Russell's Young Man

Part 2: Liebestod - Holmes

by Brains and Spirit

It was indeed a Wagner night and Sherlock Holmes settled himself in his comfortable box seat, hoping for a few hours of merciful oblivion. He knew that Mycroft had given him this evening to soften the blow of his news, and in some dim portion of himself he was grateful to his brother.

It had taken him every ounce of self-control, perfected over a lifetime, to keep from betraying the anguish he felt. This wound went too deep for even Mycroft or Watson to touch. Russell was more than his apprentice, his partner, or even his beloved. She was a part of him, as he, he thought, had become a part of her. But now she had met another man, a young man, who wanted to marry her. A young man whose affection and regard she appeared to return. He had always known this was possible. But he had never truly believed that it would happen. It had seemed just a matter of time until Russell began to see him as more than her friend and mentor, and realised that they belonged together in every sense. Only a matter of time until her majority would make it feasible. And now, it appeared, his time had run out.

As the curtain rose, he sank his awareness into the music, trying to become, as he usually did, part of it while it played. Although he had longed for that self-forgetful absorption, it proved unexpectedly difficult to achieve. In Act One, as the lovers drank from the magic cup that would seal their fate, his mind kept straying to a long ago Sussex spring, and honey wine shared under the copper beech at his home. Her home, too, he had hoped. Damned if he hadn't sealed his own fate, the day he met Russell... He calmed himself with a breathing exercise he'd learned in Tibet, and with an effort, wrenched his attention back to the stage. He even managed a pleasant conversation with Watson at intermission, firmly kept to the skill of the musicians and the magnificent set design.

Soon enough, the final act began and built toward its climax-the Liebestod, "love's death," sung by Isolde as she cradled the dying Tristan in her arms. The music's yearning and heartbreak echoed his own unbearably, and he found that he could no longer attend to the performance. It would never do to betray himself and break down, least of all in public. As he waited for the end, his thoughts turned to what he had learned that day, about Russell and the other man in her life.

Charles David Bonham-Pryce. "David" to his friends. Decorated war hero. Poet, friend of Siegfried Sassoon. Academic, with a younger sister up at Oxford. And now, so it would seem, the frequent companion of Miss Mary Russell. What did she call him, Holmes wondered. Mr. Bonham-Pryce? Captain? Charles? David? What the hell did he call her? Surely not Russ, or Russell, those names belonged to him and to their partnership. Miss Russell, perhaps? Mary? Darling? The neat typescript of Mycroft's report seemed imprinted on the inside of his eyelids and he reviewed it with his mind's eye.

"In addition to attending lectures and concerts, Miss Russell and Captain Bonham-Pryce take frequent drives in his automobile. They give their friends only vague accounts of their destinations and activities, characterising them as 'walking' or 'picnics.' This has been cause for considerable speculation amongst Miss Russell's circle. On several of these occasions Miss Russell returned to her lodging with her clothing and hair in some disarray, (Oh they had been, had they? ) but nevertheless, appeared on amiable terms with her escort." ('Amiable terms,' was it? ) He suppressed a snort. Did he stroke her hair, this David? Had he felt its silky weight pour through his fingers and over his wrists? His own long fingers curled in remembrance of its texture on his palm. Had she worn the blouse with the small pearl buttons for him on one of those "picnics"? And had he undone those buttons to caress the skin beneath? Had those exploring fingers, or worse, eyes encountered her scars? Had he been shocked? Appalled? Disgusted? Had he caused her so much as a moment of embarrassment or shame? God, had he hurt her? Oh no, surely not. Doesn't fit the data, Holmes. The man had seen combat, after all, and plenty of it. Unlikely for him to be squeamish about wounds or the scars they left behind... But not, perhaps on a woman...and the bullet Russ had stopped had been intended for Sherlock Holmes, not David Bonham-Pryce. He might see her scars as detracting from her loveliness, rather than the badges of honour and valor they were.

