A/N: So this is my first Sherlock fanfiction and I'm not really in the fandom anymore but this idea has been in my head for a while now and there is just not enough platonic!Johnlock so bear with me.
This is before TRF, there is no romance, and Sherlock is a woman for reasons that will be explained at the end of the story. The title is a work-in-progress. Feel free to send suggestions.
I got the idea from chapter 3 of another Sherlock fanfiction, Flaunting It, which is a romantic Johnlock and the nicely done sequel to The Adventure of the Consulting Woman, both by DancingGrimm
Warnings: I'm a yank and this hasn't been Brit-picked, very minor sexual themes and drug references. They're just passing comments, really.
Pairings: platonic Johnlock, implied platonic Lestrade/Donovan (I don't know their ship name)
Characters: Sherlock Homes, Greg Lestrade, John Watson
Summary: "This woman was ruthless. Cruel. He had to stop her, had to warn John, had to bar all the exits with 2-by-4's and iron bars." Someone insulted John Watson. Revenge must be had.
"Red or purple?" was not how Detective Inspector Lestrade expected to be greeted as he opened the door to 221B. To be completely honest, he didn't expect to be greeted at all until John showed up and forced Sherlock to act like a person. Maybe the doctor would even make the consulting detective fill out her statement paperwork and he could be on his merry way. The duo, however, was nowhere in sight.
"What?" Lestrade called through the flat.
"Honestly, Lestrade, it's a simple question." The woman's voice was as condescending as ever as she walked into the sitting room, but it was at that moment that Lestrade's brain shut down.
For a lady - and he was fairly certain she was literally a Lady - Sherlock was fairly shameless. She ran across rooftops in skirts, flirted with suspects for information, and Lestrade even watched her snog a random civilian to see if he would notice her stick him in the neck with a pen, but this was new.
Pale skin was the first thing Lestrade's mind registered, pale skin and black lace. Slender legs were encased in thin black stockings held in place by a black silk and lace suspender belt. Black lace hid a thin frame, giving curves where there were none and it was done very well. Lestrade knew for a fact that Sherlock did not eat enough to have that type of cleavage, but the sleeveless bustier made it look natural. Thin black bikini panties hid only the most teasing amount of skin, and Lestrade was almost afraid for her to bend over and leave him with a very embarrassing problem. Her flat stomach was on display - as was her lack of visible ribs, something he knew he had John to thank for - and he spotted a small scar above her navel where he knew there was once a piercing from her druggie days before she got clean, decided it was tasteless, and let it close up.
This small detail - this flashback to dragging her skeletal body out of drug dens and into her brother's car - snapped him out of his daze. He dragged his eyes up to the detective's face, ignoring the woman's unimpressed expression as he finally registered something other than his half-naked colleague.
She was holding two dresses - one in each hand - one red, the other purple.
Ohhh, Lestrade thought. Ok.
"As I was saying," Sherlock bit out irritably, "which dress should I wear; red or purple?" When Lestrade continued to stare blankly at her, she continued, "I ask, because while red is the typical colour of seductive beauty, I have been told I look particularly alluring in purple. Which dress should I wear?"
"For what?" Lestrade finally asked.
"For to make a woman cry," Sherlock answered harshly. "Red. Or. Purple?"
Lestrade continued to stare. "Why would you want to do that?"
Sherlock growled. "You're useless!" She stormed down the hall back to her room, heels the DI was too distracted to notice clicking on the wooden floors.
Obviously, Sherlock was going through some mysterious woman thing and was best left to her own devices. On the other hand, it was either deal with Sherlock or go home and watch his marriage fall apart and frankly he still wanted to know why she wanted to upset some woman. And if he would need to clean up after.
He knew he'd regret it later, but he followed Sherlock down the hall.
The woman's room was... There were stacks of shoes everywhere - he never knew she had so many shoes! - and clothes hung from every available surface, but 'messy' wasn't quite the word for it. Everything was clearly organized; blouses hung on the wardrobe doors, skirts draped over the dresser, and dresses spread out over the bed. Cluttered, maybe.
