"We are setting the trap, Watson, and I would rather not use live bait," he says, only a little pointedly. He had thought that would be fairly obvious, but insulting Watson's observation skills doesn't seem exactly prudent at the moment.
"Besides, I think we both have the right to take him down."
That, add Holmes isn't sure he has quite the confidence necessary to take him down on his own, though he isn't eager to point that out to anyone. Moran had rattled him thoroughly, no doubt only because he'd been preying on Holmes during a valuable moment, when his mental state had been fragile. And being nearly shot by someone every few days tends to make one a little unsettled around that person, and Holmes doesn't think there's anything wrong about that.
He peers closely at Watson, at first just to make sure the makeup had been applied sufficiently, but then he realizes that he's kneeling in front of Watson and peering into his face, and his hands are resting on either side of his lap, and if he leaned in any closer, they'd be breathing in each other's air. He's fairly certain that emotion had appeared in his face, for it had taken him by surprise, and he turns away quickly, too afraid to see whatever reaction to it Watson might have.
"Now, you must dress the part," he says, forcing a brisk, casual tone to his voice.
The urge to catch Holmes up and kiss him had been very strong, for a moment. The mind might rage, the heart might ache, but the body remembered all the familiar smells and affectionate touches and all the meaning behind them. Watson turned away as he stood, feeling awkward and uncertain. "I think I wouldn't mind being able to help take this man down," he said, far more decisively than he was able to say many things at that moment.
"But very well, give me the rest of this costume." Watson moved to his desk, drew his revolver out of the drawer. There was no chance he would be going anywhere without this tonight.
He recovers the bookseller's long jacket and his hat, and he holds them out to Watson. It's strange to have waited so long to see Watson again, and now here he is, disguised almost beyond recognition. Almost. Well, hardly at all. He's still Watson in frame; it's still Watson's hair, and his warm eyes, and Holmes probably still knows every inch of his body, underneath the clothes and the costume. He swallows thickly and pushes a smile onto his face.
"Here you are. And, ah..." He trails off and smiles to himself, just a little. "You'll need lifts in your shoes. I have them here. I could only subtly adjust my height so far without being obvious about it."
Watson sighed. "Of course. Of course. It couldn't be simple. Will an inch or two really be that noticeable? How close am I planning on getting to this chap?"
He shrugged into the coat, slipping his revolver into his pocket. "Fine, I shall take the lifts. I do hope that's it. I haven't the patience for this sort of extensive disguise that you have." Never mind the acting ability; he wasn't sure how to act like an eccentric old bookseller. He clapped the hat on his head, looking at Holmes expectantly.
Oh. Of course he should expect to be snapped at. He'd almost been enjoying this though, so to be on the receiving end of Watson's irritation is a bit of a wake-up call. He digs the lifts out of his bag and hands them over, and he steps away, awkward and uncomfortable and at odds with himself. He wants to be out of Watson's presence because it kills him that he can't pull him into his arms, and yet he can't bear the thought of being away from him until they can meet up again.
"Not close at all, but we wouldn't want to raise his suspicion too soon. Believe me when I tell you, Watson, that this man is the best shot in all of London. In all of Europe." He pauses, remembering something Moran had revealed to him suddenly. "He's the man that shot you, all that time ago. That was a preview, actually. A warning. Of what was to come."
His eyes darken, and he looks away, down at his shoes.
Watson stopped short, looking over at Holmes with an eyebrow raised. He'd very nearly forgotten that incident -- sadly, being shot at was nothing terribly remarkable for him -- and he put a hand to his arm, to the second scar there.
"A warning," he repeated, thoughtful. If the shot that had hit him was meant as a warning and not an honest assassination, then he could well believe the man was a phenomenal shot.
There was less anger in his voice when he spoke again; having assembled the bits of costume, he turned to Holmes with his arms outstretched expectantly. "Well? How do I look? Convincing, I hope."
"Convincing indeed," Holmes offers, rallying himself again, and he scrutinizes Watson. "Though that's at least half due to my emulation of you in disguise." He offers a small smile, unsure if it's okay for him to joke like this again, if he can pull up these old jokes of theirs, if he's allowed, or if Watson will think now that these barbs are frustrating and annoying.
"Here are your books," he says as he gathers them, and he repacks his bag and hands it all over to him. "Now, I can at least reveal this part of the plan." He explains when and where they will meet; the location is an out-of-the-way restaurant (it may be ill-advised to eat the seafood).
"Do you have any questions?" he asks, still unsteady. Giving orders feels a little strange, too, when Holmes doesn't know where he stands with Watson.
Watson took the bag, and looked down at himself, feeling bizarrely lost. "If you've emulated me in disguise, I wouldn't be able to tell. I don't feel like myself at all."
