Home From the Dock

by A woman of brains and spirit

HOME FROM THE DOCK

We faced each other as a newly affianced couple, reached out, and shook hands firmly.

Then we looked at one another and smiled. Neither of us was a very prepossessing sight. Holmes was dripping and filthy, and a substantial amount of the sludge that covered him had transferred itself to me in the course of the events leading up to our engagement. Further observation convinced me that I disliked the look of the blood trickling down the side of his face and the faint shiver that ran through him. Hypothermia, and incipient shock, I thought grimly. If I did not wish to become a widow before I became a wife, I judged it imperative to get us warm, dry and undercover as soon as possible. A brief search of our surroundings unearthed the boots he'd discarded before diving into the Thames, and his topcoat, carelessly flung behind a coil of rope.

Once shod and standing, Holmes draped an arm over my shoulder, pulled the coat over both of us, and looked at me in enquiry. "Where to now?" he asked through teeth that were beginning to chatter.

"My flat, I think." I answered. "You've at least one change of clothes there, and there's a large bathtub with a limitless supply of hot water. Any loose ends Lestrade wants us to tie up can wait until we are clean and dry."

"Good enough," said Holmes. With this goal in mind, we walked off the pier and toward civilisation, whose emissary we soon met in the form of a constable. That worthy was considerably taken aback by the appearance of two soaked and bedraggled strangers, but a quick telephone call to Chief Inspector Lestrade convinced him of our bona fides. Another telephone call to my flat resulted in the arrival of my car driven by Q, with blankets and a thermos of hot coffee in tow.

The doorman, thankfully, wasn't yet up, so I let us in with my key and bundled us all toward the lift. Q, bless him, offered to stay with us, but I fobbed him off with assurances that a doctor would be summoned. He departed to resume his interrupted half-day. What I really wanted, I admitted to myself, was more of those knee-melting kisses, which would be unlikely in the extreme if Q and his missus were about.

Once in my flat, I steered Holmes toward the bath just off my bedroom, with its enormous tub in which a hippo could have wallowed, and turned the taps full on. "Empty your pockets," I called cheerfully through the door, and I will get you a sack for those clothes; they will have to be burnt."

"I will leave them outside," he answered, "if you would be good enough to replenish me from the wardrobe in your guest room. I believe I have a dressing gown there as well."

I left the clothes -- soft shirt, undergarments that I'd handled with more than passing curiosity, trousers, slippers, and smoking jacket -- outside the door. For a moment, I listened to the sounds of splashing, accompanied by muffled curses as he cleansed a particularly tender spot. Then I went into the sitting room to telephone the only doctor I knew who would arrive in short order with no questions asked.

"Uncle John..."

I passed the time while I waited for Uncle John in listening for Holmes, brewing a pot of hot, sweet tea, locating a bottle of Brandy to add to Holmes' portion, and opening a tin of biscuits. Just as I reached the limits of my culinary skills, there was an opportune knock on the door. I let Uncle John in and I performed my own ablutions while he tended Holmes' burns and scrapes and gave him the necessary inoculations.

I fetched up in the sitting room in time to see Holmes clap Uncle John on the shoulder and hear him say "Thank you" as he attempted to rise.

"Now," said Uncle John firmly, "I suggest you seek your bed while I see to Mary, unless of course you need me to help you."

"I shall." said Holmes. "And I don't. And, Watson -- thank you again."

"Not at all, old man. Not at all."

Uncle John examined the knot on my head (I neglected to inform him that I'd received it from Holmes) and pronounced me fit to return to light activity after a period of rest. He drank his tea while I gave him a précis of the conclusion of our case, and the death of Claude di Finetti.

"Can't say I'm sorry," he muttered. "After what he did to you and those other women. He'll answer to a higher court than the Assizes for his crimes, and no innocents need be dragged down with him. Best thing that could have happened, in my opinion." He rose to take his leave.

Well, if I were to tell him our news, now was the time. "Uncle John. There's one more thing I ought to tell you." I began hesitantly.

"Oh?"

"Holmes and I," I paused, "Holmes and I are to be married, Uncle John."

Uncle John sat back down, took my hands and squeezed them hard. "Oh, Mary my dear," he said. "I am so very glad. Holmes has loved you for so long and in such pain. Do you love him, then? Are you sure about this? There are many obstacles to your union, as I am sure you are aware..."

"I know my own mind Uncle John, and yes I am sure. I love Holmes, I've loved him since the day I met him, and I shall love him until the day I die."

Uncle John smiled at me mistily. "Well, then, that should be enough."

He chuckled. "I was going to ask you to look in on Holmes periodically in any case and make sure that he's kept quiet and warm. I believe I can change my prescription now, in the light of your news."

Uncle John's expression took on an unaccustomed intentness. "Now, Mary," he said "will you trust your old Uncle John, who loves you both and knows a bit of the ways of men and women?"

I nodded.

"Then when I take my leave," Uncle John continued, "you go to Holmes and stay with him. Get into that bed beside him, put your arms around him, and let him hold you. Don't let him be alone."

I must have goggled at him. I know I was astounded that Uncle John, the epitome of gentlemanly Victorianism, would suggest such a thing.

There was no twinkle in Uncle John's eye now. His manner was flat serious, every inch a capable, trustworthy physician. "Mary. You are a grown woman now. God knows that I wish you had a mother to tell you these things, but since she cannot, someone must. Listen to me. Every human organism, every one, suffers a periods of reaction after strain or shock, be it mountain climbing, combat, or solving a challenging criminal case. So many times after Holmes and I worked together, I could return to the comfort of my loving wife and he went back to Baker Street alone. Holmes had no one to care for him that way, and yet as much as he'd deny it, he's only human. His mind and heart needed solace and the need was expressed, as it had to be in... other ways. Thus the cocaine. So stay with him, he needs you far more than he can admit."

