Prenuptial Revelations

In Which Those Who are Closest to Holmes and Russell Learn of Their Betrothal

by "And then a miracle happened"

As we broke from our handshake, Holmes turned his back on the Thames and tucked my hand into the crook of his elbow.

"Well, Holmes," I said, grasping at a shred of the normal case-ending routine, "we both look a fright, and I for one would appreciate seeing both of us in a clean set of clothes. As I recall, the closest source is one of your bolt-holes. Shall we away?"

"Not to the bolt-hole, Russell, but to Mycroft," Holmes decided in a tone which demanded agreement. "Convenient as they are, my bolt-holes' privacy leads to a decided lack of respectability for a betrothed couple such as we, especially when the stated purpose of the visit includes the removal of clothing."

"Oh, but Holmes," I protested, "we've been alone in your bolt-holes scads of times."

"I have been there with you, yes, Russell," he reproved, "but not with you as my fiancée. The proprieties shall be observed as nearly as we can manage; I'll not have the biddies of Sussex chirping tales of scandal to serenade us on our honeymoon." He winked suggestively. "The next time you remove your clothes in one of my bolt-holes, you will not be replacing them quite as quickly as you might hope to this afternoon."

"All right, Holmes," I conceded as we flagged a hansom cab, "to Mycroft it is." Ever the gentleman, my fiancé handed me into the cab. When Holmes took his place beside me, he extended his arm along the back of the seat. I slid close to him. He lowered his arm to curve around my shoulders. A moment later, I felt his warm breath ruffling through my hair. A memory struck, and I giggled.

"Holmes," I asked, "do you remember that argument we had atop the cab that day? The Ibsen play?" I heard a soft murmur of agreement. "And you asked me whether I imagined the pleasures of the marriage bed would prove irresistible?" The rhythm of his breathing was interrupted by a choking gasp, whether of uncertainty or mirth I could not tell. I blithely continued. "Well, I have been considering that very question. If that display upon the dock may be construed as a sample, I believe my answer is a resounding yes!" Holmes drew away from me, and his finger under my chin raised my eyes to his.

"I was hoping you would, Russ. I was hoping you would. I believe I imagine the same." A pleasant silence suffused the space between us.

"Is that why you brought up that discussion topic on the cab that day?" I asked incredulously, and watched him nod with a devious look in his eyes.

"You had just reached your majority, so it would not have been improper to suggest the idea of marriage," Holmes began in an explanatory tone. "I wished to plant the idea in your head, yet could not bear the thought of proposing it outright. I feared that, if you saw me only as a father figure, I would damage our relationship irrevocably with evidence that I wanted more. The only solution was the one I chose, and your comment just now is proof of its effectiveness." Holmes bent his head a little closer to mine, and his tone softened. "Speaking of samples," he whispered, "would you care for anoth..." I never gave him the chance to complete the word, choosing instead to rapidly shorten the distance that separated our lips.

At the door of the Diogenes Club, Holmes scribbled a succinct message to be brought to his brother: "Case concluded, but dramatically. Require baths, fresh clothes, etc. -- SH+MR," which a butler spirited away. Shortly afterward, we were led to Mycroft's rooms.

"Good afternoon, Mycroft," Holmes offered, and I echoed. Our host inspected us both for a long moment before giving a sonorous reply.

"Good afternoon, brother Sherlock," he intoned, "and, if I might offer the deduction, sister Mary?" I gaped. Sneaking a peek at Holmes, I saw he was as bewildered as I.

"Goodness, Mycroft, what brought that about?" Holmes ordered.

"Elementary, my dear Sherlock," came the reply. "You, brother, are soaking wet with what appears to be a mixture of oil, water, and other accumulated liquid muck. Obviously, you have recently dipped in the Thames. Mary's hair is dry, so she cannot have accompanied you. However, the front of her... outfit," he inspected my shirt and trousers cautiously, "as well as certain patches on her back the approximate width of your arm, are equally wet. The further evidence of an oily handprint on the small of Mary's back supports the hypothesis of close embrace. You have embraced each other in the past, so this might not be significant. On the other hand, so to speak, you maintain at least one bolt-hole that lies between here and the Thames. You must have chosen not to use it for some reason. My company is not so highly sought, at the end of a case at least, as to make my fastidious brother wish to seek it in such disarray if he might easily do so presentably. You have often brought Mary to your bolt-holes before, and the only reason I can fathom that you might not do so now is that you feel you require chaperonage. In short, you are affianced."

"Your perception is, as always, remarkable," Holmes admitted grudgingly. "And, before Russell and I adjourn to the baths I hope you have available, Mycroft, I must make one more request: would you stand up for me as groomsman at our wedding?"

"Why, certainly, Sherlock," he agreed warmly, shaking his brother's hand. "I take it I am to share the best man's role with the good doctor Watson?"

"Naturally, if Watson acquiesces," Holmes confirmed, and then we retired to our respective bathtubs. Later, the club's own doctor provided us with inoculations, and Mycroft dined with us before the three of us retired for the night. "Good night, my Russell," Holmes murmured tenderly at the door to my bedroom.

