A/N: I empathize with Martin Freeman more then any other actor in his roles… I don't know why. But that's why most of my fanfics on here seem to center around him more.
All of my stories honestly are slight reflections of myself or what I'm going through on some level. So if you're sitting there thinking… why the hell would John cross dress? It's because I'm a cross dresser, also I've seen Sherlock cross dress in fics but never John. So yea… that's the reasoning here.
How to Move on
Prologue
Sherlock Holmes died.
John felt his legs giving out on him as Sherlock stepped towards the edge, dropped the phone they had been speaking on- their only life line to one another. His hands stretched out, he hesitated for a moment before dipping forward off the ledge, and out of John's life.
John would always remember the brief moment that Sherlock had hesitated on the ledge. Why? Why had he jumped if he wasn't sure? Or was there another reason? The questions ate at him slowly.
Chapter 1
At first he did nothing.
John wasn't sure how long he waited after being pulled away from his deceased friend, just half sitting on the ground watching the paramedics wheel the lifeless body away, people holding him back. He didn't question the strange actions of those around him, preventing a doctor and the friend of the deceased from getting close. He would later realize how very wrong the whole situation had been, regret his lack of action and taking control. But in the moment, he was motionless. Trapped in his mind replaying everything Sherlock had said moments before jumping.
John didn't want to tell his therapist Sherlock's final words. They were too personal. Only he was meant to hear them. John knew Ella would try to convince him of the 'truth'. That Sherlock himself had tried to tell him he was a fraud. He wouldn't hear it. No one could ever convince him that Sherlock had told him a lie, not even the man himself. No, there was no need to tell Ella.
Countless nights John sat in his chair waiting for Sherlock to come home. Just walk right through the door with his coat billowing in the wind as he pulled his midnight blue scarf off and rattled off a million deductions he could hardly follow. But he knew that day would never come again.
After the funeral he stopped calling the people he knew through Sherlock. There was no point in calling Lestrade if he couldn't solve cases with that mad genius. He knew Molly would only cry and want to re-live the memory of Sherlock with him. He didn't want that. John wanted to suffer alone. In his mind he knew he was the only one worthy of the private life he and his flatmate shared.
Eventually John stopped talking to the people he knew outside of Sherlock as well. He would simply walk into work, do his job quietly and efficiently, and leave. What he did once he was home in 221B was beyond anyone's knowledge. Mrs. Hudson's knocks and calls went unanswered, but at the end of the month she would always receive the rent in full in an envelope under her door.
One day he stopped going into work.
Chapter 2
He considered the alternative.
Two days passed and the only indication that the world was still aware of John's existence were the two calls on his answering machine inquiring why he didn't show up for work. If he had checked his blog, that he hadn't looked at since his final entry posting the video announcing Sherlock's death, he would have seen the thousand's of questions, comments, and replies left for him. Some smearing the genius's name even more, others asking if the rumors were true, and rarely, those who encouraged John to keep writing and try to prove Sherlock's innocents. He had heard of #IbelieveInSherlock and #MoriartyWasReal, but he was no longer a part of that life. Sherlock was gone. Nothing else mattered. John Watson's war was over; he had lost.
The headlines had died down significantly but every now and then there could still be an article found discussing the fraudulent claims of the late consulting detective. John hadn't read a newspaper since that first day though. There was no point; he knew what they all said.
John thought back to that morning he had been desperate for a solution to his living situation over two years ago. If it hadn't been for Mike Stamford he wasn't sure what he would have done. He did have a deep suspicion though. No one had ever questioned how he owned nearly no possessions between the time he left the military and moved in with Sherlock. Just clothing, his laptop, and a loaded gun he kept in top drawer of his desk. The same gun that sat on the mantle besides Sherlock's skull now. The thought to use it had passed his mind many times since the fall.
'Not like that. Not the way Moriarty did it.'
Instead John decided the skull and gun belonged together on the mantle. The two prized positions of their respective owners. One the ultimate representation of life lost and the other a means to do it, but that's not what they had been to them. The skull was a friend for a man who had none. John had been it's replacement. The gun was a means of protection for them both, John had no way of knowing Sherlock had replaced it with himself as the ultimate protection when he jumped to save his friend.
No one outside of Sherlock would understand these two items and what they meant, John realized. It didn't matter. John was beyond what ordinary people thought now.
He lined the sleeping pills up and inhaled deeply. He wasn't sure how many over the recommended amount would do the job, so decided to take as many as he could while he was still conscious. On the fifteenth pill the door to the flat burst open. John was too out of it by then to make out who everyone was, just that the man who grabbed him by his shoulders shouting at him bore a striking resemblance to Mycroft. But Mycroft didn't care, how could he?
Chapter 3
He tried again.
It was horribly embarrassing sitting up in a hospital bed knowing the doctor had just pumped your stomach after a suicide attempt. It was even worse knowing Lestrade and Mycroft were there and aware of what had happened.
Maybe a light joke was in order? He could always play it off as an accident… as blatantly untrue as that was.
"What were you thinking!?" Lestrade broke the silence first.
