Author's note: Dearest Bees, this is my answer to the speculation over what took place in BEEK between the time when Russell lost consciousness in Holmes' lab and when she awoke in the hospital. I'm uncertain as to the existence of the ambulance but it does seem to me that if there was a hospital nearby (as we know there must be--remember, Holmes said he'd been in hospital after the bomb in the hive exploded) an ambulance wouldn't have been far behind. With the large number of injured vets now home in England I think ambulances would be becoming rapidly more commonplace. At any rate, that's my theory, and I'm sticking to it!
VIGIL:
A Mary Russell and Sherlock Holmes Story
by ...a prim bun which would soften as the day went on
"Russell!"
Oblivious to the blood staining his own clothing, Sherlock Holmes rapidly made his way across the laboratory and dropped to his knees alongside the unmoving body of his youthful partner.
"Dear God," he whispered, his keen eyes taking in the gruesome sight highlighted by the glare of the electrical lighting. Russell lay half-atop Patricia Donleavy's body, her long, slender left arm still outstretched toward the gun she'd thrust away from the maths tutor's hand with the last of her strength. Donleavy was well and truly dead, he could see that at a glance, her breast pierced by a bullet he suspected had gone directly into her heart, but Russ--Russ...
Even without moving her he could see the entrance wound at the back of Russell's neck, her golden hair stained red by the seeping blood. Ignoring all of his own rules regarding the preservation of a crime scene as well as his awareness that movement could cause further damage, Holmes turned Russell gently onto her back. And cringed at what he saw. The bullet that had taken Donleavy through the heart had first passed through Russell's neck, out through the front of her shoulder, then finally into the older woman's body. With shaking fingers he opened the buttons of Russell's shirt to expose a gleaming mass of red-black blood punctuated by a single chalk-white bone fragment.
Fighting a panic unusual to him, Holmes lay his fingers on Russell's slender throat, seeking the life-giving rhythm of her heart. "Yes," he murmured, "yes." There--but ever so faint. Without immediate medical attention--attention he knew himself unqualified to supply--he could lose her. Would lose her. There wasn't a moment to waste. Opening his mouth, he began to let out a bellow for Mrs. Hudson or old Will, only to recall Donleavy's mocking words-- "...you need not worry that your guard will interrupt us this evening; he and Mrs. Hudson are both sleeping very soundly..." Drugged, no doubt. No assistance from that quarter, then.
Suppressing a moan of despair, Holmes grasped the front of his own shirt firmly and wrenched it apart. Buttons flew like shrapnel through the air, then he was shrugging his arms out of the sleeves, his own wound stinging from the rough treatment and the cool air flowing across it.
As quickly as possible he tore the sleeves off the garment, folded the remainder into a pad which he pressed against the exit wound on Russell's shoulder and strapped his makeshift bandage into place using the sleeves to hold it. She moaned as Holmes secured the knot, and his stomach clenched at the sound. "Hold on, dearest Russ. Hold on. Please," he whispered, knowing it unlikely she could hear his words. Bending lower still, he pressed a kiss on her whitened brow. "Hold on," he said again, "while I seek help."
Reluctant as he was to leave her, Holmes knew he must--they had left Russell's motorcar at her farm, he himself kept no motorcar nor horse. He was capable of dealing with minor wounds but Russell's wounds required a trained surgeon.
Thomas had reported the telephone lines around Eastbourne were down--a road accident he'd said. Was the reported accident truly an accident, or had it been arranged? Either way, Holmes doubted the lines had been repaired as yet--splicing lines required the ability to see what one was doing and dawn was still some hours away.
Which left no alternative but his own two feet. The cottage nearest his own had recently been sold. Perhaps he could find help there...if it had not been sold to Donleavy's henchmen--an unfortunate possibility, he was forced to admit. Well, if that was the situation, he'd just have to deal with it. Reaching down into his pocket, Holmes felt for the revolver he'd secreted there so many hours ago. How he'd hoped Donleavy's attention would wander for just a moment--had he been able to reach the weapon he could have,*would have*, used it. But the woman's insanity was well-advanced, her attention locked on her intended victims. There had quite simply been no opportunity to utilize the weapon so near at hand. Removing Russell's weapon from the pocket of her coat, Holmes placed it in his pocket along with his own.
