Upheaval: Winds of Change

Part I

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

I have stated elsewhere, I think, that at the time I met him Holmes had reached the point in his life where he was no longer prone to the debilitating highs and lows of spirit which had so dominated his career and his earlier life. Retirement, while not initially to his liking, had to some extent helped to tame his particular demons; he no longer had to prove himself or his abilities with each new case, no longer had to survive by his wits. He had fulfilled the promise of his marvelous powers in every way possible and there were now very few places in the world where his name was not known. He was also an older, certainly wiser and more experienced man, well accustomed to the infinite surprises--both pleasant or otherwise--which life had to offer, had himself known triumph and tragedy, love and loss, and had been tempered by them all. He had weathered the storms and had come at last to this quiet place in Sussex to live a less capricious, more even-tempered life as my beloved beekeeper, content to work his chemical experiments and write his books. Yes, the dragons of his restless soul safely slumbered, and for the most part I lived a life of complacency in their ever-present shadow.

With some rather notable exceptions.

"Come along, Russell." He stood on the steps of the rail car next to the conductor, fists on hips, frown on face, making no move to lower his voice. Heads around us turned, drawn by his impatient tone. "Have you taken root there or shall I just tell this nice gentleman to hold the train until you decide whether you wish to ride it?"

Face flaming, I ignored the muffled laughter of those on the platform around us and gathered up our coats and parcels. I would not rise to the challenge, I told myself grimly. This was not anger at me he lashed me with so freely; someone else had been its instigator and done a first-rate job, for he was fairly seething. Ordinarily I would not have stood for it, would have given it right back measure for measure and relished the battle as much as he. But this was no simple irritation; it went deeper, was somehow darkly different. I sensed it moving beneath his anger, something I could not immediately identify. Until I saw the face of my enemy clearly, I was determined to hold my tongue, to wait and watch. Then I would know how to act. Still, I could not help thinking that this train ride home to Sussex promised to be one of the longest and most uncomfortable ones I had ever undertaken.

The day had begun quietly enough. Spring's early return, heralded by an unexpected series of fine days nearly summer-like in their warmth, had prompted us to take full advantage of the returning ease of travel and catch the London train. Each of us had saved up errands aplenty to occupy us, some shared, but most left to each to be disposed of separately. With that in mind we had agreed to part at Dr. Watson's house and meet again for a late lunch before returning home. I had left him, then, with his dearest friend, chatting amiably about the latest case to appear in the Strand, and had gone to do my work at the British Museum.

And then... something had happened to him while he had been away from me, something of sufficient magnitude to evaporate his high spirits and leave behind this angry, bitterly sarcastic stranger wearing my husband's face. He had come to the restaurant we had designated for our meeting place late, white-faced and silent, had eaten nothing and snarled at my inquiries until I wisely refrained. There was a dangerous tension about him, as if he had himself barely under control, which I had never witnessed before, and it fairly thrummed in the silence between us during the cab ride to the station.

Where had he gone? Who had he seen? I thought furiously, trying to remember all the errands he'd mentioned as we found and settled ourselves into our compartment. He had been fine at Watson's house, and usually enjoyed spending time with his old friend. He had planned to buy some books, replenish his supply of tobacco, and stop in at the Yard to offer his considerable expertise in one or two matters pending there. Finally, if he had time, he thought he might look in at his brother Mycroft's office. Altogether nothing in any of those to elicit such venom from him. There was actually only one person I knew of who could send Holmes into near-apoplectic rage, and that was Conan Doyle. Unless the man had shown up at Watson's, however, it was unlikely that he and Holmes would have met.

