Title: A Veneer of the Feminine
Author: Nemo the Everbeing
Rating: Hard R
Summary: It was the general consensus amongst the officers of Scotland Yard that Lestrade made the best woman of the lot, which wasn't saying much. It's still enough to get Gregson in trouble.
Author's Note: I have no idea where this came from. There I was, minding my own business, and then this popped into my head and wouldn't leave. It's a slashy, smutty PWP with cross-dressing and snark that explores questions of sexuality, gender identity and desire. For those of you who've read the other stories I've written, NONE OF THESE THINGS ARE COMMON IN MY WRITING. Still, it was a fun writing exercise, and I don't think it turned out half-bad for an unbetaed bit of strange that poured out in a few hours and took a day or two to prep for posting.
Disclaimer: Is Sherlock Holmes public domain? If not, it belongs to the estate of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, of which I am not a part. I make no money of this one, people. Just fun.
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It was a rare event indeed in which a woman was needed for the purposes of investigating crime, but for the occasional entrapment or surveillance there was nothing quite like a woman. As they had no women at Scotland Yard—nor were any of the men willing to volunteer a wife or sweetheart for such dangerous work—an approximation had to be created. The Yard had the tendency to attract the large steam engines of the species, the type not likely to pass as a lady under the best of circumstances. Making do was common enough in the Yard, of course, and through a process of limited options the best possible alternative to a real woman was offered up.
It was the general consensus amongst the officers of Scotland Yard that Inspector Lestrade made the best woman of the lot. Lestrade was small and wiry, which could translate with minimal difficulty into a slender woman of average height. Having said that he was the best woman of the lot, it was also general consensus that it wasn't saying much. From a distance, and with the proper padding and corseting Lestrade could pass muster, but his hands and his face would have given away the deception in an instant without clever concealment. Even then, a muff and veil could only go so far. The rest was left to guttering lamplight and a strong sense of avoidance.
It was this consensus, and the orders handed down from on high, that led Inspector Tobias Gregson to conceal himself in an alleyway one damp October evening in 1889 after a known street prostitute named Eliza Murdoch came to be murdered in her home. A sorry affair it was. The killer had been tall, no doubt, from the size of his shoes to the reach he needed to pull himself up from a dead lift in the mud outside her window. He hadn't leaped—the footprints had said as much—but had simply caught the sill and pulled himself up to break the window and stab the girl to death in her own bed. It was not the sort to garner attention from either the papers or from Mister Sherlock Holmes, but it was still the sort that needed to be solved quickly. Another murder of a prostitute in Whitechapel was bad business after the Leather Apron murders, and the Yard needed to show itself capable of protecting the citizens of London. The superintendent himself had impressed the importance of the case upon Gregson—had all but said that any sort of promotion he may ever hope to gain was rather dependent upon his handling of this business.
He leaned against a brick wall well outside the lamplight and kept an eye on their hapless decoy. He didn't relish being out in such inclement weather. Gray rain sluiced off sooty roofs and splattered onto the dirty streets before him, occasionally bringing a dead rat or mouse down with it. The wall at his back was slicked with condensation pearling the coal soot and turning into a fine paste under his fingertips. His hat was pulled low about his ears, but the chill was unmistakable.
Nevertheless, it was better to be concealed under the protection of a window box than to be wandering the streets in that miserable weather. Lestrade cut a bedraggled sight indeed, even in the heavy layers meant to conceal the masculine lines of his build. The hat and wig he wore may have provided some small amount of warmth, but the veil was dripping water and threatened to cling to his nose. If the contours of his face were revealed the whole operation would be torn. Not even a man blinded by drink would mistake Lestrade's rat-like countenance for anything other than masculine. Gregson had been working long enough to know that it wouldn't deter a certain sort of client, but it wasn't the sort they were interested in catching that night.
It was his job to maintain Lestrade's cover and prevent any would-be suitors from getting too close. A bit of intimidation had chased off two such men already, and if worse came to worse, he could proposition Lestrade himself. Gregson might have preferred to be set upon by a clutch of thieves, but as Lestrade was unarmed and his movements constrained to the point of helplessness, it fell upon other hands to ensure Lestrade's safety and Gregson's promotion.