"And if I do?"

"Trust your heart my dear."

I was speechless. Uncle John in his wisdom and humanity was prepared to set aside the prejudices of his time and trust us both to do what was best for one another. I leaned over, kissed his cheek, and walked him to the door.

"Let me know if I can help," he said quietly, and then he was gone.

I turned to my quiet dark flat and thought for a moment. Then I opened the door to my ridiculously opulent bedroom, and found the bed, as I had expected, occupied. Holmes was lying on one side with his eyes closed and his back to the window. He had turned off the bedside lamp but some grey daylight seeped in through the drawn curtains to outline his face. He looked very much like an exhausted man who had been for 30 hours straight and had had a swim in the Thames and a fatal struggle with a criminal.

He does need me, I thought, more than he knows.

My stomach fluttered just slightly, with equal parts of nerves and mischief. I suppressed it, put my spectacles on the nightstand and sat on the edge of the bed to remove my shoes and socks. Then I rose to step out of my trousers and pull my shirt over my head. As I stood there in my silk underclothing, a voice reached me from behind. I turned to see Holmes lying on his back, looking at me, arms behind his head and a slightly bemused expression on his face.

"Russell, what the hell are you doing?"

"I should have thought it obvious -- I'm getting in with you. Uncle John said you ought to be kept warm, and you needed watching and shouldn't be alone. I've had a blow to the head, I need to rest also, and it's MY bed. Besides, we've shared sleeping quarters before."

"Perhaps not on our present terms. Are you trying to tease me into forgetting that we aren't married yet, Miss Russell?"

I took the pins out of my hair and shook my head, to loosen its waves down my back.

"Well, Mr. Holmes, I am sorry to tell you that there has been a striking decline in the morals of our nation's youth since the late War."

He smiled. "Is that so, Miss Russell? Shocking, positively shocking."

"Don't be an ass, Holmes. I'm as married to you now as I'll ever be. I don't need to mouth some words in a Registry Office to tell me how I feel. Or where I belong."

Holmes gazed at me for a long moment, eyes bright and face suffused with emotion. Finally, he turned back the covers and quirked an inviting eyebrow at me. "Well then," he breathed, "oh then, come to bed, wife of my age. I'm cold."

I did, cuddling in beside him so that my back fit against his chest and his arm wrapped around me. Holmes nuzzled softly at the sensitive spot on my neck and muttered something about "at last, thank God and where you belong."

Then he laid his head next to mine on the pillow. "Lovely," he whispered into my hair.

"So lovely. My beautiful young wife."

I turned to face him and reached out to touch his cheek. My fingers told me something my myopic eyes had missed without their spectacles. Holmes had shaved after his bath. That devious, devious, delicious man.

"Perhaps nothing so definite as knowing," he replied softly. "But I do confess I hoped. Perfectly proper and decent activity, hoping."

"That, I would think, depends on how proper and decent one's hopes are."

"Mmm" he said into my neck "that does present a problem. For my hopes at the moment are most improper -- quite indecent, in fact."

My hand found the top button of his shirt.

"Oh?" I said. "Just how indecent are they?"

"VERY."

Then neither of us said anything for quite some time, as we walked together through the garden of earthly delight. My world soon encompassed only this man I held so close to me, as I drank in the scent of sandalwood soap and warm, clean skin. I was aware of nothing beyond the gently insistent hands and eager mouth that explored me and the intoxicating knowledge of his pleasure -- and need -- as I in turn touched him.

A moment came when a small bubble of trepidation floated to the surface of my blissful erotic daze.

"You," said Holmes "are an astonishment."

"So are you" I answered, letting my hands caress the planes of his naked back and shoulders. "Most fearfully and wonderfully made."

Holmes drew back to look at me tenderly. "Fearfully? I don't frighten you, do I? I should never want to do that. Are you afraid of this, of me? I would never harm you, surely you know that..."

I pulled him back down to me. "I'm an emancipated modern woman, Holmes not a trembling Victorian maiden." I paused to smooth his hair. "It's just that, well, will it hurt, do you think?"

"I shouldn't think so," he murmured, and then looked at me, concerned, "Did it hurt before?"

"I... I don't know." I answered hesitantly." That is... I've never done this before. Everyone says it hurts the first time and..."

At this admission, Holmes jerked out of our embrace, and sat bolt upright with a thud. He looked around him briefly, then groped for his discarded shirt in the tumbled bedclothes, swearing viciously all the while.

As he shrugged into his shirt he saw my face, and stopped dead, as stricken as I. "Good God, Russell. I am so sorry." A pair of long arms reached out and Holmes gathered me in, gentling me with hands and voice, cradling me close to him and kissing my hair.

"Oh no, come to me," he said. "Yes, that's right, next to my heart where you belong. I'm not angry with you, Russ, never think it. If I'm furious, it's with myself and with what I nearly did to you. Idiot and bounder that I am, I was thinking of nothing beyond, well, damn it, I wasn't thinking much. Russell, why in God's name didn't you tell me you're a virgin?"

I didn't answer.

"Mary Judith Russell, my dear sweet wife," he said, "it's better that we talk about this. Now look at me and tell me 'William Sherlock Scott Holmes, my beloved husband, I neglected to inform you of my virginity because'..."

I paused, diverted. "William Sherlock Scott?"

"My full Christian name. You will be saying it in front of a Registrar soon enough, God willing, best you should get used to it. Now continue if you please, 'My beloved husband, I did not tell you I was a virgin because'..."

"I was busy." I said, reasonably enough, into his shoulder. "Distracted."

A gentle thumb and finger tipped my chin upward. "And because" he prompted me.

