John sat and rather literally twiddled his thumbs, pausing every once in a while to realign the tapping of his feet and pluck at the fuzz on the duvet on the hotel bed.

Sherlock hadn't said how long he would be gone, but John had dutifully texted him the room number. His instructions had been rather explicit.

As soon as they had pulled up to the hotel, Sherlock had grabbed John's arm, just as he began reaching for the door handle. He'd leaned in close and whispered lowly into John's ear.

"I need you to follow the instructions I'm about to give you very precisely, John. Do you understand me?"

John had nodded, confused at the time. Confused still.

"Go into the hotel, standing as straight and tall as you can, swing your arms a bit, like a swagger. Go up to the concierge and lean over the desk, staring fiercely at him. Be intimidating, Ask him for a double—book it under a Mr. Wesson. Pay cash—I have enough; don't worry. Be brusque and curt with him. Then go upstairs, text me the room number. Wait in the room and do not open the door for anyone. When I get to the room, I will knock five times, pause, and then twice more so you will know it is me. Wait to shower until I get back.

"Where are you going?"

Sherlock just glared at him. "Will you do exactly as I say?"

"Yes, of course. It's a bit strange, but I—"

"John. Do it. Now go. Remember: let no one in save me. Drenkle's men could be anywhere." He shoved a handful of cash into John's pocket and all but pushed him out the door.

So John had done as asked, waiting for Sherlock to come back, worrying quietly. He checked the windows even though they were on the fifth floor, drew the drapes, and made sure the door was bolted. Then he pushed the bed back into the corner so it was away from the windows, and kept himself out of any possible line of sight.

He jumped at the first rap, counting to five, hearing nothing, then two more sharp raps. Undoing the lock quickly, he pulled the door open, jaw dropping at the haughty woman that swept into his room, dumping shopping bags on the bed.

"Shut the door, John!" Sherlock's voice hissed as he quickly circled the room, eyes darting around,

"Sh-sherlock!" John closed the door by feel, staring at what must be his friend underneath the cream blouse, loose slacks, sleek flats, sharp blazer, and long dark curls. "Oh my god. Is that really you?"

Tossing his head, Sherlock's voice coming from that image was entirely incongruous. "Don't be an idiot, John,. We're being hunted. They're looking for two men, one tall and dark-haired, the other coming to about the man's eyes and a dingy blonde. Therefore, we need to not look like the people whom they are pursuing."

"So you dressed as a woman?" John choked.

"I've been told I am adept at pulling off women's clothing," he replied stiffly.

"Oh?" John felt his brows go up. "By whom?"

At this, Sherlock dropped his gaze, cheeks pinking, and he mumbled words that sounded vaguely like "Mummy and Mycroft...Christmas...school play."

John grinned. "So me? My disguise is being... Mr. Wesson?"

"Yes." Sherlock rifled through the bags, pulling out a box of hair dye. "This first." Tossing it to John, Sherlock removed the blazer and rolled up the sleeves on his blouse.

"Black?" John protested.

"To the bathroom," Sherlock ordered. Placing a towel around John's neck once he had knelt in front of the sink, he grabbed the box and made swift work of John's hair, his long fingers massaging his scalp. Sherlock talked as he worked, explaining how their disguises would help them search for Drenkle and remain in the city. They would go to the latest victim's funeral tomorrow and question the family and friends.

"You make a striking woman," John murmured, lulled by the head massage.

The fingers stopped abruptly, and he glanced up at the mirror to see Sherlock's surprise fading into a sort of smirk.

"Geeze. Sorry. That's weird."

"It's fine, John," Sherlock murmured. "Let that sit for 30 minutes. Now. For you. I've got you a fresh set of clothes for Mr. Wesson. A suit for tomorrow and slacks and dress shirts for other days."

"So basically dressing like you."

"If you wish. And you need to be taller."

"I can't just grow on command."

"Of course not," Sherlock scoffed. "I've got you lifts. You'll be about two inches taller. Maybe three. Nearly my height."

"Wow."

"Yes. Now you won't be at the general vicinity of my ears when we stand side by side. I shall only wear flats. A woman my height would be self-conscious enough as it is; she would not want to be taller by wearing heels."

John hummed, eyes shut as Sherlock went on about questioning the family and methodology to make it subtle. The killer might be there. He liked to see the effect his work had on those close to the victim. Sherlock was going to be a friend from uni—Susan.

"Are you wearing make-up?" John blinked at him.

"Yes. Most women do."

"Oh. Right."