Speaking of a would-be suitor, Gregson saw one lurch out of the darkness on a path that would take him directly to Lestrade's side. The man was both too old and far too heavy to leave the footprints they'd found below Eliza Murdoch's window. It was clear that Gregson's time had come once again.
He made his way with a quick stagger out of the shadows and across the deserted street. All decent people were abed at such an hour, so he had no need to worry about being run down by a hansom in his haste. His mere approach had been enough to scare off the last two, but this drunk was the persistent sort. Gregson moved a bit quicker, and reached Lestrade seconds before the other man. The drunk called out in reproach, offering far more than Gregson was willing to pay. Blind, stinking drunk he had to be, or he wouldn't have offered a bent penny for bloody Inspector Lestrade trussed up like a sausage. Not even if he was the sort bent in that direction.
"Sod off and get your own," Gregson shouted over his shoulder in his best approximation of a Whitechapel accent. It was bad enough to make Lestrade wince, but he'd slurred it, and any discrepancy could be blamed on the gin in which a gleeful Bradstreet had drenched him before he'd left the station.
With no other alternative open to him, Gregson half-led, half-dragged Lestrade into the alley on that side of the street. They stood in uncomfortably close proximity against yet another filthy wall under yet another questionable window box. The drunk had not moved on to find another woman, but was waiting just around the corner of the alley. Gregson could see him peek around the edge of the building at intervals, probably to check their progress. He had a mind to go and move the bastard on with the encouragement of a truncheon, but that wouldn't be in keeping with the cover they were trying to maintain.
Gregson reminded himself of promotion and tried to ignore the steady drip of water down his back and the grit of the sludge beneath the hands that bracketed Lestrade's head. He would proceed slowly, he decided, and discourage the bastard drunk through a precision application of boredom. His face was inches from Lestrade's, far closer than either of them wanted to be. He could smell poppy seed and tea on Lestrade's breath and knew he'd snatched some of the cake Hopkins' wife had brought in before making his way out. It was a wonder he could swallow in the corset cinched about his waist.
"Not our man, then?" Lestrade asked. Annoyance colored the already strident voice Gregson had come to know too well. He blinked up at Gregson through his veil, and Gregson was struck again by how poor a woman Lestrade really did make. It was a wonder he'd drawn as much interest as he had.
"Not remotely," Gregson said. "A drunk gibbon would have noticed that."
"Not if he had a bleeding great load of gauze in front of his eyes. You're lucky I could smell your cologne under the brewery you bathed in, or I should have knocked you flat."
"Could you have done in those shoes?" Gregson asked, feeling vindictive. "The way you were tottering about? If you swung at me you'd fall over."
"You try squeezing your feet into these tiny shoes, Gregson, and see if you fare any better. I'd bet my pension you wouldn't get farther than three steps before you broke your nose on brick. You never were the very picture of grace, you fat-handed oaf."
"Now you listen here, you little rat! If you think I—"
Gregson heard movement at the mouth of the alleyway and pushed Lestrade up against the wall with a bit more force than necessary. He heard the satisfying burst of air as the wind was knocked from Lestrade's lungs, and then pressed close. It felt like they were wrestling more than anything.
"Oi!" Lestrade hissed. He swayed in the sort of dramatic fashion usually reserved for pantomime, and then caught himself on Gregson's arms with a grip strong enough to bruise.
"Realism, Lestrade," Gregson said in a breezy tone. It wasn't every day he had carte blanche to shove the little rat about a bit, and he was beginning to enjoy himself. "Can't have them thinking we're down here conversating, now can we?"
"'Conversating'," Lestrade sniffed. He was in rare form. "Next time it's you we'll do up like a Christmas goose."
"I would look like a gorilla in a frock," Gregson said. "All the boys would and you know it. It's not your fetching looks that got you this position."
"I've an even better idea. We do away with this whole silly notion. It's not as though I could talk to a suspect without him noticing something's a bit off."
"A bit? Don't flatter yourself. You're the ugliest woman I've ever seen, Lestrade. An insult to the fair sex."
Lestrade gave him a long, scrutinizing look.
"What?" Gregson asked.
"Did you just compliment me, or insult me?"
"Went over your head, did it? Doesn't take much."