"All right, you most exasperating of men," I answered, "because I wanted you to make love to me. I still do. I thought you wouldn't if you knew this was my first time. And I was afraid that if we weren't... intimate, that you would change your mind and decide you didn't want to marry me after all. And I couldn't have borne that."

Holmes' arms tightened around me while a small, teasing smile played at the corner of his mouth. "Aah, now I see," he said. "The moral decline of the modern young woman, indeed. Fancy scheming to take advantage of a lonely old bachelor who can no more resist you than he can fly to the moon."

"Holmes. I'm sorry, I…" I began.

"My lovely young wife," he said "you haven't' heard me object." And he bent to kiss me once more. At length, when we paused for breath, he smiled and added, "Though I fear, after the.. intimacies we've exchanged thus far, that your virginity is, aah..."

"Rather more a technicality than otherwise" I agreed.

"Quite. Well I expect I ought to be chivalrous about this, but there are times when a wise man surrenders to cooperate with the inevitable. So make love to you properly I shall, and soon. But not here, and not now. If I am to receive so precious a gift, it should be honoured, don't you think?

It deserves time, and privacy, and two people who have eaten and slept, at the very least."

"Well, if not here and now, when and where?"

"If I may be permitted to decide -- as to when, tonight. By God, I'm through with waiting. Perhaps, we could dine after our meeting with Lestrade. I'll ring Mycroft when we get up and have his man bring over some evening clothes. And after dinner, if you still wish to, we could repair to some place that offers more seclusion than this damnable flat of yours"

"Where then, shall we go home?"

"No. I've no desire to return to Sussex until we are married in the eyes of the law, as well as our own. Mrs. Hudson would be scandalised if we did not occupy separate bedrooms, and I would rather not find out what her reaction would be if she found us together... I've already been slapped soundly for kissing you," he continued in injured tones, "and if Mrs. Hudson thought I was doing anything to besmirch her Mary girl's virtue she'd probably hit me with a griddle and depart forthwith"

"You" I interrupted him "are just afraid of being left to subsist on my cooking"

"Decidedly so. Scones are not among your many talents, I fear. Nevertheless, I won't be parted from you tonight unless you tell me to go."

"But not here?"

"No. The estimable Q. and Mrs. Q. will return from their half-day this evening. It's true they sleep downstairs and have become accustomed to seeing me about at all hours, but even an untrained eye can see the signs that a bed has been occupied by more than one person, and employed for more than sleep. I'll not have your hard won achievements diminished by any hint of scandal."

This last statement was interrupted by a fervent kiss. "Thank you, Holmes. But if we are to spend tonight in each other's company, where?"

"My beloved wife, you deserve nothing less than the bridal suite at Claridge's. But the legalities of this land stand in our way, so I am afraid that the best I can offer you is a bolt-hole."

"Someplace quiet and private with no telephones, no Chief Inspectors and no servants. Yes, that will do nicely."

"Besides," he paused almost shyly, "I've never bedded a virtuous woman before. I'm not entirely sure how one goes about it."

"In much the same manner that one beds an unvirtuous one, I expect. Perhaps a bit more gently?"

He chuckled at this. "That is my Russell. Straight to the heart of the matter as usual. Yes, as gently as you need. I should never want to hurt you. Although in all fairness, I did have some grounds for mistaking your status. I was about to pose a few pointed questions as to just where a virgin had learnt so much about... well, about all the lovely things men and women can do together."

I tried to ignore the thumb circling lazily at the small of my back. "You could consider it native aptitude, I expect just waiting for the right teacher. And I'm not completely unaccustomed to the company of men, as you are no doubt aware. Although," I continued severely, "any of that happened before I was a married woman, so you really shouldn't be asking. But as to how I know about anything as thoroughly improper as -- my eyes encompassed our cosy and thoroughly untidy nest -- this, the answer is really quite simple. Books, of course."

"Books?" he choked.

"Yes, of course, books. There's one in particular, called the Kama Sutra of Vedayana that was quite, um, enlightening."

"I should well imagine so. How on earth, dare I ask, did you obtain a copy?"

"It belonged to Emily Beauchamp -- you know, one of the girls down the hall from me at Oxford. She lent it to Veronica Beaconsfield and Ronnie lent it to me."

Holmes shook with suppressed mirth. "The Kama Sutra. Good God, how times have changed! So the gently reared flowers of Albion are reading the Kama Sutra, are they? Will the stalwart sons of England be ready for this, do you think?"

"They may have to be, Holmes. Every girl in our lodgings had read it by the end of Hilary Term. Though I must admit that given the postwar lack of 'stalwart sons' it did seem rather a waste of time."

Holmes' mouth quirked. "But you believe in finishing what you start, so..."

"I finished it, yes." I paused, feeling a prickle of returning mischief. I had learnt of many things that one might do in bed with a man, but up to now had not realised that laughing might be one of them. With this man, however, it appeared to be, and I was suddenly very glad of it. "You, I might mention, seem quite familiar with the contents of that interesting tome, Holmes. Have you read it by any chance?"

"I am, as you know, an omnivorous reader, Russell. Though I confess that given my habitual avoidance of such entanglements, it seemed somewhat of an exercise in futility."

"But you finished it, did you not?"

"I did."

"I rather thought you might have."

I stirred, preparing to rise and dress, to find that the arm encircling me tightened. "Where do you think you're going, Mrs. 'Olmes?" said a warm voice in my ear.

"I thought I'd leave you to get some rest, I answered. "Unless, that is, you would prefer me to stay.'

'Most married couples share a bed, do they not?"

"So I understand."

"Then, by all means, stay here if you will. And leave your hair down."

"If you wish, but why? It will be a frightful tangle, later."

