A Matter of Faith

by An Oxford Punter

"Well, she's gone." Mrs. Hudson announced it, somewhat unnecessarily, from the doorway of the tiled laboratory. It was not, admittedly, an ordinary occurrence for her to inform him of the departure of his guests, but what drew his attention sharply was the note of gentle rebuke in her voice, as if he should somehow have prevented this particular guest from departing.

"Yes, I heard the taxi drive away." He spared her a single sharp glance, then returned his attention to the chemical experiment he had begun earlier in the day, measuring and mixing ingredients, observing the reactions, making careful notations of the results. "I trust the package I observed in your hands before Miss Russell left has departed with her?"

"I didn't think you would mind," she remarked by way of admission. "We have plenty, after all, and from the looks of her she could well use anything we can give her. No healthy young girl should be that thin or that hungry, and I don't need a great detective to tell me so."

He smiled with his eyes, but briefly, as bits of conversation from the afternoon came back to him. "Evidently this aunt she is living with has some rather harsh notions about how best to control her niece."

"You don't mean--"

"I have it from the young lady herself." He remembered quite clearly his own anger, unexpected and powerful, at having that particular deduction confirmed.

"But that's monstrous!" Mrs. Hudson towered, morally if not physically, in her indignation. "Where on earth are her parents? Why has she been left in the care of someone who seems to care so little about her?"

"Her parents are dead," he told her quietly, "in an accident of some sort late last year. She has been sent to live with this aunt of hers." In his mind he heard the girl, fiercely proud, correcting him. "Or rather, the aunt has come to live with her. Burdened with a niece she not only does not love but whom she actively envies, this woman evidently resorts to harshness, ridicule, and deprivation when they disagree."

"Poor girl," the elderly housekeeper said, shaking her head. "Poor orphaned girl. I wish now I had put aside more for her. What I gave her won't last long."

"It will have to do for the time being." He poured liquid into a flask, using the simple action to gain a measure of control. Strange, to be so affected by injustices against someone he had not known existed before that afternoon. "Never fear, Mrs. Hudson, there will be other opportunities."

"You think she will return, then? She promised she would, of course, but--"

"She will return." He gave her his full attention, and whatever she saw in his face seemed to quiet her doubts. "Nothing will stop her. Not this aunt of hers who mistreats her, not the theology she studies, not her fears that perhaps she will be intruding. Nothing will keep her away. She will come because she must. She has no choice about it." Sudden clarity struck. "Neither have I."

She did not understand, as he had known she would not, and so was frightened. He seemed to be frightening her more frequently of late. "Sir--"

"Never mind, Mrs. Hudson." He shook his head, and waved away whatever she was going to say with one long white hand; he was suddenly very tired. His need for the drug was pulling at him like a demanding child, raking along his nerves. He hadn't given it a thought earlier, but knew now that, if he was going to free himself from its influence, the next few days were bound to be unpleasant indeed. He would have to keep to the laboratory or the orchard or his room until the worst of it was purged from his system, yet somehow maintain enough of his normal routines to prevent her from sending for Watson. It was almost too much to think about, much less accomplish, but he had to regardless; he was going to need all his wits about him by the time the girl returned. "Suffice it to say you will yet get the chance to take Miss Russell under your wing."

"If you say so, sir." Mrs. Hudson folded her hands together, and left the topic of their visitor for the moment. "It is late, I know, but I thought a nice bowl of soup would do for dinner. It won't take me long to warm it for you."

"Thank you, no. I am not hungry." He bent his attention to the chemical apparatus again, by way of dismissal, so she wouldn't see that the thought of eating anything was becoming an increasingly unwelcome one.

"But Mr. Holmes--" She closed her lips tightly over the words from long habit; only her hands spoke her concern as they twisted together, white- knuckled. After a moment however she had herself under control. "As you wish, sir. Just let me know, won't you, if you change your mind?"

"Of course." He watched her turn away, and then hesitate. She was not done with him, it seemed. "About Miss Russell--"

"Yes?" He waited, knowing what was on her mind.

"Before she left, you--" You kissed her hand. It hung in the air between them like pipesmoke. Why did you do it? What did it mean? What is she to you? "You spoke of a loan agreement. Do you still wish me to keep a record of it?"

He considered. "Yes, I fear we shall have to do so. If I know anything thus far of our Miss Russell, she will at some future date expect to repay the loan and will no doubt be displeased if we cannot present her with a suitably legitimate figure. But let me be clear on this point, Mrs. Hudson; whatever her needs, if it is within our ability to provide them you have my leave to do so. She will not accept everything she needs, goodness knows, but what she will accept I am quite prepared to give her, and every member of this household is to do likewise. Do you understand?"

"Completely." His instructions, he knew, would only serve to allow her to give free rein to her own inclinations. "I'll see to it myself."

When she was gone, he allowed himself a small smile. Good; that ought to hold her for a time. He could almost feel sorry for Miss Russell, to be the unwitting target of Mrs. Hudson's formidable goodwill. It was a shameless thing to do to that slim, troubled girl--young lady, he amended wryly--but felt certain she was equal to the task of withstanding it, should she so wish. Miss Russell was undoubtedly able to withstand anything not to her liking, or he had gravely misjudged her.

