A Question of Timing

by "...the girl with the strawberry curls"

Author's note: This story is set weeks before the events of "Our American Neighbor" and is intended to offer the genesis of the events that took place between this piece and that.

April, in Oxford, had been wet, cold and miserable. I had been hard at work, doing research for my book, and even the joy I found in the work did little to mollify the dismal conditions one endures in the streets. Everywhere you encountered dour faces and short tempers, and the air was permeated by the smell of damp wool. I thought, not for the first time, that I would never get the damp out of my lodgings or my wardrobe.

Now, the first day of May, the sun had decided to make an appearance for the Oxford celebration of May Day. I had slept late and had not joined the throngs at dawn to listen to the Magdalen College boys choir, atop their Chapel tower, sing Hymus Eucharisticus to the new May dawn. According to records, the origins of the singing went back to the seventeenth century. Certainly May Day pushed otherwise sane undergraduates to insane flights of stupidity. Jumping from Magdalen Bridge, a height of some twenty-five feet, into the shallow Cherwell River had caused the bones of more than one student to come to grief. As the reality of the date swept over me I pulled the comforter further over my head and nestled down deeper into my covers.

The light filtering into my room finally drove me from the warm bed and to the window, to confirm that indeed, there was sunshine. After months of gloom and rain, the moderate weather was going to create havoc in the street for days. Why was it that, when spring appeared in England, normally intelligent people found it necessary to display their lapses of judgment in the form of overindulgence in alcohol and general high jinks? I decided that my time would be best spent hunkered down in my lodgings until the insanity ran its course.

Four days later, Mrs. Robinson, my landlady, was asking me on a regular basis if I would soon be leaving my rooms. In many ways she reminded me of Mrs. Hudson. She was very protective and would force food on me at regular intervals. I was beginning to suspect her of being employed by Holmes.

Twice in the past weeks I had sent telegrams to Sussex to inform them that I was delaying my return. Letters from Mrs. Hudson had come informing me that Holmes was "away" and not expected back until this week. I had briefly considered sending yet another telegram postponing my arrival, but finally resolved to take the late train to Sussex on Friday and spend a week at the cottage. The writing was progressing so well that I hated to break the flow of the work, but I did need a rest. Hopefully, my husband would make an appearance. One never knew with Holmes. Although he was no longer subject to the manic periods of his youth, without mental stimulation on a regular basis he would nevertheless become restless and irritable. Mycroft was diligent in his efforts to engage Holmes whenever he could. I had long thought that Mycroft's diversions were more than a little responsible for the apparent success of the marriage and partnership of Holmes and Russell.

Holmes and I both possessed fiercely independent natures, and I had the added burning desire of a young scholar to establish my career in Oxford, separate from the legacy that was Sherlock Holmes. The man cast a very long shadow, and if I allowed myself to be eclipsed by it, I suspected that the partnership -- and possibly the marriage -- might not survive. I desired my husband's happiness enough to hide my worry when he disappeared for days, and sometimes weeks, on a mission for Mycroft; to his credit, he encouraged and approved of my independent life in Oxford. It was a delicate balancing act, but it had grown easier as the months passed. We were finding our rhythm and cherishing our time together.

In the deepest part of my heart, I acknowledged that the time was coming, and soon, when I would be swept up in some case of Holmes'. It was inevitable. Since the beginning of our marriage I had been given the gift of months and months to spend in Oxford and Sussex as I wished. It was all too sensible and sane, something my life with Holmes had never been. So I wasn't that surprised when, on the Friday morning I was making my preparations to return Sussex, there was a knock on my door and I opened it to find Holmes. What did surprise me was how he was dressed. I had seen the man in all manner of disguise over the past seven years, but nothing prepared me for the sight I beheld at my lodgings door.

"Good lord, Holmes, what is that get-up?"

"Russell, this is not a 'get up', as you say. Really, you must curb this tendency of yours to use these colloquialisms. I am attired in the perfect wardrobe of a gentleman offering his lady an afternoon on the Cherwell," he replied imperiously.

"Cherwell, ...you don't mean punting? You want to go punting?" my voice rising in disbelief.

"Why else would I present myself in white flannels, blazer and straw boater?"

"Why indeed," (but this was exactly what he wore, the perfect punting attire of the Oxford gentleman down to the school tie). "You are not serious, Holmes. I wasn't aware you knew how to punt."

