The Ruins

by "nineteen year old not quite a lady"

Part One:

(Spring of 1915)

Mary

She sat with her hands folded, the stern line of her jaw radiating strength. Her quiet temperament covered only the surface of her feelings - underneath it, so hidden from view that even she was unaware of the extent of its reach, pulsed a bitter anger barely held in check by the force of her will. This house, which was promised as a refuge, had become a prison. Sleep was plagued by nightmares and being awake was no improvement. When she was awake she had to deal with the person who by virtue of litigation had become her constant companion. At least when she slept she was only pursued by ghosts and memories. But this was no dream. From the moment they had met and she had seen that this new thing in her life was not a guilty vision of memory but flesh and bone instead, she had felt the hate swell within her. She felt sly, malevolent, sharp parts of her come alive that she thought had been gone for years. It turns out that they had only been dormant, in hibernation. And those parts of her that had slept cried out to be used and cried out to be fed. She thought she had outgrown those childish things. She had only grown into them.

In the time they had been forced to share (mostly at meals) she had come not to love or even like her imposed family, but she had come to respect her, just a little. So she sat away from the flooding sunlight of the Sussex summer morning and waited, her face a carving of shadows as she listened to the irritating child her sister had produced rumble through the quiet serenity of her compulsory home. She remained in the darkest corner of the room and the pattern of shadows and light that reached her cast bars of dim light and darkness across her face. She would not have been surprised.

She looked around the room, her eyes scanning the tasteful decorations and the expensive furnishings with a grim satisfaction. She could hear her niece and newfound charge trundle through the hallway, so she controlled her thoughts and modestly turned her eyes downward (which had been gleaming with greed a moment before) to a half-finished embroidery. Holding the design of blues and greens, her niece entered the room.

"Hello, Mary." Her light woman's voice was pleasant and cautious since she and the girl had recently fought and the wounds were still present. These were the first words she had spoken to the girl since. She wondered if there would be a response.

"Hello, Aunt." The girl's tone was cold and harsh as it had always been, but there was something new behind it. And without warning the girl spoke again, "Been cataloguing the inheritance again?"

The woman looked up from the embroidery with a shine reminiscent of the one that had occurred when she had been contemplating her fortune. She spoke and her words revealed nothing but mild curiosity, "What would make you say that Mary?"

"That embroidery you're holding has dust on it, the needle is threaded with red, this is the most -" and here the girl paused to give emphasis to words that dripped with hatred, "expensive room in the house, but most importantly, Aunt, it is the only room from which you cannot see the bedroom of my parents. You rather enjoy this room, Aunt. Did you not think I would notice?"

The young girl sat suddenly in front of the windows, soaking in the sunlight. She felt empty of words and thought and emotion, but across the room in the shadows her aunt was thinking furiously.

So that's what has changed, her aunt thought. Even after the accident, even when that German woman had got hold of her, the girl has never been this... alone. Desperate, even. Even in the days after the accident (when the drugs had been cut back and consciousness bloomed full and alive about the deaths of her family) she had never given up. She had tried to jump from the roof of the hospital twice, from a building near the psychiatrist's office once, and once from the cliffs near home, but she had acted out of anger and guilt, never hopelessness. This was the new factor that had entered the girl's life. With the full awareness, knowledge and intelligence to appreciate the desolation of the coming years that spanned out before her like a tomb, years of a life empty of family, empty of connection and love and self, Mary Russell had finally given up. The light had gone out of her eyes and the delicate, dark woman who studied the face bathed in light across the room from her liked that look very much. Because things that are emptied are easily filled.

She had first become aware of her niece's rather remarkable mind when they had moved to the Sussex house. She ignored the girl for the most part and Mary would either be gone for the day walking, trying to stay ahead of her memories and inevitably ending up in the same place-the cliffs overlooking the sea. She went out each day with the intention of forgetting and ended each day deciding whether she should just walk over the edge. When she was at home, she tried to stay in the same room with her caretaker as little as possible which as far as her aunt was concerned, was perfectly fine. They spoke not at all and the sharp, sly, woman who had learned to be what she was over a lifetime of experience simply waited for the day when her niece would not return home. She tried to prepare herself for the coroner's inquest, burial arrangements and the like, but she soon realized that as each day passed without incident, the probability of the girl's suicide lessened.

She absently watched her niece become a void of emotion and in that void, her aunt saw, the girl found a type of strength. It was strength without love and fortitude without healing and her aunt felt certain that it would never last. In the midst of her aunt's assessments and her charge's personal hell, their near silent relationship shattered abruptly. The girl, despite her isolation, had looked for several impersonal seconds at her aunt and had proceeded to relate exactly what her caretaker had done that day with an accuracy that was startling in its perception and depth. But, her aunt thought, until someone showed her how to apply her gift it would end up as a mere parlour trick.

