Russell's Young Man

Part 1: A Manila Folder - Watson

by Brains and Spirit

John H. Watson, M.D. shut the dossier he had been reading and placed it on the table by his chair. Then he looked up into the troubled face of Mycroft Holmes. "Mycroft", he said, I know that I can't pretend to your brilliance or that of your brother. So I must tell you that I fail to see why you invited me here to read this."

"Do you indeed?" asked Mycroft.

Watson sighed in resignation. "Very well, Mycroft, I admit that, in part, I understand. But," he raised a warning hand, "forgive me if I think it out of bounds for Mary to be spied upon in this manner. Although I must say that young people have far more liberty now than they did in our day. And as Mary's "Uncle" I can't approve of all these unchaperoned outings, in automobiles no less! But Mycroft, l at least knew Mary had to grow up sometime. She has the right to lead her own life. Lovely creature like that, it was only a matter of time before some young man started to court her."

He smiled. "Girls become women before we know it, Mycroft, and we mere men must adapt to that fact. As a physician, I've seen many a father learn that lesson in my time."

"I don't believe," interjected Mycroft, "that Sherlock's feelings towards Mary are altogether fatherly in nature."

Watson nodded, his face sobering. "No," he agreed softly. "Though for her sake he may pretend that they are. He brought his hand down heavily onto the table. "God, Mycroft! I have feared this since the day I first learned of Mary's role in Holmes' life. I don't deny that her presence brought him back from an untimely death. But her absence may well drive him down that path anew. You saw the toll it took on him when they were only feigning estrangement. If it becomes real..." he shook his head. "I wish I could find some grounds to object to the young man, for Holmes' sake, but there's nothing to take exception to. Good family, all out of the right drawer, and he served with distinction during the War. He has a scholarly bent that may well appeal to Mary, and his intentions seem honourable. If she favours him, well, that's her decision to make. All we can do is to wait upon events. She'll make as lovely a bride as my own sweet Mary, if it comes to that." For a moment, he looked fondly reminiscent, then he shook his head and returned to the present. "Does Holmes know?"

"I deduce not," answered Mycroft. "Mary seems to have been keeping her own counsel where this young man is concerned. But given what appears to be the trend of their relationship, I believe that, for his own sake, Sherlock should be told about it. And I wanted you here when I did so. The evidence at hand suggests that Captain Bonham-Pryce intends to propose marriage to Mary in the very near future. If she does indeed become engaged to him, I think it best that Sherlock ahh..have some time to accustom himself to the idea before he hears of it from her lips."

"Accustom himself to what idea, brother mine?" asked a voice from the doorway. The voice was closely followed by the disreputable figure of Sherlock Holmes, dressed as a dusty laborer.

"To the notion that time and its passing bring change," Mycroft answered.

"As the proverb has it, no man steps into the same river twice," responded Holmes politely. "I'm tolerably familiar with the concept, thank you."

"Perhaps not in this context, Sherlock. And, for what it may be worth, I want you to know that I'm sorry to be the bearer of this news." With the air of a man facing a firing squad, Mycroft handed his brother the manila folder Watson had relinquished and a substantial snifter of neat brandy.

Watson couldn't bear to watch as his friend sat down and began to read the words he had just finished. He pretended to see something engrossing out the window, thinking that perhaps Holmes should endure the destruction of his unspoken hopes in a modicum of privacy. Minutes ticked by in the quiet room, with no sound beyond the rustling of paper and the small clink of the brandy snifter on the table. Watson ventured a sidelong glance. Holmes showed no outward sign of perturbation, but a small muscle jumped in the side of his jaw. He finished reading, closed the folder, and set it down carefully, as if it contained a bomb. Then he looked up and Watson took an involuntary step back before the cold fury in his face. Even Mycroft seemed to quail. "And may I venture to inquire why Russell's privacy has been invaded in this egregious manner?" asked Sherlock Holmes softly.

Immovable object met irresistible force as Mycroft Holmes turned to face his brother. "Sherlock, I dislike this as much as you do, but it was necessary. Consider, man! I must concern myself with Mary for professional reasons, as well as the obvious personal ones. Now, personally, I see a lovely young woman who stands to come into a considerable inheritance very soon. Although I should naturally dislike seeing her preyed upon by a fortune hunter, there would be no reason to involve my office in such a commonplace private matter. But on a political level, Sherlock, you and Mary both performed a signal service for His Majesty's Government during your late sojourn to Palestine. As a consequence, she is privy to some highly confidential information. Information that might be valuable to several... interested parties, shall we say? There's an element at Oxford that I mistrust, Sherlock. They are socialists, pacifists, and yes, idealists, but more vulnerable than they think to being suborned by agents of a foreign power. We know that Mary has acquaintances who travel in those circles. His Majesty's Government has a legitimate interest in ensuring that any information she possesses does not pass into the wrong hands."

