The Prodigal Son

In which Mary Russell shakes the Holmes family tree,
and Sherlock reveals a bit more of himself than he had planned.

by "My Lady's Daughter"

Part Four

Here the sun stands and knows not east or west;
Here no tide runs; we have come, last and best,
From the wide zone in dizzying circles hurdled
To that still centre where the spinning world
Sleeps on its axis, to the heart of rest.

I joined the brothers for a lunch that I hoped would consist of a menu a bit lighter than the previous meal we had enjoyed together. I entered the dining room unsure of what sort of mood I would find Holmes in: still perplexed or having lapsed into moody sombreness. It was neither. He was quiet, but there was a strange bemused grin on his face, as if he had found that he had been selected as first violinist for that evening's performance at the Albert Hall. I left him to his re-write his personal history and discussed crop rotation on our respective farms with Sherrinford.

After lunch, Mycroft retired for an afternoon nap, and Sherrinford begged our forgiveness while he attended to the matter of Drains. Left to our own devises, Holmes and I decided on a walk.

I had gone upstairs to change from my carpet slippers to the more suitable, albeit less elegant, Wellingtons which Holmes had suggested. I had also changed into a pair of wool trousers, and was just pulling on a jumper when there was a soft knock on the door. I thought that it was Holmes, coming to chide me for hanging fire, and told him to come in without looking up. I was quite surprised when it was Sherrinford who addressed me.

"I did not mean to disturb you, I only wanted a brief word without my brother poking his ample nose in our conversation. Mary, Mycroft had written to me of your own tragic family circumstances," here he raised a hand to silence my protest. " I do not wish to dwell on them or cause you any further pain. I only want to assure you that for whatever it is worth, you do have a family here, even if it is just an old man surrounded by his memories."

I was touched, not just by his words, but also by his sensitivity in recognising my need. I had to swallow hard before I spoke.

"Thank you. It feels so strange to be here, to see it all. This room for instance, feels so familiar and yet..."

"Yes, I know. Walking in here always brings my mother back to me. I always see her whenever I look at Sherlock. Perhaps in being here, you are reminded of the part of her that you also see in him. He was her favourite, you know. Oh, he would never admit to it of course, but you could tell by the way she looked at him, proud and yet surprised by everything he did. When he was ill, I thought the anxiety would take her as well. But that was all so long ago. And now he has come home. Do you know I cannot recall when I have seen him happier, more contented? Oh, I know he has had his odd moments when the victory of one of his cases has satisfied some basic need within him, given him a momentary respite from his melancholia. But that all pales in comparison to what I see in him today. I may not have my brothers' talents when it comes to deduction, but even a country squire can see what he feels when he looks at you."

When I rejoined Holmes, I found that I was unable to speak; he raised an eyebrow, but did not press for details. Instead, he took my hand and silently we set off for the dales of the Yorkshire countryside. Finally, when my breathing had calmed, he asked me gently if Sherrinford had upset me in some way.

"No, far from it. He has been so very kind. It's just that his openness has taken me by surprise. He is so good, so sweet! He reminds me in some way of Watson, only perhaps not as trusting or naïve?"

He laughed at the comparison, and nodded in agreement. "Yes, Sherrinford is all those things, and I'm pleased that you have found him so."

"Then why for heaven's sake do you deny yourself the pleasure of his company?"

As a person who has learned the tragic consequences of taking the ones I loved for granted, I was struck by a fear that I was becoming too accustomed to Holmes always being there for me, of being the fixed point in my universe. I took his arm again, to reassure myself of his solid presence by my side, and we resumed our walk.

"He was accused of murder once." Holmes said suddenly. I was so taken aback by this simple statement that I stopped in my tracks and turned to him, unable to even articulate my shock.

"It was years ago. There was talk in the village of black magic being performed under the light of the moon, candles formed around a pentangle with seven scarlet handkerchiefs. When a young girl was found dead, the hysteria had reached fever pitch. It emerged that she had found herself in difficult circumstances, and that Sherrinford had been assisting her financially. This was, of course, taken as a sure sign of his involvement, and I was obliged to return from London to redirect the misguided efforts of the local constabulary."

