Out of Memory:

As of Late

by Copper Beech

I had no reason to be jealous. After all, she had come and gone long before I was born. Still, when I thought of Irene Alder, there was that twinge that made me feel at the same time guarded and guilty.

There was no reason to believe I would actually meet the woman. Holmes hasn't spoken of her in years. Why would he now? Because she spoke first was the answer.

Michaelmas term had begun and I was beginning research for a new paper. Finding what I was looking for was proving difficult. And the respite at home that the end of the week would bring was welcome. I boarded the train heading south and tried to forget I ever heard about the work of a certain scholar.

The scent of supper was in the air as I entered the cottage. But there was something else in the air that I could not quite put my finger on. I said hello to Mrs. Hudson, who was in the kitchen, and went to find Holmes.

He was brooding over a pipe as he sat staring at the fire before him. In his hand was a sheaf of fine writing paper. I hesitated, then asked, "Holmes, is everything alright?"

He looked up. "No Russell, it is not." He handed me the papers by way of explanation.

The papers were actually a letter. The hand was a woman's, strong, but delicate. The letter began, "My Dear Sherlock." Strange, I thought, no one but his brother calls him by his given name alone. It is either Holmes, Mr. Holmes, or at times, Sherlock Holmes, but never Sherlock.

I read further. "I know it must be a surprise to hear from me after all these years." My heart skipped a beat. I read further, but in my hurry to confirm my suspicions as to its sender, I saw only "problem," "help," and "coming." My eyes finally settled on the signature. It was indeed that of Irene Adler, but in the manner of her salutation, she signed only her given name.

Having learned what I wanted to know, I went back to read the letter more carefully. Irene Alder was not seeking my husband's help, but thanking him for it and for the life of me, I did not know how to respond.

I did not want to say what I was thinking. It was so irrational. So emotional. But it was real. The idea of tender exchanges between my husband and this woman made me want to strike out. Not physically perhaps, well yes, that too, but with a stream of protective words. I could just see them forcing her back into the past.

I tried to focus my thoughts on the matter at hand. That was that Holmes had found a letter that reminded him of a woman he once loved and who had hurt him deeply. Every so often, one gets an opportunity to see how much growth there has been over the years. This was such a chance for Holmes. From his expression, I wondered it he thought it had been enough.

I handed the letter back to Holmes. "It was a long time ago, Russell," he began. "I found this letter amongst some of my papers. I had quite forgotten about it. Quite forgotten about Irene Adler. Or at least as an everyday thought."

"And what do you think of her now?"

"That she had little patience for a man who could only give her his thought, not his heart."

"What else are you thinking, husband?"

"That I have given both to you."

He looked at the fire and then at the letter. He sat still for a moment and then placed paper into flame. No more reminders. For either one of us.