Reclaiming the Queen

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

Sherlock Holmes climbed the hill to where Russell sat, staring out at the Channel. It hadn't been hard to find her; she was spending most of her time here these days. He could only hope that the letter he carried would help her fight the depression she was experiencing.

His heart wrenched anew as he realized that she hadn't even noticed his approach. Normally, her keen senses would have alerted her to his presence a long way off. Lately, she didn't seem to care about anyone or anything around her.

He took advantage of her introspection to study this familiar, yet now unfamiliar, young woman, searching for signs of improvement. From her posture, he could tell that her healing shoulder wasn't causing her pain as she sat. She was still thin, though; Mrs. Hudson had not succeeded in getting her to put on the weight she had lost during their feigned estrangement. Lately, Russ just picked at her food. Even her normally tidy blond hair was carelessly pinned to her head, looking as though it would tumble down at any moment.

But the most serious wounds had been emotional, as well he knew. Her face was what drew his attention to try to assess the damage. What he saw wasn't encouraging. The dark circles under her eyes spoke of many sleepless nights, and the small puckers in her usually smooth forehead revealed her inner turmoil as she struggled to sort out all that had happened. Her expression was closed and her mouth was hard. She was merely a ghost of the eager, open, and energetic young woman who had been his apprentice. Their short time as partners in detection had drained her completely. And he knew that she had focused her anger and irritation on him; for the past several weeks, everything he did annoyed her. It was driving her away, and he didn't know how to hold onto her. Neither did he know what he would do if she left.

Russell had noticed him, finally. He watched her back stiffen as she turned and looked at him, challenging his interruption. Wordlessly, he held out the envelope. She took it indifferently, but her expression changed to one of surprise as she saw the childish writing on it. A smile flickered across her lips, the first he had seen there in a long time.

He stepped past her to look out at the water, giving her some privacy with his back to her. Rather to his surprise, she read the letter aloud."Dear sister Mary, How are you? My Mama told me a bad lady hurt your arm. I hope it's all right now. I am fine. Yesterday a strange man came to the house but I held Mama's hand and I was brave and strong like you," here Russ's voice cracked a little. There was a pause, then she continued. "I have bad dreams sometimes and even cry but when I think of you carrying me down the tree like a mama monkey I laugh and go back to sleep. Will you come to see me when you are better? Say hello to Mr. Holmes for me. I love you. Your sister, Jessica."

There was silence for several moments, and then Russell spoke. "'Brave and strong like me,'" she quoted in a whisper.

She began to laugh; a mirthless, bitter laugh that made him cringe. He turned just in time to see her eyes fill with tears more quickly than he had thought was possible. The laugh changed to sobs as she flung herself onto her stomach, burying her face in her good arm. Her hair tumbled down around her head, concealing her face, and the letter slipped from her lap to the grass beside her.

While he knew that it was necessary for her to have an outlet for her pain, frustration, and anger, he hadn't counted on the effect her tears would have on himself. Only once before had he seen her cry; there had been times that she had been on the verge, but only once had she succumbed to tears in his presence. Having to stand helplessly and watch was almost more than he could take. If only there was some way to ease her suffering, and yet he himself had caused much of it, directly or indirectly. If it hadn't been for her math tutor's hatred of him, Russ would never have been in such danger, never been betrayed by such a close friend, never been shot. And Russ and he had inflicted numerous emotional wounds on each other in the process of convincing her math tutor that they were estranged. Even though both of them knew it was an act, the vicious verbal attacks had stabbed deeply.

Russell's weeping continued, her whole thin frame shaking from the intensity of her sobs. Her breathing began to sound labored, as if she were choking, and he knew he had to do something to calm her. More than anything, he longed to gather her into his arms and hold her against his heart, to lift her face and kiss away the tears. But he knew that would only confuse her more. Even though he had never seen himself that way, he knew that Russ had looked to him as a father figure. The events since her eighteenth birthday had removed any doubt as to his own feelings; he loved her, he wanted to marry her. But there was no easy way to change her thinking about their relationship. To reveal how he felt about her might prove to be the final push that drove her away.