Lestrade bristled. "Isn't it time you got yourself back to the comfort of the station, Gregson? You must miss your desk terribly. Tell me, have you ever solved a case on your feet?"
That was a step too far, and Gregson drew breath to give Lestrade a blistering he wasn't likely to forget. Before he could say anything, there was another movement at the mouth of the alley. Gregson's breath rushed out and he grasped hold of Lestrade's false bust. "If you crush that in your ruddy great hands . . ." Lestrade threatened.
Gregson heard a slight rustling noise. "What is it? Butcher paper?"
"The PMG," Lestrade said. "Perhaps Punch as well. I wasn't looking too closely when Jones was crumpling them."
"Good on Jones," Gregson muttered. "It's all those rags are good for."
"Don't let their editors hear you. They'd have a grand old time with this situation."
Gregson shuddered at the idea. The press had never been kind to Scotland Yard, and the Criminal Investigation Department was a favorite target. The images Punch would draw up of Lestrade in a frock didn't bear contemplation.
There was another sound at the mouth of the alley. "Jesus, Mary and Joseph!" Lestrade said. "Why doesn't he just push off? There must be dozens more dollies within a few blocks, and I've no intention of going through this whole charade."
Gregson turned and shouted, "Oi, push off you nosy bugger!"
The man at the mouth of the alley made an obscene gesture, and though he ducked behind the corner Gregson didn't hear that telltale patter of feet running off. He nearly groaned. He could go and chase the bastard off, but it would mean leaving Lestrade unwatched in a dark alley. It would mean risking his promotion, but it might well be worth the danger. Much longer pressed against Lestrade and Gregson was likely to kill him, if only to stop him talking. He was about to push away and see if direct intimidation would work where subtlety had failed when he heard murmured voices, and saw a new figure join the old at the mouth of the alley. His heart plummeted. The new face was much like the old, and far too short to have reached Eliza Murdoch's window without a ladder.
"Piss off!" he shouted at them.
"We're waiting our turn!" one of the shouted back.
Gregson caught a thin glint of steel stretch between the man's hands and his heart pounded. There were dangerous men other than their killer who wandered the streets in the dead of night: men who didn't have a qualm about murdering a prostitute and her client when they were coming out from an alleyway. That long, thin glint told tales to make any policeman quail. Garroting was a terrible way to go indeed.
Gregson leaned in close to whisper in Lestrade's ear. "I do believe I've just spotted one of London's misplaced piano wires."
"Tell me you brought a pistol."
Gregson cursed himself for a fool. Lestrade was so confident on the streets that a man could be convinced that there was nothing walking on brick to hurt him. It was the last time he trusted Lestrade's confidence on anything. "I've nothing but a truncheon, and I'm not certain I could move quickly enough to keep him from slipping wire about one of our throats. He'll be waiting for us when we try to leave, hiding. We need to wait them out; hope help arrives."
Lestrade snorted. The mad little idiot was likely to take on a whole gang of garrotters rather than stay trapped in an alley. He'd nearly died more than once thanks to that underdeveloped sense of patience. "How do you suggest we 'wait them out', Gregson? A game of whist?"
Gregson said nothing, but rucked up Lestrade's skirts to reveal feminine undergarments. He almost pitied his rival. Almost.
"Don't you bloody dare, Tobias Gregson," Lestrade said, his fingers biting into Gregson's arms hard enough Gregson's fingers began to tingle a bit.
"For the bleeding promotion," Gregson muttered. He got a bit of leverage by pressing a knee between Lestrade's legs and then gave a shove that lifted him to his toes. Lestrade let out an indignant yelp that was at least part pain when his head cracked against the wall. His wig stayed on, thank Christ.
It no longer felt like wrestling or even a bit of sport. This was humiliating. Lestrade clutched Gregson's shoulders, his tenuous grip on balance in women's boots at last giving out in the press. Even through the gauze, Gregson could see that he looked furious. For once they were in mutual agreement about a situation, and there wasn't a thing Gregson could think of to try as an alternative short of blowing his police whistle and ruining their surveillance. And dashing his possibilities of promotion to pieces.
