The Bolt-hole

By Lesley Johnson

a.k.a. 'the politician, the lighthouse and the trained cormorant'

Holmes stood in the shadowy office of the silent building now dimly lit by the pale cold first light of dawn and paused before the wardrobe that served as passageway into the secret room. It was six in the morning. He had walked out of this place, the location of his somewhat more comfortable bolt-hole, less than three hours earlier. He had left voluntarily, but in a way it seemed he had been driven out. He had left Russell there, left her to hold the field of battle, and had withdrawn from the scene.

However, he had said he would return and here he was, clean-shaven and with a fresh collar. He almost smiled at the idea of himself as a suitor calling --. But no, he could not smile. That was not the position he was in. Head lowered and eyes focused on the polished wood floor he listened but heard nothing, there was no sound of another presence beyond the passageway. With a last gathering of resolve he pushed his way through the concealing overcoats and stood up on the other side in the low soft light of the embers in the fireplace.

He knew at once that she was gone... and he smiled; the sudden feeling of relief and approval was a surprise.

At the inner doorway he saw the bed was undisturbed. Holmes paced quietly about the small apartment, noting the evidence of her movements. The kitchen area spotless, the dishes from their inadequate supper washed, dried and put away. A general tidiness revealed she had been awake for some time after he had gone. Only the rug on the back of the sofa had been moved and refolded. He lifted it and held it to his face; her scent lingered, a light and pleasant lavender contrast to the usual stale tobacco and dustiness of the room.

He carried the rug with him and sat, still in his overcoat, in his chair by the hearth. Breathing in her scent he folded his arms around the bundle of cloth, slouched down and contemplated the embers of the fire. He admitted to himself he was relieved that she had gone -- fled perhaps from the tension and the seeming confrontation (yes, that is what it had become) over what their partnership was to be.

He knew what he wanted. He knew he could not ask for it. It was her decision. His own wishes had been clear to him since the April day they had met on the hillside on the downs. Every subsequent day had confirmed that unexpected awakening of his heart. During the six years of their friendship he had willingly taken on the rôle of teacher and mentor and had used all his skills and his self-discipline to embody that persona and nothing more. Only on two occasions had his full feelings broken free and threatened to jeopardize the delicate balance of their working relationship. It had been just before the end of the Donleavy case, now nearly two year ago.

Months of acting out that vicious estrangement, in addition to his long-established veneer of disinterestedness, had taken a toll on him, both physically and mentally. It had been a performance entirely different to any other in his career. It had forced him to focus, not on mere disguise and behaviour as some character, but on his own emotions. To evoke a convincing display of hurt and anger he had had to call up, to bring to the surface, what would have come before: and this was every feeling of tenderness and passion he cherished towards Russell but of necessity had always suppressed. Hence the two near lapses.

The first occasion was when he had summoned her from the university between terms. Even that had been a miscalculation on his part. His reasons at the time had seemed logical -- to add material to the melodrama and draw out the hidden adversary. Yet the intensity of his pleasure at seeing her had made him question his true motivation. In the secrecy of the laboratory he had cast off the pretence, inviting her to relax the admirable control she demonstrated. But when she confessed to him her unhappiness and despair at the forced separation his heart had soared as if she had openly declared her love. God, how he had wanted to believe it. He had nearly broken down, the ache to hold her and comfort her had been so acute. She had, quite rightly, warned him off to preserve the charade. For the sake of the case only he had hoped.

The second time had been just weeks later as the case appeared to be coming to a head. He had gone to her College rooms to consult with her and she had already known the charade was finished. In sheer relief, he supposed, she had thrown herself into his arms. With the sudden shock of her embrace he had held her close and fervently pressed his face into her neck and her hair. It had cost him great effort to do no more -- his disguise as a priest had actually helped him to maintain his resolve -- and they had both quickly brought their focus back to the details of the case.

It was during this period of their self-enforced estrangement that she had begun to change, to mature, to give up the gamine trousers and tweeds, the girlish braids, and to dress like the young woman she was then becoming.

And now? Either she was not ready to make a decision, or had not been able to sort out her feelings towards him. At least he had no doubt that, once her decision was made, she was fully capable of informing him of what it was.

Six years ago she had stunned him with her perceptive assessment of his own attitude towards women, her calm statement that she thought he would find it impossible to have an other than all-inclusive relationship with a woman. She had, at so young an age, understood this on an intellectual level -- had spoken of the 'special burdens of a gifted mind.'

But now, in these few days, it had become something other than an intellectual puzzle between them. Since she had come down from Oxford for the holiday he could see that she understood their partnership had come to a turning point, not only because of the long-awaited milestone of reaching her majority -- she would be free to choose any course of action then -- but also because of her physical maturity. The change in the way she carried herself, the way she moved and spoke. She was no longer a child, and he could no longer behave towards her as if he was unaware of it.

Yet he was now, in effect, the victim of his own rôle-playing: through his own self-discipline he had withheld from Russell, as he had always suppressed with others, any expression of his desires, his wishes, and his vulnerability. Of course she should see him as a platonic friend, that is all he had ever shown to her. He had been trying to work out how to change her view of him in this regard, and more importantly whether he had any right to do so, when she had, not entirely unexpectedly, tracked him down in London.

