Usual disclaimers apply.

A MOMENT OF BEING

It has often been remarked upon that when Sherlock Holmes took up the mantle of private consulting detective the stage suffered a grievous loss, for my friend was a remarkable actor. He threw himself into a part, with the assistance of the most meticulous disguises, and had fooled me on several occasions. I did often wonder how and why it was that he had discovered this talent in himself, but he would never tell me, preferring instead to dazzle me and others with his brilliance.

"You should have seen it, Watson! Tavistock didn't recognise me at all – he confessed the whole thing in front of witnesses, boasted about it, if you please! Lestrade was waiting for him at the door." Holmes smiled triumphantly as he sat before his dressing table, returning his appearance to normal after another of these ventures. Some hours before I saw him off in the character of a drunken dock hand, and at no stage as he made his way down the street would anyone have believed him to be anything other than the inebriated workman he pretended to be. The transformation was always complete, and the reversal fascinating to watch as the real Holmes emerged from his disguise like a butterfly from a chrysalis. He was in a tremendous mood, a happy change from the morose individual with whom I had shared these rooms before Lestrade arrived with the promise of a new investigation. Exultation consumed him, a euphoria which only the satisfactory conclusion of a case could bring. I could not help but join with his good humour, for it was infectious, and I knew from experience that it was unlikely to last for long.

"Excellent, Holmes. A crowning achievement," I said, and I meant it. Though the operation had been a complicated and dangerous one, whatever my personal misgivings at the risk involved, I was nevertheless proud of him.

"Thank you, Watson!" he replied gaily, wiping his face with a towel. The last vestiges of his were disguise now gone, restoring his own self. The familiar features, the aquiline nose and the strong chin, were revealed beneath the padding and paint. As he lowered the cloth, his eyes met those of his reflection, and he froze. In a moment his joyful mood evaporated, and I could have sworn that in those few brief seconds a haunted, hunted expression flickered over his face.

"Holmes?" I ventured, puzzled by this reaction. I had never before seen him as he was in that instant, peering at the face in the glass as though it belonged to a stranger. "Is everything all right?"

There was no response. I might not have been there, for his full attention was taken with whatever it was he saw in the mirror. Concerned, I stood and crossed the small room, laying a gentle hand on his arm.

"Holmes?" I said softly.

He jumped, like a man suddenly awoken from a dream. His eyes widened in momentary panic before realisation that it was only me set in and he calmed.

"Are you quite well?" I enquired. "Would you like me to - "

"No!" The vehemence of his reply seemed to startle even him, as he shook his head and said more quietly, "No, thank you, Doctor. I am quite all right."

"Are you sure, old man? You looked as though you had seen a ghost."

A small smile quirked one corner of his mouth. "Nothing so fanciful. I merely caught sight of someone who took me by surprise."

I found myself frowning. "Whoever was it?"

"Myself," he replied curtly, and threw the towel aside, reaching for his coat.

I asked, but he would say no more on the matter, and I am still none the wiser as to the cause of that odd exchange, even all these years later. Holmes has always been notoriously reticent about his past, revealing no more than he deems strictly necessary even to me, one who has been a friend and comrade for over two decades.

I could not help wondering about his words, however. Has his chosen profession, with its danger and its theatricality, been a means of escape for him from a past and a life he would rather forget? Is the Sherlock Holmes I have known all this time a construct of his own devising? I cannot imagine that he has been living a lie for so long, that he would deceive me and the world to such an extent, but there is deep within my heart the suspicion that he has spent much of his life trying to escape something or someone.

What, or who, is it that still has the power to haunt him and catch him off-guard in such a manner? Even now I cannot help but wonder exactly what it was he saw for those few moments in the mirror, and why his own reflection should have had such an effect upon him.

I do know, however, that Holmes will probably never tell me. He has too much pride, and is too adept at hiding his true feelings to confide something so personal. All I can do is wonder, and leave him his mysteries.

After all, he would not be the man I admire above all others without them.

FIN

This fic was inspired by an anecdote from director Paul Annett which can be found in David Stuart Davies's Dancing In The Moonlight, regarding Jeremy Brett's reaction to seeing his own reflection in the mirror when removing the make-up for the drunken-looking groom in A Scandal in Bohemia. Apparently JB was stymied when he saw himself looking back at him, and dried completely, nervous about being himself on camera.