The Hive

A Russellian Fugue

by "What this old thing? It's scarcely decent"

January 17, 2001

"Do you know what a fugue is?"

"Are you changing the subject?"

"No."

I thought in silence for some distance before his answer arranged itself sensibly in my mind. "I see. Two discrete sections of a fugue may not appear related, unless the listener has received the entire work, at which time the music's internal logic makes clear the relationship."

--The Beekeeper's Apprentice

Prologue

The Downs glowed golden in the dying light and Sherlock Holmes leaned back in his chair. With a pipe in his hand and Russell away in Oxford, he looked forward to an evening of simple pleasures. Holmes wondered briefly that he wasn't chafing from the lack of interesting cases lately, but he found himself more glad than anything else.

He picked up the stack of foolscap Russell had left for him to edit. It was probably her latest theological essay that needed an extra set of eyes to make it watertight. Holmes flipped open the first page and arched his eyebrow at the unexpected sentence that met his eyes.

"I was fifteen years old when I met Sherlock Holmes..."

My God, he thought. It's the story of how we met. He read through his wife's accounts of their first cases with a combination of chagrin and happy reminiscence. It was fascinating to see the same events from the perspective of the other key player. It was also a nice insight into the mind of his partner and companion.

When he finally set aside the manuscript, wishing there were more, he succumbed to a spate of memories so vivid that it was almost as if he were reliving them...

Part I

Sussex - January 1918

"Mrs. Hudson!"

Holmes strode into the kitchen in search of his housekeeper. He found her running her hand down a cookbook, while glancing over her shoulder to see what her employer was raving about this time.

"Yes, Mr. Holmes?"

"Mrs. Hudson, I'm having some trouble with something and I thought you might be able to point me in the proper direction."

"What seems to be the problem, sir?"

"I need to find Russell a birthday present."

Mrs. Hudson straightened her stiff back at his words and gave him a sharp glance. She had watched this man for years, first in London and now here on the Downs, and she had never seen him so protective over another human being. Mr. Holmes watched over Miss Mary as closely as he would one of his fragile chemical experiments. In fact, Mary would probably have his head if she knew just how he watched over her life in Oxford. Mrs. Hudson's eyebrows had disappeared into her greying hair when she had found out that Mr. Thomas (Miss Mary's landlord for her rooms in Oxford) was in Mr. Holmes' employ. Not that he listened in on her phone calls, or spied on her! No sir! Quite absurd to even think of such a thing! In fact, Mr. Holmes told Thomas to only inform him of Mary's movements if she was in physical danger. She quickly brought her mind back to the present as Mr. Holmes began to wonder at her silence and the bemused expression on her face.

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Holmes. I believe that because it is Mary's eighteenth birthday, quite a special occasion you'll agree, you should give her something meaningful and from the heart."

She could almost hear the well-oiled gears turning in his head as he said, "I see. And what have you found for her, Mrs. Hudson?"

"Well," she said, turning back to her recipe, "the last time I was in London, I found a beautiful set of silver hair combs. They'll look perfect in Mary's hair, especially because it's so long lately!"

Holmes nodded slightly and a thought occurred to him. "Mrs. Hudson, why do you think Russell keeps her hair long? It seems to me that it would be much easier to care for if it were shorter..."

"I believe it's a vestige of femininity. One last remaining tie to the world of female accoutrements, in her universe of trousers and tweed caps."

"Ah. Thank you, Mrs. Hudson, for your help. I think I'll catch the next train to London and see if I can find something appropriate for her. I shall be back in the morning."

And when she looked back, he was gone. She shook her head and wondered if she would ever get used to Mr. Holmes' bohemian ways... Probably not.

Holmes' trip to the great cesspool had been completely worthless. He had found nothing that would strike Russell's fancy. But, he had finally had a breakthrough while sitting in one of his bolt-holes. Russ had never seen this one, but it was rather comfortable. One of the paintings on the wall was a Vernet and, as he had gazed at the poignant shipwreck, Holmes had had an epiphany. And so he found himself, digging through his attic in Sussex, searching desperately for what he knew to be the perfect present for his companion. The last box finally yielded his prize. A slow smile covered his face as he went to find something to wrap it in.

