John's muffled alarm clock jarred me from my slumber. My eyes flew open and I looked around in confusion. Pale, early morning sunlight filtered in through the windows at the front of the flat, illuminating the living room. I stretched my cramped muscles and wiped drool from my cheek and chin. The offending ruckus from upstairs ceased and I heard John's shuffling footsteps as he made his way around his bedroom. John. I propelled myself from his chair and looked guiltily around the room. I knew that he would descend the steps within the next forty-five seconds and my feet waffled on the floor as my brain and my legs tried to agree on my next course of action. Should I sprint to the bedroom and pretend to be asleep? I declined that option as he would surely hear my door close, if I even made it to the bedroom in time. Instead, I took two long strides to where my violin rested near the window and began to play.
John padded into the room. "That's a jaunty tune. Never heard you play that one before." I drew out the note before lowering my instrument and turning to examine him. His striped pyjama bottoms were wrinkled and his white t-shirt was partially tucked into the left portion of the waistband. He pawed at his eyes in an effort to remove the sediments settled there. "Don't suppose you put the kettle on? No? I didn't expect as much." He chuckled and retreated to the kitchen for his breakfast.
I observed John putter about the kitchen, setting the kettle, dropping bread into the toaster. When he ducked his head into the refrigerator, I took advantage of the limited privacy and tousled my hair back into some semblance of order and smoothed what wrinkles I could from my creased button-down. I checked the corners of my eyes for signs of sleep and moistened my lips. A butter knife clattered off the counter and onto the floor.
"Bollocks!" John shouted. I watched as he turned from me, bent at the waist, and retrieved the knife from its resting place. I stared at his raised bum for half a bewildered second before spinning on my heels and blinking furiously out the window at Baker Street.
I was still standing vigil at the window when John cleared his throat. I found him propped behind his chair, cup of tea in hand. "Thanks for, you know, for last night. Listening to me and all." John absently picked at a cluster of threads on the headrest of the chair. His knit his brows together. "Odd, this part of the chair is damp..." He tilted his head back and searched the ceiling. "Don't think we have a leak, do you? Maybe I should let Mrs Hudson know, just in case." The feet of the chair grated and groaned against the wood floor as he nudged it out of reach of any possible dripping from his imagined leak.
I clamped my mouth shut against the stuttering, confused mess threatening to escape. Before I could regain control over the faculties governing my speech, John continued. "I'll be late getting in tonight. Got a date after work."
"With Mel?" I cringed at the jealousy and vile riding just beneath those two words.
He made a sound of affirmation; his lips pressed together, the edges turned up in a small, secret smile. His head lilted in a meager nod, his eyes unfocused, pupils marginally larger than normal, even in the dimly lit living room. Attraction, adoration and wistfulness hugged his face and I suppressed a growl in my throat. A growl? I would have to examine that reaction later. John didn't seem to notice anything odd as he threw back the remainder of his tea and wiped his top lip with the back of his hand. I began formulating plans to observe said date as John busied himself with his morning routine. It wouldn't be spying, really. Just... friendly help. He's said he appreciated my listening to his struggle. Surely if I saw his interactions with Mel firsthand, I could be of help. No, it wouldn't be spying at all.
Later, when John had left for work, I hurried into my bedroom. I opened my wardrobe and lugged a heavy old trunk from its place at the bottom. It hit the floor with a thump, filling the air around it with a cloud of dust. I released each latch with a resounding and satisfying click and slowly raised the lid. I smiled to myself as I gazed down at the collection of vinyl, polyester and cotton. I carefully extracted each article of clothing and surrounded myself with an array of costumes and disguises. Police officer? No, that wouldn't do. Sailor? No. A dozen disguises followed and none was quite what I was looking for, until... Oh. I gathered the fabric and wig and carried it to my bed. There, I spread it out before me. Perfect.
After a shower and an extensive and tedious shave, I once again stood before my selected costume in nothing but my pants. I picked up a small plastic pouch and perched on the edge of the bed. The sheer nylon slid easily over my freshly shaved legs. The top of the stocking was fitted to my upper thigh with a band of snug elastic. I repeated the process on my other leg. I struggled with the tiny hooks of the bra and tucked a reasonably sized pouch of stuffing into each cup. The soft purple dress slipped over my head and shoulders with ease. I swiveled my hips and experimented with the hang of the fabric. I left the shoes for last and grabbed the wig and small zippered bag before retreating to the bathroom for final touches. The long, auburn wig felt foreign against my collar bone where it grazed and tickled my exposed skin.
I put the bag on the vanity and searched my mind palace for the instructions on makeup application I'd filed away the last time I'd worn this outfit. Two years prior, I'd infiltrated an exclusively female drug cartel. They used woman's health charities as cover for their illegal operations and I'd attended one of their galas in disguise. When I'd found the right memories, I applied my cosmetics. I took a step away from the mirror and examined the finished product. Passable. Unfortunately, some gender markers are harder than others to disguise but, so long as no one studied me at length, it would do just fine. I slipped my stocking-clad feet into shoes matching the lilac hue of my dress. I took a few tentative steps to test my balance and listened as the short heels clacked along the wooden floor. I recited a few lines of prose, raising my voice an octave and cringed at how comical I sounded. I tried again with much more success. I nodded at myself in the mirror, satisfied.
I picked my way down the stairs. With six to go, I heard Mrs Hudson unlatch her door. I sighed. She toddled into the foyer.
"Oh, I'm sorry, dear. I didn't know the boys had a client today. Sherlock must have put the bell in the fridge again." She noticed my difficulty with the staircase and offered her hand. "There, there. Let me help you, dear. I know how hard it can be, whatever may be bothering you."
"Thank you, Mrs Hudson. I didn't anticipate how tricky descending in these heels would be," I stated in my normal timbre. She jumped at the sound of my voice and yanked her hand from my support. I stumbled down the last few steps, catching myself on the banister.
"Sherlock!" She shouted. "What in the heavens..."
I stood, impatiently, as she looked me over. She came in close, squinting at my hairline and makeup. She tittered and tutted, her brows knit together.
"It's for a case," I drawled.
"Oh, oh. Of course it is. Yes," she fiddled with the back of my dress, just above my bum. It was my turn to jump out of the way.
"What are you doing?" I demanded, my hand held defensively against my posterior.
She stepped behind me again and batted my hand out of the way. "Your bow is lopsided. You can't go out looking like a common street tramp, can you? Now, hold still." She untied the ribbon, smoothed it along my waist and retied it in a snug bow, cinching the fabric tighter around me. "There," she smiled at me, a twinkle in her eye, "now we can see that pretty waist of yours!" She winked and I rolled my eyes at her. I made for the door and she shouted from behind, "Shoulders back, Sherlock! No slouching!"
I slipped the key to the flat into the dainty purse draped over my shoulder and hailed a cab.
"Where to, ma'am?" The cabbie asked.
I gave him the address to John's clinic in my practiced pitch. He nodded, not questioning my guise. I smiled in satisfaction and crossed my legs politely, my fingers stroking absently at the silky nylon covering my knee. Yes, this should work out quite nicely, indeed.
Author's Note: I got very excited when researching some canon disguises of Sherlock's and found that he dressed as a woman in The Adventure of the Mazarin Stone. I knew immediately that I had to use that! Stay tuned to see just how well that disguise works on John. As always, I'm a sucker for reviews and PMs. Thanks for reading!
