Bedtime Story

Lesley just loved her Daddy's bedtime stories. Almost as much as those big, strong arms, which held her so tight. Smelling her Daddy's aftershave was somehow arousing... Oh, her thoughts got a bit carried away at that. Or should we say 'his' thoughts?

John sighed. He didn't know for how much longer he could take this. But he couldn't just tell someone, his story just sounded too crazy. He was just glad he had taken child psychology as an additional subject at university. Because one day he had woken up as a girl. A daughter. And not just anybody's daughter. Mycroft's daughter. And even though he was actually in a committed relationship with the man's brother, he had always had a thing for Mycroft.

But from the beginning: John Watson – or the body of John Watson at least – was currently lying in a coma at the Charing Cross Hospital in London. It had been lying there for over a month now and Sherlock, famous detective and devoted lover, certainly wasn't a man of patience. He had consulted every doctor he could find and had eventually found the right one – or the wrong one, depending on the perspective.

This doctor, a Cherokee and closet medicine-man, had performed a most curious ritual on John's body, during which nobody, not even Sherlock, was allowed to be present. For most people – and in this case even Sherlock was one of them – nothing had changed after that. For John Watson and Mycroft's daughter, everything had changed. Not that Lesley was much aware of that, as she was now in John's still unconscious body. Or so John hoped. He hadn't seen his body for three weeks now. For all he knew, he could be dead.

But before doing anything, John needed a plan. He couldn't just walk out there claiming he was actually an unconscious former army doctor and current lover of the world's only consulting detective. Nobody would believe him. Or worse: Sherlock could believe him. And then all hell would brake loose. If he wasn't careful, he would be snogging Sherlock next – still trapped in a girl's body. More than a bit not good.

Which was currently bothering him more, though, was Mycroft. Mycroft was a pest. A good father, that is. John hadn't really expected him to be so caring and so... physical. When they were alone, he was either hugging him or stroking his hair – hugging HER or stroking HER hair, John needed to get this right! He was actually glad for puberty, as it was pretty normal for girls Lesley's age to be a bit strange at times. And it was not like he could get a boner in this body. Still, the hugging had to stop!

"Daddy, I'm not a little child anymore!", Lesley whined. Mycroft chuckled. "Do you remember how you asked me for a hug in front of the Prime Minister once?" John hated it when Mycroft behaved like that. It was so... gay. The doctor wondered how he hadn't seen it before. This whole chuckling and touching business. Mycroft was as gay as it would go. And Sherlock probably hadn't even realized, the stupid git.

John missed the detective as hell. Sherlock surely could find a way out of this. But then what if not? Or what if changing back into his old body would mean dying? John tried to find out something about this on the internet. But everything he could find about body swaps were some mildly amusing films with resumed in some mildly arousing porn. Besides, the half hour every day he was allowed on the internet was by far not enough time. Deleting the browser history included.

What the doctor was also afraid of was what every little girl was afraid of: her first period. Lesley was 12 and it could happen every day now. Every little stomach ache almost sent John up the wall. There was a lot he could handle: Going to bed at 9 pm, watching cartoons, eating much too sweet Kellogg's for breakfast... but he wasn't prepared for bleeding out of somebody else's most private parts. So it was more than understandable that he made use of the offered tummy-rubs as often as possible. Even if that meant being almost unbearably close to Mycroft for an almost unbearable amount of time.

But then it was pleasant, really. As well as the bedtime stories, which were really good and actually made him quite a bit sleepy, most of the time. And it was not like anybody would know. Ever. He just needed a plan. A plan and a night alone. Mycroft's closeness and Sherlock's absence had somehow led to an unbearable amount of lust in John's – Lesley's stomach. Not that he planned to do anything about it. Or knew what he could do about it. But just in case he was alone at home, he could... theoretically...

The opportunity came much too soon. And John was surprised to find himself panting and naked in his bed – Lesley's bed – not ten minutes after Mycroft had left the house. He shouldn't have been, really. He knew his own dirty little mind. It didn't even feel as weird as he thought it would. Quite good, actually. Different, of course, but he didn't allow himself to think about it. Was that was 12-year old girls did? If not, that was Lesley's first experience with that. She should be proud.

