A Study In Florals

by Jessica R Vance

John and Sherlock run into some problems when one of Sherlock's experiments goes unfortunately right. Written by my girlfriend, Jill.

"It's an experiment, John!"

John had entered the flat to find himself staring down the barrel of an evil-looking ray gun. Sherlock had the thing trained on him, an odd gleam in his eye. John dropped the shopping, threw up his arms in desperate self defense and shouted "Why, why are you doing that!"

"I'm going to turn you into a woman." Sherlock answered, maddeningly calm.

John lowered his arms just enough to look incredulously at Sherlock. "Oh, well, that's fine then."

"Really?"

"No!"

"Oh come now, John. Haven't you ever wondered what it's like?"

"No, no I haven't. And I – just – what the hell, Sherlock! You don't even care about women!"

"When have I ever said that?"

"Literally dozens of times. Please stop pointing that thing at me. I can't talk to you like this."

"I don't understand them. What better way to understand a thing than to become that thing? Total immersion, John! I was up all night, but I think I've got the kinks out of this thing. Should work like a charm; this will be the final test."

"Well, that's wonderful – except you're not becoming a woman, are you? No, you just said it! 'I'm going to turn you into a woman, John!'"

"Don't be silly, John. Of course I'm going to turn myself into a woman, too."

"Oh. . .well, why can't you just do this yourself? This is your insane experiment!"

"They travel in packs, John! You wouldn't let a defenseless woman wander the streets of London alone, would you?"

"If she were you, I bloody well would."

Sherlock finally relented, lowering the ray gun dejectedly. John took the opportunity and retreated to the far side of the sitting room. "There. Good to see you've come to your senses," he said as he booted up his laptop, still keeping a wary eye on Sherlock. It would be foolish not to.

But Sherlock had by now dropped the gun and was in the process of curling up on the couch in his customary huff. Right, thought John. He'll be like that for a bit. Maybe I can get some work done. After a few minutes of tapping away at the keyboard and trying valiantly to ignore Sherlock's pointed sighs, however, John couldn't take it anymore. He stopped what he was doing and turned in his swivel chair. "Is it safe?" he asked, defeated.

"Of course it's safe!" Sherlock asserted, leaping miraculously from his melancholy pout and scooping up the ray gun in one smooth motion. "I performed the preliminary test on Mrs. Hudson."

"You – wha –" John barely had time to form the question before he heard an unusually deep "Ooh-hoo!" coming from the doorway and looked to see a burly if still pleasant-looking older gentleman smiling and waving at him. "Oh dear God. . ." John looked back at Sherlock. "What on Earth is the matter with you?" he asked weakly.

Sherlock only smiled. "Think fast, John!"

There was no time to think. There was no time for anything. A pink beam of neon light hit John squarely in the chest. He thought it would hurt, but it didn't. Quite the contrary, actually; it felt warm and oddly. . .pleasant. Like getting a full spa pedicure. Wait a minute. . . The thought had given John pause because, as far as he could remember, he'd never had a full spa pedicure. That's disturbing. Perhaps more disturbing still was the fact that a full spa pedicure suddenly sounded like a splendid idea.

"Interesting." Sherlock mused.

"What? What happened!" John asked, and quickly clapped a hand over his mouth. He didn't recognize his own voice! It was high and breathy and. . .girlish. He slowly – ever so slowly – looked down at himself, somehow knowing and yet not fully prepared for what he'd see. Where once there had been his somewhat flabby but most definitely flat chest, there now sat a pair of –he estimated – b-cup sized breasts. Looking into the mirror across the room, he saw not his own face, but the wide-eyed stare of an attractive, slightly plump blonde. John considered fainting.

"Huzzah. It works." Sherlock said matter-of-factly, and turned the ray gun on himself. A moment later, an amazonian brunette stood in his place, a satisfied smirk on her angular face as she surveyed the change. The addition of a bust to Sherlock's slender frame proved to be too much for his already strained Oxford shirt, and the buttons popped off in all directions. John felt his face go red, and then a flash of completely irrational resentment.

Sherlock's breasts were bigger than his.

Half an hour and several cups of tea later, John was still trying to take it in. Mrs. (Mr.?) Hudson was toddling about the flat, picking up stray shoes and bits of rubbish, clucking occasionally about the mess. She (he?) seemed to be taking all of this awfully well. John thought he might go a little insane. He was jarred out of his stupor by her new and unfamiliar male voice.