There goes his plan of a misplaced joke. John didn't answer, after all, hadn't it been obvious what he was thinking?
"You could have called me! I would have been there. You don't have to go through this alone." His voice was so loud it vibrated though the small hospital room.
"Yes. I did." John's words were faint and small, almost lost.
"I know you cared a lot about him, but you can't do this. He would have wanted you to move on."
"I can't."
Mycroft stepped in "John, I know you've stopped seeing your therapist, it's really time you go back to-"
"I said I can't!" His voice was much louder then before and held a great deal of power. "I can't move on. Not now. Not ever."
How could he possibly explain that every night in his dreams he saw Sherlock falling? Heard his last words again and again? Regretted not saying more? Not doing more? Wondering if he could have someone stopped it? Knowing things would never be the same again.
How could he tell them what he couldn't even tell Ella? What he could barely admit to himself? And forever suffer the knowledge that it was too late to tell Sherlock.
No, he couldn't do that. Neither of these men mattered, only Sherlock did. He would gather his calm and do the only thing he thought he could do. Lie.
"Fine. Yes. I'll go back to therapy."
He waited patiently for them to leave. For the staff to turn the lights off and think he was asleep. Then, when the time was just right, he slipped out. John wasn't sure if it was cruel fate or luck that brought him to St. Barts hospital after the pills, really Mycroft and Lestrade should have known better. He creeped through the halls and up the rickety stairway to the roof. It was dark, so much unlike that morning months ago when the morning light nearly blinded him as he looked at the roof. Blood still stained the ground where Moriarty had fallen. The ledge was inviting. John stepped closer to it. He could practically sense Sherlock's presence around him. Soon he thought.
He was only a meter away when Mycroft stepped out with his damn umbrella tapping the ground.
"Stop this now John. There's really no need for it."
"Fuck you. You did this. You gave Moriarty all he needed! For what?! You know he only gave you lies and you sold out your own brother!"
Mycroft clenched his teeth. "Sherlock wouldn't have wanted you to do this."
"I didn't want him to either. Look what that got me." John made a gallant stride towards the ledge but was no match for tranquilizer Mycroft shot him with.
Chapter 4
After that he tried to move on.
Everyone John had ever known came to visit him in the hospital after that. He knew they all knew exactly why he was there. None of them asked him, they all pretended to be in good spirits and that 'everything would be ok.' At least death would have saved him this embarrassment.
"Mycroft, get the fuck out of here. You know exactly why I'm here just like everybody else and I'm not putting up with this happy go lucky act everyone insists on putting on for me. I regret trying to do it if only because I'm stuck in this hell hole now."
"You did try to kill yourself twice to be fair, a few weeks of being watched is required for high risk patients. But if you convince me you wont do anything stupid again we can have your release papers signed today."
John briefly wondered if there was a new article about him "Confirmed Bachelor Dr. Watson Attempts Suicide After Loss of Fake Genius Partner." What did it matter?
"Sign the damn papers."
"I'm not sure that you're emotionally stable enough to-"
"If you sign them now I wont murder you. How about that?"
John really did try to move on after that. He showed up to work again. Made small talk. Even joined Lestrade for a pint twice, though their conversation on both occasions were short and meaningless.
John felt dirty. It wasn't fair that he was alive wasting oxygen when Sherlock had truly contributed to the world. He should be the one buried, not Sherlock. Making a fake ruse to make people believe he was 'better' was like betraying that genius's memory.
Dr. John Watson needed to die, but Mycroft wouldn't let him. He needed a different sort of alternative.
Chapter 5
Then he tried being Sherlock.
It was early Monday morning, John didn't have work that day, the hospital had given him shorter hours and better pay- he knew Sarah had done it as a pathetic attempt to make his life seem better and thus worth living. John did something he thought he would never do again, he called Lestrade and asked if there were any knew cases.
At first Lestrade thought he was just lonely and wanted to know if he was up to anything, so he happily obliged.
"Well actually there's a very interesting one involving twins- it's been pretty hard so far, no leads." He wasn't expecting John's reply.
"I'll be right there,"
Sherlock had been slowly grooming John to be a detective and make his own deductions. As many times as he called him an 'idiot' and 'ordinary', even Sherlock could see that John was clearly above average intelligence. Had the detective been there that day, he would have been very proud of his blogger.
"She was having an affair with the gardener, you can tell by the way her gloves are worn. The murder weapon should be on the other side of the house, likely hidden in the gutter drains as a quick form of disposal. Her twin was just collateral damage, walked in at the wrong moment."
"That's genius, how do you know all that?" Lestrade was truly amazed, he had only allowed John to come by to cheer him up, he hadn't expected him to solve the crime.
"It's obvious really, I mean I can't believe your team hasn't figured all of that out by now."
Something about John's word choice chilled the D.I. a bit. The words were just too familiar.
As the days went by John had showed up more and more to crime scenes and solved nearly all of them in truly impressive time. He wasn't as good as Sherlock, but he was the next best thing and still better then anyone else alive.
