A Russellian Fugue

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

Part II

Sussex & Oxford - December 1918

The gentle buzzing of his bees had always been very therapeutic to Holmes and this lazy Sunday evening was no exception. He reached into the nearest hive and removed the filled combs, replacing them with empty ones. This latest stash of honey would make a superb wine. He hadn't had a crop like this since the summer he met Russell.

Holmes stepped over to the next hive. This one had been having all sorts of trouble with its queens and if something didn't happen soon, he was going to have to intervene. Perhaps he should talk to Tom Warner. His mind was lost in a daze when, without warning, he found himself on his back and in acute pain. As darkness enveloped him, the last thought through his mind was, "What about Russell...?"

Oxford. He had to get to Oxford. The idea kept running through his head. But why did he so desperately need to go to Oxford? Consciousness pulled at him until he opened his eyes on a white room. A hospital? Why on earth was he here?! He didn't have time for this! He had to get to Oxford!

A nurse finally came in to check on him. "How are you feeling, Mr. Holmes?"

Holmes grunted in response, trying to remember why he was here.

"That was a nasty concussion you got. Imagine! Someone trying to kill the famous Sherlock Holmes with a bomb! I say it's downright..."

He sat up suddenly at her words, but clutched at the pain in his head. "What did you say?!"

"Yes. The bomb in your beehive! It's a good thing Old Will found you or you'd still be lying there by that hive!"

Oh my God! Russell! She'll be next! I have to get to Oxford! I only hope to God that I'm not too late! "Sister," he said to the nurse, "how long have I been unconscious?"

"Well, this is Monday night and Old Will brought you in yesterday."

He had lost so much time! Not another second! He had to see what was left of the hive... he had to contact Mrs. Hudson... and Lestrade... and Mr. Thomas! Damn his head hurt! "It is essential that I make a few telephone calls..."

"Well, I don't know, sir. With your head in this state, you really shouldn't..."

"It is a matter of saving others from bombs similar to mine!"

After a short pause, she hurried off to find him a phone. After seeing the painful abrasions on his back, she wanted to prevent such a thing from happening again.

After making two phone calls, one to Lestrade and one to Thomas to keep an eye on Russell, sleep overcame Holmes' concussed brain and he knew that the rest would have to be dealt with in the morning.

Lestrade had been late! Did the man have no comprehension of what would happen if Holmes couldn't defuse the bomb he knew to be waiting for Russell?! The detective didn't want to think about what would be left of his life if Russell were gone. All he could think about now was reaching her rooms before dusk.

And then it had taken him an hour to find his clothes! The matron had hidden them in a closet! Why?! God only knew! Holmes would swear that he was caught in some conspiracy to make him late in reaching Oxford!

Luck was the only term to be used for the tramp. He had been brought in with a head injury and a bandage was soon covering almost all of his face. At the moment, he was reclining in Holmes' hospital bed with a police guard at the door. Needless to say, the doctor had been less than pleased with the idea of Holmes leaving with his concussion and bruised and bleeding back. The police had finally interfered and sealed the bargain.

At the moment, the aging detective was lurking outside his own cottage (for God's sake) waiting for the policemen to amble off for tea, then he'd finally be able to examine the hive and get what he needed for his trip to Oxford, and then to London. Mycroft would be able to help them find the appropriate bomber. Holmes could think of three, but none of them really fit the proper profile. Then again, perhaps it was the concussion talking. Every train of thought was expertly cut off in the middle. It was very disconcerting for a man who made his living (very well) for years on very intricate deduction skills. And now, the only idea that would remain stable was his need to get to Oxford and make sure that Russ was safe.

Damn! He was going to miss the train to Oxford! Another delay was not what he needed! Holmes gave an exasperated sigh, the pain in his back was infringing even more on the little patience that remained to him, but he relaxed as he saw the policemen filing out of his house. Now was his chance to see that hive! He crept inside and got the few things he needed from the laboratory and his bedroom. His hive yielded little information and even less because of his sore head. I've had enough!

He used the discomfort of his back to focus his mind on getting to Oxford before dusk. Such was the single thought in his mind that he almost missed his stop and didn't really mind that there weren't any taxis in the rank. Holmes was chagrined to realize that he hadn't the slightest clue where Russell's rooms were in the building, but the bulletin grabbed from the street and shoved into an envelope was exactly the clue he needed. The rest was... elementary.