And he did not misjudge anyone.

He glanced at his experiment and found, much to his chagrin, that he cared very little suddenly about its outcome. Admitting defeat with more grace than he might have shown earlier in his life, he placed the test tubes he was holding in a nearby rack and abandoned himself to thoughts of her.

She had done it. She had seen the paint on the bees--no mean feat in itself, incidentally--and she had known. She had known! Even now it sang in him, joyous and exultant. She had seen the paint and understood the seeing. No questions, no need for explanations from him, no guessing; she had instead examined the evidence of her senses and correctly deduced his intent. And, as if that weren't enough, she had then turned that voracious ability on him and examined him as she had his bees, telling him things about himself that only Mycroft would have known. In all his long, eventful life he had never met anyone capable of doing what she had done, had in fact long since given up ever finding anyone who could. There had been a few who were intelligent enough, of course, or observant enough, but never both. Yet now, suddenly, had come this child, this fifteen-year-old female from across the downs to speak rudely to him of what she should not know but knew nonetheless, to discover his formidable identity and still throw his own failing abilities in his face, unimpressed and unrepentent of it.

Altogether, it was an introduction which could not have failed to intrigue him, enough at least to invite her to his cottage for tea. He should have known better, of course; he should have forseen that this troubled and troublesome adolescent was, potentially, the grand undoing of all his life had become. But he had not listened to the warning of that stern inner voice, had not wanted to listen if the truth be told, and had just as surely ended up paying the price for it; once at his cottage she had proceeded, unwittingly, to make a pretty hash of his chosen decline into soft, boredom-induced death and, when she departed, had left only restlessness, dissatisfaction, and longing in her wake.

He sighed sharply. How swiftly he felt her absence. There were still so many things he wanted to discuss with her! He wanted to hear her opinions, wanted to expand her knowledge, to test the rough-cut brilliance of her mind and see what it was capable of. He wanted to share his thoughts with her on a thousand different things and see their rightness confirmed in her eyes, see her anticipate their direction and move to meet them as he knew she could.

But no. She was not ready. There was too much she needed to learn. Their walk to his cottage had shown him well enough that she was ill-equipped to follow where he led. It would take time. She needed to read, to see, to learn...

If only there were time left, for he was not a well man. He knew it and suspected others did as well. Mrs. Hudson undoubtedly kept his friend Watson informed on the state of his health; had not each significant change in his condition prompted another casual 'visit' from the good doctor? And had not these 'visits' come much more frequently in the last few months?

He could not fault them, could not be angry at their attempt to save his life. They simply did not understand that even death was preferable to a life spent in unrelenting stagnation. Retirement had not, after all, been the welcome release for him that it had been for others, not for one of his energetic temperament. He had not thought seriously of retirement at all, really, of abandoning his life's work in favor of endless days spent in quiet contemplation and study. But his body had betrayed him. Rheumatism, Watson had told him when the pain became too great to ignore, and consultations with others had confirmed it. No more the damp, fog-bound streets of his beloved London. No more Baker Street and the rigorous physical demands of his profession.

No more.

So he had come, with only a little reluctance, to the downs of Sussex and tried his best to occupy his time with bees and books and beakers, to ignore the call of all he'd left behind. Mycroft had helped, of course, directing interesting problems his way, and then had come the war, looming large on the horizon of all their lives. But in the end even war had not been enough. So he had turned again to the cocaine, that seductive vice of his youth, and it had served him far too well. He was very nearly caught in its fatal grip, and freeing himself was likely to be uncomfortable indeed.

But free himself he must. She needed him, though she didn't even know it yet, needed all the things he had to offer her. Knowledge and, more important than knowledge, experience. Challenge. Acceptance. Direction. Purpose.

So much. And so much more.

But...

In order to do that, he must let her into his solitary, monastic existence. There was no other way possible. To teach her about his profession--his art--was to teach her about himself as well, to reveal who he truly was behind the public persona. The thought drove him to his feet, to pace the room like a lean, caged lion. He had made himself vulnerable to so few people, preferring instead to go his own way in all things. But she was not like the others he had met, not even like Watson, to settle for being swept along in his wake like a leaf in a swiftly moving stream, unquestioning and uncomplaining. She would not follow blindly where he led. No indeed. She would demand from him all that he demanded from her, nothing less. He would have to give the same credence to her opinions that he gave to his own, take her thoughts and feelings into consideration, might even occasionally have to bow to her wishes.

He had not done such a heretical thing for a very long time, nearly thirty years. It was a daunting notion. He thought of the last time, how difficult it had been, how badly it had ended. Certainly not a stellar recommendation, all in all, for trying the whole business again. Far better to let this cup pass from his lips, to go his own way and allow her move on to whatever sort of future awaited her without him. It was not too late even now. He could simply refuse to see her the next time she came to visit, or pretend cold disinterest, and everything that had happened between them that afternoon would disperse like morning mist. It needn't be anything as venomous as that which her aunt subjected her to on a daily basis; she was certainly perceptive enough to understand the subtlest of cuts. Once she realized he had no desire to continue their association, she would scrupulously avoid him without so much as a single unkind word having been said. Then he could go back to--

What, precisely?

