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“To have a body is most difficult,” Holmes said, glaring at his own in the mirror. “I cannot say I am enjoying the experience at present, Watson.”
Watson’s reflection smiled, just a little. He was always most kind about Holmes’ difficulties with life, and so Holmes did not begrudge him a little amusement. “I know, old man. But if you wish to continue your case, it is necessary to tend to your body somewhat.”
That was true, and ordinary to have a case would make it easy for Holmes to maintain himself. However, he had not been sleeping at present, suffering a great many horrible nightmares. They were not, at least, recurring in a way that suggested prescience, but nevertheless impacted his ability to cope with any other task.
In this instance, with a great many tasks. He had gotten out of bed, smoked his morning cigarette, and had coffee. There, his ability to cope with the world ended.
“I suppose I cannot go out like this,” he said with a sigh, regarding his disheveled appearance in the mirror. Hair unbrushed and hanging across his brow, cheeks unshaven and lightly stubbled, his nightshirt wrinkled. “Yet I fear I cannot tend to it myself. Perhaps you might assist me, Watson?”
Watson beamed at him. “I should be proud and happy to do so, Holmes.”
He began with coaxing Holmes to stand, extracting him from the confines of his nightshirt, and helping him to dress other than his jacket. Even that was overwhelming, but less so with Watson selecting the order of steps and aiding him in following them.
Next, Watson directed him to sit and shaved his stubble. Holmes refused to let a barber with him near a razor—too easy an assassination method—but he did not fear the blade against his throat so long as it was in Watson’s hand.
Once Holmes was properly shaven, Watson took up a comb and began to put his hair in order. “Would you like it styled in your usual fashion, Holmes?” he asked, drawing the tip of the comb to leave a neat part. “Or would you rather I just brush it? I know that sometimes having it styled is uncomfortable when you’re already overwhelmed.”
Holmes consulted his Bradshaw, which lay open on the dressing table, and flicked a smile at Watson. “Just brushed, my boy. Otherwise, we shall miss our train!”