The Irish Week

by By Gean' Fuqua

(A quick trip to Ireland and a freak accident brings Holmes' feelings to light, but Russell, recovering from an accident, does not realize what he means. This event could also explain her reaction to a death in MOOR!)

December arrived with its short, dark days and hurried work to complete what had begun weeks ago. My shoulder ached from inactivity, dampness, and strain from sitting too long with books. I counted the hours until I could leave Oxford. Sussex waited.

I had been away too long, too deep in my studies to realize how much I missed the house and the people there. Not my relatives; the most I could hope was that my aunt and her friends would find London more attractive during the holiday season and leave me out of their plans. I missed and longed to see, to be in the company of, my best friend.

Best friend. Two simple words that barely described any relationship, and certainly did not come close to providing a true definition of what was between us. Sherlock Holmes, the famous retired detective, known the world over from the Strand stories, was my best friend. We had stumbled upon one another when I was 15, both of us abandoned by society, or perhaps we had abandoned society, to find each other.

I admitted to my own self that without Sherlock Holmes I would be a rudderless ship in stormy seas. I studied in Oxford, but knew that to turn toward home, I needed Holmes. And I believed he needed me as well. In the past years he had filled a void left by the deaths of my parents and brother. In quiet times and lonely nights I sometimes believed that we had moved beyond best friends. But what would that be? Partners, we already were or nearly so. Soulmates? What did that mean? Each time, I backed away.

At my lodgings, one small, thin note awaited. Never one for many words, or for telephone messages, the telegram stated simply: "Ireland, a few days. Something to interest you. Come. SH" I would have giggled if I had not been so exhausted.

Two days later I arrived at my own house, finding my aunt absent, which suited me as I considered her a pebble in my path to step over. I left some things in my room, took a few things with me, and continued my journey another five miles to the place and people I considered home.

Mrs. Hudson, housekeeper to Holmes and surrogate mother to me, met me at her kitchen door; sweet, baking fragrances met my nose.

"Mary, Mary! We have been waiting days! He's upstairs. Go get him and I will have tea ready by the time you get him down." Her face was full of smiles as we hugged. I doubted that my own mother could have been as good to me as this woman. We never had a cross word and if she ever disapproved or disagreed with what I did, she never voiced it to me.

I took the stairs two at a time, then stopped at the closed door. Why did I feel apprehensive? Or was that the feeling? My fingers tapped a tattoo as I opened the door. He stood bent over a table filled with beakers and tubes putting out repugnant smells. His gray eyes met mine, the edges of his mouth turned up.

"Ahhh - Russell. It is time you turned up. I was beginning to think I would have to go this one alone." He left the table, wiping his hands on his coat. "Let me change. Over tea I will show you the reason for our trip."

Just like Holmes. He would never change. He acted as if I had been in the house only yesterday. And he would always assume that I was ready when he was.

Mrs. Hudson was true to her word. A feast was spread for us. Holmes arrived a few minutes later. We drank our tea, ate most of the food, and talked of happenings in this part of the world. Only then did I finally manage to bring our talk around to his telegram.

"Holmes, tell me!" I pounced on him as he took up his pipe. I knew it would take another half hour to get anything out of him. "Do we have a case?"

His eyes practically sparked, as he left the pipe and reached to the table behind him. A large heavy envelope appeared in his hand, and saying nothing, he handed it to me, then reached for his pipe. He begin the work of getting it going as I pulled tissue wrapped contents out of the envelope. Tissue paper fell away as I recognized the highly decorated pages of a medieval manuscript. I gasped as I held the edges of one page between my fingers and looked up to meet Holmes' eyes.

"How?" was all I could say.

His pipe remained cold as he watched me. Then one word answered by question, "Mycroft." That was answer enough. However, we had taken one case from Mycroft, Holmes' brother, which had nearly killed Holmes.

"No, no, Holmes. Not again. We - I can not take another - "

He held up his hand. "It is not a case, as such. It is only to return these artifacts. You do not care for the season's festivities and neither do I. We can make a trip to Dublin, return these, spend a few days and return home. We do so quickly and quietly. No disguises, no dressing up in strange clothes. What do you say?"

Ireland had its well-known problems and no love for anything English at the present time. With this thought, my brows shot upward as I looked at Holmes. I returned my eyes to the manuscript pages as he continued to work on his pipe.

