it going?” asked Molly, peeking over Sherlock’s shoulder.
“Not good,” said Sherlock, sighing.
Molly picked up the book. “The Egyptian Book of the Dead.” She frowned. “Why’d you borrow this?”
Sherlock didn’t look up. “The British Museum has several mummies--I thought maybe one of them could curse me to reverse the effects of the bite.”
“That’s ridiculous,” said Molly, laughing. “Mummy curses aren’t real.”
Sherlock stood up. “How do we know that though? I mean, I just found out that werewomen were a thing. There must be some sort of supernatural solution out there. A witch doctor, an enchanted stone—something.”
“I don’t think so,” said Molly as she carried a laundry basket full of clean clothes into her bedroom. Sherlock followed her. “I’ve been in school long enough and I’ve never heard of a cure.”
Sherlock stopped to examine herself in front of Molly’s full-length mirror, assessing the new body she’d been dealt. “Ew.”
“Oh come on, it’s not that bad,” said Molly, folding a shirt. “Why are you still here, anyway? Shouldn’t John be the one helping you find a cure or something?”
Sherlock shook her head. “John can’t know. The news would completely change the dynamics of our partnership. He’d probably make me do the laundry.” Sherlock sniffed. “I mean, imagine if he developed a crush on my female form. Think about how that could affect my work.”
Molly scoffed. “So it’s okay if two men who work together share an ambiguously homoerotic relationship but if a man and woman do the same thing it’s a bad idea.”
“Don’t be silly,” said Sherlock, rolling her eyes. “A man and woman can’t share a homoerotic relationship. Where would the penis go? Besides,” she continued. “I don’t want John to underestimate me just because I’m a bleeding, blubbering mess four days a month.”
“You know what--nevermind,” Molly said, frustrated. She finished hanging up the last of her blouses.
“Say,” said Sherlock when she began pairing off socks. “Do you know any shamans I might be able to talk to?”
Three days later Sherlock returned to his apartment. The moon was now waning and his body had changed back into his male form in what was an incredibly painful but luckily very brief process. Also, Molly had kicked him out of her place at around the same time in what he had to assume was a coincidence.
The timing worked out well, however, as by then Sherlock had worked out his next move. The solution had been under his nose the entire time. Or rather, under his bed.
Sherlock unlocked the front door with nary a sound and slipped inside. He knew John would make a fuss when he saw him, and he didn’t want to deal with the onslaught of questions as to his whereabouts just yet.
He tiptoed up the stairs, but just as he reached the top step his foot landed on a squeaky toy. Suddenly one of the cats—the fat one—poked its head out of John’s room.
“Mew,” it said upon seeing Sherlock was home. “Mew mew.”
“Shut up,” Sherlock hissed. “Shut up or I’ll—“
“Sherlock, is that you?” He could hear John’s muffled voice through the wall.
“Uh,” said Sherlock, retreating toward his bedroom. “No?”
John stepped into the hallway.
“Where the hell have you been?” he demanded. "You’ve been gone for almost four days, with no note, no explanation.”
“I, uh, I had some personal issues to deal with,” Sherlock stammered, trying to evade more discussion of what he’d been doing the past several days.
“Yeah, no shit,” said John, crossing his arms. “I called Lestrade to see if he knew where you were and he said you’d taken a vacation. A vacation. I was sure you’d O.D.ed considering the state you left Cheryl in.”
“Cheryl? Who’s Cheryl?” Sherlock tried to remember if he’d met this woman but the name didn’t ring a bell.
“You know,” John motioned with his hands. “Your girlfriend with the dark hair. She was here four nights ago, high out of her mind.”
“Don’t remember her,” Sherlock said, taking a couple more steps toward his room.
“Of course you don’t remember,” said John bitterly. “You were probably passed out God knows where. You left her in the apartment all alone. She was wearing only your shirt when I found her halfway fallen down the stairs.”
Uh oh, thought Sherlock. He didn’t like where this was going. “What did this Cheryl look like?” he asked, slowly.
“Brown hair, kind of curly, pale skin, green eyes,” said John. He frowned. “She looked a lot like you, actually. Why?”
“I, uh, I think I might be remembering her--this ‘Cheryl’ person you speak of,” Sherlock said with haste.
John’s voice softened. “She and I . . . we had a real connection. But I haven’t seen her since that night. So if it’s alright with you, I’d very much appreciate it if you could put me in contact with her.”
Sherlock shook his head vigorously. “I can’t do that,” he said. “I, uh, lost her information.”
“You could help me track her down using your acute, cat-like senses,” John said eagerly. “Though you lack their 200-degree field of view.”
Sherlock backed into his room.
“Please,” John begged. “I’ve been searching for her for days. I have to find her.”
“Sorry, too busy,” said Sherlock as he shut his door.
“Fine!” John yelled from the hall. “That is just like you!”
He heard John stomp back to his room.