Crouching beside her, he hesitantly reached out and brushed her hair away from her face, trying to give her more air. However, she didn't flinch away as he had expected. Remembering how, on the return trip from Palestine, he had once before stroked her hair to soothe her, he seated himself next to her and allowed his hand to pass slowly, gently through the damp mass. He found her loosened hairpins and removed them, and as he caressed her head, her sobs lessened. The tears still came, but more calmly. Gradually, they stopped altogether as she relaxed under his undemanding touch, and he knew that she had fallen into an exhausted sleep.

He was glad that she had found respite from her troubles. She had already faced so many for one so young. Never would he forget the fifteen year old who had stumbled over him on the downs four years earlier, so vulnerable, yet trying to be so strong in the face of her family's tragic death. He remembered her fierce pride as she revealed all the hate in her relationship with her aunt and his own anger in discovering the mistreatment she was enduring. It had been wonderful to find a mind that matched his own, and in some ways her home life - or lack of it - had made it possible for his relationship with her to become what it was. Yet it seemed a cruel injustice for her to lose so much. The girl had been forced to give way too soon to the woman. He had felt her absence keenly when she first left for Oxford, but the first time he had really seen her as a woman, one with whom he might spend his life, had been on her eighteenth birthday. She had come to his house to celebrate dressed as any fashionable young woman would, and just about knocked him senseless. This sudden change from seeing her in cap and trousers had forced him to come to terms with who she really was. Not knowing how to deal with the emotions he was unable to suppress for the first time in their relationship, he had simply tried to continue as before, perhaps regrettably. Now, he didn't know how to change things, much as he longed to.

The sun shone down on the hillside, and a quick smile crossed his face as he remembered the first time Russell had beaten him squarely at chess. The weather had been much the same then, but it had been autumn. The smile faded as he remembered her reaction to seeing the chessboard set up in the sitting room a few days earlier. Her fury had surprised him, and he thought at first that she would pack her things and leave then and there. Thank God she hadn't, but he hadn't been sure how to handle the situation. In the end, he had boxed the set and left it on the table, but she avoided that part of the room as if it contained a deadly disease. He realized that her abhorrence of the set must result from the horrible "game" they had been playing for several months. She herself had played a pawn, trying to trick their foe, though in reality she was his queen. That "game" had climaxed in the defeat of their enemy, and had also resulted in all of her injuries.

In his mind, he traveled back to the first inkling they had of their new, deadly enemy, when a bomb went off as he checked his beehives. Though it had caused severe damage to his back, his first thought after regaining consciousness a day later was of Russell. As he told her himself, he had been completely unable to focus on anything other than getting to her and making sure she was all right. At the time, he had refused to accept the implications of it; that she was more to him than a mere apprentice. He could tell that she was hurt by his unwillingness to trust her to handle the situation; by his coming to disarm the bomb himself. But he was also unwilling to admit the direction his emotions had taken, least of all to her.

Events had unfolded quickly after that; the circuitous route to Mycroft's residence, Watson's following them there, their enemy's discovery of their hiding place. He had been filled with trepidation as he and Russ set off in opposite directions, he disguised as his brother, she as Watson. As he hoped, though, she had stayed at the establishment where he kept his bolthole for the remainder of the day. She was relatively safe there.

Her appearance caught him completely off guard when he picked her up later in an old, drafty cab. Her skin was positively glowing, her hair was fashionably styled, and she was dressed in a gown that suited her perfectly. Gone was the girl slouching around in cap and trousers. In her place was an elegant, beautiful young woman. He actually had to catch his breath before pulling up to where she waited, to repress the urge to sweep her into his arms instead of calmly driving her away. It was obvious that she didn't recognize him as the driver; she got in with her purchases with a great deal of reluctance. And when she threatened him with her gun, thinking he was kidnapping her, he felt remorse for having tricked her. He hadn't realized how scared she was. As with him, her emotions ran deep and often undetected.

That evening, he had struggled to keep his mind focused on the problems before them, instead of on her. It was particularly difficult when, at the opera, she fell asleep with her head pillowed on his shoulder, her warm breath lightly caressing his neck. More than anything he wanted to slip an arm around her, rest his cheek against her hair, and forget that the rest of the world existed. But he held back, fearing her reaction, fearing what might happen if he let his heart go. She seemed unaware of the dilemma he was in, conversing with her usual freedom as they left.