"Certainly I can punt. I did, after all, attend university here. Every undergraduate punts, even a misfit like Sherlock Holmes. The rules are hardly challenging. I believe the Golden Rule of Punting is to stay with the punt and not the pole. One discovers the rest of the rules by trying," he said, with a touch of irritation in his voice.

This odd statement left me feeling uneasy. Holmes must have been very out of place during his university days. I had found friends and acceptance here, although I never quite fit into the conventional mold of the undergraduate, but had Holmes? He never spoke of college friends, and once again I was struck by how solitary his life had been. His friendship with Watson had come as he ended his university career, and had remained his closest tie until I walked into his life.

Holmes walked past me into the room and went directly to the wardrobe saying, "Surely you have an appropriate frock for the enterprise?"

I couldn't help but mark how handsome he looked in this attire. Not every man can pull off the outfit, but Holmes did. The white flannel pants and blazer accentuated his tall, lean frame; the straw hat on his head was set at a jaunty angle and told the world he was a man comfortable in his own skin. Yes, he looked very attractive indeed. I reluctantly pulled my thoughts back to the questions raised by his presence here, before other things sidetracked me.

"Stop. You must explain to me why you are here, and what punting has to do with it, before I will discuss my frocks with you." I had crossed to the wardrobe door and wrenched it from him. I closed the door and put my back to it. My eyes showed my resolve to having my questions answered and Holmes acquiesced.

"Russell, I ask for only a few hours of your time," he said with dulcet tones. "Please indulge and old man's desire to fulfill a whim. I once promised myself that one day I would punt the Cherwell with a beautiful woman, and stop under the overhanging boughs for a picnic lunch. My undergraduate days were not replete with opportunities to satisfy this desire, and as I now have a beautiful young wife, I thought I might allow myself this pleasure."

Beautiful indeed. I didn't believe what he was telling me, not for one minute. The idea of Holmes trying to recapture his lost youth was ridiculous, but I would play along, if for no other reason than to see what he was about.

"Oh Holmes, I'm so flattered you want to share this hidden part of yourself with me," I crooned. If he could be insipid, well ...so could I. "I'm sure I have something that would be appropriate for an afternoon punt. I do think I will have to borrow a hat, though. I'll ask Mrs. Robinson if she has anything that will do."

Later, bedecked in my spring frock and a borrowed, large brim hat, with the prerequisite silk flowers at the crown, I went arm in arm with my husband to the Magdalen Bridge boathouse. Holmes had already arranged for a punt, and had a large picnic hamper waiting. He handed me into the boat and onto the cushions, took up one of the poles and expertly turned the punt out into the stream, shooting the bridge with admirable ease.

The sun was warm, but a light breeze kept the heat from becoming oppressive. I settled into the cushions and began to enjoy the outing. It was a pleasure to watch Holmes handle the punt. He had taken off his blazer, and the strength of the muscles playing under the long sleeves of his snowy white shirt could be seen as he gracefully took up the pole, and, with an easy action and quite remarkable form, planted it again. Whatever was going on in that devious mind, I could wait it out. Right now, I was having a lovely time.

The combination of the gentle motion of the boat, the warm sun and my fatigue had a soporific effect on me, and I was soon asleep. When I awoke, Holmes had indeed stopped the boat under the overhanging boughs of a tree. He had anchored us by the expedience of driving poles in at both ends of the punt. A glance around told me we had been here more than a few minutes. Holmes was ensconced into the cushions at his end of the boat and was smoking his pipe, a look of pure contentment on his face. The hamper was open at his feet, and a rope over the side of the boat told me he was chilling a bottle of something.

"I suppose you have a bottle of champagne at the end of that rope, Holmes?" I questioned.

"Assuredly, and strawberries for dessert. Would you like a glass now, or would you prefer fizzy lemonade with your sandwiches?" he said, by way of being the perfect host.

It was worse than I thought, strawberries at the beginning of May, where on earth had he obtained strawberries? Then it hit me, Mycroft. This had the stamp of Holmes' brother all over it. Yes, Mycroft could put this little charade together easily, down to the wardrobe and the strawberries. This was taking an interesting turn. Why was Holmes acting out this elaborate farce? He need only ask for my help if he required it. I would let this scene play out a bit longer, but my curiosity was increasing by the minute.

I placed a smile on my face and an innocent look in my eyes and said, "Lemonade with the sandwiches please, I'll save the wine for the strawberries." I couldn't resist seeing what Holmes would say, so I added, "Where on earth did you find strawberries this early?"

