Round Robin Pastiche

a collective effort by the members of RUSS-L

Chapter 1: Sherlock Holmes Reminisces

by "A woman of brains and spirit"

February 1926

A cold midwinter wind blew from the channel toward the coast of Sussex. It moved through the orchard, past the quiet hives, and sighed around the windows of the stone cottage. Then it blew the clouds apart and allowed a stray shaft of moonlight to slip between the curtains of the airy upstairs bedroom. The light touched a sleeping woman's face with silver and traveled down the silky waterfall of her tumbled hair. The wakeful man beside her reached out a long hand to smooth it back from her face. He smiled as, still sleeping, she nestled into his touch and the thick, shining strands pooled over his shoulders and chest. Good God, that hair. It would never cease to fascinate him with its marvelous interplay of texture, weight, and luminescence. And its fragrance seemed to bypass his cerebral cortex altogether. At your age, too, Holmes, he thought.

He was restless. A vague unease in his mind niggled at the glowing contentment of his body, Usually after one of these lovely interludes they would fall asleep close together; an act as intimate in its way as those which preceded it. But not, it seemed, tonight. Perhaps it was the significance of the date, keeping him awake as he reflected on their life together. Five years ago this night Mary Judith Russell had walked into a husband's arms for the first time. He had taken her hair down, then, and watched, enthralled, as it poured over his hands and down her back. Then he'd lifted it from her face like a bridal veil and leaned forward to kiss her mouth. He had been married to this woman for five years. Astonishing.

There had been times during their first year together when he would awaken beside her at night and wonder whatever had possessed him to take leave of his senses and embark on a scandalous liaison with Russell. Such madness, however sweet, would surely lead to no good end. Then the light would catch the ring on his hand and he would remember that she was his wife, and sigh with relief and contentment.

The true, bone-deep knowledge of their bond had taken some time to develop. Two particular incidents came to mind...

The first had been on their way home from their honeymoon in Italy. Perhaps it had been the case they had finished; perhaps the motion of the boat recalled their trip back from Palestine, but for whatever reason, Russell's Dream had come back to claim her on their first night at sea. Her tossing had wakened him, and the thrashing of her head and rasping gasp of her breath had told him instantly what was wrong. But this time by God, he'd thought with a fierce spurt of triumph, he need no longer watch helplessly as she suffered. Now he could do something about it, and no tongue that might wag at "Mr. Holmes' particular attentions to Miss Russell" would dare gainsay a husband's right to comfort his wife.

So he had pulled her close and stroked her hair, using the tone of his voice and the gentleness of his touch to reach the frightened child in her dream. "I am here," he'd said softly, over and over. "You are safe. No harm can come to you while I am here."

At last, before the anguished cry that marked the end of the Dream, she opened her eyes. For a moment, she had stared unseeing into the dark cabin; then her gaze focused and fixed on him. She had made no sound but turned wordlessly and clung to him until, toward morning, she had slept. Neither of them had mentioned the incident the following day, but then, they had not needed to. And if a certain warmth had lurked in her eyes when she'd suggested a game of chess, well they were newly married, were they not?

The second moment had come on a completely mundane afternoon the following April. It had been a warm and balmy day, with a cloudless blue shell of sky over his orchard. He had checked the hives, and was turning for home. Then he'd espied Russell, reading on a blanket under one of apple trees. He'd turned to wave to her, and at her beckoning strode lightly between the trees to join her. "You look quite cosy, Russ," he'd said.

She had quirked an inquiring eyebrow, and patted the blanket beside her in invitation. He'd settled in beside her, and had soon been lulled by the warm air, the droning of his bees, and the musky sweetness of the apple blossoms. He'd spent the afternoon drowsing, with his cap shading his face and his head in her lap while she read. Not talking, or playing chess, or even making love; just being. Together. And that had been enough.

Whichever higher power had given him five years with Russell was one he was disposed to thank. He had learnt much in that time. They'd worked on a variety of cases together, and that diamond-bright mind continued to intrigue and challenge his. He had watched her increasing mastery of her life's work and justly growing reputation with pride -- pride accompanied by a certain amount of ruefulness, as he still did not completely approve of her choice. But he had come to understand ways that Theology was part of the core that made her who she was.

Physically, Russell had changed a bit in five years. She retained the lithe clean-limbed perfection of her girlhood, though carrying their child had left her with a faint, tantalising hint of lushness. As a man accustomed to the plush upholstered beauties of an earlier era, he had to privately admit that the juxtaposition was -- too damned appealing for his own good -- was what it was. Russell was quite well aware of this, and not above taking shameless advantage of it.

For instance, there had been the matter of the brief hiatus in their marital relationship after Judith's birth last year. He had been reluctant to resume physical intimacy, wrenching as he had found the thought of doing without it. He had felt guilty causing the discomforts of her pregnancy, and been simply aghast at the pain associated with childbirth. When Judith was three months old, however, his lovely young wife had taken matters into her own hands. So to speak. Clad in a charming, though somewhat brief, nightdress she had slipped into bed beside him and made her intended programme for the evening quite, quite plain. He had demurred, but Russell had not placed much credence in his attempt to dissuade her. In all fairness, he could not blame her for her skepticism, since his arms had seemed to lock around her of their own accord and one hand, without any conscious direction on his part, had buried itself in her hair...

Instead, she had informed him -- kindly, but firmly -- that changing their union to a marriage in name only was an option she was disinclined to accept.

"Holmes," she had smiled, with her face inches from his and that glorious hair cascading over them both, "do stop spouting that wretched Victorian twaddle about your obligations as a gentleman. This, husband mine, is one of those times when a wise man refrains from arguing and cooperates with the inevitable."

