Russell's Young Man

Part 5: A few steps in the dance - Russell

by Brains and Spirit

I brought the Morris to a standstill in the gravel drive some distance from the cottage and turned off the motor and lights. Then I sat with my hands clasped on the wheel, trembling with reaction and shock. Why was I here? And now that I was, what was I to do? It had seemed the only thing to do at the time, that arrow straight flight from hurt and humiliation to the safety of...home. However, Mrs. Hudson would be long abed by now and it would be rude to wake her. There was no guarantee that Holmes would be about, either, and perhaps I oughtn't to wake him. The night turned colder, and the momentum that had carried me here faded with the setting moon. I sat shivering in the remains of my once lovely frock, looking dully at my clenched hands. I was furious with David, mortified at my own stupidity, and above all as desolate as a child who opens some long anticipated gift, only to find that the gaily-painted box holds a tawdry thing of tinsel and cardboard that breaks at a touch.

The light of an electric torch and a familiar voice interrupted this maudlin reverie.

"Russell, is that you? " Holmes asked sharply. "What are you doing out here?"

I started to answer but I couldn't speak. As I searched for my voice the car door wrenched open and Holmes' face appeared. The light from the torch raked over me, and there was a sudden intake of breath as he took stock of my appearance.

"Good God, Russell, what has happened to you?"

I've had a bit of a misadventure, Holmes," I answered, managing to control my voice so that it wobbled only slightly.

"I see," he said, in a much gentler tone, and I had the ghastly feeling that he did. I twisted away in a sudden hot spurt of embarrassment. This man was my teacher, friend and partner. He had known me since the age of fifteen. I didn't want him to see me like this, and be faced with the knowledge of what he must think of me. Holmes put a hand on my shoulder and turned me toward him. "Russell," he said quietly, "we've dressed one another's wounds before. This is no different. Truly. Now come inside, Russ, you'll catch your death out here and I fancy a warm fire and a bit of brandy would not come amiss. Come Russell, that's right, take my arm. I won't let you fall." Urged on by his chivvying, I allowed him to guide me out of the car and into the cottage.

I must have looked worse once we got inside. I felt his eyes on my disheveled hair, torn skirt and ruined stockings. They traveled over the small marks on my neck left by a man's caresses and the bruises and swollen mouth caused by physical contact of a different kind. Holmes said nothing, just steered me to the sofa by the fireplace. He sat me down, wrapped the afghan from amongst the cushions around my shoulders, and pressed a glass of brandy into my hand. Then he pulled up a footstool in front of the sofa and sat, regarding me thoughtfully.

"Do you wish to tell me something about this, Russell?" he asked, still very gently. "You need not, of course, but it may help you to do so." He leaned forward with his hands clasped between his knees, careful not to touch me, and gave me his full attention.

I tried to collect my thoughts to give some coherent account of why I was here instead of the Bonham-Pryce family's home and failed completely. How could I tell Holmes what had happened? I'd always shied away from discussing my relationship with David with him, how was I to begin? Get on with it, Russell, I told myself, and took a deep breath.

"Well, Holmes," I started, reasonably enough, " As you know I was at a house party this weekend given by my friend Alix 's parents. Her brother David, whom I told you of last week, was there as well and..." My voice faltered as I found myself looking at a Holmes I had never seen before, though I doubt not that grim face and those glacial grey eyes were the last sights beheld by the late Professor Moriarty. I was abruptly reminded that this could be a dangerous man to cross.

"And do you mean to tell me," Holmes asked in ominously quiet tones, "that Captain Bonham-Pryce, a gentleman who had you under his family's roof as a guest is responsible for the condition I see you in now?"

"Yes," I answered, in a voice that sounded nothing like my own, and suddenly, wretchedly, I began to cry. I put my fist up to my mouth to try and muffle the sobs, but it was no use. Once the floodgates had cracked they were well and truly open and the tears I had held back for the last few hours would be denied no more. I was after all, only 20 and had just been badly manhandled and nearly raped by a man who I thought cared for me. I wept with anger and betrayal, with heartbreak and shame and confusion. And then, for the second time in my association with Holmes, I was granted a miracle. Holmes rose, took the brandy from my unsteady hand, and set it on a nearby table. Then he sat down on the sofa next to me. One of his arms encircled my shaking back, and gently turned me, pulling me close. The other hand drew my head down to his shoulder. He held me easily this time, and his embrace was haven and solace, sanctuary and sanity. Until that moment, I hadn't let myself realise how badly in need of comforting I was. So I curled under his arm, turned my face gratefully into his worn dressing gown, and cried myself out.