"I'll help you with it. I should, actually, very much like it to be the first thing I see when I wake up. I fear that I will believe this last interval a very pleasant delusion if it isn't."

"Well we can't have that, can we? Besides, you've compromised my virtue, so, as a gentleman, you're obligated to marry me. I'm afraid I shall insist." I turned my head and touched my lips to his. "Sleep well, Holmes."

The arm about me tightened rather possessively as I settled myself back in. "If I compromised your virtue, my dear Russell, I had help. And a considerable amount of shameless and most delightful encouragement. But since I appear to have done so, marry you I shall. As soon as possible, in fact. His breath was warm in my hair, and his voice began to slur with sleep. "Until then, sleep well, dear Russell."

Holmes had always been able to will himself to sleep almost instantly. Soon there was no sound, save for his quiet breathing and the occasional snore, as the icy rain pattered outside my windows. I turned to listen for his heartbeat, and lay beside him, wakeful but content.

This wasn't quite the course of events I had expected when I'd climbed in with Holmes. But I began to think that it might have been just what we both needed, a chance to get physically accustomed to one another before consummating our relationship as lovers. A pleasant lassitude stole over me as I became aware of how very tired I also was. I reached over to switch off the lamp, then turned onto my back and cuddled into the pillows. Holmes, in some instinct too deep for consciousness, rolled with me. He lay half on top of me, head pillowed on my breasts, dead to the world.

I am not, nor have I ever been, a sentimental woman. Neither at that time was I a particularly maternal one. I was therefore unprepared for the sudden rush of fierce tenderness that I felt for the sleeping man in my arms, this man who could not bear to be parted from me even in exhausted slumber.

"I am my beloved's and my beloved is mine," I whispered in Hebrew. Very softly, so as not to wake him, I kissed his forehead. Then I closed my eyes and I, too, slept.

DRESSING FOR DINNER

There was a comforting weight at my back and I was so warm... utterly relaxed and delightfully warm, although I was clad in only the scanty remnants of my underclothing. As every girl does, I had wondered what it would be like to bed a man, but -- my mind swam slowly upward toward consciousness -- none of my fantasies had included the faint tang of male sweat or the tingly rasp of beard stubble on the face that lowered itself to kiss mine. Then the lovely weight shifted, and there was a draft where that comforting warmth had been.

"Until tonight, Russell," said a soft voice in my ear. From far, far away, came the sound of retreating footsteps and the closing of a door. I snuggled into pillows that held the scents of musk and sandalwood, and fell back asleep.

When I awoke sometime later, Mrs. Q was knocking on my bedroom door, bearing a tray. I glanced over at my night table and quickly snatched up a folded scrap of paper before she set the food down atop it.

"R.," It said in Holmes' untidy scrawl, "7:00 Lestrade, Dinner at 8:00. Will return 6:45. H."

I looked at my frivolous ormolu clock and discovered it was already 5:00. I applied myself to Mrs. Q 's tea and toast, and hastened to begin my preparations.

After my bath, I sat down at the mirrored dressing table and began to arrange my hair, combing out the disorder left by Holmes' attentions, and blushing a little as I chose a style that would be easy to take down later. Odd how fascinated Holmes seemed to be with my hair, and how many times his hands had strayed to it over the years of our association. Well, I thought, he had said that he wanted to kiss me from the first moment he saw me, and he was a man of his word. If he had longed to touch me, perhaps my hair was all he could permit himself, under the constraints of my youth and dependence upon him. It had been a crumb of comfort for both our starved hearts nonetheless.

My heart ached with admiration and yes, love for the way Holmes had steadfastly refused to take advantage of his position in my life. Instead had waited, waited for me to grow up and to be sure of myself and of what I wanted from him. And now our intimate friendship had progressed to the intimacy of the heart, and thence, the body. I had seen Holmes in bleak depression and decisive action, keen absorption and idle dreams, but this side of him -- the ardent, tender lover, I was perhaps the only woman ever to know. "The only one? Oh no, there was one other," whispered a cold voice at the back of my mind.

"Don't be an idiot, Russell," I told myself firmly, "Irene Adler is old enough to be a grandmother by now, if she's even still alive. Her hair has surely turned grey, her waistline has thickened and she no doubt has crows feet around her eyes."

"But not in his memories," mocked the voice. "No one's ever said you had 'a face a man could die for,' now have they?" Would Holmes be comparing me to her tonight? I had seen photographs of Irene Adler, the one Holmes still kept and others, that I had surreptitiously looked up in the periodicals room of the Bodlean. It was rather daunting to consider that my predecessor -- albeit many years ago -- in my loved one's bed had been a skilled courtesan of stunning beauty. I stood before the mirror in my silk underclothing and my hand strayed to the twisted scar on my collarbone. How could I, thin, maimed, boyish Russell, think to compete with beautiful Irene, with her flower-perfect face and the lush promise of her body? She seemed to stand behind me like the ghost of Holmes' past, leaning over my shoulder to breathe cold doubt into my ear. Was I really woman enough for this?

The ghost in my mirror looked at me and smiled a slow, knowing, houri's smile. "Do you really think he won't remember me?" she seemed to whisper. "Foolish child, I've forgotten more about pleasing a man than you will ever know. Anything he does with you, he'll have learnt from me. You're a substitute, Mary Russell, and a poor one at that. Just hope that he remembers to whisper your name tonight when he holds you in his arms."

"I'll make him happy, which is more than you ever did," I snapped at the ghost but my own bravado rang hollow in my ears. I concentrated on my stockings for a moment and then looked up. "You were a fool, Irene Adler." I said to my mirror. "You took your beauty, such talent and intellect as you possessed, and made of yourself -- what? A pretty toy, passing from one man's bed to another's, taking what you could get along the way. And what, pray tell, do you have to show for it? In your vanity and selfishness, you sowed the seeds of your son's destruction, and left his father such a legacy of sorrow and regret that he could never bring himself to love another woman, until now. Until me."