"Oi beg yer pardon, sir." Holmes said to Mr. Thomas. Even he couldn't know that Holmes was in town. The situation was too precarious. He'd have Russell leave Thomas a note before they left. "But I need to talk wif Miss Mary Russell."

Mr. Thomas eyed the woman across his counter with a suspicious air. "I'm quite sorry, madam, but Miss Russell is out at the moment and shan't return until later."

"Oh, yes, Oi see. Well then, per'aps you could give her this when she gets in." And Holmes handed him the filthy envelope.

Thomas took it with obvious reluctance and slipped it into Miss Russell's slot. He didn't notice how closely the old woman eyed exactly which slot it was. Thomas turned back to her. "You may wait here for her, if you wish. Here, have a cuppa tea." He poured it for her and went to lock up the back, but was stopped by her words.

"No fank you, sir. I'll just be on me way now."

And as Holmes circled the building to the back, he found himself chuckling at the whole conversation. Ah, now he had Russell's window in view... and this must be the ladder the bomber used to get in and out. He would follow suit.

The climb up the ladder in the freezing rain nearly did his back in, but all pain left when he found that he had indeed beat Russell back to her rooms. The bomb was still intact on the door. He wouldn't think about what might have happened. This wasn't the time for it. The process of defusing a bomb is complex enough, and with his injured head and back it was very slow going.

In the hallway, he found little evidence, but enough to assure him that this had been the bomber's entrance. The scratches on the doorknob were exceedingly clumsy and no decent burglar would have left such obvious clues. Curious. The mud on the windowsill marked the lout's entry. Holmes snorted at the questionable competence of this man. Although, if he managed to succeed in the bombing, than the rest could hardly matter. With the leaf added to the mud on the sill and the greasy print added to the doorknob, he prayed that Russell would have enough sense not to use the door. He had to know how she would react. Her life might depend on it.

Holmes needed a distraction. Something to make the waiting less of an irritation. A wicked twinkle appeared in his grey eyes as he realized the opportunity to get to know an unknown side of Russell. And so he proceeded to snoop about her possessions. Holmes cringed at the Stilton found in her drawer (Good God! Such taste! He shuddered.) and tsked in frustration at the revolver resting next to it. A hell of a lot of good it would do her in there! Her bookcase was hardly interesting with its plethora of arcane theological tomes and, oddly enough, a copy of Watson's drivel called The Hound of the Baskervilles. Of all of Watson's published works, Holmes admitted that this one was probably the least revolting. Some morbid sense of curiosity made him pick it up off the shelf and take it with him to read. He'd never hear the end of it if Russell caught him reading it, but it would take his mind, at least temporarily, off his back.

At a close examination of her chemical apparatuses, he knew that she had been using sulphur recently, but her desk was free of any work. In light of the approaching holiday he wasn't surprised that it was bare.

Now that his exploration was finished (he had stopped short of looking through her clothes - somehow he just couldn't), and with his trashy novel to read, he built up the fire. At least he could get his feet dry. And so he flung himself into the chair before the fireplace and, after swearing profusely at the abrupt pain in his back, prepared to wait.

As he read Watson's colorful version of events surrounding the Stapleton case, his mind managed to set out the next course of events. They would proceed to London tomorrow. Mycroft would be able to help them identify who laid the bombs. They could also lie low in his Pall Mall residence for a few days. God, this mole itches! One of these days, I will find a make-up that doesn't make you want to pull your skin off! The dye he had created for their gypsy sojourn had been almost perfect, except for, perhaps, the application process. He could definitely find a more pleasant consistency.

And this thought took him back to Wales. Their time there had been... enlightening, to say the least. It had all started with her insistence on joining him. Russell's adamance at that fact had made Holmes keenly aware that her independence and her growing intelligence would combine into a considerable force. No longer would she wordlessly accept his orders and, if he insisted on coddling her like a child, it would soon be the end of their partnership. And, of course, it had ended with that night in the lane when he had seen her disappearing into the darkness with Jessica Simpson in her arms.

