Title: Condolences
Author: LizBee
Summary: Sir Arthur Conan Doyle has a brief encounter with Holmes.
Warnings: Um. Angst. Real people.
Fandom: Mary Russell (Sherlock Holmes)
Spoilers: Nope.
Disclaimer: Russell is the property of Laurie R. King. Holmes is public domain, although it's probably only fair to name-check Arthur Conan Doyle. Who, incidentally, belongs to himself, and let me tell you, authors make the worst characters.
Notes: One day, I shall write something fluffy. Holmes/Russell weddingfic, perhaps. There's an area ripe for screwball comedy. Until that day comes, just bear with me while I inflict horrible pain on these characters. It's only because I love them so much, really.

Condolences
by LizBee

Truth be told, Doyle had never liked Holmes. They had only met half a dozen times over thirty years, but the man had a disconcerting way of looking straight through him, and in any case, Doyle was never comfortable spending time with the legend upon whom his career was founded.

Anyway, he strongly suspected that the dislike was mutual.

But still. At a time like this, he was prepared to brave that supercilious gaze.

Although, he thought as Holmes, hearing his name, turned to face him, he'd forgotten how tall the man was. And thin; although surely Holmes had never been this thin before. He moved slowly, as if he were in pain. Rheumatism, Doyle had heard, and age, and grief.

Doyle could sympathise.

"Can I help you, Doyle?" That sarcastic drawl, at least, hadn't changed.

He drew himself up to his full height, ineffective as that was. "I'm sorry to intrude," he said, "but I wished to express my condolences."

"'Condolences'," Holmes echoed, as if he'd never heard the word before -- or as if he simply never wanted to hear it again.

Doyle knew that feeling, too.

"For your wife," he said. "I heard of her ... passing."

It was the violence of the girl's death that had caught his attention; only later had he registered whose wife she was. Shocking violence, to be perpetrated against a young woman. But then, death made no distinction between youth or experience, and mere womanhood was no proof against a man with a knife and large strangling hands.

Holmes's face was unreadable, but there was a look in his eye that made Doyle think twice about mentioning the great comfort to be derived from Spiritualism. Instead, he merely muttered something polite and unremarkable, and went on his way.

As he reached the end of the street, some impulse made him turn back, and he watched Holmes walk slowly down the street, his straight spine and cold stare defying anyone to crack his armour.

end

Feedback is very much appreciated, for it is like unto crack. And as I sit in my attic, scratching out an entirely random romp about Holmes's 'lovely lost son', feedback keeps me sane, or at least passing for sane.

Actual attic may not exist.