A/N: This story spoils emotional plot points from the Mary Russell Mysteries, and reveals the occasional element of some of the mysteries (Justice Hall and The Language of Bees so far), but it doesn't reveal the endings and you don't have to read the books to understand the fic.

Literary references include the Doyle canon of Sherlock Holmes in general, His Last Bow in particular, the Mary Russell Mysteries by Laurie R. King, and Shakespeare, especially Hamlet.

Crossposted from the series My Dear Doctor on AO3, where much more of my work lives.

His Last Bow

Von Bork laughed. "They are not very hard to deceive," he remarked. "A more docile, simple folk could not be imagined."

"I don't know about that," said the other thoughtfully. "They have strange limits and one must learn to observe them. It is that surface simplicity of theirs which makes a trap for the stranger. One's first impression is that they are entirely soft. Then one comes suddenly upon something very hard, and you know that you have reached the limit and must adapt yourself to the fact."

- observations on the English by a pair of German Spies, His Last Bow, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

When Elim Garak had first studied the Federation, their culture and language, his interest had almost immediately been drawn to the British Empire. The language and culture of one small island had spread itself across half the world, and then? Well, other Terrans had fought back, gained independence, overthrown the influence of the English.

Or had they?

When the Cardassians had overthrown the Hebetian culture, the whole planet became Cardassia. When they spread into space, the whole empire became Cardassia.

As much as Garak adored and served Cardassia, as much as he would never breathe a word of his opinion to anyone lest he appear disloyal, he found the whole thing a little... unsubtle, for his taste.

The English language had taken root in enough of Earth's nations that it was the one that people learned if they wanted to be able to communicate wherever they went. England may no longer have ruled, but many of the pieces of literature with the most influence on culture seemed to have come from there, well into the twenty-first century.

The latest incarnation of the language may have been renamed Federation Standard, to avoid any unpleasant reminders of its association with Earth, let alone that small island where it had begun, but the simple fact was that it was English words that were spoken in the scope of Federation influence, from Penthara to Caldos, from the Terran island where it had begun to the far-flung outposts of deep space stations.

That was a kind of hidden power that Elim Garak very much admired. Why had that language, that culture, those stories endured and spread across the galaxy while others quietly kept to their pockets on Earth? What was it about England, the English?

As he studied, as he read, he found in those roots a strange, quite alien, but nonetheless appealing idea of nobility in fairness, of sportsmanship, of giving the other side a chance to display their own merits before firmly, if jovially, putting them back in their place.

"After all, you have done your best for your country, and I have done my best for mine, and what could be more natural? Besides," he added, not unkindly, as he laid his hand upon the shoulder of the prostrate man, "it is better than to fall before some more ignoble foe."

To make an enemy feel that, in some vague way, they were an equal, respected, even as they were being brushed aside or tromped underfoot, oh, it was clever. A clever way to make friends of those who might be turned. A clever way to retain dignity while drenched in the mess of deceit and war.

His interest was merely academic, or at least Garak told himself that - until his exile. Then, everything he had ever learned about Federation culture became vitally important. Everything he had theorized about surviving outside the original context of one's culture was about to be tested to its limits.

Could he survive here? Could he come to be respected, enough to make his way among them, and still remain Cardassian enough to hope to one day return to his people?

Perhaps he could find that in-between place, that sort of sportsmanlike attitude that made opponents into friends, without ever compromising oneself to them.

Sacrifices would have to be made, of course, but that was the joy of every Cardassian, to sacrifice for the good of Cardassia.

It could get very lonely, if he was never able to experience fellowship with someone who thought similarly. But Garak had hope, if slim, then still unquenchable, that he would.

"But you, Holmes - you have changed very little - save for that horrible goatee."

"These are the sacrifices one makes for one's country, Watson," said Holmes, pulling at his little tuft. "To-morrow it will be but a dreadful memory. With my hair cut and a few other superficial changes I shall no doubt reappear at Claridge's to-morrow as I was before this American stunt - I beg your pardon, Watson, my well of English seems to be permanently defiled - before this American job came my way."

"But you have retired, Holmes. We heard of you living the life of a hermit among your bees and your books in a small farm upon the South Downs."

It had seemed so strange to Garak, when he had first read the piece. Why would such a man retire, if he could still be of use to the empire he so loved?

Now, in retrospect, it made Garak quite angry. Garak himself had no choice. A sedate, respectable life out of the action was all he could hope for, for now. To survive. To observe. To be useful when the time came.

What in the galaxy could make it bearable?

Someone with whom he could play the English game of spies?