He must go, Holmes knew, but still he found it nearly impossible to do what he knew he must. To leave Russell--to think it possible, perhaps even likely, that she would succumb to death in his absence--was unthinkable. And yet this was the foundation on which he had built his life, the primer from which he had trained Russell: doing what one must, even when it seemed unthinkable.
A last glance over his shoulder--was there anything more he could do? A blanket--to keep Russell warm and ward off shock. Holmes turned on his heel toward the hallway that led to his bedroom and encountered a well-padded form in the doorway. His hands automatically came up in Oriental manner of fighting he'd learned all those years ago but something held him back.
"Oh! Mr. Holmes! What is it? What's going on? There was a woman--"Her half-focused eyes took in his state of disarray. "Mr. Holmes, are you all right? You've no shirt on, and that's blood! Blood on your side--"
Silently Holmes thanked a deity in whom he was uncertain he believed. Mrs. Hudson was none too steady on her feet but she appeared to have her wits mostly about her. With luck, perhaps Old Will would be shaking off the effects of the drug as well. "Mrs. Hudson--I'm fine. My injury is a minor one. But Russell--Mary--" He drew breath. "Russ has been shot. She is in a bad way. The phones are down. I must go for help. Stay with her!"
"Why, yes, sir. Of course, sir."
Not waiting for her to finish speaking, Holmes darted down the hallway to his bedchamber and hauled the overstuffed eiderdown from the bed. Hurrying back toward the laboratory, he thrust it at Mrs. Hudson. "Cover her. Keep her warm. I'll be as fast as I can... And Mrs. Hudson--" Holmes drew Russell's weapon from his pocket and held it out. "--Should anyone unfamiliar to you attempt to enter this chamber you are to shoot them. Don't ask questions, just shoot."
Mrs. Hudson took the soft blanket readily from his hands but she hesitated at taking the gun.
"It's that desperate, Mrs. Hudson. You must shoot should someone unknown to you attempt to enter this room. It could mean your life--and Russell's," he added, knowing the woman would protect Russell with her own life should it be needed.
Mrs. Hudson took the gun warily. Quickly, Holmes showed her how to release the safety catch, then fighting the desire to feel for the pulse at Russ's throat once more, he turned and strode toward the stairs.
"Sir! Wait. Take this--" Mrs. Hudson was shoving a coat he didn't recall removing--he must have removed it, though, mustn't he?--at him. "Mr. Holmes--the doctor--there's a new doctor. Retired, they say, but he's taken the cottage over the hill. He'll come, I'm sure he will."
The sensation of relief Holmes experienced was almost sickening in its intensity. Perhaps Russell's chances at life had just increased significantly. Still, how had he missed something this significant? "I must be slipping," he muttered.
"You were so ill, sir," Mrs. Hudson answered in gentle absolution.
"My illness was an act, Mrs. Hudson. As well you know."
She smiled sadly. "Not even you can act that well. Admit it or not, you were ill."
Knowing there was no time to argue, Holmes contented himself with merely saying, "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. Your information could be of critical importance to Russell."
The trip over the hill was like a dream--or a nightmare. Later, Holmes found he could recall only bits and pieces of it. Handing the eiderdown to Mrs. Hudson, leaving the safety of the cottage, hoping against hope that Donleavy had been so certain of her superiority she'd come alone. Striding over the hill, his side stinging, lungs burning from cold and exertion, forcing himself to maintain the rapid pace with which he'd begun.
And then the cottage was before him and Holmes was pounding on the door, all caution gone. If the "doctor" was a cohort of Donleavy's he would be dealt with--there was no other choice.
The door opened, Holmes could recall that much, and the doctor himself stood there, everything about him shouting "physician" to the trained eye.
"Good God, man! Where are you injured? Come in, come in here and let me see to you--" The doctor exclaimed, immediately spying the blood on Holmes' hands and clothing.
Holmes had fought him off, explaining tersely that it wasn't he who'd been injured. The doctor--Amberley, Holmes learned--hadn't believed him, but was pacified when he Holmes permitted him to see the wound on his ribcage. Having given it a cursory inspection, the doctor left Holmes alone for a few minutes. Soft voices issued from the far end of the cottage, the sound of first one, then a second, vehicle being started up, then the doctor returned, grabbed a medical bag much like Watson's from behind the door of his library and thrust Holmes into a battered vehicle which had been brought to the door.
