Every disguise is an autobiography. The cap has been bought, as has the corduroy jacket, but the boots, too heavy and worn to be a gentleman's, are his own, and have been treading London streets since long before many in the city would have known his name. He removes them like the shedding of a weight.
For some moments, the rangy, sharp-eyed youth standing in his room is a familiar stranger, and he doesn't know whether the stray glimpse he catches in the mirror portrays his real self, or merely who he used to be. Then the rough clothing has been exchanged for his black frock coat, his face and hands have been washed, a pomaded comb has tamed his dark hair, and the ghost has disappeared.
Nearly. He examines his reflection in the mirror. He moves to straighten the grey silk cravat, and his split and scabbed knuckles jar with the rest of the image. They stand out - relics of his other life, out of place in this one, hinting at another sphere in which he is at home. The question arises again, unavoidable.
Is a disguise defined by that which it conceals, or only that it does?
A/N: Have been wrestling a bit with this one. Not entirely sure what it is – a slightly different take on Holmes' origins, perhaps.