He glanced over at Watson, sitting with his head sunk on his chest and his eyes closed, fingers moving faintly in time to the music. He'd had a glass too many, had Watson, and it was a long programme, even for an opera-lover. Odd how both of his closest associates, Watson and Russell, lacked the proper appreciation for opera. He smiled at the sudden memory of Russ, in the mist of the Patricia Donleavy affair, falling asleep at the opera with her head on his shoulder and her breath warm and rhythmic on his neck. How he had wanted to put his arm around her and keep her close... Did she lay her head on David's shoulder? Did he slip an arm around her on those automobile rides? Did she turn her face up to be kissed? God, did she touch him? Her touch.. He remembered her hands on his back and shoulders in a kivutz in Palestine, after his escape from Karim Bey. Not quite a mother's tenderness nor yet a lover's caress (not, he amended wryly, that he'd accumulated a vast personal experience of either), her touch held something of both as she had tended his wounds. Her gentle competence and utter, blessed, matter of factness eased his body's pain and the torment of his mind as a thousand tears and kisses could not have. Though a weeping woman could be gathered in and warmed next to one's heart--other men did so. Watson was actually quite good at it. And the kisses might have proved damned intriguing.. So. Bonham-Pryce, like most men who had served in the trenches, likely carried wounds invisible to the naked eye. Not surprising, really, that he would be drawn to a woman whose presence could provide such balm.

But what of the future? Any fiancé or husband would surely disapprove of Russell's relationship with him and would move to curtail it. He would lose her. The 'final problem' indeed... finding a way to live without her.

And what would her life hold without him? Against his will, the images formed in his mind. Russ, with her books spread out on a desk in another man's house, her face alight with concentration. Russ, frowning at the chessboard by another man's fire, then flashing that wicked grin as she made a clever move. Russ, asleep in another man's bed with her hair a thick, fragrant drift on his pillow. Russ, waking from her troubling dreams to seek comfort in another man's arms. Russell in another man's arms. God... He swallowed against a sudden, involuntary tightening in his throat. It didn't bear thinking of. But he must think of it, must accustom himself to the possibility of a future empty of her. After all, the world was full of young men; one of whom might well take her away. And where then should he be?

Bonham-Pryce was a man in the full vigor and strength of youth. His parents were still living, so he could give Russell a family that would welcome her. Not what she had lost perhaps, but more than what she had now. He could father children on her, if she wanted them. Though he doubted that marriage and motherhood would give Russ sufficient scope for her extraordinary talents...

Nevertheless, did Russell, his brilliant, brave, levelheaded Russ, want the tenderness and affection that was so largely missing from her life? He knew himself for an undemonstrative man, unsuited to giving a woman the affection and little attentions they seemed to crave. He seldom allowed himself to think of Irene Adler, the other woman he had loved -but now one of their last quarrels came back to him. "Sherlock," she had drawled on her way out," if I enjoyed being alone, I'd stay with you. It amounts to much the same thing." Irene, he knew in hindsight, had loved him, at least for a time. In return she had wanted something from him that he could not have given her, because it had not been there in him to give. She had gone her own way, and he on his, rather than settle for anything less. Perhaps he had not fully understood why at the time. But if Irene had suffered as he was suffering now, she was well avenged for any pain he had caused her. Because he understood now, God help him, for all the good it was likely to do...

Just a few short years ago, Russell, a girl of fifteen, had lifted her clear eyes to his face and calmly told him that he was incapable of a relationship with a woman that did not encompass all aspects of their lives. And now, that was what he wished to give to the woman she had become- the engagement of the mind, the devotion of the heart, and yes, the passion of the body. But only if she wanted it, and only when she was ready. She may want it; she might be ready for it, but evidently not with you, Holmes. And the only course open to a gentleman in such a case is to say nothing, step aside, and let her go.. But even if she never knew, even if she never wanted or accepted this from him, perhaps he was a better man for having learned, at last, to love.

He came back to himself with a start as the curtain calls rolled through the theatre. He rose to applaud with the rest and found Watson looking at him with worried eyes. Good old Watson. He managed a smile for his dearest friend.

"A riveting performance, my dear fellow. Simply riveting. Marvelous bass as King Mark and the Isolde was superb. Shall we be off, then? If I know my brother, he has another excellent set of refreshments laid out."

And in silence and amity the two old friends returned to Mycroft's.