With his roommate off his scent, Sherlock reached under his bed and pulled out a dusty box. The words “ABU DHABI” had been neatly penned across the cover.
Sherlock smiled in satisfaction. He didn’t notice Bubbles, who was sitting on a nearby shelf licking his shoulder. Seeing the name written atop the box, Bubbles stopped what he was doing and hissed. Cats are keenly attuned to the supernatural world and the artifact inside that box was steeped in more occult energy than John’s cats had ever encountered before. That wasn’t why Bubbles hissed though; he was just a bigot.
Sherlock carefully lifted the ornate oil lamp from the box and began the task of rubbing it. The overhead light sputtered and a greenish, oily smoke began pouring from the lamp’s spout.
Bubbles yowled and ran into the closet, for at least two different reasons. He would later discover the need to poop, bringing the total number of reasons up to three.
The smoke billowed and eventually coalesced into the shape of a broad, heavyset man.
“Wherefore hast thou summoned me?” bellowed the genie.
Sherlock prostrated before the mystical being.
“O’ genie of the lamp, I beseech thee,” Sherlock began. “I am Sherlock Holmes, London’s great consulting detective. I’ve been cursed with a terrible sickness that strikes every full moon. I beg thee to remove the curse so--”
“Hang on there,” said the genie, stopping him. “I remember you. You’ve already used all your wishes.”
“What?” cried Sherlock, stunned. “That’s impossible.”
“No,” said the genie. “I definitely recognize you. We genies possess excellent memories in order to stop guys like you from pulling fast ones.”
Sherlock couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
“B-but--I just spent the last two days trying to track down where I put this lamp!” he exclaimed.
“You called on me two years ago,” mused the ancient djinn. “Let’s see. I believe your exact wishes included ‘Cocaine’, ‘Maybe a little pot,’ ‘Like, some ecstasy or something’, and finally ‘Yeah, more cocaine—definitely more cocaine.’
Sherlock counted on his fingers and scowled. “I thought genies only granted three wishes.”
“They do,” said the genie. “You just bribed me with cocaine to give you another one.” He chuckled. “Man, that was a crazy night.”
Sherlock dug into his pocket and whipped out the bag of hash he’d found three days earlier.
“Might I bribe you to grant me one more wish?” he asked, holding out the bag in offering.
The genie put up a hand. “Nah, man, I’m clean now.”
“Damnit,” Sherlock cursed. “You were supposed to be my cure.”
“Sorry,” said the genie, shrugging. He patted Sherlock on the back consolingly and in a slither of smoke disappeared back from whence he came.
Sherlock collapsed to his knees, the lamp rolling from his hands and clattering to the floor. He felt tears form in the corner of his eyes and realized he was experiencing emotions again. Even as a man he couldn’t escape the lingering effects of womanhood.
Overwhelmed by the feelings welling inside of him, he lost his tenuous grip on masculinity and transformed into a woman once more.
“No,” she sobbed softly, arms at her side. “It can’t be like this.” Was she doomed to be a werewoman forever?
“Dear child,” said a sweet voice near Sherlock’s ear. “All is not lost.”
Sherlock looked up. A small bright spot danced just out of her vision, blurred by tears.
She wiped her eyes and tried to focus.
“Who . . . who are you?” she asked, reaching toward the spot.
“Why, I’m nothing less than your fairy godmother,” it replied. In a burst of sparkles the spot morphed into a woman the size of a hummingbird. Her wings fluttered gently as she floated mid-air.
“Can you help me?” Sherlock asked, sniffing.
“Of course I can,” answered the tiny fairy. “The power to do so was within you all along. Well, technically it was within me, but I’m contractually obligated to say that every time I appear.”
Sherlock clasped her hands in front of her. “Please, just end this curse,” she begged. “There is literally nothing worse than being a woman.”
The fairy nodded and raised her wand, waving it in a figure-eight direction. The shadows followed her, swept up in the motion of her arm. The fairy pointed her wand at Sherlock, who felt her body tingle as the shadows passed over her.
Finally, thought Sherlock. Enough of this werewoman stuff. She looked forward to once again enjoying the privileges that came with having a penis.
Sherlock felt her body begin to transform, but her exhilaration turned to terror when she realized something was wrong—very wrong.
“It is done, child,” said the fairy godmother, her grin exposing a row of fangs. “But perhaps you should be more careful about what you wish for.”
Sherlock wasn’t turning into a man, but something else entirely. Her fairy godmother’s twisted visage filled her vision, becoming larger--or was her godmother becoming smaller? Sherlock couldn’t tell.
“I don’t understand,” she managed to croak out.
The fairy chuckled. “Everyone has one of those fairy godmothers.” She quickly clarified. “You know, the evil kind. I normally wouldn’t have responded to your cries for help, but none of your good fairy godmothers were willing to assist, I’m afraid. I guess that’s what happens when you call them cunts during a three-day coke binge.”
She laughed again, tapped her wand against her leg, and—pop!—vanished into the air.
