Disclaimer: The characters in this story belong to Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss in their current incarnation, and the estate of Arthur Conan Doyle in their original incarnation. The plot belongs to me.
Enjoy!
I remember the first time that I was treated differently for being a girl. It was in nursery school. There was a group of boys playing with brick, and I joined them. They told me that boys play with brick and girls play with dolls. Of course, I was outraged by this as my intellect was superior to theirs. I protested, and the boys began to yell. The teacher came over and made me play with the girls. It was then that I realized that there were different expectations for girls than there were for boys. Those sorts of ridiculous expectations continued all through primary school, and, as a result, I became an outsider. Eventually, I stopped caring. The others did not appreciate my intellect, and I watched as they became more and more like the dull adults that they would eventually become.
By secondary school, they had all learned to stop approaching me. I was that strange girl who could tell you your whole life story with just one look. The one that was always in the chemistry or biology lab doing some sort of strange and unapproved experiment. Occasionally, I would have to deal with their taunts and their bullying, but I was able to stop them by making deductions about them. That was when the nicknames started. But it didn't matter. I knew I was superior to them.
By the end of year 9, I had already completed all the required curriculum through upper sixth, so my mother and Mycroft pulled some strings to have me admitted to university. I was much more in my element there. I was not required to participate in tedious social activities. I was still questioned when I refused to socialize, but they didn't press me nearly as hard as they did in primary and secondary school. It was then that I discovered dressing in men's clothing.
It was for a theatre class that I was required to take. Rather surprisingly, I enjoyed it. It allowed me to pick up skills that I later found useful, first when I lived on the streets, and later in my career as a consulting detective. I learned how to imitate accents, make myself appear older or younger, make myself unnoticeable, mimic behaviors, and even how to change my gender. I absorbed all of this information and applied it myself outside of class. It was thrilling the first time I successfully passed as male by meticulously changing my stance, stride, and voice. Being a male was much easier. I was able to pass unnoticed. People questioned my habits less. I was able to do things that a female would be hassled for. This was when I decided to present myself as a man full-time.
As a student, I was excelling, as usual. With no one to distract me, I completed degrees in biology and chemistry in less than two years. I was on to post-graduate work in both before I was 18. That was when I met Victor Trevor. I was walking past his flat when his dog ran out and bit me. He apologised profusely, and somehow we became friends. He found out, quite by accident, that I was a woman, and he found my disguise interesting. Eventually, we became intimate. Not long after that, he introduced me to cocaine. At that point, I rarely used, my studies being an adequate distraction. Things were comfortable until Victor and I grew bored with each other, and eventually he broke off our relationship. We weren't boyfriend and girlfriend precisely; we were just friends who had sex with each other. I took it in stride, and finished my post-graduate degrees by the time I was 20.
Finding a job turned out to be much more difficult than I had anticipated. Most employers couldn't stand me. When I did manage to find a job, I usually quit after a short period. The work was dull and tedious, and I could feel my brain rotting. I began using cocaine more regularly, trying to stave off the boredom. Over the next five years, Mycroft regularly tried to stage interventions for me, having long ago accepted my preference to dress as a man. Eventually, he wrote me off. He was too busy becoming a rising star in the British government, and a sibling like me would damage his image. It was a difficult time. I had been cut off from family money, so I spent my time doing odd jobs. Lack of funds resulted in periods of homeless, but, for the most part, this didn't really bother me. As a man, I was left alone, so I was not worried about my safety. The cold and hunger did not bother me; I had long ago learned to ignore physical discomfort. Breast-binding, after all, is not a comfortable process.
The next five years consisted mostly of using cocaine and trying to find money to buy cocaine. Things had spiraled out of control. Work was tedious, and I was a slave to the cocaine. I was beginning to lose any hope of being content in life, and I was nearly ready to end my life until one night I happened to be keeping warm in some doorway near a crime scene. The detective inspector had incorrectly called a murder a suicide. I mentioned this to the inspector who eyed me suspiciously.
