Bride Visit
by Joanne K. Seward,
a.k.a. "...a prim bun which would soften as the day went on"
Sherlock Holmes stood in the doorway of his cottage in Sussex, a broad smile warming his austere features.
"Watson, come in. Come in," he repeated, and clapping an arm around my shoulders, ushered me into the large sunny room that served almost every purpose.
"Holmes, it's not true, is it?" I demanded, my worried tone far from the ebullient one of my longtime friend.
"Is what not true, Watson?" Holmes inquired waving me into a chair then coiling his lanky form into the old basket chair he favored.
Perched on the edge of the chair, I held out the flimsy telegram I'd received late the previous day. "This," I replied.
Holmes took the paper, gave it a cursory glance, then handed it back to me. "Was my language unclear? Russell insists it sometimes is, but this certainly seems simple enough."
"Not the language, Holmes, but, but--" I cleared my throat, unable to continue.
Holmes smiled again. "Well, of course it's true, Watson. And now you've come to wish us well. Russell will be most pleased. Most pleased, indeed. Odd, she hasn't come to greet you. She must be outside." He stood. "If you will give me a moment, I will go find her."
"No!" I exclaimed. "Not yet," I amended. "Later. First we must speak privately."
Holmes studied me speculatively, those acute eyes of his taking in everything from the splotch of mud on my left trouser cuff (the result of a misstep into a pothole--truly, Holmes needs to have his drive re-graveled) to the now nearly white hair on my head.
"Is something wrong, Watson? Are you ill? You appear--" he paused, seeming to search for the proper word. "--Worn," he said finally, as he sank back into his chair.
"If I appear 'worn,' Holmes, it's thanks to you. Tell me, please," I said, again holding out the flimsy sheet of paper, "that this is some sort of joke. A case you're working on--or one of your masquerades, perhaps..."
"It is not." Holmes replied simply.
"But--but--" I could feel myself beginning to splutter. I drew a breath. "You're almost three times her age. She's little more than a child. Holmes, if you've somehow ingratiated yourself with her, twisted the affection in which she holds you--"
Holmes thrust himself from his chair and went to gaze out the window, his back to me. "I do not believe I have done that and you know how furious Russell would be to hear you call her a child."
Shaking my head, I struggled with my conscience. I must say the next words but already I hated myself for doing so. "Holmes, it's--it's practically incestuous. I'd not have believed it of you. Of all men, your sense of honor--decency--" I sputtered to a stop, capable of controlling the emotion that shook me only when I was silent.
Holmes, too, was silent a moment, his back rigid. His voice, when he spoke was cold. "I doubt the term incest has any place in this discussion. I am not her father, Watson, nor am I her uncle or brother."
I stood and crossed the room to take up a position a few feet from my old friend. "You have been all of those and more, Holmes. To take advantage of that, of her innocence and trust, goes against all sense of decency."
Once again, I forced myself to breathe. To speak calmly, rationally. As a surgeon who finds himself forced to recommend the removal of a vital part. "You can have the marriage annulled, Holmes. A divorce would be too public, too embarrassing, for both of you, but a quiet annulment...Surely Mycroft could arrange it. I doubt there'd be any questions asked, but if need be, as your physician--"
At the word 'annulled' Holmes spun to face me, his grey eyes glittering and I had to resist the sudden urge to take a backward step. This stone-like visage was the one so many wrongdoers had faced. Never before had it been turned on me.
"You could what, Doctor?" he demanded, his voice high, almost menacing. "Vouch for my inability to consummate the marriage? For Russell's intact virginity?"
Again I resisted the urge to step away from him. How ever could I have thought his emotions so controlled? They certainly were not controlled at this moment. "It would not come to that," I said quietly.
"No, it would not," he exclaimed, his voice softer but still shrill.
"Holmes--"
"Cease!" he said, softly, commanding. "Not another word."
"Holmes--" I began, then stopped, aware that his attention was no longer mine. I turned, following the detective's gaze, and beheld a vision.
"Uncle John. I thought it was your voice I heard!" Mary Russell said, crossing the room rapidly. "What on earth brings you to Sussex?"
