"Merely a commonplace, predictable scandal, Watson," Holmes replied, when asked what his current case involved. "One of those tiresome cases that lack any stimulating features for my mind, yet put bread upon my table."
Watson raised an eyebrow. "Surely, Holmes, you are at a point in your career when you may pick and choose cases?"
"I have done so before, certainly. Yet this time I have done without a case for so long that any exercise of my investigative skills would be welcome." He lit his pipe. "And I am being of some service."
"I would be happy to be of service as well," Watson smiled. "You are not the only one to grow restless with inaction."
Holmes's answering smile was surprisingly not as bright. "I am afraid," he cleared his throat, "that this is not your type of case, Watson. Rather of a different social sphere than you are accustomed to, if you take my meaning. Sordid and coarse. Vulgar, even."
"Holmes, I would never hesitate to join you, in whatever circumstances. If you find this too low or brutish a class for me, I'll have you know--"
"No, my dear Watson," Holmes sat up, smiling. "I do not doubt that you are a tough and capable campaigner, despite your war wound. Indeed, you have more than proven yourself a versatile companion, adapting to a lascar's opium den and a king's drawing-room equally well." He shook his head. "Let me just say that there are assistants of mine--actors, rather than the Irregulars--whom I would prefer to employ on this occasion. It is merely a matter of their professionalism and expertise in deception."
"I see."
"My dear fellow," Holmes spoke with a soft amusement, "if, at perhaps some later stage of this case, I may justifiably require your assistance, I shall most certainly ask you." The sincere look in his eyes argued against Holmes merely being patronising.
Watson still sighed with disappointment, though, and buried himself in The Times.
Over the next few nights, Watson continued endeavouring to interest himself in The Times and to suppress his restless envy of Holmes's unshared case. It did not help Watson's unsatisfied curiosity for Holmes to continually depart their rooms in a surreptitious manner and stay out for hours, while telegrammed reports from Holmes's agents accumulated all day. Nor did it help Watson's patience for Holmes to answer any query about his activities with, "I am following a trail."
The tense air of frustrated excitement finally broke one night, as Watson sat mulling over his supper and the evening Times. The door opened just then, and Holmes returned late from his investigations. Without even glancing at his stack of telegrams, he approached Watson and asked, "Would you be free to go out with me to-night, Watson? I shall need your assistance on my case."
Watson lowered his paper. "Your case?" he raised an eyebrow. "Really?"
"Yes," Holmes sat down at the table. "If you have any interest still."
"What of your assistants?" Watson spoke somewhat bitterly.
Holmes took note of his tone. "They are not always available to me, being actors with other, more important performances to play, compared to my brief and erratic hiring of their services. Your invaluable discretion and closeness to me make you a preferable choice, in any case," he remarked. "I shall be most obliged if you would come."
"What shall I do?"
"Help me to gather information. Previously, I have been making preliminary inquiries to locate a certain establishment and seek a method of entry. I believe I have found that establishment, and I mean to try an excursion there tonight. I do not think that this experience, though unfamiliar, would be too far beyond you, Watson. Will you come?"
"Yes. Where is it? Shall I need my revolver?"
Holmes shook his head. "Let us not speak of that now, and instead consume our meal heartily. We shall have ample time to speak of the case and prepare afterward, for our appointment is quite late."
Thereupon they dined without further mention of the case, although Watson felt a stir of anticipation as Holmes went through his telegrams and asked for parts of The Times to be read to him.
When they had finished, Holmes rose from the table and rang for the dishes to be cleared. "Now, Watson, if you would kindly dress in your most formal attire, I shall withdraw to my own room to construct my disguise for the night. Please come over when you are ready, that we may discuss the details of our expedition tonight."
Watson retired to his room and did as instructed. He wondered to himself curiously where he and Holmes would be going tonight. The formal attire suggested a far more upscale setting than Watson had anticipated. What did Holmes's prior remarks about the coarseness and vulgarity of the case have to do with dressing as though to attend a concert? Did Holmes simply find all scandal vulgar, as well as tedious?"
After assessing himself a final time in the mirror, Watson judged his grooming to be satisfactory and turned to depart. He quickly came to Holmes's door and knocked.
"Ah, prompt as usual, Watson," came Holmes's voice from within. "A moment of your patience, please."
Watson waited at the door, then presently heard Holmes speak again, "You may come in now."
On entering, Watson was surprised to find the room quite dim, and he caught sight of Holmes standing over by the dressing-table, his hand adjusting the lamp's gleam even lower.
Holmes did not turn to face Watson, and only a glimpse of his sparkling grey eyes reflected clearly in the mirror on his table. "Pray shut the door and have a seat," Holmes gestured, "on my bed."
Watson did so, glad to be able to locate the bed easily in the gloom. "I hope you did not dress in such darkness, Holmes," he remarked.
"No, certainly not." Holmes shrugged, his face blocked by the silhouette of his figure which was thrown by the faintly glowing lamp. "I merely wish to be cautious about the effect."
Watson raised an eyebrow, but Holmes would not elucidate.
Holmes spoke of the case, still keeping his back to Watson. "My current case, as I have said, is not a singular, intriguing mystery, but merely the resolving of a rather routine Society scandal. I am engaged by a certain noble personage to locate a relative who has gone missing and to prevent a disastrous scandal from reaching the public. In pursuit of this delicate mission, I shall attend an underground and ... unsavory gathering tonight, where I shall need you to be my escort."
