The door opened, and closed. Sherlock took in a sharp breath. That wasn't supposed to happen.
John wasn't meant to be home for another six hours. He had a full day of work ahead of him. Sherlock had checked.
"Sherlock!" John's voice rang through the flat. "Mate, have you seen my ID? I must have forgot it this morning," he called.
Sherlock's eyes darted around the small bathroom space that he currently occupied. John's ID sat face-up on the countertop next to him. He cursed inwardly.
"Are you in the bathroom? Sherlock?" John's voice was just outside the tiny room now. Too late to make a quick dash for the bedroom. Sherlock's heart sank. He was going to be caught, going to be found out-
John's knuckles rapped at the closed door. "Mate? I'm sorry to bother you, but I really need my ID. I think I must have left it while getting ready for work," he said. "I'm going to be late."
Sherlock sighed, and took a breath, steeling himself for what was to come. "Yes, John. It's here," he said, picking it up.
"Do you- d'you think you can pass it out to me?"
Sherlock caught eyes with himself in the mirror. "Yes," he said softly.
Bracing himself, Sherlock opened the door the tiniest crack. He slowly extended his hand through the opening, proffering the card to John. John accepted it gratefully.
"Thanks, Sherlock. I'd best be-" he stopped short. "Um."
There was something wrong with the hand that had just offered him his ID.
"Sherlock, your hand…" he said, unsure of how to express his thought.
"Yes?" Sherlock said irritably, withdrawing his hand and pulling the door another inch closer to himself, shielding himself from John's view.
"It's, um," John said.
"What is it, John?" Sherlock asked. He glanced at his hand and groaned inwardly.
John took a breath. "Sherlock, why do you have a manicure?"
Sherlock closed his eyes. "You… really don't want to be asking that."
"Why?" There was no malice in his voice, only curiosity.
"It's… you'll be upset with me," Sherlock replied.
"Why would I be upset with you?" John's voice was laced with confusion. "Is this some experiment, or something?"
"No! No, nothing like that… just… go to work, John."
"Sherlock…" John pleaded.
Sherlock did not open the door. However, he did not fully close it.
"Should I… should I be worried? Are you… using again? Is this something to do with drugs?"
"What? No, John!" Anger.
John sighed. "Can I just… can I come in, Sherlock? I just want to make sure you're all right," he said. "You're not acting yourself."
Sherlock huffed for a moment. "Fine," he relented.
"I… wait, what?"
"Fine, I said! Come in if you have to," he said with just a tinge of malice.
"Oh… all right, then," John said, and pushed the door open.
Sherlock stood before him, dressed in an ankle length black dress, a frilly one with lots of lace. His lips and eyelashes were done up in makeup, and was he wearing… yes, he was wearing earrings. A pair of low heels lay by his feet, ready to be donned, and a fiery red wig sat on a mannequin head on the counter beside him.
"You don't like it," Sherlock said, not looking at John.
"No, no," his flatmate said, still staring at him with wide eyes. "No, you look… nice. It's… nice," he said lamely.
Sherlock once again locked eyes with himself in the mirror. John had caught him halfway between personas, and he wasn't sure how to act. He hadn't put his wig on yet, but most everything was in place – the dress, the nails, the makeup. The wig sat on the counter, as if mocking him.
He sighed.
"No, really, I think it's…" John scratched his head as he tried to think of a better descriptor. "Nice," he finished once more.
Sherlock pulled one side of his mouth up into something that wasn't a grin.
"Look, I really do have to get to work," John said. "But we'll talk this over when I get home, I promise. I'm not upset," he said, sensing Sherlock's unease. "I'm more surprised than anything else, really." He patted Sherlock on the shoulder, extremely awkwardly.
"It's fine, John," Sherlock said, very quietly.
John gave him a half smile. "It's all fine," he said reassuringly.
Sherlock finally looked up at him, searching John's eyes.
"Now, if I catch a cab, I might just make it in time for my second appointment," John said, glancing at his watch. "I'll be back in a few hours. We'll talk soon, all right?"
"Yes, John," Sherlock said.
John nodded, and left for work.
When John returned in the evening, Sherlock was curled on the sofa wearing his favorite blue dressing gown. He stared blankly at the wall. John sat next to him, surreptitiously glancing at his flatmate's hands. The manicure was gone. He cleared his throat.
"Sherlock, about earlier-" he started. Sherlock held up a hand, silencing him.
"Don't, John," the detective said in a flat voice.
John studied him for a moment. "Look, Sherlock, I just want to be perfectly clear about this," he said. "Let me say something to you."
Sherlock remained silent. John took it as a cue to continue.
He took a breath. "Look. I don't care how you choose to dress," he started, choosing his words carefully. "Like I said this morning. It's all fine."
Sherlock nodded slowly, still staring straight ahead, not trusting himself to meet eyes with the kind man next to him. "You aren't… upset with me, then?" he asked.
John scrutinized him. "Of course not! Why should I be upset? You're a grown man, you can do what you like," he said, now looking at the carpet himself.
Sherlock finally looked over at him. His flatmate, it seemed, was bursting with just as much nervous energy as he was. "You said she looked nice," he started cautiously.
John looked up, startled. "Um. Yes. She… looked very nice," he said, furrowing his brow. "She's not… you have a different… she… does she have a name, then?" he asked, confused but obviously trying to understand.
Sherlock thought for a moment. "No," he said, after a moment.
"Ah."
There was a minute's silence.
"But you refer to… her, as someone different?" John asked cautiously.
"Mm," Sherlock said, noncommittally.
Another minute, then, "I lied."
"What?" John asked.
"I lied. She does have a name."
"Oh," John said. "What is it?"
Sherlock grimaced, cheeks blushing a vivid red. He mumbled something, and closed his eyes.
"What was that?" John asked.
"Mystique, John. Her name is… Mystique." He cringed away the smallest bit, waiting for John to start laughing. He peeked an eye open when no laughter appeared to be forthcoming.
John reclined on the sofa a bit. "Pretty name," he commented. "Any particular reason you… she chose it?" he asked.
Sherlock looked at him with something John could only describe as hope. "She doesn't speak," he answered after a moment's thought. "She's mute."
"Makes sense," John said.
Another silence descended between them. Eager to brush it off, Sherlock asked, quite suddenly-
"Would you like to meet her?"