Holmes/Watson spontaneous genderswap fic (from porn battle, archived here for posterity.)
Author: llassah
Pairing: Holmes/Girl!Watson
Rating: NC-17
Length: just over 1000 words
Such a thing was impossible to hide from Holmes, but he tried anyway, binding his chest- god, breasts- putting on his thickest shirt, wetting and adding dirt to his face to suggest the appearance of recently having shaved. It was useless, he knew that. His eyelashes, slenderer brows, the curve to his hips, the stumble as he walked, unused to the difference in balance, all told of something which anyone else might dismiss at a glance, but that Holmes would know in an instant. He had fallen asleep as a man, but woken up as a woman. He felt no different, could discern no difference in his thinking, his old wounds were still there, but he was entirely altered. “Damn,” he whispered. He put on his greatcoat, hat and shoes, the ends of which he had to stuff a little, picked up his cane and exited his bedroom in as natural a way as possible, hoping desperately that Holmes was preoccupied, or, better still, away.
He didn’t even look in their shared quarters to ascertain this, just descended the stairs and stepped out into the street. It was an autumnal day with a brisk wind, meaning his downtilted hat and buttoned coat were nothing unusual. He didn’t make any conscious decision as to where he was going, just followed his feet, keeping his mind on the noise they made, the sound of the wind, anything but his peculiar predicament. He found himself eventually walking down narrower streets; the buildings closed in on him more and he kept his eyes down, his walk unobtrusive. Some of the men looked at him speculatively and he felt himself gripping his cane almost convulsively, wondering about the new limits of his strength and when he would have to test them. The sensation of the crowd closing in intensified, and the rough hand on his shoulder felt like a thing he had been waiting for. As he was dragged into the alley, he felt himself smiling almost ferally. A hard elbow to the stomach, the cane brought up sharply between his legs as he doubled then his assailant was wheezing on the floor, curses hoarse with pain.
Watson leaned back against the wall briefly, then turned to leave. “Next time, your attacker might not be so stupid.”
Holmes stood still as the crowds continued to bustle, a point of focus as the noise of the street retreated. He was scruffy, showed all the signs of the sleepless nights and drug use that accompanied inactivity, but his eyes were steady and clear as he looked at Watson as if cataloguing. Unnecessary; Holmes had all the information he needed, had probably followed Watson from the moment he left his bedroom based on that information. “My rooms in the next street, or back to Baker Street?”
“Baker Street. I would prefer to avoid fleas if at all possible.”
Watson, by some miracle, managed to keep his voice steady, unused as he was to its lighter timbre. Holmes’ smile was relaxed. “Those fleas are there for experimental purposes,” he said, and they exited the alleyway, arguing idly. It was maddening how little of Holmes’s demeanour had changed, his lack of chivalry- Watson would have abhorred chivalry had it been offered, of course, but it seemed as if his sudden femaleness was immaterial to Holmes. His mind was half on Holmes’s needling, half occupied with dissecting his behaviour. They reached their rooms without incident, Holmes closed and locked the living room door, and then sat on his favoured chair.
“You are an interesting specimen of female, certainly, but I confess I prefer you as a man. This hasn’t happened before, I take it?”
Watson took off his hat and coat and hung them up, deliberately unhurried. “Strangely, no. It isn’t the sort of thing that crops up in medical journals. Not the ones I read, anyway.”
Something about the unruffled calm Holmes was displaying meant that Watson found himself removing his jacket, too, and his waistcoat. He was determined to shock, and coldly, distantly sure that that was what Holmes had intended. “You’re reading the wrong journals, my dear Watson.”
Watson said nothing, just got the brandy decanter and poured two generous glasses, passed one to his companion and then fell into his chair with a sigh. “This could ruin us,” he said, eyes closed. “I cannot begin to think of a way out of this. My appearance is undeniably female; no amount of disguise will compensate for that. The scandal may be the one that finally topples you.”
