Title: Obvious Things 
Author: Diandra Hollman
E-Mail: diandrahollman@gmail.com
Website: http://diandrahollman.neocities.com
DW: http://diandrahollman.dreamwidth.org
Date Finished: 11/3/2017
Rating: R
Keywords: intersex Sherlock, male with female genitalia, 
  friends to lovers, Sherlock/John, John/Mary, character death
Spoilers: Up to "The Lying Detective" 
Disclaimer: Characters once belonged to Arthur Conan Doyle, 
  specific plots belong to Mofftiss and the BBC which I'm 
  beginning to think Doyle would be pissed about.
Summary: "I confess that I have been blind as a mole, but it is 
  better to learn wisdom late than never to learn it at all." - 
  The Man With the Twisted Lip
Dedication: For Emilio and any other LGBT readers I may have. 
  And for fellow fans of the ACD stories who are still baffled by 
  that last episode.
Author's Notes: This will cover the canon of the BBC show up 
  until "The Lying Detective", then it will become ACD cannon 
  compliant. By which I mean Eurus doesn't exist and that 
  bullshit about Victor Trevor being a dog didn't happen. 

The title comes from this quote: "The world is full of obvious 
things which nobody by any chance ever observes." - The Hound 
of the Baskervilles

I am not LGBT myself - I am just an ally - so forgive me if I 
get terminology wrong. Also, I am American (I am so sorry), not 
British, so I could get some things wrong there too.


Obvious Things
By Diandra Hollman


The first time Sherlock came to see me as a patient was shortly 
after our first encounter with Irene Adler. Of course, the fact 
that he felt the need to act clandestine about it partly 
explains why I reacted badly.

"You think this is funny, do you," I asked, holding up the 
clearly fake file for William Sigerson.

"I apologize for the deception, but I feared you would not take 
the appointment if I used my own name."

I sighed and laid the file on my desk. "What is it you want, 
Sherlock?"

"My previous GP has recently retired from practice. I was 
hoping you would agree to replace him."

"Fine, but for the record you could have just asked."

"I *am* asking."

I sighed. "Right. Where is your medical file then?"

He frowned and waved toward the Sigerson file. "You have it."

"No, the real one."

"That is the real one. I simply changed the name for the sake 
of discretion."

"No, that file is for a transgender male, which I am reasonably 
certain I can conclude you are not."

"It doesn't say anything of the sort. It says I am male with 
female genitalia."

"That's what the term transgender implies."

"It would *imply* that I was once a different gender, which is 
not true."

"This is ridiculous. I've lived with you for more than a year. 
I've seen you naked. Your *genitalia* is most definitely male."

He reached into the pocket of his coat and produced an object 
wrapped in a Tesco bag. "You see, but you do not observe," he 
said quietly as he unwound the plastic and set the incredibly 
lifelike false penis on the exam table.

There was a long, uncomfortable silence as I stared dumbly at 
the thing, unable to think of a thing to say.

Luckily, Sherlock Holmes was never very good at waiting for 
someone to actually ask questions.

"I believe the correct term is 'intersex'. I was born with 
indeterminate gender. The doctor who delivered me was an idiot. 
He convinced my parents that it would be less psychologically 
damaging if they raised me as a girl than as a boy with an 
improperly formed penis."

I continued to stare at him like an imbecile as words - both 
from him and his chart - swirled through my head. Female 
genitalia. Improperly formed. Hormone therapy. Part of my brain 
still couldn't quite process that it wasn't some sort of trick 
or joke.

"John."

"Hmm? Right." I shook myself from my stupor and tried to 
recover my professionalism. "Er...what do you need then?"

"My hormone therapy requires annual physicals."

Right. I knew that. "Okay." I reached for the thin gown in the 
cupboard and set it on the chair meant for patients. "I'll let 
you change into that. Opening in front." I picked up the file 
again and hesitated. "Would you like someone else in the room?"

"That would defeat the purpose of making the appointment in 
secret under a false identity, wouldn't it?"

"Yes, but...I mean..."

"I came to you because I trust you, John."

I considered arguing, but thought better of it. "Right."

I took the file back out into the hallway and really looked at 
it this time. When I had walked into that room, I had been 
expecting a woman with an affected contralto voice and Adam's 
apple. A woman who had spent at least part of her life as a 
man. According to the chart, the patient was, at least 
physically, a post-op woman. Labia, vagina, prostate gland. But 
when I flipped to the prescribed medications, the list 
confirmed that his "hormone therapy" was consistent with a 
transsexual *man*. Which made sense as he had no testicles to 
produce testosterone in.

