Hat-rack
Over the past several years I have had the misfortune to discover that, whatever else he may be, Sherlock Holmes is a perfectionist. When swift action is necessary, he can move with all the slow deliberation of an avalanche; but when he has time to polish his work "properly", no dilettante was ever so fussy. I wonder that he ever puts a monograph up for publication, so finely does he insist on polishing the prose-- to say nothing of the care he takes in his chemical experiments! I have seen him toss out the whole results of a prolonged investigation and begin again, all because he dropped a single extra grain of salt into a full beaker.
Usually his disguises are spared this merciless honing, as he inevitably has a mark in mind and so must limit the time he spends preparing to go out. On rare occasions, however, he is given the opportunity to disguise himself for a goal which will wait, however long he takes. At those times, I learn once more why I prefer not to take any personal problem to my friend.
He stands before his mirror, examining his reflection in minute detail. With his nose mere inches from the glass, he would cut a comical figure were it not for the fierce disguise he is already wearing. Indeed, had I not watched him put most of it on, I should not have known him... but he is not satisfied. I force myself not to roll my eyes, but I cannot repress the put-upon sigh.
He takes no notice of my expression, instead dabbing another fine brush in a pot of powder to adjust fractionally the color of the shadows beneath his eyes. "Hmm... no, this won't do. This won't do at all. Watson!"
Another sigh escapes me. "Yes, Holmes?"
"I'll need a different waistcoat. This one is too worn, far too worn. The persona I need to wear today has more funds than that... Where's the one with the blue lining?"
At his expectant gaze, I shrug. "I haven't the faintest idea, Holmes. Perhaps in that drawer, over there?"
With the sudden energy of a darting squirrel he flashes over to the chest; the drawer is open in an instant, and in another he's flinging clothes across the room. "No, no, too stylish -- too rustic -- not worn enough -- Ah! Here's one! Hold this for me, will you?"
I have no time to respond before the waistcoat is flying at me; I barely manage to catch it. "Honestly, Holmes!"
He takes no notice as he strips off the offending waistcoat. In one fluid motion he snatches the new garment from my arm, dumps the old one over the other arm, and slips his arms through the new one. In another second he is buttoned up and facing the mirror, once again frowning at himself.
"Goodness, no. That's all wrong! I'll need different cuff-links... different boots... Where's that hat?..."
Over the next twenty minutes he fairly turns his room upside-down, and I am of course the focus of it. By the time he's again facing the mirror, I am quite certain that if he tells me to hold one more object, I will scream.
But no, he is turning back towards me, once again frowning. He removes the hat of the moment and makes as if to toss it towards me, his mouth opening, the words on his lips --
"NO, Holmes!"
He freezes. "What?"
"I said no! For heaven's sake, man! I'm a doctor, not a hat-rack!"
