The Portrait
by ElenaC

"All right, Watson," Holmes said in his best longsuffering tone, "I'll go along with you this once. But I swear by all that's holy, if this ever reaches any eyes other than yours or mine, you're a dead man. I shall tear and feather you, then draw and quarter you, and then I'll kill you in any number of imaginative ways, throw your entrails to Mr. Sherman's dogs, and bury your limbs at -"

"I get the point, Holmes," I said, busy with the camera. Open shutter, short exposure? Or better, long exposure? I could never remember the proper settings for this kind of light, and I had to get it right the first time. Holmes would certainly never go through this again if I botched it.

"I still don't see why I should wear this rag," Holmes went on complaining. "It doesn't even have a proper collar. In fact, it has no collar at all."

"It exposes your throat," I muttered, checking the flashlight. "I covet your throat. Your throat has to be visible, or this whole exercise is pointless."

"Hum," he commented doubtfully. I could hear rustling, and I imagined him fisting the thin fabric he was wearing with contempt. "One might argue the pointlessness of this exercise with or without a collar. This shirt, or whatever it is, looks completely disreputable. I look utterly ridiculous. I swear, Watson..."

"Yes, yes," I murmured soothingly. "You'll kill me, I know. Now, please stand over there, next to the fireplace."

He looked at where I had fastened the flashlight. "Isn't it traditional to hold the flash above the camera?"

"I'm going for an artistic effect, dear fellow," I said, with a trace of asperity. It was in Holmes' proud nature to feel compelled to criticise any effort of mine in any artistic endeavour, simply because he had art in the blood, while I had Celts in mine. It was beginning to wear upon my nerves.

He made an exaggerated placating gesture. "Far be it from me to disturb your vision," he said sarcastically.

"Thank you."

He took his position, shifting here and there in response to my hand motions, while I was huddled behind the contraption, covered by the black cloth.

"The pipe, please."

He picked it up from the mantel and looked at it curiously. "That's not one of mine."

"I know. It will photograph better than your usual ones. Now, please look here, and try to look like you don't think you look ridiculous. You do not, in fact. I think you look sexy."

He snorted, but followed my instruction.

There was a bright flash.

Holmes closed his eyes and sank down upon a nearby chair in utter despair. "I swear, Watson..."

"I know." Gleefully, I extracted my prize from the camera. I love birthdays.