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Of course my Watson would never dishonour his own uniform by donning it for the purpose of subterfuge. Therefore when I wished him disguised as a colonel for a case, I acquired the full complement and let him adjust it as he saw fit. A little whitening brushed into his hair and moustache, a line or two penciled at his eyes, a monocle, and I barely refrained from saluting Watson myself.
A simple foray: attend the ball, let Watson distract every woman (and more than a few men) with his presence, and my own unnoticed self would search the estate.
The latter part was harder than I'd anticipated. Watson's natural military bearing – right down to moving through the room with the gravity of a line officer – was mesmerising. Every woman in the room danced with him, and all I could do was watch his fluid movements from the top of the stairs for a moment's envy before returning to my work.
I found the letters and banknotes that pinpointed my client's blackmailer and confiscated the damning evidence. Returning to the ballroom I caught the eye of the dashing officer, and the colonel gravely announced his exit to the mournful exhortations of the host and several guests.
I'm afraid we quite spoilt that uniform during that long dark cab-ride back to Baker.