"Oh, Shirley! That suits you, dear, really it does!"

Sherlock stood in the doorway to the kitchen – or rather, draped himself against the frame. The object of Mrs. Hudson's enthusiasm was a deep purple cocktail dress so tight John wondered how Sherlock had gotten into it; it could have been painted on. The neckline plunged to reveal Sherlock's considerable. . .assets. . .and the hemline stopped so far above the knee as to be nearly scandalous. John conceded that the overall effect was not unattractive – then remembered that this was Sherlock standing before him, dressed like a complete slag. He felt ill.

"Well," Sherlock's new voice, John noted uncomfortably, possessed a velvet quality that he found unnervingly seductive. "How do I look?"

That tore it.

"I don't know how you can be so cool about this!" John shouted, immediately horrified at the sound of his own screeching woman's voice. "Look at us! We're. . .Girlock Holmes and John Twatson!"

"No," Sherlock purred, pausing at the mirror to put on lipstick. He actually winked at himself before continuing. "I'm Shirley Holmes and you're Dr. Jane Watson."

"Clever."

"Come on, Jane! Stop sulking and put on your frock. I'll not be seen in public with you dressed like that!"

John looked at himself. He was still wearing the clothes he'd been changed in. The trousers were too big, but he'd tightened the belt; they'd stay on. The jumper fit comfortably, if a little tightly over his new bosom.

"I look just fine like this."

"Nonsense, Jane -"

"Oh. God. Could you not call me that?"

"Put on your frock, I say! Mrs. Hudson went to all that trouble picking it out for you!"

"Oh it was no trouble, really," the man who was Mrs. Hudson interjected. "It was rather fun, if you want the truth; I never had daughters to shop for you see, and -"

"Don't listen to her, she's just being polite. Now, are you going to change, or am I going to have to strip you myself?"

John stamped his foot. He stamped his foot. He had never done that in his life, yet it had seemed a perfectly reasonable reaction just now. He had no time to consider the implications of this new development, however, because Sherlock was advancing on him with frightening speed. Before John could escape, Sherlock started unceremoniously yanking off his jumper. John panicked.

"Hey, hey! Stop that! What the good bastarding fuck do you think you're doing!"

"Language, Jane! I already told you-you're going to change one way or another."

"Stop, stop! Sherlock, I'm not wearing anything under this!"

"Oh come off it, Jane; we're all girls here! Well, with the possible exception of Mrs. Hudson."

"Oh Shirley, you're right!" Old Man Hudson chimed in. "I'd better be getting along – wouldn't do, me seeing Jane in the altogether. Do be careful while you're out, dears!" And with that, she tottered out of the flat and down the stairs, comfortable as anything in her new body.

John tried to take advantage of the momentary pause to wriggle his way out of Sherlock's clutches. After a brief struggle he succeeded – at the expense of his modesty. He quickly crossed his arms over his exposed breasts and looked daggers at Sherlock – Shirley – who stood twirling his jumper and sniggering at him. "Now the trousers," Sherlock cooed, and made to pounce on him again. John held up a hand, the other arm now pulling double prude duty – breasts were difficult to adequately cover with one arm – and stopped Sherlock in his/her tracks.

"Just wait a minute!"

"Yes?"

"I don't want to put on a frock. I definitely don't want to put on a frock and go out. You've proven your point, Sherlock. You've changed us into women. Now you can go gallivanting about London in that getup – you look like a prostitute, by the way – all you want, but I don't want any part of it! In fact, I would like it if you just changed me back. Right now."

"But Jane-"

"No! Right now, Sherlock!"

"Jane – John – listen. I - I don't want to do this without you. You were right before; I could very well have done this experiment on my own, but I don't want to. I – need your insights. Just like always. If you'll do this with me today, I promise I'll change you back just as soon as it's over. Will you do this with me – for me?"

Of all the exasperated sighs that had escaped John Watson's lungs in all the time he'd known Sherlock Holmes, the one he heaved now was probably the most laborious. How does he always manage to do this?

"Fine. But I'm going to hold you to that promise. You are changing me back as soon as this is over – Sorry, what exactly is it we're doing?"

Sherlock flashed a disarming smile and tossed John a rather loud, busy-printed frock.

"We're going shopping!"

It took nearly an hour to get ready.

There was makeup – lots of makeup – and Shirley insisted on doing Jane's hair. Then she squeezed into the pink floral monstrosity Mrs. Hudson had gone to so much trouble to pick out for her. She could have made a better guess at my size. Then there were the heels. High heels. They looked like torture devices. After standing in them for a few minutes they started to feel that way, too. She didn't know how she was going to approach walking in these murder weapons. How do women do this every day?

