Checkmate at Ar-Meggido

by Brains and Spirit

Mary Russell lifted her clear eyes from the chessboard to look the man sitting opposite her by the campfire near Ar Meggido.

"When faced with the unthinkable," she said softly, "One chooses the merely impossible."

Then she lifted her chin, squared her slim shoulders, and bit her lip to stop it from quivering.

Sherlock Holmes suddenly remembered a lad who had used those same gestures, and for much the same reasons. His heart, the one she'd taught him he had, went out to her. How many times, he thought, had she steeled herself like that to face loss or pain without flinching? Ever since the day she woke up in hospital to hear a stranger's voice saying that her family was dead, in all likelihood. And no one had ever been there to comfort her. Well, not this time, by God. Not this time. Holding her gaze with his own, he stretched out his arms.

Neither of them spoke, and in their silence, a miracle happened. She rose, rather shakily for such a very decisive young woman, and took two tentative steps toward him. Then she took a third, as he rose to meet her, and half walked, half fell into his arms as he gathered her in his embrace.

It was awkward, at first, for both of them. She was tense, unused to physical contact with anyone, except the occasional quick hugs she gave to Mrs. Hudson or ‘Uncle John'. She half crouched in the circle of his arm, all knees and elbows and knotted shoulders. Brave as she was, she was only nineteen. The events of the last few weeks and the apprehension of what was to come had finally caught up with her, and she was trembling with reaction and dread. As for him, It had been a long time since he'd held a woman in his arms, and his body had forgotten much- or perhaps he'd merely suppressed its memory. But Russell was there now, next to his heart where he'd so longed to have her, and he was damned if any power on earth save her request would induce him to let her go.

He yearned for a way to comfort and reassure her, to tell her that together they were a whole greater than the sum of its parts, and that he trusted her with his life as she could rely on him. However, in that moment, he had no words. So he raised one hand to the back of her head, slid off the kuffiyah that concealed her hair, and let the mussed blonde plaits slither down her back.

"Shh" he whispered hesitantly. "Shh." And gently, slowly, one hand began to stroke her hair. Gradually she relaxed under that undemanding caress, until her body settled against his in a trusting sinuous curve. In spite of her lithe muscularity, she was warm and soft, and it felt wonderful to hold her, much too wonderful. In for a penny; in for a pound, he thought to himself. He leaned back against one of the rocks that sheltered their campfire and settled her into his lap. She was still trembling, his darling. He rocked her just slightly, still stroking her hair. And tried with all his might not to feel what he felt when she laid her head on his shoulder and sighed.

He was unprepared for that upwelling of physical desire. It would be so easy to drop a kiss behind her ear, into the soft curve of her neck, or to tip her chin up and explore her mouth with his. Even grimy and pungent as they both were she was still appealing. One of the differences between the sexes, an expert on the subject had once told him, was that men became randy when dirty and women felt seductive when clean. Damn your eyes, Irene. This appeared to be as true at a remote campsite in the Holy Land as it had been in a Paris boudoir. Before you even contemplated the notion, Holmes, he thought wryly, you'd need a bath, a shave and doubtless a thorough delousing. None of which appear to be immediately to hand for some reason. Still he had a sudden, disturbingly vivid mental picture of the two of them together on a rough bedroll in her nearby tent. What would he give, to have those blue eyes fix on him and those long silky limbs lovingly twine with his? All that he had, truth be told. All that he had.

Enough, Holmes. Now was not the time. Russell was becoming a woman, and an achingly lovely one, before his very eyes. Nevertheless, she was still a minor in the eyes of the law. Their becoming lovers could easily result in a hideous scandal that would ruin her reputation and destroy her career before it began. Taking their relationship to a more intimate level could also prove to be the distraction that cost them both their lives. Their upcoming return to England was not going to mean the resumption of lives of peace and quiet. To the contrary, they were going from danger to danger. Their unknown opponent was ruthless and cunning, and if chance threw an opportunity her way, she would be sure to capitalise on it. Their resources of intellect and courage might be hard pressed to save them if she did, so it behooved them to husband those resources for the battle ahead. After that, well, he would see if there even was an ‘after that' before making any plans.

So this lovely interlude, this gift of Providence, might be all the physical closeness he was ever to have with her. He set himself to memorise each detail, everything about her, foreseeing that he might need the comfort of those memories in grim times to come. He studied the curve of the lashes on her closed eyes and the tender outline of her mouth. He listened to her breathing, and counted her heartbeats next to his. He felt her trembling fade and cease, and watched as the oil lamp near the chessboard guttered out and the campfire sent up a shower of sparks to meet the stars in the night sky. Then he rested his chin on her hair and simply held her, wishing there was a way to make time stop, or to erase the years that lay between them, so that he could keep her in his arms forever.

Russell was drowsy now, so relaxed that she was nearly asleep, and she had a charming tendency to snuggle closer into his chest against the chill in the night air. Having her so close for this long, however, was becoming damned distracting. He was finding it increasingly difficult to remember why he had resolved not to initiate a physical relationship. They should part, then, before he said or did something they might well both regret. With an effort, he opened his arms and moved her away. The cold night air stuck the warm place where she had been like a breath of wind from the grave.

"Get some sleep, Russell." he managed at last. " Morning comes all to soon hereabouts, I fear." She nodded, and they both rose, grimacing a little at the pins and needles in their legs.

He allowed one arm to drape lightly over her shoulders as they walked around the fire pit to her tent. She looked up at him without speaking, and he knew that neither of them would mention this interlude again. But neither would they forget, he thought. Neither could they forget.

He lifted the tent flap and watched her go in. He ached with the thought that she would not be sleeping next to him that night. Then, before his resolution could flag, he turned and walked away.

He rolled a cigarette and smoked it by the embers of their campfire before he turned toward the tent he shared with Mahmoud and Ali. Best to get some sleep before they broke camp in the morning. They had a long journey ahead of them.

He was so preoccupied that he did not notice the silent watcher who slipped into his tent before he turned around. Inside the two voices spoke in soft Arabic.

"He does not go to her tent?"

"No. He returns here."

"She would not have him there? Surely a father can comfort his daughter."

"I saw no father comforting his daughter. I saw a man who knew his embrace sheltered the woman he loves."

"Perhaps he thinks he is too old for her."

"Perhaps he knows she is too young for him, which is a different matter. And he will bring no dishonour upon her."

"No. He is an honourable man."

"He must love her very much."

"I think so. A tragedy for both of them."

"Or, just possibly, a chance for great happiness."

"Insh'allah, brother mine. Insh'allah."