As It Should Be

by Gean' Fuqua

I finally found a quiet place, a stack of paper and time to write, hardly knowing where to begin. Perhaps in the middle as the end has yet to occur. Now I almost laugh at my fury at the beginning of this trip, which was the beginning of the middle.

Multiple circumstances had placed us in London, in the flat of my brother-in-law, in a general state of confusion in a most frustrating case. I had been weeks away from my chosen field of writing and theology. Instead, I had been involved in my husband's true profession, and now, by that association I had been cornered, tricked and badgered into heaping folly on fool's errand.

My husband and his brother determined I should be the one to follow a slim thread of possible evidence that might be found at the end of a weeklong journey in the midst of winter! This journey beginning tomorrow only added to my frustration, my ill feelings, and my inner turmoil.

Death had surrounded us for weeks and the toll of one case following on the heels of another and another bore heavily on my state. Two days previously my husband had taken a serious beating at the hands of thugs. We had yet to determine if the attack was connected to our current investigations or a loose end of a previous one!

I was turned inward to my own thoughts so intently that I was unaware I was no longer alone in the room until long slim fingers touched my shoulders.

"Russell, Russell."

I started at his touch and the low smooth sound of his voice. I straightened my shoulders, breathed deeply, and blinked rapidly--not wanting him to see how near I was to tears.

Of course, it was hopeless. He knew. As I turned, his fingertips gently touched my wet eyelashes and he pulled me into his arms. We stood together for many minutes before he spoke.

"We can soothe this beast within. Come, young wife."

I came. I protested when he bent to remove my shoes. He was still recovering with evident bruises and stiffness in his moves, but he quickly disregarded my protest.

"I assure you I will do nothing that causes you or me pain." His eyes sparked with humor--the first I had seen in days. He disappeared for a minute returning with a stack of large warm towels.

Now it was my turn to find humor. "Oh, Holmes, here? How can you? Your hands are raw! And in Mycroft's guest room?" My face flushed as I thought of what I had just said.

His response was to smirk as only he could do. "Move over here," he ordered as he spread one towel on the bed.

I gave up and moved. Each piece of my clothing was removed and replaced by one of the warm towels. There was no need or reason for either of us to speak. Holmes had introduced me to this ritual early in our marriage. He had been a strident devotee of Turkish baths and massage for years. For me, he provided the gentle effleurage form of massage that induced hours of lassitude of my mind and body. I was a willing participant knowing I would emerge from underneath the towels and Holmes' hands feeling like a new person.

In minutes, days of weariness lifted from my shoulders and my mind. His hands moved across my shoulders, down my arms, and between my fingers. Thumbs moved down my spine to the small of my back. My mind closed to current events and especially those of the past ten weeks.

I lay in the guestroom of one of the most powerful and influential men in London getting a massage. While that was remarkable, it was even more so that my husband, Sherlock Holmes, had married me, Mary Russell, when I was 21, and was providing the best method of relieving tension and repairing feelings that I had ever experienced. Well, the second best method. I was able to smile now and turned my face to find my husband. His hands never faltered as they moved along my legs, yet his eyes met mine.

"You can always make me feel better, Holmes. Come to bed now."

"Not yet." He twisted his finger. "Roll over."

I rolled. His hands moved slowly to my knees. His thumbs exerted slight pressure as each moved up my legs until each hand rested on my hips. Fingertips moved along my ribs up the breastbone to my neck. My body felt like it was floating outside my skin. I could not remember how long I had been in bed, perhaps hours. My troubled state was calmed if not gone.

Holmes stretched beside me pulling bedcovers over us. He rested his head on one hand and used the other to continue to move his fingers over my face and into my hair.

Finally, he spoke. "You are always with me, Russell. I will always be with you." His fingers traced my jaw to the area just behind my ear. He whispered, "Right here." His lips touched that particular area of the hollow of my jaw. He moved my hand to the place on my chest above my heart. "And right here."

He knew me better than I knew myself. I would do anything he asked. But neither of us had a need to say another word. His long arms wrapped around me but not before I had managed to unbutton his shirt and wrap my arms around him. Rest following massage was an essential feature of its benefits and I was asleep in minutes.