If he allowed her visits to his cottage to continue, if he accepted the choice those visits implied, he faced the very real possibility that, in time, she would reject most if not all of what he contemplated giving--and giving up for--her. She had already spoken of studying theology. Theology, of all things! She was young yet, to be sure and, in the absence of her lost parents his influence for a time would be paramount. But it would not always be so. A few short years might see her decide to turn away from him, to abandon everything those years had wrought between them and make her own way without him. Perhaps even with someone else. Could he stand to give her everything he dared of himself only to see her take everything with her when she left?

On the other hand, could he stand to drive her away, destroy the fragile friendship forming between them and live with the knowledge that she was still only a few miles across the downs? Could he stand the thought of her abusive aunt's influence over her instead of his own? Who would help her curb and control that wonderful, willful intellect of hers? Who would stand with her against those who ridiculed her because they did not understand? Who would be there to see to the rest of the growing up she must do? Could he abide knowing she had no one? Could he abide hearing she had someone else to fill his place?

He was not deceived; the chances of emerging from the situation without wounds of some kind were abysmal. Either way seemed fraught with disaster.

Still...

A reluctant smile curved his lips. Still, he had never in his life taken the easy path, never turned away from a difficult choice. And if making those difficult choices had often meant pain and loss and sorrow, it had also, paradoxically, left him with relatively few regrets. Which was worse? To repent having known her for only a few years...or never to have known her at all?

There really was, as he had told Mrs. Hudson, no choice for him. Because of who and what she was, because of who and what he was, he had to do all he could for her. He must give as much of himself, somehow, as she would have, without reservations or regrets, and trust that she would value the gift. Altogether, the whole business sounded suspiciously like faith.

Trust...and faith. How she would smile at that!

Sometime, perhaps, he might just get the chance to tell her about it.

A week passed, and gradually their lives returned to a semblance of normality. Mrs. Hudson ceased glancing surreptitously out the windows and wondering aloud if Miss Russell might stop by, and market day could be postponed only so long. So she went, and things seemed to be better after that, a fact for which he was unabashedly glad. Fully occupied with throwing off the cocaine's influence, he could spare no thought for his housekeeper, or their anticipated visitor, or anything else for that matter. The first day had not been exceptionally bad, certainly nothing he could not tolerate, but after that it had been very bad indeed. During the worst of it he had walked, hour after agonizing hour, along the rim of the cliffs, reciting whole passages of whichever book came to mind to keep from succombing to the dark depression the absence of the drug left behind. It would have been so easy for him, at times, to simply walk over the edge and let himself fall into the sea. No more choices, no more difficulties. No more anything. But he was haunted by a presence, a disturbingly vital spirit who would not be denied. She walked with him in those long hours, lending him her silent support and, somehow, he managed to make it back to the cottage each evening, to his bed and a thin, disjointed sleep, only to wake the next morning and begin all over again.

But suddenly, just as the fine weather broke, it all passed. He opened his eyes one morning from a sleep more restful than that of previous nights to the growl of lingering thunder and a cautiously returning appetite. So he had let Mrs. Hudson feed him and then had gone out into the garden to assess the wreakage the previous night's storm had left behind. There was plenty to do, as it turned out, clearing away debris and repairing the damage done to tender plants, and he worked steadily for most of the morning with his pipe between his teeth, pausing often to rest. He was still not as strong as he ought to be, but for all the residual weakness he felt better than he had in many, many weeks. If he was careful and continued his convalescence, he might perhaps try a swim later. Just a brief one before he sat himself down at his desk to write the next chapter of his book on detection. He had not worked on it for a long time, but remembered having been dissatisfied with his planned direction for it. If he discarded his previous notes, though, and began again, this time from a slightly different perspective--

His pipe had gone out, unnoticed. With a rueful smile he bent to retrieve a twig to dig the ash from the bowl and was just reaching into his pocket for his tobacco pouch when the squeak of the gate announced he was no longer alone.

"Mr. Holmes?"

He took a deep breath, held it, let it out slowly, and produced the tobacco pouch. "Well, Miss Russell," he remarked, matter-of-factly, and turned; she stood just inside the gate awaiting his tacit permission to enter.

"I hope I'm not disturbing you," she said. Dressed as before in her dead father's clothes, with her braids crowded into that rediculous cap, she looked slender and pale and hesitant.

And he was suddenly, absurdly glad to see her.

She gestured at the cottage. "Your housekeeper thought it might be all right to disturb you..."

"Of course." No doubt about that. In his mind he could see Mrs. Hudson's ecstatic expression, could hear her eager urgings to just go ahead and speak to Mr. Holmes, he wouldn't mind a bit. It brought an unwilling smile to his lips and, seeing it, the girl--Russell--relaxed into a tentative one of her own. "Tell me, Miss Russell, what do you know of poisons?"

She grinned. "They kill people, Mr. Holmes."

Yes, he was very glad to see her indeed. Sherlock Holmes nodded and filled his pipe. "So they do, Miss Russell. So they do. Let me tell you about some of the more interesting ones..."