"Why do I have to wear these, again?"

Shirley looked up from powdering her nose – for the eighth time – and shrugged. "Because they look stunning."

"No, really. I'm really asking."

Shirley rolled her eyes. "I told you before, Jane. Total. Immersion. Women wear high heels. We are women. Therefore, we wear high heels. It's all part of the experiment." And she went back to shellacking her face.

"Right. Well, is leaving the flat sometime today part of the experiment? Or are you going to sit there. . .fussing. . .with yourself the entire time?"

"Don't get your knickers in a knot! I'm nearly done. It's just strange. . ."

"Oh, you've just arrived at Strange? Because I took the train out of Strange and into Really Fucking Bonkers about, oh, three hours ago."

"It's strange. . .I've never felt so. . .pretty."

"Oh, God-"

"I've never noticed just how unusual my eyes are before. Not unusual in an unattractive way, of course. One might rather say, 'unique.'"

"Oh, Christ. . ."

"I really am. . .quite lovely."

"Sherlock! Can we go? Please?"

"Oh, fine!" Shirley huffed, grabbing a small handbag off the mantle. She tossed another at Jane. "Took the liberty of packing your mobile and wallet. Don't lose track of that bag."

"Got it! Off we go!"

"Hold on – how do I look, really? All right?"

Jane was glad Shirley was standing so close; it made it easier to give her a slap without having to walk in the heels. She then turned with great care and stumbled toward the stairs.

Jane considered it a personal triumph that she had only fallen twice on the way downstairs. Never mind the military service. That was a real accomplishment. Shirley, meanwhile, had not only not fallen, but was now making her way down the street with long, confident strides, though her heels had at least an inch on Jane's. Jane stared at her, hands on hips, openly abashed.

"How in the hell do you know how to walk in those things?"

Shirley, stopped at the curb, looked down at her heels, then back up to Jane. She shrugged again, that same infuriating little lift of her shoulders.

"I know everything."

Jane desperately wanted to slap Shirley again, but she was too afraid to move. Instead, she said through clenched teeth "No, you know only what's relevant. You've said that to me, that exact thing. You didn't know the earth revolved around the sun, for God's sake – I refuse to believe you found it important to know how to walk in high heels!"

"Suit yourself. But clearly it is important; one never knows when one will spend a day as a woman."

Jane fumed, too furious for words. Shirley, meanwhile, casually held up one slender hand to hail a cab. Three stopped. Shirley let out a peal of throaty laughter. "Boys, boys! One at a time! Come on, Jane."

Jane looked up at the sky for a moment-How long, oh Lord?-collected herself, and crept purposefully toward the cab, focusing all her effort on not looking like a fool. She doubted seriously that it was working.

Before long she was tumbling out onto the street again. From what she could gather, they had stopped in the heart of the fashion district, a place Jane couldn't remember ever having been. And they were going shopping here. Jane had never gone shopping. She had done the shopping – she was always the one who did that, come to think – but that was for groceries, essentials. Things they needed in order to live. She had never equated shopping with recreation. It just didn't seem fun. But Shirley was already sauntering down the way toward the first shop as if she were on a bloody catwalk. Jane had to shuffle faster than she was strictly comfortable doing just to catch up.

"Oh Shirley! D'you think you could slow up just a bit – darling?" Jane shouted, dripping contempt.

"Really, Jane. You haven't got the hang of walking in those things yet? It's terribly simple."

Jane just looked at Shirley. "I could murder you, you know that? No jury in the world would convict me."

"Oh, Jane-"

"In fact, they would probably give me a medal!"

"-Will you look at those boots! Come on, I have to touch them!" and Jane found herself being dragged into the shop.

It was the first of many. They looked at shoes, they looked at frocks, they looked at bags. Jane was forced to watch Shirley try on no fewer than twelve bikinis. They even managed to bluff their way into an exclusive bridal boutique - "Of course I'm the Marquess of Essex!" - so Shirley could look at wedding gowns. They paraded in front of seemingly endless dressing room mirrors and shop front windows, and it was in front of one of these that Jane stopped. It wasn't the garish display of alligator luggage arranged on the other side that got her attention, but rather her own reflection. She'd been catching it in swift glimpses all afternoon, but now she really looked at it.

