His Wife

by A Pair of Glasses

He awoke, as was his custom, fully alert and with the memory of the previous night thundering in his mind. He turned his head and beheld his wife. He lay there, watching her sleep, with her hair surrounding her like a golden cloud.

His Wife.

Not quite six years earlier such a statement would have seemed heresy. He had, for most of his life, in Watson's words, sneered at the softer emotions, not believing that they and intellect could co-exist without compromising the latter. Until that day on the Downs, he had almost believed that he was only a brain with appendages, as his good friend had once quoted him as saying. With one notable exception in the past he had never allowed the iron control he normally kept on himself to relax, and that experience had had such painful results that his long-held theory had seemed proven to his satisfaction. He had never allowed it to happen again.

Then Russ had come upon him unawares on the Downs as he was peacefully watching bees, bringing with her changes so cataclysmic that he himself still occasionally found difficulty believing where events had led.

He had been surprised by the intellect at first: he had believed for years that he and Mycroft were truly alone in the world. He had marked the (presumed) young man before him as a possible candidate for his brother's attention and had tiredly prepared to return to his stagnant and stagnating life. The possibility of such intelligence being possessed by a female had not occurred to him, so when she had removed her cap and flung her gender at him like a gauntlet he had been struck with amazement, although he would never admit that to her. Their conversation at his cottage had cemented his growing realization that here was a mind to be reckoned with, a protégé to be moulded, and maybe something more. He had known that he must continue their acquaintance, having no faith that the conventional educational establishment would be able to provide all that she would need and realizing that her vindictive aunt would provide no support.

He had known from that very first day that she would become an important part of his life, and, looking back, some part of him had always known that marriage was an eventual possibility despite their age difference. Her intellect had sang out to his, complementing his, as he had never believed possible. However, she had been a child, needing guidance and maturity to fully become the person he knew she could be. Anything more than that would have to await her majority. The first three years of their acquaintance had been ones of teacher and apprentice and he had observed her growing intellectual maturity with a pride he had kept hidden from her. When she had gone up to Oxford, a void unexpectedly large had been left behind.

Russell's eighteenth birthday had caused him a greater amount of consternation than he had experienced in his entire life. He had focused so fully on her intellectual development that he had deliberately ignored the physical maturity she had gained along the way: her chosen apparel had helped with that. Russell's appearance in full evening dress had revealed her as a very attractive woman. He had been suppressing "unnecessary" emotions and physical reactions all his life, but that night had staggered him with the realization that his feelings for Russell had progressed far beyond those of either friendship or partnership. They had become love. Physical desire more powerful than anything he had ever known had flooded through him; the surprise he had felt had registered to the others as apoplexy. He had found himself outside her bedroom that night with no recollection of how he had arrived there. Luckily he had came to his senses before turning the knob, visions of her aunt and public scandal appearing before his eyes.

The ensuing three years until her majority were the longest of his life. The fact that she was away during term time had actually helped in that he hadn't had to see her daily. He knew that while she was far more intelligent and had faced more tragedy than most people her age, she had not yet seen enough of life. Her time at University would remedy that. He had understood that she would eventually become the focus of the attentions of her male contemporaries - her fortune alone guaranteed that - but he had deliberately avoided learning anything of her social life at Oxford, to the extent of instructing Mr. Thomas to make no mention of such matters unless they directly threatened her physical safety. He had simply not wanted to know. Although he had told himself that he would have been pleased for her, he had been relieved that he had never had to face the possibility of her becoming seriously involved with someone else.

The Donleavy case had driven home to him how much he had come to care for her. Twice he had faced the possibility of losing her with a dread he had never known. However, the trip to Palestine had comforted him in a way he could never have anticipated. Those weeks they had spent in close company had confirmed to him that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her. Their proximity had several times nearly provoked him to distraction, but the circumstances behind their flight had ultimately caused him to avoid acting on his impulses. Such an occurrence would have blunted their watchfulness, kept them from doing what needed to be done; she was also at that time still a minor in the eyes of the law, and the possible resulting scandal had they been discovered was not something he was willing for her to face.

Upon their return to England, he had watched her walk away in feigned estrangement, not knowing if the trap they were laying would catch the wrong prey. At their reunion, the embrace in her rooms had nearly been the end of him. She was so close, but still out of reach. Afterward, watching her bleed in his laboratory had almost been more than he could bear. If she had died, his life would have become meaningless.

She had lived, but the experience had scarred her more than physically. She had withdrawn, from him and from herself. It had taken many months to draw her out again.

She stirred beside him, her eyes fluttering behind closed lids. He continued to watch her, content in their proximity. He had waited a long time.

Memories claimed him again. This past Christmas he had fled to London as her twenty-first birthday - her legal majority - had approached, needing to prepare himself for what he knew was to come. He knew that she had not yet consciously realized the direction their relationship had been taking, even while expecting her to propose marriage as a way of observing social mores. When she had tracked him down in London he had been proud of her accomplishment but not yet prepared to face her. Knowing that he might not have been able to accept a platonic relationship, given the strength of his feelings, he had provoked her into flight by reminding her of what marriage entailed, needing for her to think the whole business through. Twenty-four hours later in his bolt hole, he recognized that things had indeed changed between them, and that she was beginning to see him not as her partner and friend, but as a man. The tension that night had been palatable and he knew that if he had initiated matters she would not have refused him. He had not wanted that - had not wanted anything short of marriage. Strange thought, that, that the unconventional Mr. Sherlock Holmes would care so much for social convention! Instead he had left, not taking the opportunity to declare himself, and she had retreated again into the confusion that had sent her fleeing from him the night before.

During the business with Margery Childe he had watched as she had wrestled with their relationship. When he had asked her to accompany him to France, he had done so with the intention of providing an atmosphere that would have made proposing marriage logical. That she had not gone with him had been very disappointing. The subsequent attack on her life had caused him considerable apprehension, but given her talents at defending herself he had never considered the possibility that she would be abducted while on her way to Oxford. He had not known she was missing for nearly a week, and had been frantic when he had discovered her disappearance. When he had found her, he had been angrier with her abductor than at any person in his long career. If he had captured Claude Franklin that day, he truly believed he might have killed him with his bare hands.

Sunday morning on the docks would be forever etched in his mind. Her abductor had died, and not entirely at his hands, relieving him of that burden. Russell, believing briefly that he himself had perished, had responded to his reappearance with a display of physical emotion that could not be explained in any other way but that she cared for him. His subsequent actions and her response to them had confirmed this deduction and finally ended his long wait.

That had been only days ago. There had been legal obligations relating to the case to conclude, but accomplishing their marriage had been the only thing that had really mattered to either of them. Yesterday, that had been achieved. He chuckled to himself. Neither of them were openly sentimental, nor given to overt displays of affection in actions or words, and their wedding would have seemed nearly devoid of emotion to anyone else. They both knew better.

He remembered the night before. It had been the most profoundly moving yet intensely powerful experience of his life. He had finally dropped the façade he normally wore, sharing more of himself than he ever had, releasing everything that the years had accumulated. He had been concerned that the strength of his emotions would frighten her, but Russ had instead...

Russell stirred again, stretched, and opened her eyes. She smiled at him. "Good Morning, Husband."

He smiled back. "Good Morning, Wife".