Fic: Sherlock, "Never Known a Girl Like You"
Title: Never Known a Girl Like You
Fandom: Sherlock
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1498
Summary: After not seeing him for over a week, John meets with Sherlock very unexpectedly.
A/N: Cross-dressing!Sherlock fic! un-betaed, so you can bet there's some long-ass sentences in here.
Sherlock had been gone, without warning, for over a week. The first time that had happen, John panicked and actually called Mycroft. When Sherlock returned, he was very disgruntled and refused to speak to John for several days.
So John had learned not to get worried during these disappearances. Instead, he took the opportunity to do some tidying without his gangly and erratic flatmate being underfoot. But with all that done, John found himself bored and alone on a Friday night. He used to go out...before. He'd go to bars or clubs, be on the pull. A lifetime ago now. It seemed a better option than staying in, pining for Sherlock.
Once he had chosen a place and had a drink in his hand, John regretted his decision. It felt wrong. The way colorful, strobing lights reflected off the tempered glass bar top, all the girls were too young and too flashy, the music, the noise, all of it was wrong. It just made him feel old, lonelier, and more depressed than he had back at the empty flat. With only half a glass of beer to go, he decided once he had finished it, he would go back home, find Mrs Hudson, have tea and telly, and they could feel old, lonely, and depressed together.
The slender arm and flash of red hair sidling up next to him barely even registered until she said, "buy a lady a drink, soldier?"
He didn't even look at her, taking the last swallow of beer. "Not tonight. I was just leaving."
"Well, if that's how you treat women coming on to you," a much deeper and familiar voice said, "no wonder your sex life is in such a state."
John jerked his head up, wide-eyed. Through the curtain of glossy, ginger hair was his flatmate's, albeit altered, face. Slack-jawed, John looked him up and down. He was in a little black dress, long sleeves to hide his arms, and padding at the chest and hips to simulate curves.
It was all very very disturbing.
"Sherlock! What-"
"Shhhh," Sherlock brought a manicured finger up to pursed, painted lips.
John lowered his voice to an angry whisper. "Is this what you've been doing all week?" He shut his eyes. "Please tell me you're on a case."
"Of course I'm on a case!"
"Then why didn't you tell me anything? I could have helped."
"In order to obtain the information I need, it was vital to not only appear female, but unattached. How could I do that with my curiously short boyfriend hanging around?"
"You could have passed me off as your brother or something."
Sherlock raised a delicately curved eyebrow at that. Lord, he must have plucked them.
"Then why are you talking to me now?"
"To make him jealous." Sherlock nodded towards the end of the bar. John turned and saw a thuggish man with a shaved head and tattoos all the way up both arms glaring in his direction.
John whipped back around to Sherlock. "You've been flirting with that thing?"
"Shush. Here he comes. Remember, just play along."
"This bloke bothering you?"
Sherlock's face melted into that of an adoring young woman's when he looked up at the thug and attached himself to his side. He then turned a disdainful glare at John. "Some men just can't take 'no' for an answer," he said, changing back to the higher, but still smoky voice. He was terribly convincing.
"Then I'll have to teach him to respect a lady." The thug grabbed John by the front of his jacket and pulled him close. Sherlock shifted, as if cowering, behind his "protector's" shoulder.
"L-look," John stuttered, "I wasn't looking for trouble."
"Well, you found it." One meaty hand let go and pulled back into a fist. Just as John was mentally scheduling an appointment with his dental surgeon, a slender hand clasped the fist.
"He's not worth the trouble, Henry," Sherlock simpered.
Simpered! John felt like he was going to vomit.
Quelled by the "woman's" plea for mercy, Henry shoved John towards the door. "I won't be wanting to be seeing your face around here no more, got it?"
Sherlock's inner grammar-Nazi must have been writhing in pain after that little speech.
"Suits me, pal," John said, regaining his balance.
Henry grabbed Sherlock's hand and started leading him back further into the bar. Before disappearing into the crowd, Sherlock turned, winked, and blew John a kiss.