A month later the weather was colder and everyone had begun dressing warmer. The whole police force had been treating John nicer then normal, he knew the reason why and it made him bitter inside. They all pitied him. They only saw him as the suicidal friend of the wacko possible murderer. The insults had come slowly, but soon John found he was regularly insulting the police force in general and individuals as he deduced their crimes. They were still nice to him and bit back retorts. John didn't catch the whispers about him, the comparisons.
It wasn't until a particularly cold day when John showed up in his dark jacket sporting the blue scarf that the officers were officially done taking his insults. Their glares were unnoticed at first; John had gotten to work immediately deducing what had happened. Finally Lestrade pulled him aside.
"Mate… uh, what are you doing?"
"What? I'm trying to solve your damn crime scene for you…"
"No, you're not. You're trying to be him and it's not right."
John was taking aback. "What are you talking about? I thought you wanted me to help you?"
"Yea, just solve crimes, not show up here insulting everyone right and left, reading who's having an affair with who on the force and… and…. That." He looked at the offending scarf. "You're not him John. You have to hold on to who you are."
"No, I don't. I'm not the John Watson you think I am." John turned to leave; it would be the last crime scene he ever showed up at.
Chapter 6
He didn't want to stop.
John had expressed a desire after the first time he visited Sherlock's grave to move out of 221B, it held too many painful memories. But he found he couldn't bring himself to leave it. Leave behind the hope that Sherlock might come back beyond all reason and logic. Leave that looming scent of his that John wasn't sure if it was imaginary or not. This was his home, their home.
Sherlock's coat was too big for him and he would never consider altering it. He began wearing the scarf daily though and slowly began picking up more habits of the late detective. Lestrade began dropping in, he would bring over case files for John to look at them even if he no longer would come to crime scenes. In reality it was just his way of making sure John was still around and had no obvious suicide attempts planned out.
Lestrade didn't mention he could smell the smoke in the apartment. He had even held his tongue the time he found John wearing three nicotine patches while smoking. But the day he knocked and no one answered, Lestrade feared the worst and picked the lock. He was terrified he would find John hanging by a rope or some other way to off himself, he wasn't expecting what he did see. John Watson sprawled out on the sofa, pupils blown wide, a gram of cocaine still sitting on the coffee table beside a needle.
The last time he had accompanied Mycroft to the hospital he could see how much worse it made John feel. No hospitals this time. Lestrade conducted a one man search of the apartment for any form of narcotics. He got rid of the needle and cocaine before John was aware of himself again. Lestrade spent the night to make sure he was safe and texted Mycroft the developments.
Two days later there wasn't a dealer in all of London that would sell to John. They had all been threatened within an inch of their lives not to let John get a hold of so much as a cigarette.
John gave up. He jumped onto the couch over dramatically and pouted in the oversized blue dressing gown, not noticing the D.I. that was sitting inside the flat already waiting for him.
"We wouldn't even let Sherlock keep up with the drugs to be fair."
John didn't answer. He didn't admit to himself until then that he had been trying to be Sherlock. He didn't want to be him anymore though. Sherlock was still gone, but John Watson was still dead. He needed to be someone new.
Chapter 7
He didn't stop being John altogether.
First he dressed in a well tailored suit. He didn't like it.
Then he wore baggy jeans and a tight cheap shirt. He hated that.
One day he wore all black and even went as far as painting his nails black as well. It didn't work in the least… well, not all of it.
John was suspicious someone had followed him on all three occasions. That someone being Lestrade. For a moment he thought back to the day Mycroft had kidnapped him and interrogated him about Sherlock, offering him money to spy on him. But surely Lestrade wouldn't be spying for Mycroft… would he? John couldn't for life of himself fathom why either of them cared what he did.
That night he couldn't seem to get the black nail polish off, he didn't want to have to explain his life style experiment at work so he headed off to Tesco's for nail polish remover.
If the thought had ever occurred to him before he hadn't given it any attention till now. He had simply grabbed the first remover product he found, but he hesitated a moment in the aisle. John had truly regretted the bizarre late night idea to paint his nails black, he had only done it to see if he might like it and because it was sitting in Sherlock's room- always the experimenter that he was. Although the act of painting them it's self wasn't all that bad…
The polish remover was of course in the beauty section, an isle John had never ventured down since he was a young boy being dragged by his sister.
Maybe he could...
He started sneaking out late at night. Lestrade had watched him on multiple occasions taking bags from Tescos and sporadically shopping. He never did see what exactly was in the bags, it hadn't seemed important so long as it wasn't drugs or something to kill himself with.
How has the doctor been doing? MH
He's doing much better actually. Shops a lot though. Shopaholic? GL
Dr. Watson has very few possessions of his own, he's not a materialistic man. Find a way to check the bags if possible. MH
On Thursday a medium sized package was delivered to 221B. It was the first package in a very long time. Lestrade knew John was up to something. That night he followed him as John left with a gym bag in a cab. He was surprised when the cab actually did stop at a gym, he didn't want to risk going inside though, he knew logically John had likely just decided to start working out.
Lestrade waited hours realizing that something was clearly wrong.
Does John have a gym membership? GL
He does not, he's up to something. MH
Lestrade raced in, but John was no where to be seen. He cursed himself for not realizing there was a back exit by the changing rooms.