After a time, my sobs became sniffles and then ceased altogether. A clean handkerchief appeared before me, and I took it from him to wipe my eyes and blow my nose.

"Better now, Russell?" Holmes asked. "Is there anything you would like to tell me?"

I had the vague idea that it was really about time I sat up. But I was warm and comfortable and sleepy from crying, and Holmes did not seem to object to my presence, since he made no move to rise or to push me away. Besides, I thought muzzily, men wouldn't have that lovely snug niche where the deltoid meets the pectoralis major and the sterno-cleido-mastoid muscle, unless it was meant to be used by something other than a violin. Oh, and snug I was, enveloped by smooth shirtfront and soft dressing gown, breathing the scents of sandalwood soap and tobacco, with the beat of that great heart steady in my ear... Perhaps I could rest here, safe, for a few more minutes. Just until I felt a bit more the thing. It could do no harm. Surely not. So I settled myself against him, looked resolutely into the fire, took a deep breath, and began.

I started from the beginning and laid out my facts in order, as my mentor had taught me. "Well, Alix and I motored down from Oxford on Friday and we got settled in and had a lovely tramp round the woods by her home. Major and Mrs. Bonham-Pryce are very pleasant, in a sort of Old School Tie way. Uncle John would have enjoyed them immensely. Saturday, yesterday now, David arrived and we all went riding. There was to be a dinner party that night with dancing after, so about five o'clock the afternoon Alix and I went upstairs to bathe and dress. There was a knock on my door while I was dressing. I supposed it was Alix but it turned out to be David. I ,-I'm afraid I thought it was charming, Holmes. He had a hothouse rose, for my hair, he said and a bottle of champagne."

"So you let him in," Holmes said carefully. "And the two of you were in the bedroom. Alone."

Holmes' Victorian sensibilities could surface at the oddest moments. "Oh for God's sake Holmes," I said crossly, "I wasn't unclothed. I was fully dressed, and ready to go down to dinner." He snorted at this.

"What?" I asked of the snort.

"I am sorry, Russell, but I am still a man of my own generation. To me that frock, fashionable though it may be, would hardly qualify any woman as being fully dressed."

I decided not to dignify Holmes' opinions on dress fashions with an argument, and resumed. "Well, I was as dressed as I was going to get, then, and was putting on my earrings and gloves". A hot spurt of anger shot through me. "And damn it, Holmes, why should I have expected anything like this? How many times have you, or for that matter Ali or Mahmoud, been in a room with me while I finished dressing? It's hardly as though I'd had to fight off any of you. I thought it was the same thing, that we'd talk and so-on and then go down to dinner and it would be all right." Holmes inhaled a rather large quantity of air through his nose at this but refrained from making any further observations. "So we drank a toast and then he kissed me..and, and so-on.."

Holmes cleared his throat. "There appears to have been a fair bit of 'so-on,' Russell," he remarked primly. "What Watson would say I shudder to think." But he snugged the afghan around my shoulders while he said it.

"Uncle John would have an apoplectic fit. Or go for his revolver. Because not all of the 'so-on' was voluntary, Holmes. I'm getting to that part."

"Only if you wish to do so." His voice sounded oddly strained.

The "so-on" was nice, and all, but after a bit I thought we'd had about enough and I didn't want things to get out of hand. We were upstairs from his parents for God's sake, and his sister's bedroom was just down the hall. So I sat on the bed and.."

"You were lying down. On a bed. With a man". Holmes' voice was starting to climb alarmingly. He stopped, cleared his throat again, and continued in a more reasonable tone "Russell, I do understand times have changed since the reign of our late Queen, but are you quite sure this was.."

"I wasn't lying down, Holmes, I was sitting up. There's a difference." Men can get so distracted by irrelevant points.

"In any case," I resumed "I was starting to tidy my hair when he grabbed my shoulders, pushed me down and well, pinned me on to the bed. Decent three point pin, too. God, Holmes, he's strong. I tried to break his hold and I flat-out couldn't. He tried to kiss me again and I told him to stop, but he wouldn't. He backhanded me, hard - when I wouldn't keep still, and started rucking at my dress."

"Indeed."

"Now comes the worst part, Holmes."