Once safely away from the station he sat, withdrawn, across from me, watching the countryside slide past the windows in a changing panorama of returning splendor. It was a sight ordinarily soothing and uplifting of spirit, but I could tell from the muscle which occasionally jumped in his lean cheek that nature's natural sedatives were wasted on him. I watched him surreptitiously for many miles and turned the matter over in my mind. I did not like being so completely shut away from him; it reminded me painfully of the days after his son's death, when he had disappeared and I knew nothing of his whereabouts or his safety. Such utter silence put an unhealthy distance between us and effectively negated any help I might be to him if only he would let me. Within the scope of his life I had been his partner, with all that entailed, for a very short time. He had spent many more years going his independent way, sharing his thoughts with Dr. Watson alone, and then only as it became necessary to the solution of each case. Thus, remembering to reveal his infinite complexities to a wife was difficult indeed for him and he still, after four years of marriage and an additional six before that as friends, occasionally lapsed.

What I needed to do, I decided, was go at him by degrees, to flank his defenses so that he would not guess my intent until it was too late. Perhaps, if I was very careful, I could then get him to reveal what it was that so consumed him. Though I could not be sure, I had the unmistakable feeling that he was greatly disturbed by it, agitated to the point of distress. But I could do nothing as long as he contained it. I must let forth the beast, and take the chance that it would tear me apart in the process. To that end I arranged my expression into one of perfect blandness. "Did you accomplish everything you wished to while we were in town?"

He turned to face me and I nearly flinched. Ice. Grey ice. That was all his eyes were; there was nothing in them of the intelligent, wryly amused man I had greeted at breakfast this morning.

"Russell, as you may have already noticed, I am not inclined to indulge in idle chatter just now and frankly find the notion repugnant. If you have nothing more scintillating to use as an opening conversational gambit than an inquiry into whether I managed to buy tobacco without incident then perhaps you would do well to remain silent until your ability to converse sufficiently improves."

So much for blandness. "That is advice I might hand right back to you. At least a neutral inquiry into whether you accomplished what you wished to is far more acceptable than what I have been subjected to for the last few hours."

My point was obviously a telling one. He made one last, valiant effort to get himself under some sort of control. "Very well," he said, his tone still laced with steel but less sharp and cutting. "Yes, I did accomplish everything I wished to, with the exception of seeing Mycroft. I was unfortunately detained at Scotland Yard for longer than I planned."

So whatever it was had not happened at his brother's office. "Oh? Are they having difficulties?"

"They are always having difficulties of some sort, but I was able to put them right on a matter or two at least." A hint of a smile actually appeared at the corners of his mouth, mordant and humorless. "I saw your particular friend, Lestrade. He asked me to convey his greetings; he seemed especially pleased, however, when I informed him that you were consumed with your theological studies of late and had little time for criminal investigation."

"I fancy so." I smiled. "The next time I am in London I must remember to stop in and hint that my schedule might permit a small foray into detection, should he have anything on hand. That ought to give him a shudder or two." I thought of something that might lighten his mood still further. "Speaking of seeing old friends, I was able to look in on Ronnie and Sophia for a few minutes. Both are well, and Sophia has grown noticeably. They plan a trip to the continent as soon as the channel is calmer, and may stop at the cottage to see us on the way."

And with that innocent remark I unknowingly touched a match to the powder keg sitting across from me and took the resulting blast full in my face. I saw it the moment his expression altered.

"So they are coming." His tone could have left frost on the windows of the compartment in spite of the warmth of the day. "What are we to be subjected to this time? What will you discuss between you? I must warn you though, Russell, to beware of whatever it is you end up deciding as a result of it; the outcome of your last visit with her has hardly been--how shall I put it?--productive, has it?"

I knew precisely what he meant. We had been attempting over the past few months to conceive a child but without success. Gradually, what had first seemed a situation strung with comic overtones had ceased to be amusing and as Holmes passed his sixty-fifth birthday, it could hardly escape his notice that the older he became, the less likely it was he would see any children we might have reach maturity. That had been his one abiding concern at the time we decided to have a child and my mention of Sophia had only reminded him of it. I left the matter of Scotland Yard for the moment in order to pursue this rarest of occurrences, a discussion of his private thoughts and feelings.

"Holmes," I began, choosing my words carefully, "it has only been a little while. The doctors told me I might have difficulty becoming pregnant."

"The difficulty may not be yours."

