"My god Watson, you…you…you're a woman."
I hang my head in shame, my longer hair hiding my face from the gaze of Sherlock. I cam all but feel his eyes drilling into my mind.
"Watson…I…when…how?" Sherlock stutters out, for once his brilliant mind fails him, unable to comprehend the sight before him.
"I don't understand. How did this happen?"
Silent tears leak out my eyes without consent. Sherlock, ever the keen observer, notices,
"John," his voice is quiet. I can't bring myself to look at him. I'm humiliated and sacred. Even during the war when I was faced with death nearly every day, I cannot remember being this sacred. Even when I was lying injured waiting to be hauled off the field I was never this afraid. Now I find myself wishing that I could disappear into the bed and not be seen.
"John," Sherlock's voice is much closer than when I last heard it. To my surprise I feel the bed sag under the added weight of Holmes, who had decided to sit down.
'He's not leaving.' The realization hits me. My best friend is not about to let me deal with this by my lonesome. I am unable to hide my shameful tears. I jump when I feel Sherlock pull me close to himself, holding me in a reassuring embrace. I do not fight him; instead I lean into the touch, and let myself cry occasionally giving out a choked back sob.
"What's wrong with me?" I finally ask the question that has filled my mind from the time I woke up.
"Nothing," Sherlock replies while stroking my hair in a soothing way. "There is nothing wrong with you."
We stay like that for the rest of the hour, only breaking apart when the hall clock strikes nine. I find that I have to climb out of Sherlock's lap. I'm not quite sure when I moved into his lap or when I had closed my eyes and decided to just breathe in the smell of the older man.
"You have been working on a case." I observe.
"Yes I have. How can you tell?"
"The way you smell."
"The way I smell? Please elaborate." replies the detective.
I smile, Holmes's natural curiosity getting the better of him. But I do not begrudge answering my friend.
"You smell of tobacco, cheep alcohol, and newspaper. You only read the paper when you are looking for something."
"Very good Watson, I do believe you are gaining deductive powers of your own. You however smell like strawberries."
I resist the urge to shove him off my bed, if only just. But I recognize Sherlock's comment for what it is – A veiled compliment so I decide to take it with the grain of salt that is the ego of Sherlock Holmes.
"What is the case you are working?" I ask, my curiosity now getting the better of me.
"All in good time my dear Watson, but as of now we have a more pressing matter at hand." Announces Sherlock as he rises from my bed.
"And what, do tell, would this pressing matter be?"
"Finding you something to wear," Says the detective with a smirk, and with that Holmes leaves my room. I only have to wait for a few moments before the man is back carrying a small trunk with him.
"I'll leave you to it to decide what you want to wear." He turns to leave the room once again but suddenly turns back around. "For what it is worth, I will shut the door." Sherlock goes to leave again and with only a slight pause, he leaves my room.
I decide to humor the man by looking in the trunk. To my surprise I find it filled with women's clothing, all in good condition, and all pristine. I also find a pair of shoes, gloves, and three fans. I decide I don't want to know why the detective has a trunk full of women's clothing and just accept the clothing. In ten minutes I am dressed, and no sooner do I hear a gentle knock on my door.
"Come in." I say, only slightly shocked by the higher pitch of my voice.
"Glad to see you in a better frame of mind," says Sherlock as he pushes the remains of my door open.
I nod to him to acknowledge his presence; the majority of my attention is being focused on attempting to put up my hair.
"Would you like some assistance?"
"That would be nice, thank you." I admit. Sherlock steers me over to the bed and sits me down on it. Turning my back to my friend, I wait patently while he braids my hair. Deft hands glide over my head, pulling and plucking hair when required. After a time Sherlock helps me up off the bed and directs me to the mirror. I have to stop for a time to examine my reflection, turning my head ever so slightly to see all sides of my hair, which glints a soft gold in the morning light.
"Thank you, Holmes." I say. My hair is beautiful, and I find that I have to ask a question.
"Where did you learn how to do this?"
"The hair?" Sherlock gives me a crooked smile. "Growing up, my mother had arthritis in her hands and found her unable to do her own hair. Both my brother and I helped with her day to day tasks."
I nod and smile, great full for all his help. Something must have shown in my face because the next second I find my friend speaking.
"You were afraid that I would up and leave when I found out about…" Holmes gestured to me. "This?"
I sigh, I don't want to tell my friend how much loosing him frightened me, but I also feel that he deserves the truth.
"Yes, I admit, I was worried about how you would react." I take a breath, "I thought that, perhaps, you might up and leave."
Sherlock seems taken aback by my words.
"My dear doctor, why would I leave? I am shocked, yes. But you are the only person who will put up with me. I would be lost for conversation if I pushed you away."
It seemed true enough to me so I simply nodded my head again and returned to the matter at hand.
"Now, what is this case that you are working?"
oOoTBCoOo