Upheaval: Safe Harbor

by An Oxford Punter/Her Much Learning Hath Made Her Mad

He heard the first hungry whimpers as he climbed up out of sleep and lay, frowning, with his eyes still closed. The sound puzzled him for a moment. He recognized it, to be sure; a week's experience had already taught him that the interval between whimpers and what followed was alarmingly short indeed. But it belonged to another place, to the whitewashed walls of the hospital-- And then he remembered.

Sitting up quickly, he glanced at Russ as he reached for his dressing gown; she was still asleep. If he could convince the author of the increasingly indignant noises to go back to sleep, her rest might remain undisturbed for a time yet. She had already been put to a lot of trouble on behalf of this little tyrant even before his birth; he had been the cause of her debilitating nausea in the first months of her pregnancy, the discomforts of her body as it changed to accommodate him, and finally the curtailment of her normal pursuits. Even at the end of his tenancy he had kept her waiting; her labor had been long and difficult, and she nearly hadn't made it through.

Slipping from their bedroom into the hallway, he moved swift and sure-footed in the darkness. He owed her the chance to rest and to recover at the very least, considering how abominably he had treated her at the moment when she most needed him. True, it had achieved its desired effect, had angered her enough to make one last effort to bring their child into the world so that now the boy was, if not happy at the moment, at least healthy and home with them where he belonged. But he had taken unfair advantage of her, using things against her which he knew would hurt her most at a time when she was least able to defend herself. That he had meant none of them did not matter. He had said them and could now only atone in whatever small ways he could find. Entering the nursery cautiously, he found the lamp and lit it. Once a guest bedroom, it had been made over by the combined efforts of Russ, Mrs. Hudson, and Old Will into a light, airy, cheerful room full of child-sized furniture. There was a bed, a wardrobe, a desk and plenty of bookshelves. He glanced around briefly; a good room, all in all, one that any boy might be pleased with. There was no hint of fussy frills, no clutter, no useless nonsense. Instead it contained everything they would need to grow this child up properly. Presents had come to the cottage over the last several months, amazingly enough, from everywhere, from people he and Russ knew well, slightly, or not at all. Here a rocking horse, there a set of blocks, picture books, carved toys, clothes--someone had even anonymously sent a small deerstalker, the perfect copy of his own. He hadn't seen anything particularly amusing about it, but the ladies had laughed delightedly and Russ had requested that a hat rack be built expressly for it. It hung there now in its place of singular honor.

He frowned at the memories which under other circumstances might have been happy ones for him. Why had he not helped them with all of this? Why had he not become involved? He had remained aloof from it all, the planning and the painting and purchasing and arranging of everything just so. It had hurt Russ, he knew, though she had said nothing. But he had not been ready to celebrate the imminent arrival of this child, had not wanted to acknowledge its reality in any way. To do so would have lent his approval to its existence, would have negated all his reasons against it.

He had been a fool.

Christopher John Sherlock Holmes lay in the beautiful cradle given to him by Watson, crying aloud his extreme displeasure at the world in general and his tardy father in particular. Peering in, he marveled at this living result of his decision to take on the girl across the downs as an apprentice so long ago. Such a small child to carry so many significant names. It had been surprisingly difficult, finding just the right ones. They had discussed possibilities early on and settled on Judith Violet, the names of both their mothers, if the baby should be a girl. But they had then disagreed sharply on the names for a boy. Russ had approved readily enough of John, his friend Watson's first name, but wanted either his own name, Mycroft's name, or one of their father's names before it, as they had done with the names for a girl. He in turn had adamantly refused; it had long been a pact between Mycroft and him that if either of them should find themselves blessed--or cursed--with a son, they would not on any account give it an unusual name such as their father had bestowed on each of them, and it was a pact he meant to keep. Christopher he had requested instead so that the boy might make his own way in the world free of the burden of everything attached to his father's or anyone else's name, John to honor his closest friend and truest companion before Russ herself, and only then perhaps his own name because, she said, a son should have something of the man who had helped to make his existence possible. "There may come a time, Russ," he had told her "when a boy wearing the name of Holmes will have enough to contend with. I would not put the burden of more than that upon him. Or have you forgotten what it was like to return to Oxford as Mrs. Sherlock Holmes rather than Miss Mary Russell?"