A feeling began to steal over her as she studied herself. It felt sort of. . .sinking. It felt like disappointment. Jane slowly came to realize that she felt depressed. And then it dawned on her why.

"Jane! What are you doing?" Shirley came striding up to the window, arms loaded with all the ridiculous things she'd bought today. "I got halfway round the corner before I realized you weren't behind me, silly! Jane? What's the matter?"

Jane didn't want to say, at first. Frankly, it made her feel like a git. But she knew Shirley probably wouldn't let it go, so she took a deep breath, looked at the ground and blurted it out.

"I feel fat! I've never felt fat in my life. . ."

Shirley laughed. Jane looked up at her, stricken. "Oh Jane, don't be a dingy bird! You're not fat."

Well, it didn't really help, but it was better than what she could have said -

"You're just chubby, that's all. At most, you could stand to lose no more than a stone. Lunch?"

-Ah. There it was. God forbid she grow any tact with those breasts. Dingy bird. . .?

After lunch- of which Jane had been too despondent to partake –Shirley insisted she hadn't collected nearly enough 'data' and that they must look at jewelry for at least an hour. As they were walking and failing (respectively) down the street, Jane wondered when she would be allowed to die. Suddenly Shirley's text tone sounded from the recesses of her bag, and Jane saw the clouds part. It would be a case; Shirley never got texts for any other reason. Thank. Christ.

"Oooh Jane, it's Lestrade! There's been a murder!"

Jane smiled for the first time all day. God bless you, Greg! "That's fantastic! Let's pop back over to the flat, change back and head that way!"

"Oh no, Jane."

What.

"There's no time; we'll have to go like this."

No. "No!"

"What? There's no reason we can't work just as well like this-"

"But!"

"-Besides, I want to see Donovan's ugly face when I show up looking smashing. She's going to shit. Taxi!"

Was it ever a murder. White male, mid-thirties, head smashed in in an alleyway. Blood everywhere. Pretty much par for the course. They had had a hell of a time getting this far, and why not? Two women dressed for cocktails and laden with shopping bags claiming to be Sherlock Holmes and John Watson? I'd have had us carted off to the loony bin. Jane wasn't entirely sure she wouldn't end up there yet. But Shirley had whispered something to Greg that convinced him to let them in. Apparently something only Sherlock and Greg would know; Jane had caught 'spanner' and 'perineum' and decided she didn't want to know any more.

Shirley had been right about Donovan – she did look like she would shit once she realized Greg meant to let them do their thing. Anderson, meanwhile, just stared at them in a frankly creepy way that Jane fought to ignore. Shirley strutted past them under a hail of outraged buts from Donovan. "Oh Donovan, you're just mad because you can't fill out that bargain bin blouse and nobody – not even Anderson, anymore – wants to shag you!" That shut her up, momentarily, and Jane had to smile in spite of herself. She really hated Donovan.

She shivered – the afternoon had turned chill – as Shirley studied the body. At first she thought Shirley had gotten something in her eye; she was blinking more than usual. Probably an eyelash. That mascara burns like acid. But on closer inspection she realized there were tears in Shirley's eyes. Honest-to-fucking-God tears. Ooooohhhhh, what fresh hell is this?

"Well," Shirley choked, coming to a stop beside Jane, "he was a widower."

"O. . .kay. . ."

"With three young kids. Oh, this is too awful!"

"Uh. . ."

"Little girls, Jane! Look at the way his hair is brushed -"

"Well, what's left of it-"

"-And there's the faintest trace of pink nail polish on his right thumbnail. Oh, they must have done makeovers on Daddy! And now he's never coming home! Those little angels are orphans now! I'm sorry, I can't – can we just cover him, please? Oh, I'll do it!"

She covered the corpse with a sheet. Jane would have loved to see her face in this moment. Greg was looking at her over Shirley's shoulder, mouthing What the hell? She held a hand up. Just give me a minute. "Shirley? Can I see you over here?"

She dragged her by the arm to the far side of the alley, out of earshot.

"What the hell is wrong with you?"

"What do you mean? I'm just so sorry for that poor man!"

"Exactly."

"I-but. . .Oh my GOD, Jane."

"Wh-"

"I'm FEELING. This is HORRIBLE! I could have this case solved already, but I can't stop CRYING! Jane, we have to get out of here; I have to change back!"

"I suggested this very thing-"

"I can't solve cases with a WOMAN brain, Jane! We have to go! Gregory! Keep everything as it is here! Don't move a thing, we'll be back within the hour! Come on, Jane."

