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It was eight months before I found out about Sherlock.
Eight months of living together at close quarters and sharing everything, except a bed. Eight months of going everywhere with him, putting up with his insane experiments, listening to him sing in the shower, complain about my cooking, and play that poxy violin at all hours of the night.
Eight months of exposure to that brilliant mind.
I knew that he left severed heads in the fridge. I knew that he alphabetized his sock drawer. I knew that he had taken drugs on a vast scale, but had been clean for two years. After eight months sharing milk and toilet roll, you figure you know everything there is to know. I should have listened to Lestrade.
‘I’ve known him five years and I don’t know him now any better now than I did the day I met him,’ he had told me, not long after we first met.
You think you know a bloke when you live with him? Of course, you are always the exception to your own rule. I kept secrets from him. Why shouldn’t he keep them from me?
Sarah had asked me to do an extra shift at the surgery, but when it came to it, I wasn’t needed. Sherlock was not expecting me home. It never occurred to me to text him to let him know I was on my way. I didn’t even whistle as I was coming up the stairs.
I bumbled about the flat as soon as I’d let myself in. Lounge – no Sherlock. Kitchen – no Sherlock. I went back into the hall. His bedroom door was open. Why he had left it open I’ll never know.
I called out, ‘Sherlock? You home?’
As I passed, I noticed a woman standing by the mirror.
‘Oh, God, sorry, I didn’t realise you had company,’ I babbled.
She was tall, impossibly tall, and in platform heels as well. A slender figure in a cornflower blue satin jumpsuit. It had a v-neck and leg of mutton sleeves. The woman had a cascade of glossy dark hair sliding over her shoulders. I caught sight of a flash of Chanel Rouge Noir nail varnish as she turned. Silver eyes met mine. Familiar eyes.
It was several seconds before I realised I was holding my breath. Several more before I noticed I was completely rooted to the spot with shock.
‘Please don’t tell me I should have told you,’ he said, in a flat tone.
He looked spectacular. Of course he did, he was Sherlock Holmes. He was born with the style gene. I just hadn’t realised before just how splendidly beautiful he was. As a woman.
He turned fully to face me. He had a gorgeous figure, slender, understated, but neatly defined. He was wearing false eyelashes, but not the trashy, ‘The Only Way is Essex’ type. His makeup was subtle, expensive. He looked natural, delicate, and not remotely masculine, even if he was nearing seven feet tall in his Vivienne Westwoods.
When I finally managed to crank my brain into working order again, there was only one thing I could say:
‘You look fantastic!’
I know he heard the admiration in my voice, because he actually blushed. His eyelashes fluttered.
‘Thank you.’
We stared at each other, totally confused by the situation.
‘You don’t mind, then,’ he asked me, tentative.
‘God, no! I mean, look at you! Do you ever go out like that? Because you should.’
‘Really?’ He actually seemed flummoxed by my enthusiasm. ‘I thought a man like you would run a mile if you knew.’
‘What kind of man is that?’
‘Well, you know, army.’
‘Just shows how much you know then, doesn’t it?’ I scratched the back of my head, licked my lips, and shifted nervously from foot to foot. I can’t tell you how many questions were bubbling inside my brain.
‘Sherlock, you really look amazing.’
‘It’s Charlotte when I’m dressed,’ he corrected, but with a kindness in his eyes born of relief.
‘Can I – I mean, do you mind if I-‘
He waived his slender, lacquered hand. ‘Come on in.’
I sat on the bed and surveyed him.
‘Seriously, it doesn’t freak you out?’ It was as if he thought I was humouring him. ‘No, Charlotte, I think its brilliant.’
‘You do?’
‘Yeah. I mean. Well, how long have you been doing this?’
‘Since I was about thirteen.’ He turned back to the mirror, sliding his hands over his hips and admiring himself. The satin looked extremely fine on him. ‘I used to thieve my mother’s old clothes – she had cupboards full of Jean Muir and Mary Quant that she just put away and never even looked at, and she’s quite tall, so for a long time, they fitted perfectly. Until I started my adolescent growth spurts.’
He glanced over his shoulder at me. ‘You want to know whether it’s because I want to be a woman, I suppose? Well, I don’t. I’m perfectly happy being a man. I just like to wear women’s clothes sometimes.’
I realised I was ogling his backside. Sherlock – or Charlotte – in satin was a walking wet dream. And she was doing all sorts of bizarre things to my brain.
I could feel my cheeks starting to glow.
That’s when he worked it out. I knew it wouldn’t take him long. He raised a sculpted chestnut eyebrow at me.
‘Seriously?’
I managed to shrug. ‘It’s not the sort of thing you do in Woking,’ I explained, and then had to clear my throat with embarrassment. ‘And then in the army, well – like you said.’
I stood up and walked towards him, rested a hand on his hip, just to see how it was done. I could feel something like padding underneath, but it didn’t feel the way I had expected.
‘Silicone fillets,’ he said.
‘Show me?’
He pulled open a drawer and extracted a peach satin corselette. He showed me the pockets sewn into it, and the gel inserts that went into the breasts and hips. (He didn’t need any to pad out his magnificent arse, at least.) The soft, expensive fabric slithered blissfully through my fingers.
‘I never dared tell anyone,’ I explained, realising I was shaking a little.
‘Would you like to try?’ He asked it so gently that I knew he understood.
It took him all afternoon, but he managed to make me beautiful. It was my first time. When he finally let me look into the mirror, my head span with joy. I had never been so happy. I had never felt so good.
‘You should choose a name,’ he told me sweetly, stroking the back of the blonde wig he had given me. It was made of real human hair. It must have cost a fortune. All of the stuff he dressed me in must have cost a fortune, from the specialist underwear that gave me an hourglass figure to the vintage Dior gown and jewels around my neck. I couldn’t believe I didn’t look like a bloke in drag. I actually looked like a woman. It was incredible. And immensely fulfilling.
‘You created me,’ I told him. ‘You should name me.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘I just helped you to come out of the shadows.’
I looked at myself for a long time in the mirror. Long blonde locks, curved pink lips, deep blue eyes framed with long, natural-looking lashes, and a figure that Marilyn Monroe would have killed for. He had even given me a manicure, rose pink varnish to match my rose pink taffeta gown.
‘What about Jeanette?’ I don’t know why something French-sounding appealed to me. Or perhaps it was because of the girl I had most recently dated - she had always said I was holding something back. I couldn’t tell her what it was.
‘You look ravishing,’ Charlotte said. ‘Jeanette.’
People have all sorts of ideas about why Sherlock and I have stayed together so long. The truth is far more complex that they could ever realise.
We are in four relationships, the two of us. Sherlock often takes Jeanette out to dinner at expensive restaurants, because he likes to show her off. John takes Charlotte to the opera or the ballet, because she fits in there so well, being so elegant and aristocratic and willowy. Jeanette and Charlotte have girlie nights in, painting their toenails or waxing their legs. They frequently go shopping together, mainly to high end couture boutiques, and the specialist shops that only Charlotte knows about, where they buy their custom-made lingerie. And Sherlock and John race around London fighting crime and catching criminals.
Like I said, it’s complicated. But it is so satisfying. And it works.