That had silenced her quite effectively, but only for a time. She had stood firm and, because he knew the degree of her suffering and sacrifice for this child, he had at last given in. His was the third name in the line, after all, likely to be unused and forgotten in time.

"What is it, little man?" He studied the red-faced infant critically. Russ was right; there certainly was not much of a resemblance to either one of them, though she swore the delicate fingers now clenched into fists were his. "You seem to be somewhat unhappy. Let us see what the problem is, shall we?" He excavated his way gently past blanket and gown to the diaper and grimaced slightly; soaking wet. That was the first order of business, then, to get a dry diaper on this boy. He worked as quickly as he could, maneuvering past the bent little legs and kicking feet, mindful that the cries were increasing in intensity. Now, what to do with the diaper he'd just removed? He glanced around, the offending--and increasingly offensive--diaper dangling from two long fingers. Best to just rid himself of it for now, before the boy woke the entire house. He let it fall and it hit the floor with a moist thud. Reaching in, he lifted the baby carefully from the cradle. His long, masculine arms did not fit as well around this little bundle of mewling distress as his wife's did, and he had no softness to rest a child's head against for comfort. "I am a poor substitute, I fear," he remarked, "but believe me when I say that I shall come in handy to you one of these days." It was a strangely satisfying thing to hold his child after so many months of knowing it only through the increasing girth of his wife's waistline and an occasional kick against his palm. Not that this skill had come easily--he did not number infant-holding among his many talents--but he had begun not knowing how to hold Russ with any degree of ease either and had managed to get quite good at that quickly enough. He thought that he was practiced enough with Christopher now, however, to instruct his brother and take great amusement at watching Mycroft acquire the skill. It was something he looked forward to with an indecent amount of malicious relish.

But it appeared , from the sounds, that the diaper change had done little to quiet the rising tide of complaint from his son and, glancing down, he found the boy was busily searching for that which he did not have. "I am sorry, little man, but a clean diaper is as many of your wants as I can satisfy at the moment. We shall have to appeal to your mother for the rest."

"His mother is here." Russ came, smiling, into the room and held out her hands for the baby. "Good evening, husband, or rather good morning. I understand one of our number is not best pleased."

"I had hoped that you would not hear him."

"The poor people in Eastbourne have probably heard him by now." She stopped and glanced down at her feet. "Please tell me that is not what I think it is."

"I am afraid so." He shrugged. "Desperate times--"

"--call for desperate measures. I know."

He watched, marveling in silence at her proficiency as she seated herself in the rocking chair, undid the buttons down the front of her nightgown and put their son to her breast. It was a sight that even after a week never failed to move him deeply. Seeing her thus only affirmed what he had said to her when she'd told him she was pregnant; whatever sort of father he might be to this child, he had no doubts what sort of mother she would be, and that was indeed more than sufficient.

Sweet, contented silence wrapped around them, silence he was loathe to break; there was going to be much less of it, he imagined, than what they had become used to. But he cleared his throat.

"You know, Russ," he began quietly, "I did not mean them."

"Mean what?" She glanced up reluctantly from her son. "Holmes, what are you talking about?"

"The things I said to you before Christopher was born. I wanted you to know I did not mean them. Any of them."

"I see. Well, I ought to let you continue to abase yourself and offer up your most abject apologies," she shifted the replete child slightly and began trying to rebutton her nightgown one-handed, "but truth to tell, I really don't remember very much of the last hour or so before Christopher was born. I couldn't repeat what you said to me then to save my life now, although I understand very well why you said what you did. We might not have Christopher here, now, but for that."

Or you either, he thought but did not voice it. He came instead to the side of the rocking chair and, brushing aside her hands gently, finished the buttons. "You at least meant what you said to me in reply. Do you recall it? You ordered me behind you and swore you would imprint the headboard of your bed into my back."