John sat in Sherlock’s reading chair drinking a mug of tea and alternating between petting Goose and rubbing Snapdragon’s belly. His Craigslist post has gotten no responses other than lucrative potential business opportunities from Nigerian princes or offers to suck his cock for a suspiciously low sum of money.
He’d even gone through Sherlock’s Rolex and called anyone who appeared to be female, operating under the hope that ‘Cheryl’ might have been a false name. All he’d gotten in return were dial tones and a kind but firm call from the police station to stop harassing witnesses.
“That’s it, then,” John moped. “I guess I’ll never see Cheryl again.”
“Murr,” said Goose.
“I know, I know,” replied John. “I should apologize to Sherlock for the way I blew up at him yesterday. It wasn’t really fair of me. How could he have known Cheryl and I would have such chemistry?” He took a sip of tea and rubbed his lips. “Maybe I’ll start joining him on cases again—spend more time with him. Asking for space only seemed to make things worse.” He looked down at his cat. “I miss him, Goose.”
Just then Sherlock Jr. jumped onto the arm of John’s chair. Something wriggled in his mouth, trapped by the cat’s canine teeth--of which Sherlock Jr., like all cats, had four, as well as twelve incisors, ten pre-molars, and four molars.
“What do you have there?” asked John, setting down his tea and pushing Snapdragon off his lap to make room for the newcomer. Three months later Snapdragon would pee on John’s socks, but John would never connect the two incidents.
Sherlock Jr. deposited a large toad onto John’s lap.
“Mreow,” he said, pawing at John’s chest.
“Oh, ew,” said John when he saw what it was. “I think it’s still alive.”
It was quite fortunate that Sherlock Jr. had discovered the toad, as Queen Purr-Purr V would simply have eaten it. Sherlock Jr. had a rather poor opinion of John’s hunting abilities, however, and wanted him to have some extra protein.
“This is probably one of Sherlock’s experiments,” John mused aloud as he held the toad up to the light. “He keeps all kinds of weird things in his room.” He poked the toad’s belly and it croaked in response. “I wonder if he ever uses it to get high. I worry about his addictions.”
John had heard of people licking toads to experience their psychedelic effects, but he’d never seen anyone actually do it.
Why the hell not? he thought. Everyone else seemed to be enjoying themselves. Maybe this would help him get over Cheryl. If it didn’t work, no harm done.
He lifted the toad to his lips and cautiously ran his tongue along its lumpy body.
That was basically close enough to a kiss.
There was a fizzing noise, and then a succession of popping sounds. The cats hissed in terror and hid under the dining room table.
After the noise subsided John was quite surprised to find Cheryl seated on his lap. Realizing he’d just licked her face, he pulled his tongue back into his mouth.
Cheryl wore a diaphanous pink gown wrought with seed pearls and golden embroidery. Atop her curly hair was a pointy hat tied with ribbons that flowed downward in every direction.
“John,” said Cheryl. “It’s me, Sherlock. A crazy lady bit me during an investigation, which turned me into a werewoman. Did you know that was a thing? Apparently it’s a thing. Anyway, the genie wouldn’t take my weed so my evil fairy godmother turned me into a toad, with the caveat that if my true love kissed me I’d become a princess.” Sherlock shrugged. “You sort of kissed me, so here I am.”
“Oh,” said John, still stunned.
Sherlock made no move to leave John’s lap. Finding his courage, John tucked a curl behind Sherlock’s ear and lifted her face so he could look at her. He stared into her eyes and recognized the boredom twinkling within them. Sherlock’s eyes always twinkled when he was bored.
“It really is you,” he said, cupping her cheek.
“Yeah,” said Sherlock. “I’m not happy about it but I can definitively say that being a princess is better than being a toad.”
John was overjoyed. Sherlock was everything he’d ever wanted in a woman. He could now fuck his best friend without it being gay (okay, maybe it was still a little gay, but so what).
Their lips touched, and everything was right in John’s world.
“I love you,” he said, holding Sherlock close. “I think I have since the moment we first met, but it was only when you became a woman that I understood my feelings for what they really were.”
Sherlock chuckled. “Glad you finally came to your senses.”
She kissed John’s cheek.
“My prince,” she whispered into his ear. As a princess she was contractually obligated to say that.
And so John carried consulting princess detective Sherlock Holmes up to his bedroom where they had sex, explicitly.
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Date: 2013-12-06 05:56 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-12-06 07:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-12-06 08:03 pm (UTC)And the Lestrade bits. And the cats. And...
Now hearting gender benders.
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Date: 2013-12-06 08:54 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-12-07 06:04 am (UTC)This is just fantastic. And that line killed me!
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Date: 2013-12-07 09:02 am (UTC):D
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Date: 2013-12-07 05:58 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-12-07 07:24 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-12-09 04:21 am (UTC)Hahahaha. Very well done and hilarious.
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Date: 2013-12-11 01:51 am (UTC)