Too late John thought about security cameras which might or might not be in the room. Unlikely, sure, but with Mycroft one never knew. Well, good that he had shouted neither Mycroft's not Sherlock's name, then. He hadn't thought about either, actually. Too busy not thinking. Fine as well. He didn't want to make a choice right now. Sherlock was the one who had created this mess after all.

A few days later, Lesley and Mycroft were watching a movie. It was a bit gruesome and Lesley was supposed to be scared, so she made convincing whining noises. "Should I turn that off?" "No, no, I want to see how it ends!" Besides, John wanted to watch something which wasn't a cartoon, for once. "Come on, then, let me take you in my arms." Lesley complied and let her Daddy 'protect' her from the evils on TV. Mycroft smelled of THAT cologne again. And his pullover was nice and soft against John's – Lesley's – skin. Mycroft's neck was soft too. Soft and long and so... "Les'?" Mycroft moved a bit away. Oh shit. He had not just kissed his father's neck! "Sorry," Lesley mumbled. "I think I drooled a bit." Mycroft frowned, but seemed to buy it. But what else would he think? That his daughter fancied him? Really, John needed to stay calm.

A few more days later and after almost having been caught on the couch masturbating – in fact, John thought that Mycroft had seen something and just didn't let on – the doctor decided that it was time to do something. Anything. With or without a plan.

His chance came when Gregory Lestrade – uncle Greg – came to babysit one day. "Uncle Greg?", Lesley asked innocently. "Yes, Les?" "Do you believe in things which... cannot be explained." "What kind of things do you mean?" "Like Sherlock for example. He's pretty smart, isn't he? Nobody is that smart, really. You cannot explain that, can you?" "Guess not," Lestrade agreed. "So if I told you something pretty weird, would you believe it?" "Depends, really." "But you wouldn't tell anyone?" "No, of course not. My lips are sealed." Gregory smiled. Beautiful smile, by the way. But not the time and place to get distracted. "So there's this guy in Charing Cross Hospital. He's in a coma. And Sherlock is with him." Greg frowned. No, he didn't know that. The detective had really kept it a secret. Sometimes John wished Sherlock wouldn't take everything that literal. When he had said "let's keep this relationship private for a while", he hadn't meant for it to be THAT private. He could tell his BROTHER, for Christ's sake, that his lover was in a coma in hospital and would maybe die. And Mycroft would not keep anything private from Gregory, so much John had understood. What HAD he told everyone? That John Watson, former army doctor and not even able to pay a full rent was on a four-week vacation?

But back to the not-quite-plan. "And this guy is somehow connected to me," Lesley explained. Greg was still frowning. "Should I show you?", Lesley asked. "The guy?" "If you want." "Ok, but you gotta tell me what this is all about." "Sure, just let's go to the hospital now, ok?" John was suddenly excited. This could actually work! Somehow... and maybe he could even see Sherlock! Dreaming of him each night and thinking of him every day just wasn't enough.

When they arrived at the hospital, John realized that there was a fault in his not-quite-plan: How was he supposed to find the right room? But the solution to his problem presented itself instantly: Gorgeous and tall as always. "Hi there," Greg greeted the detective. Sherlock just nodded in return. He looked tired. Tired and sad. John had never thought the detective could look sad. But the emotion was clear on his face. He must have cried recently as well... "That man! I know that man!", Lesley suddenly shouted. "Of course you know him, that's Sherlock," Greg frowned.

"No, I mean, I know him, really know him. He has a mole on his left hip bone. And he always pretends he doesn't want anyone to touch his hair. But when you stroke his hair he kinda... purrs." Greg looked at him in shock. Oh. John had not just done... that. Sherlock just starred at him. The he huffed: "I don't know what she's talking about," and was gone. Sherlock, you stupid idiot! John had just been a complete fool and Sherlock had managed to make it worse! Greg expression slowly changed from shocked disbelieve to concern. "I think we'd better go," he said softly. John felt so miserable that he didn't even try to explain. This blank look on Sherlock's face! He didn't even deduce him! Or Lesley, or anyone.

Of course, Gregory talked to Mycroft about it, who then had to have a serious talk with his daughter. "Lesley, what happened between you and Sherlock? You have to tell me; this is very important." "Nothing happened! He didn't touch me, if that's what you mean. I mean, he did, but not when I was in this body..." Oh God. Anderson couldn't have done it better. Mycroft looked very worried now. "What do you mean, you weren't in this body?" "I was somebody else... that man! That man in the hospital! You don't know him yet, but Sherlock likes him very much!" "And what did Sherlock do with... that man?" "No, no, no, that's not what I'm saying, you got it all wrong!" And then Lesley did what she did best: She started crying. John really felt like a girl. But it felt good being held like that. And he needed to think.

