Chapter Text
S --
I will not be away for long, as I am sure you have the sense of mind to realise. It will be a mere three months of absence – something I trust you are capable of handling.
Perhaps you can experiment on my clothes while I am away? See how effectively a silk blouse goes up in flames. Burn it all, right to the ground.
Burn everything that reminds me of who I am.
It was not the first letter that Myra had written with the intention of sending before their mind drifted and something very different had fallen across the page. They had already received a letter from Sherlock and it had been only 72 hours. A very simple:
M --
It’s boring. Come home.
S
Change gets to everyone’s head. All of a sudden Myra isn’t home. All of a sudden Myra isn’t Myra at all. Sherlock is probably different too. Who knows? The letter gave little away.
It was simple enough for Myra to get a room to themself at Oxford. A family connection here, an extra bit of cash there, and the world can work wonders for you. No roommate was essential and not only because the Holmes’ were renowned for being impossible to work, live, or even interact with. Myra didn’t want a soul to know that lately they have been wasting away evenings staring at their naked form in the full-length mirror. Myra didn’t want a soul to know that often these evening were silent except for the quiet sobs of confusion and general unease. It made them feel stupid and… normal. If a roommate was to know all this Myra would die.
It was the only time in Myra’s life they didn’t feel in absolute control of every aspect. Sherlock would describe it as a runaway experiment. Their life depended on every variable and yet they were all independent, all changing and falling apart. Myra was arts, political science, history, humanities. They needed to consult a scientist.
So they penned a quick letter back. It was simple and exerted little effort. Except that it took all the effort in the world.
S --
I don’t think I am a woman.
M
Days passed and Myra kept to their study. They were sure to not talk to anyone save if it was to their advantage. They turned in assignments early and cruised through with close to, if not, full marks. The growing concern began to toll on their sense of sanity. Myra had never exposed themself as being so vulnerable. It was a blatant lapse of judgement and it pressed on their mind. Sherlock would laugh, throw the letter away, wonder what had got into his sister. It was the same sister that taught him that caring was not an advantage and that one should always conceal emotion. And now he would look to his sister with contempt and disappointment.
The day Sherlock’s letter arrived Myra excused themself from a session with their linguistics tutor and hastened to their room. The letter was stashed in their breast pocket, only to store it closer to the heart that was fluttering excitedly at the thought of its contents. A swift slice of the letter opener tore through the monogrammed stationery and a single piece of paper the size of an index card slipped out. The Holmes’ were always known to be succinct.
M --
You always were the ice man.
S
It was the answer Myra had feared. Like all his other letters, Sherlock gave nothing away. It was the image of pure ambivalence. He hardly put forward a response at all. Was he upset, disappointed, angry, accepting, confused? Myra would never know. The constant build of terror and wrongness had been amounting for sometime now and Myra simply couldn’t take it. The utter disgust with this humiliating show made them feel only more fragile, and by the fifteenth reading of the letter the floodgates had opened. Myra sat hunched at their desk with shaking shoulders and a heavy heart.
They stayed like that for the rest of the evening. The room grew dark around them and soon the lights in all the dorms had flickered out. Myra’s was already out. In the darkness they were able to fool themself into thinking that perhaps they were a brilliant mind with no physical form. Things would be so much easier that way.
When Sherlock received the intriguing letter he perused it several times before setting it on his desk. He paced several times around his bedroom with violin bow in hand. He bounced it on his clavicle mindlessly as his thoughts ran round and round. His sister had been gone a week and a half and evidently Sherlock had already missed too much. It upset him deep in his stomach in ways that he would not allow himself to contemplate. Myra would remind him to push things like that aside. And yet, here’s this letter.
Sherlock examined the handwriting first. Perhaps it was a practical joke? The process of obtaining the Holmes monogrammed stationery (each family member received a set at 15 years old) would have been extraordinarily difficult but the perpetrator must have their reasons. But the handwriting was consistent with all the letters Sherlock and Myra had exchanged in the past. Even the ink was Myra’s favoured brand and colour. Interesting.
It was not so much the implications of the letter that bothered Sherlock. It was just that he didn’t understand it. Clearly there was an issue with sex, and not the boring kind. Thought it was exactly that – boring. Why would Myra worry about such a stupid thing? Men and women are so alike, Sherlock thought, that the differentiation was simply arbitrary and dull to perpetuate. There were no intellectual differences, few biological differences, and emotional differences only to the extent of personal temperament. Sherlock could have been born with different genitalia and it would not concern him. Therefore, Myra must feel the same and the letter was a practical joke.
Sherlock scrawled a quick and meaningless response and walked to the post office in town that day. The trip was leisurely and quiet. Everyone but Sherlock was either at work or at school. Sherlock was not because school was boring.
Had he not taken Myra’s instructions to heart he would realise that his recent inactivity could be attributed to his dropping mood and darkening state of mind. But of course the Holmes’ were above that and Holmes’ didn’t reduce themselves to feelings. There had been several letters scrunched up and thrown across his in disgust over the past few days. Sherlock thought often about asking his sister for help, but where would that leave him? Myra would look to her brother with contempt and disappointment. She would laugh, throw the letter away, and wonder what had got into her brother. So Sherlock never wrote the letters he wanted to write and reduced communication to his short, meaningless lines.
He posted his response to Myra’s joke and trudged back home with fists pressed in the pockets of his slacks. He vaguely considered starting a new experiment but Sherlock was too tired and thought the idea of going to sleep was much better.