Disclaimer: Based on Laurie R. King's Mary Russell novels, of which I am clearly not the author. I claim no ownership of characters or any other novel extracts.
Author's Note from Erkith: I've only recently begun following Russell's adventures, so actual events of the books may differ from what is written here… in fact, it is my intention to do just that. Play with the "what if"s.
Always been a big fan of Holmes, I can't help but write from his perspective, though I've another Russell fic in mind… I'll get that out there soon I hope…
Please enjoy!
Erkith
Under Lock and Key
Chapter 1: Blind Desperation
By now, as you are reading this sorry document, you have no doubt read the works of my two separate biographers; neither of which are without their inaccuracies.
Where Watson, my first biographer, excelled was in snaring the mind of the average reader into what can only be labeled as an intriguing set of mysteries. Unfortunately, in his collaboration with the infernal Conan Doyle, Watson has neglected entire facets of my character and much of the art of deduction. His recounts are incomplete and romantic. You would be hard pressed to find one of my failures in his collection of cases. I don't imagine that the thought of including them even crossed his loyal mind. My dear Watson would consider it a betrayal of our friendship.
Thus, my life became a myth – much to the amusement of my wife.
Russell has felt no such compulsion to glorify me into legend. Her narratives are – no doubt at my influence – long, detailed accounts wrought with uncompromised truth and, yes, some of my less brilliant moments. The woman spares me very little sympathy. She tends to bask in my blunders, as one does under a rare London sun. Do note that I say this with some tolerance, for I am well aware that I exhibit equally irritating qualities.
Of the two, I find Russell is the more effective biographer, given: knowledge and intuition far surpassing my friend's, years under my tutelage, hours spent studying my notebooks, and being my wife and partner; this is not surprising. She possesses a superior grasp on my motivations. Still, even she is blind in some areas.
It is only now, in my boredom, that I deign to correct them – does that not say something about the depth of the monotony plaguing my life at the moment?
There are no cases of interest laying themselves before my well-rested eyes. My tools rust and become dust-covered as in-action expands them to relics. I've literally nothing to do here in Sussex other than tend my bees; which, while demanding, does not stimulate my mind. Even Russell ceases to amuse, but then she is perhaps a catalyst in my restless disposition.
My Russ is blind in one area – herself. She cannot fathom the depth of the feelings I hold for her, nor does she see the hurt her absorption inflicts in my person. She is so enthralled in her Hebrew lecture that I can go entire days without inciting so much as a passing glance from her, never mind a word or question. She has not even noticed when I have secluded myself for days at a time. I'm at the point where I bring her coffee, simply so I may receive the automatic thank you.
I'm getting desperate.
Last week, I considered returning to drugs to see if that snapped her nose out of her books. Immature, but my desperation is out of control. She barely responds to direct stimuli. She ignores questions, falls asleep at her desk, and eats with fork in hand and book on lap. Would she even notice?
Her studies consume her completely, leaving her blind to all else – or is it just me…
A/N: Comments (reviews) are much appreciated
a) Because I write faster that way
b) Because then my writing improves :D
Hope you enjoyed this chap!