Upheaval: Family Matters

Part I

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

It had started as it had for the last couple of days. It was not necessarily "morning sickness" anymore as it was not limited to the morning hours. Over the last weeks I was no longer awakened by illness but seemed to settle into a pattern of sorts. Approximately one hour of feeling nauseated, followed by approximately one hour of violent vomiting, followed by short period of minor queasiness. Then everything was back to normal. Everything I had read had been of little help. Apparently "morning sickness" varied by woman and varied by pregnancy with any given woman. Some women reported it in the morning in the early stages of pregnancy; others reported it in the evenings in the late stages of their condition. I fervently wished I was not one of those unfortunate women who seemed to spend the entire time feeling the effects of "morning sickness," but I feared that might just be the case. I was now nearing the end of my first hour of my established routine.

I sat reading in Mycroft's study. I hoped concentrating on the text would help keep my mind off of my physical discomfort. If nothing else it passed the time until the inevitable. A faint smell of tobacco lingered from the Holmes brothers' clipped and rapid dialogue of the previous evening. Surprisingly, it was not adding to my nausea. Holmes had been kind enough to quit smoking cigarettes and cigars in the cottage, and only smoked some of his milder pipe tobacco in my company. Last evening, Mycroft had asked, as he always did, if I minded if he smoked. My "please go ahead" had received a concerned look from Holmes, but nothing was said per our agreement. And when the Holmes men began discussing the embezzlement of several thousand pounds from the securities of members of the Eliot Society all else was forgotten. I had managed to sit out of the path of Mycroft's cigar last evening and the blend of the two smokes seemed to soften the cigar's odor. Today, I found it quite pleasant. We had come to London on business, me to complete research at the BM, Holmes to consult with an American insurance investigator. We had arrived early yesterday evening and had enjoyed Mycroft's hospitality. We planned to break the news to the eminent elder Holmes and dear Uncle John over dinner this evening. I was far enough along that it would not be too much longer before they were going to be able to surmise the fact based on my figure alone. I heard the front door open and close and the sound of a man's footsteps followed by a soft clicking on the hard wood floor. Mycroft's servant Thaddeus returning from taking Madeira for a walk, no doubt. I smiled broadly. Mycroft and Madeira--a love-hate relationship if ever there was one. The dog worshiped her master with absolute unconditional love and loyalty. The more affectionate the dog, however, the more disgruntled the owner acted. Still, I noted, Madeira had the run of the flat, frequently could be found sleeping on Mycroft's bed, and had the best of care. Madeira wished to be a lap dog, but Mycroft's lap was one of two places she was not allowed, the other being his chair. Instead, she would lay at his side and he would absent-mindedly reach over the arm of the chair to stroke her. Then he would catch himself and squint his distaste of the act. Both Holmes and I had to admit she was a beautiful and well-behaved little dog. I myself like to ruffle her thick, long coat on occasion. I was joined by Thaddeus with Madeira in tow.

"Does Madam require anything?"

"No thank you, Thaddeus."

"Very well, Madam. With your permission, then, I will be leaving for a short time to take care of some errands for Mr. Holmes. The cook has gone to the market in preparation for this evenings' dinner."

"Go right ahead, Thaddeus. I'm sure I'll be fine."

"Would Madam prefer me to restrict the dog to the kitchen?"

"No, her company does not annoy me as it does her master." Thaddeus nodded politely, and I think knowingly, and turned on his heel. I went back to my reading for a brief time.