But she had come to him in a frivolous mood and in her young man's mufti, reverting to the rôle of apprentice, forcing him back into the rôle of tutor. He was disappointed by her complacency, annoyed even, and this had provoked him into disparagingly raising the question that lay between them. He had not intended it; the circumstances were entirely wrong. But his irritation drove him on and he had bullied her into admitting (nearly admitting) that she had considered the idea of marriage to him. And he had purposely shocked her, had ridiculed her naïve idea of what marriage to him would entail. He had hurt her pride and she had bolted. He regretted the whole scene with her, and even more he had feared for her safety: his words had driven her away alone into the dangers of the city.

He understood that he had, at that moment, abdicated his guardianship position, but he had done it in the most egregious and irresponsible way. All his proper Victorian ethics and his sense of duty condemned and berated him. Immediately he had begun a desperate search for her, to no avail: the training he had given her and her own skills defeated him. He had discovered only the trail of her movements through the night, but he had at least seen that she kept herself safe from harm.

Eventually he discovered where she was, and as he waited in the rain and the dark for her to appear he came to the realization that an apology would be a step backwards, that the turning point had been passed. From that moment on he could no longer act as her tutor, teacher or mentor, and he would no longer be her guardian. He had now to find another way to be with her.

Could he learn to court her? No. He would be in a singularly false position to attempt that. And of all things he refused to make himself ridiculous. What then?

He suspected, feared almost, that she had her share of male admirers at the university. Of course she had. It was only a matter of time before one man's name amongst the others of her young friends would begin to appear more frequently in her conversation. She would spend more weekends away, holidays, and her choice would be made. Then she would be lost to him forever, their partnership merely a quaint period of strange enthusiasm in her youth that she would recall as a separate thing from her real life.

The thought of this brought a physical pain to his chest, a constriction of his breathing. Pressing the rough cloth to his face he inhaled deeply. He could see the emptiness of what his life would become without her, feel the weight of his years suddenly pressing down on him. His age had never seemed material to him when he was with her -- he felt timeless, strong, even youthful in her company.

Her interest in his work, their work now, had renewed his own dedication to his profession, his own engagement with life in general. Yet he recalled his admonition to Watson when his friend had first met her,

"I'll not have you worrying the child that she's in any way responsible for me..."

No, he could not, even now, consider asking her to accept that burden. He had no illusions that, in an alliance with himself, the benefits might outweigh the disadvantages. It had to be her choice, her decision to take him on.

But what if she had stayed, what if he had found her here, waiting for him? He closed his eyes and allowed himself to think of that, imagined the idea of her lying in the bed, warm and sleep-tousled. Would he have dared to take that as an invitation? He had left the suggestion with her, unspoken though it was, only brushing her shoulder as he departed. He had never touched her like that before, with that intention, and he had seen her controlled stillness, felt her inhalation as he passed behind her. Their awareness of each other had been electric.

No, he decided, opening his eyes, it was wrong to think of it. It might never be, and it was dangerous. Clearly the argument atop the hansom had jolted her into a new perception of things. Something would have to be done, that was obvious. But not now. She had gone; he did not know where she was. He had no right to look for her.

But she had given him a task. And like a knight errant he would perform it, with no certainty of winning his lady's favour.

He would see Miles Fitzwarren and do what he could. It was a task that was the least to his liking of anything she might have asked of him. But she had challenged him, almost shamed him into it with a quiet reference to one of the most painful things in his life, what he considered to be his worst failure. He had been shocked and hurt by her mention of it; though it had been fair comment under the circumstances.

This task was, he reflected gazing up at the ceiling, perhaps uniquely appropriate. She had largely been the reason for his own sobriety all these years. Not intentionally on her part of course. He was certain that she had no real idea of this, the disaster he had been falling towards six years ago; or that he had pulled himself out of the deadly spiral because of her mere presence. Watson knew it; Mrs. Hudson knew it; certainly Mycroft knew it.

If he could help Russell's friend by intervening with her fiancé, if he could make an attempt to perform this task that she had set him, it would be something to serve as an acknowledgement of the great benefit, the blessing she had been to him...

He winced with sudden sharp realization: he had done it -- he had put their relationship in the past tense. He had admitted the possibility of it ending. His gaze fell back to the hearth where the last glow of orange-red embers lay amidst the ashen grey coals and he took a long shuddering breath in, then let it out slowly.

From some part of his mind a melancholy sonnet surfaced, one he had come upon in his desultory reading during their pretended estrangement --

Against that time, if ever that time come,
When I shall see thee frown on my defects,
Whenas thy love hath cast his utmost sum,
Call'd to that audit by advis'd respects;
Against that time, when thou shalt strangely pass,
And scarcely greet me with that sun, thine eye,
When love, converted from the thing it was,
Shall reasons find of settled gravity;
Against that time do I ensconce me here
Within the knowledge of mine own desert,
And this my hand against myself uprear,
To guard the lawful reasons on thy part:
       To leave poor me thou hast the strength of laws,
       Since, why to love, I can allege no cause.

'Alas, poor Holmes,' he thought grimly to himself, 'reduced in his fond dotage to quoting poetry.' Tiredly he got up from the chair, replaced the rug on the back of the sofa, looked a last time around this now former sanctuary and then made his way out to begin the task. He could not imagine ever wanting to return here.

Sonnet XLIX, William Shakespeare