Their enemy had struck unexpectedly. The hansom was vandalized, along with Russ's purchases, and the man left guarding it was drugged, though not harmed. His mind swam to realize how closely they were watched, how cunning this new foe. And then Russell had found the evidence that settled one major question: this enemy was a woman.

They had spent the rest of the night at Scotland Yard, where he examined the evidence and Russell fell asleep sitting in a chair. He had only given her a passing thought in his quest to discover everything he could about their pursuer, but when she stirred just before awakening, his gaze flew to her. Hair disheveled, cheeks flushed from sleep, and ridiculously clad in evening attire, she was still stunning. And he felt sudden remorse at having let her spend such an uncomfortable night.

Then had come the scare of an anonymous package arriving for her. He went into what could only be termed a panic; sure that it was a bomb or some other harmful item. Surprised to discover only clothes, furious at the taunt his enemy made about his inability to provide for his apprentice, he curtly gave Russ instructions about preparations to be made for their next move. He was completely unwilling to put her at risk.

She was still arguing about being pushed into the background when the shots came. Thank God, the first one had missed, and he had dived on top of her before the next one shattered the window. He was frozen with fear that he might have lost her. It convinced him that drastic action had to be taken, and he was the only one who could set things in motion. She still intended to argue this point, and he tried to reassure her that he wasn't going to leave her out of everything, just the immediate plans. He had crossed to grip her shoulders while he was talking, and as he finished, he gently framed her face with his hands and planted a soft kiss on her brow. At least, if something happened to either of them, he had given her that much. It stunned her completely, he noted as he abruptly left. He didn't know what to do with the emotions welling inside of him; he only knew that every part of him was crying out to gather her close and kiss her lips until both of them gasped for breath. There was no time to ponder the issue; they needed to get out of London, and fast.

Circuitously, he had made his way to the docks to secure their passage in a boat owned by a close ally, one who could be trusted even in such dire circumstances. On his way back to Scotland Yard, he tried to glean clues from some of his old Baker Street associates as to who their new enemy might be, but to no avail. His frustration turned to anger when, back at the Yard, Russell had insisted on his showering and eating before she would budge. He submitted only because he could see that an argument would just waste more precious time. Anger turned to surprise when she interrupted his protest as they traveled to the docks, putting him very handily into his place and asserting herself as his mental equal; his partner in this crisis. He saw the blush that painted her cheeks when the driver poked fun at her outburst, and any remaining frustration vanished. She was right in what she said, and she was still trying to find her footing in this relationship as much as he was. It was an adjustment for her to be his adult partner instead of his child apprentice. Definitely, he did not want to burden her with another, more personal, dimension just yet.

Their time in Palestine had cemented their partnership as neither of them could have foreseen. He was proud of the way she passed each test that Ali and Mahmoud set before her, uncomplaining even through dirt and hardship. And he learned to depend on her even more after falling into enemy hands himself. She tricked his captors to provide the means of escape, and she tended to his injuries with competence and nonchalance, both of which he desperately needed. It was only after the abbot at the monastery subtly questioned him about their relationship that he seriously thought about what the future could bring. He realized that he needed her - for always. It would just be a matter of waiting until she was grown enough to know what he was asking, and what she gave if she accepted.

He was jerked back to the present by a slight movement of Russell's head under his hand. Unsure when its motion through her hair had ceased, he quickly withdrew it and studied her as she slept. Some of the troubled lines in her face had relaxed in slumber. He could only hope that they would still be gone when she awoke.

The deepest emotional wounds had been inflicted after their sojourn in Palestine. They decided to divide forces, feigning estrangement to lure their enemy into the open. But the farce had to be complete, starting as soon as they boarded the ship, for a slip would mean defeat.

It had been easier for him, with long years of assuming disguises behind him. Russell, though, was relatively new at it, and he was also her only family. The second night, when she asked about whether she might forget that it was an act, he was struck with the realization of how much this was going to demand of her. He tried to reassure her, telling her more freely than he ever had how much confidence he had in her abilities. It seemed to help, but his sleep was abruptly cut short by a scream later that night.