“I’ll marry you if this doesn’t right itself. It would mean no appreciable change to our living arrangements, and the solution has a certain amount of elegance to it.”
A more unromantic proposal has seldom been heard. Watson just looked at him levelly, ruthlessly quashing the urge to punch him. The worst thing was, his logic was sound. “A month. We will carry on for a month.”
Life continued. Holmes maintained his usual behaviour, and if Watson hadn’t seen the speculative, often heated glances that he allowed himself when he thought Watson was unaware of him, he’d have assumed that Holmes have forgotten. They had been occasional bedfellows in the past, an informal arrangement that seemed to coincide with Holmes’s quiet periods, when boxing didn’t divert him and the violin held no pleasure, but drugs were absent. It was pleasurable when it happened, and mutually satisfying, but there was no question of anything more than sporadic night-time visits and gasped out words in the still darkness. Watson’s desire took a different form now, a heaviness and an ache. It took him three days to gain the courage to satisfy himself, and afterwards he lay sated, naked under the sheets, reeling from the images that had flitted across his eyelids. “Damn,” he whispered again, and closed his eyes. His physical need was gone, but his mind remained full of desires.
Four days, a knife fight, two street brawls, a near riot and the arrest of ten men later, and Holmes was not so calm. “It’s a scratch. It won’t even need stitches. Just pass me the iodine, man, and stop pacing.”
Watson sat with only his trousers and breastbindings on, tending to a shallow cut on his stomach, and watched as Holmes managed to keep track of his every motion while avoiding even looking at him. “Ridiculous,” he muttered.
“I will not allow you to-”
“You have no choice. I am more than able to protect myself. Lestrade was adequately fooled.”
Holmes stopped, turned around and looked at him, then with a bitten-off curse, walked out of the room. Watson continued to clean the wound with steady hands. After, the brandy seemed to beckon him, but it was no use. He paced until his mind was calmer, then went to bed. He left the curtains open and watched the clouds play across the moon until he drifted into sleep.
The next week, Holmes brought home a dress. Watson split his lip.
The next morning, Watson found him lying on the floor in a drunken stupor, the dress slipping off his shoulders, skirts hitched up to expose his legs. He kissed him until he woke up, pinned him down and rutted against his leg until he could feel the familiar tightening and release of climax. Holmes watched him, cheeks flushed, lips bloodied. Watson smiled, slowly. “Good girl,” he murmured, then pulled the skirts up to expose Holmes’s member, expertly brought him to the point of climax with his hand, then stopped. Holmes had his eyes closed, head thrown back. Utterly abandoned. His.
“Please.”
How could he refuse? He unfastened his trousers, released the braces so they slipped off his shoulders, then he was there in his shirtsleeves, legs exposed. It was at once strange and natural to lower himself onto Holmes’s cock- they had assumed this position many times before his alteration- and he didn’t stop until he was fully sheathed, ignoring the slight pain. Holmes was biting his wrist in an effort to stave off orgasm, the pulse jumping in his neck. Holmes had planned for this, he knew that now. It didn’t matter, though, that so many of his desires were attained through the mechanics of other people’s behaviour. He kissed him, smiling at the jerk of Holmes’s hips, the way he went from enforced stillness to rhythm, to his thumb pressed unerringly on Watson’s clitoris. It became pleasure, not power as they lost themselves in each other, as Holmes whispered secrets into Watson’s mouth, and it was all he could do not to fall apart.
They lay there afterwards, still mostly clothed. “You have worn a dress before,” Watson said idly, noting how well the dress fitted him. “And it would have looked appalling on me. Too big for a start, and utterly the wrong colour.” Holmes smiled, rolling onto his back and gazing idly at the scorch mark on the ceiling shaped a little like India.
“It wasn’t for you, my dear Watson,” he said, lighting a cigarette, eyes narrowed, a smile still playing about his lips. “I infinitely prefer you in trousers.”
Watson just sighed and looked up at the ceiling, watching the smoke rise above them. “You can be the one in white for the wedding ceremony, then.”