"But you have already proven you can father a child."

"I was a good deal younger then, Russell," he snapped. "It hardly matters, in any event. I have changed my mind. There will be no child."

"What?" I sat back with the breath knocked out of me as effortlessly as if he had struck me and could only think of the little gown I had put away in a drawer of the wardrobe, a talisman purchased to guarantee the baby that would some day wear it.

"I said I do not desire a child. I have reconsidered and now find the notion to be a foolish one, the maudlin result of a young man's pointless death." Reaching into his pocket, he removed his cigarette case and took a cigarette from it. "I am sincerely sorry for Lady Beaconsfield and for her daughter, but I hardly think such sympathy a valid reason for burdening ourselves with an infant of our own. Lieutenant Fitzwarren is dead, Russell; it is time for us to bury him and move on with the rest of the living."

"You decided this for both of us without talking to me about it?" I stared at him. "How could you? How could you leave me out of this so completely and think I would not object?"

He shook out the match he'd used to light his cigarette and sat back, ready for battle. "If I recall, Russell, that is precisely what you did in deciding we ought to have a child in the first place."

"We discussed it! We reached the decision together, or had you conveniently forgotten that little conversation beneath the beech tree?" I threw caution to the winds. "Where are all the reasons you gave then for trying to have a child? What has happened to them? Have they changed? Have they disappeared? Or are we to ignore all those pretty words about not wanting me to be without a family when you're gone, about not wanting me to be alone again? Doesn't that matter anymore? Is that of no significance, except to me?"

"Of course it is significant, and I am quite certain that, with more time, we will be able to come up with a solution satisfactory to us both. But a child will not do, Russell; I am too old now--"

"Well I'm sorry, Holmes, that I was not privileged enough to meet you in your hey-day when you were, as you say, so much more capable of fathering and rearing children. Pray enlighten me, between which cases would you have done this miraculous thing? After the speckled band? Before the hound? When? When had you thought it might be accomplished? I would very much like to hear it." I snapped my fingers. "Ah, but I forget; you did manage it after all, didn't you? You managed it with Irene Adler quite well during your supposed 'death'. Unfortunately Jamie is no longer with us, or I might still have something of you to keep me company when you are gone."

His gasp, though barely audible, was unmistakable. But I did not care, and I did not stop. "Yes, you are older now and, if we were to have a child, it is quite possible you would not live to see that child grow to adulthood. I understand how such a realization troubles you. But it is also entirely possible, if you are careful and do not deliberately court danger--as is your wont--that you will not only live to see your children grow, but perhaps their children as well. You cannot know, any more than I, which will turn out to be true, and to base a decision of this magnitude on such uncertainty is nothing but the rankest emotionalism. I would hardly have thought it of you, Holmes; I would hardly have believed that you would allow your fears and concerns to so override your ability to reason that you would only see what you wished to see and ignore the rest." I folded my hands in my lap. "So it appears I must be logical for us both. Let us look at all aspects of this decision rationally, shall we? Provided, of course, you can still manage such a thing."

"Russell--" His softened tone was a warning, clear and ominous.

I cut him off savagely. "There seem to be some factors in this equation which you have so far failed to consider. You have been very busy worrying that you might die and leave me with a child to raise alone, but what of you? Have you paused to consider, even for an instant, that it could just as easily be you who must raise a child without me? For example, did you stop to think that were I to become pregnant, I might die in childbirth and leave you with the child? Such a death is not as common as it used to be, but I assure you it does still happen. No, I see you hadn't thought of that." I pressed whatever bitter advantage I had managed to gain with my harsh words. "I might have the child only to die in an accident, gone in the turning of one second into the next. And I can tell you, husband mine, that that sort of thing at least does happen, as I have good reason to know." I tapped my chin with a considering finger. "Let's see, what other bright and shining images can we conjure up to cheer us? I could conceive and then lose the baby; it could die in infancy. Does that make my point with sufficient gruesomeness? Parents die every day, Holmes! Children die every day! If every man and woman had paused to think about the consequences of bringing a child into the world before doing so, we wouldn't any of us be here! My parents certainly never believed that they would not be alive to see me grow up, but I lost them all the same." I sat forward. "And yet I survived. It wasn't pleasant, or easy, or what I would have chosen, but I live a good life now and I have them still because they live on in me. I am never without them. When I need them, when I need their advice or acceptance or love, I look within myself and they are there. Any child of ours can do as much, if need be, whether there be two parents or only one."