"Good night, my husband-to-be," I whispered, leaning forward into a kiss brief and delicate as a melting snowflake. We parted, Holmes left, and I drifted into a sound, dreamless sleep.

The next morning Holmes and I continued on our way, having two more London stops on our list before our return to Sussex. The first of these was at the registrar's office, where we applied for a marriage licence. The licence firmly in Holmes' pocket, we drove off again with legal permission to marry at any time within the next thirty days.

"I don't believe I liked being deprived of our surprise at Mycroft's," I commented. "I want to make an impression on Uncle John!" Holmes' eye twinkled.

"An impression, eh? Do you have anything in mind?" I nodded, and we bent our heads together to formulate our plan.

As agreed, we made no mention of our engagement as Watson showed us to the parlour. After a few moments of greetings, Holmes excused himself for the powder room.

"Oh, Uncle John, I have such news for you! I am going to be married!" Watson's eyes brightened, and he put a fatherly hand on my shoulder.

"I am very glad for you, Mary m'girl, very glad indeed."

"And, Uncle, would you walk me down the aisle at my wedding?" His expression softened, and I sensed a trace of regret. I could tell my little joke was working.

"I am touched by your offer, Mary, but I feel I ought to yield that right to Holmes."

"Oh, but, Uncle John," I allowed my voice to quaver slightly. "Holmes and I have already discussed his role at my wedding," (it was quite true, I reminded myself with inner glee) "and he absolutely refuses to give me away."

"He WHAT?" Coincidentally, Holmes chose just that moment to return to the parlour. "My dear Holmes," Watson turned on his friend, "I feel disposed to give you a piece of my mind!"

"What is it, Watson?" Holmes inquired innocently.

"Our dear Mary is going to be a bride," Watson began to rage, "and you will not display your affection for her by walking her down the aisle to her wedding! Do you not understand how much this would mean to the poor girl? You have shaped her life. Now is the time when she publicly acknowledges this by asking you to give her away to her bridegroom, and you say her nay?" As Watson railed at my fiancé, I stood and walked closer to Holmes.

"If I may say a word in my defence, Watson," Holmes's voice was gentle. "I have my reasons for yielding this honour to you." Watson spluttered wordlessly. "Dear Watson, it would prove most inconvenient for me to spend the processional walking down the aisle with Russell, since I expect to spend it waiting at the altar." Watson began to look mystified, while my eyes sparkled: this was going exactly according to plan. Our script finished, I took my cue. I stepped in front of my future husband, still facing Watson, and Holmes wrapped his arms around me. "Secondly, it would be quite inappropriate for me to give Russell away, even symbolically, since I intend to keep her for the rest of our lives." I blinked in surprise at this unexpectedly sentimental improvisation. Unable to resist, I turned in his embrace and raised my lips to his in a fleeting kiss. As I turned to face my Uncle John again, Watson's eyes began to light up.

"You can't mean... you are getting married at last, old friend?!" We nodded, and Watson began to laugh. "Congratulations, dear Holmes! And, Mary, I should be honoured to give you away."

"Would you also stand for me as groomsman, Watson, along with Mycroft?" Holmes asked.

"Of course, my friend, of course."

A train ride and long hike later, Holmes and I hove into view of his -- our! I corrected myself joyously -- cottage.

"Mrs. Hudson!" Holmes called loudly as he opened the door, and she came bustling out of the kitchen, wiping her soapy hands on a dishtowel. "Russell and I will be travelling to London within the month, and we will require your company on that journey."

"Why, of course, Mr. Holmes, Mary, but why?"

"Your presence will be needed as a witness." I grinned at Holmes' unnecessarily prosaic statement of the situation, until I realized that Mrs. Hudson had drawn a conclusion that, while reasonable when considering the usual activities of Sherlock Holmes, was nonetheless incorrect now. I shook my head at my future husband while his housekeeper groped for a chair.

"What is the trial?" she gasped in obvious bewilderment. I knelt before her, putting my hand over hers.

"There is no trial, Mrs. Hudson. He means as a witness at our wedding," I told her as my eyes inexplicably began to water.

"You say 'our' wedding?" The bewilderment in her eyes changed to incredulous joy. "Yours... and Mr. Holmes's?" I nodded, smiling, as Mrs. Hudson rose and put her arms around me. My fiancé stood by, uneasily at first, but then he stepped near to join our tableau. He laid one hand on Mrs. Hudson's shoulder and the other on top of my head, gently stroking my hair. Then we all three stood together in the sitting room of our home, this house full of love and respect which had sheltered me in the last tumultuous years of my girlhood. More than that, this cottage and the two people in it had given me what I needed to grow into a woman of strength and honour, to become the woman that Sherlock Holmes could love.

Author's Disclaimer: "Prenuptial Revelations" is a work of appreciative fiction. It is based on characters created by Laurie R. King (Mary Russell) and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft Holmes, John Watson, Mrs. Hudson.) I do not hold any copyrights on these characters.