Sherlock stood in front of a full length mirror, alternating between holding her red dress and her purple dress in front of her. The red dress was a dramatic piece, with thin off-the-shoulder sleeves and a sharp sweetheart dip. The back plunged down past the waist, held together with thick, red silk ribbons. The bodice was firm and the skirt fanned out from the hips to sweep around the legs. The purple dress was - he wasn't sure what to call it. It looked like something one would go clubbing in. It had a deep purple corset bodice held even tighter with strips of soft, black leather that wrapped over one shoulder, around the waist, and down past the hips where the short skirt would cling if not for the slit making its way up the front right-side.
Sherlock groaned and hung the dresses on either side of the mirror, ignoring Lestrade's presence though he was willing to bet his mother she knew he was there.
"So..." Lestrage rocked on his feet, glancing around the room awkwardly. "Why do you want to make a woman cry?"
"If I answer your question, will you answer mine?" she returned, still inspecting her dress choices.
"Sure," Lestrade agreed easily. "What do you want to know?"
Sherlock looked at his reflection, one eyebrow raised sardonically.
What? Lestrade thought. Why is she looking at me like-?
Oh! Oh yeah.
"That question." He nodded in comprehension. "I thought- Well, you might've- Alright, let's move on."
Sherlock stared at him condescendingly for another moment or so before draping herself dramatically across her bed, taking no care of the picture she presented. Lestrade gulped heavily and took a seat at the vanity, conspicuously looking anywhere but at the woman as he waited for her to speak.
She may bug the living hell out of him and he may frequently view her as the younger sister he never wanted, but that did not change the fact that she was a beautiful woman who was not actually related to him.
Damn her.
"John asked her on a date."
Lestrade blinked. "And?"
"And?" Sherlock repeated mockingly. "And she said no."
"I'd think that would make you happy," Lestrade commented.
"For the one hundred and fourth time, we are not a couple!"
"Then why do you care?"
Sherlock waved her hands grandly. "He's my person," she stated plainly, as if he should know what she meant.
"Your person?"
"Exactly," she replied, sliding from the bed and walking back to the mirror as if all was settled. "Now which dress?"
"Wait, what?" Oh, how Lestrade hated using that word around Sherlock, (almost as much as Sherlock liked talking down to people, which - he's sure - is why she was so often so vague), but this was more vague than usual. "No no no, you need to elaborate before you make me help with anything. He's your person? What does that even mean?"
"He's my person," she repeated insistently. "Like Donovan is your person, and some absolute hag of a woman had the nerve to say she could 'do better than some cripple ex-soldier on an army's pension, don't you think'." She scowled harshly at the mirror as Lestrade gaped at her back.
"She said what?" Strangely, Lestrade had no issue using the word now.
"I know!" Sherlock exclaimed, showing the first bit of genuine human emotion he'd seen her possess since the last time she'd been drugged out of her mind, coming down on his couch and sobbing about what she'd done for that fix.
They did not speak of that time.
"She thinks she could do better. As if there is better," Sherlock continued furiously. "As if there is someone more brave or loyal or wise. As if she even deserved John's attention in the first place. Then this uppity thing insists she's too pretty and from too good a family to bother with 'some old man' stuck in a hospital she 'only stepped foot in to get the experience for something better'."
She grabbed the red dress and held it tight to herself, clenching her jaw angrily before visibly calming herself and smirking.
"Tonight is Sarah's birthday dinner," she explained. "She and John have remained friends, so even though this dinner is supposed to be for work colleagues, she told him he could bring me along if he liked. I decided to spare them my presence for the dinner itself, but I'm going with them to the pub for drinks. That hag will be there, too." She gave a particularly vicious grin. "I'm going to break her pathetic ego. I'm going to strut into that bar, drape myself over John, and use every moment of his inattention to undermine her confidence."
She turned and met Lestrade's eyes for the first time that evening. "Because John deserves better, don't you think?"