"Through no fault of hers!" Holmes snapped.

"Of course through no fault of hers," answered Mycroft soothingly. "But I am also quite sure that none of us here would wish to see Mary placed in a situation where certain... persuasive techniques... were being used to elicit her cooperation."

Holmes looked appalled. "Good God, no!"

Mycroft continued. "As you no doubt read, Sherlock, Captain Bonham-Pryce had served in Palestine after his tour on the Western Front. When he began to pay particular attention to Mary, it was necessary to determine that his motives were personal, not professional or political. My office merely wished to be sure that she was in no danger."

"Very well, Mycroft. I concede that point. But now that it has been established that the man's motives are personal, why are we having this conversation?"

Mycroft was not to be intimidated. "I think you know why, Sherlock. But we'll say no more, if you choose not to discuss it."

"There is nothing to discuss. My dear fellow, Russell is no longer my 'apprentice.' She is a thinking adult partner, who lends her considerable abilities to our joint endeavours of her own free will. She is neither a chattel nor a child."

A ghost of Holmes' sardonic smile appeared. "As she will inform anyone who presumes otherwise, she's an 'emancipated woman of the twentieth century.' I judge her perfectly capable of handling her own affairs without any interference from me, from you, Watson, or" -he shot a steely glare at his brother- "from His Majesty's Government. As for this matter"- he waved a hand at the folder-"since our opinions haven't been solicited by any of the parties involved, I suggest that we all adopt the admirable course of minding our own business."

Holmes finished his brandy in a single large swallow. "Now if you gentlemen will excuse me, I prefer not to dine in my present persona." He rose, and with no apparent haste, walked out of the room toward the hot water and clean clothes that awaited him in Mycroft's guest quarters.

Mycroft watched his brother's retreating back and exhaled. "He did not take this news as well as I hoped, but it was better than I feared. What did you think, Doctor?"

Dr. Watson turned from the window and spoke quietly. "I saw a man once, with just that look about him, back in Afghanistan years ago. He'd dragged a wounded comrade to my surgeon's tent and was helping my orderly get the poor blighter on a cot. Then he stood up, with the same expression Holmes had just now, and put his hand inside his coat. It came back covered with blood. He'd been shot himself and hadn't realised it until then."

"Did he survive?" asked Mycroft.

"Yes. It was touch-and-go for a while as the wound was deep, but with good care he recovered. I pray God that Holmes may, too."

Watson watched his friend covertly during the excellent meal. Holmes was outwardly cheerful, his demeanor unruffled as he gave a precis of the day's work on his current case; a favor for Mycroft involving a rising government attaché whose highly expensive tastes and even more highly expensive mistress were far beyond his legitimate means. Still, there was the faintest echo of a haunted look about his eyes that troubled Watson greatly. For Holmes to give even that much of himself away betokened great inner turmoil. It was, he thought, like attending a patient who was dying by inches from a slow internal haemorrhage and having no treatment that would stop it. More troubling yet was the way Holmes pushed his food around on his plate, chatting convivially all the while but actually eating very little, while the level of wine in his glass dropped steadily.

"Thank you Mycroft. Most kind of you, and I am sure Watson and I will both enjoy it immensely. What's tonight's work, by the way?"

"Tristan und Isolde" responded Mycroft. "One of your favorites, I believe."

"Indeed. Wagner at his most sublime. Shall we go, Watson? We don't want to miss the curtain."

Watson sighed to himself again. Tristan und Isolde. Just what Holmes needed, an evening full of passion, jealousy, and doomed love, ending in tragedy and death. Well, he reflected, the likelihood that Holmes would discuss his emotional state with even his brother or his closest friend was nil. Perhaps the vicarious experience would be cathartic. All he could do was to stand by until he was needed, giving Holmes whatever comfort his presence and loyalty would bring.

"Least said, soonest mended" thought Watson, as they left Mycroft's rooms for the cab to Covent Garden.