Filled with horror that somehow, their enemy had managed to reach them even on this boat in the middle of the ocean, he burst into her cabin. Despite the dim light filtering in from the hall, his gaze immediately found her, crumpled in a heap on the floor next to her bed, arms covering her head. Seeing from the shaking of her slim shoulders that she was alive, he knelt next to her, grasping both her shoulders. Her trembling and the sweat dampening her hair told him that she was suffering from mental distress, not physical, so he helped her to her bed and stood beside her for a moment, feeling somewhat helpless. Finally, he decided that a drink of water and a return to a sense of normalcy in their relationship, if just for a short time, might be most helpful. Her physical reaction faded as she drank, but he could still see the pain in her face, so he did not leave when she told him he could. Instead, he pulled a chair up to the head of her bed and calmly lit his pipe.

For several minutes, she curled quietly on her bed, and he watched her thoughts chase each other over her face before she finally spoke. Slowly, haltingly at first, then more quickly as if the words forced themselves out after being long suppressed, she told him the story of her family's death. More than that, she told him of the terrible guilt she felt at having caused the accident. His heart stood still as she described her wish for death, her desire to fling herself from the cliff. To think how close he could have come to never meeting her! If only he had known, had not so casually referenced the tragedy on the first day they met, perhaps she would have unburdened herself to him sooner. He couldn't bear to think of the pain that she had been carrying all that time. But instead of offering useless reassurances that it was an accident, he had faced the matter straight on, as he always had in life. He told her that, though she was responsible for the circumstances of the crash, guilt was a poor reason for doing anything. At his quiet words, surprise had registered on her face, and she lowered the arm she had flung across her eyes to look at him. Incredulous, she stared as the full import of what he had said sank in. With understanding, he watched as she struggled to accept the absolution that was offered, and then her eyes had filled with tears. He could feel her pain as she began to cry, but knew that she had made an important step in the healing process.

Unfortunately, much of her healing was prevented by the horrible act on which they had embarked. From morning until night, the verbal attacks flew back and forth, becoming more vicious by the day. To help her retain her sanity, each night after the lights were out, he went to spend a few minutes with her in her cabin, when they could drop their masks even for just a short time. It helped them both keep things in perspective.

One evening as he sat on the edge of her bunk, he had sensed that Russ was nearing a breaking point. Even in the dark, he could tell that she was on the verge of tears, keeping them back only by the sheer force of her will. He couldn't blame her; that day had been particularly terrible for both of them. Wanting to offer comfort but unsure what to do, he reached out his hand to the side of her face. His fingers traced her hairline, then sank soothingly through the mass of blond hair. At first she stiffened, unused to such contact, but then as he continued to smooth her tresses, she slowly relaxed. It had taken a long time, but her quiet, steady breathing eventually told him that she had fallen asleep. Even then, he continued to sit beside her, unwilling to leave. Once again, his touch was carried to the edge of her cheek, amazed that her face could be so soft, even after their recent rugged stay in Palestine. He reflected that, though he had been often acquainted with women's hands in his line of work, the skin of a woman's face was relatively uncharted territory for him. He was struggling with emotions he had never expected to experience. Normally, he could separate his heart from such situations so that he walked away unscathed. This time, though, he wondered if he would be able to see it through. How could he go on wounding the person who meant more to him than life itself? At last, he stirred himself to return to his own cabin, but before doing so, he stooped over her and brushed his lips once again to her forehead. She stirred slightly and he held his breath, fearful that he had wakened her, unsure what to say if he had. But her breath resumed its gentle rhythm, and he turned and left her.

Watching her walk away from the boat when they arrived back in England proved to be the most difficult thing he had ever done. While their plan was, as he had told her, very good, it was far from foolproof. He knew they were dealing with an enemy who would stop at nothing. An attempt had already been made on Russ's life, and if their adversary had the slightest suspicion of a trap, she would not hesitate to try it again - and she would not miss twice. Every part of his being cried out for him to not let her go, that it could be the biggest mistake of his life. But the iron will that had carried him through so many other distasteful things in his long career allowed him to keep up his end of the act with not a trace of any emotion other than supposed anger and hurt at her "abandonment."