I spread the pages and studied the spirals and figures and small animals surrounding rounded Celtic script. Truly a work of art.

Holmes coughed and I realized I had been lost for several minutes in scrutinizing each page. He began talking. "These landed in Mycroft's hands and he has entrusted them to us to return. It appears they have been in England for some time. They are not from the Book of Kells, but a lesser-known manuscript. We are returning them back to Irish hands. They expect us - soon."

We spent the remainder of the day in the laboratory with his experiments, talking about my Oxford studies, and checking on his bees. I spent the night in his guestroom as I had done many times in the past. The room was more aptly called my room since I felt more at home in it than I did any other place.

The next day we left by train for Wales, traveling to Holyhead for the crossing to Dublin. Our trip was uneventful and fellow travelers were in a holiday mood. Music, songs, and dancing were our constant companion and as Holmes placed a fiddle to his chin, he became a welcome participant in their celebrations.

Dublin was a city much like London, teeming with wealth and poverty, beggars, students, and aristocrats, crowding streets and public places. Holmes managed a respectable ride to the Shelbourne Hotel, passing Trinity College, pointing out its entrance, the library, and the red brick Rubrics. Our suite of rooms overlooked a large park across the street. However, my energies were spent and a hot bath made the bed a welcome sight. Holmes disappeared into another room as I sank into the gentle quietness of slumber.

The next morning the rattle of china brought me from sleep. My door was slightly ajar. I knew Holmes was up and trying to wake me. I slowly pulled out of my warm covers, dressed for the day, and found breakfast waiting.

"Where to today?" I asked. Holmes, dressed for business, had our coats ready and the slim packet under his arm.

"To the Bank of Ireland. A short walk, then we have several days to spend as we desire. Have you been to Ireland? I thought not. There is conflict here, but right now, it is calm as the Irish prepare for their new Parliament."

I had dressed in a warm wool skirt and heavy sweater as well as a long coat. The cool air made me appreciate the warmth of my clothes. We appeared as any number of couples out in the early morning sun. Holmes carried the packet under his arm as if it were the daily newspaper.

The Bank of Ireland was an imposing building across from Trinity College. I quelled my curiosity to compare it with Oxford and entered the Bank with Holmes. The building was bustling with people but as soon as Holmes identified us, we were shown to a series of offices, then into an elaborate room overlooking the street. As I looked around, I realized the building had not always been a bank.

Men stood as we entered and I was introduced as Holmes' partner; no surprised looks crossed any of the ten faces around the room. Holmes pulled the pages from the case and spread them across the table. A mummer rose from the men as each page seem to send its own light across the room. A few touched a page, but most appeared to be in a reverent awe as they moved around to look at each page.

Slowly, I realized, either from the low words spoken or from the reactions to these pages, that these were long missing national treasures, not a recent theft. There was also some political maneuvering occurring. I moved to stand near a window, eavesdropping and observing, but unobtrusive. Holmes was known by some of the men and gradually made his way around the room. And as quickly as we had arrived, we were back on the street. He tucked my hand in his arm and gave me a quick smile.

"Our work is done, dear Russell. Decide for us what occurs next." He was in such a satisfied mood I knew he considered whatever role he had played a success. I had a hundred questions but I would wait. The sun was covered with gray clouds and the air was cold, but I was not ready to enter the buildings of Trinity.

"Let us walk to the river. Then return to Trinity and, if we have time, the National Museum. And the National Gallery." I had spoken rapidly then realized Holmes was patting my hand with his and smiling.

"We will make time. It is good to have your company, Miss Russell." With that remark, we made our way to the Liffey and strolled by the Custom House where Holmes pointed out the fourteen sculpted heads representing the rivers of Ireland. He knew the black empty spaces had once been buildings destroyed in the Easter Rising of 1916. Only a few had been razed and rebuilt. At the statue of Daniel O'Connell, we turned to recross the Liffey with throngs of others on this main thoroughfare of Dublin.

Holmes stopped at a tobacco shop while I crossed the street to the bridge. In an instant frantic cries came from the street. I turned to watch a huge lorry roar down the street, it's load weaving from side to side, other vehicles and people rushing to move out of its way. I saw Holmes in the doorway as the crowd pressed against the bridge railings and I moved with them.

