Fine
Title: Fine
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Pairing: Vaguely Sherlock/John
Rating: PG-13 for mild gore
Prompt: Everyone calls Joanna Watson 'John.'
Warning: Genderswap (John)
Wordcount: 1,192
Other: written for an anon for the Sherlock kinkmeme. You can find the original prompt and fill here.
Joanna hasn’t been called by her real name in over eleven years.
It was easy in the Army, because all the men there wanted the women to either be Women or to just blend in. Since she didn’t see the point of getting up half an hour earlier to put on mascara when reveille already played well before dawn, that left blending in. So when given the women’s option of the dress code shoulder-length bob, John chopped it all off and went for broke on the same short hair all the guys had. And that was easier. It was practical. It was John, and it was just fine.
Her parents always called her Joanna, but they’ve been dead for ages, and the distant aunts and uncles scattered around Scotland are far more concerned with their own lives than they are with calling a thirty-something crippled doctor in London. That only leaves Harry, and Harry was the one that started calling her John, right around third grade when she decided that Harriet sounded better as Harry. And that’s fine, too.
Lestrade calls her John, and Donovan and Anderson always take Lestrade’s lead in everything, even stupid nicknames. They don’t mean any harm, but they heard it once and they picked it up and stamped it red. It’s a slap on the back, boy’s club sort of nickname, not an insult. That means that it’s fine.
Sherlock is not the sort of man that uses nicknames. That much is evident by the fact that he actually goes by Sherlock, which is a ridiculous sort of name, but wholly expected from a family that named their other child Mycroft. Except Stamford introduced her practically the moment she walked in the room, and once the name John had been attached to her face, there was no going back. Sherlock was not the sort of man that used nicknames, but he was the sort of man that made habits out of an instant. Before they’d finished the conversation, Sherlock had taken a mental photograph of her, filled in all of the deductive details, photocopied it in triplicate, and sent the files off to every corner of his brain for safekeeping and future reference. He thinks in carbon copies, and he deletes, but he rarely edits.
But that was fine, because Sherlock had brought her into his world, into his crazy, upside down, running and gunpowder and blinding spraypaint flashbulb world. And it’s fine if he calls her John when he texts her at three in the morning from the room downstairs, and it’s fine if he calls her John when he grabs her by the shoulders and steers her across a restaurant to look at a body in a freezer, and it’s fine if he calls her John when he tells her to bring her Browning and then goes racing out of the room.
He doesn’t ever think about it.
But there are days when it’s not fine, no matter how hard she tries to make it be. There are days when she fixes him a cup of tea just the way he likes it and sets it by his elbow and by some miracle he’s managed to thank her, and it’s not her name he says. There are some days when she’s managed to break through that concrete skull and he’s apologizing and reeling her in by one hand, but he’s apologizing to John. There are some days when he lies on the couch in his dressing gown and calls out to her aimlessly, but when she answers, he goes quiet, drifting back into his sea of thought and staring at the ceiling, leaving the name floating adrift in the room, unanchored. And it’s not her name.
She doesn’t know when this became a problem.
She used to laugh about this.
When did she get so petty?
It’s fine.
Maybe it’s the jumpers.
She stares into the mirror and examines herself. Eleven years is a long time. And it’s true that she isn’t exactly the picture of feminine grace. Doubtlessly when her parents named her Joanna they imagined an elegant creature with wide, limpid eyes, delicately pursed lips, tasteful jewelry, eyelashes that kissed her cheekbones just so. Someone like Irene, perhaps. Not a woman that spent years in dust and grime in Afghanistan, going weeks without washing her hair because the powdered shampoo had run out and the next shipment hadn’t arrived. She still wears her hair short, practical, and she runs a hand through it critically and wonders when those feather-light wrinkles grew around her eyes, her smile. She used to be young. She’s not sure she could even wear mascara anymore, not without looking like a joke.
But on the days when it’s not fine, she somehow wants to try, with a fierceness that surprises her. She wants to slick lipstick across her mouth, rub her lips together, until the crimson bleeds through the skin of her lips and stains them scarlet. She wants to put on a black lace bra and panties, cover them up with a dress - a real satin one - that hugs what curves she has. She wants to tug on shoes that don’t lace up, earrings, and maybe a ring.
Except she looks like a clown in red lipstick, always has. Lace makes her itch, so she trades it for her usual cotton demis. She would never wear a dress that coy, it would show off her scars, and besides, a cozy wool jumper feels more like home. She hates high heels because she feels helpless in them, and most jewelry makes her skin turn green. And she doesn’t mind, not really, because that’s who she is. She’s not stilettos and Chanel perfume, she’s soft and flannel and slightly scalded tea. She likes flannel. She likes shoes that walk flat on the ground and sensible clothes that have pockets and the plain white gold studs she wears every day.
And that’s fine.
But when the Covent Garden Cat Burglar takes a parting shot at her as he flees across the rooftops, Sherlock is shouting her name. And she’s stumbling backwards against the wall, holding a hand to her head, half in shock, as blood goes trickling between her knuckles, warm and sticky. He rushes to her side and she stares at him, then begins to laugh. He immediately pulls open her eyes to check her pupils, then yanks up her hand to inspect the damage. Half of her ear is gone, he tells her sharply, as if this should stop her laughter.
It doesn’t.
He said her name. Her real name. She can still hear it, a rush of desperate Joanna! against the freezing night.
She drops her head back against the wall with a light thud, smiling at him. He’s itchy and confused in the prickly sort of way that confusion makes him. He asks her if she believes she’s going into shock, and she waves her bloody hand at him to shut him up. She’s fine, she tells him. More than fine. So much more than fine. Amazing.
He doesn’t believe her. She finds that she doesn’t care.