"Escort?" Watson was puzzled.
"Yes." Holmes reached over and began to turn up the lamp slowly, at last turning around to show himself clearly.
Watson sat speechless, blinking. Holmes, like Watson, was dressed as immaculately as a gentleman would be, but his face was flagrantly, heavily, and almost garishly painted, like a common harlot on the street. The most disturbing thing about this mismatched disguise was that Holmes's application of the makeup seemed somehow artistic and beautiful, emphasising his fine masculine features, rather than creating a feminine veneer.
Holmes explained quietly, watching Watson's eyes, "My role tonight is of that an obvious, indulgent gigolo who is 'kept', shall we say, by another man. This ... gathering tonight is a discreet, male-only event. My noble client suspects that one of the young men of his great family is a member of this circle, and he insists that the delinquent be extricated from them before his recent disappearance becomes noticeable to wider Society circles."
"I see," Watson absorbed this information, but still remained distracted by the appearance of Holmes's face.
Holmes came nearer slowly, placing a chair at a comfortable distance away and sitting opposite Watson. "Do not worry," he assured. "I shall not disguise you in a similar manner. I know your limitations as an actor, and your role shall be very simple and unobtrusive. I shall draw all attention to myself as much as possible, and you yourself shall only have to be polite, soft-spoken, and as thoroughly handsome as you already are."
Watson blushed at being called handsome in such a context, but he remained calm.
Holmes reached over and adjusted Watson's coat a little. "The same attractiveness that you hold for the opposite sex shall make you much admired among these men as well. You should not be surprised if you are flirted with, especially as you are a new face, but I shall at least attempt to be an impediment by hanging on your arm. Moreover, you should feel free to be openly cold to such advances, for your character is most restrained and conservative." Holmes smiled. "I am the most overt thing you have ever done, do you understand?"
Watson nodded.
Holmes added his own bright handkerchief and bouttoniere to Watson's pocket and lapel. "A splash of color for you. You let me indulge in such things." Holmes then rose and replenished his own wardrobe with even more vividly coloured accessories from his dressing-table.
Watson sat watching Holmes's movements in the mirror, his eyes inevitably drawn to Holmes's face.
Holmes caught Watson's gaze and paused. "It might be helpful," he smiled softly, "if you were to stare at me with this same focused regard often tonight--if it does not make you uncomfortable."
Watson cleared his throat and looked away. "Um, I shall do my best."
"That is all I ask. You are quiet, but demonstrative in your own way, in small details that shall count when we are observed." Holmes straightened and turned from the table. "We shall socialise freely tonight, Watson, that I might easily glean information from these gentlemen about our delinquent young aristocrat. If you are ever uncertain of what to say, I shall give you a hint."
"Shall there--shall there be many people there?"
"A fair number." Holmes came near again, taking Watson's hand. "No one you or I know personally. Unless you have vices unknown to me, and an affluent sponsor as well?" he raised an eyebrow and smiled.
Watson blushed, but relaxed and shook his head.
Holmes then retrieved a conservatively coloured scarf and hung it at his neck. "I shall have to cover myself sufficently, so as to not draw attention on the street," he commented. "Are you ready?"
"Yes." Watson rose and followed Holmes out.
They paused at the sitting-room door to don their overcoats and hats. Watson inquired as to whether he should retrieve his revolver from his drawer or not, and Holmes dismissed the idea. "It is a sociable group," he smiled. Holmes wrapped his scarf over his face, and they then descended to the street.
A stately carriage awaited them, loaned undoubtedly by Holmes's client for the case. Any family crest on the vehicle was discreetly masked, as were the servants riding upon it. Holmes showed the driver a small note bearing the client's seal and an address which Holmes had scribbled down. The driver nodded and motioned for the footmen to open the carriage doors.
Stepping up into the vehicle, Watson and Holmes entered the elegant, plush interior, then settled down beside each other on one seat while the servants shut the doors and remounted the rear of the carriage. Without a word, Holmes almost carelessly reached over and tucked a calling card into Watson's inside breast pocket, patting the coat back into place. He did not bat an eye at Watson's vexed glance.
They still lacked for conversation as they rode away from Baker Street. Holmes pulled the curtains over both windows and unwound his scarf, setting it aside. Taking a small mirror from his pocket, he checked his appearance.
Watson removed and examined the exquisitely lettered calling card. "Lord John Adolphus Bradley Severton, of Dornby Groves." Watson searched through his mind to determine if this were an actual nobleman he had heard of, or a fictitious person. In either case, this was certainly a grand title to assume as a pseudonym.
Stirring beside Watson, Holmes replaced his mirror and at last ventured to break the silence. He turned and sat closer on the seat. "Watson," he remarked quietly, "I shall occasionally kiss you tonight. You understand?"
Watson took a moment to swallow, then nodded slowly.
"And you mustn't," Holmes leaned nearer, gazing into Watson's eyes, "seem startled or disgusted." He touched Watson's shoulder lightly, his voice now at a whisper, "I shall try to give you some warning." Very gently, Holmes pressed a kiss to Watson's lips.
Watson, apparently well prepared, did not withdraw, but in fact inclined himself forward to meet the kiss.
At length, Holmes sat back and watched Watson's eyes blink open again. He brushed the trace of ~lipstick off of Watson's lips, still watching Watson's every reaction minutely. "I shall try not to upset you." Holmes retrieved the calling card that Watson had dropped onto the seat and once more slipped it into Watson's inner pocket.