Quite a Pretty Problem

by "I ached for Holmes, for the sureness of his hands and his quiet voice"

It was very unusual for him to be in such a disturbed frame of mind, unless it immediately followed the end of a case. Sherlock Holmes paced through his old Sussex cottage in irritation, unable to settle to any particular diversion. For the first time in his life, he was completely unable to control the direction his thoughts were taking. In less than a week, Russ would reach her majority, come of age. She could choose to marry. And while he had known for a long time that he loved her, he didn't have a clue as to how to approach the issue.

The fact that she was home from Oxford for the Christmas holiday, staying at her farm just a few short miles away - close enough to drop in unexpectedly if she so chose - did nothing to help his state of mind. Even in his own domain, the ghost of Russell's presence haunted him. In the large living room, he could see her frowning over the chess board, buried in one of his books, poring over papers at his desk, or curled up on the sofa next to the fire. Striding into the kitchen, for the moment vacant since Mrs. Hudson had the day off, the vision of Russ washing her face at the basin, her hair usually an attractive riot after her tramp through the fields, came to torment him. On a more domestic note, he could see her chatting with Mrs. Hudson or standing at the stove learning, however reluctantly, some of the arts of housekeeping and womanhood. Even his laboratory upstairs, a place where he could normally escape from whatever problem was perplexing him, contained too many images for comfort. Images of Russ bending over test tubes, arguing about the results they were obtaining, and most disturbing of all, lying unconscious and bleeding on the floor after taking a bullet intended for him. The last was so vividly imprinted in his memory, along with the feeling of desperation thinking he had lost her, that it served to heighten his unrest in realizing how urgent the need to make a decision about changing their relationship.

He could hardly expect her to remain single forever. She was a highly intelligent and strikingly beautiful young woman, though she would hardly admit to the latter. It irritated him at times, especially of late, how much she tried to downplay her femininity. Nevertheless, he could hardly blame her. He knew fully how awkward it was with her interests and talents to be a woman. He also knew that, with the added enticement of the wealth she would shortly inherit, men would try to capitalize on all that she offered and make her their own. If that happened, he would lose her just as surely as if she had bled to death that day on his laboratory floor.

It would have helped if he had a case to occupy his mind, but unfortunately it had been quite awhile since anything challenging had come his way. At present, there was not even the smallest, most insignificant problem to work on, other than this one of his own.

It rankled that he felt so unsure of himself. His was a life that centered on being mentally equipped to face any circumstance with a firm belief in his own abilities. But the challenge ahead was a new one, and one for which he had never bothered to prepare. Always convinced that strong emotion would be detrimental to the person he had made of himself, he had distanced himself from women. Even Russ, with her gifted mind, physical beauty, and amazingly compatible personality, would never have been allowed so close had she not still been little more than a child when he met her. But despite the irritation and uncertainty he was feeling, he would not have gone back and changed what their relationship had already become. She had given him a new interest in and energy for life; taught him that he had a heart, and he was honest enough to admit it and be grateful. More than a friend, apprentice, or partner, she was more like an extension of himself; the other half of his mind and soul.

How to handle it, that was the issue. He had seen signs in her recently that indicated she was not averse to the idea of marrying him. However, he also knew that the kind of marriage she envisioned was not what he was looking for. If he were to take the plunge after all this time, he would settle for nothing less than the real thing. A marriage of convenience to conform to social dictates about their time spent together would not satisfy him. Unfortunately, it was his own fault that he didn't know how Russ would feel about a real marriage. Never had he encouraged any displays of emotion in her; indeed, he had commended her restraint. Though he doubted she had ever been a highly emotional person, his own assertion that emotion was nothing but an interference to rational thought was as deeply ingrained in her as it was in him. It would be hard enough to go against that belief himself; much more difficult to break through her reserve. Broaching the subject could very well destroy the relationship they already had, and the result would be the same as if someone else had claimed her.