The arm around my shoulders tightened reassuringly. "I'm prepared, Russ. Was there the obvious denouement?"

"Yes and no. He kept pawing at me and said a few horrid things."

"Such as?"

The words had hurt more than the blows and I cringed at repeating them." I was no better than I should be, I'd led him on and he wasn't about to take it and..."

A long finger tapped my mouth gently. "SSH!" said Holmes." The man is, to put it mildly, an idiot, a bounder, and a cad. Whatever he said was untrue. You know this, do you not?" I didn't answer, as I wasn't at all sure I knew that.

"Russell, my dear," Holmes continued into my silence, "you must admit that in my career I have had ample opportunity to observe women who are 'no better than they should be.' I recognise one when I see her; whether she's wearing a tiara in an opera box or standing on a street corner in Whitechapel. As for you, you may have been imprudent, but you may rest assured that such an odious term does not apply to you, never has, and never could."

He gave my shoulder a slight shake, as though waking me up. "Have I ever lied to you?'

Bereft of speech again, I shook my head no, then sniffled and rallied. "But you have misled me on occasion."

"Only on occasion and only when necessary, Russell. You can believe me now. "

"Yes." I said. There seemed to be little to say after that, so we rested, close and quiet, and let the fire do our talking for us. I think I actually may have fallen asleep for part of this time, but I have never asked Holmes, so I cannot be sure. I do know that when I came back to myself, the fire had burned lower, and I was still curled up next to Holmes with my head on his shoulder and his arm around me. The top of my head was curiously warm, as if a hand or cheek had been resting there. After I stirred, Holmes reached down to smooth the tangled hair away from my face.

"Since you're here, Russ," he said, you obviously escaped your... ah,..suitor. Do you care to enlighten me as to how?"

"Struggling hadn't gotten me anywhere, so I just went limp."

"Probably encouraged him."

"Rather, I'm afraid. But I knew that he'd have to unfasten his trousers at some point if he was going to, um, do what he thought he was going to do, and my chance to get away would come then. So when he took some of his weight off me, I tucked and rolled, broke out of his handhold and got up fighting."

There was a definite chuckle underneath my ear. "That's my Russell," said Holmes like a parent whose precocious child has just done Something Very Clever.

"But it didn't stop there, Holmes. I thought I could just slap his face and tell him to act like a gentleman and we'd say no more about it. But when I was up he grabbed my arm and twisted it and tried to kick my feet out from under me. I knew if he got me down again I was done for, so I looked around for something heavy. I snatched up a vase from on top of the bureau, and hit him with it hard enough to knock him out. Pretty vase, too, Waterford. I hope I didn't chip it."

"Serves him right," said Homes. "Well done, Russell. Presence of mind, clear judgment, and decisive action when necessary. Well, well done." I managed a small smile, warmed in spite of myself by my teacher's praise.

"Once he was down, I checked to see if he was breathing, and he was. He must have taken more to drink than just that champagne, because I didn't hit him very hard and it knocked him right cold out. So I turned his head to one side, covered him up with a blanket, and locked the door behind me."

"And then?"

"I absolutely couldn't face Alix and didn't know what to say to anyone. 'Oh hullo, excuse my frock, just ruined it defending my virtue' didn't quite seem like jolly dinner conversation. And I expect it's absurd, Holmes, but I couldn't have stayed there."

"Hmmm?" came from above my hair.

"I wasn't thinking very clearly and I wanted desperately to be somewhere I felt safe, anywhere but there. I suppose I just wanted to go home, and oddly enough home is, well, here. So I slipped out the servant's entrance to the garage and found my car. I puttered out as the first guests were beginning to arrive. No one noticed me. And as you see, I wound up here."

Holmes ruffled my hair "Not so very absurd Russ, you'd had a nasty shock. Though I expect most sensible people might find a desire for my company rather odd. But here you are. And that is all that matters now."

I reached for my glass and took a swallow of the brandy, washing the foul taste of the night from my mouth. "They're probably going to press charges against me for assault. So that's the whole stupid, sordid story, Holmes. Have I told you what you wanted to know?"

"Almost. There's one more datum that may be relevant, though it's a question I must apologise for asking." He paused. "Russell, is there a chance that you..."

I did sit up then and glared at him. " I think I'm still a virgin, Holmes, if that's what you want to know." I bit out. "If that matters to you."