Later that same night, John sat in the living room on his computer, trying to get the image of female-Sherlock and her-his companion off his mind. An unfamiliar footstep on the stairs made him look up. In the doorway, bracing himself against it, was Sherlock. "The things I do for my craft," he sighed.
"What exactly did you-" Well, that didn't conjure any pleasant images. "No, wait, I don't want to know."
"I was talking about the shoes." He slipped off a pair of dangerous looking stilettos. "Why women torture themselves in this way everyday is one of those grand mysteries I am fated never to solve."
He tossed the shoes on the floor and hobbled on his sore feet to the bathroom. John followed. "So, got everything you wanted?"
"Oh, yes." Sherlock pulled off the wig and threw it on the closed toilet seat.
"As long as he didn't get anything he wanted," John grumbled.
"Please, he wouldn't have gotten past my thighs without giving the game away." Sherlock reached under his skirt and ripped out the padding that had given him hips. He grabbed a jar of cold cream off the sink and started slathering it over his face in front of the mirror. "If you're going to stand there," he said to John's reflection, "you could at least help me with the zip."
John found it a reasonable request and did so. He also decided to be helpful and unhook the bra from the back.
Unhooking Sherlock Holmes' bra... That was never in the flat share agreement.
Sherlock rinsed his hands of the cream and tugged on his sleeves, allowing the entire top part of the dress to fall. Two clear, roundish bags of fluid plopped down into the sink. Sherlock scooped them up and tossed them on the wig. One bounced off and splatted on the floor.
John couldn't stand it anymore. He broke out in hysterical laughter. Sherlock was laughing, too, as he rinsed his face,
John caught his breath, sitting on the the edge of the bathtub. "This is too much."
"What is?"
John motioned at Sherlock. Waving a hand up and down the length of him. "This. You."
"Didn't you find me attractive as a woman?"
John rolled his eyes. "Oh, please."
Sherlock raised a disbelieving eyebrow. It reminded him to peel off the prosthetics stuck there.
John was relieved that he hadn't actually plucked or shaved his eyebrows. In fact, looking at Sherlock now: curls crushed under a nylon cap, face red from scrubbing, pale chest bare, but still in a skirt; shapely legs tapering into long, mannish feet, looking absolutely ridiculous was far more attractive to John than the ginger tart had been.
Sherlock removed the nylon cap and tried to fluff his curls back up. John found himself still staring at Sherlock's stockings.
"Did you shave you legs?"
"Had to, didn't I? Even moisturized them properly as not to get razor rash."
John tore his eyes away from where Sherlock had been caressing his own calf. "And where did you learn all about that, the internet?"
"No, I asked a woman."
"Who?"
"Molly."
John burst out laughing again. "Oh God, what she must have thought of that."
He really could not keep his eyes away as Sherlock bent and rolled down each stocking revealing pale, smooth thighs and legs.
Sherlock, of course, noticed. He gave John a sly, sideways look. "Would you like to touch?"
"And I thought you hated obvious questions." John knelt on the floor and started at a knobby ankle, making slow circular caresses around it. Above him, Sherlock made an odd, short noise. "Ticklish?"
"No."
John smirked. Liar. He moved his hand up, dragging his nails along the shinbone, the other hand sliding up the back of the calf. Sherlock had done really well. Even with past girlfriends there always seemed to be that missed patch, a hint of stubble, but then none of them were bloody-minded perfectionists. Sherlock was so soft and smooth, he could not longer resist temptation. John leaned in and pressed a kiss to the back of his knee. Sherlock jerked his leg, nearly kicking John in the chest.
"See, you are ticklish."
Sherlock just huffed in response and tightened his grip on the sink edge behind him.
A thought occurred to John as he reached the hem of dress. "Are you wearing women's panties as well?"
"Mmhmm," Sherlock confirmed.
"Silk or lace?"
