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Like many young children, Sherlock had, on multiple occasions between the ages of three and six, broken into their mother’s makeup cabinet to try out all the different pastes and powders. Unlike most young children their age, they had an accurate memory of what went where and in what order, as well as a fairly solid grasp of colour theory. The end result was hardly polished, manual dexterity and fine motor control not having fully developed yet, but it wasn’t quite the garish mess that one typically expected from a small child’s attempt at makeup application.
Sherlock had no plans to cite this story, if ever asked about the origins of their understanding of their own gender identity. Children of that age barely had a concept of gender beyond ‘girls have long hair, wear skirts, and play with dolls, boys have short hair and trousers, and play with cars’, after all. All it showed was that young Sherlock, like most other children of his age, had been at the developmental stage of imitating the people he looked up to.
Fast forward then to a Sherlock who is a little older and a lot taller, fifteen years old and filled with the same pubescent malcontent that plagues most adolescents. Or, well, perhaps not the same kind. Sherlock would say, most likely, that it was a different and more potent kind. Or perhaps only different.
Other teens, after all, had to deal with their desperate need to be liked by their peers, on top of crushes, and girlfriends, and boyfriends, and all that hot, hormonal mess that Sherlock felt nothing of, for some reason.
Instead, while other boys crowed over increased height and muscle gain as though it were some kind of achievement, rather than a natural biological process that all of them would go through at some point or other, Sherlock only felt uncomfortable at growing out of the comfortable androgyny of childhood. Their cheeks lost their baby fat, their voice deepening to near-subsonic levels, and where once they’d been more or less an outcast, girls giggled amongst themselves when Sherlock walked past, and they even caught a longing look or two from boys in their school.
The thrift shop at the local church knew Sherlock fairly well. Ever since they were allowed to go out where they liked, they’d been coming down to poke about through other people’s castoffs. Even if they found nothing interesting, it was a useful exercise in deduction to see how much he could figure out about a person just from a discarded trinket or item of clothing. Sometimes they could even pinpoint exactly which person had donated the item in question.
The upshot of the old ladies in the shop knowing Sherlock so well was that when they came in and started poking about the ladies’ section, none of them batted an eye, even as they grabbed an armful of dresses and disappeared into the changing room.
A few months later, they’d amassed something of a collection. It was fortunate that their parents respected the sanctity of their room, because only a little poking around would have revealed a wealth of skirts, dresses, and blouses that would have been hard to explain away. They never wore them out, of course, only tried them on in the privacy of their room with the curtains closed, watching themself in the mirror as they tried on a variety of items.
They liked the way they looked, like that. They felt comfortable, confident. Their usual boys’ clothing was perfectly fine, but there was something special about this. Something they felt reluctant to keep hidden away, though they did anyway. There was no need to give people more reasons to punch them.
Around the holidays, they got a text message from Mycroft as he was coming down from London.
Let Mummy know I’ll be there in two hours, sister dear. MH
Sherlock scowled, tossing the pager on the bed, and changed into their regular clothes to go downstairs and relay the message. Later, after Mycroft had arrived and after all the hugging and catching up was done, Sherlock grabbed Mycroft by the sleeve and hauled him out into the back garden.
“I’m not a girl.” They hissed. “And get your cameras out of my room, you pervert.”
Mycroft blinked, looking genuinely surprised. “You’re not?” He narrowed his eyes, scanning Sherlock’s face. “Ah, I see. I apologise.”
Sherlock cocked their head as it dawned on them that Mycroft hadn’t actually been mocking them. It had been a gesture of support. They shoved their hands in their pockets, looking uncomfortable.
“Thank you. I guess. Even though you’re stupid for theorising before all the facts.” Part of them couldn’t help crowing a little. It was so rare that Mycroft got something wrong.
“And for the record,” Mycroft added, “there aren’t any cameras in your bedroom. Only the hallway. You’re incautious when Mummy and Father aren’t home.”
Sherlock wrinkled their nose. “Still weird that you’ve been spying.” They grinned up at Mycroft, annoyance abruptly forgotten as they realised they finally had someone they could share their little secret with. “Do you wanna see?”
Mycroft hesitated, then gave a short nod. “All right.”
Sherlock showed off what had become their favourite outfit- a simple white crop halter top with a pleated plaid miniskirt and knee-high socks. They changed shamelessly in front of Mycroft. After all, it was nothing he hadn’t seen before. Mycroft, for his part, averted his eyes delicately. For all Sherlock’s accusations of perversion, he had no desire to see them naked. When he turned back to look at Sherlock’s, his eyebrows lifted.
“Well that’s… showing more than expected. I have to say, I’m glad you keep it inside the house, if that’s what you’re wearing.”
Sherlock rolled their eyes. “You’re such a prude, Mycroft.”
“Yes, well.” Mycroft cleared his throat. “You look… very pretty.”
Sherlock smiled a bright, genuine smile, a pleasantly warm feeling bubbling up inside them. Granted, it was only their brother telling them such things, but for a second, it gave them an image of a future, one where they didn’t have to hide away in their bedroom. They imagined a future where they could finally tell their parents, and be accepted, where they found a name for what they were, where they had, maybe, a boyfriend who really did think they were pretty. For now, it was only Mycroft, but it was their first step towards a future where they could be themself.