Uh oh, here it comes, I thought. I walked quickly to the lavatory but the tightening of my stomach muscles came on more quickly than I anticipated. I did not have time to close the door before I was on my knees, head in the loo. Once. That was all this time. I settled back on my heels and waited. The dog joined me almost immediately; her canine instincts aroused by my quick movements and sound of retching. She lay down next to me and we waited it out together. When I rose back to my knees, she sat up and waited. When I sat back on my heels, she laid down. When I briefly curled up on the floor to feel the cool tile, she nudged up against me to offer her warmth. Normally I would find such attention annoying, but at the moment I found it quite amusing. The event was a bit different today; maybe it had to do with the bigger breakfast and lunch. The cook's offerings pleasing both olfactory and gustatory senses, I had been hungrier today than of late. With the dog having joined me and with the Thaddeus and the cook gone, I did not bother to close the door. I began again, this time a series. I was so completely lost in the tightening of my muscles and in trying to ignore the awful taste, that I was not aware of the presence that had joined me until I saw a leg out of my peripheral vision. The width of the perfectly creased pant leg and shape of the well-polished shoe told me it was Mycroft. My mind raced wondering why he had returned from Whitehall; however, under the circumstances I did not offer a greeting, and frankly I was too sick to feel any more than slightly embarrassed by the situation. I vomited again and heard the sound of running water. His hand pressed a cool face flannel to my forehead and held it there. He leaned with me as I continued vomiting, one hand on my forehead the other awkwardly on my upper arm. When I ceased he handed me the cloth to wipe my mouth and rinsed a second one to place folded at the back of my neck. Holmes had done the same thing the first morning he found me in this position.

"Better?" he asked softly and hesitantly.

"A bit." I lied. The violence of the vomiting was giving me a headache.

He turned his attention to the dog. "Madeira, out of the way."

"She is all right. I don't mind." I reached over and patted the dog. Madeira, in turn did not leave the now-overcrowded room but merely waddled over to my other side. Smart dog, I thought. Mycroft cleared his throat and rested his large frame on the back wall, putting a more comfortable distance between us.

"How long have you been like this?"

I chose to answer to the immediate situation rather than my overall condition. "Not long. Unfortunately I don't think I'm quite through." To my shock and dismay, Mycroft swiftly and rather gracefully sat down on the floor next to me. Even if I had known what to say, I did not have time. Up on my knees, I began again. After this wave had passed, I sat back on my heels and saw the face flannel that I had dropped being handed to me around my side. I took it and ran it over my mouth, not caring that it had been on the floor. I managed to maneuver over to rinse it out with fresh water and returned to my place in front of the loo. Mycroft at my back.

"Sit back," he commanded in a tone I had not heard often but knew he used to make sure he had his way. I did so. He pulled me back to lean against his chest, his legs on either side of mine. He brought the second flannel to my aching forehead and pushed my head to his shoulder, his side-whiskers momentarily brushing my hair as he settled us somewhat stiffly. I closed my eyes and just let his frame envelop mine. I concentrated on the feel of his pulse at my back. The floor was cold, he was warm--soft but not as fleshy as I would have imagined of someone his size, the cloth was wet. And I was feeling some relief despite the strangeness of the situation.

He began, haltingly, carefully. "Sherlock is smoking a most mild tobacco, for him, and he looked displeased every time I lit a cigar last evening. Though you rarely have more than one or two glasses, you did not have any wine with dinner nor any drink other than coffee after dinner. This morning you had enough milk with your tea to make it tea with your milk. We have eaten the same things for the last three meals and you show no other signs of this being an influenza-like symptom ... . May I assume that you are with child?"

I did not open my eyes. Hoping that my amusement at his correct deduction sounded more like doubtfulness I asked, "Don't you think that is a shaky bit of reasoning? Weak evidence and you a confirmed bachelor? Practically a guess."

"Granted it isn't everyday that I find a woman in this position," he began unperturbed at my chiding and I wondered if there had been any day that he had found a woman like this. "There may be many reasons for her behavior. But this particular woman is married, is young, has intimated in the past--much to my embarrassment and her pleasure at my embarrassment--(I could sense him reddening again) that she and her husband enjoy the type of relationship that could result in her being in a family way, and this woman has offered no reason for her current atypical behavior. I may be a bachelor, but I am also an older brother with a long memory. I remember being vaguely aware of another woman suffering through similar malady. That the woman before me is with child may be an incorrect deduction but it is not an illogical one."

"She is pregnant, Mycroft. The word is 'pregnant.' If you can stay her while I turn my insides out, you use the term and skip the euphemisms."

He sighed. "As you wish, Mary. Other than the obvious, are you well?"

"I think I am fine; my doctor in Sussex thinks so too, but I will see a specialist tomorrow."

"Speaking of doctors, does Dr. Watson know of this yet?"

"No. Holmes and I had planned to tell you both tonight at dinner. You will hide your knowledge and act surprised, please? I don't want Uncle John to be offended that you knew before he did."