"Keep going, you'll find out."
Turned out it be a bit of both.
Fandom: Sherlock
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1498
Summary: After not seeing him for over a week, John meets with Sherlock very unexpectedly.
A/N: Cross-dressing!Sherlock fic! un-betaed, so you can bet there's some long-ass sentences in here.
Sherlock had been gone, without warning, for over a week. The first time that had happen, John panicked and actually called Mycroft. When Sherlock returned, he was very disgruntled and refused to speak to John for several days.
So John had learned not to get worried during these disappearances. Instead, he took the opportunity to do some tidying without his gangly and erratic flatmate being underfoot. But with all that done, John found himself bored and alone on a Friday night. He used to go out...before. He'd go to bars or clubs, be on the pull. A lifetime ago now. It seemed a better option than staying in, pining for Sherlock.
Once he had chosen a place and had a drink in his hand, John regretted his decision. It felt wrong. The way colorful, strobing lights reflected off the tempered glass bar top, all the girls were too young and too flashy, the music, the noise, all of it was wrong. It just made him feel old, lonelier, and more depressed than he had back at the empty flat. With only half a glass of beer to go, he decided once he had finished it, he would go back home, find Mrs Hudson, have tea and telly, and they could feel old, lonely, and depressed together.
The slender arm and flash of red hair sidling up next to him barely even registered until she said, "buy a lady a drink, soldier?"
He didn't even look at her, taking the last swallow of beer. "Not tonight. I was just leaving."
"Well, if that's how you treat women coming on to you," a much deeper and familiar voice said, "no wonder your sex life is in such a state."
John jerked his head up, wide-eyed. Through the curtain of glossy, ginger hair was his flatmate's, albeit altered, face. Slack-jawed, John looked him up and down. He was in a little black dress, long sleeves to hide his arms, and padding at the chest and hips to simulate curves.
It was all very very disturbing.
"Sherlock! What-"
"Shhhh," Sherlock brought a manicured finger up to pursed, painted lips.
John lowered his voice to an angry whisper. "Is this what you've been doing all week?" He shut his eyes. "Please tell me you're on a case."
"Of course I'm on a case!"
"Then why didn't you tell me anything? I could have helped."
"In order to obtain the information I need, it was vital to not only appear female, but unattached. How could I do that with my curiously short boyfriend hanging around?"
"You could have passed me off as your brother or something."
Sherlock raised a delicately curved eyebrow at that. Lord, he must have plucked them.
"Then why are you talking to me now?"
"To make him jealous." Sherlock nodded towards the end of the bar. John turned and saw a thuggish man with a shaved head and tattoos all the way up both arms glaring in his direction.
John whipped back around to Sherlock. "You've been flirting with that thing?"
"Shush. Here he comes. Remember, just play along."
"This bloke bothering you?"
Sherlock's face melted into that of an adoring young woman's when he looked up at the thug and attached himself to his side. He then turned a disdainful glare at John. "Some men just can't take 'no' for an answer," he said, changing back to the higher, but still smoky voice. He was terribly convincing.
"Then I'll have to teach him to respect a lady." The thug grabbed John by the front of his jacket and pulled him close. Sherlock shifted, as if cowering, behind his "protector's" shoulder.
"L-look," John stuttered, "I wasn't looking for trouble."
"Well, you found it." One meaty hand let go and pulled back into a fist. Just as John was mentally scheduling an appointment with his dental surgeon, a slender hand clasped the fist.
"He's not worth the trouble, Henry," Sherlock simpered.
Simpered! John felt like he was going to vomit.
Quelled by the "woman's" plea for mercy, Henry shoved John towards the door. "I won't be wanting to be seeing your face around here no more, got it?"
Sherlock's inner grammar-Nazi must have been writhing in pain after that little speech.
"Suits me, pal," John said, regaining his balance.
Henry grabbed Sherlock's hand and started leading him back further into the bar. Before disappearing into the crowd, Sherlock turned, winked, and blew John a kiss.