The fog in my head cleared before my eyes could focus. I knew Holmes was near. I hurt all over.

"What happened?" I asked.

He reached over to place my specs on my nose and hooked the earpieces over each ear. "Tell me what you remember," he said.

I closed my eyes and felt his hand on mine. "The lorry and the bridge. And you in a doorway."

He moved to the bed, pulled my head up with one hand, and fluffed each pillow before he answered. My brain was working because I thought his reply was typical Holmes.

"You ended up in the river, nearly drowned and with a concussion. For two days you have had high fevers, delirium, and chills. A doctor and a nurse have been here twice each day. It appears your crisis has passed." He made tea and brought a cup to me, but he did not release it until I had my first swallow.

"I remember the doctor," I said. "He kept asking me questions. I think I remember vomiting, too."

Holmes almost smiled, then continued, "He was very concerned - as was I. Influenza and pneumonia were real possibilities. Even without those, you have been very ill." His hand remained on my shoulder for a long minute; he gathered up the tea things and left the room.

Holmes never showed much concern over his own or others' infirmities or ailments yet I was aware that his actions in this room were not characteristic of his usual behavior. I lay in bed, not wanting to move. I did not hear Holmes until he appeared with toast and jam and fresh tea. Any other morning he could wake the dead while making tea. I must be ill!

The doctor and the nurse arrived shortly. The nurse helped me bathe, changed my nightgown, and tried to brush my hair. Holmes and the doctor conveniently left the room to say things I could not hear. I fell into clean bedclothes with a cleaner body and I slept, unaware of most of the day. Holmes was sitting at my bed when I woke. I thought he was asleep until I moved.

"Awake, are you?" The back of his hand touched my cheek then my forehead. "And no fever. Perhaps the Irish doctor's tonic is working. I will call for tea." He left the room for a few minutes.

I struggled to move out of bed, taking much longer than usual. My feet touched the floor but I could not push myself to stand. Holmes returned and, without a word, put his arm around me, pulled me upright, and got me to the chair. I had felt like this before, and knew it would pass. At least I had no broken bones or bloody wounds. Holmes pressed a cup into my hands.

"We are beginning to make a habit of this," I said.

Holmes stopped his hand in mid-air, looked at me, then continued to spread butter on a scone. "Habit of what, Russell?" he asked.

"Of taking care of each other." I said as I reached for his scone, which he gave willingly.

He leaned back in his chair and crossed his ankles toward the fire. A corner of his mouth twitched and one eyebrow moved upward.

"It is our fate, our destiny, Russell. I can never be in your debt and you certainly can not be in mine." He continued to sit while I finished the scone and ate another one. Finally, he said, "I need to go out. Not for long. But will you promise to remain in bed until I return?" I did not feel like moving, so I nodded yes. Holmes helped me to my feet, which were steadier than they had been a short while ago. I believe I was asleep before he left.

It was dark when I woke and in the soft light I saw Holmes sitting near the bed. When I sat up, I knew I was feeling better. Holmes got up to assist me, but stopped when I help up my hand.

"No, let me do this." I made my way around the room, keeping one hand on furniture or a wall until I reached the fireplace. "I think I will live, Holmes. Do you think we could get some real food?"

"Of course," he answered. But before he left the room, he found my dressing gown and put it around my shoulders.

I found my brush and worked it through my tangled hair and tried to look presentable for dinner. I heard Holmes in the other room and knew our dinner had arrived.

We sat down to hot, plentiful food for the first time in two days; the last meal I remembered was breakfast two days ago. When we finished, I was satisfied but tired. We had made easy conversation during dinner, yet I knew Holmes had some unresolved, unspoken issue between us.

Finally, after deciding that the doctor must have found something dreadfully wrong with me, I spoke. "Tell me, Holmes. Something is troubling you."

At first he denied this. He took up that familiar pose leaning up to place his elbows on his knees, his fingers steepled, and for long minutes, remained quiet. When he spoke, it was almost in a whisper. "I thought I had lost you, Russell. You disappeared in that crowd and the sight of you being pulled out of the river, paralyzed me with fear. That has not happened to me in many, many years. I am a selfish old man, but I do not know what would become of me if I lost you."

