Pleasure at my success did not override that he had succeeded, too, and that primarily because of the veil. I wondered if he had deduced my method, but I waited until he returned—dressed as himself—before voicing my question.

"Why the veil?" We occasionally had a grieving widow wear a veil, but they rarely chose one that completely hid their face. The practice was barely common enough that the veil itself did not reveal his disguise.

"You saw through my last disguise with a single look," he answered, still displaying disgruntlement. He moved around the room instead of joining me near the fire. "A veil was the best way to prevent that."

I smirked, amused that the first failure still bothered him so many days later. "So you built your disguise around the veil instead of adding the veil to your disguise." He nodded, and I leaned back in my chair. "Well, it succeeded, at any rate. We should have specified what happens in the event of a tie."

He did not answer for a moment, apparently confused. "It did not succeed," he corrected me. "You saw through it."

"Not before five minutes passed," I answered. "That was the time limit. I did it first—and completely," I could not resist adding. I smirked again when he scowled at me, "but you did succeed. I suppose a tie nullifies the wager, and I will have to run my own errands."

I did not miss the relief that flickered across his face—he could not have been looking forward to me saving up three days' worth of errands—but he did not comment.

"Why would you not hear the case?" he asked instead, glancing up as he dug through his desk.

"As if you would have appreciated me taking more than basic facts in your absence," I shot back, grinning faintly. "You gather more information from deducing the client's outfit than you do from their answers to your questions, and while I can note questions and answers, I have never been able to match you for deductions. That is not even accounting for how irritated you would have been that I had accepted a case for you. Mrs. Martinez was very clear that she expected you to work the case until she returned. I could not have taken the facts without implying acceptance." I broke off, digging in a pocket as I remembered Ms. Favre. "By the way, a true client arrived a few hours ago." I passed him my notes. "I told her we would contact her before noon tomorrow."

He scanned the page and nodded, setting it aside. The way he read my notes twice indicated he would send her a telegram shortly, but he would not let me change the topic so easily.

"You have never seen me turn away a potential murder."

I brushed off the statement. He was right, but that did not mean he would have accepted this one.

"It was better to have her return at another time than to promise something that was not mine to give," I replied. "I would not have heard the end of it if I had accepted a case you did not want. You have always enjoyed, even boasted about being able to choose your cases."

"Our cases," he insisted as he always did, finally claiming his chair.

I shrugged away the correction—as I usually did—but this time a frown turned his mouth.

"You are far too stubborn. How many times do I have to correct you before you realize I am in earnest?"

They could not be mine if I did not see "my" portion of the case fees, but I had no reason to point that out. I would help with his cases whenever I could, and if he stopped splitting the fees permanently, I would simply see more patients around his cases. I had done it before.

I did wonder why he had suddenly stopped transferring a portion after each case, but I would not ask. I would not beg. The cases were his and had always been his, and if he no longer wished to evenly split the money on account of my help, I would simply earn money in other ways and assist as I had time.

"Watson?"

"Was the telegram earlier truly from Hopkins?" I asked after a moment, hoping he would let me redirect our conversation.

His frown deepened, and he nearly forced the question before changing his mind.

"It was, but he wants me to come tomorrow afternoon to review the files for MacDonald's case. The trial is next week."

"Are you going to ask MacDonald why he was making a time bomb of a chemical reaction?" I barely refrained from rubbing my upper lip, but he still fidgeted in his seat, obviously disliking my lack of a mustache even several days later.

"Probably not."

"You should. The conversation might be interesting."

"Humph." He readjusted again. "Supper at Simpson's?"

I smiled but shook my head. "Not tonight. You go ahead."

"Come now," he tried again. "We have not gone out in a while. We can go to a concert at the university hall, then to Simpson's for supper."

I hesitated. The concert would be enjoyable—and free—and it had been a while since we had had an evening out, but while my pension and few patients in the last couple of weeks would cover rent, I did not have the funds to eat out. Would he let me do one without the other?

His expression slowly changed as I considered, and he spoke before I could make up my mind.

"Watson," he said, the word strangely subdued, "I thought you stopped gambling years ago."

I jerked out of my internal debate. How had he come to that conclusion?

"I did."

I had not noticed the disappointment in his face, but I noticed relief replace it. His fingers met in front of his mouth as he studied me. "Then why are you pressed for money?"

Because you stopped giving me a portion of the case fees.

"I have not had enough patients this month," I replied easily, seeing no reason to voice the obvious. He knew how much I relied on our fees. My informal practice was supposed to supplement our cases, not support me in place of them, and it would take me a few months to build up enough patients to make up the loss.

"You have had no fewer than any other month," he replied. "What changed?"