He took his instructions with a sort of peculiar fatalism. It felt like three years ago, like any number of countless investigations, countless adventures. He could feel himself sliding into it, as though there hadn't been a gap of years and what still felt like a hole in his chest where his heart used to be. He belonged here, in this situation, for all that the hole was still there.
"I have many questions," Watson said, "but none that are pertinent." He shuffled a bit, and gave a sigh. It was hard to drag himself away, away from Holmes right now in this moment, but at the same time... he suspected he could use the space to mull things over. "I expect I will see you soon, then."
He hesitated a moment before managing to force himself away, and he turned to leave.
He isn't sure how to interpret this obvious unwillingness to part. It isn't as if there's affection rolling off Watson; if they were to stay together, he isn't sure what would happen, what they would talk about, if they would come to any kind of reconciliation. It's probably best that they do split up now; Holmes will be glad of the chance to think, anyway.
He feels rather like he and Watson have been stuck together with glue, and prying away from each other now will pull off skin.
"Yes, we will meet again soon. Try to... Do be careful," he says, emotion leaking out before he can stop it. He turns and starts for his room -- not his room anymore, he reminds himself with a pang -- because that's how he'll escape undetected. He really needs to separate himself from Watson, anyway, if either of them hopes to leave now.
"Besides, I think we both have the right to take him down."
That, add Holmes isn't sure he has quite the confidence necessary to take him down on his own, though he isn't eager to point that out to anyone. Moran had rattled him thoroughly, no doubt only because he'd been preying on Holmes during a valuable moment, when his mental state had been fragile. And being nearly shot by someone every few days tends to make one a little unsettled around that person, and Holmes doesn't think there's anything wrong about that.
He peers closely at Watson, at first just to make sure the makeup had been applied sufficiently, but then he realizes that he's kneeling in front of Watson and peering into his face, and his hands are resting on either side of his lap, and if he leaned in any closer, they'd be breathing in each other's air. He's fairly certain that emotion had appeared in his face, for it had taken him by surprise, and he turns away quickly, too afraid to see whatever reaction to it Watson might have.
"Now, you must dress the part," he says, forcing a brisk, casual tone to his voice.
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"But very well, give me the rest of this costume." Watson moved to his desk, drew his revolver out of the drawer. There was no chance he would be going anywhere without this tonight.
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"Here you are. And, ah..." He trails off and smiles to himself, just a little. "You'll need lifts in your shoes. I have them here. I could only subtly adjust my height so far without being obvious about it."
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He shrugged into the coat, slipping his revolver into his pocket. "Fine, I shall take the lifts. I do hope that's it. I haven't the patience for this sort of extensive disguise that you have." Never mind the acting ability; he wasn't sure how to act like an eccentric old bookseller. He clapped the hat on his head, looking at Holmes expectantly.
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"Not close at all, but we wouldn't want to raise his suspicion too soon. Believe me when I tell you, Watson, that this man is the best shot in all of London. In all of Europe." He pauses, remembering something Moran had revealed to him suddenly. "He's the man that shot you, all that time ago. That was a preview, actually. A warning. Of what was to come."
His eyes darken, and he looks away, down at his shoes.
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"A warning," he repeated, thoughtful. If the shot that had hit him was meant as a warning and not an honest assassination, then he could well believe the man was a phenomenal shot.
There was less anger in his voice when he spoke again; having assembled the bits of costume, he turned to Holmes with his arms outstretched expectantly. "Well? How do I look? Convincing, I hope."
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"Here are your books," he says as he gathers them, and he repacks his bag and hands it all over to him. "Now, I can at least reveal this part of the plan." He explains when and where they will meet; the location is an out-of-the-way restaurant (it may be ill-advised to eat the seafood).
"Do you have any questions?" he asks, still unsteady. Giving orders feels a little strange, too, when Holmes doesn't know where he stands with Watson.
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He took his instructions with a sort of peculiar fatalism. It felt like three years ago, like any number of countless investigations, countless adventures. He could feel himself sliding into it, as though there hadn't been a gap of years and what still felt like a hole in his chest where his heart used to be. He belonged here, in this situation, for all that the hole was still there.
"I have many questions," Watson said, "but none that are pertinent." He shuffled a bit, and gave a sigh. It was hard to drag himself away, away from Holmes right now in this moment, but at the same time... he suspected he could use the space to mull things over. "I expect I will see you soon, then."
He hesitated a moment before managing to force himself away, and he turned to leave.
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He feels rather like he and Watson have been stuck together with glue, and prying away from each other now will pull off skin.
"Yes, we will meet again soon. Try to... Do be careful," he says, emotion leaking out before he can stop it. He turns and starts for his room -- not his room anymore, he reminds himself with a pang -- because that's how he'll escape undetected. He really needs to separate himself from Watson, anyway, if either of them hopes to leave now.
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