Wedding Night

by '"I'm getting too old for this," he muttered...'

The delicate little table clock on the opposite side of the bed was impossible to read across my partner's body and without my spectacles, but by the light - or lack of it - in the room I judged it to be well after midnight. My wedding day was over, I reflected, and this was my first day as a legally wedded woman. A wife. What an extraordinary word when suddenly applied to oneself...

I settled a bit more solidly into the thick featherbed and moved closer to Holmes, brushing my damp hair off the back of my neck and over the pillow and the long arm that embraced me. Snuggled into the hollow of his shoulder, I luxuriated in the warmth of his skin against my cheek and the gentle rhythm of his breathing, settling down now after what, I decided, had been the most memorable of our joint adventures thus far. My left hand lay relaxed against Holmes' chest and it seemed to me that, without stirring, it had its own memory of that beloved terrain - the thin layer of flesh over his ribs, the dusting of wiry hair across his pectoral muscles and down his abdomen, and the short, corded scar on his side where Patricia Donleavy's bullet had marked him, as one had me. (Strange that we shared that simultaneous wounding, almost a kind of wedding band in itself.) It occurred to me that, although I'd seen Holmes unclothed before, the circumstances had not been pleasant and I had touched him then only to dress his hurts. This was, curiously, the first time I had laid a hand on his bare flesh solely as an act of love. "About time," I told myself, smiling.

Later today, Holmes and I would leave on our honeymoon trip to Italy, a conventional pleasure that we'd found, somewhat to our surprise, that we both wanted. A car went by on the street below and in the distance a horn sounded, but at this hour the normal cacophony of the city was muted. The faraway rumble sounded surprisingly like the sea, which I supposed might have been a more suitable setting for a wedding night than our present location in the heart of London. The sea, however, had not been a practical alternative, at least for the first night. Our wedding day had been a long one. By the time we'd breakfasted in our separate dwellings - once engaged, Holmes had balked at spending the night under the same roof with me, muttering about "my reputation" although I suspected that his reluctance had less to do with that and more with our increasing inability to keep our hands off one another - dressed in suitable wedding finery, said our vows at the Registry Office, and repaired to Mycroft's club for a sumptuous wedding supper with the strangely assorted assembly of guests who could not in all decency be left out of this celebration, it was clearly too late to make a train that would take us to Liverpool and our boat at a civilized hour. Accordingly, Holmes had gone against his usual instincts and, some days before, sought a favor from an illustrious former client. We were spending our first night as husband and wife in the Kensington townhouse of His Grace the Duke of ________. The Duke and his family were at their country house in Berkshire, but since the Duke often came up to the city on business, the townhouse was open, fully staffed, and more than comfortable. His Grace - who through Holmes' intervention had avoided a spectacular and remarkably juicy scandal some twenty years past - had been delighted to make the place available for one night to the famous detective and his bride.

The townhouse had another virtue and that was that it sat smugly behind a twelve-foot brick wall that discouraged idle gawkers and, more to the point, the inquiring press. While certainly some percentage of Watson's horde of readers believed my husband to be fictional, a large and passionately interested number knew well that he was not. This included, to Holmes' disgust, the rapacious London tabloids, which in the hallowed tradition of their kind had spies in registry offices around the country for early warning of "interesting" marriages, divorces, and births. (While certainly they were not averse to sensationalizing a notable death, these were unlikely to be announced well in advance.) Holmes had become accustomed - reluctantly - to having his cases reported in these papers, usually inaccurately, but his personal life was another matter. Regrettably, even the formidably well-connected Sherlock Holmes could not avoid the two weeks' legal notice of intention to wed required by British law. As a result, by the time we stepped out of our motor at the Registry our scheduled nuptials had been noted on the calendar of every reporter and photographer within 50 miles of London. Somehow we'd gotten through the resulting maelstrom without Holmes resorting to violence - although he'd gripped my arm so tightly that I'd found a bruise this evening as I'd undressed for bed - but he was seething as much on my behalf as on his own and we were both relieved to retreat behind walls that even the most eager newshound would think twice about breaching.