They lay there in silence, waiting for the world to change again.
Pairing: Holmes/Girl!Watson
Rating: NC-17
Length: just over 1000 words
Such a thing was impossible to hide from Holmes, but he tried anyway, binding his chest- god, breasts- putting on his thickest shirt, wetting and adding dirt to his face to suggest the appearance of recently having shaved. It was useless, he knew that. His eyelashes, slenderer brows, the curve to his hips, the stumble as he walked, unused to the difference in balance, all told of something which anyone else might dismiss at a glance, but that Holmes would know in an instant. He had fallen asleep as a man, but woken up as a woman. He felt no different, could discern no difference in his thinking, his old wounds were still there, but he was entirely altered. “Damn,” he whispered. He put on his greatcoat, hat and shoes, the ends of which he had to stuff a little, picked up his cane and exited his bedroom in as natural a way as possible, hoping desperately that Holmes was preoccupied, or, better still, away.
He didn’t even look in their shared quarters to ascertain this, just descended the stairs and stepped out into the street. It was an autumnal day with a brisk wind, meaning his downtilted hat and buttoned coat were nothing unusual. He didn’t make any conscious decision as to where he was going, just followed his feet, keeping his mind on the noise they made, the sound of the wind, anything but his peculiar predicament. He found himself eventually walking down narrower streets; the buildings closed in on him more and he kept his eyes down, his walk unobtrusive. Some of the men looked at him speculatively and he felt himself gripping his cane almost convulsively, wondering about the new limits of his strength and when he would have to test them. The sensation of the crowd closing in intensified, and the rough hand on his shoulder felt like a thing he had been waiting for. As he was dragged into the alley, he felt himself smiling almost ferally. A hard elbow to the stomach, the cane brought up sharply between his legs as he doubled then his assailant was wheezing on the floor, curses hoarse with pain.
Watson leaned back against the wall briefly, then turned to leave. “Next time, your attacker might not be so stupid.”
Holmes stood still as the crowds continued to bustle, a point of focus as the noise of the street retreated. He was scruffy, showed all the signs of the sleepless nights and drug use that accompanied inactivity, but his eyes were steady and clear as he looked at Watson as if cataloguing. Unnecessary; Holmes had all the information he needed, had probably followed Watson from the moment he left his bedroom based on that information. “My rooms in the next street, or back to Baker Street?”
“Baker Street. I would prefer to avoid fleas if at all possible.”
Watson, by some miracle, managed to keep his voice steady, unused as he was to its lighter timbre. Holmes’ smile was relaxed. “Those fleas are there for experimental purposes,” he said, and they exited the alleyway, arguing idly. It was maddening how little of Holmes’s demeanour had changed, his lack of chivalry- Watson would have abhorred chivalry had it been offered, of course, but it seemed as if his sudden femaleness was immaterial to Holmes. His mind was half on Holmes’s needling, half occupied with dissecting his behaviour. They reached their rooms without incident, Holmes closed and locked the living room door, and then sat on his favoured chair.
“You are an interesting specimen of female, certainly, but I confess I prefer you as a man. This hasn’t happened before, I take it?”
Watson took off his hat and coat and hung them up, deliberately unhurried. “Strangely, no. It isn’t the sort of thing that crops up in medical journals. Not the ones I read, anyway.”
Something about the unruffled calm Holmes was displaying meant that Watson found himself removing his jacket, too, and his waistcoat. He was determined to shock, and coldly, distantly sure that that was what Holmes had intended. “You’re reading the wrong journals, my dear Watson.”
Watson said nothing, just got the brandy decanter and poured two generous glasses, passed one to his companion and then fell into his chair with a sigh. “This could ruin us,” he said, eyes closed. “I cannot begin to think of a way out of this. My appearance is undeniably female; no amount of disguise will compensate for that. The scandal may be the one that finally topples you.”
“I’ll marry you if this doesn’t right itself. It would mean no appreciable change to our living arrangements, and the solution has a certain amount of elegance to it.”