I slipped my mother's diamond earrings into my ears, and sat back to judge their effect before addressing the ghost once more. "There's a word for women like you, Irene darling, and Judith Klein would have said it and sent you to the rightabout soon enough. I'm her daughter and I shall do no less. Begone, then," I thought defiantly, "and trouble me and mine no more."

"Oh, I'm not so easily banished," rejoined the ghost. "Do you think he hasn't tried? I've walked his dreams -- the dreams he won't admit to -- since before you were born, and I still have dominion there. Don't you wonder what he had from me? What he wants from a woman? And do you imagine you can give it to him? Such a passionate man hides under that cold façade, will you ever know him as I did?"

I stopped short, stricken. This figment of my imagination was only as real as my fears, I knew. And yet I had been cut to the heart of my deepest misgivings about Holmes and my future with him. Then my mind, that scholar's mind moulded by Judith Klein and honed by Sherlock Holmes, began to assert itself.

"Didn't they teach you anything in those ghastly American schools?" I gibed at the ghost. "Oh, sorry, you were probably warming the headmaster's bed while his wife was away, so you wouldn't know, would you? You should have opened your books instead of your legs and learnt to conjugate the past tense of verbs. Your dominion began to wane in April 1915, and now it is gone altogether. He dreams of you no more. It's me he loves now, and me he will marry."

And then I heard the voice of another ghost, a proud angry girl of 15 looking up at a man more than twice her age and telling him he would find it impossible to have other than an all inclusive relationship with a woman, one that totally integrated all aspects of their lives. Holmes and I were indeed two parts of a greater whole. I was his apt pupil, his confidant, his partner, his friend, now his lover -- well, nearly, and soon to be his wife.

Yes, Irene had shared her bed with Holmes and borne him a child, but those things alone, important as they were, would not have kept them together. Their relationship had withered because they had not had enough in common outside of the bedroom to sustain it. I on the other hand had known Holmes as my mentor, friend and partner. Each of us would willingly sacrifice our own life to protect the other. Some of the scars that worried me had come from stopping a bullet meant for him. Would she have done that? Not bloody likely. Becoming lovers, husband and wife in fact if not yet in name, was the next step to complete and enhance what we had already built.

And what of that step? I glanced over at the bed. Holmes and I had shared it for the better part of the morning, and he had hardly seemed uninterested or displeased with what had passed between us. I had trusted Holmes with my life, and with my weaknesses, my fears, and my secrets. He had trusted me with his. We should just have to trust one another still. And I was reasonably sure now that my wedding bed would contain only two.

So, if we were to consummate our relationship this evening, what to wear? May as well nail your colours to the mast, Russell. I blessed the elves while I thumbed through my hangers, pulled out the dress, and carefully slipped it on. The ice blue evening frock fit me like a glove. It had a provocative leg-revealing slit up one side and an equally dramatic bodice cut high on one shoulder, then swooping down nearly to my waist on the opposite side. The skilful fit emphasized everything I usually disregarded, and turned my slim -- almost too thin -- figure into something impossibly curving, lissome and -- I might even say -- seductive.

All in all, this did seem rather suitable attire for one's final evening as a virgin. I turned this way and that, surveying my reflection and wondering if I really did have the confidence to carry this off. Then I remembered Holmes' long arms locked around me and that first, desperate heat of his mouth on mine. I decided that yes, I did. I leaned toward the mirror to apply a little lip rouge, and found the reflection of a young woman with creamy skin, a glowing face, and shining eyes under her coronet of artfully twisted hair. And as I looked, Irene's remembered image wavered and grew dim. 'Lovely,' Holmes had called me. 'Young radiance,' he'd said I had. And he'd probably never told her that she belonged next to his heart. I smiled, and touched a drop of scent to the hollow of my throat. I had already learnt that Holmes liked to kiss me there. I had the feeling that I was soon to learn much more.

"He'll not forget you," I said, almost kindly, to the fading ghost in the mirror. "And, you know, I shouldn't want him to. You were his past, part of what made him who he is. Who he is and who I am brought us to this day -- and the night that will follow. But I am his present -- and his future. We love each other in a way that you could never understand, and that love gives me the power to banish you to the past where you belong." I lifted my head now, and ran one hand to smooth the length of my skirt.

"And I can promise you one more thing, Irene Adler Norton," I added under my breath. "Wherever you are and whatever you now may be --, after tonight, you won't be the woman any longer. That title will be mine. But if we should ever meet, you may call me Mrs. Holmes."

I turned on my heel and picked my fur up off the bed. Then I opened the door, switched out the light, and walked into the sitting room where Holmes waited for me.

A DRESS, A DINNER AND A CONFESSION

Holmes was standing by the fireplace, gazing at the flames, tall and quite distinguished in his immaculate evening clothes. Rather handsome, in fact, and I felt a small glow of proprietary pleasure as I looked at him. My friend Veronica claimed he possessed "heaps of s.a." I was beginning to see her point. "Oh, Ronnie," I thought, "you don't know the half of it."

"Ah, there you are Russell, "he said when he heard me. "Do you..." Then he turned around and saw me. And stopped, speechless.

I straightened my back, lifted my chin, and, remembering another piece of advice I had once had from Ronnie, tilted my head and inhaled slightly.

My husband to be opened his mouth, but no sound emerged. I smiled a knowing, womanly smile of my own. The blue dress was proving to have ample entertainment value; quite inversely proportional to the amount of me it covered. This promised to be an evening to remember, oh, my, yes.

"Do you like it?" I asked, twirling slightly to flare out my skirt and give the full effect of my bare skin and silken legs.

