I own nothing. The BBC and Laurie R. King do. Some of the dialogue and descriptions are adapted (not verbatim) from Laurie R. King's book "The Beekeeper's Apprentice", as I felt the specific conversation that Holmes and Mary have in the beginning are extremely important to her character. Thanks for reading, reviewing, favoriting and following.
A tall figure disturbed the desolation of Dartmoor, a lonely figure, nose buried in a book. The youth navigated the rocky landscape with little care, and it was an amazing feat that she had not yet fallen and injured an ankle.
Spring was arriving upon the land. But the moors were still cold, and the winds bit the earth and whistled about the granite. The girl absently pulled her ragged coat tighter, continuing to walk as she read, rounding an exceptionally large tor.
A hiss abruptly startled her from her tome as she stepped on something soft and fell backwards when it was jerked from underneath her foot.
She swore as she landed on her backside, her book flying over her head. She heaved herself up to a sitting position to find a youngish man, sitting in the shadow of the tor, clutching his hand. He was gaunt, his grey eyes sparking above his prominent cheekbones and rather unfortunate hawk nose below his unkempt dark hair. He was dressed in a ragged coat over rough trousers and a dirty grey shirt, scuffed and worn trekking boots on his feet, complete with a hole in the right toe. Possibly a tramp. Or some kind of hipster. He was glaring at her.
She glared back, her glasses perched low and severe on her nose. "What the hell are you doing?" She demanded. "Lying in wait for someone?!" She stood, snatched up her book and began to dust it off.
He raised an eyebrow and smirked. "I don't think I can be accused of 'lying' anywhere. I am seated openly on an uncluttered hillside, minding my own business. Or at least I am when not fending off clumsy individuals who attempt to trample me." He bit out, in an educated accent.
The girl threw back her shoulders and lifted her chin. The man had unknowingly trod on a sore spot with his words. "You still have not answered my question, sir." She growled.
He ignored her fury. "What the hell am I doing here you mean?"
"Exactly".
"I like the scenery". He said flatly, staring ahead.
The girl looked at him warily, then stuffing her book in her pocket, sat down, and looked out at the vista he claimed to be enjoying. The hill rolled downwards from their Tor at it's peak, and came up again about a quarter of a mile away. Nestled into the opposite hill was a small lodge. From this structure, it would be nearly impossible to spot the girl and the man from their position, nestled as they were into the middle of the rock. Their dark clothes certainly helped.
She looked meditatively over at the young man. He ignored her. She turned back to the lodge.
"It's being rented out. The owner is on extended holiday in America and is far too stupid and cowardly to knowingly be involved in their operation. Deliveries come in at around three a.m. Every Saturday morning in an unmarked white van. Every Sunday evening at about eleven they depart in an old battered Toyota truck with a canopy, and head south. Presumably to Plymouth. Then probably on to Mauritania. But you probably already guessed the destination. If I were to conduct a raid, I would probably ascertain who their supplier is and their contacts at the ports first, then coordinate a simultaneous raid on the lodge when they are receiving their delivery while targeting the port contacts and their supplier, thus eliminating the possibility of word reaching the other branches of the operation about the bust before measures can be taken." The girl clicked her teeth, finishing her speech.
The girl took her book out of her pocket and stood, turning to the man to wish him a good day and found him gaping like a fish. She blinked, confused.
The man stood, still staring at her. "WHAT did you say?
"Sorry, are you hard of hearing?" The girl had raised her voice and spoke slowly.
"I am not hard of hearing, just short on credulity. Did they send you up here to talk at me? I suppose you probably have a gun somewhere about your person. First kill is it?"
The girl snorted. "No. I am unattached to the operation, merely an observer. I live on a farm with my aunt quite near here."
The man regarded her suspiciously. "How did you know I wasn't just a tramp or a hiker admiring a handsome lodge?"
"It is obvious. You have no pack, therefore you must be situated somewhere nearby, sleeping rough as there are no nearby towns. It is a strange place for a casual hiker, and stranger for a tramp who wishes to have at least a meal a day. You are perfectly situated in this tor so as not to be seen. You have a handgun in a shoulder holster, you are tense, and your gaze was sharp and calculating, fixed on the lodge: not the look of a casual nature freak enjoying their surroundings."