"Of course, my dear."

I muttered "excuse me" hurriedly and went back to vomiting some more. When the urges and action had subsided, I went back to resting on Mycroft. I did not think about it, I did not ask, he did not tell me. I just took advantage of the situation and realized that the fear I sometimes felt of this indolent genius was subsiding rapidly. He might even have been a little afraid of me at the moment. I was also growing slightly tired from the force today's bout was taking. Mycroft seemed to sense this and put his hand over mine for a brief moment before returning it to his side. I took advantage of another situation, too, knowing I might never have a better opportunity. "You mentioned remembering another woman in a similar situation."

"Hmm. Hmmm." He ignored my hint. "It is really none of my business, I realize, but are you and Sherlock pleased?"

"I am. I think Holmes is, though it was not an easy decision for him even after he realized there was little he could do about the situation, and he has seemed concerned about the morning sickness."

"Yes, I noticed it is not morning; it is the afternoon. Most inconsiderate of the child," he added in mock rebuke.

"No doubt this child will have an independent streak" I chuckled. "Speaking of afternoons, what brings you home and am I keeping you from it?"

"No, you are not keeping me from anything more important." More important, was this somehow important to him? "There was some water damage to my office from the heavy rains we've had of late. The painter came today and I was forced to leave. I did not desire to go to the club as of yet. I did not anticipate you or Sherlock being here, though. I apologize for the intrusion."

"I am glad you came home, and I thank you for your company." I thought to try again. "You were about to tell me about your mother's pregnancy."

"That was not my intention," he stated clearly but not unkindly. I shifted to look at him. "Please?"

He eyed me warily then gave in, a slight twitch to his mouth. "Oh I suppose it is appropriate to the situation even if it is not germane to it." I went back to leaning against him and reached over to Madeira who had been patiently taking in all of this. When I reached for her she hopped over Mycroft's leg and into my lap. Mycroft started to protest, thought better of it, and tossed the now warm cloth that he was still holding into the sink. "I only remember bits and pieces of mother's pregnancy" he hit the word with deliberate teasing "but I remember the early months, and my father informing me that I would be getting a sibling at the beginning of the new year. I was young enough and that was far enough away that I did not really give much thought to it. Mother was bedridden for a brief time and I was sent to stay with relatives while she rested. Mostly life continued for me as it always had. I do remember having noticed that Mother did not go out as often as she did before and I remember having wondered why Father was so much more solicitous to her. Anytime I asked anything about the unusual circumstances I noted, I was told it was because of my mother's 'condition.' As if that would satisfy my curiosities. If you think we keep children unenlightened about such matters today, my dear, imagine what it was like then."

He stopped his train of thought to ask me if I was comfortable. I assured him I was and he continued. "Christmas came and went, and I remember rather wondering why this new sibling was not given to me then with my other presents. After all Father said I would be getting one, I assumed that meant he was giving me one. I went to Mother late Christmas afternoon and asked when I would be getting the sibling Father had told me about. To my displeasure, she laughed and told me that 'he would arrive in his own due time, but probably not until after the New Year.' Well, I thought, of all the inconsiderations. Why did I have to be kept to his time? I was not at all sure I was going to like this sibling. I am embarrassed to admit it, but I do not think I once thought of Sherlock as being an infant or even as being a brother. Up until the day he was born, he was always referred to as my sibling. Others who had been called siblings (cousins, neighbors, and such) were of similar ages. It never dawned on me that the being referred to as 'child' or 'baby' was the same being referred to as my sibling. At times I was a dense child."

"I find that very hard to believe," I asserted.

"Well, at the very least I was quite literal then. January arrived and shortly after I was swiftly ushered off to stay with our neighbors the Dimwiddes. No reason given, just my father dropping me off and telling me to mind my manners. I had been there a week when I overheard Mrs. Dimwidde tell her eldest daughter that Mrs. Holmes had given birth to a baby boy and that I would be returning home within a few days. By the way, though I cannot say for a fact never having asked Mother myself, I have gathered through the years that both Sherlock and I were relatively easy deliveries as they go." He patted my shoulder to suggest that this was a good sign.