I couldn't help but think back over his interactions with 
Irene. He had been flustered and intrigued by her, but not, I 
remember noting, aroused. I had wondered about that. Did it say 
something about his sexual preferences? Did he even have any 
sexual preferences?

Was he actually aroused and I didn't notice because he didn't 
have the visible tent in his trousers that I would have 
expected?

I shook the thoughts away. It didn't matter. It didn't change 
anything.

I tried to compartmentalize before going back inside. Sherlock 
was my best mate. My flat mate. But while he was in my exam 
room, he would be just another patient.

He was sitting on the exam table, wrapped in the ill-fitting 
gown, a paper privacy drape covering his lap. His clothes were 
piled on the chair by my desk. 

I pulled up the detailed file on my computer to check for any 
red flags. Other than the gender issue, there was nothing I 
didn't already know. Occasional smoker. Former drug addict. No 
allergies. I took his pulse and blood pressure. Then I pulled 
on a pair of gloves and ran through the rest of the basics. I 
checked his ears, nose and throat, listened to his heart and 
lungs and did a visual check of his skin for any abnormal 
markings.

Finally, unable to stall any longer, I directed him to lay back 
and put his feet in the stirrups that extended from the end of 
the table so I could do a pelvic exam. 

I helped him arrange the drape over his knees, staring at the 
freckle pattern on his neck all the while. I'm pretty sure I 
was more embarrassed than he was.

He noticed. Of course he did. His hand covered mine for a 
moment as it rested on his hip to guide him to the edge of the 
table. "It's all right," he said softly.

I nodded. Of course it was. Still, I stalled a little longer by 
warming the speculum in the sink and had to brace myself as I 
positioned my stool and sat between his knees. 

I knew what to expect by then, of course, but there was still 
something disorientating about seeing female reproductive 
anatomy on an otherwise entirely male body. It was obvious he 
shaved his pubic hair, even though he hadn't done in recent 
days. No doubt to make attaching and - I shuddered to think of 
it - detaching the prosthetic easier. I ran my fingers along 
his pelvic bone, over scars long faded. 

"You have a bit of skin irritation here." 

"That's why I don't always wear the prosthetic," he said, 
addressing the ceiling. 

"You, er...you ever consider a more permanent solution?"

"If you are referring to a sex change, then no. I've already 
been through one and the process of stitching a more permanent 
appendage on my person purely for decoration seems ridiculous 
and unnecessary. Not to mention painful."

I lubricated the warmed speculum and slid it inside him, 
apologizing as his breath caught. There wasn't much to look for 
there as he didn't have a cervix or a uterus. Just a perfectly 
healthy looking proto vagina. "So why have the prosthetic at 
all," I asked innocently to distract him.

"I only wear it if I think it's absence will be noticeable. To 
avoid questions or suspicion. Most of the time people don't 
notice. Even you."

I wasn't sure if he was disappointed at my lack of 
observational skills or simply gloating at his ability to fool 
me. I decided it was best to ignore it. I removed the speculum 
and set it on the tray. "Would you be all right if I checked 
your prostate like this or would you be more comfortable..."

"This is fine," he interrupted. 

"Okay." I hesitated a moment, not quite sure what to do with my 
other hand, trying to recall what I usually do with other male 
patients. I put more lubricant on my index finger even though I 
probably didn't need it. "Try to relax," I remembered to say 
before sliding the finger into his vagina and feeling along the 
front wall. 

He inhaled sharply and I realized belatedly that the gland was 
much closer than it would be on a typical male patient. I 
muttered an apology and gentled my touch. I worked as quickly 
as possible, so focused on the immediate task that I didn't 
notice until much later that he was holding his breath.

"Right," I said brightly as I backed away from him and took off 
my gloves. "Everything looks perfectly normal. You can put your 
clothes back on."

I turned my back on him so I could finish noting everything in 
his file and write a prescription, half listening as he slowly 
dressed. Once I was sure he was decent, I turned to hand him 
the prescription. "Topical cream for the skin irritation. If it 
doesn't improve, let me know. You might want to consider using 
a different adhesive."

His lips twitched as he took the slip from me.

"I'll see you back at the flat?"

That reminder that nothing had really changed finally put him 
at ease. He nodded. "Thank you, John."

********

Looking back, it strikes me how easily everything went back to 
normal after that first visit. It shouldn't really have been 
shocking as there was no reason for anything to change, but 
some part of me feared I had crossed some sort of line into 
unknown territory. I found myself second guessing his 
interactions with Irene and, later, Moriarty, but as ever, his 
sex life (if he even had one) was none of my concern so long as 
he didn't do anything that required medical treatment. 

