Note: To all reviewers, alerters, favouriteers and lurkerators. I thank you all so very much. There has been a wonderful response to this fic, which has made me very happy. The pace of posting has been slowed a fair bit by various occurrences in RL (bad RL; down, boy!), but be assured this little work will be completed. I hope you all continue to enjoy it.
Disclaimer: I've checked my pockets. There is no owning going on here. Promise.
The Problem With Disguises
A Lesson
He showers again after breakfast. Whilst he considers himself divorced from many of the emotions that afflict others, he realises that this need for further grime removal is psychological rather than actual.
Out of sheer stubbornness, he would not normally allow himself to give in to such frailty, but he was simply running for far too long.
He walks into the living area, towelling his hair, only to stop short as he takes in the sight before him.
She has been busy. Gone is the tired and casually dressed woman he astonished with his unannounced arrival yesterday. There she sits, her back to the window. He momentarily longs for the time when he could make the seating arrangements, but appreciates her point.
She is in charge. She is also perfectly groomed, stylishly dressed (thankfully), poised, elegant…and utterly inscrutable.
He feels his lips curl into the tiniest of smiles. "Miss Adler, I presume?"
"Mr Sherlock Holmes." Her voice is warm with what he cannot tell is nostalgia, even as she indicates the end of the sofa that is closest to her. "Do sit." He notices the imperative. She is not asking.
He surprises himself when he complies without comment. Oh, but she is good.
For a while, they look at each other. The percentage of time they spend doing this has increased vastly over the course of their acquaintance. It speaks of a now comfortable, but genuine curiosity that neither has ever quite felt before in the company of any other person.
Though his sense of comfort is laced with a mild air of frustration soon enough. As is usual, she cannot be read.
She knows, of course. She is, he will at least admit to himself, his superior when interpreting the emotions of others. A necessary talent in her previous profession, he thinks. He admires her skill, even as it baffles him.
In mere moments, she is on her feet and looming over him quite impressively; another of the tools in her arsenal. He may not entirely understand the attraction of the idea, but he is certain she is very good indeed at 'recreational scolding'. He leans back and looks up into her eyes.
Her voice is firm. "Do you doubt, for a second, that my mind is working incredibly fast, Mr Holmes?"
"No."
"Yet do you see it? Of all people, can you see me?"
"No." His answers are, quiet, brief. But she can see that beneath the thin veneer of frustration, he is fascinated by this lack of visual information, his eyes running over her features, her form, grasping for data that simply isn't there, before his gaze locks with hers again.
She is a closed book to him, and to be truthful, he actually enjoys it. Her disposition is a purely intellectual puzzle, and it has been far too long since he has been able to engage in such a pastime. Living in a constant state of hyper-awareness is something that he lives for, yes, but even he needs to cease existing on adrenaline alone. Occasionally. This freedom of thought, the liberation of thinking without boundaries set by the immediate needs for survival, in these days, is a rare treat. No matter that he keeps on coming up empty.
She gives the tiniest of nods. "Good. Now how do I do it?"
"I believe that is what I came here to ask you."
Her smile is almost irritatingly knowing, her tone somewhat smug. "The answer is really quite easy, you dear thing."
He wants information, not games. "And are you going to tell me?"
She leans over him a little more. "Tabula rasa." He raises his eyebrows. She replies to the silent query. "You make yourself a blank slate."
"I am aware of the translation." He does not know it, but he beginning to sound a bit fractious.
She ignores the brief flash of temper, speaking calmly and clearly. "You remove all movement, all tics and behaviours that are personal to you. It gives you a clean canvas onto which you can paint a new personality."
He merely looks at her sceptically.
She supresses the sudden urge to sigh. "I know it seems convoluted, but with some practice, it becomes second nature. Are you willing to give it a try?"
He nods. It works well enough for her, after all. "Good. So do it. Talk to me about Mrs Hudson."
He blinks. Then he begins to talk.
Within a minute, he realises she isn't actually listening to him. People always react when he (purposely) throws in the curve-ball about Mrs Hudson's husband at them. She remains motionless.
What he says is apparently not the point. So he continues to talk, despite not knowing what this task entails.
And then everything changes, though he is not entirely sure why. He is talking about, of all things, said landlady bringing up a plate over-stacked with hot cross buns that were entirely unasked for, when Miss Irene Adler reaches into the back of her waistband and then slams the business end of her riding crop onto the knuckles of his right hand.
Her riding crop.
It is his turn to be astonished, it would seem.
He bites out, "What are you doing?" At which point she lightly taps his left knuckles, too.
He is now quite ready to become a little antagonistic about this situation. "Do stop. Now."
Naturally, she ignores his imperative, tipping her head to one side with a shade of nonchalance. The sound of a single syllable, firmly uttered, gives him no ground. "No."