Hours later I stirred awake. Holmes' slow breathing played across my chest. His head rested along my shoulder. These were the times that I realized how much I love this gentle, passionate man, nearly four decades older than me. I moved slightly to see his face in the soft light. It was enough to cause his eyes to flutter open. A second of confusion touched his eyes, then a smile appeared on his lips and his eyes twinkled.

"Russell."

"Holmes."

It was a response and a reply that had been made many times in many situations. Yet I always returned in memory to a harrowing horseback ride with both of us hanging to each other and those were the only two words either of us could manage to say. In reality, that had happened years ago but the memory remained as fresh as yesterday.

I moved nearer to him; my hands searching for him as he did the same. We both had a common destination for our actions and it was not rest or sleep.

Some time later we lay tangled in each other limbs, both of us wakeful, but rested and comfortable. I wanted to remain here for hours but knew I could not.

"Comme il faut" were the quiet words from my husband. "There is no reason to rush. You do not leave until late today," he continued. Spoken like a true male. "I will miss your company, Mary Russell. However, you have done enough to this Methuselah to give me reason to follow you if you do not return in a short time."

I laughed before I responded with my lips placed against his until we needed to breathe. "You typical male. Don't even start." I whispered into his ear. I did not have one article of clothing packed for a two to three week trip. However, I did not stir; we were as we should be.

His voice changed slightly as he said, "I would not send you on a fool's errand. There are things one woman can learn from another much faster and easier than an unknown male."

I nodded by head, knowing his statement was true. 'I know. I don't want to return to find that you have put all the pieces together without my small contribution adding something."

He pulled me closer and wrapped the bedclothes around us. "I promise I will not. Even if all the pieces are there, but I think you may find vital data. There are too many questions that can not be answered tracing paper." He shifted his position to face me. "I will also spend some time wrapping up lose ends from Miss Ruskin's affairs as well as some of those things we encountered in Dartmoor. I will miss you but we will be busy working for the same goal."

At the mention of Dorothy Ruskin's name, a rush of emotions filled my body.

"Now, Russell." His fingers moved to my hair. "My brave wife. We did all we could for her. It was not enough." His lips touched by eyelids and moved to my hair. "Sleep, sweet wife. Do not let what you can not control overpower what you can."

I did sleep. When I woke, Holmes was out of bed, looking better than he had a right to look, which only worked to make us linger longer than usual.

He had made progress in packing my traveling trunks by throwing my available clothing inside the open cases. The Quinbys were on their way with whatever clothing I had left in the flat. I would probably have too little underclothing and nothing that matched. At least Mrs. Q would pack my things and put some order to the chaos.

Holmes huddled with his brother, who left us shortly. Something was said about not leaving me alone. At the time I thought they referred to the packing and was somewhat offended that the brothers thought I needed company to pack. I had been on my own before in our investigations yet my contributions had never been as significant as those of Holmes. This journey would be longer and farther from Holmes than I had ever been. Therein lay part of my uneasiness. At times I needed him.

By the time we reached my boat, I was exhausted but somewhat appeased for the need of this trip, unpractical and futile as it might prove. "As in carrying coals to Newcastle" was my final comment.

Holmes got me on board then returned to stand at dockside. The ship pulled away and he remained there. I found a place at the rail to watch as the ship slipped away and raised my arm. Holmes looked splendid in his black topcoat; he needed a hat in the wind. I thought he had not seen me until his arm raised and his eyes met mine. I kept my arm up until long after the dock disappeared in fog and haze. I turned to my rooms venting my own curse in several languages in a burst of frustration. Wasted time and effort on my part, I thought.

It would take much longer to write out the complete and complex story of this case.

I put my pen aside. Funny how things worked out in this case. Life is like that, I thought. I was anxious to return, see this evidence I had collected put in its rightful place, and, quite unexpectedly, it had become the most vital piece of this case. Most importantly I wanted to have Holmes near me. "Comme il faut" came to my thoughts--as it should be. I placed my fingers against the hollow of my jaw and smiled.