"Oh, uh, em--well, that is--" I began, then I found myself wrapping my arms around the slender form that had thrust itself into my startled embrace.
Holmes smiled, all trace of the fury he'd evidenced only moments ago now gone from his hawk-like features. He held out the telegram. "Watson has come to pay a bride visit, Russ."
"A bride visit!" Mary exclaimed. Laughing, she continued, "Well, if getting married is what it takes to bring you to our table, Uncle John, we'll simply have to do it more often, don't you agree, Holmes?"
"Undoubtedly," Holmes replied, his eyes never leaving her face. "Unfortunately, the good doctor has chosen his day poorly. You must remember that it's Mrs. Hudson's day off, Watson."
"Oh, uh, well, that is--" I found myself mumbling, my eyes, like those of Holmes, locked on the slender young woman before me. She was, as is so often said of brides, radiant. She was beautiful. And, I realized, she was, if such a thing is possible, incandescently happy.
"Holmes," I began, then stopped, realizing he, too, seemed to be glowing.
Mary held out her hand. "Come, Uncle John. Holmes likes to belittle my cooking but truly I am capable of providing something edible, I promise you."
As it turned out, however, it was Holmes who provided the meal, chasing us out into the garden to seek out early breaking buds. With half an ear I listened to her description of their whirlwind marriage and her theological studies until Holmes' voice called us back to the cottage.
The meal he provided was not sumptuous but it was delicious. Never have I met anyone with talents so varied and great. But of course that was as it had always been with Holmes. The man is a marvel. From the expression on Mary's face it was quite clear she thought so too.
It was as we sat at the table sipping tea and nibbling at the shortbread Mrs. Hudson had left that I felt my cheeks grow warm. When Mary excused herself to make a fresh pot of tea I found myself forced to speak. "I owe you an apology, Holmes."
"No," he replied, understanding at once what my thoughts were. "Your suppositions were only what one could expect."
"I should have known better, however. Such a thing would be beyond you."
"It is only what many have thought. You at least had the decency to come out and say it."
"As Mary's 'uncle' and your friend I had little choice."
"Yes, quite," Holmes replied. He smiled broadly. "You had better hope she didn't overhear that comment about her being little more than a child, however, Watson. She can be quite fierce when she thinks she has been underestimated."
"Who can be fierce?" Mary demanded as she reentered the dining room with the fresh tea.
"You can, wife," Holmes said, and again his face took on an expression I'd never expected nor hoped to see there.
We talked until it was time for me to catch my train. I learned the details of their most recent case--Mary's case, truly-- learned how close I'd come to losing both of them. It was a thought that didn't bear thinking and I forced it from my mind, knowing all the while that their near calls with death would not change the way they had chosen to live their lives.
Mary drove me to the station in her faithful Morris. She stood on the platform with me, waiting for the train. Just as I was about to board she put her arms around me and embraced me tightly. "Don't worry, Uncle John. This is what we both wanted. What we both needed. I think I have loved him from that very first day when I nearly tripped over him on the downs. I don't think I could be happy with any other man."
Holding her away from me, I asked, "And the age difference..."
"Is not a problem, Uncle."
I cleared my throat. In my medical practice I'd sometimes had to speak bluntly but rarely to someone I loved the way I loved the young woman at my side. I felt awkward, embarrassed. "Holmes is almost as old as I," I began. "Physically--"
Her eyes grew distant and again that radiance overtook her pale features. She shook her head. "It is not a problem," she repeated firmly, but so softly that I could barely hear her voice over the noise of locomotive.
I nodded. The great steam whistle tooted. I pressed a hasty kiss onto her smooth forehead. "Take care of him, Mary. Take care of him and take care of yourself."
"I will, Uncle John. I promise," she replied and then the conductor was there, urging me into the carriage.
From the window I watched her turn and head back toward her automobile.
I don't know what will come of this marriage between my oldest and dearest friend and the tall, slender young woman who calls me "uncle." Everything I have seen in both my personal life and my medical practice bodes ill for them. And yet the look of them, that glow that suffuses them when they look at each other...
Taking a handkerchief from my pocket I dab at the corner of my eye. "Blast," I mutter. "Must be a cinder in my eye."