He could picture that disappointed look on his father's face when he learned that Gregson would retire as an inspector. And he would certainly ask. He had asked every week after Gregson's prospects since he was a newly made constable. Now, in his diminished health, the news that his son had got so close only to fail could well kill him. It didn't bear contemplation. Gregson had to stay. He had to see this affair through to whatever conclusion was necessary. The very thought was a horror, not least because Lestrade was the first warm body in this sort of friendly proximity to Gregson in years. If he had to move, the likelihood Gregson could keep himself from responding in some accidental way was only perhaps half-odds. He wouldn't be able to live down the humiliation of a loss of control. Lestrade would never say a word—it would be just as bad for him—but he would know.
Lestrade's eyes were round and black behind the gauze. "Don't you dare," he whispered. "Don't you dare!"
Inch by agonizing inch, Gregson pressed forward. Lestrade's hands clenched hard against his shoulders. Gregson kept his face against the side of Lestrade's, and he found that without sight the verisimilitude to a lady was much improved. Gregson forced his breathing to stay deep and regular. He knew he'd need to repeat this process, but he would afford himself a few moments to ensure his control was what it should be.
He could hear Lestrade's breath in his ear, rabbit quick. Gregson didn't like to put himself in someone else's mind—he didn't think he was terribly good at it and saw the whole exercise as a bit of a waste of time—but he couldn't help but think that if he had been the one up against the wall, nearly off his feet and unarmed, he might well have been as near to panic as Lestrade seemed. Old habits and all that.
Lestrade would need bracing up if this was going further, and Gregson had resigned himself that it would go further, at least in appearance. He slid his hands down Lestrade's sides, making it obvious for their audience, and caught him around that tightly cinched waist. It was indistinguishable from any woman's he'd ever held, and his large hands nearly spanned the distance round.
In his ear he could hear Lestrade's voice crack a bit when he whispered, "For God's sake, don't." Gregson felt an honest stab of sympathy.
"If I had any other choice . . ." Gregson muttered right back, and then held Lestrade up as he pulled back and eased forward. His knee was still pressed between Lestrade's legs and he heard a surprised hiss. In a trice he knew he might not be the only one humiliated that night.
Pressing close was worse this time round, and he could feel the strain in Lestrade's muscles as he tried to pull as far away as possible. Worse still, as he pressed home he could feel the evidence of Lestrade's embarrassment through the crinolines and cloth between them. Something inside Gregson wrenched in response and he felt his face flame. He was losing the odds as surely as anything.
He forced his thoughts to duty and away from the body in his arms that smelled like poppy seed and felt solid and warm. He pulled back and then pressed close. In the clinch he heard the breathless, tormented noise that tore itself from Lestrade's throat. Gregson bit his tongue to stop himself from responding in kind.
Lestrade's hands moved from his arms to his shoulders, clutching and grasping in a strange transformation of his usual boundless energy. He pressed close again, and the hands slid about his neck. A calloused thumb—a thumb that was in no way feminine and horribly exciting for it—ran through the hair at his nape. The feeling of it was like a lightning strike to his nerves, and he was consumed with the desperate need to knock those hands away. He tried to think of the promotion, even as his own hands were busy scratching at the back of a silk blouse, the ridges of corset laces bracketing his fingers and contrasting with the muscles underneath that shivered under his touch.
It was worse than he had thought it could be, because it was so much better. The press of a warm and even dubiously responsive body was a particular hell for a man some years celibate. Every time they came together he heard those desperate, pleasured noises. He closed his eyes and thought of women, but the illusion was shattered by the press of arousal against his hip, the calloused hands in his hair, and the timber of the voice. He told himself it was the figure—the narrow waist and the feel of delicate fabric under his fingers—that made his breath hitch and made wild notions parade themselves through his imagination. The notion of such relations with Lestrade without the illusion of femininity was still . . . still . . .
Teeth scraped against the skin above his collar in a positively dominant way and Gregson's legs nearly went out from under him. He tilted his head back and cursed his inability to grab Lestrade by the hair and hold him where he wanted him. The feminine trappings were very much in the way.
They fell into a sort of grace period in which time and morality were suspended by the more immediate need for satisfaction. The ache between them was become a living thing twisting and pulling them together. He was panting and every now and again a groan pulled free of his chest. Lestrade was clinging to him, fingers twisted in his hair.