I lost him. GL
That night the camera facing the door of 221B was broken. Lestrade raced up the steps and pounded on the door. It had been an antagonizing five hours that he lost track of the doctor. Trying the flat was a dumb and desperate attempt.
"Give me a moment."
Lestrade was stunned. Was it possible John really had just gone to the gym and simply left out the back door before coming home?
"Hurry mate, no offence but I gotta check up on you."
There was a pregnant pause.
"yea… uh, just hold on ok?"
Lestrade didn't like the way that had sounded in the least. John was doing something either dangerous or destroying the evidence of what he had been doing earlier. A moment later Lestrade had picked the lock and was inside.
"John? I need you now!"
There was no answer but he could hear the shower suddenly turn on.
'The hell is he doing?' He tried the handle but it was locked. "I swear to god if you are doing what I think you're doing in there…" Lestrade let out an exasperated sigh and decided he really had to do it. He began picking the bathroom door lock.
Just as Lestrade was about to get through the door swung open nearly knocking him in the face. John was soaking wet with a towel around his waist.
"And a fine hello to you to. Mind me asking why you're breaking into my bathroom?" He shut the door quickly behind him hiding the clump of clothing under a well placed towel in the bathroom.
"Where did you go today?"
"The gym. Then I came home and took a shower."
"You were at the gym for five hours?"
"I really don't see how that's any of your business. I may have dropped by Tescos on the way back and took a while before I showered.
Greg had nothing and he knew it. He would just have to try his luck again another night.
Chapter 8
He became someone new in secret.
John began sneaking out at night with his gym bag on a regular occasion. Lestrade was always there to follow him to the gym but never saw him come out. It was an obvious front for whatever he was really doing. He couldn't figure for the life of him what John had in that bag but he was sure it was connected to his new sporadic shopping sprees.
Sunday morning Macy's had a shoe sell and Molly decided it was about time she bought new clothes and make an attempt at looking prettier. She eyed the shoes thoughtfully, they were far more glittery and feminine then even she was use to, though she was glad they came in larger sizes. She bit her lower lip and began looking around to see what other women were buying for comparison.
"John? Oh my gosh I haven't seen you since…" 'better not mention the hospital' "It feels like it's been ages! How have you been?"
John's back quickly stiffened. 'Holy fuck.' "Molly! Uh, good, I've been… good."
Molly's eyes darted down the aisle for a moment, "So what are you doing here?"
"Ah… I'm uh… my girlfriend, heh, dragged me along. Lost track of her actually… I should probably just go find her…" he quickly lied.
"Oh…" Molly couldn't remember the last time John had even mentioned going on a date and he didn't seem the type to actually go shopping with a girlfriend. But then she knew people tended to act a bit different after a traumatic experience, it was plausible anyway. "I'd love to meet her sometime. It's um.. been a while. I've missed you."
John looked her over, performing one of his own 'Sherlock scans'. 'Depressed. Shopping for over priced clothes to look better, doesn't know what to buy or what look to go with. Little knowledge on changing appearances.' He licked his lower lip. 'I really shouldn't…'
"Red."
Molly blinked and looked up, "Sorry?"
"Red looks good on you. Uh, those there, the pumps, would be lovely on you." He looked away and did his best to be nonchalant.
"Oh. Thank you…" She looked at the shoes thoughtfully; they really would look nice on her. When she looked back at John he was already halfway down the aisle and leaving quickly.
The following day Molly smiled softly to herself as she heard the clicking of her new heals as she walked down the tile floor to the morgue. There was no one to really admire them, or rather her in them, at the time, but idea of wearing them and that wonderful clicking sound was already enough to build her confidence a little.
Lestrade was the first to visit her that morning to get a diagnosis. Molly was nearly giddy as she saw the D.I. look up after hearing the clicking sound.
"What was… oh… your shoes. Wow, Er… those are nice. Different." He wasn't sure what the appropriate response was for being caught looking at the almost sexualized shoes and by extension legs on his otherwise shy and mousy coworker.
Molly blushed. "Thanks. Just got them."
"They're not like you, I mean, they look really good, just surprised a bit."
"Don't worry, I know what you mean, not something I really would have bought on my own. Actually, John picked them out for me."
Lestrade quirked and eyebrow, "John?… John Watson?…"
She smiled and nodded, "Yup. Just ran into him there actually."
"Was he… shopping?" He was still determined to find the connection between John shopping and sneaking out at night.
"Yea, sort of. He was with his girlfriend."
Now that wasn't right. That wasn't right at all. Lestrade shadowed that man everywhere he went since St. Barts. He knew there was conceivable way John was dating someone. "You, uh, meet her yet?"
"No, he lost her actually" she giggled lightly "You know how girls get during sales."
That was the nail in the coffin. Lestrade had been a married man, even if he was going through a divorce after his wife repeatedly cheated on him, he did in fact know how women got during sales. They wouldn't drag a significant other with them to save their lives. Shoes always came first.
