I lay shirtless on the sofa, reading the previous day's newspaper in hope of finding some interesting cases. Even though it was 9pm, it was still too warm to wear anything over my torso as it was the middle of summer and yet another heatwave had come across southern England. After thirty minutes I got restless and heaved myself off the sofa; but as I did so, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I saw something I didn't want to see. My battle-scars. Flashbacks occurred - the hospital, where the doctors had stuck tubes in my chest and told me to relax and that everything would be OK. Where my breasts had originally been now lay two red lines full of memories from my past. But instead of feeling the twang of pain and dysphoria that usually filled my heart and made me weak in the knees, it filled me with adrenaline and optimism. I was ready to face the world, with me knowing something that they didn't. The entire world (bar three people) had no clue who I am. I chose my identity for myself, and that made me feel good. This is the real reason I'm a consulting detective - the only one of my kind.

I grabbed my laptop and went back to my sofa, where I went to blog about the different kinds of hormones in the adolescent brain - at least, they were my intentions.

As soon as I collapsed onto my substitute bed, I heard the door creak open, and I could tell the difference between the sounds of my acquaintances' steps on a bad day. John Watson walked through the door with plastic bags of groceries in both hands, and it looked like I had some explaining to do - luckily, I still had my laptop clutched to my chest, but I'd been meaning to tell him for what seemed like forever - now seemed the appropriate time to tell all.

"John! I wasn't expecting you home so early! Go and put the bags down and, um.... sit in your chair, would you?"

"You seem overly excited."

"In many ways I am. Look, just do it please!"

"Alright, alright, calm yourself! I'll only be a minute."

As he went into the kitchen, I stood again from the sofa, my laptop still held to my chest, and walked over to my chair to sit down. John came over with a cup of tea in each hand, a smile on his face.

"It's a bit warm out there, isn't it?" He said, placing the tea on the coffee table and undoing the top button of his checkered shirt.

"You don't say..." He smile widened - it made me happy, so I smiled too. It quickly faded as butterflies invaded my stomach, one by one.

"I hope you're up for serious talk, John."

"Go ahead, I'm listening." I breathed heavily; in, then out.

"John...you're a war man. You've put up with fights, with injuries. And surely they've left scars." My flatmate nodded. "Well, I've never told you, but I've got some scars too. Unlike yours', the battles I got them from weren't literal. But they were left from impact. And I'm sure, as a doctor, y-you can identify where they came from."

"Sherlock, whatever you're about to say will change nothing in out friendship, you hear me? It won't change how I think of you, and I will tell no-one if you don't want me to. I've been through everything with you, and some scars on your body will not impact anything, OK?"

"I'm sure it w-won't Doctor. I just... want to let you know... that they're there."

As I spoke those words, I leaned forward from my chair, my back straightened. I inhaled and removed the censor from my chest as I exhaled, placing it on my lap. I saw in John's eyes that it took a second to register what he saw, and then he stared at my chest with slightly widened eyes and a weak and caring smile. He was a doctor, and knew the scars that he saw - he could easily identify what they were from in his sleep. Then he looked into my eyes and asked a simple question.

"Do you want to say it out loud?"

I looked away from his gaze, breathed in and tapped my fingers on the arms of my chair.

"John, I'm transgender. Born a girl, will die a man."

John motioned for me to stand up as he did so too, then walked to me and hugged me around my torso. I exhaled a sigh of relief and optimism as I squeezed back at my friend's congratulations. Then he let go of me and placed his hands on my shoulders.

"Sherlock isn't a girl's name."

And that was when I wore the biggest smile I had ever smiled. It didn't disappear for that entire night, either, because when we watched crappy reality TV together with excessive amounts of tea and biscuits as 'a gift for me', he could see the scars that made me a man. When the hours had whistled away and we couldn't keep our eyes open any longer, I couldn't help adding a joke.

"Well, John, I'm sure glad I got that off of my chest."

"You're an idiot!"

And I laughed more than I'd ever laughed before.