"I have a ways to get there yet. Pardon me." I pushed Madeira out of my lap and rose to me knees. Once, twice, I counted. That should be the last wave. I sat back down, shifted myself to lean more to one side of Mycroft than directly center and Madeira dutifully hopped back in my lap. I realized I could get used to this kind of treatment, at least until the novelty of it wore off.

"When did you finally meet your brother?" I wondered. It was rare to be getting so much personal history from Mycroft.

"He was a little over a week old I guess. I returned home and was told not to bother Mother until she called for me. It was early evening when her maid told me that Mother requested my presence. I went to her room, knocked, and was told to enter. I could barely hear her tell me to enter because there was a nasty sound coming from the other side of the room. That nasty sound turned out to be the very powerful lungs of my brother, wailing away in a cradle. I can still hear her voice as she told me to bring him to her. She indicated toward the direction of the cradle and I walked over feeling most uneasy. I looked in and there he was, small, plumper than you would imagine looking at him now, red with anger, and making the most awful noise. I had no idea what to do. She sensed my trepidation and directed me to put one hand gently under his head and lift his body with my other hand. I distinctly remember looking back at her. I think it was the first time I realized that my mother was more than my mother, more than intelligent and articulate. She was really quite lovely. Sitting there surrounded by pillows and duvet, she looked like a swan in the center of a pond. Intriguing but untouchable."

He paused briefly in memory and I wondered why expressions of emotion from the Holmes men were so poetic in language yet so infrequently voiced.

"'He will not break, Mycroft, just be careful with him,' she encouraged. I did as she instructed. When I picked him up I noticed that he relaxed his fists. His fingers were disproportionately long for the rest of him. I gratefully handed him over to her and noted that I thought babies were supposed to have blue eyes. She informed me not all babies, just most. Both I and my brother were born with grey eyes."

I had to interrupt. "What color were your mother's eyes?"

"Violet" came a familiar but unexpected voice. "Father's eyes were green." Both Mycroft and I turned our attention to the tall, lean figure standing in the doorway looking down at us on the floor, Mycroft with his back to the wall, me leaning on Mycroft, and the dog in my lap. There was a curve at the end of his mouth and a twinkle of curiosity in his eyes. Madeira woke up with a bark.

"Some watch dog you are," I scolded. She paid me no mind, jumped down and went over to sniff Holmes boots.

Holmes leaned against the doorframe and crossed his arms. "This is a pretty little gathering. I do hope I'm not intruding. No? I gather, Russ, from the location and the conversation that our secret is out?"

Mycroft answered sounding pleased. "Yes. I deduced Mary was with--pregnant."

"I see you got the lecture, too." He lowered his gaze to me. "How are you mother-to-be?"

"I've progressed from the nausea through the vomiting back to the nausea. And thanks to Mycroft's unexpected return, I have been distracted and entertained through the worst of it."

Holmes smiled at us both, and then the smile became a wicked grin. "I believe my dear brother was telling you of our initial introduction, was he not?"

"Yes, I was, but there is no more to tell." Mycroft started to move, as if to rise, but when his brother countered with a low "Yes there is" I remained fixed so he could not move.

"No, I had reached the end of the story," he affirmed.

"Oh tell her."

With a touch of asperity at being trapped in the situation, Mycroft argued, "Just because she is your wife and you chose to tell her private matters is no sign that I have to tell her."

"Oh please," I chimed in. "It would cheer me so." I began running my finger in circles on his knee, playfulness overtaking me suddenly. He immediately pushed my hand away. Holmes chuckled, and I added, "After all, my condition..."

"Brother, I fear your wife is going to be one of those women who use their 'condition' to get what they want."

"As long as it works," I assured them both. "I have been told by Mrs. Hudson that it is my prerogative."

"If you wish, Sherlock, you may tell her."

"Mycroft, I may have been there at the time, but I hardly remember it. Furthermore as it is your story, the honor should go to you." Holmes was clearly enjoying upper the hand. We waited.

After a moment, Mycroft sighed as only he could. He then began animated and biting in a desire to conclude the story as quickly as possible. "I handed Sherlock to my mother. And to my amazement and fear she undid her nightdress, pulled out a breast and placed it by his mouth to suckle to his heart and stomachs' content. Good Heavens! I had never seen a breast before--at least not that I knew I had. I was seven."