That night Lestrade waited hidden outside of 221B waiting for John to get back from work like usual. Unlike usual, John never came home. The next few weeks John sporadically spent one to two days away from the flat at a time. Mycroft searched everywhere on his CCTV cams but could never find him anywhere in London on those nights. It was as if he had completely vanished.
John still showed up to work, still paid the rent, and despite remaining antisocial genuinely seemed at least a little happier.
One night in which John had been away for two nights Lestrade decided to text him, just a simple message, imply he hadn't been trying to follow him.
Have an interesting case file you may like to take a look at. GL
Come around the flat tomorrow and I'll do what I can. JW
Lestrade couldn't believe it. John had texted back right away, coherently, and interested. Was he actually fine after all?
It's sort of a time sensitive matter, think I could come by now? GL
This time the response took a little longer.
Not a good time, first thing in the morning. JW
I could describe it to you over the phone if that works. GL
He knew he was just grasping at straws now.
An even longer pause before the message was sent.
Sorry, it's too loud where I am, wouldn't be able to hear you. JW
Too loud? It was the first hint as to where John had been. Somewhere that would be too loud for someone to take a phone call at night. That ruled out a lot of places. The most obvious answer was a night club. But was John the sort to go clubbing nearly every night?
Ok, in the morning then. GL
Chapter 9
He didn't want anyone to know who he had become.
The following morning Lestrade brought the best case he could muster up last minute as an excuse to visit John. When he opened the door Lestrade could tell he had obviously just showered and dressed and likely was awake the entire night before judging by his eyes.
"So I brought you the files." Lestrade held the manila folder up and walked in, eyes jetting around the flat in search of anything suspicious.
John gingerly took the folder and flipped through it. "Husband was having an affair… didn't kill her though." He was still deducing the case as Lestrade noticed a single long pink hair on his shirt.
"Have a long night last night?"
John looked up suddenly, suspiciously? "A bit." He didn't elaborate.
"Go to a club or something?" Lestrade watched carefully as John's eyes widened, so he had.
"No."
Lestrade blinked. 'no?' "Ah, never mind then. Just assumed."
John's eyes remained widened and unfocused as he continued to look over the case file.
"John…" Lestrade could tell he was nervous, "You're not… back on drugs are you?"
"Of course not. Wouldn't you and Mycroft be the first to know if I was?" the words had some venom behind them.
Not much point in beating around the bush anymore, "I know you destroyed the camera outside the flat."
"Neither of you have any right to spy on me."
"You were a danger to yourself John- we had to."
"Well I'm not anymore so I would appreciate if you didn't try to follow me when I leave at night."
"Just tell me where you've been going so I know you're ok at least."
John finally looked up from the file and looked Lestrade in the eye. "It's not of your concern. I'm not on drugs, I'm not hurting myself… I'm… happy. Just accept it and leave me to do what I want in private."
"Why do go to stores so often? I always see you with shopping bags but never what's in them."
"I've already told you- It's not your business. I don't need you spying on me and reporting back to Mycroft! I've really had enough of it!"
Their parting wasn't a particularly pleasant one.
That night Mrs. Hudson found a check for three months rent in advance. She tried calling John to ask about it, but his phone had been put out of service.
No one saw or heard from John for a month but he legally couldn't be recorded as missing and every few days his credit card would show up as being used at a store.
Chapter 10
Some people were worth telling.
A month passed.
One day Molly received an email from an unknown sender on beauty tips. They seemed to be specifically written out for her. She never told anyone about it, but she secretly cherished the email. A few days later she sent a long thank you letter saying that she had followed all of the advice and loved the results.
"I thought you might. Take care." Unknown Sender.
"Do I know you? It's just that some of those tips seemed really specific but I don't have many friends." Molly XX
"You have lots of friends. Co workers too." Unknown Sender.
Molly blinked at the screen, was that a hint?
They continued emailing fashion advice and makeup tips as the days went by. Molly always kept an eye out for who the sender might be, but no one at work dressed half as nice as the fashion tips sounded and she really didn't know that many women. Eventually she became suspicious that there was one person she never checked, couldn't check anymore.
"Greg liked the shoes by the way. The ones you picked out." Molly XX
Usually the emails by this point came twice daily, sometimes more. This time two days passed without one. Molly was worried she had said too much.
"I'm glad he liked them. I hope you do too. They would go nicely with that dress you wore to the Christmas party last year." Unknown Sender.
She nearly gasped out loud as she read and reread the email. It was true. Molly knew she was the only one that knew this side of John. She felt strangely honored. The emails continued, slightly more open then before. John still didn't come home.
Chapter 11
Not everyone was worth telling.
Lestrade had a call from a nightclub, someone had been murdered in the crowd of dancers. He knew the forensics for that would be a nightmare.
The scene was odd, there were still many patrons that were being filed out, many weren't even aware that there was a situation on hand.
"Freaks." Donovan whispered through her teeth.
Lestrade looked up at her confused, he hadn't heard her say something like that since Sherlock.
"You don't know?" she laughed in a way that seemed rude to the core, "Look around."
