Ask: “A sherlock (Enola holmes) x reader where the reader is masc nb and gets dysphoric from having to present as a woman so much?”
Summary: Sherlock and [y/n] had to go to some charity ball to talk to Mycroft, and [y/n] hated every second of it (I know that isn't exactly what you asked for, but I still hope that you'll enjoy it <3)
Pronouns: They/Them (except when reader is misgendered)
TW: everything dysphoria, deadnaming, misgendering and oh gods now I feel dysphoric xD
Vocabulary:
[Y/N] - your name
[L/N] - last name
[H/C] - hair colour
[E/C] - eye colour
[D/N] - deadname
Words count: 833
My masterlist
Enjoy!!!
“I hate it here,” [Y/N] thought while nervously playing with their dress, trying to distract themself. Every single rustle of the fabric was too loud, the dress was too bright, there were too many people around them, and Sherlock went to talk with Mycroft and [L/N] was left alone by the food table. And everyone could look at them. See every stressed look on their face, and every rounding of their figure, and their long hair, and…
“You seem lost, would you like some company?” a tall man appeared from nowhere, stopping a train of thoughts in [H/C]-haired head.
[Y/N] had to raise their head to even see the face of the person that approached them. The man standing in front of [E/C]-eyed person was around his 30’s, had grey eyes, blond hair and a shit-eating grin on his objectively handsome face.
“I’m good on my own,” the smaller individual replayed firmly, trying to stay calm.
“Playing hard to get, huh?” the man chuckled “You, my little bird, should be careful lady, not everyone will be as kind as me to give you a second chance,” the blond said, still grinning. And besides, why does every man think that he can call people, especially women, however, he wants?
[Y/N] wanted to correct their interlocutor (if you could even call him that) that they were no lady, but they bite their tongue before anything unwanted escaped their lips. Sometimes living in London was worse than anything [Y/N] could imagine.
“So what pretty little thing like yourself is doing on her own?” the man asked, trying to start a conversation. His face was looking very punchable at that moment.
“Just waiting for someone,” [H/C]-haired person said, even though they wanted to tell the insolent companion about 10 fastest ways to castrate someone if said person is imposing. [Y/N] couldn’t lie, living with Sherlock, and participating in, sometimes really gory, investigations woke in them a monstrously large arsenal of sometimes sadistic ideas and [Y/N]’s short temper and sharp tongue wasn’t helping.
“Well, a true gentleman wouldn't leave his woman alone,” the grey-eyed man said playfully. Was everyone using heavily gendered language just to depress [Y/N], or English just was like that, and it was just [Y/N]’s perception that was twisted by living with a respectful partner who was using gender-neutral language? “Good thing that I am right here”.
“Bad thing that you are no gentleman, more like a country boy who can’t see when their companion is uncomfortable,” a smaller individual said under their breath, so the blond man couldn’t understand it while looking at their shoes.
“What did you just say, sweetheart?” the tall man asked in a sickly sweet tone.
“I said… ” [Y/N] started to raise their voice, totally done with arrogant men in front of them.
“[D/N], we can go now,” sudden arrival of Sherlock made [E/C]-eyed person jump a little.
“Great.” [H/C]-haired person mumbled, now entirely drained from energy, took their partner under the arm and left as fast as possible. They just wanted to be back at home.
"Sherlock, could you help me?" [Y/N] yelled while fighting against the corset ribbon. "This bloody dress is going to kill me!"
"Coming," a muffled voice came from behind a wall, followed by quick steps. "Here," Sherlock slightly chuckled while efficiently untieing ribbons.
[E/C]-eyed individual, finally freed from the corset, desperately took a deep breath.
"I swear to God, these dressmakers are plotting my death," [Y/N] sighed while massaging sore chest.
The blue-eyed man looked at his spouse and smiled softly while putting away the coutil* torture device.
"I don't think that tailors have such wicked intentions," Sherlock responded, trying to hold back a laugh.
After a few seconds [Y/N] felt the light touch of one of Sherlock's shirts on their back, they immediately coated themself in a pleasant in touch fabric. It smelled like Sherlock's cologne and his favourite tobacco. For [H/C]-haired person currently dressed in said shirt, it essentially smelled of home. Right after putting the shirt up, they felt their partner gently hugging them from the back. It was almost perfect.
"Something is on your mind," Sherlock more stated than asked.
"I just don't feel my best," [Y/N] whispered while snuggling his face into the brown-haired man's shoulder.
The blue-eyed man glanced at his lover with guilt. He shouldn't have insisted on [Y/N] going with him.
"I'm sorry."
[Y/N] didn't respond, just hugged Sherlock a little more to give him a signal that they weren't mad.
"I still have some work to do, would you like to sit with me?" the brown-haired man asked while gently stroking the back of his partner.
[Y/N] just hummed as yes.
[Y/N] sighed, cuddling into the side of Sherlock. No people, no dresses, no judgement or wrong pronouns. It was just them, Sherlock and London's nightlife behind a window. Now it was perfect.
*Coutil (or Coutille) is a ticking-woven clothe used to make corsets, table covers, mattresses, tents, and other types of resistant garments