Somehow he still thought Lestrade was his best shot. At least he was not related to Sherlock and more or less objective. So after refusing to talk to her father, Lesley managed to be alone with the inspector again. She took a deep breath. "Greg, can I prove something to you?" "Prove something to me?" "I will now tell you some things only adults know and then... no, please don't interrupt... then you can form your own opinion, ok? Ok, so when I was in love for the first time, I was really nervous, but also really happy. She was the woman of my life, or so I thought. She was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. Actually, she was very plain, but for me this gleaming in her beautiful blue eyes was just the most amazing thing! Then we slept together for a few times. Somehow, she had a thing for unprotected sex. I was so afraid to get her pregnant, but I was even more afraid to loose her. And then there was this car accident and she was just... gone. I couldn't even say goodbye, I..." His throat suddenly felt clogged, but still he went on: "I threw myself into a number of relationships then, but nothing really worked. When I joined the army, I didn't really care if I came out of it dead or alive. But I survived, somehow. And then I met HIM. I've never thought I was gay or even bisexual, hated the thought, actually, but he was just so... gorgeous, just gorgeous. Smart too, but that's a bit obvious, isn't it? And he even loves me back! Just too good to be true, I thought. And maybe I was right. We were on a case – I was joining him quite frequently on that, you know – and we thought there was only one murderer. In fact there were two. Honest mistake. Could happen to anyone. One of them got behind me, but I had my gun with me. But had forgotten to load it. Stupid mistake. Could only happen to me. Well, totally love-smitten me, actually. Turns your brain into jelly, that. So the guy shot me. I was taken to a hospital, fell into a coma... next thing I know is I'm a girl." He sighed. Didn't sound believable. At all. "So that's my story. Hope it was convincing."

"So, where is Mycroft's daughter?", Greg asked. John stared at him in disbelieve. "Do you believe me?" "Didn't say that... but something IS wrong with you and you really sound like a grown-up." "She should be in my body, then," John murmured. "But how...?" "I've got NO idea, but I doubt Sherlock did it himself. That's even beyond HIM. Besides, he doesn't seem to be aware that I'm still alive." "True, that. But what do you want to do – if it IS indeed true what you say." "Change back, of course." "Into a body which is lying in a coma?" "This isn't my body. And I have no right to have it. It might kill me, but I have to change back." "That's it," Greg said, "you're not a child. Come on, let's go, before your father comes back." "Not my father," John smiled. Greg hesitantly smiled back. "Yes, not your father. Let's go before not-your-father comes back." John laughed.

Seeing Sherlock for the second time in a day wasn't easy. Somehow John hadn't thought he would still be there. But then of course he was. How did nobody realise that the world's only consulting detective spent a ridiculous amount of his time in a hospital, where there wasn't even a case? Sherlock turned around and frowned at them when they entered the room. And there it was. His body. John Watson's body. And still alive. At least.

"What do you want?", Sherlock asked. "I wanted to apologize for before and...", John started. "Granted," Sherlock huffed and turned his back on them. "Let her finish, please," Greg said. So John continued, not really caring that he was only talking to Sherlock's back now. Wasn't the first time. "And I know you don't recognize me. But I would always recognize you. Even when you are tired and broken like that. It's understandable, you know, I would be worse without you." The detective turned around. "Who are you?" Instead of answering, John asked in turn: "Remember when you first met him?" He nodded towards his body. "What was the first thing you saw? The first thing which really interested you?" Sherlock starred at him for a second, then said: "The eyes. Grey-blue. Even though he would say they are only blue. But it actually depends on the light; sometimes they are a bit more grey and sometimes a bit more blue. And his smile. Somehow lop-sided, most of the time, but sometimes he gave me his genuine smile. It made my heart beat faster. Now the memory makes my heart feel... empty."

John smiled sadly. "I like your eyes too, Sherlock. When they stare at me like that, trying to deduce something. I would let you deduce the hell out of me and then I would kiss you and you would just be... silent. All of that talk... you sound so smart and always try to impress people. And I will be damned if you didn't impress me. But your silence is all mine. That and the look you have on your face when you are happy. You are never happy, just sarcastic, but with me you are happy... well, were might be the better term here."