And then the bastard had to go and fake his death.

I was so furious about his deception - that he had let me mourn 
him for two goddamn years - that I didn't notice the damage his 
time away had done to him. It was only in hindsight that I 
realized how much higher his voice was, how he had a slight 
lisp. How terrified he was that his little stunt had cost him 
my friendship.

Unfortunately, I didn't realize any of it until after I gave 
him a bloody nose and aggravated who knows how many other 
injuries.

Mycroft had seen to his treatment and refilling of his hormone 
supplements immediately after his rescue, so he didn't come to 
me until after he pulled that ridiculous stunt with the bomb 
beneath Parliament. 

He was quiet and more cooperative than I could remember him 
ever being while I checked his pulse, blood pressure and 
temperature. But when I went to push the gown aside so I could 
listen to his lungs he flinched and pulled it tighter around 
his body.

I froze. "Sherlock?"

"Sorry," he mumbled, slowly loosening his grip and allowing me 
to expose his back.

Doctors are supposed to maintain a professional detachment when 
dealing with patients. That's what makes treating a loved one 
or a friend so difficult. You have to remain stoic and neutral 
and treat them as you would anyone else when confronted with 
their pain and suffering. I never struggled so much with this 
as I did when I saw the scars on Sherlock's back.

I found an undamaged spot to place the stethoscope and went 
through the routine instructions to breathe and cough while I 
checked each lobe. But part of my attention was still on the 
scars, verifying that they were healing properly, torturing 
myself with thoughts of his dramatic re-entry into my life. I 
had tried to strangle him. I had tackled him to the ground 
twice, blinded by rage. I had been so concerned with what he 
had done to me two years earlier that I had not considered what 
might have happened to him since. He had hurt me, certainly, 
but I had also hurt him.

I drew the gown up again gently and came around to face him. He 
wrapped the gown tighter around himself instinctively. I 
wondered how I failed to notice the faint, healing bruises 
around his wrists.

"Don't," he whispered. 

I frowned, but before I could open my mouth to ask what he 
meant, he continued. 

"You were about to say something trite like 'I'm sorry'. 
Don't."

I wanted to argue, to tell him that I WAS, in fact, sorry and 
not in the vague 'I'm sorry this happened to you' sense, but in 
the very real 'I added to your pain' sense. But it would do no 
good. He was, as ever, too proud to acknowledge any glimmer of 
weakness. 

"Right." I grabbed the opthalmoscope and distracted us both 
from the inevitable for a while by checking his ears and 
throat. He followed my instructions easily, but his discomfort 
was obvious in his refusal to look me in the eyes. 

I entered all the numbers and checks in his electronic file. 
While I still had my back to him I asked "have you been 
sexually active since your last visit?"

"Yes."

I nodded and kept my voice level as I asked "how many 
partners?"

"Four."

I hesitated before recording any of that information, closing 
my eyes as if I could will it away. I knew it was possible 
those individuals had obtained Sherlock's consent first, but I 
was not naive enough to assume it was likely. After all, 
Mycroft had admitted - far too late - that he had rescued his 
brother from a Serbian prison where he had been at the very 
least beaten and sleep deprived. 

I cleared my throat. "And ah...did you use protection?"

"Not every time."

I was caught between relief at the evidence that SOME of those 
sexual encounters must have been consensual and the possible 
confirmation that at least one of them hadn't been. I took a 
moment to compose myself while I verified that Mary had 
obtained a urine sample. I added a note requesting blood work 
as well. Then I moved my chair in front of him. 

"Are you sure you don't want someone else in the room?"

We had had that exact conversation before. And he gave the same 
response: that he trusted me and no one else. 

He allowed me to help him position himself on the table, only 
snapping at me to stop "coddling" him once when I offered to 
fetch him another pillow for his back.

Despite all his insistence that he was FINE, he still hesitated 
when I coaxed him to open his legs wider. In that hesitation - 
and in the visible stiffness of his muscles - I could sense 
both his fear and his determination to hide it.

"You tell me if I do anything that makes you uncomfortable," I 
murmured before I began feeling along his abdomen and pelvis, 
trying to keep my touch gentle but unhesitant. Professional. 
Detached. At the same time, I had to be especially attuned to 
him because I didn't trust him to simply TELL me if he needed a 
moment.

