Chapter 5: "In the Offing"
In the offing: Nautical term meaning something is about to happen.
Watson:
"Oh, better far to live and die
Under the brave black flag I fly,
Than play a sanctimonious part,
With a pirate head and a pirate hear-"
"Watson! I swear, if I have to hear one of those songs just one once more!"
"I am sorry," I replied sheepishly, trying desperately to not smile in the face of Holmes's irritation, "but the thing keeps going through my head!"
"Yes, and now, thanks to you, it is going through mine! Ugh!"
I settled back in the cab silently, pretending to be hurt by his curt words, and a moment later I saw him peeking at me to see if I were really miffed.
I stared out the window.
"Watson?"
"What?"
"Are you - annoyed with me?"
"Not half as annoyed as you are with me, evidently," I said with a grin, finally looking back at him.
When he realized I had been teasing him mercilessly, he scowled at me in only a half-jesting mood and sent me a withering glare, which I calmly returned – his mood swings no longer frightened me like they used to.
A minute later he started to drum his fingers unconsciously on the side of the cab – and I noticed with a deal of amusement that they were tapping out the tune I had been so unconsciously humming.
Evidently my companion suddenly noticed the fact as well, for he sat bolt upright in the cab, glaring at me again as he ceased the tapping. This time I could not repress my grin, and we both laughed a little ruefully, glancing out and seeing we were nearly back to Baker Street.
"I hope Mrs. Hudson has dinner waiting on us," I remarked as we got out of the cab, "although, if she chanced to see that sitting room, we may have to be fending for ourselves."
"Well, that's all right – we wouldn't have had a place to eat it anyhow," Holmes said breezily, opening the hall door.
"And I suppose I am the one that shall have to clean it all up while you pace around tonight, supposedly 'thinking' about the case?" I asked as we climbed the stairs.
"Well…"
"How is it, Holmes, that you always happen to be 'deep in thought' just when cleaning and filing needs to be done?" I asked, half-seriously.
"I am always thinking, Watson," he replied serenely.
I gave a rather undignified snort as I opened the sitting room – indeed, the mess he had made looked ten times worse, now that I knew I was going to have to be cleaning it up tonight. I shoved the door open with force, because the stack of scrapbooks were still blocking the entrance.
Holmes had entered his bedroom and was now tossing things about in his room.
"What are you doing, Holmes?"
"Can you come in here, Watson?" I heard him bellow.
Sighing, I obeyed and found him changing out of his suit into the rough clothing of a dockhand worker.
"You're going out again!" I cried in dismay.
"It is necessary, Watson," he said, throwing his tie onto the bed and rummaging for a woolen muffler instead.
"But –"
"I need information," he replied, seating himself at his dressing table and beginning to apply a disguise.
This was the first time I had watched him make such a transformation since his return last month, and I sat down in a chair to curiously watch the change in my friend.
"May I come?" I asked hesitantly.
"No," he said shortly, applying a reddish cream to his face to give it a wind-blown appearance.
He must have seen my countenance fall in his dresser mirror, for he amended his statement hastily.
"It is not that I do not want you along, Watson, it is just that –"
"That I have no acting ability whatsoever," I finished ruefully.
"That is not true, Watson," he replied with a sudden vehemence, "you simply lack the necessary background knowledge and all the jargon that goes with it to be a convincing sailor. Thespianism has nothing to do with it."
That mollified me a little, and I did know that he was right. But this was the first time he had gone on part of an investigation without me since his return, and I still was a little hurt by the fact, even if I knew it was necessary.
Holmes was very meticulously darkening his eyebrows and adding some extra bushiness to them with false black hair, and I saw his grey eyes flit up to my face in the mirror. My feelings must, as he had once said, be quite readable on my features, for his gaze softened, and he paused what he was doing to turn round and look at me, as I was sitting there backwards on the chair, my arms resting on the back of it and my chin on my arm.
"I am sorry, Watson – but there is no alternative," he said gently, "and to be brutally honest, I rather would like to have you with me. But it cannot be helped."
I nodded, for I knew he was right. We had no time to waste in this case, and I knew we needed information as quickly as possible. This was the quickest method by which to gain it.
As he saw the resignation in my eyes, Holmes nodded reassuringly and turned round to his dressing table once again. I looked on curiously as he somehow darkened the fine wrinkles round his eyes to make himself appear slightly older and added a reddish makeup to his cheeks, giving the appearance of being a regular pub frequenter.
The transformation became complete when he wound the muffler round his neck, donned a filthy old pea jacket and a cloth cap, and adopted a lazy, sprawling swagger, very different from his normal rigid, proper posture.
"Well, cap'n, all shipshape and Bristol fashion?" he asked in a ridiculous accent, pirouetting for my approval.
I laughed with admiration.
"Quite, Holmes," I said, looking him up and down, "I scarcely would know you."
"Scarcely? Whatever happened to 'good heavens, Holmes, that's amazing!'?" he asked, looking miffed.
"Oh, come on. You're mistaking me for that gullible chap in the Strand Magazine," I replied, letting my eyes twinkle at him despite my disappointment in not being allowed to tag along with him.