I sat in silence. This was such an unexpected response that I could think of nothing to say. Holmes remained in his chair, not looking at me. Minute followed minute until the silence was uncomfortable. I reached over and touched his arm and he looked at me. His face had no expression and I could not recognize the look in his eyes.

Confused, I made a sound near a laugh and said, "Holmes, you know you will never lose me. I will return home one day with my education and my own money and I will ask you to marry me! Then you will try to chase me away, or you will marry me and I will hang chintz curtains in all your windows, have tea parties every day, and throw out all your smelly experiments! I will do all I can to make our lives miserable!" I stood when I finished, smiled and placed a quick kiss on the top of his head.

He sat there with his mouth open while I went to my bedroom and shut the door. Some time later I woke to the smell of sweet pipe tobacco coming from the next room. My door had been cracked open and I returned to sleep.

The next morning, Holmes was his old self and I felt much better. Over breakfast, he surprised me with plans for the day. It was Christmas Day, and he called his plan an early birthday present. We left our rooms and began a slow walk in the bright, cool morning to Trinity College. When Holmes pulled a rope, an elderly man appeared. We walked through the college with him pointing out various buildings. We stopped at the library where he unlocked doors so we could enter. Only a few people were in the library on this Christian holiday.

"Happy birthday, Russell. Enjoy to your heart's content. I will be here." He placed himself in one of the chairs near the newspapers.

I wandered the aisles pulling down books and turning pages, not studying but enjoying the atmosphere provided by a library. Several hours later, I returned to find Holmes in quiet conversation with the man who had shown us in. He was also the curator of antiquities. He led us into the Long Room where locked cases held the manuscripts of Ireland, including the Book of Kells. After producing clean white gloves for us, he opened a cabinet and allowed me to turn pages as he explained the artistic treatments involved in the knots, monograms, and ornaments of illumination.

I know my face ached from constant smiling as I enjoyed this exceptional private tour. Holmes appeared to enjoy the privilege as well as the conversation with the curator.

Much later I realized this had been a special occasion for him as well. We did not hurry as we carried on our conversations about the tremendous impact Christianity had on the inhabitants of this island.

By mid-afternoon, fading light and hunger sent us back to our hotel. A substantial tea did little to revive my energies but did put me to sleep in my chair.

After our dinner and a walk in the park, we sat on the sofa in front of the fire, Holmes with his pipe, legs stretched in front of him.

"You are not too fatigued, Russell?" he asked as his hand touched my cheek, then my brow.

"No, no, I am fine, just a little tired." I said as I took his hand. "Holmes, I do not say often how much I appreciate all you do for me, all you have done. I shudder to think of what I could have become if not for you."

He puffed his pipe in silence for several minutes. "We are a pair - eh, Russ." He settled back and closed his eyes.

The warmth of our rooms made me realize that I was still recuperating.

"I am going to bed. This has been a special day, Holmes; one I will remember. Thank you."

Tomorrow we have another visit to make. I think you will enjoy it."

I knew he remained awake in the next room while I slept. Only later did I learn he had moved to a chair in my room. I had struggled out of a confusing dream of searching for something just beyond reach when I felt his hand on my shoulder and his voice saying my name.

"You are dreaming, Russell. Drink this." I raised my head and took the glass. I realized he had been sitting near my bed. "You were restless, talking in your sleep."

"It wasn't a nightmare," I said as I curled back in bed, "just a confusing dream. I feel so tired."

I felt his hand soothing my hair. I tried to tell him to go to his bed but the words were lost as I returned to sleep and Holmes remained in his chair.

The next morning dawned gray and damp. Holmes appeared to have had a restful night, dressed as if a tailor had been in his room. It always amazed me. I had to struggle to get up and appear decently dressed when I had slept in a comfortable bed.

We toured the National Museum with the same curator from the library. He had all the keys to open cabinets and glass cases and the authority to place any piece in our hands. It would be many years before I learned all that Holmes knew about the pages we had returned, but the deed had certainly earned privileges granted to very few visitors.

We would leave the next day, returning to Sussex and spending more days with each other before my next term at Oxford. I would remember the days in Dublin as an enjoyable holiday, but a year would pass before I realized the significance of Holmes' words. That realization would hit me when I thought I had lost him to drowning in another river.