jackofknaves (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
jackofknaves) wrote2011-06-21 01:30 am
jackofknaves) wrote2011-06-21 01:30 am
Binary, or The Third Option
Title: Binary, or The Third Option
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
tripatch
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Gen
Summary: Kinkmeme prompt, Someone doesn't subscribe to the gender binary. Maybe they're genderqueer. Maybe they're two-spirit. Maybe they're androgynous. Maybe they feel like a third gender. Maybe they're fluid, and one day she feels female and the next day he feels male. Or even something I haven't mentioned -- there are infinite possibilities.
John Watson woke up every morning, scratched his stomach, and stumbled into the loo. He pulled out his shaving kit, stared in the mirror as he guided the blade over the angles and lines of his face, and never thought a second about it except to check that he hadn’t missed a spot. He pulled on his trousers, a button-up shirt or a comfortable jumper, and left for work. He walked without thinking once about his stride, or how he sat down in his chair other than to reflect that the seat was apparently made to be as uncomfortable as possible. He heard his own voice playfully flirting with Sarah, his deep laugh when she feigned a yawn behind a patient’s back, and when someone asked if he needed some help, sir, he politely thanked them and carried the groceries home.
Sally Donovan woke up every morning, yawned, stretched, and padded into her small kitchen to fix a cup of morning coffee. She pulled her fingers through the mass of tangles in her hair, thinking ruefully that she should have waited until her hair was dry before going to bed and how much work it was going to take to get it to look presentable. She opened her closet, pulled out a mid-length skirt and some high-heels that made her legs look a million miles long, and a blouse that flattered her upper body and left just enough to the imagination without being unprofessional. She walked down the street, ignored some young boys cat-calling her, hey, baby, want to have some fun? Don’t be like that, c’mon, we’ll show you a good time, and went to work. When the time came, she would head home, change into some pajamas, curl her legs underneath her, and read a book while sipping a glass of red wine. She would adjust herself without thinking, the side of her breast pressing warmly against her arm. Her gaze would notice her lips stained with the wine as she brushed her teeth, not the way they were plump and full, nor would she think about the way her hips swayed slightly as she crawled into bed.
Sherlock Holmes woke up--not every morning, because sometimes he was already awake. Sometimes he would swing his legs over the side of the bed, thinking nothing of it when his feet hit the ground and powerful muscles propelled him across the room and into the living room. He could look at his arms and see sinew and tendon and his square, masculine hands without shuddering.
Other times, she would lie in bed, staring at the ceiling and wondering who she was today. For a few brief moments, she could keep her arms flat to her sides, not touching the sides of her body, she could screw her eyes shut, and pretend that her body wasn’t real, that she really was just a mind and everything else was just transport. She didn’t have to look in the mirror and see the sharp angles of her face, reminding her that she didn’t have the soft curves of a woman’s cheeks and jaw. She could pretend that there was a weight on her chest, instead of the stark flatness she knew she would find if she ran her hand over her torso. She didn’t have to pull on trousers that were too narrow to accommodate the slight flare of a woman’s hips and a gentle swell at the thighs. She never had to hear a person address her as “sir” or “him” or pretend not to flinch every time it happened. She never had to adjust her walk, shortening her stride or have to pretend to have the easy strut women seemed to have. She didn’t have to be reminded that her lips were too thin, or that she had to shave her chin every morning, or that her voice was a shade too low to be mistaken for a woman, even if she had a husky alto. Her fingers would twitch, eager to reach between her slim legs and encounter warm wetness, rather than something that she was sure, some days, wasn’t meant to be there.
And other times, Sherlock would roll over and burrow into the pillow, some hollow place deep inside where a heart should be aching unbearably. Sherlock could breathe in, concentrating on the endless streams of thoughts running through an incredible mind, and never have to wonder who Sherlock was today.
Author:
tripatchRating: PG-13
Pairing: Gen
Summary: Kinkmeme prompt, Someone doesn't subscribe to the gender binary. Maybe they're genderqueer. Maybe they're two-spirit. Maybe they're androgynous. Maybe they feel like a third gender. Maybe they're fluid, and one day she feels female and the next day he feels male. Or even something I haven't mentioned -- there are infinite possibilities.
John Watson woke up every morning, scratched his stomach, and stumbled into the loo. He pulled out his shaving kit, stared in the mirror as he guided the blade over the angles and lines of his face, and never thought a second about it except to check that he hadn’t missed a spot. He pulled on his trousers, a button-up shirt or a comfortable jumper, and left for work. He walked without thinking once about his stride, or how he sat down in his chair other than to reflect that the seat was apparently made to be as uncomfortable as possible. He heard his own voice playfully flirting with Sarah, his deep laugh when she feigned a yawn behind a patient’s back, and when someone asked if he needed some help, sir, he politely thanked them and carried the groceries home.
Sally Donovan woke up every morning, yawned, stretched, and padded into her small kitchen to fix a cup of morning coffee. She pulled her fingers through the mass of tangles in her hair, thinking ruefully that she should have waited until her hair was dry before going to bed and how much work it was going to take to get it to look presentable. She opened her closet, pulled out a mid-length skirt and some high-heels that made her legs look a million miles long, and a blouse that flattered her upper body and left just enough to the imagination without being unprofessional. She walked down the street, ignored some young boys cat-calling her, hey, baby, want to have some fun? Don’t be like that, c’mon, we’ll show you a good time, and went to work. When the time came, she would head home, change into some pajamas, curl her legs underneath her, and read a book while sipping a glass of red wine. She would adjust herself without thinking, the side of her breast pressing warmly against her arm. Her gaze would notice her lips stained with the wine as she brushed her teeth, not the way they were plump and full, nor would she think about the way her hips swayed slightly as she crawled into bed.
Sherlock Holmes woke up--not every morning, because sometimes he was already awake. Sometimes he would swing his legs over the side of the bed, thinking nothing of it when his feet hit the ground and powerful muscles propelled him across the room and into the living room. He could look at his arms and see sinew and tendon and his square, masculine hands without shuddering.
Other times, she would lie in bed, staring at the ceiling and wondering who she was today. For a few brief moments, she could keep her arms flat to her sides, not touching the sides of her body, she could screw her eyes shut, and pretend that her body wasn’t real, that she really was just a mind and everything else was just transport. She didn’t have to look in the mirror and see the sharp angles of her face, reminding her that she didn’t have the soft curves of a woman’s cheeks and jaw. She could pretend that there was a weight on her chest, instead of the stark flatness she knew she would find if she ran her hand over her torso. She didn’t have to pull on trousers that were too narrow to accommodate the slight flare of a woman’s hips and a gentle swell at the thighs. She never had to hear a person address her as “sir” or “him” or pretend not to flinch every time it happened. She never had to adjust her walk, shortening her stride or have to pretend to have the easy strut women seemed to have. She didn’t have to be reminded that her lips were too thin, or that she had to shave her chin every morning, or that her voice was a shade too low to be mistaken for a woman, even if she had a husky alto. Her fingers would twitch, eager to reach between her slim legs and encounter warm wetness, rather than something that she was sure, some days, wasn’t meant to be there.
And other times, Sherlock would roll over and burrow into the pillow, some hollow place deep inside where a heart should be aching unbearably. Sherlock could breathe in, concentrating on the endless streams of thoughts running through an incredible mind, and never have to wonder who Sherlock was today.
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