"Yes, John. Rinse your head. Or shower. But make it quick. I need to tell you more about Matthew Wesson, Susan's husband.

Buttons half undone on his shirt already, John squawked after Sherlock's retreating back. His friend only laughed.

By the time he was done examining his clean dark hair (eyebrows too), Sherlock was in the bed. Face as usual and dressed in his habitual night-time wear, he was looking through some papers while John pulled on pants and flannel bottoms. "Not a bad job on my hair, Sherlock. Is yours a wig?"

"No. Too obvious. Extensions. Get in bed."

"What?"

Sherlock fixed him with a look, closing the file. "It's a queen, John. There is room for two."

"Yes...but..." He felt his cheeks go hot.

"Get in," Sherlock repeated irritably.

John grumbled and stalked to the bed, shoving back the sheets to slide between them. "I'm warning you now—and not apologising for it—but I may end up on your side by morning."

"Matthew Wesson is a hard man, a doctor, so it shall be easier for you, only child, and angry at the world. His father made life difficult for him after his mother passed young. You'll scowl a lot. He married Susan six years ago. They're in love, despite arguing frequently," Sherlock said, lacing his fingers.

"Not unlike us then..."

"Susan is proud but emotional. An interior designer—giving me the freedom to ask for a tour of the house—and owns her own firm. Small, but well-to-do. She is proud of her husband, but frustrated with him for wanting children she cannot have."

"Wow..." John sighed, scooting down the bed to put his head on the freshly plumped pillow. "You can be that."

"Of course, John."

"And you just made this up? Or is this some kind of contingency plan?"

He felt the bed move as Sherlock shrugged. "We needed disguises. My brain provided the detail. Good night, John. You're falling asleep."

"'Night, Sherlock." He heard Sherlock hum in response, the light flicking out behind his eyelids, and then he was asleep.

John woke, the next morning as usual at 6 A.M., his arm curled around Sherlock's waist, one leg pushed flush against his curled form. He swallowed his groan and arched away from the other man.

"Good morning, John."

"Sherlock!" He pulled away quickly, pressing his lips shut against the apology forming in his throat. He said he wasn't going to apologise for his propensity for curling around the nearest object in the bed. Flat on his back, John flopped an arm over his eyes.

"Relax, John. It was an exercise as much for me as yourself. If we're to be playing married, then we might as well be comfortable touching. This was easiest."

This time John did groan, swinging his feet to the floor. "It's too early for this..."

"Get dressed, John, and pack your things. Your clothes are laid out over the chair, shoes beneath. From now on," Sherlock said as he rose, "I am Susan Wesson. Do not slip up." He pulled the baggy t-shirt off, dropping it on the bed.

John rolled his eyes, stumbling towards the bathroom. "I won't mess up, Susan."

Sherlock smirked, picking up a lavender blouse and sliding it over his shoulders.

By the time John finished in the bathroom, Sherlock was dressed and leaning over the dresser, towards the mirror make-up in hand. John wandered closer, fascinated as Sherlock swept the brush over the palette before highlighting his naturally pale cheeks.

"You never watched your girlfriends put on make-up, John?" Sherlock asked, voice tinged with amusement as he met John's eyes through the mirror.

"What? Yes... I just... how do you know what to do?"

"Theatre, John. It's not terribly difficult. All one needs to do is highlight and shadow the contours of the face. It's like painting."

John shook his head. "You're amazing...!"

"Finish getting dressed, John. We're going to breakfast."

"We are?"

"Mm. We are Matthew and Susan Wesson. They go to breakfast. Therefore, we go to breakfast. When we check out, John, I want you to complain to the concierge about the room being too small, the bathroom dirty. Think of something. We'll be staying somewhere else tonight."

John nodded, pulling on the fine linen shirt. As expected, it fit him perfectly.

"Also, do something different with your hair."

Sherlock quickly packed a small purse, setting it on the bed while he came to John and straightened his collar more to his liking before doing up his tie quicker than John had ever been able. Smoothing the fabric across John's shoulders, Sherlock searched John's face, smirked, and then dropped a kiss to his cheek. Smirked some more when John flushed.

"This is going to take some getting use to..." he muttered, sitting to pull on the shoes.

"Acclimate quickly, John. Walk back and forth half a dozen times."

"What?"

"Get used to the shoes. How many times are you going to make me repeat myself today..."

John sighed and did as instructed, listening to Sherlock rummaging around packing. John stumbled a bit with the extra height, but adjusted by the third pass. He packed his own belongings with military efficiency and then slung his jacket over his shoulder.