Holmes eyed Watson as he sat in the opposite chair. His old friend looked excited. And so he should be, Holmes thought. They waited in the living room, while Mrs. Hudson prepared Russ' birthday dinner in the kitchen, for the guest of honor to arrive from Oxford. The trip from there to Sussex was only a minor one, so the trio expected her fairly soon. It was January 2nd and her eighteenth birthday had finally come. They were all formally attired for the occasion, although Watson's old tuxedo was a little tight around the edges (He couldn't think why!) and his forehead was moist from the uncomfortable garments.

Watson eyed his companion of old as he sat across from him. There was something about Holmes lately that the good doctor couldn't quite put his finger on. It was... anticipation, of sorts, and it was even more evident today. Holmes kept his mind on the conversation valiantly, but every once in a while, his grey eyes would wander to the window and his keen vision would try to make out something. Could he be watching that anxiously for Mary's car? Even a year ago, Watson would have sworn that such a thing was absolutely ludicrous, but now, as he tried to gather as much as he could from the detective's countenance, he wasn't so sure anymore. Was it possible that this man, who for so many years completely ignored the matters of the heart (at least on the surface), could possibly be falling for his young and brilliant pupil? Watson sighed and swore to watch his friend as closely as could be for signs of such a condition. He was positive that only someone who knew Holmes as well as he did would be able to notice such slight nuances.

Watson and Holmes heard the wheels on the drive and stood to greet her, as Mrs. Hudson hurried from the kitchen to answer the door. When Holmes saw her, wearing a long, dark-green velvet gown, a glittering pair of diamond earrings, and her hair piled on top of her head, he was overcome by a sensation that he had thought gone forever. A physical attraction so strong that it left the great detective speechless. Holmes had always cared for Russell, but now he realized that it had moved far beyond the normal friendship.

And yet, it wasn't the physical attraction. (Or perhaps we should say not merely the physical attraction.) After all, he had trained her intellect for years (and it had started not inconsiderable) and she had always had an incredible spirit as well. She never let that fool of an aunt weigh her down and she had dealt fairly well with her family's death. Such a combination of traits: her fierce knowledge that grew everyday, that fiery spirit that could hold up through the worst situations, and this elegant young lady who had sprouted from that gangly girl he had met on the Downs. Faced with all of these at once, Holmes was quite at a loss.

He also realized that nothing could be done until she reached her majority. Holmes could ignore the gossip, but for her, with a fledgling career, it could mean disaster. And he wasn't sure that she felt the same way. He could only hope that, with time, she would acknowledge how much they meant to each other.

That calm evening, the four friends ate and drank champagne, as Holmes tried to ignore the blood coursing through his veins. Mrs. Hudson had a birthday cake for Russell and they sang and gave her their presents. Mrs. Hudson's hair combs were a triumph and Watson's portable writing set greatly appreciated. Holmes' heart was on his sleeve as she tore the paper from the jewelers box. Russ opened it to reveal the delicate pearl brooch.

"Holmes, it's beautiful."

"It belonged to my grandmother. Can you open it?"

She struggled with the clasp for a minute and he reached out and twisted two of the pearls to make it open in her palm. Inside was a portrait of Holmes' grandmother.

"Her brother, the French artist Vernet, painted it on her eighteenth birthday. Her hair was a colour very similar to yours, even when she was old."

"Thank you. Thank you everybody," she choked out and dissolved into tears.

Holmes watched Mrs. Hudson guide her into the guest room and wondered how he was going to wait for three years to hold her in his arms. He wanted to be the one to comfort her when she was in tears.

Wait! How could he think such things?! What happened to that man from years ago? The one who said that strong emotions only got in the way of rational thought, like grit in a sensitive instrument? That man who swore never to let his heart interfere with his work? Those ideals had kept him alive these many years. Yes, Holmes. Alive and what else? He asked himself. Lonely... Ah, yes. And so it finally comes out. Despite his wonderful friend in Watson, his heart was utterly alone. But, does this previous man still exist? An epiphany hit him as he realized that that cold calculating machine had evaporated long since. Holmes had left him on the pages of Watson's many stories. And what was left? Himself. Not Sherlock Holmes "the mind," but Sherlock Holmes "the man."

Once, in the middle of the night, Holmes was lost in his thoughts and when he came to, he found himself standing outside Russell's bedroom door. Fortunately, he stopped himself before he knocked. Nothing good could come of this now. But the waiting would try him sorely.

Holmes finally went back to bed, but sleep eluded him for a good many nights to come...