He looked at me gravely, one hand still resting lightly on my shoulder. "No, Russ, that was in fact, not the question. That particular condition has never struck me as significant one way or the other. I don't wish to force your confidences, or to press you to dwell on details that are none of my affair. However, I think it best to ascertain if you are in need of medical attention-or," The grey eyes held mine. "If there is any possibility that this evening's ... unfortunate encounter... might have resulted in the conception of a child."

I went cold with horror at the realisation of what I had so narrowly escaped. A child, what would I have done with a child? With one moreover that would tie me forever to the father, whether I married him or not. And what of my work at Oxford, or my partnership with Holmes? I truly had not allowed myself to consider this possibility until now, between the heat of the moment and its sickening aftermath. It appears we need a better grasp of cause and effect here, Miss Russell, I thought. So I returned my suddenly scarlet face to the lapels of Holmes' dressing gown, which seemed like a very good place for it. "Oh God, Holmes. I 'm an idiot. I hadn't even thought of that."

"One doesn't, always, at such times." He spoke over my head and into the fire; his voice soft with regret and remembered pain. "But that is one area where the consequences of our actions can soon get beyond us. As I know to my cost."

"My dear Russell," Holmes interrupted firmly, "As you may recall, during the course of my years I have in fact managed to father a son. From this you may safely infer that I am well aware of the chain of causality involved. If you say there's no chance of a child, I believe you, and you need not elaborate unless you wish to do so." His voice softened. "But should you by some mischance find you were mistaken, I beg that you will not hesitate to confide in me. You need not be alone."

He blew out his breath. "You've come to far less harm than you might have, this night, Russell. And I am glad of that." He put his fingers under my chin and tipped my face up. It was so like the gesture that David had made when he kissed me that my eyes closed and my lips parted without my giving it conscious thought. I started and opened my eyes to find Holmes' face somewhat closer to mine than was strictly necessary, almost as if he had been going to..no..I shook myself. Don't be absurd, Russell. Holmes, of all people, isn't going to kiss you, for God's sake. He took a deep breath and the corner of his mouth lifted in a familiar half smile.

"So, Russell," he said softly, "Perhaps it's time to find you a place to sleep." He unshipped me gently and stood, stretching his long frame, and extended a hand to help me rise.

Mrs. Hudson's going to be horrified at this mess," I said, holding out my torn and wrinkled skirt. "And I'll have to tell her I didn't dance in it at all."

"Not even one dance? Ah, now, we can't disappoint Mrs. Hudson after all her hard work." The glint of humor had returned to Holmes' eyes.

Despite myself, I felt a faint snort of laughter bubbling up. Surely one couldn't laugh with a freshly broken heart. Surely. "But Holmes", I protested, "there's no music."

"Marvelous invention, the gramophone," he responded blandly, and bent to delve into its cabinet, releasing my hand. He rose with a thick wax disc, which he placed on the turntable.

"And I didn't think you could dance," I added.

He turned toward me and put one hand over his heart, every inch the offended Victorian gentleman except for the now frankly twinkling eyes. "Why, Miss Russell, I must protest! You wound me to the quick! May I hasten to assure you that I've been well instructed in all forms of behavior required in polite society.

I curtseyed, lowered my eyes demurely, and held out my hand in turn. "The pleasure is all mine, sir."

The gramophone played softly, barely audible above the whicker of flames in the dying fire. The tune was "Caprice Viennoise", a lilting melody in a bittersweet minor key, simply arranged for piano and strings. To this day I smile when I hear it. Holmes was a surprisingly good dancer, very graceful for such a tall man and as light on his feet as a cat. He held me at the proper Victorian distance, and guided me around the worn hearthrug with the aplomb of a man gliding down the ballroom floor at the Ritz Carlton. Of course, he adroitly managed to avoid the footstool, the piles of books, and the papers scattered about. I was somewhat less fortunate, and the trailing shreds of my frock had a narrow escape from the floor lamp. After this I took two steps toward him, to dance at the distance my generation preferred. Only to prevent another such mishap, of course. Holmes, no doubt wishing to preserve his furniture, tightened his arm around me to pull me closer still. So I rested my head lightly on his shoulder, and let the music and golden light wash over me, my anchor the warm gentle hands at my back and wrist. As the last notes faded, we stood together for a long moment. Then he stepped back, disengaged the gramophone needle, and bowed to me once more.

"You dance charmingly, Miss Russell."