He tries to look impassive. "The learning process is rarely improved by making the student beg, Miss Adler."
Her answer is quick, sharp. "I beg to differ, Mr Holmes."
He sniffs petulantly. "Well you seem to think that one of us has to."
They seem to have reached an impasse.
There is a certain amount of glaring until he decides that this may not ever be resolved unless one of them speaks. He steeples his recently chastised fingers in front of his mouth. And speaks with a small amount of resignation. "You won't teach me any other way, will you?"
A miniscule shrug. "It is a good way of telling you where you are going wrong. Plus, a girl has to have some fun when passing on trade secrets. So, to coin a phrase, it's my way or the highway."
He almost groans. "Will this and many other clichés be here all week?"
"All week?" She pouts a little. "And I thought you were a quick study." A beat. Then she lifts the crop, running it softly over his cheekbones and along his jawline 'til it rests, feather light, under his chin. He nearly shivers and he knows that she knows it.
The moment is heavy and her voice, when, she speaks, is almost a whisper. "I promise you I'll be gentle."
He decides this mood, whatever it is, must be broken. He laces his tone with as much sarcasm as he can muster. "I bet you say that to all the boys."
It would seem he can muster a lot, for she comes back at him in a flash, eyebrows waggling. "And the girls."
"Of course," he nods, mildly. He pauses, gazes at her, measuring. "Alright."
"Are you sure?" Her question is pointed.
"Yes. Let's just do this, shall we?"
She agrees. "Good. So, Mrs Hudson and the hot cross buns. Do tell."
He does.
It turns out that she is gentle with him. In fact, within moments it becomes clear that there was an interesting reason (other than her own amusement) behind the whip implementation.
It is, to put it bluntly, quicker. Instead of having to stop him and explain where he is going wrong each time he makes a mistake, a light tap to the offending area is generally enough to rein him in. Though he feels like an errant puppy, he knows that this unorthodox approach will condense this lesson considerably.
It doesn't mean that he has to like it.
And at around ten minutes in, it becomes clear that she is not over fond of it, either. It seems she is spending more time tapping various parts of his anatomy than she is observing him. She takes a small step backwards and addresses him quite testily. "You are leaking like a sieve. Do stop."
He, too, is becoming impatient. "This is pointless, Irene," he says sharply.
Her eyes bore into him, not giving an inch. "It isn't, Sherlock. You can become almost still, unreadable. I've seen it." Her tone becomes wry. "Remember Coventry?"
He narrows his eyes. "How could I forget?"
"Indeed. So you know it can be done." She takes his slightly sullen silence as understanding. She steps back to her previous place in front of him. "Then do it."
He tries again.
And again.
After some time, she grasps the end of the crop that stings with her left hand, apparently hitting a pause button on his education. She smiles at him, approvingly, he believes. "Your blank slate is better. How about we try to cover it, now?"
He is curious. "A character?"
Her smile widens, and becomes far too sweet. "Yes. How about a…vicar? Say, one that has recently been attacked on the street?"
He cannot help but to smile back, albeit somewhat suspiciously. "Do you want to defrock me again, Miss Adler?"
"Do you want me to defrock you again, Mr Holmes?" Her answer is, of course, instant, and full of her own peculiar brand of humour.
He decides it would not be prudent to answer, takes a deep breath, and makes a start on stage two.
At first, she changes his character every five minutes or so. Tap, tap, tap. Moving on when she is satisfied with his performance. But gradually the cycle becomes more rapid. He begins to move with a shocking level of accuracy through a vast number of different personalities.
He is getting it.
She maintains a moderately stern outward appearance, but on the inside she glories in his frankly ridiculously fast progress. She is sorely tempted to laugh with joy at the accuracy of some of his accents.
She does not, naturally. You cannot discipline others without self-discipline.
He is currently from Yorkshire. She watches as he slumps on the end of the sofa, the very picture of an exhausted farmer at the end of a long day. Oh, but he is good.
"West country. Long distance lorry driver at the beginning of a shift."
He moves on.
After some hours of this treatment, he seems to reach an acceptable level of competency. She nods curtly, turns and places her riding crop on a side table, relinquishing it for the first time since the lesson began. She seats herself, immediately looking more relaxed. He watches her, transfixed, as subtle, almost imperceptible, changes (ones that, perhaps, he would have not have noticed before today) show that Miss Adler is gone, and that Miss Baker is back in the room. There is a difference between the two, he suddenly understands. The latter persona is still wilfully wicked and intelligent. But she is also, understandably, a little more wary; yet all the while warmer, more friendly. If he did not know better, he would think she was rather enjoying her spell in the cheap seats.
He glances down at his hands. It is apparent that he gesticulates a great deal more than he had ever realised. His knuckles are a little red, sore despite her gentle employment of her chosen teaching 'method'.
But he has made much progress. So he doesn't mind a bit.