He stared at the ceiling, his breathing calm and measured. He 
remained that way while I warmed the speculum and - with plenty 
of warning and more than a little hesitation - positioned it 
gently inside him.

There was very little physical evidence of a sexual attack so 
long after the fact. Some minor scaring and bruising. But there 
were scars I couldn't see and I could only guess how deep they 
went.

I decided I could forgo the prostate check for the time being. 
I removed the speculum quickly and carefully and gave him 
enough room to sit up. I pretended not to notice how he 
trembled slightly as he lowered his legs from the stirrups, 
forced myself not to rush to help him sit up. I tossed my 
gloves in the bin and faced him, sitting as close as I dared 
without invading his space. "You can talk to me, you know," I 
said tentatively. 

"I don't want to talk," he grumbled. "There's nothing to talk 
about."

I bit back a sigh and took out my prescription pad and a pen, 
scribbling a number on the top sheet and handing it to him.

"What's this for?"

"It's the number for my therapist. Don't argue with me. You 
have to talk to someone eventually."

His eyes slid away from me.

"I'm also scheduling you for a blood test."

"Mycroft has already..."

"Yeah, well, it doesn't hurt to have a second one."

I could tell he had an argument right on the tip of his tongue. 
But he held it back. He nodded and reached for his clothes.

I hesitated then, my professionalism at odds with my desire as 
his friend to comfort him - to hug him. I reminded myself that 
even in that capacity he was unlikely to welcome such a display 
of "sentiment". So I simply patted his shoulder awkwardly and 
gave him the room.

I didn't find out until much later that he never did make an 
appointment with any therapist.

***********

The degree to which Sherlock threw himself into the wedding was 
surprising to everyone, except, perhaps, Mary.

"You know when you're scared of something you start wishing it 
sooner just to get it all going? That's what he's doing."

I took her advice and tried to distract him with a case, but it 
didn't work for long.

The first time I kissed him was on my stag night. We were both 
thoroughly pissed by that point, so it was easy to play it off 
as a sort of accident - a display of friendly affection gone 
just a bit further than was intended. Especially as the sense 
that I had gone too far penetrated my inebriated mind right 
away, compelling me to pat him heavily on the cheek and slur 
"cheers, mate!" Sherlock seemed just as happy to brush the 
moment away as I was and we agreed, as we spent the night in a 
jail cell for drunk and disorderly, to never speak of it again.

I barely had a chance to settle back into something resembling 
a normal life before I was drawn into the Magnusson case and my 
pregnant wife's sordid past was brought to light. I spent a lot 
of hours in hospital making sure the number of doctors and 
nurses who knew of Sherlock's condition was kept to a minimum. 
I had no idea if Janine knew and I never dared ask. The stories 
she told the gossip rags were vague enough that it was 
impossible to tell whether they had been intimate or not.

I didn't find out until later that Magnusson had visited 
Sherlock in hospital. That he had threatened Mary and our 
child. That he had practically bathed Sherlock's hand with his 
tongue and commented on Sherlock's "womanly" attributes, 
touching the inside of his thigh just high enough to make it 
clear that he knew what he would find if he went higher. I know 
the incident alone was not what drove Sherlock to do what he 
did, but I'm certain it was one of the details that went 
through his mind in the moments before he pulled the trigger. 
Evidence that Magnusson had no threshold beyond which he was 
unwilling to go. He could get away with anything right under 
the noses of the people who could have him arrested, but 
wouldn't. 

Sherlock seemed willing to throw himself into protecting and 
caring for Rosie after that. Only we never got much of a chance 
at normal again before Mary's past caught up to her. We both 
hit rock bottom when she died. In my helpless grief, I pushed 
Sherlock away. In my state I could barely care for myself and 
my daughter, much less act as his minder. It never occurred to 
me that we might be able to help each other. Of course, he 
validated my reservations by drugging himself nearly into 
oblivion. 

When I saw Sherlock wielding the scalpel and screaming at 
Culverton Smith to stop laughing I went on autopilot. Disarm 
and neutralize the threat. But once I slapped him to try to 
snap him from his hysteria I couldn't stop the outpouring of 
all the rage I had been keeping firmly stoppered. I was angry 
at myself just as much as him, but that was partly because I 
feared I had allowed him to fall so far. Too far. The idiot was 
spinning dangerously out of control and people were going to be 
*hurt*.

"Let him do what he wants," he had mumbled, spitting blood on 
the morgue floor. "He's entitled. I killed his wife."

It took a long time for me to realize he wasn't just being 
dramatic. He genuinely believed those words to be true.

