The Great Holmes Swap - Chapter 2
Title: The Great Holmes Swap
Summary: Anthea finally agrees to date John if he can prove that living with Sherlock is much harder than coping with Mycroft, but when they switch lives, chaos, hilarity and true love ensues.
Chapter 2: Grand Designs and Gratuitous Nudity
Pairings: Sherlock/John, Mycroft/Anthea,
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Humour/Romance
Warnings: Slash, domestic scenes and too much George Clooney.
AN: Thank to sherlock2040 for the idea of this prompt and thank you to my magnificient beta adamsgirl42.
When Sherlock Holmes finally tumbled through the front door of 221B, he was too delirious to process the woman occupying John’s armchair. Waving an unsteady arm in her general direction, his mouth mumbled something about “not taking clients” and then demanded her immediate departure in a much louder voice. To his consternation, she not only refused to be cowed by his presence but had the gall to talk back:
“I am not a client.”
Sherlock turned one blurry eye to look at her, whilst the other stared longingly at his bedroom door.
Not a client - he thought, a small spark of familiar recognition seeped into his drugged mind, well who are you then? He stood swaying laconically in the middle of the living room for long enough to fixate both his eyes on the woman. This didn’t make his vision any less blurred but at least both halves of his brain were now processing the same problem.
“I live here.” replied the woman casually sipping tea from John’s AstraZeneca mug.
Lives here, uses free crockery, likes tea...
Something in his amphetamine overdosed brain suddenly clicked and all the pieces fell back into place.
John? John!
Sherlock thought he would have been more disturbed about his flatmate having a sex change, but he had long since accepted John’s lack of heterosexual traits despite his numerous girlfriends. The said girlfriends obviously all reached the same conclusion because none of them ever stuck around after they visited 221B.
Sherlock had no idea what one should say when confronted with a transsexual flatmate. In fact, Sherlock wasn’t even sure which pronoun he was supposed to use when addressing John.
Would John be a “he-she” or a “she-he”?
Perhaps he should just stick to first names but then John could hardly be “John” anymore. It was quite likely the fellow had adopted some vulgar feminine version of his given name.
Sherlock liked John just the way he was: calm, competent and flat-chested. The conspicuous cleavage his assistant now sported would distract criminals and policemen alike, not to mention the large breasts would inevitably obstruct Sherlock’s view whenever John bent down at a crime scene.
However, Sherlock understood, despite the dangerous amount of drugs racing through his system, that transexuality was a “delicate” topic and he needed to be “sensitive”.
“You look good,” mumbled Sherlock, his tongue not quite able to catch up with the velocity of his words.
John, or whatever “he-she’s” name was, smiled back at him. Sherlock couldn’t quite make out the rest of her expression but he was sure it had been the right thing to say.
“You look stunning.” he continued swiftly. The amphetamines had dissolved the usual filter between his lips and brain and all the social constraints Mycroft had drilled into him evaporated.
“In fact, I would perform coitus with you if I was - if I was...”
Sherlock wasn’t quite sure what he had to be in order to covert “Not John’s” body. He had never found women to be sexually attractive and, despite some experimentation, he had reached the same conclusion with men. It appeared that the entire human race just didn’t appeal to his sexual appetites.
“You’d sleep with me if you were what, Mr Holmes?” demanded Female John.
“ - if I was not not into human?” suggest Sherlock. He knew that a double negative was a cardinal grammatical sin but his mind was too busy dancing with amphetamines to care.
“So animals then?” asked Female John sounding vaguely amused, “would it help if I dress up as a large furry mammal?”
Sherlock thought about the proposal and concluded that although he didn’t mind engaging in sexual activity with John, this particular feeling only applied to Male John and not the woman he had turned into. Also, a gorilla suit would only inhibit the act of coitus not encourage it.
“No - the frustration of undressing would far outweigh any sexual gain from the texture and appearance of the costume,” stated Sherlock blandly. John might have become a woman but his mind was still firmly stuck on the normal spectrum of idiocy.
“Perhaps something more exotic - blue paint Avatar style?”