The man no longer resembled a fish. He looked down his nose at her with disdain in his cold grey eyes, reminding her of a bird of prey she had once seen, gazing at lesser mortals. "My god." He said in a voice of mock wonder. "It can think."
The girl's anger flared once more. She threw her chin up again, glaring. "My god, it can recognize another human being when it's beaned over the head with one. And to think I thought most educated middle aged men had decent manners." The girl saw her blows strike home.
The man smirked condescendingly, stooping to pick up his cap and shoved it onto his head.
His next words had a sarcastic bent to them. "Young man, I-"
"Young MAN!" With a surge of glee the girl seized on the weapon he had given her. "Young man? It's a damned good thing you faked your own death and faded from the public's eye if that is all that remains of the great detective's mind! How embarrassing." The girl reached for the brim of her cap and her long blonde plaits slithered down her back.
The assumption about her gender was understandable, besides her hair having been hidden she was dressed in rough clothing and her coat hid most of her body, she was tall, her voice was low and she wore no makeup.
A series of emotions crossed the man's face, rich reward for the girl's victory. Simple surprise was followed by rueful defeat. He surprised her then. His eyes crinkled, his lips twitched and he finally threw back his head and laughed. It shocked her to see his haughty face dissolve into helpless laughter. It was disarming.
Sherlock Holmes wiped his eyes on his dirty coat, streaking dirt across his face and he looked up at the girl, seeing her for the first time. After a minute he gestured to the lodge. "So you know something about the gun running then?"
"Very little."
"You are not involved with or against them?"
"No. I merely observe my surroundings."
"You observe your surroundings at three in the mornings on Saturdays?"
"I find it much more interesting than staying indoors with an evil harridan."
He raised his eyebrow, facing back towards the lodge, and they stood silent for a few more minutes.
Abruptly his attention was caught by a bee buzzing in front of his face, and he reached out and gently touched it with his long fingers. It did not seem to disturb the bee, which hovered for a bit as if watching him, then flew away.
"Have you any interest in bees?"
The girl quirked an eyebrow. "No."
"Tell me, why such a firm opinion?"
She glanced at him to see if he was mocking her. "From what I know of bees they are mindless creatures, just a tool for putting fruit on trees. The females do all the work; the males do...well, very little. And the queen, the only one who might amount to something, is condemned for the sake of the hive to spend her days as an egg machine. And," She said, warming to the topic, "what happens when her equal comes along, another queen with which she might have something in common? They are both forced - for the good of the hive - to fight to the death. Bees are great workers, it is true, but does not the production of each bee's total lifetime amount to a single dessert-spoonful of honey? Each hive puts up with having hundreds of thousands of bee-hours stolen regularly, to be spread on toast and formed into candles, instead of declaring bloody war or going on strike as any sensible, self-respecting race would do. Way too close to the human race for my taste."
Sherlock Holmes had sat down upon his heels in the midst of her tirade, his eyes fixed on the land and the lodge, which was now showing signs of activity. He watched the world in front of him, and murmured, almost to himself, "Yes, they are very like Homo Sapiens. Maybe that is why they interest me."
"I don't know how sapient you find most Homines, but I for one find the classification an optimistic misnomer." The girl sat on her heels next to him. She seemed pleased when he responded.
"Homo in general, or just vir?" His solemnity made her realize he was subtly laughing at her.
"Oh no. I am a feminist, but not a man hater. A misanthrope in general, much like yourself I suppose. However, unlike you, I consider women to be marginally the more rational half of the race, generally."
He laughed again, quieter than before. The girl's mouth quirked.
"You've made me laugh twice today, which is more than I have in quite a while. I have little humor to offer in return, but if you would accompany me to my home, I could at least offer you a cup of tea."
The girl raised an eyebrow. "I believe I am supposed to flee and find the nearest officer of the law when asked by strange men to go with them, but nevertheless, I would be pleased to accept your offer of tea, Mr. Holmes."
"You know my name, what is yours?"
"My name is Mary Russell." She held out her hand, and he took it in his own, and they shook as if cementing a peace pact, which they were.
"Mary." He said, tasting it, pronouncing it in the Irish manner, caressing the first syllable. "That's a very orthodox name."
"I do believe I was named for the Magdalene rather than the Virgin."