"You don't mean--"

"Remind me to show it to you later."

She laughed. "Well, if your need to apologize is any indication, you probably deserved every one of those bruises."

"No doubt." He sighed deeply as something else occurred to him. "Russ, I have been thinking lately about being alone."

"Oh?" She smiled. "Shall we leave you?"

"No. I did not mean that I wished to be alone. I meant that I was thinking of what it is like to be alone in the world with no people to call one's own." He reached out and stroked the fine, silky dark hair of the small head between them. "It is the reason he is here, if you will recall."

Her lips twitched. "I recall very well why he is here, and it had little to do with being alone. But yes, I know that you wanted me to have someone to keep me company so that I need not ever be alone."

He nodded. "But what of Christopher? Who will he have when we are both gone? You had your brother for a time, and I have Mycroft. But he will have no one, no brothers or sisters, no nieces or nephews when he grows up. We have not solved the original problem at all, it seems, merely postponed it beyond ourselves."

"Holmes, are you saying what I think you are?" She stared at him in astonishment.

"I am saying that I do not want to leave him alone any more than I wanted you to be left alone. I owe him every opportunity to insure his present and future happiness while I can."

She shook her head. "Will wonders never cease. Can this be the same man I have had to practically drag into fatherhood the last several months?"

"Perhaps I have learned the true measure of my responsibility to this little tyrant at last," he remarked quietly.

He could feel her eyes on him sharply. "Responsibility? Is that what he is to you? Is that all he is to you, even now?"

He glanced up, met her eyes, and saw in them all the times his cold withdrawal had hurt her joy at the coming of their child. "I did not understand. I did not know all the things he could mean to me. Now I am never without them, it seems."

Something in her eyes thawed and warmed. "You see?" she said at last. "I told you not to worry about what sort of father you would be." She considered what he had said. "Well, I think it is a bit soon yet to be thinking about another child. But still...A little girl might be nice, like Ronnie's Sophia. Mrs. Hudson would be very happy, I think, to have someone to do all the things again that she used to do with me."

"Christopher will want a brother," he warned, but halfheartedly; a girl with Russ's blonde hair, blue eyes and spirit would be welcome indeed, as long as said girl did not grow to resemble him. That would be no kindness at all to their daughter.

"Both of you will take what you are given and be glad. Christopher can be a big brother equally well to a younger brother or sister." Leaning forward, she kissed him. "Let us get this child well and truly under way first, and then we will see what we can do about providing this boy with a partner of his own. That will be adventure enough for awhile, from what I hear." She made to raise the baby to her shoulder but he held out his hands.

"Allow me."

She nodded and relinquished both son and chair. "Very well. Carry on, husband; see your son safely into his bed and then come back to yours. And do not forget the cloth on your shoulder when you pat his back."

"Ah yes. I must remember to have Mrs. Hudson see what she can do do about that stain on my coat." He snagged a spare diaper and sat in the rocking chair. She in her turn watched them for a bit, then turned to go. "Russ?"

"Hmm?"

"You were right." He met her eyes over the small head of his son. "About everything."

She knew, as always, precisely what he meant. "Why Holmes," she teased softly, "an apology and an admission of error all in one night. What would Dr. Watson's readers think?"

A last flutter of robe and she was gone. He sat rocking gently with the baby at his shoulder for awhile in silence, patting the small back and thinking idly of all the changes in their lives his birth could and would cause.

"I did not want you at first, you know," he remarked quietly to the sleeping child. "But perhaps I should not tell you such things. You might remember them and grow up unhappy. Now that you are here, however, I suppose I shall become used to you. It would help your cause considerably if you could keep your diaper dry for longer than an hour at a time; accomplish that, my boy, and I shall see what I can do about arranging a playmate for you. Would you like that? Perhaps a little brother to bully and tease?"

Still... a little girl. A new little apprentice to take on. He sat rocking in the quiet nursery and began, contentedly, to consider the possibilities.