Of all the rash, insane things to do, Russell had picked the worst. To risk herself in that way had been unacceptable. Even remembering it made his stomach twist in anxiety. His ego didn't want to admit that she had most probably been exactly right in what she did. He didn't have the flexibility and strength he once had and she had known it. With such an opportunity, she would have been foolish indeed if she had not grabbed it. It had just gone against all of his Victorian principles. (Outdated? Of course.) His instincts were to protect her and that was why he had been against her involvement in the first place, but he also wanted to give her a chance to take some responsibility. Holmes wasn't used to such a dilemma and it had given him much to think on as they drove the caravan back to Cardiff and as they sat on the train on the way back to London.

And now he was faced with the decision once more. To give her a full partnership, or to keep her at a safe distance from the chaos of his world. Well, obviously she wasn't safe at the moment. Not with a recently defused bomb on her desk and God knows what waiting for them in the morning...

Holmes turned to see Russell prying open the window with frozen fingers. Good, she had trusted her instincts. Although, I'm sure it's put her in a foul mood. Ah, well. Better this than her life by a bomb!

"Damn you, Holmes, what the hell are you doing here? And for God's sake help me in this window before you have to scrape me up off the pavement."

Once she was inside, she continued her diatribe. "Damn it, Holmes, your flair for the dramatic entrance could have broken my neck, and if I avoid pneumonia it'll be no thanks to the last few minutes. Turn your back; I must get out of these clothes."

Holmes turned his chair. (He made sure it was to a wall with no reflecting objects. He didn't need to add more confusion to his already muddled thoughts.) When he turned back, she moved to the fire to dry her hair. Brandy would help her warm up, he thought. "Have you any brandy?"

"You know I don't drink the stuff," she said petulantly.

"That is not what I asked," he persisted. "I asked if you had any. I want some brandy."

"Then you shall have to ask my neighbour for some."

Holmes smirked at the idea of her reaction to his unsavoury self. "I doubt the young lady would appreciate a figure like myself at her door, somehow."

"It doesn't matter, she's home in Kent for the holidays anyway."

"Then I shall just have to assume that she gave her permission." Holmes went to her door, but thought he'd better warn her about the bomb. If they weren't careful, it could still go off. "By the way, don't touch that machine on the desk. It's a bomb."

Holmes' pick-locks let him into the neighbouring rooms and he found the brandy without difficulty. He cringed at the thought of drinking it, but it was better than nothing. The glasses were on the desk and would undoubtedly help. He returned and poured a glass for each of them. "Not a very nice brandy, but it will taste better in these glasses. Drink it."

He could tell she was still annoyed with him when she said, "I suppose you know that alcohol is not the optimum treatment for hypothermia?"

She looked beautiful there in the firelight, combing through her hair. Holmes shook his head and said, "Had you been in danger of that I would not have given you brandy. However, I can see that it has made you feel better, so finish combing out your hair and then sit in a comfortable chair. We have a long conversation ahead of us. Ah, how forgetful I am in my old age."

Indeed he had forgotten the care package that Old Will had readied for him. A few meat pies to sustain him on his trip. His caretaker knew him only too well.

"What a life-giving surprise. Bless Mrs. Hudson. However, I cannot eat sitting across from a dirty old woman with an insect crawling up her chin. And if you leave fleas in my rooms, I shan't forgive you easily."

"It's clean dirt," he assured her, while not disavowing her idea that Mrs. Hudson had provided their picnic. Hopefully, he could keep the fact that he had been injured quiet for as long as possible. It wouldn't work for long, as he needed someone to change the dressings for him. But, he would only give the information when he absolutely had to. His back stretched miserably as he shed his costume and he knew that Russ would notice his awkward movements. Fortunately, she had the grace not to mention it.

"My appetite thanks you."

He watched with interest as she ate. She must be working on something particularly captivating to make her ignore lunch. Although, he had to admit, that he had no room to talk. For both of them, food was a matter of convenience rather than the clock. It was the same with sleep. When something too interesting came along, neither of them paid attention to such trivialities. The center of the problem, that's all that mattered.

She caught Holmes' curious look and said, "I was hungry." He had thought this fairly obvious, given her feast, but she was apparently feeling defensive about it. She continued, "I had a murderous tutorial, for which I skipped lunch, and then worked in the Bodleian all afternoon. I don't remember if I had breakfast. I may have done."

"What so engrossed you this time?"