"That explains it. Shall we go?"
The two shabby figures walked for miles, and since it was in the general direction of the girl's place of origin she did not protest. They both found themselves enjoying their expedition, discussing a variety of different topics. He gestured wildly atop a tor when comparing the management of bee hives with Machiavellian theories of government, and they both stopped in the middle of a stream to debate the similarities between the swarming of hives to the economic roots of war. He spoke of his blog, and his analysis of tobacco ash, and for the first time he found someone that had read it.
As they walked, Russell found herself relaxing and simply enjoying spending time with another rational and intelligent human being. By the time they squelched into what was apparently his camp they had known each other forever.
His setup was hidden in a small nearly rock free dip in the middle of a large tor, creating a sort of natural fortress and shelter from the wind. A small one man army tent was pitched next to two small rocks, and a propane burner sat near a small kettle and a cup.
Holmes dove into his tent, removing a backpack. He sat himself down on one of the rocks, and she on the other as he began to excavate a jug of water, a package of loose tea and a small bowl.
"Only one set of everything, I'll take the bowl." He said briefly.
Russell made a noise acknowledging his statement and he set about making them tea.
It took a little while on the tiny stove, but eventually their drinking receptacles warmed their hands. They sat in contented silence for a while, the wind whistling above their heads, until their reverie was broken by the insistent growling of the girl's stomach.
Holmes raised an eyebrow, returning to his backpack, rummaged around and tossed her the result of his efforts. She took the energy bar gratefully and inhaled it. He returned to his backpack then tossed her another. This too disappeared. He grinned.
Russell paused after finishing the last crumbs, looking meditatively at Sherlock. "I didn't just eat all of your food did I? How long will you be camped here? The village store is twenty miles away."
"I avoid eating while on a case. It slows me down. If I really need to I could attempt to ensnare a rabbit. I won't starve."
They lapsed into silence once again.
...
"Tell me about yourself, Mary Russell." Sherlock said suddenly.
She flatly began the normal string of words that would constitute an answer, but she quickly realized he was bored, and barely listening, so she stopped. "Why don't you tell me about myself Sherlock Holmes?"
"A challenge?" He queried, a flare of interest in his eyes.
"Exactly." She grinned.
"I have a condition."
"What is it?"
"You do the same afterwards."
"Agreed."
"Good."
He gave her a piercing look. "I see Mary Russell, named for her paternal grandmother."
She touched the locket with the initials MMR inscribed on it that was visible around her neck. She nodded, following his reasoning.
"You are...seventeen, nearly eighteen? You are not in school and intend to pass the university entrance examinations." Russell touched the book in her pocket, nodding. You are left handed and your...mother...was Jewish, and you read and write Hebrew. You are at present two inches shorter than your American father. Those were his clothes? All right so far?"
"The Hebrew?"
"The ink marks on your fingers could only have come from writing right to left."
She looked at the smears near her left thumbnail. "You impress me."
He snorted. "Parlor games. The accents are interesting. You have come recently from your father's home in the western United States, most likely California. Your mother was one generation away from Cockney Jew, and you grew up on the southwestern edge of London. Moved to California within the last two years. Sometime between then and December both parents died, possibly in the same accident in which you were involved last September or October, and accident that has left scar tissue on your throat, scalp, and right hand, a residual weakness in said hand, and a slight stiffness of the left knee."
Russell tensed, no longer entertained.
"After your recovery you were sent home to your mother's family, to a tight fisted and unsympathetic relative that feeds you rather less than you need." He turned his gaze back to Russell.
"Oh. Not good?" Sherlock's voice was an odd mixture of sympathy and irritation. "I have been told that I do have a tendency to tread where I shouldn't. I'm sorry."
Russell shrugged stiffly, deciding not to attempt to speak through the lump in her throat. Holmes went back to his back pack again, retrieving a small flask. He handed it to her, and she took a gulp, then handed it back. The lump in her throat slowly receded.
"A few hundred years ago you would have been burnt as a witch." The girl huffed, trying for dry humor.
"So I've been previously informed." He laughed, quietly. "Although I can't say I can see myself in a tattered dress cackling over a cauldron."
She chuckled.
"Shall I...continue?"
"If you want to."