He had been moved beyond words at this tangible reminder that Russell loved and desired him as he did her. Often, though, the words he spoke to her were lighter and more ironic than the emotions that prompted them. So he had swallowed the lump in his throat and answered, "Hagia Sophia, Russell? Far be it from me to suggest that the husband of a scholar neglect the proper reverence for wisdom."

No further discussion, he recalled, had been necessary. Russell stirred at his chuckle and rolled onto her back, one arm outflung. How a woman with such economy of movement could be such an extravagant sleeper remained one of the bemusements of their life together. She was likely reacting to his own restlessness, and this would never do. Scholars as well as new mothers needed their sleep.

He slipped out of bed and donned his dressing gown and slippers. Careful not to wake the slumbering household, he ghosted out the door and into the hall. He slipped quietly into the yellow-papered nursery. Amazing, to think that he and Russell were responsible for this new and marvelous human being. No sound there but the child's quiet breathing and... a faint purr?

Judith was a restless sleeper like her mother, and had managed to kick her blankets down to the foot of her crib. He settled them back over her, disturbing a large orange tomcat in the process. His daughter's faithful companion was on duty, it appeared. Marmalade had shown a decided preference for Judith, even in utero. During Russell's pregnancy, he spent many afternoons perched on her burgeoning belly, directing vociferous purrs toward its occupant. When Judith came home, the cat had immediately appointed himself the baby's chief guardian and protector. He was usually found firmly ensconced near Judith, supervising whoever was tending to her needs. Once Judith had outgrown her cradle Marmalade had insisted on sleeping with her, over Mrs. Hudson's horrified protests. . No attempts at putting the cat out or evicting him from her room had succeeded in keeping them apart, and eventually, feline determination had prevailed. Dire predictions about smothering and fleas proved unfounded, and eventually the good lady had been won over by the undeniable fact that Judith slept much more soundly when 'Teddy and Marmie' were nearby. The cat stretched and Holmes reached out to scratch its ear.

"Ever vigilant, eh? "He said softly. "Guard her well, old man."

He shut the door behind him and slipped down the stairs to the sitting room. His fingers swept the mantel to find his pipe and matches then dug in the pocket of his dressing gown for the tobacco pouch. He did not trouble to switch on the light, the dappled moonlight was enough to see by and far more conducive to meditation. Holmes sat and smoked in the deep quiet of the night, and let his thoughts return to Russell. There was something -- very faintly -- amiss in her manner, that hinted of distraction and malaise. They understood one another so well that he could often determine that something was bothering her before she knew it herself. Adding motherhood to her studies and their life together had not been easy. Something was missing... perhaps she was sorry for the sabbatical she had from her studies -- and from collaborating with her husband and partner on the odd case or two. Although Judith had her Papa, Mrs. Hudson, and an excellent nurse, perhaps Russell had found the resumption of her trips to Oxford trying, even on a reduced schedule. Perhaps what she needed was something form him -- an overt declaration that although their lives had changed, what he felt for her had not.

His pipe guttered out and he rose to knock the dottle into the fireplace. After a quick check of the downstairs windows, he headed back to his bedroom and sat down on the chair by Russell's dressing table. Dear God, she was lovely. One of the many things he now understood was why men would kill for a woman... But how to tell Russ what she meant to him? He was hardly a sentimental or demonstrative man, and he cringed at the thought of looking foolish with that sort of display.

He thought of the words other men used to their women. My Beloved. My Beautiful One. My Darling. My Love. The light of my life; the treasure of my heart. He considered them all, in several languages. Not that they didn't apply, but nothing quite suited her, or him. He was not a sentimental or demonstrative man, but that hadn't seemed to matter. Their love, though seldom expressed outside of this room, was the leitmotif of their lives.

Finally, with that satisfying mental click of a solved puzzle, he knew the right words. He could not render them in the Greek or Hebrew she knew so well, but perhaps if he spoke them now they would reach her dreaming mind and she would know their truth. He stepped quietly to the bed and touched her hair.

"Thou hast ravished my heart, my spouse," he quoted softly. "'Thou hast ravished my heart with one of thine eyes, with one chain of thy neck. How fair is thy love, how much better is thy love than wine... Canticles 4 verses 8 and 9, I believe." His hand reached out to touch her cheek. Perhaps he was going soft, getting sentimental in his old age. But he was certainly a fool to sit here in the cold when a soft bed, warmed by a lovely woman, awaited him. His dear sweet wife.

"Sweetness" was not the word the average man would associate with Russell, but then the average man saw but did not observe. He turned back the coverlet and slipped in next to her, luxuriating in warmth, and softness, and the knowledge that he was no longer, ever, completely alone.

Just as he had made himself comfortable, a pair of intelligent and very wide-awake blue eyes opened on the pillow next to his. Mary Russell Holmes propped herself up on one elbow to contemplate her husband's recumbent form.

"It's verses 9 and 10, not 8 and 9," she whispered in turn, sounding as though there was a slight obstruction in her throat. "And Holmes? I love you, too."

Then she put her arms around him and her mouth to his. Sometime later, she lay cuddled into his side again, her breathing deep and even, as bonelessly relaxed as the cat or the sleeping child, Good God, Holmes, he thought, At your age, too. His awareness wavered, then winked out like a falling star over the Downs outside. He turned his face toward the scent of her hair and slept.

Sherlock Holmes and Mrs. Hudson are the creations of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Mary Russell is the creation of Laurie R. King. Judith Russell Holmes belongs to 'Vestige of Feminity'. Marmalade belongs to himself although some of his behavior is borrowed from a late cat of mine.