He was released from hospital into my care. As living in the 
flat I'd shared with Mary had grown too painful, I moved back 
into 221b with Rosie. Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade and Molly dropped 
by for frequent "visits". It was obvious they were just 
checking up on us, but I was grateful for it. Even if I did 
suspect they were making sure I didn't kill Sherlock.

Other than keeping watch to make sure he didn't sneak drugs 
back into the flat, I left him alone. And aside from a couple 
tentative attempts to play with Rosie or change her diaper, he 
stayed out of my way as well.

It was on the third night that I woke with the feeling that 
something was wrong. Rosie wasn't crying. She always woke me at 
least once during the night like clockwork.

My panic ratcheted upward as I peered into her crib to find it 
empty.

I stumbled down the stairs, through the kitchen door and into 
Sherlock's bedroom. His bed was empty too. 

Luckily, I thought to search the remainder of the flat before 
sounding the alarm. I found them on the sofa, Rosie curled 
peacefully on Sherlock's chest, her thumb in her sleep-
slackened mouth.

"If you had checked your phone, you would have seen that I left 
you a text," Sherlock whispered as I collapsed to my knees 
beside them.

I reached for Rosie, but hesitated, my hand hovering over her 
back. She was fast asleep, her ear pressed to his left breast. 
No doubt the sound of his heart beating had helped soothe her.

I looked at the bruises on his face - both the ones I had given 
him and the ones Culverton Smith left behind when he proved 
Sherlock right about him. I came frighteningly close to letting 
that heart stop beating. To letting a  lunatic kill my best 
friend - a man who had saved my life in many ways and who had 
put himself in harm's way in an effort to do it again. Yes, I 
had saved his life on several occasions as well, but I was a 
soldier. A doctor. That was my duty. Sherlock...

I hadn't seen Mary hovering around since the Culverton case 
ended, but I could still hear her voice in my head. 'He loves 
you,' she said at that moment. 'And he loves her. He worked out 
Rosie's schedule and smuggled her from the room before she 
could wake you. Bet she never even cried. Bet he timed it just 
right.'

I felt tears prick at my eyes as a thought crystallized in my 
mind. 

At the wedding, Sherlock had described himself and Mary as the 
two people who loved me most in the world. What he didn't know, 
perhaps, was that I shared that sentiment. They were the two 
people I loved most in the world. Sherlock probably thought he 
had been replaced when Rosie was born, but that wasn't true. My 
world simply expanded to encompass all three of them. 

I learned the hard way that I could never stop loving any of 
them. I would always love him just as I would always love Mary.

This was my family now. A mad detective and the daughter I had 
with the woman we both lost. I could never survive if I lost 
them too.

I stood and held out my hand to Sherlock. I told myself I 
imagined the way he flinched ever so slightly, as if he feared 
I might hit him again. He was just surprised.

He warily accepted the hand up from the sofa and let me guide 
him back into his bedroom. I helped him settle into bed, gently 
so we didn't disturb Rosie too much. She stirred, made a few 
unhappy noises, but didn't wake. I tucked the blankets around 
both of them, then fetched another blanket and arranged it 
beside them. Sherlock stared at me silently throughout the 
process.

After I climbed beneath the covers I leaned in to kiss Rosie's 
head softly. And then I pressed an equally gentle kiss to the 
scar bisecting Sherlock's left eyebrow.

The tiny, startled breath he took was more of a hiccough than a 
gasp.

Entirely overcome by the impulse, I brushed my lips over his 
closed eyelid - the one that was still somewhat bloodshot - and 
then his cheek. He was holding his breath.

"Forgive me," I whispered against his lips.

His nose bumped against mine as he nodded. And then I was 
kissing him. Softly. Gently. An apology.

He reached for my face and for a moment I thought he meant to 
press me closer - or push me away - but his thumb just 
delicately brushed beneath my eye and I realized I was crying 
after all.

I sagged against him, burying my face in his shoulder. His arm 
came around me, holding me in a loose embrace. As I calmed, I 
realized what a pathetic sight I must make. A perfect mirror 
image of my nearly one year old daughter, curled on Sherlock's 
chest.

"It's all right," he whispered, no doubt sensing the line of my 
thoughts. 

"No, it isn't," I murmured. I rested my hand on Rosie's back, 
over Sherlock's, completing the circuit. Grounding myself.

"No," he agreed. "It is what it is." 

This was my family. And it was the only family Rosie would ever 
know.

I fell asleep not long after, soothed by the sound of the two 
living people I loved most breathing in the quiet of the dark 
bedroom.