"I-yeah. All right."

"Thank you, Greg, you big silly man. Anderson, you're a disease! Donovan, you're a jealous petty cow! BRB!" And they hurried out into the waiting cab.

They raced up the stairs back at 221B. Well, Shirley raced. Jane doubted she'd ever hurry anywhere again; she wouldn't be surprised if her feet came off with these damned shoes. She trudged up the last few steps just in time to hear Shirley scream.

"What! What is it!"

"Jane, the ray gun! It's gone!"

"Oh Jesus Christ, no. . ."

"I don't believe this! It was here, I left it just here!"

"Shirley. . ."

"I can't! I can't-"

"Shirley!"

"WHAT!"

"Look at the mirror!"

Shirley whirled around, and they both looked. Scrawled on the mirror in what appeared to be red lipstick was a message:

Tomorrow, noon.

You know the place.

I'll be waiting.

Kisses!

M.

"Shit." Shirley hissed, collapsing into her chair.

Jane took that as a cue and fell backwards onto the couch. She was unable to muster the strength to get too upset, just at the moment. Honestly, she was relieved they had a reason to stop for a few damn minutes. Her feet throbbed and her head ached. That tit Moriarty has the ray gun. Wonderful. This probably means we're going to be stuck as women forever. Might as well get used to it. At any rate, there was nothing they could do right now. Maybe she'd just take a little nap. . .

"Call Lestrade."

"Sorry?"

"Call Lestrade and tell him we're not coming back. Tell him something came
up; he's on his own on this one."

"And you can't do that. . .why, again?"

"I'm too upset."

"Ah."

"Be a dear, Jane."

"I hate you." But she dug her mobile out of her handbag and made the call anyway. Greg was completely baffled, poor man, but he finally gave in. "Just promise he'll be normal next time – you know, as normal as he ever is." Jane had given her assurances, though she wasn't entirely sure at all whether they'd ever be Sherlock and John again. It would be horrible for business. Maybe we can open a flower shop. She stared at Shirley, draped in her chair, breasts heaving. Or a brothel. Always good to have a contingency plan.

"Jane. Jaaaaaaayne."

Jane started; she must have fallen asleep. She checked her mobile and saw that it was past six, but she didn't know what time it had been when she nodded off, so that didn't tell her much. She looked groggily over at Shirley. "What now?"

"I'm starving. Go out and fetch something, would you?"

"You're not serious."

"Oh Jane, come on! I've had the worst day!"

"You've had – ooooh!– isn't there something in the fridge?"

"There's nothing I want."

"Oh, really? And what is it you want, then?"

"Chocolate, for God's sake! And I'll want something salty, too. And bread, I'm craving bread like you wouldn't believe! Doesn't matter what kind; I'll leave it up to you. Oh don't look at me like that, Jane! You've got to be hungry, too - you haven't eaten all day! God knows it was a first for you-you're always eating!"

Jane wished looks could kill, truly. But then she'd have a body to dispose of, and she really, really didn't want to get off the couch. The worst part was that Shirley was right; she was famished. And for some reason bread did sound fantastic. This was a losing battle; Shirley would literally starve to death before she moved from that chair. Jane hauled herself upright.

"I will go as far as Speedy's. No further."

"You're a treasure. Card's in my bag."

Jane began easing the heels off her swollen feet; she'd be buggered before she took another step in the damn things. She had a pair of trainers in her room. They'd be too big, but she didn't have far to go. She limped into the bedroom, slipped the trainers gingerly on, grabbed Shirley's bag and hoofed it down the stairs.

Forty five minutes later Jane was back, arms loaded with bags loaded with more food than she'd ever bought at one time. There were sandwiches, crisps, a tin of cubed pineapple that had looked unaccountably appetizing, some ice cream (rum raisin, and if Shirley didn't like it, fuck Shirley) and an entire turtle cheesecake that she just hadn't been able to pass up.

Shirley was up and fussing with the television. She'd changed into pajama bottoms and a too-big t-shirt. That looks like a fantastic idea. Jane dumped her bounty in the kitchen and limped back to her room, where she dug out some loungy clothes and struggled out of the horrible dress. Never again. She nearly tossed the thing in the bin, but thought better of it – it'd be much more satisfying to burn it. She'd have to remember to do that, when this was over. Even if I am stuck as a woman. She peeled her trainers off and surveyed her maimed feet. The backs of her heels were raw, the balls of her feet were swollen, and there where blisters in betweenher toes. She'd seen war wounds that were easier to look at. She sighed, pulled on her clothes, and headed back for the kitchen. She had every intention of scarfing down a sandwich and maybe some cheesecake and then going straight to bed.