From that point, Holmes recollection of events grew foggier still. The dark road, the doctor driving faster even than Russell had earlier. Then Holmes' own cottage, coming up fast. He leapt--or tried to leap, his injury, and shock made him clumsy--from the vehicle and stumbled into the house followed by the physician.
Drawing his weapon from his pocket--he had no intention of being caught off-guard twice, Holmes mounted the stairs. "Mrs. Hudson," he called softly, alerting the housekeeper to his presence. "It's I, Holmes. I've brought the doctor."
Then the doctor was in the laboratory, pushing Holmes onto the stool on which he'd been seated such a short time earlier, his eyes locked on Patricia Donleavy and the gun she held.
"Will she--"
Kneeling beside his patient, Amberley continued the question for him. "Live? There's no way of saying, Mr. Holmes." Without taking his eyes from Russell, he added, "Yes, of course I know who you are. And if what I've gleaned around the village is correct. this must be Miss Mary Russell, your young apprentice. There are rumors of your estrangement..."
For an instant, Holmes' hackles rose and he gripped the gun tighter. Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to relax. All during his speech the doctor had been busy, gently examining Russell's wounds, straightening her limbs, quickly making up a pad to replace Holmes' blood-soaked shirt. The motions of a doctor--a healer--not those of a dead enemy's operative.
Looking up into Holmes eyes, Amberley added, "It might be preferable if she didn't, you understand--the wound lies close to the spine. There could be damage..."
Holmes swallowed, forced himself to speak calmly despite the tightening of his throat and the sight of tears--the first tears he'd witnessed, spilling over onto Mrs. Hudson's pale cheeks. "Yes, I understand--" He glanced again at Mrs. Hudson. "We understand. Please--do what you can for her."
An ambulance from the hospital in Eastbourne pulled up in front of the cottage doors, summoned by Dr. Amberley's manservant. The driver and the doctor carefully shifted Russell's unconscious form onto a stretcher and carried her down the stairs. Holmes and Mrs. Hudson followed in the doctor's car. Then they were at the hospital and nurses and orderlies swarmed around Russell, taking her from him.
From that point on, Holmes had no sense of the passage of time. He and Mrs. Hudson sat in the waiting area until Watson and Mycroft arrived, summoned by Mycroft's people who'd arrived to find Holmes' laboratory a shambles with the corpse of an unknown woman stiffening in a bloody puddle. Holmes had answered the questions put to him by the authorities, then Mycroft had ushered them out, taking Mrs. Hudson with him. Holmes and Watson were left to sit vigil.
Hours came and went. Russell was wheeled out of surgery and into a private room. More long hours passed and still more, with Holmes seated at her side, listening to her breathing, watching as her pale face grew flushed with fever, as she tossed irritably despite the thick bandages binding her injured shoulder. Gently, he mopped her brow and sat again at her side. Day, then night, then day came again. A crisis was approaching Watson told him--the fever would peak. The question was, would it burn itself out or would it take Russell with it?
And so Sherlock Holmes sat, a tablet of blank pages borrowed from the nursing station balanced on his knee, writing down the details of this blackest of nights. Later, when the crisis had passed one way or the other, he would give it to Mycroft to pass on (in amended form, no doubt) to officialdom. But the original he would save. Save to be passed on to the thin, pale woman in the massive bandages lying in the austere hospital room.
Except for the last page--no one would ever read what he had written there. Statements about love and life, beliefs he had spent his younger years denigrating. And prayers--truly, they could only be termed such. She had done this to him, changed him as surely as he had changed her.
The sky outside the hospital window was growing dark again when a slight noise at his side drew Holmes' attention. It was Watson, feeling for a pulse, running an experienced hand over Russ's sweat-beaded brow, listening to her breathing.
"I will alert the doctors," Watson said quietly. "The fever has broken. If it remains down..." His worn features held a hint of guarded hope.
Holmes nodded, his eyes returning to Russell's face. Suddenly she was looking at him, meeting his eyes with her myopic, drugged gaze. "Holmes," her lips said, though no sound issued forth.
"Yes, Russell."
"Holmes. I am glad you're alive."
Her blue eyes drifted shut. As did Holmes' own. He'd almost lost her. But now--now, perhaps he'd have a chance to repair the damages done to her psyche. To watch her grow into herself. To pray--yes, pray--that someday she'd say his name not as student to teacher, nor apprentice to master, but as a loving partner, equal in all things.