The ensuing weeks had taken a toll that he never anticipated. It was more difficult to handle the situation while being confined to his cottage. While necessary to give the impression of his failing health and withdrawal because of losing Russell, it gave him too much time for reflection. Hardly a minute passed without his thoughts turning to her, wondering where she was at that moment, fearful for her safety. More than ever he understood what she had come to mean to him. He had never suffered from her absences before, but he had always known when she would return. He didn't ever realize before how he had counted the days until he could see her again. But there were no guarantees this time that he ever would see her again, much less a way of knowing when.

He cherished the memory of Russell's words a few nights before they landed in London, when she chastised him for falling, as she thought, into poor health. His reassurance that most of it was just a disguise only partially placated her. She had exacted from him a promise not to do himself harm while they were apart, and he was doing his best to keep that promise. Remembering her heartfelt concern for him gave him hope that just maybe, when all of this was over, their relationship might develop into more.

Finally, when he could stand it no longer, he had telegraphed her at Oxford, merely asking if she would come down between terms, hoping she would understand it as a plea for her presence. Cautiously, she responded with a question of her own, asking if she should. He sent an affirmative response and once again counted down the days until she came. Seeing her, though, was almost worse than having her so far away. He detected on her person the signs of lack of sleep, increased use of alcohol, and loss of weight. Plus, there was a nasty cut on her forehead; evidence, as it turned out, of her having become absent-minded enough to have walked into a pole. But there was no way for him to comment on any of it, since neither of them dared drop their masks for even a second. Desperately, he had searched for a solution, and then he thought of the laboratory. There were no windows there, no way for the enemy to observe them. Describing a non-existent experiment, he led her to the room. As soon as the door closed behind them, his expression and voice changed as he again greeted her. Her response surprised him; she averted her eyes and whirled away quickly. For a moment, his heart stood still. Had he really lost her? Had the act somehow become a horrifying reality? Then he realized that she feared letting down her mask, even for a moment. Searching for a way to let her know it was safe, he thought of their nights on the boat back from Palestine. Always, he had knocked twice before entering, the signal that things could return to normal. He gave two light taps to the laboratory door, and watched her sag with relief.

He pushed a chair up behind her and told her they could have a few minutes without it looking odd. They spoke briefly about the case, and then he brought up her physical condition. She rather brusquely pushed the subject aside, then nearly cracked as she told him how much she wished the whole situation were over. Seeing her so broken had shattered his self-control. He had stepped toward her and would have gathered her in a fierce embrace if she hadn't stopped him. She begged him not to come near her and told him that she could not handle making the trip again. Even though he knew she was right, it had taken a herculean effort to consent. His voice, when he spoke, had revealed the emotional war raging inside him, but she hadn't reacted. She left soon afterward; left him feeling more tortured in spirit than ever.

Weeks passed, and finally he could stand her absence no longer. Since she couldn't come to him, he would go to her. Disguised as a priest, he went to Oxford, to the Bodleian, where he knew that she spent every minute she could spare. It hadn't been difficult to find her. She sat at a desk in a quiet corner, her blond head bent over something that she was studying intently. He approached to find her working over the photographs he had given her at the cottage. The look on her face told him that she was close to cracking the mysterious code of Roman numerals that had been slashed on the seat of the hansom. For a moment, he was transported back to all the other puzzles she had worked with him since he first met her. Though her mental processes were invisible to others, knowing her as he did, he recognized that expression of mixed determination, intense concentration, and growing excitement. When she pressed her lips together in concentration, the corner of her mouth lifted a bit and a small dimple appeared. And he suddenly had a compelling urge to kiss it. With difficulty, he pulled himself together, telling himself firmly that it was merely the reaction to having been separated for so long. It was hard to know whether to reveal his identity. He had opted to blow his nose loudly right behind her, and when she didn't respond, make his way to her rooms to await her return. On the doorknob, he left a smear of grease, reminiscent of that other mark when a bomb, instead of a friend, was supposed to have awaited her.

To his extreme surprise and disapproval, she burst in with a complete lack of caution. He commented that if there had been another bomb there wouldn't be much left to her, but she ignored him completely. Surprise turned to complete shock as she flew across the room and wrapped her arms around him. He hadn't enough time to reach his feet before she grabbed him, and his head was pressed between her breasts. Trying not to be obvious, he embraced her back and drew himself to his full height. There hadn't been time to deal with inconvenient emotions and sensations. But he held her gratefully, glad to have her back.