Lestrade actually took a good look at the club now, glitter and bright colors everywhere. Many of the patrons wearing the same bright colors, mostly extravagantly dressed women… no…. not women. He blinked twice. "This is a drag club?" no wonder he had never heard of it before.
As he looked around genuinely curious a figure dashed away into the crowds. The killer? Lestrade bolted forward after the person, there were so many people it was nearly impossible to tell though. Outside a long dark car pulled away. It seemed too convenient.
John had never been so close to being found out before. He had taken such careful pains to allude Lestrade on his nights out, changing at the gym and going through a back exit, mustering the confidence that the CCTV cams weren't clear enough to recognize him.
Not that he particularly liked putting on dresses in the loo or doing his make up there. Most people never looked his way twice, an advantage of being short.
But all his time watching videos on applying mascara, cursing himself for being how he was, and telling himself he can do what ever he damn well please didn't prepare John for this moment.
There was Lestrade, right there, in the club, only a few meters away. He did the only thing he could think of and made a run for it, he hadn't expected Lestrade to try to follow him. Had he seen him? Did he know? It was unlikely.
John knew once outside he would be caught for sure, until that painfully familiar car pulled up. If the car was there then it was pointless hiding it from Mycroft, might as well only have one of them know rather then the whole police force.
He thought it would be horribly awkward to slip in wearing stilettos, fishnets, and a skirt if Anthea was in there. Then again the girl was so oblivious she probably wouldn't have recognized him even if he wasn't in full drag.
Unfortunately, it wasn't Anthea waiting in the back for him. Suddenly John felt his skirt was significantly too short for the occasion.
"Well this has been an interesting surprise." Mycroft held his umbrella in his lap as the car took off.
John kept trying to tell himself things could be worse. At least he was just wearing a well fitted bra instead of fake breasts. No, regardless, things just couldn't be worse. He was trapped in a car dressed as a rather convincing woman if he did say so himself, with Mycroft Bloody Holmes.
"You haven't been home in a while."
"Small talk doesn't suit you." He scoffed, feeling like a git for how high his knees came up in the seat while wearing stilettos.
"Now, that's hardly lady like behavior." Mycroft wasn't expecting to be punched in the face from what he considered to such an innocent jest.
"I'm getting out now, whether you stop this car or not." He grabbed the door handle.
Mycroft pushed a button. The car came to a halt and John immediately bolted out and ran down the street- an impressive feat considering the height of his heels.
Four days later and Mycroft hadn't heard anything about the possible where about of John since. It was a fluke that he recognized him as he ran out of the club, of course at the time he thought he was watching the criminal who had just killed a man and otherwise wouldn't have taken such a close look as to recognize John. Mycroft didn't tell anyone about that night.
No one was home to hear the light knocks on the empty flat door. The ones John had waited in vain so many months for.
When Mrs. Hudson came home she heard an assortment of odd noises coming from upstairs. She knew John hadn't been home in nearly two months despite paying the rent.
She could easily have gone up and seen for herself, but she could tell these weren't the sort of noises John typically made. She called Lestrade.
Lestrade had nearly given up his search for John when he got the phone call. He rushed over as fast as he could. The sound of things being overturned and gone through were still loud as day. He cautiously took Mrs. Hudson's spare key and let himself in.
There in the center of the nearly destroyed flat was the man that had set the whole thing off. Sherlock looked up, hair overgrown and in a mess, clothes torn to shreds.
"He's not here."
Chapter 12
Sherlock had come back.
"I don't understand, all of our stuff his still here. He never even got rid of my things. The apartment has obviously still been paid for but judging by the dust level no one has been here in at least two months. Where is John?"
Lestrade was speechless.
Sherlock took a step closer, "Tell me where he is."
"You're dead."
"Obviously not if I'm standing here now. Where is John?"
"You died… you jumped and you died… I went to your funeral…"
"Lovely, yes, and John is where exactly?"
"No one's seen him in months."
Sherlock's eyes went wide "What!? Why are you not out looking for him? God… one of Moriarty's men? He could be dead… he could have been tortured… This is my fault…"
"Er, actually he sort of ran away."
Sherlock opened his mouth and shut it several times before deciding on what to say. "He's a grown man, why would he run away and what from?"
Lestrade cleared his throat. "Not entirely sure… but mostly me I'm afraid."
"You two are close though. Friends even." He eyes him suspiciously.
"Not after… well. He didn't take it very well. Bloody hell, what are you doing here alive anyway?"
"Faked my death, dull. Why would he run away because of you?"
"Wait a minute here, you've been alive this whole damn time?! I can't believe you! You have no idea how many people you have hurt! John-… John-… he really didn't take it well at all."
Sherlock stiffened. In his search of the flat one thing struck him as odd. The kitchen had no knives, the letter opener was gone, and even scissors seemed to be missing. "John tried to…" The worst flashed across his mind.
"Join you, Yea." It was painful to think that man had gone through so much misery when Sherlock hadn't even been dead.
"and now he's… we have to find him now!"
Sherlock continued ripping the flat apart until he was sure he had come up with nothing useful. Just a pair of heels some woman likely left in John's room after a date. He scowled at the thought of John having women over at the flat at all, let alone after his 'death' when he couldn't even monitor them.