"You," Holmes managed to say at last, "are a vision. Breathtaking." He crossed the room and, taking my hand in his, raised it to his lips and kissed the fingers, one by one. I shivered, with delight, and memory -- and anticipation.

"Your faith in my self-control is touching Russell," he said, holding my eyes. "But I fear it may be somewhat misplaced." He lifted my palm and placed a kiss on the inside of my wrist, smiling as he felt the pulse jump under his mouth.

I remembered when I had seen that look before. It was on my eighteenth birthday, the first time Holmes had seen me out of trousers and cloth caps and dressed in a woman's finery. "Holmes, your self-control has kept me safe for the past three years. I am sure I can trust to it for a few hours more."

"No Russell, hardly three years. At least the past five. However, I shall do my poor best if you promise me one thing."

"What?"

He took my fur from me and held it for me to put on. "For God's sake, keep your wrap on at Scotland Yard in front of Lestrade. The man virtually insinuated you were my mistress the first time he saw you in evening clothes. And your green frock, as I recall, was far more demure than that... incitement to riot."

"I'm not your mistress, Holmes," I said, a flicker of danger in my eyes and tone.

He, wise man, caught it. "No, you are not." he answered evenly. "You are no man's plaything, Russell, and I know it well. Permit me to say, then, that I dislike the notion of every man at Scotland Yard ogling my wife."

There was really no possible rejoinder to this. So I took his proffered arm, and we descended to the waiting cab.

By tacit agreement, we refrained from any displays of affection in the cab and conducted our meeting with Lestrade in our usual businesslike manner. Lestrade did urge me to remove my fur, but it was more hospitality than curiosity, and he seemed satisfied with my explanation that I had found a dip in the Thames rather chilling and preferred to stay warm. No need to explain, I reflected, that it was Holmes' dip in the Thames that had chilled my heart when I thought I had lost him.

After we signed our statements, Lestrade enquired how to reach us if he had further questions. I paused, nonplussed.

"Miss Russell is dining with me tonight, Chief Inspector," Holmes put in smoothly. "And then I believe she plans to return to Oxford. I myself have one or two little matters to attend to in Town, but a message to my brother's flat or my home in Sussex will reach me."

Lestrade expressed himself satisfied with that, and we escaped at last into our night. The fog had lifted, and the sparkling night sky and the lights of London lay at our feet. I tucked my gloved had in Holmes' arm and looked around me, content.

Holmes had asked the cab to wait, and this time he slipped an arm around my shoulders once we were seated inside.

"Where are we going?" I asked, settling in.

"Dominic's." Holmes answered. "I rang them from Mycroft's and he's expecting us. I thought it would offer more privacy and less bustle than Simpson's."

"Fine with me," I answered. "I've suddenly discovered I'm ravenous."

Mr. Masters, the proprietor, was indeed expecting us, and guided us to a comfortable alcove where a baked pear with Stilton and a bowl of onion soup promptly appeared. That dinner together was magic. Holmes proved to be a charming and gallant escort, though his eyes lingered on me with unusual warmth. When he took my elbow to guide me up the stairs or seated me in my chair, his touch lingered as well. The tension and constraints of our unacknowledged feelings were gone; replaced by rapport deeper than any we had known before. We both knew what was likely to happen once we left, but we savored our anticipation as we did the fillet of sole and excellent wine. In addition, we found, as ever, that we had much to talk about.

Over dessert (hothouse strawberries dipped in chocolate) I remembered a curiosity, and decided to take advantage of this new, delicious intimacy between us.

"Holmes, I said, "Will you tell me something?"

"What, Russell?" He answered, taking a sip of his cognac.

"Did you really want to kiss me from the moment you saw me? Or were you just saying that?"

"I am not in the habit of 'just saying' anything, Russell," he answered frostily. Then his eyes warmed again as he looked at me. "I was in fact quite serious. I knew what you could be to me from that first moment and have held certain impulses in check for quite some time. However, he continued, "I shouldn't wish you to think me a better man than in fact I am, so there is one thing I ought to tell you now."

"What?" I asked, puzzled.

"I must admit I dreamt of you."

I was astounded. "You dreamt of me?" (Take that, Irene, I thought to myself.)

"Yes, I did. I knew what I felt, and yet I also knew that you were far too young for such a relationship, with me or any man. A man of honour can command his actions; a gentleman, to a degree, can command his thoughts. What I, mere man that I am, found that I could not command was my feelings for you. I could, and did, inhibit their expression, but I could not suppress them altogether. Hence, the dreams."

"What did you dream about?"

"You; coming to me as you did this morning, and lying in my arms."

"Why Holmes, that's actually rather touching."

"Well, the dreams," he examined his snifter with meticulous attention, "did not precisely stop there, Russell. Your doppelganger, I believe the term would be, was a most loving and affectionate young woman. Quite passionate, in fact. And, ah, rather less clad that propriety would demand."

This revelation shed new light on a previously inexplicable facet of Holmes' behaviour. "So on those mornings when you'd be unusually irritable with me, it meant..."

"That I'd likely had one of the dreams, yes. They did nothing for my equilibrium at the best of times, and seeing you in the morning made it worse. How could I think to face you, a young girl, to some degree under my protection, remembering how I'd seen you in my mind, knowing what I wanted with you?" Holmes swirled his brandy, watching it spark amber in the candlelight, avoiding my eyes.

"I want you to know," he continued softly, "that I fought them. I have seldom been as ashamed of anything as I was of my weakness in... desiring you."

"Oh?" I answered softly agog with curiosity and wonder. "Oh... why"?

"I hardly need remind you that the soft underbelly of London supports quite a trade in fresh young things to pique the jaded appetites of middle-aged men. I 've always loathed that trade and despised such men. I cannot express how appalled I was to find myself having anything in common with them. And yet, when I woke, like Caliban I would long to dream again."