The day when the unforeseen intelligence of her niece was revealed, she had left a note for the girl stating that she was going to the local Anglican Church. She implied that her frequent visits to such an establishment were to pray for the souls of her poor dead sister's family (and for the soul of the girl who had survived) but in reality they concealed much more sinister activities. No one would have been more surprised by these declared pilgrimages than the vicar, who, though silently preferring the company of Judith Klein (for whom he prayed every morning and night) to that of her sister, would have welcomed her with open arms as a new sheep to his flock. But she had never actually been near his establishment in spite of her constant claims to serene piety. What she had actually done in the village that day (among running errands to a local solicitor, a realtor, the banking establishment and purchasing a few expensive items) was purchase a small lady's revolver. She had not minded the cost as she saw it as an investment in her eventual inheritance. And if the girl would not use it of her own free will, well then, she would do what had to be done.

She had often contemplated the death of her niece since becoming her legal guardian and less frequently she had considered eliminating the girl herself. She had thought of the methods she would use for the act with an objective detachment that would have pleased a veteran of any surgical ward... or a criminal on the gallows. Her set of mind was fitted to the task - she had the motive, the intellect, and the cleverness to carry it off. And she had almost done it, once. She had come so close to smothering her niece while the girl tossed and turned in her own ghost-filled sleep, that for an hour afterwards her delicate hands had shaken - not in fear, but in energy without an outlet. She had finally settled on a revolver for a variety of well-thought-out reasons. It wouldn't be unusual for two women living alone in a rural area to have the means to defend themselves and making a shooting of her niece seem like a suicide would be much simpler, given the girl's circumstances and behaviour. In addition, she knew that her niece was the physically stronger of the two of them. A gunshot had seemed at the time the safest route to set on if her niece decided not to follow her mother, father and brother.

So she had returned home and Mary was there - a novelty in itself. The girl scanned her aunt with her analytical and somehow dead eyes and had seen things that her guardian had thought were known to her dark heart alone. Her niece had rattled off the day's activities - seeing the solicitor, the banking manager, and the realtor. She spoke of the things her aunt had bought, the places she had gone and finally the girl reached her deduction of the purchase and purpose of the weapon. Her aunt became simultaneously glad she had not killed the girl and dismayed at this evidence of superior intellect. The feelings of gladness, though, were stronger. Another emotion, weak and underused emerged as well. Awe. For an instant she was overwhelmed with the potential for the girl - if she was given the right instructor..

But that day she had firmly turned her thoughts to the matter at hand, the discovery of the motive behind the procurement of the pistol. The girl spoke of her own homicide listlessly and kept her eyes on the floor until the very end of her speech when menacing life unexpectedly flashed into her eyes.

"If you're going to murder me, Aunt, face me in the daylight without fear. But if you ever come creeping into my room again at night when you think I'm asleep, I'll be the sole proprietor of this house by morning." She had raised her eyes to those of her aunt's and their normal shade of blue seemed inexplicably dark. And cruel. And capable. The woman saw that her niece had meant what she said. That dark and cruel look her aunt had liked even better than the emptiness because it meant that in spite of her niece's upbringing, the tools were there. The whetting stone already existed and all the girl lacked was a figure of constant strength- someone who would be both a teacher and an instrument. She had no doubts that the girl would be a diligent student. So she had acknowledged the reality of the girl's threat, recognized her strength, and admitted to her own actions. The delicate featured woman met the eyes of the girl in front of her and inclined her head. Her niece had seemed satisfied and a truce had existed between them.

So until this most recent quarrel had occurred, about shoes of all things, her aunt was quite content that she had apparently been accepted into her niece's life - Mary was becoming accustomed to her presence and to her ways. Irksome and familiar, her niece no doubt thought, which was only a beginning, but well worth the effort. So this flippant talk of inheritance and the subsequent deductive reminder of the girl's somewhat disturbing intelligence (things which had ceased after the revolver discussion) brought to her aunt's attention that a strategic turning point was ahead. She saw two outcomes for the girl. Mary could stand and fight her aunt or submit and join her. Mary had spoken to her, indicating she was feeling more lonely than ever. It was that note of hopelessness, the new tone of defeat that emboldened her aunt to force her niece's decision once and for all. Resistance or unity. The girl's words echoed in her mind - "Been cataloguing the inheritance again, Aunt?" And the woman thought very carefully and studied her hands as she decided what approach to use. She had one final thought before she spoke. "Yes, I have been my dear and you might be surprised that this time, the reflections of my fortune include you as well.