I fluttered my eyelashes and an imaginary fan.

"Why, thank you Mr. Holmes, you're too kind. I might say the same of you."

Homes and I were both accustomed to donning costumes and assuming roles. This silly bit of playacting seemed to steady us both; a bracing contrast to the unaccustomed intimacy of confidences by the fire. I was able to face him quite calmly as I scrubbed a hand over my face and said "I expect you're annoyingly right as usual, Holmes. I do need sleep. I could drop where I stand. If you can find another blanket I'll just doss down on the sofa."

"You shall do nothing of the kind," he answered with some asperity. "You need to sleep and should sleep in a bed. Since the guest bed isn't made up you shall have to take mine."

"Holmes," I objected "I shouldn't turn you out of your bedroom."

"You should, can, and will. You and I have a well-established agreement that whomever has the fresher injuries has the better claim to any bed available. I took you at your word then, and I won't allow you to renege now, Russell."

"For the sake of the partnership, Holmes?" I asked, touched.

"Indeed. Now come along before I have to carry you."

When we arrived at the bedroom door, I stopped dead, gaping in surprise. "Holmes, what on earth is THAT?"

"A featherbed, Russell. I presume you've seen one before." Indeed it was, and not just any featherbed, but a billowing extravagance of quilting and down. I eyed it like a lost traveler at the gates of paradise. I was also getting the distinct inkling that my evening had descended from tragedy, through melodrama, to comedy. Or perhaps it was farce.

"Holmes, I shall never get your limits!" I was almost laughing. Again. " Where in God's name did this come from?"

"A gift", he said "from an acquaintance of Mycroft's. I did a trifling errand for him while you were at Oxford last term. He sent a coverlet for Mrs. Hudson as well. Very comforting to these old bones on a cold Sussex night."

He paused and gave me a quick appraising look. "Oh, we've one more detail to attend to. Sit down and close your eyes."

"WHAT?"

"We need to clean your face," he said patiently. "The good Mrs. Hudson will take umbrage if this -he gestured towards the smeared ruin of tearstains and cosmetics on his dressing gown- appears on the pillowcases. Sit down and close your eyes."

I sat on the bedroom chair (displacing yet another stack of books) with my hands folded in my lap, and he proceeded to clean my face with a jar of cold cream and scrap of flannel. When the flannel hit a particularly nasty spot I winced, which caused Holmes to mutter a few words that one gentleman customarily does not use to refer to another. At least not in the presence of a lady. Then, to my amazement, he bent down and brushed my slightly greasy forehead with his lips.

"I think you'll do, now" he said quietly. I sat, dumbfounded, while he plopped an old nightshirt onto my lap.

"I shall go downstairs to lock up and smoke a pipe, I think. Good night, Russell."

He turned to go, but I called him back. There was one more thing left to say.

He paused in the doorway. "Yes, Russell?"

"Thank you."

He looked at me, and a small silence, like a note of music, dropped into the room. "It's perhaps I who should thank you," he answered slowly.

"For what? Spoiling your peaceful evening, ruining your dressing gown, and depriving you of your bed?"

"No. For coming ba-, for coming to me in your trouble and honouring me with your trust. Now sleep well, dear Russell. I shan't be far." The door clicked shut behind him.

I crawled out of what was left of my clothes and into Holmes' old nightshirt. Then I fairly tunneled into that glorious featherbed. Clouds of warmth and the faint scent of lavender water from the linens surrounded me. The smoke from Holmes' pipe drifted up the stairs and for a moment, I seemed to hear his voice. We must have awakened Mrs. Hudson, I thought, and he was probably sending her back to bed. I fell asleep, utterly exhausted and yet oddly content.

Interlude - Russell

I dreamt of my father that night. Perhaps it was a sign of healing that I could now dream of my family as they had lived; not just of how they had died. I saw the comfortable, slightly cluttered drawing room of our house in London. I saw my mother with my baby brother in her arms. And I saw myself as a blonde haired child of six bent over The Jungle Book with Daddy.

'What is it? What is it? I do not wish to leave the jungle and I do not know what this is. Am I dying, Bagheera?" I read as Mowgli.

"No, Little Brother." read Daddy as Bagheera.

"Those are only tears such as men use. Now I know thou art a man, and a man's cub no longer. The jungle is shut indeed to thee henceforward. Let them fall, Mowgli; they are only tears."