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Pairing: Vaguely Sherlock/John
Rating: PG-13 for mild gore
Prompt: Everyone calls Joanna Watson 'John.'
Warning: Genderswap (John)
Wordcount: 1,192
Other: written for an anon for the Sherlock kinkmeme. You can find the original prompt and fill here.
Joanna hasn’t been called by her real name in over eleven years.
It was easy in the Army, because all the men there wanted the women to either be Women or to just blend in. Since she didn’t see the point of getting up half an hour earlier to put on mascara when reveille already played well before dawn, that left blending in. So when given the women’s option of the dress code shoulder-length bob, John chopped it all off and went for broke on the same short hair all the guys had. And that was easier. It was practical. It was John, and it was just fine.
Her parents always called her Joanna, but they’ve been dead for ages, and the distant aunts and uncles scattered around Scotland are far more concerned with their own lives than they are with calling a thirty-something crippled doctor in London. That only leaves Harry, and Harry was the one that started calling her John, right around third grade when she decided that Harriet sounded better as Harry. And that’s fine, too.
Lestrade calls her John, and Donovan and Anderson always take Lestrade’s lead in everything, even stupid nicknames. They don’t mean any harm, but they heard it once and they picked it up and stamped it red. It’s a slap on the back, boy’s club sort of nickname, not an insult. That means that it’s fine.
Sherlock is not the sort of man that uses nicknames. That much is evident by the fact that he actually goes by Sherlock, which is a ridiculous sort of name, but wholly expected from a family that named their other child Mycroft. Except Stamford introduced her practically the moment she walked in the room, and once the name John had been attached to her face, there was no going back. Sherlock was not the sort of man that used nicknames, but he was the sort of man that made habits out of an instant. Before they’d finished the conversation, Sherlock had taken a mental photograph of her, filled in all of the deductive details, photocopied it in triplicate, and sent the files off to every corner of his brain for safekeeping and future reference. He thinks in carbon copies, and he deletes, but he rarely edits.
But that was fine, because Sherlock had brought her into his world, into his crazy, upside down, running and gunpowder and blinding spraypaint flashbulb world. And it’s fine if he calls her John when he texts her at three in the morning from the room downstairs, and it’s fine if he calls her John when he grabs her by the shoulders and steers her across a restaurant to look at a body in a freezer, and it’s fine if he calls her John when he tells her to bring her Browning and then goes racing out of the room.
He doesn’t ever think about it.
But there are days when it’s not fine, no matter how hard she tries to make it be. There are days when she fixes him a cup of tea just the way he likes it and sets it by his elbow and by some miracle he’s managed to thank her, and it’s not her name he says. There are some days when she’s managed to break through that concrete skull and he’s apologizing and reeling her in by one hand, but he’s apologizing to John. There are some days when he lies on the couch in his dressing gown and calls out to her aimlessly, but when she answers, he goes quiet, drifting back into his sea of thought and staring at the ceiling, leaving the name floating adrift in the room, unanchored. And it’s not her name.
She doesn’t know when this became a problem.
She used to laugh about this.
When did she get so petty?
It’s fine.
Maybe it’s the jumpers.
She stares into the mirror and examines herself. Eleven years is a long time. And it’s true that she isn’t exactly the picture of feminine grace. Doubtlessly when her parents named her Joanna they imagined an elegant creature with wide, limpid eyes, delicately pursed lips, tasteful jewelry, eyelashes that kissed her cheekbones just so. Someone like Irene, perhaps. Not a woman that spent years in dust and grime in Afghanistan, going weeks without washing her hair because the powdered shampoo had run out and the next shipment hadn’t arrived. She still wears her hair short, practical, and she runs a hand through it critically and wonders when those feather-light wrinkles grew around her eyes, her smile. She used to be young. She’s not sure she could even wear mascara anymore, not without looking like a joke.
But on the days when it’s not fine, she somehow wants to try, with a fierceness that surprises her. She wants to slick lipstick across her mouth, rub her lips together, until the crimson bleeds through the skin of her lips and stains them scarlet. She wants to put on a black lace bra and panties, cover them up with a dress - a real satin one - that hugs what curves she has. She wants to tug on shoes that don’t lace up, earrings, and maybe a ring.
Except she looks like a clown in red lipstick, always has. Lace makes her itch, so she trades it for her usual cotton demis. She would never wear a dress that coy, it would show off her scars, and besides, a cozy wool jumper feels more like home. She hates high heels because she feels helpless in them, and most jewelry makes her skin turn green. And she doesn’t mind, not really, because that’s who she is. She’s not stilettos and Chanel perfume, she’s soft and flannel and slightly scalded tea. She likes flannel. She likes shoes that walk flat on the ground and sensible clothes that have pockets and the plain white gold studs she wears every day.
And that’s fine.
But when the Covent Garden Cat Burglar takes a parting shot at her as he flees across the rooftops, Sherlock is shouting her name. And she’s stumbling backwards against the wall, holding a hand to her head, half in shock, as blood goes trickling between her knuckles, warm and sticky. He rushes to her side and she stares at him, then begins to laugh. He immediately pulls open her eyes to check her pupils, then yanks up her hand to inspect the damage. Half of her ear is gone, he tells her sharply, as if this should stop her laughter.
It doesn’t.
He said her name. Her real name. She can still hear it, a rush of desperate Joanna! against the freezing night.
She drops her head back against the wall with a light thud, smiling at him. He’s itchy and confused in the prickly sort of way that confusion makes him. He asks her if she believes she’s going into shock, and she waves her bloody hand at him to shut him up. She’s fine, she tells him. More than fine. So much more than fine. Amazing.
He doesn’t believe her. She finds that she doesn’t care.