She looked back at her mirror, pondering her dress choices again. Lestrade stared at her for a long moment. This woman was ruthless. Cruel. He had to stop her, had to warn John, had to bar all the exits with 2-by-4's and iron bars. He could borrow some from the prison. He's sure some old doors had just been replaced; he could get the leftovers.
And then he thought of Donovan, his person (apparently). What if someone had said those things to her?
"Neither of those is right for a pub, try this one."
"Sherlock, over here!" John called and waved to his friend as she stepped into the pub. He turned back to the rest of the table as she hung up her famous Belstaff. He tried to start the conversation back up, but found that no one was paying attention to him. He wasn't too disappointed; in snagging the table with Sarah, he had also gotten the table with Dr. Elizabeth "Elle" Wright, known to him as the woman he'd tried to ask out two weeks ago only to get shot down.
Now, it wasn't the rejection that bothered him. Ok, maybe a little, but it wasn't something he was one to harp on. He didn't begrudge any woman the right to say no to him, he never had, it was how she'd said no. A pity 'no' would have been less humiliating. And now, to top it off, she'd showed up with her new boyfriend. Her attractive surfer boyfriend. And she'd picked the table he'd sat at despite the fact that it was supposed to be reserved for coworkers who were closer to Sarah than someone who'd been hired the month before.
John was sure she'd done it on purpose until it was revealed her new boyfriend was old friends with one of the nurses at the table.
You're getting paranoid, John. Sherlock and her many, many enemies are making you paranoid. Dr. Wright does not have an agenda.
A pale arm placed a beer in front of him.
"Grabbed your favourite," Sherlock said as she slid into the chair next to him, long fingers wrapped around a glass of what was no doubt the most expensive wine behind the bar. She was using her 'I'm friendly and approachable and you can tell me anything' voice and John sighed with relief that she was going to restrain herself for Sarah's birthday. She would probably pass the lack of abrasion off as Sarah's present, too.
"Thanks," John said, taking no mind of how close she'd gotten once she crossed her legs. She never did care for other's personal space. "Nice dress."
Sherlock smiled in thanks, smoothing down imaginary wrinkles. The dress was a simple one, though more revealing than she normally wore. It was black, draping low in front and lower in back where John could just make out a hint of lacy underthings. It had thin straps to hold it up, two on each side, and if John hadn't seen Sherlock wander around their flat in nothing but a pair of boxers and pasties - "I need to test the adhesive, John!" - he might have been a little dumbstruck. Instead, he accepted it as Sherlock being Sherlock and turned to his beer.
"Happy birthday, Sarah," Sherlock said, reaching an arm around John's shoulders to nudge the other woman.
Sarah thanked the detective as John thought, She usually reaches right across. She's really trying tonight. I need to remember to thank her later.
Dr. Wright's boyfriend - Brandon? Brendan? Bradley? - Bradley was staring rather blatantly at Sherlock. John saw it all the time; people just weren't used to looks as striking as Sherlock's. Features like hers weren't supposed to exist outside of magazines, and yet...
Poor sod. Never stood a chance. Dr. Wright glared at Bradley from the corner of her eye; John politely pretended not to notice. Sherlock said nothing. I need to get her a present or something.
"It was so kind of you to let me tag along," Sherlock said. "I know we haven't really spoken since John saved our lives."
"Oh, you did a fair amount of the work," John objected.
"Nonsense," Sherlock insisted. "You kicked that crossbow's aim away from Sarah and at the man attacking me whilst tied to a chair. You saved us, moving on."
John sighed and let it go. There was no changing Sherlock's mind once settled and she was right, anyway. Sure, Sherlock did most of the work, but it was him who'd kicked the crossbow.
"Though to be fair, our hours would have problems coinciding," Sherlock continued. "Mine are never set and yours are so long, it's a wonder you get any sleep."
"It is, I swear," Sarah vehemently agreed. "I don't think I managed more than twelve hours in the past four days!"