A more unromantic proposal has seldom been heard. Watson just looked at him levelly, ruthlessly quashing the urge to punch him. The worst thing was, his logic was sound. “A month. We will carry on for a month.”
Life continued. Holmes maintained his usual behaviour, and if Watson hadn’t seen the speculative, often heated glances that he allowed himself when he thought Watson was unaware of him, he’d have assumed that Holmes have forgotten. They had been occasional bedfellows in the past, an informal arrangement that seemed to coincide with Holmes’s quiet periods, when boxing didn’t divert him and the violin held no pleasure, but drugs were absent. It was pleasurable when it happened, and mutually satisfying, but there was no question of anything more than sporadic night-time visits and gasped out words in the still darkness. Watson’s desire took a different form now, a heaviness and an ache. It took him three days to gain the courage to satisfy himself, and afterwards he lay sated, naked under the sheets, reeling from the images that had flitted across his eyelids. “Damn,” he whispered again, and closed his eyes. His physical need was gone, but his mind remained full of desires.
Four days, a knife fight, two street brawls, a near riot and the arrest of ten men later, and Holmes was not so calm. “It’s a scratch. It won’t even need stitches. Just pass me the iodine, man, and stop pacing.”
Watson sat with only his trousers and breastbindings on, tending to a shallow cut on his stomach, and watched as Holmes managed to keep track of his every motion while avoiding even looking at him. “Ridiculous,” he muttered.
“I will not allow you to-”
“You have no choice. I am more than able to protect myself. Lestrade was adequately fooled.”
Holmes stopped, turned around and looked at him, then with a bitten-off curse, walked out of the room. Watson continued to clean the wound with steady hands. After, the brandy seemed to beckon him, but it was no use. He paced until his mind was calmer, then went to bed. He left the curtains open and watched the clouds play across the moon until he drifted into sleep.
The next week, Holmes brought home a dress. Watson split his lip.
The next morning, Watson found him lying on the floor in a drunken stupor, the dress slipping off his shoulders, skirts hitched up to expose his legs. He kissed him until he woke up, pinned him down and rutted against his leg until he could feel the familiar tightening and release of climax. Holmes watched him, cheeks flushed, lips bloodied. Watson smiled, slowly. “Good girl,” he murmured, then pulled the skirts up to expose Holmes’s member, expertly brought him to the point of climax with his hand, then stopped. Holmes had his eyes closed, head thrown back. Utterly abandoned. His.
“Please.”
How could he refuse? He unfastened his trousers, released the braces so they slipped off his shoulders, then he was there in his shirtsleeves, legs exposed. It was at once strange and natural to lower himself onto Holmes’s cock- they had assumed this position many times before his alteration- and he didn’t stop until he was fully sheathed, ignoring the slight pain. Holmes was biting his wrist in an effort to stave off orgasm, the pulse jumping in his neck. Holmes had planned for this, he knew that now. It didn’t matter, though, that so many of his desires were attained through the mechanics of other people’s behaviour. He kissed him, smiling at the jerk of Holmes’s hips, the way he went from enforced stillness to rhythm, to his thumb pressed unerringly on Watson’s clitoris. It became pleasure, not power as they lost themselves in each other, as Holmes whispered secrets into Watson’s mouth, and it was all he could do not to fall apart.
They lay there afterwards, still mostly clothed. “You have worn a dress before,” Watson said idly, noting how well the dress fitted him. “And it would have looked appalling on me. Too big for a start, and utterly the wrong colour.” Holmes smiled, rolling onto his back and gazing idly at the scorch mark on the ceiling shaped a little like India.
“It wasn’t for you, my dear Watson,” he said, lighting a cigarette, eyes narrowed, a smile still playing about his lips. “I infinitely prefer you in trousers.”
Watson just sighed and looked up at the ceiling, watching the smoke rise above them. “You can be the one in white for the wedding ceremony, then.”
They lay there in silence, waiting for the world to change again.