I merely stared at him, trying to decide why he was pushing this. He hated stating the obvious and hated when others did, too. Why would he want me to give him information he already possessed?

He must have read the question in my expression, as intense thinking, a mental shrug, then curiosity crossed his face in quick succession.

"I do not know whatever it is you think I know," he told me. "Give me the obvious answer. What changed?"

"You stopped splitting the case fees with me." Curiosity faded to something like puzzlement, and I quickly continued, "It is alright, Holmes. Really. I will just have to cut my spending for a few months until I take on more patients."

He frowned at me again. "It is not alright," he chided. "You should have said something. You are entitled to half of the fees for each case. When did the transfers stop?"

I hesitated but finally answered, "I have gotten nothing from the last three cases."

"The bank must have made a mistake." He glanced at the clock, his frown deepening. "They are just closed for the night. I will have to go in the morning. In the meantime…"

He let the sentence trail off as he jumped to his feet and tossed me my jacket.

"What is the concert?" A promise of money tomorrow did nothing for the state of my pocketbook tonight; I could not pay for supper without touching the money set aside for rent, but I was quite willing to go to the concert with him.

"London Symphony Orchestra," he answered immediately, "and Simpson's should still be seating afterwards. My treat."

"You do not have to buy, Holmes," I said as I gained my feet. "I am sure the university performance will be fine."

He waved off my protest. "The university concert is not until tomorrow, and I have ticket vouchers for the Orchestra that will probably expire soon. We should use them."

Tomorrow? I scowled at him, realizing the concert had been a test. By debating whether I could do one without the other, I had clearly confirmed that my denial to go to Simpson's was due to money, not disinterest.

I may be able to see through many of his disguises, but I apparently still needed to work on seeing through his dualistic conversations. He had frowned at me for changing the wager, asking my reasoning later, but I had refused to voice an answer I thought he already knew. He had not mentioned it again, but instead of letting the matter drop as I had thought, he had merely been biding his time. He had tricked me.

Easily reading my thoughts, he turned away to hide his twitched grin, and my scowl remained as I followed him out the door. Something occurred to me when we reached the street.

"Do you truly have vouchers for the orchestra?"

He nodded, gesturing to his jacket pocket.

"They must be very old," I said, watching his reaction. "The hall boasted in the papers the other day about their record of over two seasons without a cancellation." His ears turned red, and I knew I had caught him. "Holmes."

He sighed. "Fine. I have a voucher. Someone gave it to Mycroft, and he gave it to me."

I slowed my steps, and clear irritation appeared on his face. He took my arm in his to maintain our pace.

"Holmes—"

"Stop, Watson. You know I will not miss the money."

He would not. I had decided long ago that he had probably inherited a fair amount upon reaching a certain age, but that did not mean I wanted him paying for mine. I tried to free my arm.

"You should not be buying supper," I told him, "but supper and a concert? Holmes—"

"I am not buying your concert ticket," he cut me off, tightening his grip. "I am giving you the voucher and buying my own ticket."

I huffed but stopped trying to break free. That was an underhanded technicality, but I had threatened him with something just as underhanded earlier today. I supposed I could live with that way of looking at it.

"The concert, then," I said, "and thank you."

He nodded, and we walked in silence for a few minutes before he spoke again.

"Why not Simpson's?"

"Because you should not have to pay for mine," I told him. "You know that."

"That was my oversight." He let go of my arm to open the door. "I should have noticed the problem days ago."

He paused, watching to see if I would understand the rest without him having to voice it. If my lack of funds was his fault, he was saying, why should he not cover my meal until he could get the error fixed?

Because he would never let me pay him back after the bank fixed the problem, my pride tried to reply, but I forced myself to think past that. There was a difference in keeping my dignity and being ridiculous, and his words also revealed that he was using this as an apology for not realizing the mistake sooner.

I could hardly blame him for that. He did not pay as close attention to his account balance as I did. He had no reason to, but could I let that apology serve as reason to join him for supper?

He had been watching me as he exchanged the voucher and several bills for two tickets, and he read my answer on my face well before I could decide how to voice it. We were in public, so he did not allow his pleased smile to escape—or even truly show—but I glanced at my ticket before I could ask what about my acceptance had so delighted him.

"Holmes! Box seats?!"

His only answer was another twitched grin. He was always willing to pay for decent seats, but even he only occasionally bought the most expensive seats in the house. He had planned this all along.

There were many kinds of disguises in this world, and only some of them required makeup and costumes. I would have to find a way to pay him back for this—though not necessarily with money. Rearranging his disguise materials ought to make my point well enough.

Did anyone guess what the money problems were? :D Hope you enjoyed!

Thanks to MCH1987, Dr. who, Guest, and mrspencil for your reviews on the last chapter.