"Oh well done, Russ." His voice was silky with sarcasm and his soft applause brought color to my face. "Well done indeed. Quite stirring. You certainly appear to be willing enough to take on the task of raising a child by yourself, strong emancipated woman that you are--so willing, in fact, that I wonder you take the time and trouble to elicit my participation at all beyond the obvious initial...contribution. Why not simply remain silent and let the deed be done? Women have been doing so for centuries! A few minutes at just the right time and you have your child whether I wish it or no. Then you would have no further need of me, and it would be as if I were dead." He considered his words for a brisk puff or two. "But my part in this whole dreadful business seems to be hardly worth all the fuss, does it? We might accomplish it easily enough right here and be done with it before the train reaches Sussex. Hardly conducive to romance, or even comfort, but neither of those are the main goal, are they?" He shrugged. "Ah well, perhaps I can be of assistance in other ways. Shall I, for example, contact Irene Adler for you? She could no doubt instruct you in the finer points of doing without a child's father--"

"That is quite enough!" I slammed my fist down on the seat beside me. "You know I would never do such a thing to you; for you to suggest it is unfair and horribly beneath you. I obviously cannot force you to father a child, nor would I. I want no child that you don't want also. But rest assured, Holmes, this infant-that-never-was will always be with us, as surely as if we had conceived it and I had carried it to term. It will always be exactly where it is now, in the middle between us, and we will never be without it. Is that what you truly want for us? Is that the sort of offspring you planned to leave me, to comfort me in my widowhood?" I shook my head. "Lonely comfort, indeed. If you really want no children, then that is easily arranged. I will leave you to your bees and your books, exactly as I found you, and take myself back to Oxford where my productivity there, at least, is not spurned."

His eyes narrowed to grey, glittering slits as he studied me, all trace of sarcasm gone. "You would do such a thing over this?"

"Not before you began this lovely conversation, but now I think I just might." I faced him squarely, aware that in this battle for everything we were--and everything we could be--my best defense was a good, strong offense. "This has become important to me, Holmes. I cannot tell you why, or how. I don't even understand it completely myself. But I want a child of yours, if we are able to have one, because of what you are to me, not merely as some sort of talisman against your eventual death." I made myself say the words which hurt me most. "I know you are not a young man; I knew that when we met, and I knew that when we married. I know that you may very well leave me long before I am ready to have you do so. Don't you think I live with that every day? I wish it had been possible for me to meet you when you were younger--how I wish it!--so that we might have had more time together, but it did not happen. We met when we met, we were the people we were, and we fell in love because of and in spite of that. I for one refuse to be denied any children we might have because we began this partnership with the fates against us."

He sat staring at me a long time with the cigarette burning between two long fingers. "Well, Russell," he said at last, "so this is what we come down to. You seem to be quite set on doing this mad thing. But I tell you now I will have no part of it. I will not bring another child into the world and not be there for it. You may be ready and willing--shall I say even eager?--to take on the responsibility, but I find myself singularly reluctant to relinquish it. You forget, madam, that I have seen the consequences of just such an ill- advised scheme and have nothing to show for it but a dead son." He paused only a moment to banish the tremor from his voice. "I will not repeat the error, for your sake or for anyone's! Should you find that unacceptable you are, of course, free to look elsewhere for someone willing to make you a martyr to your own cause. But do not bring this up to me again, for I have done with it once and for all."

He dropped the cigarette to the floor and ground it beneath his boot, then returned his attention to the view beyond the windows. We rode the rest of the way to Sussex in awful silence.