"So what brings you here, Sherlock? Not that I mind, of course." Captain John Watson's smile was gentle, though tired.
"Colonel Lestrade's high-level meetings at I Corps didn't require my presence once I'd made my presentation at the intelligence briefing," Major Sherlock Holmes replied coolly.
Watson snorted at that. "More like you were bored and the Colonel wanted you out of his hair."
"Your letters make the people here at the 4077 MASH sound so intriguing. I want to meet them." Holmes flashed Watson his most ingratiating smile.
This could be so not good. Sherlock was a decent enough bloke and his best friend, but the man's astonishing mind was counterbalanced by an equally amazing dearth of people skills. If Sherlock were a doctor, he'd have no bedside manner. Watson knew his concern had flitted through his eyes. Most people wouldn't have noticed, but Major Sherlock Holmes, G2 for brigade, was not most people. Sherlock noticed everything.
Or maybe he just read minds.
"Don't worry, John. I give you my word that I'll be on my best behavior."
"Fine," Watson said, but without conviction. He wasn't sure what Sherlock's criteria for "best behavior" were or how they might mesh (or more likely not) with those of the people here. Oh, he could observe the military niceties when he chose to do so, but Watson knew Lestrade often made allowances for his brilliant subordinate.
"That must be Corporal Klinger." Holmes nodded toward a very male soldier dressed in a red evening gown, heels and a faux-pearl choker.
"What was your first clue?" Watson laughed.
"His nose."
"I'm sorry, what?" Watson nearly choked.
"The size and shape of that particular appendage is classic for the physiognomy of Middle Eastern populations. You did mention that Klinger was of Lebanese extraction. Therefore, that man is Klinger." Holmes was in full didactic mode.
"I also mentioned that he cross-dresses in a spectacularly unsuccessful bid to win what the Yanks call a Section 8 discharge."
"Well, there was that, too," Holmes acknowledged with a quirk of his lips.
"Good evening, gentleman." The subject of their conversation approached them. If Watson were any judge, then Klinger was as curious about the visiting English major as Holmes was about him.
Watson made the introductions and for Holmes' benefit went on to explain, "Corporal Klinger has a very Edwardian sense of propriety. He dresses for dinner whenever possible."
"Most commendable." There was absolutely no irony in Holmes' comment that Watson could detect.
"Thank you, sir. You have no idea how difficult it is to keep up one's standards here. So many people just let themselves go."
"Too true." Again, Holmes seemed absolutely sincere.
"By the way, Corporal, that's a lovely frock."
"What, this old thing? I'm afraid it's last year's style, but it's the best I can do under the circumstances."
At this point, Watson suspected that the spare nitrous oxide tank in the corner of postop next to the desk where he wrote up his chart notes had sprung a leak. He wondered just how much of it he had inhaled.
"Say, Major, have you heard what they're showing in Paris this year? You are an intelligence officer, right?"
"Not really my line, Corporal," Holmes shrugged in apology. "I do know, however, that my brother's secretary is all aflutter over something called 'a little black dress.' Apparently, it's a staple of her wardrobe, a classic. One can't go wrong with a classic, assuming, of course, that one has the figure to carry it off."
Watson couldn't imagine Anthea, Mycroft Holmes' secretary, being "aflutter" over anything, much less a "little black dress." On the other hand, she definitely had the figure to carry it off.
"Little black dress, huh? Thanks for the intel, Major. Will you be staying for dinner? I'd be happy to give Chef the heads up to set another place."
"Thank you, Klinger. That would be most kind." Watson had finally found his voice again.
"My pleasure, sir," Klinger said as he headed off toward the mess hall.
"Incredible!" Holmes burst out laughing once Klinger was out of earshot.
Watson ran a hand through his hair in confusion. He hadn't expected the encounter to go so well, hadn't expected Holmes to be so tolerant. "Sherlock?" Watson paused. He didn't know how to ask the question without insulting his friend, but he soon found he need not have worried.
"John, I do understand how difficult your job is, even though you are good – very good – at it. I understand how difficult it must be for you to be away from your team, people you know you can trust and rely upon, and how you might feel like an outsider here. From your letters, though, I have deduced that you respect these people, even care for them in your overly sentimental way, and that they respond to you in kind. They're your colleagues. You must know I'd do nothing to damage that relationship."
Holmes never ceased to amaze him. Only now had it dawned on Watson, despite his knowing Holmes for 2 years, that much of his friend's brusque or even rude, not to mention self-centered, behavior might be an act.
"Even though Corporal Klinger is a bloody idiot. The man is daft!"
Or then again, perhaps not.
Watson sighed and shook his head. "Let's put your deductive powers to work on something with more purpose such as figuring out what, exactly, tonight's mystery meat is."
"Good lord, John, even I'm incapable of that!"