"Ready, darling?" Sherlock—Susan asked, voice soft and husky, like she'd smoked too many cigarettes.

John whirled. Susan had shades on, a floral scarf looped around her neck that complimented the lavender blouse, one hand gripping the handle of her suitcase, the other canted on her hip. "How many times is too many to be astonished in a twenty-four hour time period...? Honestly, Susan..." John grinned.

Sher—Susan grinned back. "Let's check out then. And get breakfast."

It took John well through breakfast, a stroll, checking in at their new hotel, and the cab ride over to the funeral for John to get used to Sher—Susan's husky crooning voice, swaying walk, haughty affectionate manner, and physical closeness. It helped if he tried not to see Sherlock beneath Susan. See the woman not the man. The problem with that was that John found Susan ridiculously striking. Not his usual type at all. But still... Sherlock was attractive enough as a man, if he could admit it... He shook his head as they walked up to the house. Susan cast him an arched look and John nodded to say that he was fine.

Susan knocked and became appropriately red-eyed and weepy, shocking John again, and greeted the woman who answered. "I heard about the funeral for Cassie! I'm Susan; this is my husband, Mattie. Cass an I were good friends in uni. I'm so sorry for your loss, Morgan."

"Susan?" The woman—sister? looked confused but accepted Sherlock's warm hug. "Cass never mentioned you..."

Susan ducked her head and flushed as she pulled away. "We...we fought last time... She..." Susan sniffed loudly and brushed away a tear. "I'm sorry! It was a stupid argument..."

The woman, Morgan, smiled kindly. "Please. Come in."

Susan smiled gratefully, linking her arm with John's. "Thank you so much." She lead him through the door and guided him to a seat. "Sit, darling."

"Have I told you you're amazing?"

"Not for an hour and a half."

"Jesus... There's a BAFTA performance right there."

Susan smiled, pinching the back of his arm. "Careful, Mattie."

John scowled, but took the hint. Sh—Susan looked around the room at the people, and John could fairly see him cataloguing their lives. So while Sherlock watched everyone else, John watched Sherlock. Susan. "Is he here?" John asked quietly while Susan pretended to examine her nails.

"I don't know yet, Mattie."

"Mattie? Really? Must you call me that?" he groused.

Susan grinned. "There you are. My husband. The grinch."

"I hate you." John straightened and folded his arms across his chest. He shifted again and then stripped his jacket off, hanging it neatly over the back of his chair. It was hot in here, despite the linen shirt.

"Such a lovely shirt on you, darling," Susan said, brushing her fingers across his shoulder. "You always did look nice in blue."

John grunted, not even surprised when he saw that Sherlock's nails were painted a pale pink. "You sure pull out all the stops, Su."

She smiled, all teeth "You know me..." Then she turned to the person who sat on down on her other side and chatted away—fashion, dogs, children, everything. Susan was a brilliant conversationalist.

"Hey, mate. You're at a funeral. I understand you're supposed to look grim, but don't look so stroppy..." A voice said to John's right as a man sat.

"Sorry. Wife's friend. Don't want to be here," he grumbled, looking at his watch. If Sherlock could do it, so could he...

The man grinned briefly and held out a hand. "Spencer Tavis. Friend of Cassie's from work."

John nodded. "Matthew Wesson. Su's a friend from uni."

At the mention of her name, Susan turned away from her new friend and extended a hand. "Pleasure."

"All mine," the man said, eyes roving.

John cleared his throat, brows dipping in.

"Mattie!" Susan said playfully, kissing him on the cheek again. "Sorry, Spencer was it? Mattie's just a bit possessive. But I'm afraid I am taken." She took her hand back, exchanged a few lines and then went back to talking to the woman.

"I can't even believe her..." John muttered.

Spencer laughed. "Some woman you've got there."

"You're telling me."

Spencer nattered on and finally everyone quieted as the funeral started. John eyed Sherl—Susan out of the corner of his eyes, watching with a sort of awe as she cried quiet tears, dabbing at her eyes in such a way as to not smear her make-up. He tried not to think about how Sherlock crying was a better performance than everything he'd seen on the telly lately.

"Mattie, darling, stop staring," Sherlock whispered in his ear, leaning against his shoulder.

John jumped. "Jesus..."

"I didn't know you found me so fascinating," Susan murmured.

John stiffened.

Susan patted his leg and then shifted back, a smug tilt of his lips.

John scowled.