Upon learning the identity of their opponent and of the communication block at his cottage, they had wasted no time in returning to Sussex. Russ's driving had nearly been the death of him, but he hadn't dared do more than hint at a need for more caution. Definitely, he didn't want a fight with her before a final showdown. It would be a horrible memory if anything happened to either of them.

They were both in rather high spirits as they entered his laboratory to prepare for their next move. It had been a stark contrast to the sinking dread that came over him as he lit the lamp and saw their enemy there, waiting for them. Strangely, he had felt no fear for himself in the interview that followed. Much as when he battled Patricia Donleavy's father years ago, he felt that his purpose in life could be fulfilled if he succeeded in ridding the world of such an evil. But for Russell he felt immense fear. His desire to distract their enemy's attention from her was at least as much for her safety as it was to give an opportunity to counterattack. Even after reading the horrible "suicide letter" the enemy had written for him, he had been fully willing to comply with Patricia Donleavy's plan if it bought Russell's life, her safety, her chance to experience all the things she had missed. But their enemy played into his hands as he used his last tactic to distract her, and her gun, from Russell. Russ had responded by flinging the ink bottle at the firing gun as quickly as he could have hoped, and throwing herself at Donleavy. Then the two women were on the floor, struggling, with the gun between them.

He leaped to his feet, but before he could get around the table, a shot rang out. He saw Russell's body jolt, then she pushed the gun away from Donleavy's still hand and started to turn. He had known before she did what had happened; the bullet had gone through Russ's back into Patricia Donleavy's chest. Unable to reach Russ in time, he watched in horror as anguish and fear filled her eyes, which just missed him as her glance searched the room. Then she had screamed his name and collapsed into oblivion.

Things had been a blur to him until he found himself in the hospital, waiting just outside the surgery for the doctors to finish operating on the person who meant the world to him. Pacing up and down, he saw again and again the crimson blood that had flowed freely from her wound and wondered if she was already gone. A nurse entreated him to sit and have the minor wound on his own side treated, but he refused. He would wait however long it took to be there the instant that anything was known about his partner's condition.

Watson had arrived just before the doctor came out to tell them that Miss Russell's surgery was complete, but that the next few days would be critical. An infection could mean her life. Watson engaged the other doctor in a technical discussion of Russ's condition, but he had pushed past to go to her room. She lay so still on the bed, her face so pale and drawn that his heart wrenched. The weight she had lost was all the more apparent, making her appear even more frail. He wondered if the doctor was telling the truth, and if the next few hours, not days, might be all she had.

Pulling a chair next to the head of the bed, he gently picked up her hand, clasped it in both his own, and settled himself to just watch her face. Each change in her breathing filled him with alarm that it might be the precursor of the end. But she drifted from heavy stupor to near consciousness, and then back again as drugs were administered. He lightly stroked the fingers that rested in his own, examining every detail minutely, memorizing the texture and appearance to hold onto if the worst happened.

How long he sat there, he didn't know. Watson, by dint of his dogged persistence, had finally convinced him to have his own wound dressed. He refused to leave his partner's side, though, so the doctor treated him there. Then again, he settled himself to wait and watch.

Hours passed, and her breathing had become quicker. With growing anxiety, he saw her cheeks begin to flush, felt her skin grow warmer. The doctor had been right to worry about infection; the fever proved him correct. There wasn't much that could be done to combat it. Some of the drugs were increased, and a nurse came to sponge Russ's face and neck, but her temperature continued to rise. Delirium came, tossing her on a sea of jumbled memory, fear, and pain. As she tossed and moaned, occasionally crying out, he lived her nightmares with her, stroking her hair, smoothing her hands, caressing her face.

After a few tense days spent exclusively at her side, he was rewarded with being told that the fever was waning. She lay still, no longer tormented by her brain's inventions. That evening, he had seen that she was drifting toward consciousness. Unsure what her reaction would be, he released her hand and just sat and watched. Her eyes fluttered open, but he could tell that she was not completely awake. At last, her long lashes blinked, and she focused on his face. Her lips moved, and in the dim light he could make out his name. He had smiled and nodded; the smile felt strange after so many days of near despair. Her voice entered the room when she told him when was glad he was alive, and his heart gave a sudden, absurd leap of joy. It was good to know that she cared, in spite of all that they had been through. She watched his eyes for a time, and then she slept again. He sat rejoicing that he had regained her presence, mentally as well as physically.

