Dreams of death, chaos, blood.
Sherlock Holmes rolled over in the empty bed and stared with glazed eyes at the hollow void. His heart was beating almost franticly against the walls of his chest as he recalled the nightmare that had awoken him. And now this empty space seemed to confirm the nightmare somehow. To give it extra weight and substance. It was frigthening.
And Holmes was rarely frightened.
Agitated, yes. Moody, troubled, addicted, riddled with guilt, angry, estatic, joyful, and tensely wired. But almost never frightened because logic had stripped away all his child's fears. He had never been so frightened by something so simple as a nightmare. Outside, thunder rumbled and he could hear his own voice echoing in his head, speaking to a petrified Mycroft.
At 7, Mycroft had been terrified of thunder and lightning. So much so that he would jump into Sherlock's bed late at night, shaking all over like a wet dog. He'd worn his silken nightgown like a tent. Sherlock hoped that Myrcoft wouldn't accidently crush him, in his urgency to hide from the thunderstorm. He weighed at least five stones more than wiry Sherlock.
I'm afraid.
There's no need to be. Listen to me, Mycroft. Lightning is a natural phenomen, as is thunder. It's completely logical, you know? I think I may have a book about it some place.
It's deadly, Sherlock! Are you completely dense and made of chocolate pudding and sauce? It can stop your heart in an instant. You'll die!
Statiscally rare. It hardly ever happens. Now stop shaking like a dog.
We're not safe. We're both going to die. I know it.
You're safe here. With me, I mean. This is...a secret type of place, my room. No one can die here. You're going to be all right.
"You're safe here," said Holmes, clutching tightly to the pillow. He remembered Russell, slumped over the table, blood blooming on the front of her robes. Lies, lies, lies! He pictured himself holding tight to her arms, trying to comfort her as her eyes closed on the dying rays of evening light.
In his nightmares, he relived the events of two days ago. He knew he would live them again and again until he found closure.
It shouldn't have been so easy for the Arab to throw Russell over his shoulders in the bazaar after injecting the needle. But this is what the man did. Holmes had been a fool not to see the man in the dusty robes stepping out of the alley, the hypodermic clutched under his swirling garment.
When he'd glimpsed the Arab, his hand was already reaching out to clamp over Russel's mouth. The posinous venom in the syringe had sent her limp in an instant. She dangled from the man's strong shoulders, all dead weight, with one arm draped down the massive back. He remembered how her long blond hair, put up into its braid, bounced against the man's back.
Holmes followed the strong Arab into the alley, heart hammering. How could he have been so blind? This man was doubtless an ally of the Mad Arab, whom they had tracked to this no man's land, and were rapidly drawing the final strings of their web tightly around. He would probably carry Russell back to their mad enemy, back to his lair, like a spider toting a bug deeper into its web. He'd been drawing strings around the Arab, but the Arab had spun his own tight web.
Cursing to himself, he followed the Arab to the entrance of a tent with yellow flaps. More sweat dripped into his eyes. He wished, for a split second, that he was back in Sussex, watching over his bees. If he was going to let Russell come to any type of harm through his carelessness, he might as well retire. Perhaps he was overdue to settle down to watching the bees forever. Then he thought of the almost maddening, intoxicating excitement flowing through his veins, erupting in his mind.
It was like a drug. The cure for ennui was often given in a deadly dose.
He followed the Arab into the tent like Alice following the white rabbit into the underbelly of Wonderland. He knew his enemy wouldn't want to waste time with small, meaningless talk. He might not even want to talk at all. Holmes debated, based on his brief glimpse of the brute, if he should draw his revolver from the pocket of his robes. He decided to keep his fingers curled around it. He would be ready.
Holmes appraised the hot, narrow space and his heart sank
Russell was sitting slumped over at the table, her strong body beaten by the injection of the posion. The mad man, at the sight of Holmes standing there, innoculously, his lips parted but soundless, held the knife blade to Russel's chest. As Holmes drew the revolver, the blade plunged into Russell, blood blooming over her tan robes. So much blood. He wanted to scream. His finger prepared to pull the trigger, to kill the man standing over Russell, when a wooden stick cracked sickningly over his firing arm.
The revolver dropped.
A syringe plunged into his neck and it was like a snakebite, like a small kiss of death. He was dizzy. So dizy. Dropping to ground.
Russel! Rusell, Rusell...
Was she all right? Pray God. Let her live. "Russs..."He tried to speak, to call out his dying wifes name, but the posion was already working through his veins. He never imagined that death would be so peaceful, so serene, like floating on a river.
Perhaps, if there was any sort of Vahalla, any kind of Heaven, he would see Russell again. God providing that he was deserving at all. Sometimes he didn't think so. He wasn't sure if he believed, but he tried to murmur a prayer before he would die. He had never, until he was crumbling to the floor, watching Russell bleed out through his glazed eyes, thought it necessary to pray before.
Sherlock Holmes passed out before he could tend to Russell. Before he knew for sure if the well placed knife wound had killed her. Of course it did, whispered the cold voice of rationality. One would have to be dense to believe that such a wound wouldn't be deadly. And yet...the man had kept Sherlock Holmes alive.