In frustration, he decided to take a trip to London, Boxing Day and all. That city which he knew better than any other place had often provided a means of escape since his early retirement. It still drew him and caused some of his years to fall away, in spite of the effects of the weather on his rheumatism. Each time he returned, it was like coming home, as if he had never left. Perhaps, once again, it would provide a much needed distraction.

After arraying himself in cab driving gear, he left the house, calling to Mrs. Hudson that he was leaving for London.

Due to the holiday, the train ride was uneventful and the cab station quiet when he reached it. The owner recognized him as Basil, a driver who came to him erratically to earn a few extra pence or pounds, depending on how long the driver's fancy lasted. It was not the owner's to question whence he came or whither he went, simply to keep so excellent a driver happy, thereby increasing his own earnings.

For several hours he drove about, finding very few people wishing a ride on such a day. He was just thinking that his attempt at diversion was horribly unsuccessful - he still had too much opportunity to think - when the horse he was driving threw a shoe. Leading the animal back to the station, he was contemplating a change of activity when he saw another driver bringing in an old hansom. Struck with recollections of London in his days on Baker Street, he secured the vehicle for himself, despite the owner's protestations about the likelihood of finding anyone wishing to ride in it. His new horse was sufficiently skittish to provide some means of occupying his thoughts, a welcome change under the circumstances.

True to the predictions of the station owner, fares were few and far between, but he found himself reminiscing about places, faces, and cases as he drove the nearly empty streets. He allowed himself to briefly be transported back to another time, smiling and frowning alternately as he recalled various events of his life in London.

Not long after midnight, a gentleman and his wife in tow, he approached a street corner where two figures, to all appearances one male and one female, were engaged in conversation. Such a woman, for she could hardly be deemed a lady, as stood under the streetlight was hardly a rarity on a London corner at such a time; most of their business was transacted in the dead of night. But the young "man" standing with her was as out of place as Waterford crystal in a prison cell.

He cursed mentally as he approached. Just when he had succeeded in shelving the whole problem of his relationship with Russ, she had to track him down in one of the worst sections of London and carry on a conversation with a prostitute as a pastime. He toyed with the idea of passing her by, knowing that if she recognized him she would take it to mean he was working on a case involving his two fares, but never for a moment was it a real option. He could hardly leave her there without a real reason, although he knew she would take umbrage with such Victorian scruples and chivalry on his part.

Instead, as he drew closer, he called out, "Annalisa, my dear young thing, isn't that child you are trying to entice a bit young, even for you? Look at him - he doesn't even have a beard yet."

As he expected, Russell's head turned while the woman in question began hurling invectives at him. He slowed the hansom enough to reach down for Russ's upstretched hand and hauled her up into the seat next to him, at the same time returning the disappointed Annalisa's insults. Peripherally, he saw his customers glare up at him as the cab dipped under Russ's weight and the horse fought the change. No one spoke, however, and they continued their progress through the streets as Russell settled herself.

For one as trim as he, the size of the hansom driver seats had never been an issue, but he found himself wishing for the first time that they were a bit larger. Russ, being just as slim, fit beside him without causing discomfort, but her body pressed against his from shoulder to ankle. It was completely unnerving with his thoughts about her running on the lines they had been.

"Good evening, Holmes," she greeted him cheerfully.

"Good morning, Russell," he corrected her with an unintentional edge in his voice.

She was completely unfazed. "Are you on a job?"

"My dear Russell, those Americanisms of yours, how they grate on the ear. 'On a job.' No, I am not occupied with a case, Russell, merely working at the maintenance of old skills."

She smiled, "Are you having fun?"

"'Having fun?'" The question irritated him under the circumstances. He rarely pursued any activity for mere pleasure, other than attending the occasional concert; he could hardly describe the present situation as enjoyable.

Russ seemed unperturbed by his reaction. "Very well: are you enjoying yourself?" she rephrased the question good-naturedly.

He looked at her for a long moment. "I might ask the same of you, Russell," he finally said to avoid a direct response.

