It's not you. It can't be you.

"Look at me," the woman said firmly. John flinched at the sudden, clear sound of her voice. This can't be him. She can't be him. But her silky, rich and almost too feminine voice was so undeniably authoritative. Every syllable, every tone, enunciated and stressed the way Sherlock would. He closed his eyes and shook his head, determined to let the world around him move and shift about so when he opened his eyes, that six-foot-tall consulting detective would be standing right in front of him, staring him down, miffed. When he opened his eyes, she was still there. That five-foot-eight-and-a-half-inch (when slouched) woman standing right in front of him, straightening up in those clothes that so unflatteringly hung over her broad shoulders and fitted onto her slender form.

She raised an arm, and (possibly in fear) he stepped back once, stopping when he felt the door hit his back, only to find out that she was pointing a dainty finger right at him. The sleeve had been too long for him to notice. "You should believe me. No, no… You should believe me. Believe me." From the look on her face, you could tell that she was almost itching to prove that she was indeed Sherlock Holmes of 221B Baker Street, flatmate of John Watson, the world's only consulting detective, and that she had the proof. But John remained steadfast in his denial, only because this woman looked desperate enough to be a great pretender.

"No, you're not Sherlock. You're a vagrant off the streets." And she did look like a vagrant off the streets. "You probably know Sherlock. He sent you here to make me stop worrying, didn't he?" John's voice broke at the last syllable. "Well then, tell him he's a bloody bastard."

"I'm the bloody bastard?" the woman recoiled. "Are you remotely aware of how hard it was to get here looking like… This?"

Even the way she hissed at her was exactly how he would've reacted.

"My bone structure, hormones, voice — different!" John was a bit taken aback at what this woman did next. Just when he thought she was going to point to herself, she swiftly cupped both of her ample breasts in her hands firmly. "I have breasts, John! BREASTS," she declared furiously.

"Of course you have breasts. Everyone can see that."

John was determined not to come undone and fall into hysterics. He was a mix of confusion and amusement, and everything else.

No, no. That mix would be an understatement.

More like an explosion blowing up in his face. BANG! BOOM! BAM!

The woman groaned to herself. "I'd have to go through the tedious task of selecting brassiere. How do you even measure one's own— The Herculean task of selecting brassiere! I'd feel like a massive pervert in the department store! And now I'm stood here feeling strange and in these loose clothes — JOHN WILL YOU JUST LET ME IN RIGHT NOW I FEEL AS IF EVERYONE'S STARING ME DOWN I AM NOT A WOMAN THIS IS RIDICULOUS."

Soon, John was practically observing the streets for people who were watching this woman break out into paroxysms of rage. In an attempt to calm her down, he held her by her shoulders, large hands on either side of her. Immediately, she stopped, but she was overcome by a look of shock like a deer in the headlights. He wasn't sure if he was supposed to feel scared at the look on her face. A sort of twisted want to physically harm him, or worse to slap his hands away from her in recoil and spit on his face was present throughout. In a split second move (too stupid, in John's opinion), he grabbed the woman by the wrist and dragged her inside, half-slamming the door behind him.

The tension in the woman's face seemed to have died down significantly as they stepped into that familiar foyer. "Mrs. Hu—" John covered her mouth.

"Sh-shut up." John declared, his hand struggling against her mouth.

"Mrphm mhlet me goh, Hohn!"

"Upstairs. Now."

Though she was decidedly She felt a shiver run down her spine as John ordered her to get inside the flat upstairs. She was led to a chair in the living room — to be precise, the chair that Sherlock had so often sat on — and was made to sit. She ran a hand through her curls, brushing away any stray curls that blocked her view of John's face. Anything to see whether he was reacting well to this or not.

As far as she could see it, he simply wasn't. John was now nervously pacing about the room, his gaze occasionally meeting with hers, and each time he became more and more agitated.

"You have to believe me," she said flatly, crossing her thin legs. Her face isn't desperate anymore. It's calm. Clear. The look on her face was so decided that it sent shivers down John's spine.

John stopped in his tracks. He clenched his fists.

He'd forgotten himself. He took a swing at Sherlock.

With all his might.

When he opened his eyes, he could see her — Sherlock — there, awkwardly laying back against the armrests and cushions of his — her chair.

Had she not moved three inches back, it would've hit her square in her sharp, but delicately feminine jaw. Disgusted by what he'd done, John put his hands to his face and let out a deep exhale.

"I'm honestly trying to take this all in all at once right now. Do you know how difficult that is?" John asked shakily, shaking his head as he tried to hold back the tears that were stinging his eyes. Sherlock didn't intend to reply. She only watched and listened to John's words. "You're a… A wo-wom-woma-wom…"

"Speak up, John. Woman. God, you say it as if it were the most horrible thing in the world."

"Prat." "You're a woman."

"If you couldn't tell by the figure," she rolled her eyes, and took off her scarf and coat gingerly. "It's been hard going around like this. Honestly, this sort of 'welcome back home'? Rubbish."

And this was the woman in her entirety. Her black hair was a mess of untamed, but soft curls, now swept back to the side. What she lacked in obvious size, her chest seemed to fill in, making John gulp as he observed the slightest hint of a nipple showing through the clean white layer of fabric. Her belt was cinched in tighter to prevent the pants from falling down. Her shoes were very clearly a problem. She clearly waddled around in them.

This was Sherlock Holmes. Consulting detective. A woman.

How would he even begin to explain her existence to everyone?

A sharp slap to the face. Wait, what?

John turned to Sherlock, who now faced him with a renewed indignation on her face.