He was fairly certain that it was to make him suffer. Her death would eventually kill him, little by little piece by piece. It would eat away at his brillaint mind. And then there was the note that he'd found in the robe pocket after awakening in a heap on the ship back to Sussex. IF YOU WISH TO REMAIN ALIVE, DO NOT BOARD THE BOAT BACK TO ARABIA. REPEAT. DO NOT BOARD THE BOAT.
He had spent 20 minutes analyzing the cramped hand. It most likely belonged to a poorly educated foreigner, a child perhaps? It had the scrawl of a street urchin, but the spelling was proper. He could imagine that an Arab street urchin had been forced to write the note. He could even see the strong brute instructing the child to write more quickly, telling him how to spell the words.
And the purpose of the note? Elementary. So that Holmes would not return to Arabia. Would not continue to seek out the Mad Arab.
But Russ? What had happened to his wife?
He smoked cigarette after cigarete, his hands shaking uncontrollably despite himself. He wasn't sure what to say to Mrs. Hudson when she asked where Russell was. He shouted at her- "Leave me alone! I need space to think!" And she had gone away, deeply hurt. He couldn't convince himself that Russell was either dead or alive. He wished he could weep at his mounting horror, revulsion, and overwhelming loss, but the dam in his chest would not break. His eyes remained drier than the desert sands of Arabia, where he'd tracked the Mad Arab with Russell always beside him.
Except now she wasn't. Was probably dead. He'd relaized with an aching stab of pain that he needed to talk to her. The only way he was going to figure anything out was talking to her. She had always been there when he needed someone to bounce ideas off.
"Everything is all right..." Murmurred Sherlock Holmes, laying in bed with Russell's pillow clutched to his chest. After waking from the nightmare, franticly going over every fact he knew, he had fallen back to sleep. The room around him faded, replaced by Russell slumped over at the table, the blood spreading over her chest. In the dream, he was able to stagger over to her unlike in real life. He held tight to both of her arms. When she lifted her head, he looked deeply into her eyes.
"Russell, relax."
"What happened? Did I bang my head? I think I hear the bees, Holmes! We were just walking the Downs weren't we?"
"Be strong for me. We're going to the doctor. Everything's going to be all right." Lies. Just as he'd told Mycroft in the thunderstorm. He'd been no more certain himself that they would live.
In the dream, Russell looked down and saw the blood spreading from the wound in her chest. She tried hard to keep her eyes open. "Holmes, Holmes...I'm...If I...die...I don't regret this. I don't...I don't...can't regret helping you. Ever."
"Russell, Russelll..." He was surprised at the waves of emotion rolling over him. Madness. She would not die. He would not let it happen. "You're safe now. I'm here. Breathe. You're in shock."
"I love you Holmes."
Her eyes closed for the last time on the dusty shafts of afternoon life. "I...I love you too." he woke up saying the three words over and over again.
"Do you want to know something?" Russell's voice. Speaking to him as he lay with his eyes closed. He didn't want this to be another dream.
"You never told me you loved me when I was alive."
"Thought you knew. Did my saying it...did it make you happy?"
"Yes. You shouldn't blame yourself for what happened."
Holmes was deep in thought for a moment."I should have seen him. Something...something's wrong here, Russell! Tell me what it is. Should I go back to Arabia?"
"No. But I could stay here. We could watch the bees together. Take walks on the Downs. Nothing would have to change. I don't have to leave you so quickly. I can stay around for a while, you know?"
"That would only be madness. I won't let you...not yet."
"HOLMES!" He threw open his eyes to see Mrs. Hudson standing over the bed, a telegram clasped in her hands. "A telegram from Russell here."
He leapt out of bed, hands shaking violently. His eyes rapildy scanned the words. COMING HOME SOON. BUSINESS DONE. HAVE STORY TO TELL. MR.
"By jove!" He was seized by exalation, of a need to read the words over and over. COMING HOME SOON. Mrs. Hudson, as always, didn't know what to make of her strange lodger. Just yesterday, he had shouted for her to go away in the most unpleasent terms.
"Prepare a large supper for tonight, Mrs. Hudson. Russell's going to be famished."
Later that evening, as Mrs. Hudson was happily throwing about pots in the kitchen, he saw the robed woman approaching along the footpath. With a pipe clenched firmly between his teeth, he went to stand on the wide front porch. Mary's hair was tied in a loose bun, the front of her robes stained with dried blood. Mary Russell watched her husband curiously, always amazed by his the unreadble lines of his face. What gave Holmes away were his eyes, windows to the soul indeed.
Joy, excitement, nerves. For once, she was unable to say what the eyes projected. They seemed to shine with something almost like lightning or quicksilver. A brilliant flash. Passion.
"Russell!" He rushed over the path to meet her. "Are you all right?" He stared with alarm at the dried blood on the tan robes, then up into his wife's eyes. They stood facing each other for an awkward second, unsure whether to embrace. Finally, Holmes patted Russell tentaviely on the back."