The next morning, he had stayed while the doctor made an examination. Sitting on the edge of her bed, he placed her spectacles on her nose, knowing she needed the reassurance of clear vision. He was aware that she studied him intently, but made no comment. There were still battles to be fought, he knew, even as he told her what had happened to their enemy, to him, to the case. Though she fought sleep, it claimed her quickly. Knowing that she was all right, he allowed the nurse to show him to another room to get some sleep himself, the first since she was shot.

The first indication of her demons had come when Watson and Mycroft came to see her later in the day. The other two seemed unaware of a change in her, but knowing her as he did, he could sense her guarded reserve, even hostility as the visit continued. It was evidenced, not so much with words, but in her expression.

She flatly refused to see her aunt, which didn't surprise him; the last thing she needed in her condition was a conflict with yet another person. There were already too many relationships that were important to her to repair without adding a self-professed enemy to the list.

When the doctor pronounced her recovered enough to leave the hospital, Russ had merely told him that she wanted to go with him. She seemed unimpressed by the ensuing battle with her aunt, trusting that he would be able to fight it out for her. It was encouraging for him to know that she wanted to be with him; it gave him hope that their friendship could be repaired. True, it might be the lesser of the two evils available to her; at least she knew that he would not withhold life's necessities from her in order to get his way, as her aunt often did.

In any case, he drove her to his cottage on a lovely day several weeks after she had left it unconscious and bleeding. Mrs. Hudson had met them at the door and hovered with hugs, blankets, delicacies to tempt Russ's appetite, and exclamations of concern. It forced on him once again the realization of all that Russell had lost. The bright sun streaming in the windows emphasized the heavy dark circles under her eyes, the unhealthy paleness of her skin, the blue veins in her temples visible from loss of weight, and the lines of worry and pain in her forehead. While he could tell that she was glad to see Mrs. Hudson, whom he knew she regarded as a surrogate mother, she was still withdrawn and fell asleep quickly in the guest room bed where he had placed her.

For the next few days, she had slept nearly constantly, in her bed, on the sofa, in the grass of the garden. But as her body regained strength, her spirit deteriorated. It was fist evidenced by occasional stiffening when he spoke to her, but it soon turned into harsh snapping at him at any given opportunity. Smells from his pipe and laboratory that she had always accepted were abhorrent to her. He had brought out his violin, thinking that music might soothe her, but she had left the cottage abruptly on shaky legs to escape the sound. She started picking fights with him. He knew that she was spoiling for a knock down battle, but he refused to give in. It would only fuel the fires within her, and he realized that it was partly a reaction to pretending to hate him for so long. Somewhere along the way, particularly after the wounds to her body and mind, the act had become more of a truth. He could tell that she was getting ready to leave him, and he feared it would be permanent. Trying to stall her as long as he could, he left the cottage more and for longer periods of time. On a visit to Watson, he had the idea of getting young Jessica to write a letter to her; he could only hope it would work.

Russell was finally stirring; the afternoon had passed quickly as he was lost in thought. He remained still, watching her. Her eyes opened, and she looked first for him. There was a hint of a smile in her eyes as they met him. She winced and turned onto her back, no doubt to relieve her injured shoulder. For several minutes she lay in silence, watching the clouds overhead.

He decided to test whether the letter had helped. He pulled out his pipe and tobacco as of old and spoke. "I need to go to France and Italy for six weeks. I shall be back before your term begins. Would you care to go?"

There was no answer. He hazarded a glance at her, finding her watching him fill his pipe with an expression of contentment. Not until after he lit it did she respond. "I think I'll take up smoking a pipe, Holmes, for the sheer eloquence of the thing."

Sharply, he turned to study her. Her words sounded like the precursor to another attempted battle. But there was not a hint of sarcasm in either her voice or face. She smiled at him, and he knew without words that she had forgiven him, that she was ready to move on as they had gone before - together. He just nodded once, but his heart swelled with relief and gladness. He had reclaimed his queen.