Unanticipated Sorrows

by 'Vestige of Femininity'

"You knew."

It was said as a flat statement, not a question.

"Of course I knew, Russell."

Yes. Of course he knew. He had always known my body better than I did myself. There had not been any overt symptoms like that grossly inaccurate term 'morning sickness.' But he would not fail to observe the slightly more subtle clues, the 3:00am visits to the WC, the tenderness to the touch that made me stiffen, not in pleasure, but in pain (the slight pull back, the questioning look in his eyes). I thought I had distracted him that time, but I should have known better. Most husbands could be easily distracted under such circumstances, but not my husband, not for very long anyway. One could not be in an intimate relationship with Sherlock Holmes and expect to conceal a pregnancy even if it was in its earliest stages. Of course he knew. Why I even thought I could keep it to myself even for a short time, I can't imagine. But then I had not been thinking terribly clearly in those weeks.

"Why didn't you say something?"

"I might ask the same of you, Russell."

I stared out the south window with my tea cup in both hands and sipped its hot soothing liquid to give myself time to compose a suitable reply to his quiet but edged comment. But truth to tell, I was too weary of it all to invent anything and opted for the unadorned simple truth.

"I was scared out of my mind, Holmes."

I glanced at him over my cup for his reaction to this but he did not stir from his seated position or his contemplation of the flames in the fireplace. He merely waited for me to continue.

I attempted a laugh, but it was a hollow sound, even to me. "Yes indeed. I, Mary Judith Russell, brilliant theological scholar, fearless partner and wife of the great Sherlock Holmes, intrepid seeker of truths and a host of other meaningless platitudes," I paused for breath. "I was terrified and I could not bring myself to actually say the words aloud. I think if I had tried, I would have choked in the telling. Even to you, Holmes."

Without taking his eyes from the fire, he stretched out his long legs and steepled his fingers to his lips. But still he did not comment. I plundered on.

"Can you imagine? Here I was, doing my damnedest to avoid the conventional and to remain unencumbered by domesticity, and suddenly I was faced with the ultimate in the conventional and the domestic - Motherhood. A child, for God's sake!"

He finally pulled the steeple away from his lips to reply. "Surely in the time that we have been married you must have given the possibility at least some thought."

"When we first married I did to some extent. But as time passed and nothing happened I assumed that the accident must have caused some internal damage and I thought nothing more of it. Until some obvious symptoms made me seek out medical confirmation." I snorted at the memory. "God, Holmes. Are all male medics so irritating when it comes to pregnancy? That jovial bonhomie in his office when he said, 'Congratulations, Mrs. Holmes! You are going to have a wee one!' That was hard enough to endure. But when he patted my shoulder in that paternalistic manner it was all I could do to keep from breaking his arm."

His lips curved briefly at that as he tapped them with his fingertips.

I moved to the chair opposite his and sat, still sipping my rapidly cooling tea. I had been reluctant to discuss anything about this whole incident. Oh, there were the usual rather clinical exchanges in the hospital between us, but I studiously avoided any real discussion of my feelings. Now, set on the path of confession, the words came tripping out and I felt I had to tell him everything.

"After that momentous visit, I did not get much accomplished in my work. I just couldn't concentrate. I would find myself staring off into the stacks of the Bodleian or out the windows of my rooms in petrified paralysis. My mind kept going round and round the same questions. What would I do with a creature that would need constant coddling and protection for the next 15 to 20 years? How would I manage a child, my study and our joint investigations? The answer always came back the same: It was totally ludicrous. There was no way it could be done."

"You know," my throat constricted now at the very memory and I kept my eyes trained on the flames for my next revelation."I gave some thought to an abortion. I know of a reliable, discrete doctor from my time at Margery Childe's Temple. It would not have been easy, but I did consider it."

I tried not to look, but I could not help steeling a sideways glance in his direction at this. There was no mistaking his reaction to the statement, as I knew even when the thought first occurred to me. I set the still half full cup on the side table spilling some and not bothering to wipe it up. "But I couldn't do it. Oh, don't get me wrong, I will argue and defend and lend support in any way, shape or form to another woman's position if that is her decision. But when it came down to it, for myself, I just could not do it."