"I have never liked you, Mary. I consider your circumstances a tragedy and your company an imposition. But you are all I have and I am all you have, whether you like it or not."

"Or whether you like it or not, Aunt."

"I'm going to be honest with you, Mary. I find myself liking you and this arrangement a great deal more than I have. Much more than I ever thought possible." She smiled across the room from the shadows and her smile was captivating and simultaneously disorienting because she did it so rarely. She possessed a dark, delicate, beauty that was unlike the gangly robustness of her niece. And she focused that combination of beauty and strength on the girl.

"Why?"

"Because you have an extraordinary mind, Mary which is a fact I never cared enough about you to recognize. You have become remarkable, astonishing really. Now that we're together we could accomplish so much! With your mind you could do anything. Everything that you are owed, Mary, could be yours."

"What would be worth doing, Aunt?"

"You deserve more than this life, girl. More than this house, more than these broken memories. You can everything you've ever wanted."

"I don't know what I want."

"No, you don't. Not yet. But you're a bright girl, Mary, I'm sure you have some ideas. You may not know exactly what you want but you do know that there are debts to be repaid and scores to be settled. Are you going to sit there and tell me you're perfectly indifferent to what has been stolen from you? I hear your dreams, Mary so don't try to tell me that you're all right."

The girl's eyes fastened to those of her aunt and suddenly her sapphire eyes were wet with bitter jewels. The carpet was slightly darker where the teardrops had fallen and her chest rose and fell with short, restricted breaths. Her aunt saw these reactions and was pleased. She rose and walked quietly to where the girl sat. She moved to the floor beside her niece and tucked her legs under her, smoothing her long skirt with her hands. She did not try to physically touch the girl, it was too soon despite her obvious vulnerability. If her aunt moved too quickly she would very likely lose the girl forever. So she added more emotion to her voice, making it maternal and caring.

"You need to get a taste of life before it starts to excite you. You have to learn to live again, Mary. There is nothing holding you here, the ghosts of your family have long gone from this place. Start a new life. Let me sell this house. We could move anywhere you wish. London, Paris - anywhere you like."

"Are you asking me, Aunt?"

"I am."

"What if I say no?" Her aunt decided to change tactics.

"What happened today, Mary, to provoke this desire for conversation?"

"Nothing happened today."

"Really? You were reading Virgil for hours, you walked to the cliffs and nothing at all happened?"

For the first time since she had awoken in a hospital bed bruised and angry, Mary felt a grudging respect for her aunt. It unsettled her and she got up from the settee and restlessly moved away from the woman at her feet. She leaned against the opposite wall, bathed in shadows while her aunt glowed in the summer sun.

"I read all day which you can see from my hands and I walked to the cliffs which you can see from my clothing. And I saw a tramp," she added distantly. "I heard a noise and looked up, saw him and came back home. Nothing happened today."

The note of desperation reappeared and convinced her to go to the girl. She stood up gracefully and walked to her niece, who immediately turned around to face the wall. Her aunt's voice became a quiet piercing whisper that resonated through the girl's mind for years to come.

"So, what on earth could possibly keep you here, Mary?"

"Nothing, just let me think for a bit -"

"You have nothing here - except the weight of your memories. We are all we have, Mary."

"Yes."

Mary laughed less hysterically then before, looked her aunt in the eyes again and with her injured shoulder against the stylishly decorated walls, painted a tastefully colored blue that her mother had chosen long ago, she slowly sank to the floor. Her aunt followed her and with some difficulty, put her arms around her niece. The girl cried for a long time and her aunt serenely stroked the long blonde plait while Mary rested her face on her lap and soaked her elegant skirt with tears. When her aunt sensed the storm had come to an end, she spoke with an invasive calm.

"I'll call the estate agent tomorrow."

"Tomorrow? Yes, yes, tomorrow."

"A house in London has come up for sale."

"London, fine."

"We'll have to get you new clothing of course, fitting for a young women of your station." The last of Mary's resistance cried out from inside and was washed slowly away. Her aunt saw with an expanding heart that the emptiness had flowed into acceptance. And when the acceptance passed, need would take its place.

"Fine."

"We understand each other, don't we Mary?"

"Yes, unfortunately we do." And the girl who had previously been Mary Russell and was now a different girl with the same name, smiled sharply showing the points of her teeth.

"Good night then, my dear."

"Good night."

