As the years went by, it was okay on occasion for John to unbind her breasts underneath her jumper. More and more transvestites and transgenders walked the streets these days, looking more like a woman than John ever was.
Sometimes John wished she could let free her inhibition, to allow herself to wear dresses, bras, and high heels again. It was not as if anybody was going to ask her what was hidden underneath that skirt.
John never dared, the fear of rape still prevalent in her mind. That first week of the Gendercide John was nearly raped five times. The attackers were not random strangers either, these were men John had served with, graduated from university with.
Still, John thought as a particular pretty transgender man walked by in a red dress and matching heels, it sucked to never have that again.
"Don't bother," Sherlock said to her, never once lifting up his head up from his texting. "He has genital herpes."
"I wasn't-" John cut herself short. How was she going to explain to Sherlock she only looked because she liked the shoes?
Instead of explaining herself, John said, "I'm a doctor. I would've noticed soon enough."
Sherlock smirked, never once looking up from his phone, still navigating through the sidewalks of London with ease. "Sure."
Even if John had been interested, she seriously doubted that transgender would've been interested in her. The extra layers she wore and the constant running she had done with Sherlock earlier today made her sweat rather fiercely. She stank. She was sure the people across the street could smell her.
Sherlock glanced back at her. "You're tired?"
"No," She said. "I feel filthy. I want a shower."
"You wear too many layers. I can feel myself sweating from just looking at you."
"Ha ha, very funny," she poked him in the side. Sherlock flinched away, grunting. "You stink, too. Your coat smells and its rubbing off on you."
"No, it doesn't," he protested. He then took a whiff of his sleeve and grimaced. "Crap. You're right. I suppose we could take a break-"
"Good," John said, hailing down a cab.
Back at the flat, John allowed Sherlock to take a shower first. She would've preferred to have first dibs, but she learned early on how impatient Sherlock was when it came to using the bathroom. While it meant no warm water for John, she didn't have to worry about Sherlock barging in on her, demanding she'd hurry up.
There'd been a couple of close calls. Thank God the shower curtain was dark.
"Don't take too long," Sherlock warned her, even though his own shower was nearly twenty minutes long. John ignored him as she walked into the bathroom. "I want to finish this case."
"Why don't you finish your experiment?" John nodded her head towards the kitchen. Various chemicals bubbled in their containers. "Keep yourself busy."
She doesn't bother to listen to his reply. She closed the door, checked the lock twice and stripped.
John used to love her body. She had nice, big breasts, complimented by her shapely butt. She never considered herself to be cute, but the few partners she had been with have all complimented her on her techniques.
The testosterone pills took that all away. Her breasts soon deflated into sad little flaps. Easy to hide under binding and a thick sweater, pitiful to look at when exposed. The pills also made her nipples a lot more sensitive, causing chafing nearly every single day.
She didn't have the luxury to mourn over her body. John took one quick glance of her naked self in the mirror and jumped into the shower.
There was plenty of hot water left, to her surprise. Perhaps Sherlock had a cold shower. Either way, John took the opportunity and lavished in the warmth.
That was a mistake.
Her showers never lasted any longer than ten minutes at a time. No matter how badly she wanted to soak, she'd always, always kept her time in the bathroom short. It helped that the water was always cold.
Without intending to, she stood underneath the spray for well over ten minutes, not washing, just relaxing. She knew better.
John jerked when a loud crash, followed by a strained, "Fuck!" was heard through the door.
John pulled back the shower curtain. "Sherlock?" She said loudly. When she didn't get an immediate answer, horrible mental images of her friend, hurt and bleeding on the ground ran rampant. She didn't bother turning off the shower, grabbed a towel and wrapped herself in it.
She knew she was risking exposure. "Sherlock?" She said as she opened the door a few inches, peeking her head out. "Are you okay?"
She gave a sigh of relief when Sherlock groaned back, "I'm fine. One of the beakers exploded and it caught me unawares."
John frowned. "You didn't get any chemical burns?"
"No, but the beaker shattered in my hand. Where's the iodine?"
John froze. The iodine was in the bathroom. "It's, um, in… wait a moment, I'll get it-"
Stupid. So many years hiding and all of it went down the drain within a few seconds. John tried to close the door, to lock it, but Sherlock was already pushing his way into the bathroom, shoving the door opened with his shoulder, forcing John back.
He didn't notice her at first, his focus on the iodine bottle sitting by the sink.
John clutched the towel, covering her meager breasts, slightly dumbfounded that the world's most observant man had not noticed her. Sherlock was too busy washing his hand of blood to give her any attention. His back was to her, his head was down, his eyes averted.
Move, woman! John's mind screamed at her. While he's distracted, move!
It didn't matter. Sherlock chose that moment to lift his head and casually glanced at her in the reflection of the mirror.
He had to do a double-take. His mouth dropped open. "John…?"
John ran for it. Even if Sherlock meant her no harm, she wasn't going to stick around to find out if she's wrong.
Exactly, where was she going to go? She wouldn't dare run out of the flat, wrapped only in a towel (a fucking short towel, capable of flapping in the wind and showing off her cootch.) The only other option was locking herself in her room.
Sherlock was yelling for her to stop, to wait. John ignored him and slammed the door to her room closed. She locked it, then promptly shoved a chair underneath the door handle. She knew this move would only keep Sherlock out for about five minutes.
She dressed as fast as she possibly could, pretending she couldn't hear Sherlock's pleas through the door.
"How John?" Sherlock said, his voice trembling. John wasn't sure if it was from shock or excitement. "How are you still alive?"
Frustrated, John yelled back, "I don't know how!" She began rummaging through her drawers, trying to get to her emergency cash. Only a little more than two hundred pounds to help restart her life. Had Sherlock been skimming from her again? "It's not genetic, otherwise my mum and my sis…"
Her voice trailed off as a new fresh wave of pain stole her voice. Was this really happening? God, how could she be so fucking stupid?
"John," Sherlock kept talking. "I'm not going to hurt you."
That's what David said to her. That's what Dr. Applegate said to her, just before they decided impregnating her was the only way to save the human race.
God, fuck, where was her gun?
"I've always suspected," Sherlock was quieter now, like he almost didn't care if John heard him or not. "There were signs, but I didn't dare believe them. That the one woman to survive the Gendercide just happened to be my flatmate. The odds were too big."
Damn, shit, it was still locked in the safe in the living room. She'll have to leave it.
"You know who I am." His voice still so very soft. "You know what I am capable of. This was a huge risk, sharing space with me. Why did you do it?"
John shook her head. What could she say to him? That she was tired of running? Maybe on a certain level she wanted to be caught, because it meant she didn't have to lie who she was, who she is anymore? Despite changing her name, forcing the testosterone pills down her throat, she still considered herself a woman, through and through.
She looked at her meager amount of cash. Looked at her bedroom window that was too small to fit through. There was no way out of this, she realized hotly. Not unless she wanted to fight Sherlock, a struggle she seriously doubted she would win. How do you talk about something like this?
John leaned her forehead against the door. The wetness from her damp skin heightened the smell of the wood. "Does this change your opinion of me?"
"Of course it does," Sherlock admitted slowly. John could hear the smirk in his voice. "You've hidden yourself from me for over a year, John. I don't think I can accept that you may be smarter than me."