It was not to be.

"Come in here, Jane. I've just got everything set up."

Jane emerged into the sitting room to find Shirley on the couch, sandwich in one hand and clicker in the other. She appeared to be starting a film. What the hell now?

"We've got Love Actually in right now. I also got Notting Hill and The Piano. These sandwiches are divine, by the way, and that stuff" -she pointed to the cheesecake- "is amazing. What is it?"

"It's turtle cheesecake. What are we doing here?"

"Turtlecheesecake? Never heard of it. Anyway, it's fantastic—

"Shirley. What is all this? Where did you get those DVDs?"

"Oh, filched them from Mrs. Hudson's collection while you were out. I thought we'd have a movie night!"

"Oh you did, did you? Well, have fun with that; I'm eating and going to bed."

"But Jane!"

"Nope. You dragged me around all day in those God-awful shoes, and now I'm tired. I'm exhausted. I'm probably going to spend the rest of my life as a woman now that the Consulting Nutter's got his hands on the ray gun, and I have some thinking to do about that; it's going to take me a long time to come to terms with it, and I'd like to get started as soon as possible. I blame you for all this, entirely. So no, I will not join you for a movie night, thanks ever so."

Shirley just looked at her for a moment. Then she picked up one of the sandwiches and handed it to Jane.

"At least stay as long as it takes you to eat."

"I intend to."

Jane grabbed the sandwich and sat down hard on the couch. Shirley started the DVD.

"Where is Mrs. Hudson, by the way?"

"Pub."

"Ah. So she's still. . . ?"

"Yep."

"Right."

The movie started. Jane tried to focus on eating – she had tried the cheesecake, and Shirley was so right about it being amazing! – but found herself starting to pay attention. She didn't remember if she'd ever actually seen this film. Probably with a past girlfriend, though she
couldn't have told you which one it was if her life depended on it. She finished her sandwich, and the cheesecake, and was just about to get up when Liam Neeson started crying. That, it turned out, was the point of no return. She had to see this thing through.

Over the next several hours, Jane and Shirley laughed, giggled, guffawed and only occasionally teared up. They polished off all of the sandwiches and most of the cheesecake, then ate the pineapple with the ice cream (which, it turned out, Shirley did like). They passed a bottle of rose wine (another spoil of Shirley's raid on Mrs. Hudson's) back and forth. Shirley painted Jane's toenails, and was surprisingly good at it for someone under the influence. Jane braided Shirley's hair and wasn't good at it at all, but it made Shirley laugh which, oddly, gave Jane unexplained feelings.

It was somewhere in the middle of The Piano that Jane felt Shirley staring at her.

"What?"

"I have something to tell you, Jane."

"Okay. Fire away."

"I – appreciate you."

"Thanks?"

"No no, you don't understand. It's not just that I appreciate you. God, even as a woman this is difficult. . .but I could never say it as a man. You know how I am."

Jane was very sleepy and a little drunk, but something in her mind told her she really wanted to listen to this.

"Jane, the thing is. . .I love you. I really love you, and I don't know what I would do without you. You-you're. . .the most important person. In my life. Will you remember that, no matter what?"

Jane didn't know what to say. She nodded; it was all she could do.

"Good. Well, I think this experiment has been a success." And she took another long swig of the wine.

Jane smiled. That was really sweet. She thought she should say something back, like "I love you too, Shirley – God, I love you so much!" but Shirley might think it was just the wine talking. It totally wouldn't be. Well, not entirely. Damn it, Sherlock. Male or female, you make it hard to stay mad at you.

The last thing she knew, Shirley was smiling at her. Then she passed right out.

The warmth of the sun on John's face woke him. He didn't wake up all at once; he was in that sort of half sleep right before you open your eyes. He laughed to himself – he'd had the craziest dream! He dreamed Sherlock turned them both into women, and they went shopping and braided each others' hair! Totally ridiculous. He'd have to tell Sherlock about this one. That is, if he ever got up; his pillow was uncommonly comfortable. Soft, kind of squishy, round. . .

Jane opened her eyes. She was still on the couch, face down in. . .

"Oh my GOD!"

Jane leaped off the couch, where she'd been unconscious on a topless Shirley, face nestled in her breasts.