"It must have been a great comfort to him to know that you were involved and could put things straight."

"I suppose it might have been, but my own presence here was a double edged sword. If the press had gotten wind of the fact that the elder brother of Sherlock Holmes was involved in a scandal involving the Dark Arts and the Hand of Glory, evidence of his innocence would have had no bearing in the court of public opinion. It took all of Mycroft's resources to keep the thing out of the national press. Then we just had to convince Watson that this was not a case for the general public. My God, could you imagine it?" he said, shaking his head at the thought. It was not for the first time that I contemplated how the weight of his fame must have pressed upon him all these years.

As if to shake off the memories and the thoughts of what might have been, Holmes offered me his arm and led the way Northeast. He had no need of an Ordnance Survey to guide him over this familiar territory, and he plotted a course for us that must have been as familiar to him as the walk between our houses was to me. He pointed out the features of the landscape to me as we went, gesturing across the wield. There were the moors to the North, coloured purple with their abundant heather, and to the South, a green patchwork formed by the hedgerows.

We came to rest on a knoll that was crowned with a beech tree that would have been called robust even back when George II was on the throne. We were not very high up, and with no obstructions, we had a panoramic view of the whole estate and beyond, to the open moor above the village. Holmes placed his arms around the trunk of the great tree and laughed at the way they were dwarfed by the tree's circumference.

"How old were you when you first climbed it?" I asked.

"Twelve. See here," he said, pulling on an iron ring driven in the bark. "This was where I used to tether my pony. I would ride here every day after my lessons were done, just so that I could climb up and survey the world. Although the first few descents were a bit more painful than the ascents!"

We decided that the view was splendid enough that we would not need the added perspective gained from climbing up, especially when we realised how tall the lowest branch now was. Instead, we sat on the grass, our backs resting against the massive trunk. I was lost in thought for some time, but when I spoke, I received no answer. He was asleep. I sat watching his shallow breathing, the softened lines of his face, and it was as if I was seeing him for the first time. I had never seen him more at peace with the world than he was at this moment. Had I finally found the centre of Sherlock Holmes? That still core of his ever-spinning top? The finite point in his seemingly bottomless depths?

I could not bear to disturb him, and contented myself with reading the slim volume of poetry I had pinched from his bookcase. It was Donne. I took some comfort in the passage that reminded me that love can withstand a physical separation. Eventually, I must have stirred and awakened Holmes.

"Surely not your usual reading habits, Russell?"

"Well they are certainly not yours either! But even I can recognise your own youthful hand spelling out 'Sherlock Holmes' on the inside cover."

"Do you indeed? Well, I suppose our journey to Mycroft is proving to yield no end of surprises for both of us."

I laughed at his understatement, and began to read out loud to him. We sat there, lost in the metaphysical, until the light began to fade and the wisps from his pipe signalled the passage from day into smokefall.

Epilogue

It was some days later, after we had returned to Sussex, that a package arrived for me. It was from Sherrinford, and held the wrap that I had found in the bottom of the wardrobe. The note that fell out from its folds was in his now-familiar hand, and said:

My Dear Mary:

Please forgive an old man his forgetfulness - I had meant to give you this while you were at Mycroft. It belonged to my mother, and I believe she would be most pleased that you, her first daughter, now have it. It was a gift from Sherlock, sent during his passage through Kashmir (no doubt he will tell you his amusing stories some day, if he has not done so already). I hope that it will keep you warm when you are immersed in your studies, and too absorbed to seek a warmer spot.

Your brother,
Sherrinford

Author's Note:

The main characters in this story belong to the estate of Sir Author Conan Doyle and to Laurie R. King. The extra facets of these characters were inspired by WS Baring-Gould and by Dorothy L. Sayers. The flaws and inclusions are my own.

I would, however, like to thank my editors, "A Young Tiggy," "Of Holmes, Whom I Loved," and "Put the Kettle On," for giving so freely of their time, knowledge and encouragement. They have tried to see to it that I do not make a complete fool of myself in this, my first venture into fiction (unless you count a few tax exams, when I made it up as I went along).