Lestrade looked down at his phone, he had a new message from the Yard. Another murder had been committed in a nightclub.
"Er, I gotta go to crime scene."
"There's nothing here anyway. I'll come with you."
"But you're still 'dead'."
"Well then I'm officially alive again."
Another body lay dead in the center of a dance floor. The club was a massive two story place and the manager was insisting the place didn't need to be shut down for the night and his patrons didn't need to be bothered with this information.
Before Donovan could see the approaching Lestrade and the miraculously living Sherlock Holmes she frowned at the dressed up patrons, "Damn freaks."
John had tried his very best to quietly sneak by her and Anderson, though he highly doubted they would have the brain power to recognize him. But hearing that word, that one word that had made him cringe so many times before when she had said, he couldn't take it anymore. John hit her square in the nose. He was very proud of himself.
Sally immediately grabbed at his dress and perfectly styled powder blue wig. In seconds it had become an all out cat fight.
Lestrade had come up from behind and grabbed John by the waist. "Alright, break it up you two. I know I know, she probably said something you could sue us for, but attacking an officer means you automatically being brought down to the station."
John was still stretching his arms out in an effort to scratch at Sally with his fake nails. Then it sank in. He was going to be brought down to the station. By Lestrade. Who likely had no idea who he was but would soon find out along with everyone else. Fuck.
"Lestrade! The killer just ran outside!" Sherlock grabbed the D.I.'s arm and turned him around and pointed to an unsuspecting victim of his scheme.
"Oi, Stop!"
The inspector and the rest of the horribly dimwitted forensics team dashed off. Sherlock turned to the blue haired perpetrator left behind.
"Guess you're off the hook now." His mouth tugged upwards into a sly smile.
John thought he might literally pass out from the sight of a very much alive Sherlock. He was torn between grabbing hold of him and never letting go and pretending he was just some unimportant bystander, but the longer he looked into those pale green eyes he knew there was no faking his way out. He didn't want to ever look away in fear of loosing him again anyway. Sherlock's hand came up against John's face and fixed where Sally had smudged his eye shadow.
"You're certainly dressed up nice."
John swallowed, his voice shakier then ever "Sh-Sherlock?"
"It's time we both went back home." Sherlock wrapped his arms around John's waist, the heels made him almost as tall as the detective so he didn't need to bend over to make up the difference as their lips met. John could finally tell him what he wanted to say on that morning at St. Barts.
"I've always loved you."
Lestrade lost sight of the direction Sherlock had pointed in, for a brief moment as he looked back between the people in the crowded club he could have sworn he saw Sherlock kissing the person who had attacked Sally. Which was impossible of course.
The taxi ride home was silent, not an awkward silent like they both originally feared it would be, but a peaceful understanding quiet.
"You need a haircut." John leaned against the taller man's arm.
"You left a pair of heels at home." The detective mused, now realizing John hadn't brought a single woman back to the apartment since he left it last.
John flushed a bright red, he knew he would have to think of a way of explaining all of this. "Been looking for those…"
The cab stopped and both men got out, John clenched his fist and avoided eye contact with Sherlock as he had to pull his wallet out his sparkly silver purse to pay the cabbie. His eyes were still downcast as he strode up to the door of 221B and said in a low voice "Not a word of this to anyone."
"You care entirely too much about what others think of you."
Chapter 13
Two weeks passed and things were back to normal. Relative normal. As normal as living with Sherlock could possibly be… while also hiding a daring new fashion collection.
John came back from Tesco's, back to his usual attire of jeans and a jumper. "You should ask about any new cases." He placed the groceries on the counter and turned to see Sherlock lounging on the sofa with his feet on the coffee table. John's eyes widened. "You take those off right now! You have no idea how expensive those shoes were!"
"But you never wear them." Shrlock pouted.
John's face reddened "I wore them all the time…"
"Until I came back?"
There was an awkward pause.
"I told you before John, I don't care what you wear. You can wear your hideous jumpers or a dress, it's all the same to me."
"My jumpers are not hideous!"
Sherlock looked up at John with a curious expression. John took a step back. By the time Sherlock leapt from the couch and was on him, the shorter man had no where to run. He was forcefully dragged into the bathroom for a very new kind of experiment.
"Sit still! I'm almost done."
"You're doing it wrong and you're going to poke me in the eye with the brush! At least take my heels off already."
"I'm already wearing them and the strap is bloody awful to undo." Sherlock licked his lips as he did the final touches to John's make up and attire. "There! Now, come out so I can see you better." He grabbed John's hand and led him back into the main room where he badly pretended he was not gushing over his own handiwork.
"If I didn't know any better I'd say you prefer me in drag."
"Don't be ridiculous. I like you just as much both ways. I just don't want you thinking you should have to hide this."
"Fine, fine. But there's not exactly a lot of places to go dressed like this anyway. I only went to clubs before and frankly that was getting boring since I didn't really know anyone."
"Why just clubs?"
John stared at him incredulously, "I'm not exactly gonna go to Tesco's in a dress Sherlock."
"Why not?" It was a fair enough question.