"Oh God, I was in your- I was in- And it wasn't a dream!"

Shirley stirred. "What is it, Jane?"

"Why aren't you wearing a boo-boob – no, a breast – NO!"

"Jane, you're babbling."

"BRA! Why aren't you wearing a bra! Or, you know, the bloody SHIRT I know you had on last night!"

"Got too hot. M'not used to sleeping in clothes." And she rolled over and that was that.

Jane scrubbed her hands over her face and back through her hair. She'd gotten up too fast; her head felt like it was full of cotton.

"I just. . .tea. Tea before anything. . ."

She padded into the kitchen on her horribly aching feet. Definitely not a dream. She had the tea brewing before she bothered to look at the time.

Eleven forty five.

"Ooooohhhhh shit! Shirley!"

One of Shirley's hands lifted halfheartedly. That was apparently all she was capable of.

"Shirley, the meeting! It's quarter till noon!"

"Mmmf."

"Shirley! Lunch with Mr. M., remember!"

That got through to her.

"Oh sh- I'm up! I got this! Oh hell!"

In her haste, she'd fallen off the couch. Jane would dearly have loved to watch her struggle (for reasons not entirely unrelated to her bare breasts), but there simply wasn't time. She was already digging through the girl clothes, trying to find something that wasn't a bloody stupid frock. She pulled out a pair of flimsy black. . .tights?

"Leggings! Good choice!" said a blur that went past her, in Shirley's voice.

Leggings. They do go on your legs, then. Jane knew just what would go great with them, too.

Two minutes later she had pulled on the 'leggings,' as they were called, and her striped jumper (Old Reliable), which was just as adorable as she thought it would be. She found shoes that would fit ("There were flats? There were FLATS and you didn't tell me!") grabbed her black jacket, and was ready to go. Shirley barreled out of the bedroom, face done and hair somehow looking amazing, hopping on one foot trying to get her other heel on, one arm in the new coat she'd bought yesterday.

"Hurry Jane, there's no time!"

And they were running. They were running down the street, Jane following Shirley because honestly, she had no idea where they were going. She couldn't fathom how Shirley was running in those shoes. They cut across, took several lefts and a right, nearly ran down an old woman. Another block, round the corner, and Jane realized where they were headed.

Three minutes later they burst onto the roof of St. Bart's, panting and sweating.

"Shirley! You're late."

They both gaped at the distinctly female figure standing a few meters away, the ray gun slung over one shoulder.

"And. . .Jane, is it? Always a pleasure to see you, babe." She winked.

Shirley straightened, shoulders squared though she was still laboring to catch her breath. She took a protective step in front of Jane.

"Moriarty."

"First names, Shirley! We're all friends here! Call me Jemma."

She was all angles. Cheekbones to rival Shirley's, a jaw line that could cut diamonds. Her perfectly shaped eyebrows arched wickedly over her inky eyes. Her lips were, fittingly, the same color as fresh blood - ah, that would be the shade from the mirror. Her hair was black as sin, and hung loose and rail-straight past her shoulders. Her suit jacket hugged her small torso; her skirt was tight and so short it barely counted. Her white legs ended in nude pumps, pointy toed and spike heeled. Jane had to admit she looked pretty impressive – the word fierce came to mind - but she didn't have to like it.

"Your pet's staring, Shirley."

The lazy drawl was a little higher-pitched, but not much else had changed about Jemma's voice. Jane felt herself go red. Jemma just laughed.

"I don't blame her, of course. I always knew I looked fabulous, but now . . ." she ran her free hand slowly up her body in one long stroke from thigh to cheek, then back down again. "Well, you're not blind - though one might not guess it from the state of your makeup."

Jane felt, rather than saw Shirley's eyes narrow.

"Had to have all my suits altered," Jemma continued, red lips curling over sharp, white teeth, "but the effect is . . .mmmm. . .totally worth it. Love that coat by the way, Shirley darling. Where did you get it? Charity?"

Jane heard the minute creaking of Shirley's leather gloves as her hands balled into tight fists. Through clenched teeth she said

"This is Herve Leger, you great twat."

"Oooh, pardon. Claws in, Shirley, claws in!"

"What is it you want, Jemma dear?"

"You know what I want, Shirley sweet."

"Remind me, Jemma cupcake."

"Oh, but that wouldn't be as fun, Shirley kitten-face!"

Jane nearly face-palmed.'Jemma cupcake?''Shirley kitten-face!'Come on. . .

