Nocturne

by Lisa, a.k.a. "A Mild Fit of Hysterics"

I sat down at my desk and pulled my notes toward me. I had neglected them for far too long, and the night was very inviting for work. All was quiet. Everyone had gone to bed-Russell, Mrs. Hudson, and finally Watson. I arranged my notes on the Grimshaw case together with my blank paper, filled my pen, and addressed myself to write.

But the words would not come. I did not worry about this; the night was still young. I laid down my pen and reached for the cup of tea sitting on the end of the desk... cold. I made a face at the taste and set the cup down again.

No light was burning in the house except for the lamp in front of me, and the dying fire across the room. No one else in the house was awake, but the dark quiet still contained their presence; and with a small smile at myself I reveled in the feeling of safety that comes with being awake in an occupied house at night.

I picked up my pen again; but was suddenly startled by a hand reaching out to take the cup of tea from the desk and replace it with another, full and steaming, on a saucer with biscuits.

Dropping the pen, I wheeled around to face Mrs. Hudson in her nightgown, wrapper, and fuzzy slippers. "What the devil are you doing up?" I hissed.

Her voice was quiet and tart. "Sleepwalking."

"Well, for God's sake go back to bed," I said, glaring. She smiled indulgently and turned to go. I turned back to my notes. "And you've made me blot the page," I said irritably.

"You're welcome, Mr. Holmes. Good-night."

She disappeared; the light from the hall to the kitchen went out; her presence gradually faded, and my irritation with it. I threw away the blotted sheet and started over, sipping the hot fragrant tea. I stared at the empty page.

Yes, it was going to come slowly tonight. Instead of picking up my pen, I picked up my cup of tea, rose, and strolled toward the south window. Its diamond panes shone in the lamplight from my desk. It was even quieter outside tonight than it was inside. The guns across the Channel were silent for the moment. But no doubt they would start up again, and keep going until one side or the other spent itself. I imagined the end of the war, regardless of its result; all of Europe picking up the stones of buildings, smoothing over the churned and scored earth, and carrying home their dead. The night now covered that promise of desolation, and the world slept. Except for me, awake with my tea and meditating.

Meditating on the fear and frustration that had consumed the whole country, and though minimally assuaged by the Americans' help, had left us all weary and tottering on our feet. For myself, the long stretch of this war had been a test of endurance; but for the younger generation, the war had been a test of their fury. I had a sudden, unbidden image of Russell, storming into my laboratory: piercing eyes behind small spectacles, thin determined mouth, messy braids pinned to the top of her head. The cap flapping in her hand threatening the small sealed beaker of hydrochloric acid. The fluid fierce movements of her long arms.

Still meditating, I took my tea to the basket chair and dropped myself gently into the seat. I looked at the cup in my hand but wasn't thirsty for tea any more. With my other hand I tapped out a discontented rhythm on the chair. Yes, Russell's strength, in mind, body, and fury, was coming to its peak. It wasn't as if there was anything for me to do about it; but still I felt restless thinking about her, about the energy that came from the very thought of her.

Another unbidden image assailed my memory, this time of Russell this very evening, wearing a gown of rich green, her hair shining in elaborate coils on top of her head, her very posture queenly--and startlingly feminine. I was rather irritated with myself for overreacting to the sight of her. After all, there ought to have been nothing surprising in it. I had merely been inattentive up to this point. Well, well... Watson had had his opportunity to fuss over me, Mrs. Hudson had been able to indulge herself in a knowing smile, and Russell herself... well, Russell had appeared entirely confused and very chagrined indeed.

"But it's all nonsense, of course," I said to the quiet room. "Nothing at all to worry about."

Russell was a woman: that was all. She was nearly full grown, and she was exciting to watch because of that power of growing. This was why I felt so pleased and so restless. And, too, I had felt the paternal warmth now and again as I trained her. It stood to reason that I should have a strong reaction to her growing up.

It stood to reason...

I stood up and dashed my tea into the dead fire. It sizzled on the nearly black embers for a moment. I took the cup over and replaced it in its saucer on my desk. But I couldn't make myself sit down to work. I paced back toward the fireplace, stood before the grate, and tried to force myself to think.

It stood to reason... No; nothing reasonable could account for this.

Nonsense, I told myself. Reason can always account for such things; aren't you forgetting? But then why was the vision of her shining hair--her proud eyes--dominating my mental landscape?

I was moving, the room changing as I crossed it. My feet were carrying me up the stairs... across the landing... down the hall...

I stopped short at the clock, a yard from the door of the guest bedroom.

What did I think I was doing?

Was I going to Russell's room?

Why?

To talk to her? She was asleep: as well she should be.

To look at her? But that would serve no purpose; and besides, it might wake her.

Perhaps... to touch her?

I faced back around and took myself back down the stairs, as silently as possible. Once on the ground floor, I went straight to my desk and sat down. I picked up my pen, arranged my notes again, and put the pen to the paper.

The sky outside the diamond-paned windows was grey when I finally looked up from my work. Quietly, I put away the pen, refiled the notes that were scattered across the desk, tamped the sheaf of newly-written pages, and crept up to bed.

When I woke again, I told myself as I shut the drapes on the growing pink of the east and crawled between the sheets, I would remember nothing; for this had not happened.