Yet another shameless outpouring of random words.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Ever. Unfortunately.
The many disguises of Sherlock Holmes have often confused and bewildered me in the past. Time and again I have been placed in the part of a perfect fool; a victim to that considerable mischievous streak he denies possessing at all. Typically, I find myself accosted by any and all variety of unusual and distasteful characters, each of which inevitably reveals himself (or on the rare, especially strange occasion, herself) to be my good friend, typically grinning from ear to ear as I flounder to preserve whatever small amount of pride I still have.
This time, however, I was determined to be prepared! I would catch my friend in his act, and I would be the one looking as smug as a cat that had commandeered a pint of cream all for itself. I went so far as to steal into Holmes's bedroom to discover which wig, beard and hideous garments he had taken for his costume, as well as making an absolute pest of myself onto Mrs. Hudson to discover what sort of ne'er do well characters might have passed by over the course of the morning. I had the impression by the end of my observations that Holmes had disguised himself as a hunchbacked, grimy beggar with grizzled gray hair and rather unsightly whiskers.
The remainder of my afternoon was spent collecting whatever small, trifling information Holmes had asked me to see to. Or rather, they appeared trifling. I still could not see how he could draw any vast conclusions from a few old newspaper articles and some addresses; neither of which seemed to relate to the present case (which I am not at liberty to divulge details of) in the slightest. Yet, it was rare for him to travel so wholeheartedly down an incorrect path of reasoning, and therefore I did what he had asked with relatively few second thoughts.
Upon my return to Baker Street, I received a note from Holmes, instructing me to travel to Charing Cross Hotel. Though there was no included reason as to the purpose of meeting there, I could only assume that the case was going smoothly enough to remind him of his human needs—most importantly, his sporadic appetite. Given that he had informed me the previous night of his intention to linger near the railway station during the day, I found it easy enough to imagine Charing Cross Hotel was merely the closest respectable establishment in which to seek a hot supper.
I made all haste to depart in a timely fashion, taking only a moment to alert Mrs. Hudson of our alternative supper plans between donning my overcoat and my hat. Knowing as I did that Holmes would most likely be in his disguise still, I was eager to surprise him by starting the conversation that would otherwise have struck me dumb with shock.
My keenness for the coming exchange endeavored to hasten me, and I arrived at Charing Cross in record time. The crowd milled on as always while I alighted the hansom, paying the cabby as I scanned the immediate vicinity of the hotel for the familiar guise I expected him to be wearing. Pushing my hat resolutely down, I set off at a jaunty pace with high hopes that I might be able to take the wind out of Holmes's sails, just this once.
It took three passes before I caught sight of him, lounging against the wall of the hotel with the practiced look of a poor beggar. Wearing such mud stained and ill-fitting rags while sitting down gave him all that he needed to hide his admirable height and posture, while the gray wig I had observed as missing in the morning did a grand job of concealing his coal-black hair. The closer I approached, the more excited I became, for the lines in his skin were clearly falsified, as was the unpleasant scar gouging his cheek—a bit of a fanciful touch, even for Holmes.
I drew up before him with a smug grin, and he blinked in return. "I finally found you." I announced buoyantly, planting my hands on my hips in a rather outrageous manner. "I've got those addresses you wanted, by the way; I had a devil of a time tracking them down, too." He continued to stare at me, and I felt some small part of my grand satisfaction give way to annoyance. I knew as well as he did that he had finally been caught before he dramatically unveiled himself, and it seemed in painfully bad taste to keep holding up the guise.
It was just like Holmes to be petulant over such a trifling matter, and I sighed in spite of myself, though I was still smiling at the delight of my success in stunning him. "Really, Holmes. You can expose yourself now. I do apologize for robbing you of your typical dramatic revelation, but you must admit I have the best of you this time!" I cleared my throat and decided to allow him his chagrined silence. He was now attempting to look alarmed; no doubt hoping to throw me off. Well, it wasn't working—not this time! "As for those articles you wanted me to locate, I've found all but the 1876 one, which I fear may be lost to the years."
"Watson, what are you doing?"
"Waiting for you to get up so that we might get some supper." I replied bluntly.
"As good as supper might sound, I'm afraid that I am over here." I turned then, with such a sinking in my gut that I felt positively sickened. Standing an arm's breadth from me and looking as though only his iron will was keeping him from uproarious laughter, Sherlock Holmes doffed his hat. Much to my growing dismay, he was dressed every bit like a gentleman, right down to his pair of old, but certainly not inappropriately so, shoes.
I attempted to cover my blunder, but it was a useless endeavor. "I could have sworn… I would never…" I turned to the beggar I had so obliviously accosted, and hastily threw a shilling into his hat. My face, I am sure, was reaching new heights in terms of coloring, and I had to cover my eyes with a hand as I made to apologize. "I am dreadfully sorry. Just a… slight misunderstanding."
"Hardly a worry, guv'nor, hardly a worry. I was only wonderin' that you was one of them mad 'uns what sometimes comes by. But o' course, I knew you was a good feller. I said to m'self, I said 'now that there gentleman, I daresay 'e must be a bit confused', God's my witness; tha's what I said to meself." He plucked the shilling out of his hat and slipped it into his coat, now whistling quite merrily indeed.
I returned to Holmes's side then with an uncomfortable burning in my cheeks that he only fed by having to look away in order to contain what would surely have been an explosion of mirth. "Holmes, I could have sworn it was you. You took such similar clothes with you when you left!"
He held up a hand to my excuses, smiling as he did. "My dear Watson, you forget so readily that I have a little bolthole very near here. Surely I would not attempt to dine in such a highly regarded establishment wearing a beggar's clothes and face." He shook his head. "Though your assumption that I had left in disguise this morning at all was grievously erroneous. I have spent the day as no other but Sherlock Holmes, and my back is glad for it!"
"But your hat and coat, Holmes…"
"Ah, I did forget to tell you, didn't I? My tailor sent my new overcoat up early this morning, and I bought a new hat just yesterday. You do recall the old one was getting rather beyond repair." Holmes planted a hand on his hip. "Does that satisfy your curiosity, my friend?"
"The wig and clothing?"
"They were deplorable even by my broad standards. I gave them to Mrs. Hudson, who took the liberty of burning them if I'm not mistaken."
I knew I had been made the fool yet again, but I had to preserve whatever dignity that remained with me. "Your cane then. I saw it in the hall where you left it last night."
His smiling lips trembled. "Even the great Sherlock Holmes can occasionally forget certain items. By the time I had realized my loss, I was quite unwilling to return all the way to Baker Street to retrieve it." He looked at me with an expression so condescendingly near sympathy that my anger was riled. "Oh, my dear doctor. You have made a bit of a blunder, haven't you?" With that he broke into a chorus of laughter the like of which I had never heard before, drawing accosted looks from passers-by as he howled his mirth.
It was then that I realized my part in this whole business was not to play the detective myself as I had endeavored, shadowing others and interrogating innocent men in Charing Cross. My part in the life of Sherlock Holmes was as a good friend and stalwart companion; to attempt to be anything but would be to deviate from our God-given roles.
Therefore, it only made sense that I devolved alongside my good friend into a fit of the most exuberant hilarity, which continued until a nearby constable gave us a very stern talking-to for disrupting the 'public peace and quiet'. Then, wiping our eyes and chuckling quietly, we proceeded to partake in a grand meal, sharing our respective day's work and spending several carefree hours simply enjoying one another's company.