This is how it works.

Sometimes you wake up, and you're Sherlock Holmes, the best man of John Watson.

Sometimes your skin feels like it's in the right place, stretched evenly across bones that take the right form. Your clothes feel comfortable and they fit, and you don't want to rip them off and tear them to shreds.

Sometimes your fingers are long and elegant and your voice is deep and you're tall with broad shoulders and a flat chest and it feels right.

Sometimes your hair is too long, and your curls are too bouncy, but you don't dare do anything to it because of what happens the other some times.

Sometimes when you get dressed, and you look in your closet, your clothes make you happy. You look in the mirror and you recognize the person who's looking back. You smile and it fits on your face, even if no one ever sees it.


This is how it works.

Sometimes you wake up, and you're Sherlock Holmes, and you're not the best man of John Watson, for the simple fact that you're not a man.

You may still have those parts, and that DNA, but it doesn't make you a man.

Because your skin feels uncomfortable and you wish that your chromosomes were different, and instead you're this, and it's wrong.

Sometimes there's an ache somewhere that you can't name. Aching for something that you can't have, or you could, but it would still be just as wrong some of the time. You feel wrong for wanting it, but it just seems so right.

Sometimes your hands are too big and your voice is the wrong octave and you're too tall with too broad shoulders and your chest is flat where it shouldn't be.

Sometimes your hair could be longer, but at least it's long enough.

Sometimes when you get dressed, and you look in your closet, your clothes make you sad in ways that you can't find words for. You look in the mirror and the person who's looking back isn't you, not today. You want to paint a face on that matches who you feel, but you don't, because people are idiots, and it's an awful lot of work.


This is how it works.

Sometimes you wake up and you're Sherlock Holmes, and you don't know if you're the best man of John Watson.

Sometimes you can't feel if your skin is right on your bones, if there are curves and valleys in the places they're supposed to be.

Sometimes your hands are at the ends of your arms like they've always been, but you feel a disconnect, like they could still belong to someone else, and they're just trying to fool you. Sometimes you hear a voice say brilliant things, and you recognize that it's your own, but you can't connect it with your sense of self, mostly because you still haven't found that self.

Sometimes when you get dressed and you look in your closet, you don't know how to feel about the clothes that are staring back. You look in the mirror and you think the face you see is a stranger, but there's something familiar about it.


This is how it works.

Sometimes you wake up, and you're Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, the only one in the world. (Because sometimes you don't wake up, because you don't go to sleep. Because eventually you will not wake up. But you're always Sherlock Holmes.) Sometimes you wander out to the kitchen and John is there. Sometimes no one is there. Sometimes you take a cab to John's flat just because you can.

Usually you see John, and it goes the same way, no matter what sort of day it is.

John looks at you and he nods his head, and asks how you're feeling. It's code, so you can tell him what you feel like that day. If it's a day where you fit in your skin. Or if it's a day where you don't. Or if it's a day where you can bear it, but your skin still crawls likes it belongs to someone else.

Then you go from there.

This is how it works.


AN- This is one portrayal of being genderfluid, and like most things, Sherlock is not the best example, or the norm.