Another consequence of the Hiatus. 221B*4
Holmes paced in front of the fireplace, clouds of smoke billowing from his pipe as Watson read a book in his armchair.
"What is it, Holmes?" Watson finally asked with a sigh, his gaze never leaving the novel. Holmes' restlessness was preventing him from focusing on his book, and it would be better to try to help now than to wait for Holmes to work himself into a mood.
"What is what?" came the distracted answer as Holmes continued pacing.
"You have been pacing for nearly two hours now when I thought you had traced Johnson to The Hopper," was Watson's somewhat frustrated reply. "Why are you here instead of following him?"
A growl of frustration came out of the cloud of smoke. "I am waiting for the Irregulars to tell me he has moved somewhere else. I have used all my disguises too recently. Charlie returned with a list of men he has seen in the area the last several days, and too many of them would recognize me."
Watson thought a moment. "All you need is information, correct?" Silence answered him, and he continued. "I could go."
Through the smoke, he faintly saw Holmes shake his head. "You would be recognized as well."
Watson huffed a laugh, surprised he knew something that Holmes did not, and set his book aside. "I will be back in a moment."
Leaving Holmes pacing in the sitting room, he went around through the stairwell into Holmes' room, deciding to see if he could pull this off.
About ten minutes later, a knock sounded on the sitting room door.
"Hello?" came a thick Scottish accent. "This be the home o' Mr. Sherlock 'Olmes?"
"Yes, can I—" Holmes turned to find a familiar-looking working-class immigrant hovering in the doorway.
He hesitated, studying the older man for several seconds. He opened his mouth to ask a question but hesitated again, his gaze sweeping over the man's posture and appearance once more before he relaxed.
"Where did you learn that?"
A faint grin flickered across on the man's face, but the accent remained. "Where did I learn what, laddie? 'N kin I sit? The wee bairn don the stree' gaw a new 'ammer last holiday."
A trace of hesitation returned to Holmes' gaze as the man made his way to the settee, a slight limp showing in his gait. Seating himself in his armchair, Holmes studied the man before him, searching for the data he needed to prove the man's identity.
Before he could find the words to ask the client's reason for coming—or tell Watson to drop the act. He was still not completely positive which was needed—the door opened, and Mrs. Hudson bustled through, tray in hand.
"Oh!" She paused a step beyond the door as two sets of eyes glanced over. "My apologies, Mr. Holmes. I didn't realize you had a client."
She turned to walk out, and the man's faint grin changed into a very wide—very familiar—smirk.
The surprise Holmes knew was in his gaze only made the smirk widen. "What information do you need?" Watson's familiar voice resounded in stark contrast to his appearance, and Holmes did not try to check the bark of surprised laughter.
"Why did you not tell me that you could act so well?" Holmes asked, studying Watson's disguise.
"Why would I need to?" was the reply. "You are the one who taught me about disguises. You spent hours teaching me how to build a proper disguise with your materials."
"Yes, but you have never been able to pull them off. Remember the Cooper case?"
The smirk still on Watson's face faltered a bit before returning. "I learned a lot while you were gone," he said simply.
Holmes saw a different sort of acting begin as Watson's amusement changed from genuine to partially faked, and the guilt that had chased him since his return to London flared painfully. It was his fault that Watson had learned such a thing, then, no matter how useful it could be to his cases, now.
"Well, then." He leaned back in his chair, still studying the man opposite him. "I doubt you would need to speak much. I expect Johnson to mostly be drinking, but the more he drinks, the more he speaks—and the shorter his temper."
Watson nodded. "I understand ye," he replied in that strange accent. "Dae ye know his looks?"
"You will recognize him. Johnson operated under the name "Edwards" in that fighting ring we broke up last month."
Watson nodded in recognition and stood. "Ah shuid return in a few hours."
Holmes nodded. "Four hours," he said firmly. "And Watson?"
Watson stopped near the door, looking over his shoulder.
Holmes fought for words. I wish you had not learned to act because of me. I wish you had not gone through that.
I am sorry.
The words refused to come, but Watson seemed to understand, anyway. He nodded sadly and walked out the door, leaving Holmes alone in the sitting room.
Yes, Watson's newfound acting ability would frequently be useful in their cases, but he did not believe the benefits were worth the cost Watson had paid—was still paying.
Would he ever be able to make up for the cycle of pain he had begun?