Later that same night, John sat in the living room on his computer, trying to get the image of female-Sherlock and her-his companion off his mind. An unfamiliar footstep on the stairs made him look up. In the doorway, bracing himself against it, was Sherlock. "The things I do for my craft," he sighed.
"What exactly did you-" Well, that didn't conjure any pleasant images. "No, wait, I don't want to know."
"I was talking about the shoes." He slipped off a pair of dangerous looking stilettos. "Why women torture themselves in this way everyday is one of those grand mysteries I am fated never to solve."
He tossed the shoes on the floor and hobbled on his sore feet to the bathroom. John followed. "So, got everything you wanted?"
"Oh, yes." Sherlock pulled off the wig and threw it on the closed toilet seat.
"As long as he didn't get anything he wanted," John grumbled.
"Please, he wouldn't have gotten past my thighs without giving the game away." Sherlock reached under his skirt and ripped out the padding that had given him hips. He grabbed a jar of cold cream off the sink and started slathering it over his face in front of the mirror. "If you're going to stand there," he said to John's reflection, "you could at least help me with the zip."
John found it a reasonable request and did so. He also decided to be helpful and unhook the bra from the back.
Unhooking Sherlock Holmes' bra... That was never in the flat share agreement.
Sherlock rinsed his hands of the cream and tugged on his sleeves, allowing the entire top part of the dress to fall. Two clear, roundish bags of fluid plopped down into the sink. Sherlock scooped them up and tossed them on the wig. One bounced off and splatted on the floor.
John couldn't stand it anymore. He broke out in hysterical laughter. Sherlock was laughing, too, as he rinsed his face,
John caught his breath, sitting on the the edge of the bathtub. "This is too much."
"What is?"
John motioned at Sherlock. Waving a hand up and down the length of him. "This. You."
"Didn't you find me attractive as a woman?"
John rolled his eyes. "Oh, please."
Sherlock raised a disbelieving eyebrow. It reminded him to peel off the prosthetics stuck there.
John was relieved that he hadn't actually plucked or shaved his eyebrows. In fact, looking at Sherlock now: curls crushed under a nylon cap, face red from scrubbing, pale chest bare, but still in a skirt; shapely legs tapering into long, mannish feet, looking absolutely ridiculous was far more attractive to John than the ginger tart had been.
Sherlock removed the nylon cap and tried to fluff his curls back up. John found himself still staring at Sherlock's stockings.
"Did you shave you legs?"
"Had to, didn't I? Even moisturized them properly as not to get razor rash."
John tore his eyes away from where Sherlock had been caressing his own calf. "And where did you learn all about that, the internet?"
"No, I asked a woman."
"Who?"
"Molly."
John burst out laughing again. "Oh God, what she must have thought of that."
He really could not keep his eyes away as Sherlock bent and rolled down each stocking revealing pale, smooth thighs and legs.
Sherlock, of course, noticed. He gave John a sly, sideways look. "Would you like to touch?"
"And I thought you hated obvious questions." John knelt on the floor and started at a knobby ankle, making slow circular caresses around it. Above him, Sherlock made an odd, short noise. "Ticklish?"
"No."
John smirked. Liar. He moved his hand up, dragging his nails along the shinbone, the other hand sliding up the back of the calf. Sherlock had done really well. Even with past girlfriends there always seemed to be that missed patch, a hint of stubble, but then none of them were bloody-minded perfectionists. Sherlock was so soft and smooth, he could not longer resist temptation. John leaned in and pressed a kiss to the back of his knee. Sherlock jerked his leg, nearly kicking John in the chest.
"See, you are ticklish."
Sherlock just huffed in response and tightened his grip on the sink edge behind him.
A thought occurred to John as he reached the hem of dress. "Are you wearing women's panties as well?"
"Mmhmm," Sherlock confirmed.
"Silk or lace?"
"Keep going, you'll find out."
Turned out it be a bit of both.