“Okay, yeah, that’s completely not working,” John says with a slight wince.
“John, I am a master of disguise,” Sherlock says coolly. “I once passed myself off as a five foot two blonde pole-dancer with a dyspeptic mother and a next-door neighbor who grows competitive Brussels sprouts. I spent two weeks selecting and perfecting these garments.”
“Uh huh,” John says, “and England spent nine hundred years and a bloody Empire making sure your face would look ludicrous on top of them.”