"Actually I was doing some work that might interest you. My maths tutor and I were working with some problems in theory, involving base eight, when we came across some mathematical exercises developed by an old acquaintance of yours."

The man across from her cringed at this mention. This simple statement had brought back memories from a time he had wished to forget. It had been a series of events that had not... well, they were best left buried. "I assume you speak of Professor Moriarty?"

"Exactly. I spent the day hunting down some articles he published. I was interested in the mind and personality as well as the mathematics."

"What impression did you have of the man?" Holmes was interested to know if Russell would come to the same conclusion that he had, all those years ago.

"'The subtlest of all the beasts in the garden' comes to mind. His cold-blooded, ruthless use of logic and language struck me as somehow reptilian, although that may be unkind to snakes. I believe that had I not known the identity of the writer, the words alone would have succeeded in raising my hackles."

Ah, he had trained her well, but her choice of words set off an alarm in him. Holmes had thought himself beyond such petty thoughts. Evidently, he wasn't. "Being a good mammal yourself apparently, rather than a cold-blooded thinking machine such as your teacher is known to be."

Her next words gave him pause, as he tried to keep the blood in his cheeks from betraying him. "Ah, but I have never called you cold-blooded, now have I, my dear Holmes?"

How on earth to respond to this?! After a moment to compose himself he said, "No, you have not." Now to change the subject and quickly! "Have you finished with Mrs. Hudson's picnic?"

"Yes, thank you," she said, as he started to pack it away. "If you would just put it over there, I will enjoy it greatly for lunch tomorrow."

And so it begins. "No, I am sorry, but I shall have to put it back in my shopping basket. We may need it tomorrow."

"Holmes, I don't much like the sound of that. I have an engagement for tomorrow. I am going to Berkshire. I have already put it off for three days, and I have no intention of further delaying it because of some demand of yours."

"You have no choice, Russell. We must be away from here, before they find us."

"Who? Holmes, what is going on? Don't tell me you suggest we go out again in that. I'm not even dry from the first time. And what is that thing you've brought­ - ­is it really a bomb? Why did you bring it here? Talk to me, Holmes!"

Here it comes, he thought. "Very well, to be succinct; we shall go out, but not yet, the bomb was here, attached to your door when I arrived; and 'what's going on' is nothing less than attempted murder."

Holmes watched the myriad of emotions cross Russell's face and waited for her background to kick in. He shouldn't have doubted that she could get around something like this.

"Who wishes to kill me? And how did you know about it?"

Such will power, Holmes smiled to himself. Now to make sure she ran the gauntlet for the proper reasons. "Well done, Russell. A quick mind is worthless unless you can control the emotions with it as well. Tell me first, why did you come up the ivy, rather than through the door? You did not have your revolver and could hardly have expected to leap in the window and overpower your intruder." He held his breath as he waited for her crucial answer.

"Information. I needed to know what awaited me before making a decision. Had I found an armed reception party I'd have gone down and had Mr. Thomas telephone for the police. Am I correct in assuming that you left the black smudge on the doorknob for me to find?"

Holmes nodded. "I did."

"And the mud and leaves on the opposite window ledge?"

"The mud was there before I came. One leaf I added as an assurance that you should notice."

"Why the charade, Holmes? Why risk my bones coming up the wall?"

He looked her straight in the eye. Russell would only accept a forward answer to this and he would give it to her. She deserved that. "Because, my dear child, I needed to be absolutely certain that despite being tired, cold, and hungry, you would pick up the small hints and act correctly."

Holmes' brain had automatically called her "my dear child" and this was not lost on his heart. Despite his attraction to this woman, part of him was still valiantly trying to think of her as that fifteen-year-old that he had first met on the Downs. Perhaps it was just an unconscious distraction for him until she reached her majority... He was yanked back into the conversation as she spoke again.

"The business of the note in my pigeonhole was hardly a 'small hint.' A bit heavy-handed for you. Why didn't you ask Mrs. Hudson which room I was in? She has been to my rooms before."

"I haven't seen Mrs. Hudson for some days."

"But - the food?"

"Old Will brought it to me. You may have seen that he's more than just the gardener."

What was this irrational fear of her discovery of his impairment? It wasn't as if he was incapacitated, for God's sake! Granted the results of the concussion were somewhat embarrassing, but this was Russell! She would be the last person to hold something like this against him! Well, it couldn't be helped now... they had passed the point of no return.