He threw back his head and laughed, clapping me on the shoulder as he passed.
I smirked and followed him into the sitting room, tripping over the books he had still left in a pile there.
"Oh, I see the real reason you will not let me go tonight," I said suddenly, staring round me at the litter, "you want me to stay here and clean this mess up!"
"Precisely," Holmes said absently, digging through his desk drawer, "I – no, that is not it!" his distracted mind had finally registered what I had said.
It was my turn to laugh at his flushed face.
"What are you looking for now?"
"The list of ships Lachlan gave us, I had it out this morning and tossed it somewhere," he muttered, gazing helplessly about him at the chaos he had created.
"Well, good luck in finding it sometime in the next fortnight," I snorted, picking up a stack of books and beginning to reshelf them on my desk.
He snickered and began digging through a pile of papers on the couch, looking for all the world like a dog hunting for a buried bone.
The mental image made me laugh again, and in consequence I did not hear the door open and was not aware of our estimable landlady's approach.
That is, until she shrieked loud enough to be heard on the Baker Street Underground.
I dropped my dictionary with a crash and Holmes yelped in fright, for he was in the direct line of fire from the doorway. I nearly laughed as he ducked behind the couch for protection, leaving me to try to calm the distraught woman.
"Mrs. Hudson, I promise –"
"Mr. Holmes! Never in all my life –"
"Mrs. Hudson, if you will just –"
"Doctor, I shall not –"
"Mrs. Hudson!" I nearly shouted, "I am remaining behind while Holmes goes out tonight and I promise you I shall have it all cleaned up before midnight!"
The ill-used woman glared at me with a menace I did not remember her possessing.
"See that you do, Doctor," she stated, sending a chilling glower at Sherlock Holmes, who was busily trying to hide behind the sofa.
"I shall, Mrs. Hudson," I said soothingly, trying to forcefully guide the woman out the door, "I shall start on it right away…"
"Hmph," she gave a rather unladylike snort and flounced down the seventeen steps in rather a huff.
I shut the door and breathed a sigh of relief.
"You so owe me tickets to the Mikado for that, Holmes," I said warningly.
He moaned.
"I am not sure which would be worse, eviction from the flat or sitting through another operetta!" my friend said, looking up miserably at me from his still crouching position on the floor.
"I am very likely to not get dinner tonight because of you," I said, putting my hands on my hips and glaring at him as he began to once again root for that map.
"I am sure your charm with the fair sex will get you something before the night is over, Watson," he replied carelessly, flinging several files off to the side, "you know that she does not remain angry for long, and – ha!"
He dove under the couch, his long legs sticking out in a very undignified position, and a moment later he emerged with the very damaged list. Stuffing it into the pocket of his peacoat, he retrieved his cloth cap and took a final look in the mirror before preparing to set off.
"You had better remember everything, Holmes, because you shall have to dictate notes to me when you come back," I warned, following him to the door.
He smiled, clapping a hand on my shoulder.
"I shall, Watson. Don't wait up on me, for I could be late."
I just looked at him incredulously, and he laughed again.
"All right, I shall try to not be very late," he replied with a grin, starting to descend the stairs.
"And be careful, Holmes!" I called after him suddenly.
I heard him laugh and say something about my 'worrying worse than Mrs. Hudson', and then a moment later the hall door shut behind him.
The corners of my mouth turned upward in a small smile that stayed even as I picked my way through the sitting room, which now resembled a battlefield, and peeked out the window. Holmes had already adopted that swaggering gait that made me laugh to watch, as he started off down the street.
I watched til he was out of sight, and then with a sigh I began to clean up the litter that was strewn everywhere in the room, starting with the books and journals. I picked up my books and re-shelved them, stacked Holmes's scrapbooks back on the file cabinet shelves, and put the older journals into the proper drawers.
I rolled up the maps that were lying on the floor and stuffed them behind the silver set on the sideboard for now, leaving the one Holmes had pinned to the wall; better the map to be seen than gaping holes in the wallpaper from his pocketknife!
Then I started on the files, sorting the papers by year and then each pile by month, tying them in neat bundles with twine and finally sorting them into the appropriate drawers. Halfway through, as Holmes had predicted, our good landlady did indeed relent and brought me up a very nice supper, which I was intensely grateful to take a break and consume.
I left the pudding on the table with the coffee until I had done with the files – and as I neared the end, I saw with a deep shock that I had been at this for nearly five hours! It was almost ten o'clock!
I left the pile of papers that seemed to be from Holmes's three-year absence in a neat stack on his desk, not knowing if he would want to file them with the rest of our things, and then I poured myself a cup of coffee, took my pudding dish and (Holmes did not know I owned it, but I did) a copy of a previous Strand Magazine and collapsed in my armchair, severely exhausted by my tidying efforts.
I made a mental note to myself to see about changing the lock on the file cabinet to eliminate further possible destruction scenes like this one in future and turned to the page where my own story was set forth in neat print.
The illustrations in the periodical made me laugh, for Holmes's especially were rather not flattering to him, and I settled back comfortably with a smile for a cozy night by the fire, awaiting my friend's return from his own private little adventure.