AN: Okay. This is one of my much, MUCH more out there stories. I recently read a story centered around Reid/Morgan from Criminal Minds featuring Reid as a FtM that was incredibly well done, and it got me thinking. Both MGG and B. Cumberbatch are slender, frail, rather ethereal looking, and if Reid could be an FtM then why couldn't Sherlock? The story that I've referenced is called 'Wonderment', and it is on this site if you choose to read it. I recommend it highly if you are a Reid/Morgan shipper.

But, on to the story. There is an established John/Sherlock romance, but obviously Sherlock's physical gender has not come into question. For the sake of the story, Sherlock will be referred to as 'he'. He has taken the hormone treatments but has not had any surgeries. I am giving you this time to back out now in case any of the following bother you: Transgendered characters, light bondage, and the inclusion of toys.

Last chance...

Oh, you haven't run away yet? Good. Let's get on with the show, then. Let's begin in Watson's mind.

There was one thing that no one ever did, and that was question Sherlock Holmes. When Sherlock said something had happened, or would happen, or that this was the way things were, people believed him. Maybe that was because Sherlock always made people think he was right. And maybe that was because people wanted something to believe in.

...

One way or another, no one questioned Sherlock. And far be it from me to do the same thing. So when Sherlock told me, several months after we had gotten together, that he was very much uncomfortable taking his clothes off in front of me I let it go. He had been uncomfortable from the start, I knew, and it had taken me almost a month just to get him to sleep in the same bed with me. He had had no problem with kissing, no problem with cuddling with me on the couch, and after that first month he had no problem with sleeping in my bed with me.

Don't get me wrong. I loved going to bed with Sherlock, having him spooned up behind me with one arm slung over me and his slim legs fitted between mine. He felt nice, he smelled nice, and he seemed to very much like having his big hands splayed out over as much of me as he could reach. It took months before he was willing to touch... Really willing to touch, I mean, to have his hands wrapped around me, bringing me to the edge before with a final rumbling murmur against my ear he sent me over.

It was well worth the wait, however, and seeing the soft smile on his face when I went slack in his arms made it even more worth it. However, one thing bothered me about all this... Even after I went limp against his chest and he had taken his hand out of my pants, there was never any answering hardness against my backside.

I suppose I couldn't complain. Sherlock had told me from the beginning that he was married to his work. The fact that he was willing to sleep in my bed with me, willing to touch me... Well, it was really more than I had hoped for when Sherlock had first confronted me about my feelings.

And that was the thing about Sherlock... He confronted me. I didn't go to him with declarations of love and how much I wanted him. He came to me, sat me down at Antonio's down the block, and told me very calmly over pasta and red wine that I was in love with him and he had no objections, because he was quite fond of me as well. I had promptly dropped my dinner into my lap and followed it with a knocked over glass of wine, much to Sherlock's amusement.

That night had been the first night that Sherlock and I had shared the couch, him sitting with his back against my chest and one of my arms loosely around his waist. I had fallen asleep like that, and woken to Sherlock sitting in the armchair across the room and watching me over steepled fingers.

That wasn't the first time I'd woken up to that, but it made me think that maybe I'd dreamed the night before. Being greeted with a fond 'Good morning, John. Did you sleep well?' dispelled that notion. So did the smile he gave me when I told him I'd slept just fine.

It wasn't long before Sherlock had another case that sent him halfway across the country in pursuit of a stolen ruby the size of his fist. He left me at home for that one, since I was busy with the clinic and it wasn't a particularly dangerous case. Well, not particularly dangerous in that Sherlock only came home with a few minor bruises and a slightly sprained wrist. He let me patch him up and promptly curled up on the couch with me, as usual with his back to my chest and his head tucked under my chin. That was the first night that I woke up with the world's only consulting detective actually nestled up against me instead of sitting in a chair across the room, watching me with those unnerving eyes of his.

Not that he stayed there very long... And I'm certain he wasn't asleep, because the moment I woke up he shot off the couch and retreated to his chair.