Anthea would have taken care of it, of course – or had it taken care of, more likely – but he preferred to do it himself. He spends hours he doesn't have steeping in crisp, gold-stamped paper: smoothing surfaces, tucking up uneven edges, preserving the clean square edges of the boxes beneath. The manual precision required is not a natural talent of his, but the end result is impeccable, an infinitesimal second skin to encase the tasteful, unambitious items he's selected from Anthea's list of suggestions. Everyone - even Sherlock - will assume he paid to have them wrapped. The invisibility is his gift.