'Um... I stopped off at Mycoft's before I took the train to Oxford. He offered his first berries of the season when I shared my resolve to invite you out for a punt." He covered his discomfort at my question well, but he did spend a bit more time than was really necessary getting our drinks poured and offering me a plate and sandwiches.

This was becoming quite a lark! I accepted the drink and the plate with a polite "thank you." I was suddenly aware that I was hungry. The lemonade was cold and refreshing, and the selection of sandwiches was superb. I had to admit this was a delightful way to spend an afternoon. There were few others on the river at this time, and we were enveloped in a sense of being completely alone.

Holmes continued as the convivial host. His conversation was sparkling, and he expertly opened the champagne and served it in crystal flutes, dropping a strawberry in each. When he passed me my glass he held up his, said, "to the partnership," and leaned forward to touch his glass to mine. He placed the bowl of deliciously ripe berries between us and sat back to enjoy his wine.

When we had finished the bottle, eaten all the berries, and stowed everything away back into the hamper, I waited to see what he would do next. To my surprise he once again pulled out his pipe and tobacco pouch and went about the business of filling and lighting his pipe. It appeared he was going to linger here. I let a silence fall between us to see if Holmes would finally introduce the subject that was obviously waiting to be discussed. When his pipe was done, Holmes knocked out the dottle and put the pipe away. Then he met my eyes for the first time in many minutes and cocked his eyebrow. I said nothing.

"You are not going to inquire about all this, I take it." He drawled.

"About what, Holmes? Your appearing at my lodgings in your punting attire requesting that I go out on the river with you to satisfy your whim, why no. It seems perfectly normal to me. You had a fantasy you felt the need to fulfill immediately, although I have been at Oxford for five years now, the last year of which I have been your wife. No, I don't see anything that needs explaining," I said, with as innocent a look on my face as I could muster.

"Enough," was his reply.

"You wish to ask me something, husband?"

"I told Mycroft you would not be easily fooled or maneuvered. He thought I might lull you into an easy acquiescence to my request, with all this." He spread his arms. "I agreed to see how you would handle the scenario. The look on your face when you first opened your door was priceless, Russ."

"I'm pleased I was able to entertain you, Holmes. This certainly has been entertaining for me. Now out with it, what does Mycroft want of me, or more to the point, of us?"

"There is a little favor he wishes from us, a quick trip to France. Just a few days to help two of his agents, who have been under deep cover, leave France and return to London without arousing notice from the wrong side. They are an elderly English couple who went under before the war and now want to come home to retire. Mycroft has some concerns about them attracting attention when they leave for London. There are some rumblings about unknown enemy agents working in the area, but whose agents remains a mystery. We are to contact them, posing as relatives visiting to re-establish familial ties, then simply escort them safely to London. Mycroft will handle their new identities and disappearance from that point. France will be lovely this time of year. What do you say?"

"I say yes. For once, Mycroft's timing is opportune. I had just this week decided that I needed a change. A simple trip to France with my husband, to do a little task for my brother-in-law, should be just the thing."

"I was hoping you would see it that way," he said as he moved to one side and piled cushions next to him. He patted the space he made, and I joined him at his end of the punt, snuggling into the crook of his arm.

With a deep sigh of contentment I said, "Only, I will need a day, or possibly two, before I can go."

It suddenly occurred to me that my clothes were scattered all over. I didn't have enough in any one place to pull together an appropriate wardrobe for spring in France. I had clothes at Mycroft's rooms in Pall Mall, my Bloomsbury flat, here in Oxford, and in Sussex, and it would take at least a day to pull the things I needed from their various locations. I might even have time for a visit to the elves. Perhaps a phone call to them might not be a bad idea. They had performed miracles before, and an unexpected trip to the continent might be just the impetus they needed to whip up something wonderful for the journey.

"I'm sure that can be arranged. Here or in London?" he asked, tightening his arm around me.

"London actually. Why is it that every time Mycroft wants to send us off, I haven't a thing to wear?"

"It would seem his timing isn't all that auspicious after all."

"True, but yours is excellent," I said as I turned to kiss him.

We didn't return the punt until the sun was setting that night. Holmes' timing, as always, had been impeccable.

A special thanks to Merrily/"'I'm getting too old for this,' he muttered" who kindly donated her time and talents to edit this pastiche and my first effort "Our American Neighbor." She offered her skills and then her friendship; they both have enriched my life.