"You hide it well." Sherlock smiled conspiratorially. "This one here," she nodded at Dr. Wright, "must be working hours just as long as you." She turned to face Dr. Wright properly. "You must be really dedicated, you look exhausted. How do you keep functioning?"
Handing out compliments, now? Sherlock was really committing. John swore he wouldn't complain about her experiments for the rest of the week. Unless they contaminated the tea or kettle.
Dr. Wright's smile turned tight. It's not Sherlock's fault your boyfriend is leering at her, John thought. You don't have to look quite so angry.
"Oh, she doesn't work nearly as many hours as I do," Sarah cut in before Dr. Wright could respond. "But then, I am her superior. I have so much more to do."
"Well, you must stay up all night drinking, huh?" Sherlock let out a laugh that - had John not known her so well - he would think was genuine.
"You're one to talk about not sleeping, Sherlock," John joked. "You stayed up for three days straight to catch that serial rapist last week."
"Oh! I remember that!" one of the nurses - Wayne Robbins - cut in. "I saw your picture in the paper. John had tackled the guy and you were threatening him with a... spear, was it?"
"That was a really nice picture," Sarah told them. "I really liked your hair; how did you get it to look like that?"
"Thank you," Sherlock said graciously. "I was running across roofs for almost an hour; it makes for a great windswept look."
Sarah giggled and John grinned. He so owed Sherlock for this.
Sarah hid a grin from behind another whiskey sour. Between hanging over John and calling for more rounds for the table, Sherlock had been snipping at Dr. Wright all night, each backhanded comment full of brass knuckles and delivered from behind an affable smile.
John didn't notice a thing.
Sarah found it hilarious. As sarcastic as the other doctor could be (and oh, was he sarcastic, beautifully so), he had no sense for subtlety. He smiled at Sherlock with each comment, so proud of her for holding back her acid tongue for the night. It was perfect.
Sarah knew what Sherlock was doing, just as she knew what Elle had said to John. It wasn't entirely the doctor's fault. The Wrights were a fairly influential family and Elle was more than nice looking; men hit on her all the time. The woman had had a particularly aggravating day - three overreacting parents, four teenage pregnancy/STD scares brought on by bad sex education, and two older men who ping-ponged between insisting a woman doctor couldn't possibly be a real doctor and making lecherous comments - when John asked her out. Elle was already seriously considering transferring to another hospital when John decided to talk to her.
Sarah felt for the woman - she really did - but she was better friends with John, and what was said to him was just plain cruel. The fact that she brought along her 'boyfriend', (Deborah had whispered to her that Elle and Brody were just old friends; Elle had asked him along as a buffer from people who might hit on her), and introduced him to John before even taking off her coat did not make Sarah feel much sympathy. So, Sarah sat back and watched on, giving Sherlock the occasional opening, and waited for the detective's killing blow. It couldn't be long now.
"If you all would excuse me a moment," John said as he pushed back from the table.
"Oh, of course." Sarah waved him off and he walked off to the bathroom, throwing a worried look at Sherlock every now and then. No matter how nicely she'd been acting (as far as he could tell), he didn't really trust her on her own. Which was a good call, of course, because the moment the lavatory door swung closed, Sherlock's smile turned sinister. Literally the exact moment. Sarah had no idea how she did it.
"Doctor Elizabeth Wright, 32, influential family, above average IQ," Sherlock listed casually.
Oh god, Sarah thought. This woman has no pity.
Elle stayed silent, as she had about every comment Sherlock had made. Sarah knew Elle knew how to play the game - she was a woman from the upper-upper class - but it turned out the Holmes were of the upper-upper-upper class and could easily buy and sell the Wrights, something Sherlock had easily confirmed when Elle had brought it up. ("Oh, mummy and daddy never like to bring it up, they say titles are such outdated things now a days. You'd never think they were a Baron and Baroness by looking at them!") And so, Elle had stayed silent, simply pretending not to notice each cotton-wrapped barb.