"All right. And suppose we don't give you what you want, Jemma you horrid tit?"

"Well, then," Jemma stepped toward the edge of the building now and dangled the ray gun by her pinky finger, "I guess we'll just have to stay best girlfriends for-ev-er."

Jane gasped. She couldn't help herself. Shirley's eyes widened.

"Why are you doing this?"

"Well," cooed Jemma, studying her nails and bouncing the ray gun precariously on her finger, "sometimes you want to feel like a lady. Then again-"

Shirley and Jane exchanged a look. Just one look, but they knew what they had to do.

"-sometimes you feel like being a real bitch."

"My thoughts exactly."

No sooner had the words left Shirley's lips than she bolted, top speed, straight for Jemma. She tackled her to the ground – the ray gun, mercifully, landed a few feet away, still on the roof – and it was on. There was kicking, screaming, hair pulling and pummeling. Jemma went for the eyes, Shirley the throat. Shirley fishooked Jemma; Jemma was biting Shirley's leg.

Jane got the distinct impression that this was what these two had always really wanted to do to each other, but as men were too cool to get down and dirty. It was the grisliest cat fight Jane had ever witnessed. Admittedly, she hadn't witnessed many cat fights, but she still felt like this would take the prize.

Somehow Shirley managed to get back on her feet, dragging Jemma with her, shrieking like a banshee. Grabbing her by her lapels, she struggled until she was holding her firmly at arm's length. Then she shouted over her shoulder at Jane

"ARMANI PRIVE!"

Jane had no idea what that actually meant, but luckily had her wits enough about her to recognize it as a hi-sign. She reached for her – oh, dammit! There wasn't a place for her damned gun in these damned leggings! She didn't have it! Shirley was starting to lose her grip.

"TODAY, JANE!"

Jane panicked for half a second, then noticed something out of the corner of her eye. Shirley's shoe! There was no time; she scooped up the pump, took the quickest aim of her life, and lobbed it. It found its mark, beaning Jemma right between the eyes. Shirley let her go and she dropped like a slim, well-dressed sack of potatoes.

Shirley staggered backward, nearly tripping on her one shoe. She looked like hell. Nose bleeding, hair flying every which way, makeup smeared. She wiped the blood from her face with the back of her hand in a decidedly unladylike gesture.

"Well done, Jane."

She limped to where the ray gun had fallen, picked it up, inspected it.

"Now let's get out of here, before she comes to."

"That's the best idea you've had in ages."

They had nearly reached the door when Jane realized Shirley wasn't next to her. She turned and found Shirley pointing the ray gun at the unconscious Jemma.

"What are you doing now!"

"I have to change her back, Jane."

"What? Why! Just leave her!"

"I can't, Jane! We wouldn't be equals any more! It's very important that we're equals!"

"What the – you know what, forget it! Do whatever, just do it bloody quick, if you don't mind!"

Shirley fired the gun. A blue beam hit the crumpled Jemma, and suddenly a wiry Jim Moriarty lay sprawled in her place, still wearing the tight, tight skirt. On anyone else, it might've been silly. But dammit if he didn't still look fabulous.

The next afternoon, John sat reading the news on the couch. They had made it home by two yesterday, changed back into men, and promptly passed out for twelve hours. John had woken up only a little while ago, sobbed quietly with joy when he realized he still had a penis, and had some toast. He heard Sherlock come into the sitting room, but was determined to studiously ignore him, so he didn't look up, even when Sherlock violently attacked the ray gun, which had been left on the floor by the wall.

Only after the ray gun was well and truly smashed to bits did Sherlock slump over and come to rest on the couch next to John. He stared forward for a while, breathing hard from the exertion of killing the ray gun. Finally he said, without looking at John,

"We'll never speak of it."

John stared determinedly at his paper.

"Never speak of what?"

Out of the corner of his eye, John saw Sherlock nodding solemn assent. John rustled the paper, turned the page. He wasn't ready to say more than that to Sherlock, not really.

They sat there in silence for ages, until a small knock sounded on the door frame.

"Ooh-hoo, girls – oh! You're boys again now. Well, bless me. Have a good time then? I've just come for the washing."

And Mr. Hudson tottered up the stairs on his errand. John kept his eyes fixed on the paper.

"You forgot about Mrs. Hudson, didn't you?"

Sherlock sighed, pulled himself up off the couch, scooped up the sad wreck of the ray gun and sulked into the kitchen. John only looked up from the paper for an instant to watch him go.

End