Sherlock grimaced at the reference to popular culture. John had spent hours extolling the virtues of a man named James Cameron and his irrational, bordering on psychotic, imagination.
“Not this again!” he snapped impatiently.
Sherlock’s mood was rapidly deteriorating. The novel amphetamine isoforms he had “confiscated” from Scotland Yard were proving to be highly unpredictable in their effects. He could feel a thin sheen of sweat on his back and tension headache slowly blossoming across his forehead.
“We’ve never discussed this before.” pointed out Female John.
“Good God! Did they give you a memory wipe when they created your melodramatic cleavage? On that topic do they still give you back your penis in a jar?” demanded Sherlock.
His limbs were starting to switch of their own accord and one arm flayed outwards like it had been possessed.
“What have you been taking?” asked Female John, sounding both exasperated and highly entertained.
Concern, thought Sherlock irritably, how utterly, predictably John.
“I’m fine - of course, I’m fine,” he slurred, “Where’s the milk? We’re out of milk!”
The last thing he saw before he hit the carpet were his most recent case notes piled neatly in alphabetical order on the table.
There truly wasn’t a single word in the English language that could describe John’s reaction to Mycroft Holmes’ residence.
It was not just impressive, it was magnificent. Never in his wildest dreams, had John imagined a private residence of such opulence and splendour. Even tea at Buckingham Palace paled in comparison.
Instead of the minimalist apartment he had been envisaging, the Bentley swept up a tree lined drive that seemed to extend impossibly far through beautifully manicured lawns. At the end of their journey stood Mycroft’s personal Palace; a true testament to the finest Italianate architecture to ever be immortalised in stone.
A huge rectangular pool, complete with multi-tier fountain, accentuated the grand entrance which stood atop an ostentatious and imposing terrace flanked by sweeping staircases on either side. Towering, majestic Corinthian columns adorned the external facade. Elegant sash windows placed at aesthetically pleasing intervals looked out onto the beautifully arranged garden surrounding the fountain.
“Welcome to my home, Dr Watson.” said Mycroft, a small smile playing across his features. John didn’t know how to respond, he was still transfixed the extensive grounds that seemed to extend as far as the eye could see.
“Is this still London?” asked John after several moments of stunned silence.
“Oh yes,” replied Mycroft, casually, “I could never get to work on time from Surrey or Suffolk.”
“Yeah...” muttered John weakly.
A uniformed chauffeur opened the door for him, and John almost tumbled out onto the thick gravel drive that curved through the ornate gardens.
“Steady on, Dr Watson,” said Mycroft soothingly, “you haven’t seen the inside yet.”
The inside thought John, would probably bring him to his knees.
As John walked into the entrance hall, he felt like he had been transported onto the set of Downton Abbey. A magnificent oak staircase wound around the opulently decorated walls of the three-storey high atrium. Hazy sunshine streamed from the glass skylight in the roof, illuminating the intricate patterns on the marble flooring in the centre of the cavernous space. Enormous tapestries coated the walls, vividly depicting biblical scenes of war and redemption.
In the midst of all this opulence, John half expected the Earl of Grantham to stroll down the grand staircase demanding to know who had allowed such a grubby peasant to enter.
“Do you like it?” asked Mycroft. His low, soothing voice was so close that it made John jump reflexively in fright. The most dangerous man he would ever meet was standing directly behind him, casually violating John’s personal space.
“Er - well - it’s...nice,” mumbled John. His extensive and colourful vocabulary simply vanished from memory and he was reduced to sounding utterly inadequate.
“Well then,” continued Mycroft, not bothering to step away from John, “perhaps you’d like to come and have tea in the conservatory?”
“Yeah...okay,” muttered John, his attention captivated by the gigantic crystal chandelier glistening in the sunlight.
Mycroft Holmes reached out with both hands and physically steered a startled John through the house, not giving him enough time to marvel at the other magnificent treasures which lined each room. The large, smooth hands gripping both his arm and shoulder were not uncomfortable but his skin started to crawl anyway because it was Mycroft touching him. The taller man was smiling serenely, seemingly unaware of John’s discomfort. He wanted very much to order Mycroft away but the grandeur of his surroundings had muted his spirit.