"Yes. The wound was quite superficial. Actually, it was indeed transparent."
She enjoyed the shocked look on his face more than she should have. "Pray tell."
"A pint of pig's blood, a willing accomplice, and a fake knife can work wonders."
He bit down thoughtfully on the stem of the pipe, trying to piece together what she'd said.
"Let me explain, Holmes. I thought you may have figured it all out. First off, I'm sorry. I know it looked awful to you." She averted her eyes momentarily, ashamed. "What happened is this: The Mad Arab's brother, Oman, sent me a telegram, saying that he knew his brother meant to kill us for interfering with his affairs. Together, we thought about it, decided on a plan. Certainly dangerous, and a little mad of itself. But Oman was to pretend to capture me, to hold me hostage with a knife. And you were to follow us into the tent. Oman made a plan with his mad brother, telling him he was going to capture me. Oman told his brother they would kill us together. When you came after us,like we knew you would, the Mad Arab was waiting with the syringe, which he managed to use before Scotland Yard could take him down. Sorry. Likely, the last sight you saw of me was the odd scene with the pig's blood, cooked up so that the Mad Arab would believe it was real. Not just the trickery it was. "
Holmes was too stunned to speak. He surveyed his wife in awe. "Russell, but how did you know Oman didn't intend to kill you?"
"Well...It was in his eyes. You told me eyes are windows to the soul once. You were right. Oman's brother killed their parents. He stole away Oman's wife. There was no trickery in him. He wanted to see his brother finally caught. Also, it was me who boarded you onto the ship for Sussex. I had a few lines to tie up at Scotland Yard, so I left you the note about not jumping the ship back to Arabia. I...I suppose I wanted to see if you would figure it all out. But I sent you the telegram I was coming home the next day so you wouldn't fret yourself to death. "
A tinny part of Holmes thought she'd wanted him to suffer a little. To be, for once, adrift and confused. Worried for her wellbeing in exchange for all the hours she'd fretted at his disaperances.
She paused for breath, looking at him carefully. "Well, what do you think."
For a moment, he didn't speak, but stared at her intently. "I think you're mad, genuis. And you did..." He puffed at his pipe. "Exactly what I would have done."
Russell beamed. "Oh what a wicked web we all weave," she quoted.
"Indeed." He looked at her so intensly that her face began to burn. Yet, she could not look away. "I'm proud of you Russell. You've finally beaten me. Game, set, match. You should be proud."
Tears brimmed in her eyes without warning. She had waited so long to hear these words. These, and others. She'd never known how much she'd wanted to hear these words until now. Needed to hear them. She removed her wire frames and swiped at her eyes. "Thank you, Holmes. It's just...sometimes I wonder if I deserve this. Our partnership, I mean. I always thought I would be alone."
Holmes squeezed her hand. "Of course you do. I have something to show you before I forget. Or before I talk myself down. Come here, Russell, before the sun should set and spoil our plans."
She followed him over the Downs, towards one of the hives with its happily buzzing bees. "You know I've always been fascinated by bees, don't you?"
"Mmmm..." said Russell, wondering why he'd brought her out here when her feet ached.
"I've always believed that they say a lot about human nature. You've read my books, haven't you?"
"Yes. Why do you-"
Holmes stared thoughtfully at the lively hive, then over at his partner, shifting foot to foot in the long grass.
"Sit down here with me." He still held tight to her hand as they sat together in the grass near the hive. He looked intently into her eyes. "Do you know what happens when the queen of the hive dies, Russell?" She was shocked to hear his voice break on the last note.
"The rest of the hive-"
"They all die. The entire hive. For an outsider, looking at the bees, it's easy to say that the queen doesn't matter, but the hive can't live without her. When she dies, chaos followed by death are the only conclusions."
"That's very sad, Holmes," said Russell. She laid a hand gently on his face. "But I've read it in your books before."
Holmes took a deep breath. "Let me explain it more. You saved me. The day we first met on the Downs, I was on the verge of crumbling. I would have died! I was going to kill myself, Russell! Then you put my hive back together again. I...thank you, thank you. I owe you a million debts. I would die without you here. I would have no purpose to live. Nothing to live for. I love you." He covered his face with his hands. Russell heard a series of wet choking sounds that nearly broke her heart.
I love you. Three simple words, but everything was so clearly defined now. So wonderful. Her own tears slid down her cheeks in silence. When Holmes removed his hands, his face was streaked with tears, his eyes raw. Those eyes seemed to penetrate to the core of her soul.
"I love you too, Holmes." She listened to the sound of his heart and to the bees. It was good. Life was good.
Loved? Hated? Meh? I love reviews! So yes, I'm aware that this is a rather long one shot, but I had a dream about Mary Russell and I wanted to get it down. Of course, infuriatingly, I lost the entire document the first time I wrote it. So, I wrote it again, then saved it multiple places. I hope you enjoy, as I always do when writing, or what would be the point? And if I took character liberty's I always remember that writing Mary Russell is a bit of fanfiction within a fanfiction, eh? :)