This only served to frustrate Sherlock and sharpen her words, making Elle act even more oblivious in the only bit of revenge she allowed herself.
Things might have gone on like that until the end of the night if John hadn't left to use the loo. Sherlock now had approximately 90 seconds to break a person.
She had done more in less.
"Your mother has a drinking problem, you father has a secretary problem, your younger brother likes the ponies, and your older sister likes your father's new husband," Sherlock continued harshly, paying no mind to the others in the pub. "You like shoplifting makeup, sex in public restrooms at expensive places, and dating Asian men to piss off your racist mother into paying attention to you. You like to believe you didn't absorb any of her racism, but the only reason you're not dating a black man for a more extreme reaction is because you're afraid he would beat or rob you. Or both."
People weren't even trying to pretend they weren't listening, and they certainly weren't bothering to hide their disgust for the doctor. Elle looked on the verge of tears.
"You refuse to use your family's influence or work at Wright Family Medical and say it's because you want to prove yourself as more than a Wright but it's really to convince yourself you're a good person. Proving yourself is also your excuse for not using your family's money to pay for your education, though it was really just stupid pride on your part because you were still bitter about walking in on your father and his then boyfriend. You tell everyone you got a full scholarship but you actually paid your way by selling the excess pills from your grandfather's practice. Your addict roommate found your stash and overdosed, which convinced you that you're a bad person in the first place and lead to your starting at the bottom of the medical career branch. Your father made the drug charges disappear on the condition you get your mother drunk enough to sign the divorce papers with the agreement that she receive less than one-quarter of their accumulated wealth. You also got her to sign over the title of her car to you."
Sherlock took a sip of wine, pretending not to notice the judging glares aimed toward her victim.
"And your nose is fake."
Elle, who had been desperately gripping the edge of the table since her father had been mentioned, let out a great sob and ran from the table. As she rushed to get her coat, Sherlock turned to Brody's stricken form. He looked disturbed at what he'd learned, but as if he still wanted to chase after her. Sarah supposed years' worth of friendship couldn't be erased so easily.
Before Elle could escape, Sherlock spoke again. She spoke to Brody, but made it loud enough for the shamed doctor to hear.
"You might as well chase after her; you'll get nowhere with me. I could do so much better, don't you think?"
Elle let out another great sob and slammed the door after her, Brody hot on her heels.
"Where's Dr. Wright and... I'm sorry, I've forgotten his name." John slid back into his seat less than a minute after the dramatic departure, looking between Sarah and Sherlock before deciding his fellow doctor was more likely to answer honestly.
"She got some bad news and had to leave," Sarah lied easily. "Brody went after her."
"Ah." John nodded understandingly, oblivious to Sherlock raising her eyebrow at Sarah. "Well, I hope it's nothing too serious."
"It seemed serious," Sherlock said from John's other side. "She might not be in to work for a while."
"Poor woman," John muttered. "I hope whatever it is gets resolved."
"I'm sure she'll think of something," Sherlock assured him, patting his arm gently.
"Thanks." John smiled at Sherlock and grabbed his beer bottle. "So, what were we talking about?" he asked, taking a drink.
"Nose jobs," Sherlock and Sarah answered at the same time.
John looked warily between them. "No teaming up, you two," he told them. "I've already got a bad shoulder, let's not give me a bad heart."
"Of course, John," Sherlock agreed, patting his arm again, this time condescendingly. She made sure he was looking as she winked at Sarah. "We would never be so mean to you."
A/N: Ok, so Sherlock is a woman in this because a male Sherlock wouldn't be able to drape himself over John and let people assume they're dating because of John's never ending insistence that he's not gay. Using a male Sherlock would be counterproductive.
As for Dr. Elizabeth Wright, I needed a villain, but I am so sick of two-dimensional "stuck up bitch" women, so I decided to make her a person, just with faults bad enough for Sherlock to use against her.
I have nothing against plastic surgery. Plastic surgery all you want that won't endanger you and is done for your own happiness rather than other's.