She leaned back and relaxed as much as was possible in the small seat. "Yes. As a matter of fact, I am enjoying myself, Holmes, very much, thank you."

Her enthusiasm was disconcerting, and he could think of no suitable reply. They rode in silence while he contemplated his inclination to take issue with everything she said tonight. It certainly was not conducive to assessing her attitude toward marrying him. He could only hope she would attribute his irritability to something else.

Russ broke the silence, and he noticed that she had been studying his hands as they handled the reins on the fractious horse. "Holmes, do you find that the cold on a clear night exacerbates you rheumatism as much as the cold of a foggy night?"

The question brought his hackles up. He despised weakness in himself and any reference to such, and his relationship with her was proving to be one of the most potentially crippling weaknesses of his life. His instinctive reaction was to counterattack, seizing the topic that was uppermost in his mind.

"Russell, it is very good of you to have come up from Sussex and stood on cold street corners for half the night striking up inappropriate friendships and flirting with pneumonia in order to enquire after my health, but perhaps having found me, you might proceed with your intended purpose."

"I had no purpose," she protested as she jerked herself upright, preparing to do battle. "I finished my paper more quickly than I'd thought, felt like spending the rest of the day with you rather than listening to my relations shrieking and moaning downstairs, and, when I found you missing, decided on a whim to follow you here and see if I might track you down. It was merely a whim," she repeated firmly. Then quickly, obviously wishing to change the subject, "What are you doing here anyway?"

"Driving a cab." He craved mental stimulation when he had been too long without a case, and a full-blown argument with Russell, matching his keen wits with hers, produced the desired effect. This particular topic could produce disastrous results, but he could not bring himself to let it go, especially when her attempt to change the subject indicated a chink in her armor. "Go on, Russell, you may as well ask your question; you've spent seven hours in getting here. Or perhaps I ought to say, six years?"

"What on earth are you talking about?" The exasperation on her face was evident. "I am having a holiday from the holidays. I am relaxing, following the enforced merriment of the last week. An amusing diversion, Holmes, nothing else. At least it was, until your suspicious mind let fly with its sneering intimations of omniscience. Really, Holmes, you can be very irritating at times."

"So you did not 'track me down' as you put it, for any express purpose, other than as an exercise in tracking?"

"And for the pleasurable exercise of freedom, yes," her voice warned him that this was her final word on the subject.

"You are lying, Russell," he stated flatly.

"Holmes, this in intolerable," behind her spectacles he could see her eyes flashing angrily in the light of the streetlamps. "If you wish to be rid of me, all you need to do is slow down and let me jump off. You needn't be offensive to me. I'll go."

"Russell, Russell," he chided, using that condescendingly soothing tone which never failed to aggravate her.

"Damn it, Holmes, what can you imagine was so urgent that I should come all the way here in order to confront you with it immediately? Which, you may have noticed, I have not done." She definitely had a point, but he was too engrossed in the argument to let her carry it.

"A question you finally nerved yourself up to ask, and the momentum carried you along."

"And what question might that be?" She threw the question down like a gauntlet.

She had opened herself right up for it, and he exulted in scoring the winning points for this skirmish of minds. "I expect you came to ask me to marry you."

"Holmes! What do you...How can you..." The shock on her face reminded him of what they were actually talking about, and he was horrified. There was no time to salvage the conversation, though, for the irate face of his passenger was staring up at him through the window.

Instantly resuming his role of cab driver, he asked deferentially, "Sumfing Oi can do fer you, sir?"

"You can explain the meaning of this extraordinary conversation which my wife and myself have been forced to overhear," the man was regarding him as if he were either dangerous or a lunatic.

Not for nothing had he trained his mind for quick reactions. "Conversation? Oh yes, sorry, Oi s'pose it sounded sumfing mad. Amatoor dramatics, sir. There's a club of us, rehearses parts whenever we come across one another. It's an Ibsen play. Do you know it? Fine stuff, but taken out of context, like, it sounds summat potty. Sorry if we disturbed you." The pair in the cab looked at each other doubtfully, but made no further comment as they continued their progress down the vacant street.