"Your parents were relatively wealthy and you will soon inherit, which, combined with your considerable intelligence makes it impossible for the trailsome relative to bring you to heel. Which is why you wander the moors alone and remain away until all hours."
"You are right, Sherlock Holmes, I will inherit, and my aunt does find my actions contradictory to how she thinks I should act, and because she holds the keys to pantry she tries to buy my obedience with food, which is why I tend to have rather less than I want. One major flaw though. I did not come to Dartmoor to live with my aunt, the farmhouse belonged to my mother. Some of my happiest memories are here. Technically my aunt came to live with me. I made it a condition of accepting her as my guardian. Unfortunately she holds me hostage, controlling the finances and my life until I turn eighteen, which, thankfully, is not far away."
Another might have missed the loathing in her voice, but not him. She quickly changed the subject. "The sun is setting. I live two miles north of here. I should go." He stood when she did.
"Unfortunately I am unable to call a taxi on the moor. However, if you wish it I could accompany you back for part of the distance." He offered.
"If you want to."
Holmes quickly shoved his backpack into his tent and they walked out of the tor. He was quiet for a while, but abruptly he asked a question as they marched along. "I have a rather dim view of humanity. About your will..."
"In the event of my death my aunt would only get an adequate yearly amount. Not any more than she gets now." Russel replied. Sherlock looked relieved. They studied each other for a moment, then focused their attention on the moor ahead.
It could have been called the beginnings of some sort of affection she had seen in his face. And discovering his quick and uncluttered mind had begun to make something sing within her.
They made an odd pair, the gangling, bespectacled girl, and the tattered, lanky, sardonic dead man. Blessed or cursed with minds of a hard brilliance that alienated all but the most tenacious. It never occurred to either that they would never see each other again. They both had accepted the other's unspoken oblique offer of friendship.
"I never told you about yourself, Sherlock Holmes."
"Go ahead. Just don't rely totally on what you've most likely read from Watson's damned blog."
"I shall endeavor to avoid his incisive observations." She replied, dryly. "You seem to be around the age of thirty. You come from a moderately wealthy background, though your relationship with your parents is not entirely a happy one. Based on the blog, you told your friend Watson little about your childhood, as someone as from such a normal background could scarce understand what it was like for someone with a mind like yours growing up." An appreciative look spread on Holmes' face. She smiled, happy.
"I would say that your lack of any romantic relationship - basing this assumption of your personal life on gossip and inference - is due to being unable to find someone that could keep pace with you and I think that someone such as you would find it impossible to have a romantic relationship with a woman - or a man...? - if it wasn't all inclusive. You would want a romantic relationship that totally integrated all parts of your lives, unlike the unequal friendship you have with John Watson." Mary looked at Sherlock again, noting the war between amusement and anger on his face. She felt somewhat better about the casual hurt he had dealt her earlier, and she continued on.
"I believe you are dismantling Moriarty's criminal network now that he is dead - which is why you are here - and faking your death - most likely with your brother's help - was necessary for your anonymity. And, I think, your sanity. Though some were your friends, in London you were surrounded by small minds, small minds that made infuriatingly trivial demands on your time. You had also become quite a sensation. Famous. Such attention would become overwhelming and disruptive to someone who likes to observe, working unnoticed in the shadows. Though your face is widely known, now, with a few minor alterations to your appearance, you would once again be anonymous." She waved her hand in the general direction of his uncharacteristically scruffy face. "No one expects to see a dead man." Holmes nodded in agreement at the last statement.
She paused, then: "I would say dying was a relief for you. I think you like being dead."
Sherlock looked at her for a moment, this time not betraying his thoughts. He turned back to the horizon. He changed the subject.
"What will you study at University?"
Russell's lips quirked, mentally predicting his reaction. "Theology."
He reacted as she expected, proclaiming it a waste of her talents.
They climbed to the top of the next Tor, and she stopped him, pointing ahead. "My house is only about half a mile ahead, I can see it in the distance. It would be better if my aunt did not see you. Thank you for accompanying me." Russell held out her hand and they shook again.
"Until next time Holmes."
"Until next time, Russell."
She turned on her heel, and headed for the farmhouse. She set her shoulders and clenched her fists unconsciously as she approached, then turned, noting Holmes was still sky lined on the hill. She waved, and he waved back, then he disappeared in the twilight.