Holmes practically guffawed, I giggled like an adolescent girl, and Mycroft ranted. "What did I know of such things!" Like his brother, he had a flare for the dramatic and paused to wait for his audience's attention. "I knew there were differences between the male and female of the species, my science books and observations had told me that. I knew what mammary glands were for, but to see a human one and my mother's at that! I do not know if I paled in fear or flushed with embarrassment, but I was decidedly uncomfortable with the whole situation."

I asked teasing, "No wet nurse?"

Holmes who was struggling to keep his composure through Mycroft's narrative managed to regain it. "Mother was in many respects the reserved, conservative, submissive wife of a country squire you would expect her to be. She could, when so moved, also be progressive, liberal, and remarkably independent. She chose to take care of this matter herself."

"And what did you do then, dear brother-in-law?" I asked of Mycroft while smiling at Holmes.

"I made for the door in great haste. Unfortunately Mother had other plans and stopped me from leaving. She thought to calm me by asking me to stay with her. I came up with some reason for needing to leave, but she insisted and I returned to her bedside. She patted the side of the bed and I dutifully took off my shoes and climbed up with her trying desperately to avert my eyes. 'What do you think of your brother?' she questioned. He is small, I noted."

"A gift for observation." Holmes asserted with pride.

I could almost see Mycroft scowl at his brother's remark before he continued. "'Yes,' she said, 'but what else? Do you like him?' I do not know him I told her, but I much prefer him when he is quiet. Come to think of it, Mary, I still do. She assured me I would like him when I got to know him, but I was not at all convinced. This small person had already disrupted my existence and was causing my mother to behave strangely. Then my mother asked what I instinctually feared the most; she asked if I knew from where Sherlock had come."

"She didn't?" I asked unbelieving.

"I told you she could be progressive, Russ," Holmes said, his own memories well hidden in his grey eyes. "She also had a bohemian streak that surfaced occasionally."

"Did she actually tell you?"

"Yes, she told me in clear and accurate terms from where Sherlock had come. But just from where he had come, not how he came to be. That task was left for many years later to be handled by Father." Mycroft shifted his weight to rise and I let him, extending my hand to Holmes for help up. Trying not to grin, I had to ask. "And how old where you when you found out about the rest of the 'facts of life'?"

He brushed himself off and straightened his waistcoat before looking me directly in the eye, something he had not had to do until now. "That joyous occasion" he remarked with great sarcasm, "happened when I went off to university."

"You knew before then" Holmes half asked, half stated.

"Of course, Sherlock, whatever are books for if not to fulfill curiosities. Now if you will both excuse me, it is time to head to the Diogenes for a while. Sherlock, will you be joining me this afternoon?"

"No, I'll stay--"

"Oh go ahead, Holmes. I still have quite a bit of reading today. Go get your fill of tobacco elsewhere, if you please."

"You are sure?"

"Are you turning solicitous? Of course I'm sure."

"I'll join you in a moment Mycroft."

"Very well. Good day, Mary." He leaned over and gave me the briefest, gentlest kiss on my cheek, furthering my day of surprises. "Take care of yourself and the next generation." Then he went down the hall to wait for Holmes.

"Husband."

"Hmm?" he asked still standing in the doorway.

"I do adore him, but that story explains much."

He chuckled. "Yes, I suppose it does." He moved to stand directly in front of me, rested his forehead on mine, and peered at me. In a voice that could only be classified as sultry he said, "Count yourself lucky, Mrs. Holmes."

"Why is that?" I asked casually while peering back at him.

He pulled back from me and resumed his usual airs. "Father talked of the facts of life with Mycroft." He started down the hall and remarked over his shoulder, "then a few years later he made Mycroft tell me."

To that there was no response.

The rest of the day passed uneventfully and the dinner went as I hoped it would. I retired early to leave the men to their cigars and reminiscences. I was propped in bed reading when Holmes came in an hour or so later. As I watched my husband go through his evening routine of changing and shaving, which he did only when I was in his company for the evening otherwise leaving the shaving for morning, I felt both content and at ease. I put my book down and rolled to my side to study every move, burning it to memory once again. He glanced in the mirror, and caught me looking at him, and--as he had done so many times before--raised one eyebrow in question. I shared my mood with him. "Uncle John seems excited about our addition, I'd say."