The next two years passed quickly in the lives of Mary and her aunt. They moved to a luxurious flat in London, though they eventually purchased homes in Paris and Italy. Unless the costume required it, Mary never wore a pair of trousers again. Her cold beauty, dazzling intelligence and sharp wit made her a favorite among London's elite. She had maintained her goal of academics, though she had changed her fields from theology and chemistry to mathematics and chemistry. She looked forward to her acceptance at university with less focus and enthusiasm; her days were busy. She had gone into the business of blackmail. With her own perceptions and her aunt's direction, the name Mary Russell became prominent in both the criminal and law enforcement circles. She had other names of course, in other countries. Other characters to play and identities to assume. She read The Strand religiously without knowing why and excepting her chosen profession and her mathematical aspirations, she thought very little about everything else. Her "lairs" (which was how she thought of them) were spread throughout the countries she operated in and they were fully stocked with her costume, makeup and lifestyle needs. But during those times when the job was finally done and she would wash the makeup from her face and apply her own, she would feel exposed and lost. During those times when she would change into her normal stylish clothes, she would sit in the dark for a moment and pause. These were the times when her past would rush out at her, trying to escape the seamless blockade she had constructed. The feeling would pass in a heartbeat and before she would head home, she would look in the mirror and smile her cold, razor grin that shone out with bright malevolence like a winter's sun.

(Spring 1915)

Holmes

He breathed deeply in and out. In. Out. Trying to control his reaction to the narcotic. He looked lazily around his Sussex home. The air seemed very stale and the notes for his magnum opus had begun to collect dust. There were times when he stared off into space without even realizing it and he began to use cocaine almost every day. He welcomed the familiar sensation, the safety, and last of all, the connection that the drug provided. He had seen no one but Mrs. Hudson for the past six months, though he had seen Watson at Thanksgiving. He had taken no cases and had felt no particular desire to work. He had heard from Mrs. Hudson (who else, of course) that a house some miles away was being sold. An aunt and her niece were moving to London and the property was for sale. Despite Mrs. Hudson's efforts to spark some semblance of life in him with her rural news, letters from family and her ever-present concerns about his weight (which had reached a low of eleven and a half stone) nothing had been able to stir him from his malaise.

In the following summer days when each hour blurred into the next and the days were just slightly more distinguishable, he would remember that April day when he had last felt completely alive. He had risen at his usual time, skipped breakfast and had checked on his hives. Even this passion had begun to lose its charms, so it was unusual for him to exhibit enough concern to consider tracking down some wild bees to restock his supply. As he gathered together his belongings (the paint and brushes) he had felt an absurd lightness come into his heart. The feeling only grew stronger throughout the day as he walked, just taking breath after breath of the fresh crisp air. It was a feeling of expectation, simple and joyous. By the time he reached his destination he was smiling, truly smiling for the first time in months. He sat down and as he did he seemed to be seeing everything clean and new. The colors, the sunlight, the air, it all seemed... alive. He felt that he would start to laugh any minute and tried to rein his mind to the task at hand. He set about the bees with solid competence and skill regardless of the fact that he was quivering with nervous excitement and vitality. When he was done, he waited. He saw a man walking a dog and an antisocial farm boy approach and veer off into the distance and two hours after that he was still waiting, his inexplicable good mood fading with the sun. At dusk his energy and vivaciousness had evaporated to be replaced by embarrassment cynicism. He left the Downs and returned home to his vials of synthetic life.

Sherlock Holmes descended into lethargy, depression and cynicism for the next two years. He had not aged well and the lines that were carved into his face marked him as a man ten years older than he was. He used cocaine steadily and lived for the odd cases that came his way. But with those cases came the knowledge that his current performance was well beneath the standards he had created for himself all those years ago - the level of excellence that had seemed as unthinkingly natural as breathing. But he buried these thoughts of the quality of his work under periods of blank inactivity and more narcotics. The breaking point came at the end of January in 1918, with a neighbor's case. As far as he remembered, the Barker case provided the first clear undeniable thought that he was less than he had been. He had made mistakes, you see, and the traitorous butler was shot as he tried to flee from the house. His confederates escaped and the government agents congratulated themselves on the sole Kaiser spy they had caught. But Holmes knew better. Terence Howell, the butler in question, later died in custody after a rigorous interrogation in which his gun shot wounds became infected. The thought that had occurred to Holmes as he had raised his pistol to shoot the running traitor was simply this: Holmes, you're slipping. He considered this fact with an indifference that would have shocked those who cared for him. He cherished his visits from Dr. Watson and their friendship deepened considerably as the time they spent together lengthened. Watson feared for his companion and thought that one of the greatest friends he'd ever had, not to mention one of the greatest minds the world had ever seen, was fading away, becoming no more substantial than a dream.

And he would have been right.

End of Part I