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“I already told you, no.”
“Come, now, Watson. No one will ever be able to identify you, and I need someone listening in that room.”
I kept my gaze firmly on my book. He had not found many limits of what I would do to help him, but this undoubtedly qualified.
“Then do it yourself.”
“Watson—”
“I said no, Holmes. Stop asking.” The paper crackled as I turned a page. “I don’t care how many people won’t recognize me, nor do I care that we are in a completely different country, with different customs. You are not getting me into a dress.”
“It is not a dress. Ask any local.”
I did not need to ask any local. Holmes’ case had taken us to Morocco, where most of the population practiced Islam and most of the Islamic population followed the Sunni branch of Islam. When only the female half of the population wore the full-face covering and the long, flowing robe that looked like a dress, Holmes tried to get me into a dress.
I refused to wear a dress. Another turn of a page effectively said as much.
“But—”
“Holmes, have you researched the laws on crossdressing?”
The question halted his renewed attempt mid word, and I glanced up to find him looking at me with a frown. Of course not, that said.
“You know very well that many countries have made it an arrestable offence,” I continued, “especially when a man dresses as a woman. It’s one thing to do it in London. One of the Yarders probably asked you to help with the case anyway, but they will at least listen to what you were trying to do. Doing so here, though, where the government follows the Islamic tenets, would see us in jail. The fallout could also raise questions back home on just why the famous detective’s widower lackey wanted to infiltrate a group of single women.”
The ring on my right hand grew somehow heavier, but while his ears reddened at the insinuation, he scowled at me rather than follow the conversation’s logical progression.
“You are not my lackey.”
Yes, I was, and I had accepted as much long ago. We hardly needed to discuss that today, however, and when he opened his mouth to continue arguing, I closed my book and left the room.
Holmes’ ill-thought need for the dramatic had sent me to the Yard’s jail cells overnight more than once before my marriage. I refused to let it happen in a foreign country a fortnight’s travel from home.
I also refused to wear a dress, but that mattered slightly less than staying out of jail. I settled on my bed, my novel open on my lap, as Holmes resumed the pacing that had led to such a horrible idea.
Mary would have found the entire conversation hilarious.