When they finally sat down in the conservatory for tea, John was enormously relieved that he was out of arm’s reach. The conservatory was a small but fabulously decorated space, complete with miniature citrus trees and ornate cane furniture. Tea for two sat on one silver platter with cakes, buns, finger sandwiches arranged in pleasing geometric patterns on the other.
“Do hope you will feel at home, Dr Watson,” said Mycroft with his most charming smile. “I think our first week together will be quite uneventful.”
“Our first week?”
“Mmm - I was hoping you’d agree to stay on for a bit longer but only if you want to.” replied Mycroft graciously but his smile had become vaguely sinister.
“Wait, I only agreed to swap with Anthea for one week, I can’t take any more time off work. Besides your brother might get himself killed if I stayed away any longer.”
Mycroft merely looked at him with one raised eyebrow as if to say how disappointed he was with John’s irrational objections.
“Listen,” said John, willing his voice to remain steady, “this was all started by a stupid, childish argument. I don’t want it to have any lasting consequences.”
“Oh,” said Mycroft, his smile becoming distinctively predatory, “my dear John, it’s too late for that now.”
After passing out Sherlock dreamt of blue aliens and pickled penises. In his fevered dreams Female John was constantly nagging him to tidy up the flat when all Sherlock wanted to do was examine the detached part of his anatomy that was now floating inside a jam jar.
He was jolted awake by the sound of shrill screaming coming from the living room. Sherlock promptly rolled out of bed and staggered to his dressing gown which was hanging limply on the back of his door. Sometime during the night or day he had stripped off all his clothes but, as usual, Sherlock didn’t bother to tie up his dressing gown. John tended to turn a blind eye but then peek at him when he thought Sherlock wasn’t looking. Mrs Hudson, on the other hand, usually gave him an open stare and some superfluous comments about decency.
He sauntered into the living room, expecting to see John and Mrs Hudson exchanging distressed looks over his latest experiment. The eyeballs from the morgue had given him an excellent model of how virtuous humour splatters out after penetration of the eye by blunt objects.
However, instead of the usual suspects, Sherlock saw a woman shakily emptying the contents of his experiment into the bin.
“What are you doing?” he snarled, running across to the kitchen as fast as his legs could carry him. Although the experiment had been a success, he had intended to feed the by-products to the stray ginger cat that sulked in their alleyway.
As the woman turned around, Sherlock belatedly realised that she was none other than his brother’s PA. Unfortunately he couldn’t react fast enough to preserve his modesty.
When confronted with a full view of his manhood, Jane let out another shrill scream, this time several decibels louder than the last. Flustered and confused, Sherlock tried to cover himself and turn around at the same time but his dressing gown became snagged on the kitchen chair and slipped off his shoulders with embarrassing ease.
Now he was completely naked and presenting his backside to her, Sherlock wondered briefly if he could knock her out with his jackhammer and claim the entire incident was a side-effect of brain damage.
“That wasn’t on purpose!” Sherlock all but screamed. His hands were firmly plastered across his groin but he wasn’t sure how much would be revealed if he turned back to retrieve his only form of covering.
“I’m not looking,” hissed Jane, who had probably screwed her eyes shut and covered them with her hand just to be safe.
“Right,” said Sherlock, trying to sound calm and collected, “I’m turning around on the count of three.”
“I’ve already covered my eyes,” snapped Jane, “hurry up and get on with it!”
“Don’t you dare peek.” replied Sherlock suddenly filled with paranoia.
“Seriously?” cried Jane, her voice a full octave higher than normal, “Why would I want to! I’ve already been traumatised for life, you inconsiderate autistic psychopath!”
“I am a high functioning sociopath!” barked Sherlock.
Completely forgetting his previous desire for modesty, Sherlock whirled around and gestured wildly with his hands to emphasise the point.
“Do your research, woman! How on earth my brother has survived with you as PA is completely beyond me.”
Assuming that Sherlock must be decent by now, Jane hesitantly opened one eye and peeked out from between two splayed fingers only to be confronted with an uninterrupted view of Sherlock’s entire anatomy.
