Note. To Sky Writes, Ida Deirdre, SherlockedUntilDeath and star jelly. Thank you for your kind reviews. They were more than welcome. To the many that favourited and alerted this story, I see you and I thank you all. Statistically speaking, your responses qualify as more than awesome. In fact, bestest wishies to all readers the world over. Hello, there! Whether you choose to speak or remain silent, I hope that you enjoy this next ickle bit. More to follow.
Disclaimer: I own it not. Obviously.
The Problem With Disguises
A Conversation
They eat in silence. Or he does. He says he is not hungry (as he always has), but after the first forkful, realises he is absolutely ravenous. In mere minutes, and after two servings, the saucepan is bare. If he notices her lack of consumption, he does not mention it. Nor does she. It is of no moment.
She shepherds him into the shower shortly thereafter. Her initial suggestion of it is met with a certain amount of recalcitrant childishness that is not unexpected. He is, after all, brilliant, but not unused to employing such tactics to get his own way.
She counters his sulking by reminding him that he would really not like to wake up in an unfamiliar bedroom, having been drugged and washed by her. His swift slamming of the bathroom door is his agreement.
She gathers a few pieces of comfortable clothing and places them, neatly folded, just outside of said door, then retreats to her one armchair.
It is the sensible place to wait, and this is a very good day to be sensible. They are far past the stage where games are needful if one of them is in dire straits.
She will leave the games for later. For now, she chooses to gather her somewhat scrambled thoughts. After a short while, her equilibrium returns.
She listens as the shower shuts down and he retrieves the clothes and dresses, just out of sight. He stalks in, momentarily refreshed, and nearly throws himself onto her small sofa.
She then has the opportunity to take in the unusual sight of Mr Sherlock Holmes looking rather relaxed in an extremely ill-fitting outfit. She cannot help it if the trousers are at least two inches too short. She had not been expecting him. And if the T-shirt is a wee tad tight, she will not make an issue of it. She notices only in silent appreciation. It is the best way.
As they tend to, they observe one another before deciding to speak.
Her first question is blunt. "How long since you were last followed?" She is not harsh, but they both understand the urgency of the query.
His answer is basic. "Over a week."
A good reply, but she needs it qualified. "You've been on the move ever since."
"Yes, untraceably." His voice is firm, leaving no room for doubt. He is sure.
"I hope so, Sherlock." Soft, slightly chiding.
Suddenly, she is pinned by one of his more imposing looks of certainty. He knows he is right about this. "I would not risk your safety, Irene. You know this."
She nods lightly, almost graciously, in assent. She needed to hear it.
His turn. He flicks his gaze randomly around her current home for a few seconds, before it settles back on her. "What about you? How long before you can freely access your funds and move to somewhere a little more…upmarket again?"
She ignores the slight. "Not long now. I dispersed almost everything I had quite quickly, but I want to take a while pooling it all back together."
He is curious. "Are you sure you aren't overcomplicating things?"
She nods again, allowing him the possibility, but not believing it for a second. "Perhaps. But I'd rather a tortuous route back to financial security than to have the Bat Phone in your brother's office ring because of me. Don't want to shock the poor thing too badly."
This earns her a weary grin. "Spoilsport." She raises an amused eyebrow back. As much as it would be the worst possible outcome for both of them at the moment, they each know that the other would love to be a fly on the wall, should Mycroft receive such a communication.
Another, quite amiable silence follows.
Eventually, she has to ask. "So, why here?"
He shrugs minutely, his tone dry. "It is rather difficult to find a decent conversation when you're dead."
She is equally dry. "I know. And?"
He hesitates for just a moment. Then he draws in a deep breath and speaks quickly. He is not used to this. "I need your advice. Given the number of people I've had to shake off recently, it seems that I may have a problem."
She was correct, it would seem, but she will not indulge in smugness. It is not the time. "Ah, a problem with disguises?"
He knows that she is restraining herself. He ignores it. Though he suddenly becomes unnecessarily arrogant, albeit that it somehow comes across as being a bit put out. "Indeed. Though I've always considered myself a master of the craft."
Her nose twitches in amusement at his presumption. And if she chooses to patronise him a little, well, it is deserved. "I think your view is tinged by a touch of bias. But you are extremely good, and with a tweak or two, you may even surpass me in the art."
His voice becomes flat, disbelieving. "Oh, really?"
Her face becomes sphinx-like. "Yes. Somebody once told me that I have the awful habit of colouring my disguises with sentiment."
He huffs in awakening amusement. "No, Miss Baker."
She winks. "I know. Shocking, isn't it?" A pause. "Of course I'll help you. How can I not? But we'll start tomorrow, I think."
She overtly flicks her eyes briefly up towards his hair, critically taking in the frankly awful, brassy shade of blonde he has somehow contrived to colour it. She leans forward and smiles, slightly impishly. "I could also teach you a lot about dyeing."
There is a momentary quiet. It is, after all, a quite dreadful pun. But then his face breaks into one of his truly infectious grins. And he laughs.
It is so very good to see, so good to hear.
She laughs too.
Then they fall into silence once more.
He starts to blink, a little rapidly, his head drifting off onto his shoulder. Oh, but he is tired. "Time for you to sleep", she says warmly.
He sits bolt upright, gathers himself and glances about him, as if alarmed. "Sherlock. You are safe here," she reassures him.
He nods. "I know." His eyes narrow. "What about you?"
She cannot help herself. "Well, we could share my bed." He blanches. She smiles knowingly. "Perhaps not, though. I'll take the sofa."
He pats the cushions, gingerly. "It feels uncomfortable."
Her turn to shrug. "It is, but never mind."
"Are you sure?" he asks mildly.
She waves his concern away. "I am now, but I'll be a bitch on wheels by tomorrow night, my dear boy."
His eyes seem to grasp hers and, as ever, it is astonishing. In contrast, his voice is light, nearly teasing. "I'll make sure that I locate your riding crop and hide it, then."
She stands, takes a step forward, and brushes her finger over the tip of his nose. "And I wish you luck with that. Goodnight, Sherlock."
"Goodnight, Irene."
He pulls himself upright and ambles off to her bedroom, every line, every movement of his body simply screaming out exhaustion. She watches him. He does not close the door before falling onto her bed.
She will never say that she checks on him more than a few times, while he sleeps.
He will never mention that he is sure he sees her doing so, despite his sleep befuddled state.
At least twice.