Sherlock whispered. "You are him. How can you be him?" "I don't KNOW, Sherlock. Whatever you have done, or made somebody do with me, you have to take it back." The detective looked at the body lying beside him. "But then you will be..." "Probably dead, yea, or dead soon." "Then I won't do it," Sherlock said and crossed his arms. "Sherlock, you have to, this is not MY body. It's a little girl's body. I don't have the right to take it. It wouldn't be fair. And if her father knew, he would be heart-broken." Sherlock huffed. "Mycroft... and what about me?" "You can't be in a relationship with a little girl, Sherlock, that's illegal. Besides, it's gross." "Then I can wait for you." "For how long?" "Forever." "No, I mean, for how long, Sherlock? I am... she is 12 now, how long would you have to wait? Eight years, at least. You would be almost 40 then. And you aren't even into girls." "It could work. We would make it work." "No, Sherlock. Change me back!"

For an endless minute, the detective was silent. Then, he whispered: "I don't want to loose you." "I don't want to loose you either," John said and stepped closer to Sherlock. "Then don't go," the detective said. "I have to," John answered, stepping even closer, until he stood directly in front of Sherlock. The detective craned his neck and tried to kiss him, but John moved away. Greg, who had so far kept in the background, now walked towards them. "No, guys..." "Can't I even kiss him goodbye?", Sherlock asked, and John saw the tears in his eyes. "You can," John whispered and nodded towards his body. "Go ahead, kiss him goodbye." Sherlock turned around again and kissed John's lips with closed eyes. John-not-quite-John closed his eyes as well and he could almost feel the kiss like that. "I love you," Sherlock said. "I love you too," John answered, in his whisper almost no difference between children's and adult's voice.

When the Cherokee Doctor arrived, Gregory had to tear a shouting Sherlock away from the bed and John just slumped down onto the floor next to the bed in which his own body was lying. The detective kept shouting Greg should let him go, until Lesley started to softly hum a tune Sherlock had once played to John on his violin. When everything was quiet except for John's humming and the detective's sobbing, the procedure started. Lesley closed her eyes and just waited.

Gregory watched the girl closely for any change. Nothing happened. When the doctor had finished, Lesley opened her eyes again. Confused, she looked from the Cherokee doctor to the inspector, who was still holding Sherlock. "What happened?", she asked. "Why am I here?" Greg let out the breath he hadn't realized he was holding. It had worked! Sherlock struggled out of his grip and ran to John's bed. "Please take the girl outside, but don't tell her anything just yet," Greg told the doctor and followed Sherlock. "Come on," the doctor said to Lesley, "let's go. I'm sure your Daddy will be here soon." With one last glimpse back, the girl followed him outside.

Sherlock took John's hand... which was warm. "He's still alive," he whispered, almost in awe. Then, John suddenly started to move. The detective's eyes went wide. "John?" "Sherlock?" John opened his eyes. "Sherlock?" His eyes went wide, too. "Oh no. Where is the girl? Is she alright?" "Everything's fine, John," Gregory calmed him, "the girl is fine." Sherlock could only say his lover's name over and over again. John smiled at him softly. "It's ok, Sherlock, I'm back. But what are we going to tell the girl? And Mycroft..."

John could actually see Sherlock's brain kicking in again. He took everything into account and at 2000 miles per hour, the detective arrived at a conclusion in under half a minute. "Easy. There was a car accident. Quite horrible, lots of dead bodies. Not far from here, the day you arrived here." "And?", John asked, grinning. "Why, the girl saw it, of course. Made her go into shock. Brain just blocked the memory, until she started remembering again. But only small bits and her tiny brain couldn't make any sense of it. So she brought Lestrade to the hospital. And there she met me again." "Again?" "Yes, that's the last thing she remembers, me, and you lying in bed, motionless. She was trying to find her way back outside. The idiots working here let her go home alone, of course. And nobody remembers her. I was talking to you. Something about the mole on my hip and how I liked you stroking my hair. So she remembered that, but not the dead bodies. And she still doesn't remember them." "Mh," John said, "and maybe it's better that way. Some things better stay forgotten. And tonight, her Daddy will tell her a bedtime story and soon she will feel much better. Just like me. Just like you."