“You’re peeking,” screamed Sherlock, suddenly very aware of his nakedness. He had not felt so violated since the last time Mycroft stripped him down and forced him into a bath. Sherlock had tried to delete all records of the grim experience but it was etched too deep in his emotional memory.
“I thought you’d be dressed by now,” hissed Jane, the hands covering her eyes turning white with strain, “Do you enjoy exhibiting yourself?”
“Not to you!” snarled Sherlock and then belatedly realising just how wrong that retort sounded.
Jane made a strange noise, halfway between a snort and a scream. She started to edge her way around the kitchen, still with her hands firmly clasped over her face.
“Sherlock Holmes, put your trousers on!” she growled.
Despite her lack of vision, Jane was making very good progress across the kitchen and Sherlock look the opportunity to swiftly retrieve his dressing gown. When he put it back on, he made sure to securely tie the robe closed so only his head, hands and feet were visible. Under the protection of his warm, comfortable dressing gown, Sherlock felt his heart rate return to normal and the remaining anxiety dissipate into the silky smooth fabric. He was in control of his faculties once more and the turmoil in his mind completely subsided. Now that he was decent again, Jane could stop trying to claw her eyes out like a whimpering cat.
Unfortunately, the very nasty and distinctly childish part of his intellect decided that there really was no need to pull Jane out of her discomfort just yet. Instead, he most certainly deserved to extract revenge for her sudden unwanted presence in his flat. If he played the cards right, none of this would ever get back to his brother.
“Make me,” replied Sherlock, revelling in the power he was holding over her.
“What? You’re enjoying this aren’t you?”
“No, but seen as you’ve seen everything anyway, I don’t see why I have to get dressed.”
“I don’t want to continue seeing it!” moaned Jane. She was now standing against the couch with her face parallel to the carpet.
“Oh but I think you do,” replied Sherlock, with wicked delight, “I saw how you were looking at me, I wonder what Mycroft would say if I told him?”
“I wasn’t checking you out!” hissed Jane, but the lack of vision prevented her from using her usual non-verbal ammunition against him. “Mycroft would understand.”
“Well, if Mycroft would understand, why don’t you just take a good long look?” demanded Sherlock stepping right up to her so that they were no more than inches apart. Jane’s fear and revulsion was almost palpable but squashed against the couch, she had no way of escape.
“Go away!” snarled Jane but unfortunately with both hands engaged, she could not push him away.
Sherlock bought his hands up to grip her’s and calmly started to pull them from her face. Initially Jane was too shocked to respond but unfortunately Sherlock had entirely miscalculated this particular step in the game. He had entirely negated to include Jane’s special operative combat training into the equation.
With one swift manoeuvre she kicked his legs out of under him, but he still had a firm grip on both her wrists so they tumbled together on to the living room floor with Jane on top and Sherlock cushioning her landing. Jane used her elbows as both leverage and weapons as they grappled on the floor, Sherlock trying to right himself and Jane trying to maintain the high ground with her hands still clasped over her eyes.
In any other situation, Sherlock would be grudgingly impressed by her fighting prowess but in the heat of this moment he was too busy using her lack of vision to his advantage. With a combination of strategy and brute strength he managed to crawl on top of her. Unfortunately, she simply dug her knee into his groin and all conscious thought completely evaporated.
He screamed unflatteringly like a stuck pig so neither of the combatants heard the sound of Mrs Hudson bursting into the room with Lestrade and Donovan hot on her tail.
“Sherlock!” cried Mrs Hudson sounding astonished but only faintly disapproving.
“Well it’s about time you found a girlfriend,” said Lestrade in a very matter of fact voice, “but could you at least make it vaguely consensual?”
AN: To all the wonderful and amazing people who commented for chapter one: I really love all your suggestions and I promise I will incorporate as many of them as I can into the story. This chapter was written before I got most of your requests.
Requests for scenes are still open, so drop a comment if you have and idea.
Please leave your thoughts and feelings on the story so far. I want to know about what works, what doesn't, what's funny, what really isn't. Feedback really helps to improve the story!
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