He looked up at me then and his mouth quirked wryly. "So, Mary Judith Russell," he sighed, "Now you know. Do you still want to marry the old fool you see before you?"

"For so long, and in such pain" Uncle John had said. Now I knew how truly he had spoken. But the only wait before us now was the sweet tug of expectancy. And, by the Lord G-d, any longings Holmes had had need trouble him no more. I would see to that. I leaned forward, took his hand, and tried to speak over the lump in my throat. "I would have come to your bed long before tonight, Holmes, and you know that as well as I do. There have been several occasions when a look, a touch, would have.."

Holmes tried unsuccessfully not to look pleased with himself. "Why Russell," he began playfully, "If I'd only..."

I squeezed his hand. "No. Let me tell you, this is important. Other than the fact that I do not consider you old, what I see before me 'William Sherlock Scott Holmes' is the man who in his honour and chivalry, at a cost to himself that I was too young to know, nourished me, taught me, and helped me grow up. He understood that all our days are numbered, but still he gave me what could be salvaged of my girlhood until the day I was ready to be a woman. I... damn it... I love that man, Holmes. And I am honoured to be his wife."

We sat looking at each other for some time in joy, and tenderness, and a kind of incredulity that two such undemonstrative people had been able to speak these words to one another.

Something else was there as well. I sat back and crossed my legs, feeling the silky slither of my skirt as it parted over my calves and thighs. Holmes' eyes locked on every move I made. "Is it time to go home?" I asked.

"Oh, yes," my husband answered.

THE WAY HOME

"Ah, Russell. Our chariot awaits."

I raised an eyebrow at the gleaming black motorcar parked a discreet distance down the street. "That's rather impressive, Holmes. Did it just drop from the sky?"

Holmes chuckled and stepped round to open the passenger door for me, eyes still warm. "No, it belongs to Mycroft's office. He had one of his... associates... leave it here. It's seldom that I ask a favor, and he was happy to oblige me when I did. I am rather afraid that I neglected to mention," -- his grin winked at me out of the darkness -- "that I would be using government property to drive to a romantic assignation with a beautiful woman."

"Don't be an ass, Holmes, we're married. Besides, it isn't an 'assignation' if we go there together."

"One learns something every day. I bow to your superior knowledge of modern customs, dear Russell."

The motor purred to life and we navigated the streets in companionable silence. What sort of conversation did one make with a man one was about to sleep with? I wondered. Or was it necessary to make conversation at all? I should have to give the matter some thought. Soon we reached the less reputable precinct where Holmes kept his bolthole.

Holmes parked some little distance from the building, and casually walked over to the nearest streetlamp to run his hand over a mark chalked there. The signal, I realized, for Mycroft's man to retrieve the car. Still in silence, we began to pick our way down the deserted street.

The magic seemed to be leaking out of my wedding night. I stopped turned to face Holmes, and put my hand on his arm. "Holmes, what is troubling you?"

"Have I ever told you, Russell, that you know me far too well?"

"No."

"Perhaps I should have," he muttered.

We had reached the back door that lead to our sanctuary, and he gestured to me to precede him.

"Inside."

"So, what is it?"

"I was recalling what you said at dinner, about how our days are numbered. It occurs to me that I am no longer a young man and the number of days I have left to give you may be small."

"Holmes, if I have learnt anything these last few weeks it's that neither of us is likely to die in our marriage bed. We will probably kill each other first." He snorted, to my relief. "All joking aside, better minds than mine have said that only the Lord G_d of Israel can number our days. Perhaps He did not share that knowledge with us because we are to make the most of each day we have."

"The 'Eternal Now,' Russell? I was told something similar in Tibet, that each present moment was all the time one could truly possess."

"I know my time stops when you kiss me."

"Oh? Well, then..."

A few moments later, he loosed his grip on me. "I trust," he husked, "that you'll forgive some impatience from man who's been teased with that dress for the past few hours. But perhaps this discussion is best continued elsewhere?" He held out his hand to me, and we made our circuitous way through the building.

At the door to the bolthole, Holmes turned the key in the lock and shot me a wicked grin. "Well, this IS our wedding night," he said. "Since you missed the proposal on bended knee, I dare say I shall have to exert myself and carry you over the threshold."

Mirth fizzed through my veins like champagne. "If you insist" I said, and found myself scooped up and deposited in a mussed, laughing heap in one of the chairs by the fire.

"One of the proprieties observed, at least," said Holmes.

"Would be a shame to omit them all," I agreed. I slipped out of my shoes and wriggled my grateful toes on the faded hearthrug while Holmes built up the fire. It seemed appropriate, the completion of the circle that we were here, back in the place where the scales had fallen from my eyes and I had seen not only my mentor, but a man, a man who loved and needed me as I him.

Holmes straightened up and held out his hand for my fur.

"Give me your wrap, Russell, and I'll hang it over the flue. In the meantime, you should find something more comfortable in the bedroom."

I did. No frills, no furbelows, just soft grey silk like a wisp of smoke, with a keyhole neckline in the front and a low back that dipped down below my waist. Side slits in the layered skirt permitted movement, but, I noted, the cut and fabric rendered this confection completely unsuited to any undergarments whatsoever. I took a deep breath, removed my clothing, and slipped it on.

As I was unpinning my hair, the door opened. "Your Uncle John," said Holmes from the doorway, "once told me that once in his life, every man should have the pleasure of buying something utterly frivolous that a lovely woman would wear just for him. I admit that at the time I failed to follow his reasoning. I am now forced to concede the point. Good God, Russell."

I turned to go to him. "No, just stand there. Let me look at you."

"Why?"