"Why do you say that?" he asked.
"The bullet wound is on the right side of the man's head. He's obviously left-handed. He also has defensive wounds on his forearms. I've sure you've missed them because you are expecting them to be on his hands. If you look toward the other end of the crime scene, I'm sure you'll find the killer's blood as well a footprint. Also, this is not the type of man to commit suicide. Look at his left hand. He's newly married, less than six months. Tell me, would you really commit suicide if you were a newlywed?" The thrill I felt at my deductions caught me by surprise. It had been a long time since I had done anything like this. It was better than any high I had gotten from cocaine.
He gaped at me. "How…? You seem to know an awful lot about this."
"Ah, yes, arrest me because you think I did it. I think you'll find that I'm too tall. The entry wound was inflicted by someone around 5'7". I think I'm a little tall to fit that description."
He sent an officer over to confirm what I had said. When he returned, he whispered what I already knew was a confirmation in the detective inspector's ear. He eyed me closely, taking in my appearance. I could tell that he saw a young man, high on cocaine who was shivering violently and far too thin. He was an experienced officer, and not as much as an idiot as most people.
"Come on," he said gruffly, grabbing my forearm and pulling me into a nearby coffee shop. He steered me towards a table and bought two coffees and a pastry. He set the pastry and one of the coffees in front of me and said, "Eat."
I picked at the pastry and ate a little. He sipped his coffee as he watched me. I finished part of the pastry and started drinking the coffee when he spoke again.
"You're smart. Why on earth are you not working for some big-shot company or something?"
"Dull."
"Dull?" he asked unbelievingly.
"Yes. Dull. Boring. Tedious. Obvious. Pick whichever you'd like." I went back to drinking my coffee.
"Yeah, well, with brains like that you could be doing whatever you want. Why do cocaine? It's just fucking you up."
"Is this some clever way to try to get me to admit to you that I've used some illegal substance? It's not going to work, Detective Inspector…?"
"Lestrade. Gregory Lestrade."
"Lestrade. I'm more clever than that."
He grunted as he picked up his coffee and finished it off. He pulled a pad of paper out of his pocket and wrote a number down. "Look, call me if you need some help, okay?" I took the number and pocketed it as he stood up. "Don't waste a brain like yours, son. You could be great." Without another word, he stood up and walked out of the shop.
I happened across D.I. Lestrade again accidentally. I was between hits of cocaine; I hadn't been able to afford another score for a few days. It was another crime scene, and he saw me passing by. He called me over. I walked over to where he was standing next to the police tape, trying to hide the tremors in my hands. "Hey, I didn't get your name last time," he said.
"Sherlock Holmes."
"Well, Mr. Holmes, we could use your help here, assuming you're sober." He looked at me closely. I was displaying obvious signs of withdrawal.
"Yes, I am," I snapped. He lifted the crime scene tape, and I walked onto the crime scene. The thrill was even better this time. I quickly deduced what had happened and relayed the information to Lestrade. I was ducking under the police tape to leave when he stopped me.
"Look, I think we could work something out."
"Like?" I asked.
"You like doing this. I can tell." I nodded. "If you can stay sober, I can offer you occasional cases."
"And why would you do that?" I asked suspiciously.
"Because we could really use some help. And I think you need the proper incentive to quit the drugs. Look, just think about it."
I went over the potential issues that this could raise, but I wanted that high I got from solving mysteries. It outweighed anything else. "You have a deal, Detective Inspector." I shook the hand he offered, and walked away, trying to subdue the urge to find cocaine.
That was the beginning of my career as a consulting detective. It was a long, difficult process. Lestrade withheld cases from me on more than one occasion when he caught me using, but eventually I was able to quit completely. Mycroft gave me access to my family funds again, and I was able to do work that I enjoyed. I had finally found my niche, and I didn't think things would get much better.
Then I met Captain John Watson, M.D.
