Out of Memory:

Spoken Word

by Copper Beech

He said it as a matter of fact. In all the years we had known each other, it was the first time he had said it. We did not feel the need to state the obvious, but truth is truth and it is seldom wrong to speak it.

It was our first night in our house. We came on the cusp of a February storm. The copper beech fairly rattled its empty branches in the gathering wind. Snow started to fall. Not the soft hypnotic snow of winter afternoons, but the thick wet variety of winter nights. Flakes fell like fledgling doves and died in great numbers on the cold hard ground.

Mrs. Hudson had gone to bed early, but knowing we were arriving that night, left a cold supper for us. After dinner, we sat by the fire in companionable silence. I moved to Holmes' side and he put his arm around me and invited me closer. And then he spoke.

He spoke of our first meeting. He spoke of the people who were close to him. He spoke words that needed to be said.

He spoke of Mycroft, his brilliant brother. Mycroft, who does not acknowledge his need for others. Mycroft, who finally came to understand why his brother came to embrace that need.

He spoke of Mrs. Hudson, who has been like a beloved aunt. He spoke of a bond that comes not from family, but familiarity.

He spoke of Watson. Of his romanticized view of the world. Of his easy ability to love and be loved. Of his courage in being able to do so.

He spoke of Irene Adler, a woman to whom he revealed himself. And when that was not enough, let him go.

He spoke of Mary Russell. And all he found in me.

Then he leaned back and held me so we could see each other. Brushing a stray strand of hair from my eyes, he looked into them and said, "I love you Mary Judith Russell Holmes."

I looked back at him and touched my fingers to the lips that had spoken the words. And then I spoke my own. "I have reason to know it, husband."

He was not looking for a response in kind. He was stating the truth for the record. And there being no Watson to record them, I let them join the words I had spoken in that not so distant cellar. "I loved him" became mingled with "I love" until past and present no longer mattered. He had spoken words of welcome and that made all the difference.