"Why, she asks? Because I've been telling myself for longer than I care to remember to keep my eyes on your face and not those legs. Because I had to make a point of not walking behind you when you wore trousers, as the view from that perspective inspires thoughts a gentleman shouldn't have."

He crossed the small room and took my hands, holding me at arms length. "I don't think you truly understand how lovely you are. Perhaps I will be able to convince you, one day... But, for the moment, I propose to feast my eyes upon you. Because, now, I can."

His turned me, slightly, this way and that, letting his eyes travel over me like a pair of warm caressing hands. Boltholes, however, lack certain amenities, among them central heating. I shivered slightly in my thin silk, and took a step closer to the nearest source of available warmth.

"Are you cold?" he said. "Here -- it's warm by the fire."

He gestured toward the battered armchair. "Come sit with me."

"That chair will never hold both of us" I objected, "Unless of course we sit very close together"

And so I found myself cradled in his arms; nestled in his lap. His lips brushed my hair as he gently unpinned it, and combed through the tumbling strands with his fingers. I was still cold, though, so I opened his dressing gown and unbuttoned his shirt, seeking the heat of his skin.

He sighed in contentment. "Delicious."

"We've done this before."

"Yes, I've held you so before, but never like this. Never knowing that we needn't part. Never without having to censor what I say or hide what I want."

He made a small, contented sound and said, "Dear God but I wanted you, that first night we were here."

My twenty-one year old body was quite preoccupied with the soft, nibbling kisses that had started behind my ear and begun trailing down my neck, but curiosity has always been my besetting sin. So I snuggled deeper into his lap and asked him a question.

"Holmes?"

"Mmmm?"

"If you wanted me, the first night we were here, why did you leave? You could have had me for the asking, you must have known that..."

"Oh yes, I knew," he breathed into my shoulder. "And I found the thought damned appealing. That's why I left, in fact, because of the way you were looking at me."

"What?"

"My dear Russell, your face can be quite transparent to one who knows you well.

Might I add that a thin silk blouse acquires a similar quality when thoroughly drenched -- and we'd been out in the rain. It was becoming far too difficult to remember where my eyes and hands belonged."

I took one hand and guided it. "They belong here"

"So they do," he answered, fingers stroking, "now."

"But not then?"

"No."

"I am old enough to know what I want, Holmes."

"Of course you are. Russell, my dear, we would not be here and more to the point," he settled me in a little closer "you would not be here if I thought otherwise. That first night here any man could have given that lovely young body of yours what it wanted. However, I had decided sometime back that if you ever came to my bed, or I to yours, it would be because you chose me. I will have all of you or none. I could not have borne a marriage in name only with you so tantalizingly close but forever out of reach. Yet, oddly enough, I've no desire to spend my declining years bedding a woman if I do not have her heart."

"You have mine," I whispered, and lifted my face.

When our lips parted, he looked down to me and smiled. "And poor thing though it is, I gave you mine the day I first kissed your hand."

"But that was the day we met."

"So it was."

Surely, I thought at this point, we would adjourn to the bedroom. But no, Holmes tightened his arms around me, rested his check on the top of my head and cleared his throat. "Russell, my very dear one, Russell my love," he said, "It occurs to me that although I am marrying a virgin, you, as you know, are not. I don't lay claim to Watson's vast experience with women, but before anything too... irrevocable takes place, I expect I ought to ask you if there is anything about me that you feel you need to know."

Ah so that was it. Holmes had ghosts of his own, and no doubt, they had been whispering in his ear as he made his preparations for our night. I made myself a bit more comfortable, then drew back to look into those troubled grey eyes.

"Things I ought to know about any other 'women in your life,' you mean?'

His muscles tensed beneath me. "Yes."

"I must confess to some curiosity about one of them." I admitted.

"Oh?"

"My doppelganger. What is she like? I 'd be mortified to think I disappoint you by comparison.."

"To the contrary, you have surpassed her. When I woke this morning, or afternoon, rather, I was not alone."

"You're avoiding the question, Holmes."

"Am I?" One long hand seemed to have found the slit at side of my skirt and began traveling -- slowly -- up the leg beneath. "Silk" he said softly.

"Holmes..."

"Well, then, your dream self. She's much like you. Lovely. Skin like velvet and she smells like heaven, and that hair could make a better man than I am dream of peace and plenty forever."

"She calls me 'Scott'."

"Scott?"

"Yes. My mother called me 'Will,' I've never liked 'Sherlock' and 'Holmes' sounds as though we're in the laboratory. Not quite suited for those moments that are on a more, shall we say, intimate footing."

"Scott. Darling Scott. I like it."

"Mmm. So do I. She's unaccountably fond of me."

"Is she? Well, a woman of taste, then."

"And she adores it when I do this."

A woman of taste indeed, I thought dizzily. "I can see why," I whispered. "Now does she by chance enjoy..."

"That?" he rejoined some moments later. "I hope so. Because I certainly do."

"Now, if she calls you 'Scott' what do you call her?"

"What do I call you? 'My darling girl.' For so you are."

I kissed him again at this, kissed his forehead and his closed eyes, and the pulse that beat on his neck, and finally, his mouth. Then I got -- shakily -- to my feet, and pulled him up after me. Enough was enough, after all.

"So, Holmes," I said as we paused in the bedroom door.

"So?"

"I believe this is the part where you seduce me."

"Don't be absurd, Russell," he murmured into my hair, as his deft fingers busied themselves with the fastenings of my gown. "It's not a seduction if both partners are willing."

"Well, what is this, then?

"Don't you know?" he answered, drawing me gently to stand with him by the bed. .

"Having eliminated all the other alternatives, I am forced to conclude that this must be love."

"Yes. Only love. As simple and as infinitely complex as that."

And so it was.