John was flustered, "I don't want people recognizing me… or you know… knowing I'm… a guy." 'Well that was awful to put into words.'
"Fine, I'll go to clubs with you until you build your confidence up."
That wasn't the response John was expecting. "Sherlock, I don't think you want to go to those kinds of clubs" 'Or clubs in general for that matter.'
"If you are referring to drag clubs then I see no reason why I would want to refrain from going to them more then any other sort of club. Besides, it could be fun."
"Deducing men in drag?"
"That too. But I was referring to being in drag." he shot John a wistful look.
"You would… do that?"
There was a knock at the door, Sherlock ignored the signs of John going pale and went ahead and opened the door.
"Ah, good, Lestrade, tell me you have a case, anything."
The D.I. found himself, file in hand, looking up at a very tall Sherlock. Glancing down he realized the reason why. "New shoes?" he could hear a stifled laugh from inside.
"Ah… forgot about those. They're not mine." He grabbed at the folder. "John? Can Lestrade come in?" He asked almost absent mindedly as Sherlock headed back in leaving the door open for the D.I.
"What?! Of course not!" John quickly crouched behind the couch in embarrassment.
Sherlock laid the file and it's contents out on the coffee table.
"Uh, is this a bad time? I could come back later…" Lestrade wasn't sure if he shouldn't question Sherlock's unusual shoe choice more or the fact that he was sure John just hid behind the sofa.
"John's just being shy. Come out."
"No."
Sherlock sighed, "It's just Lestrade and frankly I worked very hard not to be able to show you off."
"It's… embarrassing ok?"
"Am I embarrassing too? Is that why you haven't told anyone?"
"No! No! Not at all. I've just not seen anyone the past two weeks is all." The sofa shook and Lestrade could tell John had lost his footing for a moment. "Oh, Greg, so… Sherlock and I are, we're dating."
Sherlock marched over to the couched and leaned on it, peering over the edge at his furiously blushing boyfriend. "Just come out, you look fine." He leaned over further and pressed his lips against John's softly. "Gorgeous even."
John moaned softly into Sherlock's mouth, "Fine… but he really has been a prat to me for months now."
"Still standing right here…" Lestrade shifted his weighted, "Oh, and congratulations on the whole dating thing. Been wondering when you two would-" Lestrade stopped mid sentence as John popped up from behind the couch and came around it.
A very awkwardly long moment passed as Lestrade took in the sight. John's hair had been slightly overgrown as of late, he hadn't paid it much attention since he typically wore wigs while in drag, but today Sherlock took it upon himself to gel it into perfection. A perfect compliment to the tight wasted cocktail dress and dark leggings.
Sherlock narrowed his eyes "You can stop dilating your pupils and ogling at my boyfriend any time now."
Lestrade quickly looked away, face feeling hot from Sherlock's accusation. "John- you look… really good actually. Very good." 'is this what he's been up to this whole time?' Lestrade started feeling extremely apologetic for invading John's privacy now.
Chapter 14
It was typically only a special occasion and in the privacy of a club that John cross-dressed. Sherlock on the other had taken to stealing John's shoes and wearing them around the flat whenever possible and on several occasions went out completing forgetting he was still wearing them.
Purely on principle alone, John threatened Sherlock and Lestrade with the possible consequences if they told anyone about his hobby, and that it was never to be discussed at Scotland Yard or while on a case.
Lestrade thoroughly enjoyed the early morning Tuesday morning crime scene after John clearly had no sleep the night before and forgot he had been wearing false eyelashes. Sherlock pretended not to notice simply because he was finding 'typical' gender roles and fashion to be increasingly tedious and couldn't for the life of him understand what the big deal was. If John wanted to wear it the night before then why wouldn't he want to wear it the next day?
John had always kept his emails with Molly up even though he never discussed clothing or makeup in person. Molly could tell John was still very secretive about that part of his life. But John had started going out of his way to engage her small talk and compliment her.
A case had called for Sherlock to take a look at a couple of bodied in the morgue. As he listed off his deductions for the ever-impressed John and of course Lestrade, Molly pulled John away to the far side of the room.
Her voice was softer and mousy then ever, "I just wanted to thank you for everything really." She pulled medium sized box out from under one of the empty cadaver tables and placed it on top.
"Oh, it's fine, really-" he tentatively lifted the lid curious what it was and knowing Molly had never seen him outside of dressing and acting strictly male.
Sherlock and Lestrade jumped at the truly inappropriately high-pitched squeal.
"Molly! I love it!" he lifted the posh Lois Vuitton Shawl out of its box. "This is really too much."
Molly beamed, "I noticed you looking at that corpse last week, the one with Vuitton boots. You've really been a great help."
John hurriedly wrapped the shawl around his neck, it felt even better then it looked. "If no one collects the possessions of that woman I swear to god I'm taking those boots." Even Sherlock had to crack a smile at the sudden sassiness.
John wore the shawl out and for once didn't give a damn what anyone else thought.
A/N: So I just revamped this and for the record I would consider doing follow ups to this if anyone would be interested. I also had no idea Sherlock in heels was a thing.