Struck suddenly by the humor of the situation, and the ridiculous response that had just convincingly left his lips, he began to shake with silent laughter. Russ looked at him with obvious contempt, but as his merriment continued he saw her face relax, and she laughed silently along with him. He noted with relief that the air had cleared between them when they finally stopped and she wiped tears of mirth from her eyes.

"So, Russell, this gentleman and his lovely wife are going to number seventeen Gladstone Terrace," he informed her, his tone businesslike. "Kindly search your memory and tell me where it is to be found."

He could read the train of her thoughts as she concentrated. "Another nine streets up, on the left," she said.

"Ten streets," he corrected. "You forgot Hallicombe Alley."

"Sorry," she responded with no trace of her former defensiveness. "This is far out for my knowledge of the map. I admit that one or two of the areas we've been through I've never seen before."

"I should think not." The thought of her alone in this part of London gave him pause, though he knew she would denounce such thinking.

Neither of them said anything more until they reached the house and the passengers had departed with a final dubious look.

"Jump down and get the rug, will you Russell?" he asked, and she complied.

They wrapped it around their legs against the cold, and started the return trip to the station. She relaxed into a doze, her head leaning on his shoulder. The warmth of her body served only to remind him of his original reason for this trip to London and stir up all his frustration about the weakness he abhorred. He wanted an end this whole maddening situation.

"So, Russell, what say you? Have you a question for me?" She immediately stiffened and pulled away from him, but his irritation drove him along. "Come now, Russell, you are a great proponent of the emancipation of women; surely you can manage to carry out your intentions in this little matter."

"Little?" To his delight, she seized onto that word. "First you place the proposition in my mouth, and then you denigrate it. I don't know why I even - " she broke off suddenly.

To further irk her, he finished the sentence, "Why you thought of it in the first place, is that what you were about to say?"

She shot him a murderous look and opened her mouth to reply, but was interrupted. Out of the darkness of the alley they were passing, a small dog came flying after the horse. The nipping at its heels drove the fractious animal into a panic, demanding all of its driver's attention. As he fought to control the rearing animal, he seized the whip and sent the dog into quick retreat with a few well-placed blows. Bracing his feet, and with a skill honed over many years, his hands fed out just enough slack in the reins for the horse to continue without bolting. Until the animal calmed, there was no room for any other thoughts or conversation.

But as soon as order was restored, he picked up the discussion as if nothing had happened in the interim. "So, why did you think of it? Have I given you any reason to believe that I might welcome such a suggestion? I am fifty-nine years old, Russell, and I have long been accustomed to the privacy and freedom of the bachelor life. Do you imagine that I might succumb to the dictates of social norms and marry you in order to stop tongues from wagging when we go off together? Or perhaps you imagine that the pleasures of the wedding bed might prove irresistible?"

He felt her entire body tense, and glanced over just as she tossed her half of the rug up over his arm, braced her feet on the roof of the hansom, and executed a foolhardy back flip off the seat. His heart stood still as she hit the ground, but she landed on her feet and headed for the gutter. Trying to free his arm of the heavy rug, he began to rein in the horse, but a piece of stone came flying and hit the animal's heels. The much-abused horse caught him off guard and bolted even as another missile came from Russ's accurate throwing arm.

Cursing himself freely as he brought the animal under control, he turned back to where she had left him, knowing all the while that she would be gone. He could not believe that he had handled the whole thing so poorly; treating her as if she were some kind of villain he was trying to bring to justice. It was not her fault that he had lost control of his heart. He could only hope that he had not already done irreparable damage to their relationship.

As he expected, she was nowhere to be found along the route they had taken. He returned the horse and cab to the station, trying to plot his next move. There would be no difficulty in tracking her down in London; he knew the city far better than she did. But what should he do when he found her? It was, in fact, quite a pretty problem...