"Gregson," he heard in his ear, reedy and more than a bit desperate, "Gregson, man, you must stop! I—I can't—"
The clear realization of what would happen between them, messy and unmistakable, was a cold slap of reality. With it came the panic he'd held so well at bay. The noises Lestrade was making were becoming frantic, and Gregson himself had completely lost the battle against vocalization.
Gregson could feel Lestrade quaking, his fingers tightened to the point of pain, and even that felt incredible. The sensation was both a horror and a sick rush of power that he'd managed to lay his rival so bare. The enjoyment and the revulsion that manifested themselves hand in hand were nearly enough to make Gregson pull back. His body, lost to sensation, wasn't cooperating. There was no acting anymore, only hard, driving thrusts against the body in his arms. A slight shift to help him with the weight added a new dimension, coming at the angle from underneath. His arousal slipped between Lestrade's legs, and the tight heat of it made his hips stutter into quick, shallow thrusts. No true coitus this, but it was so close Gregson was drunk on the sensation of it.
He could hear the tenor of the noises in his ear change when he sped his pace, coming out high and soft and pleading on every quick exhale. The sound of it drove Gregson to distraction. It was foolish impulse and instinct that drove him to turn his head, nose the gauze out of the way, nuzzle against the ear he found, and then suck the lobe into his mouth. He dipped his hand low and edged it under the waist of the skirt, finding that narrow strip of skin between corset panels, chemise, and petticoats. He worked a finger under the laces and scraped his nails against the hard ridge of bone.
"Oh God," Lestrade gasped into his ear, voice dropping from those high, soft calls to a low rumble that sent shivers through Gregson. It was not the masculine aspects of this situation that were of interest! He growled and nipped the ear between his lips in reproach, but it did not have the desired effect. The slightest application of teeth had Lestrade bucking hard against him, tugging at his hair hard, and then shaking, going quite silent. The vibration of that ecstasy soaked Gregson's own brain in pleasure and he drove Lestrade up against the side of the building hard enough to bruise. He tore his mouth away from that ear and peppered any patch of skin he could find with frantic, sucking kisses. It was as though some final barrier had been crossed in that moment, and nothing mattered in the world but finding some elusive connection between them before Lestrade stopped shuddering and everything became too real. Two more jarring thrusts and he spent himself against the seam of his trousers.
When he came down from bliss he was greeted by the drip of the rain against his clothes, the ragged breaths in his ear, and the pounding of his own heart. The pleasure of the moment was too intense to think on anything too hard, and the body pressed into him was shivering with the aftershocks of what they had done. Each movement drew a sympathetic twitch from Gregson. His fingers were still on the skin they had found, and had gone from scratching to idle caresses. The hands in his hair had stopped pulling, and were running soothing strokes against his scalp. He remembered sleepy summer evenings with Mary Tillman, that clever and knowledgeable daughter of his father's sexton. Never since then had he been so oblivious to all but his own pleasure.
Suddenly a police whistle blew in the distance and shattered the illusion of tranquility and normalcy. Gregson heard the scum at the mouth of the alley legging it under the threat of police involvement. The body in his arms solidified into a person again, and he desperately needed to believe it was the last person on earth he wanted there.
Gregson dropped Lestrade to the ground and stepped away. Lestrade staggered but stayed upright. Neither man could look at one another. Gregson fought a losing battle against a furious blush all across his skin. "Lestrade," he said, his voice gruff and wretched even to his own ears.
Lestrade, still swaying on those ridiculous women's boots, was the first to act. "This doesn't get mentioned to anyone. Ever," he said. "We never speak on it again."
Gregson went one further. "It never happened."
Lestrade made a furious sound to the affirmative and set off towards the mouth of the alley, the slight roll in his gait the only hint of what had transpired between them moments before. Gregson followed, dizzy with the ebbing bliss, shame, disgust, and a queer, horrible tenderness. If he wasn't the world's biggest fool, he wanted to meet the man who was. The comfort would do him no end of good.
They did not catch Eliza Murdoch's killer that night. The corset, dress, undergarments, and other accoutrements Lestrade had been forced to wear were somehow thrown into the Thames. It was an unavoidable cost of doing police work in such a dangerous borough, or so the official report said. That report never did explain why.