Holmes smiled slightly, careful not to change the shape of his cheek as he drew the razor over it. "I cannot recall ever seeing him look more pleased. It was most thoughtful of you to ask him to accompany you to your appointment with the doctor tomorrow, by the way."

"He'll be good company while I wait." The doctor in Eastbourne suggested that I at least make the acquaintance of a doctor in London (along with the other in Oxford) given my frequent travel to the city. And though all was going along as it should in his estimation, he encouraged me to take advantage of the medical experts and facilities in London. I was confident that I could decipher any medical jargon the specialist might throw my way, but asking Uncle John to accompany me would allow him to be a part of Holmes' and my adventure, if even in a small way. Sherlock Holmes of 221B Baker Street was not the same man I considered to be my Holmes, nor was my Uncle John the Dr. Watson of yore. The links between the two men were forged long before I was even born. Truth be told, I still felt twinges of guilt at my original regard for Holmes' Baker Street companion and that I had, in so many ways, replaced him at Holmes' side. I realized that the child within me would remove him even further from Holmes. I wanted to make sure Uncle John knew that we both wanted him in this child's life. To his credit, I suspected he would be whether actually invited to or not. He had welcomed me to Holmes' life unquestioningly when others might have tried to keep us apart. He had been thrilled at our marriage. This evening I momentarily worried over the state of his heart he had become so excited at our announcement. His joy was evident. The feelings of another were still in question, however. "I thought Mycroft's performance this evening worthy of Covent Garden. If I hadn't known better, I would have thought him truly surprised."

Holmes rinsed his razor and inspected his face before putting his toiletries away. "My brother has worn many faces over the years. This little bit of acting was not difficult."

Holmes wasn't going to bite. I was going to have to ask him directly. He had not said anything about his visit with his brother this afternoon, and he knew I would be curious about Mycroft's reaction to our encounter and revelation. "Did he say anything to you earlier?"

"About what?"

"Holmes."

"Oh, you mean about the child? Are you finished reading?" A quick nod indicated I had and Holmes turned off the lamp leaving me truly in the dark. I waited as he climbed into the bed beside me. Once he had settled himself and hearing no response from me, he continued. "Well, he said nothing on the way to the Diogenes. And, of course, he said nothing once we were in the club. He had some refreshment in the game room; I read the evening papers in the library."

"No brotherly conversation in the Strangers Room?"

"I went there briefly, but he did not join me. He either did not wish to talk or did not know what to say. I suspect the former."

"You think he disapproves, then?" My mood was quickly beginning to change.

"I did not say that." Holmes was not trying to be comforting. In fact he was deliberately drawing this out I realized. I calmed the growing annoyance at him and his brother and patiently waited for him to proceed with his little dramatics. "You know my brother well enough. He is not exuberant or demonstrative of his emotions. Did you expect him to react as Watson did?" I decided to play along and pushed myself up against his side. "The Wizard of Whitehall regaling in revelry?" I suggested.

"No, husband, I did not expect that. If he says nothing at all I shall not be surprised. I merely wondered if he had made any comment to you."

"He did make one small comment," Holmes relented.

"Yes?"

He casually and quietly warned, "You may not like it."

"And why is that?" I asked suddenly considering the possibility that this child would be unwelcome in its uncle's eyes.

Holmes moved his head away from mine. "Because, dear wife, his comment rather negates your part in this--unintentionally I'm sure."

"I'll allow him unintentional chauvinism. What did he say, Holmes?"

He returned his head to its original place on the pillow. "As I said, he said nothing on the walk to the Diogenes and nothing to me once in the club. I contemplated broaching the subject with him, but assumed that if he had anything to say, he would. He said nothing on our return walk until we had reached the front steps. There he turned, put one hand on my shoulder and extended his other. I shook his offered hand. He smiled the most curious smile and said, 'Good show, old boy. Jolly good show.'" Holmes paused for a moment before he rolled over on his side away from me.

I chuckled amused and I realized relieved. "That's all?"

"That's all."

I curled up behind him in the fashion of a spoon, most content. "Good night, husband."

Holmes offered his "Good night, Russ" and placed his arm and hand over mine.