Holmes and his brother Mycroft had already concocted a plan through which we'd escape them today (I was relieved to learn that it did not involve assuming an unsavory or, worse, uncomfortable, disguise), but I knew that the plan could do little to erase the likely headlines that were undoubtedly flashing through Holmes' mind: "Noted Sleuth Weds Young Associate!" "Surprise Wedding for Famed Detective, "May-December Romance - Sherlock Holmes Weds!" Although genuinely annoyed for Holmes' sake, I found that so far as I was concerned, I did not care. I had long since come to terms with our relationship and with the unoriginal slant that would be put upon it in some quarters. Neither the headlines nor the predictable gossip changed the fact that Holmes was the love of my life, my soul mate, my best friend. Recalling the faint ridiculousness of the whole scene at the Registry, I repressed a chuckle. ("Miss Russell, look this way!" "Mr. Holmes, where did you and Miss Russell meet?" "Mr. Holmes, will you give her a kiss for us?" - yes, as if that were likely to happen - !) It was as close as either one of us would ever come to being an American film star and a good deal closer than either one of us would wish to be again.

Sensational connotations or not, even the most imaginative reporter was going to have trouble making this marriage into a stereotype. The most cursory investigation of my background would reveal that any implication that I was marrying Holmes for his money was a non-starter. Moreover, since within the month he'd apprehended a multiple murderer by chasing him through the streets of London and pursuing him - literally - into the Thames, it would be a rash tabloid journalist who would attempt to portray Holmes as a fond old man, in his dotage, of whom I'd taken advantage. The devil with them, I thought, we were this week's sensation. Soon enough these papers would be wrapping someone's fish.

Across the room, the fire had almost burned out, leaving only a dim glow from the few embers that still retained heat. The scent of the roses, however, remained strong. When we had entered the room earlier this evening, I had drawn a quick breath of pleasure and surprise at the sight of the tall vase of vivid red blooms that crowned the table before the fireplace. There had to be three dozen of them. Someone had made an extravagant gesture - roses were out of season; these had to have come from a hothouse and must have cost the earth. There was a small white card tucked in among the stems and I removed it from its envelope, expecting to see the signature of our host or some other equally grateful, and well-to-do, former client. (After all, Holmes had offered his unique services to royalty, and more than once.) Instead, I found Holmes' distinctive hand and the simple inscription "To the young woman who noticed the bees - from the Beekeeper." Holmes was not generally a man for romantic gestures. This one, hearkening back to our initial, combative, entirely improbable meeting on a hill in Sussex, made my heart take an absurd, skittering leap of joy. When I turned to thank him I found him watching me, and for a few seconds, before he smiled and thus raised the natural screen of self-protection that we all draw across our strongest feelings, there was such love in his gray eyes that I stood paralyzed, as if I'd been handed a gift so fragile that the smallest movement could damage it.

Holmes had shrugged off his jacket, tossing it on a chair near the door, and looked away as if to admire the gracious room in which we stood. I realized that he was taken aback, even a little embarrassed, by what I'd seen in his face. He had told me on that cold and odiferous dock where we'd plighted our troth that as my husband he would show me little affection and give me much cause for irritation, and I knew him well enough to accept that at least in part. Certainly he was undemonstrative if one looked for the traditional forms of modern romance, the frequent cuddles and the careless terms of endearment. And God knew he could be irritating. But I knew he loved and trusted me; after all, he'd shown me that in the most persuasive way possible, by laying down fifty years of absolute self-reliance and placing his life in my hands.

It occurred to me that until recently he'd found it hard to accept that someone could love him, despite the fact that he merited it and had benefited all his life from the devotion of those few who knew him well enough to offer that gift. I wondered why he saw himself as so undeserving of something that many lesser men took as an entitlement. Doubtless it was another facet of that fierce self-criticism that made him savage himself on the rare occasion that he made a mistake or worse, failed to solve a case. A Freudian - they seemed to be emerging from the woodwork these days - would have attributed it to the fact that his father had first disliked him and then abandoned him, in the cruelest possible way. Whatever his reason for questioning his own worthiness to be loved, I was not about to let him remain under any misapprehension where I was concerned. Shaking off my momentary paralysis I crossed the room to him, slipped my arms around his neck and kissed him with a fervor that startled even me. He seemed taken aback for a moment, by the force of the kiss if not the fact of it, but then his arms tightened around me, his lips opened to mine and I felt his tongue gently probe my own. A pleasant, velvety darkness began to settle in around my brain, damping down thought and focusing all sensation on that place where our mouths joined. My legs, normally well-toned, reliable things capable of striding with equal ease through narrow Oxford byways or deserts in Palestine, became wobbly and it dawned on me that I was clinging to him as much to remain upright as for the obvious reason that his body felt good and right and strong against mine.