"One day, having abandoned the Bodleian for a walk along the Isis, I started thinking: what kind of upbringing could a child of ours have? What kind of parents would we make? It made me shudder to think of putting a child through an early life with a mother who would be in Oxford for a good part of the time and a father who would be God-knows-where for the same period. And then that progressed to thinking how my mother, who would be considered a spirited woman in any age and who could never be categorized as domestically inclined, got obvious enjoyment from reading to my brother and myself at bedtime; how she loved instructing us in Hebrew and the bible; how my father with his exacting and eccentric ways, taught his daughter to throw better than most males."

"Then this progressed to things like 'How much would a nurse cost?' and 'How does one go about hiring one?' and then, 'We will definitely have to replace the lock on the laboratory door with a good sturdy one, as any child of ours would undoubtedly conquer that flimsy thing before his third birthday.'

For some reason he closed his eyes briefly at this comment and took a deep breath before opening them again.

"Anyway, it suddenly hit me that I was coming to some sort of terms with the situation. I was no longer thinking, 'God Russell, what the hell are you going to do?' but more along the lines of: 'Other people have managed, I will have to cope somehow.'

"Having achieved some kind of balance in my mind, I came back down from Oxford early to tell you everything. However, when I arrived Mrs. Hudson said you had gone off on some assignment or other for Mycroft.. I know I should have called first, but momentum carried me along as you know and well - I don't remember much after speaking with Mrs. Hudson. Not until the hospital anyway." I stopped my soliloquy abruptly, the memory of yet another visit to a hospital making my stomach queasy.

After some seconds he cleared his throat and said, "Mrs. Hudson informs me that she never heard you fall. But when she came back into the room with tea, she found you passed out on the floor."

"Yes. Bleeding all over her newly cleaned rug."

"Somehow I doubt if that was her foremost concern at the time."

"No, I suppose not. I didn't mean it like that. Poor Mrs. Hudson. It must have given her a bad turn."

"I would not worry overmuch about Mrs. Hudson. She has more resources than either of us give her credit for. How are you feeling now?"

"Oh, I'll live."

"That is not what I meant."

I looked away from the fire to find soft gray eyes waiting for my reply.

"Have you not found, Holmes, that life is completely perverse? Just when you think you know yourself and what you want out of life, it throws something at you that completely changes everything. You rant and you rail against the injustice of it all until you realize that your carefully made plans do not count for very much in the scheme of things. So you adjust your thinking and you alter your plans. And what happens then?" I snorted, "The proverbial rug is yanked out from under you. Or more accurately, you are left bleeding all over it."

He sat up, leant forward on his knees, and clasped both hands together. "I don't know what words of comfort to offer you, Russell. This is so beyond my realm of experience that I cannot be of much help to you here."

I shrugged in annoyance. "I don't need your words of comfort or help here, Holmes."

"Then perhaps someone else's."

"A psychiatrist's you mean?" I said, with more derision than the suggestion actually deserved. "I hardly think that necessary, Holmes. Most women somehow manage to survive miscarriages without psychological help."

"Russell, you have not touched your books in the month since you left the hospital. You refuse to answer messages from your colleagues at Oxford and you have lost nearly a stone weight despite Mrs. Hudson's best efforts. Perhaps you need - "

"What I need, Holmes, is to be left alone." I rose in irritation and stood at the window again, arms crossed, watching the sky rapidly change colours as the sun sank into the ocean. I wanted to tell him everything but I did not want a lot of useless pity or his suggestions to 'fix' things in return. I did not hear him rise, but his next words came from close behind me, words that were deceptively quiet and controlled.

"Did it not occur to you, Russell, that others might also be affected by this?"

With the light in the room and the increasing darkness outside, I could see his reflection in the window quite clearly. There was no mistaking the pain etched there in his face. And I was ashamed.

"God, Holmes. I never - I never even thought - " I turned to face him. "Grief is such an egotistical emotion. In my total self absorption I did not even consider that you might also be grieving. Oh God, I am so sorry. So very sorry."

I walked into his outstretched arms then and laid my head on his shoulder and I wept. As his cool fingers stroked my hair, and his breath warmed my forehead, I cried great heaving sobs for many things; for the shame I felt at my selfish disregard for his feelings in all this; for Holmes himself, who for the second time had lost a son; and yes, I cried for my own loss, a loss I had never expected to feel. But most of all I think, I cried for the lost potential, for the child that never was.