"I surmised that some time ago, yes. But why have you been away­?" Russell stopped as she fit all the clues together. "My God, you're hurt. They tried to kill you first, didn't they? Where are you injured? How badly?"

He was quite flattered that she was so concerned for his well-being. Did her eyes betray more than the simple concern for a friend? Was there a certain inflection in her words that made him wonder just how deep her emotions ran? This is ridiculous! Snap out of it, Holmes! This is hardly the time or the place! Keep your mind on the case, for God's sake! Damn this concussion! "Some distinctly uncomfortable abrasions along my back, is all. I'm afraid I may have to ask you to change the dressings at some point, but not immediately. The person who set the bomb thinks I'm dying, fortunately. Some poor tramp was run over just after they took me to the hospital, and he's there still, with bandages about his head and my name on his chart. And, I might add, a constable at his side at all times."

"Was anyone else hurt? Mrs. Hudson?"

"Mrs. Hudson is fine, although half the glass in the south wall is out. The house is miserable in this weather so she's off to that friend of hers in Lewes until repairs can be made. No, the bomb was not actually in the house; they set it in one of the beehives, of all places. He, or they, must have laid it the night before, expecting it to catch me on my morning rounds. Perhaps he used a radio transmitter to trigger it, or else motion at the adjoining hives was enough. In any case, I can only be grateful that it did not go up in my face."

"Who, Holmes? Who?"

Yes, getting down to business would nicely distract him from that alluring cloud of hair that was surrounding her face. Ahem, yes... business. "There are three names that come to mind, although the humourous touch of using the hive is of a level I should not have credited to any of the three. There are four bombers I have put away in the past. One is dead. One has been out for five years, though I had heard that he had settled down and become a strong family man. The second was let out eighteen months ago and had apparently remained in the London area. The third escaped from Princetown last July. Any one of the three could have been responsible for my bomb, which was professionally laid out and left very little intact evidence. Yours, however, is a different matter. A thing like that is as individual as a fingerprint. Not being entirely up to date on bombs myself, however, I need an expert to read this particular fingerprint. We shall take it with us when we go."

"Where are we going?"

"To the great cesspool, of course." And the trip would not be pleasant! Cold and damp and it would wreak havoc on his back.

"Why London?"

"Mycroft, my dear child," (There it was again . . .) "my brother Mycroft. He possesses the knowledge of Scotland Yard without the obsessional reticence of that good body, which tends to hoard information like a dragon its gold. Mycroft can, with a single telephone call, tell me the precise locations of our three possibilities, and who is the most likely author of your mechanism here. Assuming my attempted murderer still believes me to be in hospital, he would not connect you with Mycroft, as the two of you have never so much as met. We will be safe with him for a day or two, and we shall see what trail turns up. The scent in Sussex is, I fear, very cold. I did come up here as quickly as I could, but I was not in time to catch him at his work. I am sorry about that. You see before you a distinctly inferior version of Sherlock Holmes, old, rusty, and easily laid out."

"By a bomb that nearly killed you... Do we go now?"

Holmes was extremely grateful to her in that second, when she dropped the awkward subject and simply moved on with business. It was the same kind of thing he would have done for her and it eased his heart more than she knew.

"I think not. He already knows the bomb did not go off. He will no doubt assume that you will be on full guard tonight - ­­that you have not called the police already tells him that. He will bide his time tonight, and tomorrow either lay another bomb for you, or if, as I suspect, he is intelligent and flexible enough, he will be creative and use a sniper's rifle or a runaway motor car, should you be so foolish as to provide a target. However, you will not. We will be on the streets before light, but not earlier. You may rest until then."

"Thank you."

Holmes was sure that this couldn't be easy for her. Yanked from her studies and her Christmas holiday, only to be faced with the idea that someone was trying to kill them both. Not exactly something to help one sleep at night.

Russell went on. "First, your back. How much gauze will I need?"

He grimaced at the thought. "A considerable quantity, I should think. Do you have it?"

"One of the girls down the hall is a hypochondriac with a nurse mother. If you can do your lock trick on her door as well as you did on that of my other neighbour we should be well supplied."