Abruptly Holmes broke the kiss, trailing his lips fiercely to the corner of my mouth, the edge of my jaw, and down my neck until they settled at the hollow of my throat. I ran a hand down his right arm, took his hand, and brought it to my breast, heard him make a low sound, hardly enough to be called a sigh. He raised his head, put his lips to mine again, and then pulled back slightly. "Let's go to bed, Russ," he murmured against my mouth, and then, "I'm glad you liked the roses." He doesn't know, I thought, that it wasn't the roses; it was that brief, naked look of love and need in his eyes.

The mere recollection of that moment sent a wave of sensation through my body and as if he sensed it, Holmes shifted his position slightly and brushed his lips across the top of my head. "My dear girl," he murmured, "what a treasure you are." Neither of us had spoken in some time, each of us lost in our own thoughts and lulled by the unique calm that follows in the wake of strong emotion and physical release. This was all new to me, of course, and encouraged by his words I finally summoned the courage to ask a question of my more experienced bedfellow. "Holmes?"

"Yes, darling?" This gave me pause. Holmes had never given me such an endearment, not even an hour ago when it might have been, well, more expected. I finally decided to take the appellation at face value and cherish it as something that was unlikely to happen often.

"Was that all right? I mean - was it as it should have been?"

I could not see his face but I felt his half-smile curl against my temple. "Hmm. Well, Russ, shall we apply our considerable skills of analysis to the question?" This did not seem to expect a serious answer and so I simply nestled more closely to him (as if that were possible) and waited. He continued, "Did you find the proceedings enjoyable?"

"OH Yes!" This came out rather more enthusiastically than I'd intended. I was still young enough to wish to appear sophisticated, despite the fact that I'd come to him a virgin. I was sure that he could feel the blush that started in my face and proceeded to radiate throughout my body. "I mean - it did hurt for a moment when... well, you know when, but after... I've never felt that like before. I've never experienced anything like it." He made no reply but the arm that encircled my body tightened a little and his hand covered mine as it lay on his chest. I took the opportunity to toy with the gold ring that circled his finger. So strange to see it there, I thought, and to think that it was mine. That he was mine. "Husband," I considered, was nearly as strange a word as "wife," and certainly when applied to Holmes.

"You appeared to be responding positively, Russ," he said after a moment, "but nonetheless I'm relieved to hear that you - enjoyed it. It is not always so the first time, for women. I tried to be gentle but, well, there are certain inevitable mechanics involved. And I fear I could not help but be eager - passionate, I suppose one would term it. After all, I've waited a long time for this night." I dropped a kiss on the most convenient surface, which was just slightly south of his clavicle.

"As is usually the case with you," I said softly, "your technique appeared masterful and your timing impeccable. I say 'appeared' only because I cannot claim a wide field of comparison."

This time he laughed. "Thank God for that. I must confess that I take immoderate satisfaction in having been the first to explore this 'terra incognita.' But Russ - we've not finished our investigation in response to your question. I trust your powers of observation did not desert you while we were making love. Would you say that I, too, found the experience enjoyable?"

At this I found it essential to see his face. I pulled myself up from his embrace, and propped on one elbow, the easier to gaze down at him. My hair tumbled down over us both. "Umm - the world-renowned Mr. Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, is well known for becoming irritated if not outright bored when a case proves insufficiently challenging. I saw no indication of that in this case. In fact," I said, running a finger along his cheek, "He appeared extraordinarily focused and attentive throughout each stage of the matter. And at the conclusion of the investigation he seemed to be, how should I put it? - positively transported."

Holmes rarely grinned but when he did, an entirely different man made an appearance, not remotely akin to the cool and remote "thinking machine" of Watson's stories. Indeed, at this moment he seemed entirely passionate and about nineteen years old. "Transported, ey?" he said. "An accurate, if elevated, term for it. I was nothing if not transported." He fell silent for a moment and his eyes were briefly distant. "You know," he continued in a conversational tone, "the French call it 'the little death.'"

"Do they?," I replied. "I hadn't heard that, but I suppose it's not among the expressions that young ladies are supposed to know. It seems rather a morbid term for something... wonderful."

Holmes returned his eyes to mine, this time more serious. "I believe it's because at that moment, however briefly, one is somehow outside of oneself - in another place. Conscious and not conscious, if such a thing is possible. Certainly one's mind is at rest." He took my hand and brought it gently to his lips. "That's not a very frequent condition for me; I thank you for it."

