He looked at himself in the full length mirror. The stitches were still mending in the wound on his shoulder. They would leave an ugly scar. That no one but him would see. It hurt. He had refused to take the pain medication they had given him. Pain was good. It kept you focussed.
He'd opted for a snug fitting pair of knitted silk trunks. They showed off his backside to full advantage. Not that it was a primary concern of his, but he had discovered very quickly he could use his looks to get what he wanted. A smile here, a nod and an arched eyebrow there and the great and the good of the back rooms of Whitehall were falling over themselves to do what he wanted.
They saw him as a challenge, he supposed. Something unattainable.
He pulled the thick cotton shirt on carefully so as not to disturb the razor creases in the sleeves. The material pulled tight for a moment as he flexed into it and then did the buttons up with quick, precise movements.
The cufflinks were his Grandfather's.
The suit was from Jermyn Street. Perfectly tailored from the soft black wool of carefully selected sheep. Or something like that. Perfectly tailored to fit his six foot two inch, elegant frame accentuating his broad shoulders and long legs and diverting attention from the slight misalignment of his hipbones.
You never underestimated the power of a nicely tailored suit.
When he'd first gone into the place, on a recommendation, they had asked whether he would be interested in modelling for them. His hair, they explained, would look so nice in the black and white photographs. He had of course politely declined. After all, it would not do to be noticed.
His hair. That was another thing. He'd toned it down with a slightly darker shade of henna after he had been referred to at Admiralty House as a Flame Haired Beauty. It took quite a lot to make him blush the same coppery crimson as his hair. That did it. That and the blatant proposition by a very senior Rear Admiral. Who had grabbed his rear. That was only his second week.
He checked his reflection. Running a critical eye over every last detail. Perfect.
And then it was time.
The small dog rubbed itself excessively over the leg of his trousers, smothering them in a dusting of beige hairs. He took this to be a good sign. They had warned him about the dogs. The rubbing dog carefully deposited a small squeaky bone on the toe of his handmade leather Oxfords and looked up hopefully. He stooped down to retrieve the bone and heard the door behind him open.
"Good evening Mr Holmes."
"Good evening Your Majesty." He turned quickly and bowed. Her Majesty readjusted her gaze from where it had been resting on his buttocks to smile up at him.
"It is very sad news about dear Sir Joshua." She indicated he should sit. She smiled. She poured tea and offered him cake, insisting he had the largest slice of Battenberg.
"It is indeed Ma'am." He took a sip of tea. Her Majesty was staring at his crotch. Those silk trunks were very snug.
"At least he went doing something he enjoyed."
"Yes Ma'am." Doing someone he enjoyed would be more accurate, but Mycroft was not about to correct the Queen on that matter.
"Sadly Mr Holmes, life goes on." She handed him the cake. Balanced on top of the moist sponge was a gold ring.
"Majesty?"
"Mr Holmes, you are now Joshua Reynolds." She smiled, staring into his eyes. The Corgi dropped the bone on his foot with a squeak.
"Yes Ma'am."
He slipped the ring onto his finger. It was a perfect fit as it shone in the light from the fire.