As she said this a bell went off in his head. "Ah, that reminds me, Russell. An early birthday present." He held it out to her. "Open it now."

She opened the package to reveal a set of new pick-locks. Holmes had gotten them for her as one of the many necessary pieces of equipment that a detective should always have. Similar to a magnifying glass and evidence envelopes.

Russell smiled. "Holmes, ever the romantic. Mrs. Hudson would be pleased. Shall we try them out?"

And so they returned sometime later, sporting a large bottle of antiseptic, a huge roll of sticking plaster, and several square yards of gauze. As a distraction, Holmes told Russell the story of Irene Adler and the King of Bohemia. The brandy helped to dull the pain, but he was still distinctly uncomfortable. Once she finished her ministrations, Russell took one look at her exhausted companion and made a decision.

"You need to lie down and sleep. Take my bed - no, I'll not hear protest." This last was put forth as Holmes tried, in vain, to tell her differently. "You need to be on your stomach for a while, and you cannot sleep in a chair in that position . No, I refuse to accept gallant stupidity in place of rational necessity. Go."

Still reluctant, Holmes succumbed. "Defeated again. I surrender." And acutely aware of the fact that he was sleeping in her bed, half-naked, he slipped between the sheets and gave in to the effects of the brandy. Through the haze, he couldn't help but notice the scent of her on the pillow. Lavender. A smile crossed his face. He had always wondered what fragrance she used. This was, admittedly, an interesting way of finding out. Not that he was complaining.

"Sleep well," she entreated.

Holmes' voice came muffled from the bedclothes. "You will need to wear a young man's clothing tomorrow. I trust you have some."

"Of course."

"Take a small knapsack with a few things in it. We will buy clothing if we are to be gone very long."

"I will pack it tonight," she replied.

"And write a note to Mr. Thomas, telling him you've been called away for a few days, that you understand Mr. Holmes has been in an accident. He is in my employ; he'll understand."

He could hear her surprise. "In your - You are a devious man. Go to sleep."

Holmes dozed as she moved off to take care of things for the next day. He awakened a tiny bit as she sat in front of the fire to braid her hair. She made such sensuous movements as she stroked the brush through its length. It must feel like silk, he thought. Holmes had always been inexplicably fond of her hair and he was even more so now, as it glowed golden in the firelight. I wonder if she would give the same reason that Mrs. Hudson gave?

"I asked Mrs. Hudson once why she thought you wore your hair so long. She said it was a vestige of femininity."

"Yes, she would think that, I suppose."

"Is it true?"

"I think not. I find short hair too much fuss, always needing combing and cutting. Long hair is much easier, oddly enough."

Holmes thought that it was very like Russell to take such a stance on something as aesthetic as hair. Only she could make it a matter of convenience, rather than beauty. Visions of Russell with her hair unbound and flowing behind her lulled him into slumber.

He awoke as the effects of the brandy wore off and was too restless to sleep anymore. He couldn't possibly light a pipe. The smell alone would cause suspicious neighbours. With a blanket pulled around him, Holmes moved over to the window to contemplate the Oxford skyline and organize his chaotic thoughts. No conclusions would come with their lack of evidence. Every time he thought that this thread of reasoning would follow through with a logical end, one crucial detail would turn up missing and his mind would be drawn back to his frenzied trip from Sussex. The concussion was slowly receding, but it's effects were still wreaking havoc on his ruminations. A small sound brought him around.

"Holmes? Is it­­?"

He raised a finger to reassure her. "No, hush, child, go back to sleep. I'm only thinking as best I can without lighting my pipe. Go back to sleep for a while. I'll wake you when it's time."

Russell threw some more coal on the fire and resettled herself. It was then that he realized it. She was a child no more. Instead she was a woman. A woman who would soon demand her rightful place at her partner's side. As an equal. Holmes could deny it all he wanted, but it would come sooner or later and he would have to face it, both as her mentor and as a man. He just prayed that it wouldn't tear apart this precarious thing that was their friendship.

A single tear slipped down his cheek as desperation flooded him. Desperation to hang on to this infuriating, demanding, grouchy, impossible person (with her unerring instincts, diamond-hard intellect, and indomitable spirit) that had come to mean more to him than anything else in his life.

Holmes had seen the prospect of losing her manifested, or so he believed, one night in Jerusalem . . .

To Be Continued...