I found this a strange gratitude, coming from a man who was famous for his cerebral prowess, and said so. "But you once told Watson that you were 'nothing but brain,' or so at least he wrote in one of the stories. As I recall, it was one of those times when he was trying to get you to eat! You were quite adamant that the needs of your body were entirely subordinate to those of your intellect. Are you telling me that there are times when you, of all people, want to - good heavens - stop thinking for awhile?"

Holmes grimaced. "As I told you when we first met, in the Baker Street days I was a good deal younger than The Strand illustrator would have had people believe. If I ever did say something like that - and I fear I may have - I was being a perfect ass. I wonder how Watson put up with me! And yes, there are places and times when thinking is entirely superfluous and when the body will have its attention. In bed with a beautiful woman is one of them."

I quietly took note of his apparent classification of me as a beautiful woman, a description I would never have applied to myself, and then I smiled at him. "Husband, I wonder when I will ever get your limits. More and more I discover that there is you, and then there is 'Sherlock Holmes.' And you are far more interesting than the fictional character. Not that I have ever confused you with him."

He studied my face for a few moments, those gray eyes again gentle and filled with things he couldn't, or wouldn't, articulate. "I know you haven't," he said, "that's one of the reasons I love you." I lowered my mouth to his and for a good few minutes there was a decided lull in the conversation.

"It's odd, though," I murmured, after awhile, dropping back beside him. My mind roved back to his 'investigation' of our earlier lovemaking.

"What's odd, Russ?"

"It did hurt a bit, though I know you were being as gentle as you could. And normally when someone or something hurts you, you want to pull away - you know, a finger to a hot stove, or a needle pricks your finger - but with this..." I paused for a moment, choosing the right words. "I wanted to get closer to you. I felt as if I wanted to get right into your skin, to be in there with you. I wanted to go toward the pain, not away from it. It doesn't make sense, really. It's a mystery. I suppose that we're made that way..."

Holmes' voice, when he finally answered, was a little husky. "There be three things which are too wonderful for me, yea, four which I know not: The way of an eagle in the air; the way of a serpent upon a rock; the way of a ship in the midst of the sea; and the way of a man with a maid."

Now I was truly astonished. I turned and stared at him. "Holmes," I said, "did you just quote 'The Book of Proverbs' to me?"

My new husband reached over, slowly trailed his fingers through my hair, captured a generous handful of it, and began weaving it through his fingers. "I believe I did," he replied, "though I am hazy about the exact chapter and verse."

I put my hand over his, to still his distracting fingers. "Verse 30, Chapter 19, to be precise. But how do you come to know it?"

He looked at me sternly, but with a certain glint in his eye. "My dear wife, just because I question the value of the Bible as a vehicle for serious study and interpretation, it does not follow that I discount it as literature or in fact, as a medium for articulating certain universal truths. I received a traditional classical education, which can hardly disregard the Bible." My gaze must have continued to be dubious because after a moment he sighed and continued in a confessional tone. "And in truth, while in earlier days I made every effort to forget it, I have of late had reason to brush up my knowledge of the Book. A young woman who means a good deal to me has, for whatever reason, chosen to study theology. It seemed to me that, as she has learned the intricacies of my discipline, it might be a courtesy in me to study the basics of hers." This clearly merited a gracious response but I found myself, for the moment at least, speechless. Holmes seemed unperturbed. Clearly capable of interpreting my silence, he pulled me closer to him and shifted slightly so that again I was lying across his chest, gazing down at him, our lips only inches apart. "The way of a man with a maid," he murmured... "I always thought that was a beautiful verse but I did not properly understand the wonder in it until this night. You have opened my eyes to that, o scholar and wife."

I was taken aback to find my eyes filling with tears. Trying to preserve some shred of self-control, I quickly turned my head and rested my cheek on his chest. "Holmes," I murmured, after a sniffle or two, "this matter of 'the way of a man with a maid' - do you think that this is a case for further study by our partnership?"

My husband's torso shook with laugher and his arms tightened in what could only be described as a squeeze. "Without question, Russ, without question. In fact, we might consider further investigation beginning right now."

The city's murmur outside our window stilled, and the fire at last died out, but I could still smell the roses. Thus we set out on the first morning of our long, unconventional, and entirely satisfactory marriage.