Title: The Shadow Kills the Growth
Author: LizBee
Summary: Holmes's death is the catalyst for a family reunion of sorts.
Rated: PG-13
Warnings: Ooh, character death, please! O-for-Offspring, legitimate and otherwise.
Fandom: Mary Russell
Spoilers: Eh, say all of 'em.
Disclaimer: Not mine. No profit. Now read on.
Notes: This is actually the prologue to a longer fic, but as that fic is almost finished (needs a heavy edit and some plot-wrangling), I thought I'd post the first section now. It has its origins in an AIM conversation many months back, when my partner-in-crime Branwyn made a point that should have been obvious: The "lovely lost son" mentioned in MREG (if he were alive, and I see no evidence to the contrary) would be a brother to any child Holmes had with Russell (an unlikely event, true, but what else is fan fiction for?). I'm a sucker for stories about siblings, parents and emotional legacies, and so this story was born. Jonathan Holmes has made earlier appearances in my fics "Seasons" and "The Downstairs Tenant", and in Branwyn's fics "Personal History" and "Quality Time" (branwyn at mirrordance dot net). Title comes from the Jonson quote below.
Email: elizabeth underscore barr at yahoo dot com dot au

The Shadow Kills the Growth
by LizBee

"Greatness of name in the father oft-times overwhelms the son; they stand too near one another."
Ben Jonson, Timber

1933

My father died in the early weeks of June, succumbing at last to the cancer that had been consuming him since I was six. It was pneumonia that finished him in the end. He had become uncharacteristically garrulous in the final weeks, but his strength gave out at last, and for days, it seemed that the only sound in the world was his laboured breathing.

My mother, it sometimes seemed, had hardly spoken for months. When she did, it was in a low voice, as if she lacked the strength to make herself heard. Some childish part of me was convinced that she, too, was going to die, but we never discussed it. She nursed my father, dealt with the doctor and took long, solitary walks across the Downs, from which she returned with tight lips and red eyes.

Most of my days were spent with my father, my tutors having been dismissed back in March. Outsiders were not presently welcome in our lives, and in any case, Father's lessons were more rewarding. When he had the strength, he told me about old cases, some of which were well-known, and some of which he was sharing for the first time. My mother was in and out of the room, smiling occasionally at some memory, but usually looking drawn and serious. One night, I fell asleep with my head on Father's shoulder, and woke to hear my parents arguing in low voices. She had a syringe in her hands, but he was refusing the injection.

"I suppose you'd rather have the pain," she was saying.

"Possession of my own mind." He had to pause for breath. "The pain is a small price."

She said, "The irony borders on the absurd, Holmes," but I heard her return the syringe to its box and place it in a drawer. Then her hands closed over my shoulders and she pulled me gently to my feet and led me to my own room. I waited by the door, listening to the creak of the bed in the guest room as she went to rest. Then I slipped back to my father's side. She found me there the next morning, but said nothing.

He died four days later, after lunch. That evening, when the doctor, the undertaker and the sundry invading strangers had left, Mother took me out to the cliffs, and we watched the waves below. We didn't speak, but her hand was reassuringly tight around mine.

The funeral, three days later, was attended by an eclectic group of friends, associates and even – I thought – a few old enemies, now toothless and stooped, inclined to stare at me and avoid my mother's eye. She ignored them politely, along with the newspapermen who congregated at the gates of the graveyard. But her jaw was clenched, and when they began to creep closer, she leaned over to my godfather and I heard her say, "For God's sake, Peter, send them away. I can't face them today."

He squeezed her arm and set off, his set jaw lending a certain gravitas to his otherwise foolish face. My mother's attention was consumed by my uncle, who seemed indecently robust compared with Father, and if either of them noticed me as I slipped away to follow Lord Peter, they said nothing.

He slowed when he saw me behind him, but his attention was on the journalist and photographer. In a civil tone he said, "Now really, gentlemen, have some thought for the feelings of the family."

"Got to think of the feelings of the public, too, my lord." The journalist offered Lord Peter a cheeky smile, which he did not return. "'It's with a heavy heart that I take up this pen', and all that."

He evidently considered this evidence of literacy. His photographer-colleague looked slightly embarrassed, but he also looked like he was mentally lining up a shot: Aristocratic sleuth comforts great detective's son.

"Leave," said Peter. "This is a cemetery, not a courthouse. Go and pump the locals for anecdotes if you must." He took a step forward, all charm and affability. "You'll get nothing from the people here."

The journalist stepped back. His colleague was already retreating.

"Good lads."

Lord Peter turned and met my gaze with a look of grim satisfaction, and squeezed my shoulder as we walked back. I wondered why he wasn't worried that the reporters would linger, but they left quickly, and we later heard that they'd spent the afternoon in Mrs Whiteneck's pub, pressing her for stories about my father and his family. In the end, remarkably little was published. I suspected my uncle's influence.

I found my mother in conversation with the Dowager Duchess of Beauville. I made my way through the crowd until I found the fifteen-year-old Duke himself. He was half-hidden behind an old-fashioned tombstone, hands in his pockets, watching the proceedings with a melancholy look. He greeted me with a vague wave and said, "Mother is trying to invite you down to Justice Hall for the rest of the summer."

"She won't leave," I said. I took a seat on a fifty-year-old grave. "She'll say she's busy here."

Gabe joined me. "Fair enough, I suppose, but it would have been nice to have you around for the summer. Lenore has a beau." He pulled a face. "Aunt Phyllida is frantic, and Uncle Sidney has decided this is the perfect time to tell me about being a man."

He paused so I could appreciate the full horror of this situation.

"I didn't like to tell him that I already know. He hasn't forgiven me for being expelled from Eton yet." He brooded and scuffed his shoe along the stone. "I'll miss your father," he said eventually. "He was sensible, at least."

"Yes," I said. "I know."

We sat and watched the mourners in companionable silence until it was time to leave.

That night, I couldn't sleep. There was nothing uncommon about this, but I was more restless than usual. I wandered about the house for an hour, and even slipped outside to walk through the garden and among the quiet beehives. Mother found me shortly before dawn, sitting on the terrace, shivering. She took the seat beside me and wrapped a blanket around my shoulders.

"I woke up," she said, "and you were gone."

"I couldn't sleep."

"No. Neither could I."

I wasn't cold, but I couldn't stop shaking. Mother slipped out of her chair and kneeled before me, massaging my hands, and when I thought I might go mad, she held me tightly.

I began to relax as the sun rose, but I could feel her tears on my neck, and her eyes were red when she let me go.

We spent a subdued summer sorting through my father's belongings. My mother insisted on keeping a few odd things; the rest we threw away or donated to charity.

We sold the beehives to a neighbour, and the night after they were taken away, I was once again unable to sleep. I made my way downstairs, and was only slightly surprised to find my mother sitting at the kitchen table. She had cut most of her hair off; in the kitchen light she looked like a painting of Joan of Arc.

"Are you all right?" she asked.

"I'm hungry."

"So am I."

She made us thick sandwiches, the kind that were somehow inextricably entwined with my childhood, and said, "How do you feel about moving to Oxford at the end of August?"

She hadn't been to Oxford since Father became ill two years ago.

"Are you going to sell this house, then?"

"No. Certainly not."

"Then I wouldn't mind moving."

Before, when I was much younger, she used to spend a few days of every week there; occasionally, I was permitted to accompany her. I liked Oxford, where the undergraduates sometimes let me listen to their discussions, and even the dons occasionally deigned to acknowledge my existence.

She smiled properly, for the first time since the funeral. "In some ways, yes."

We made plans until the early hours of the morning, and I went to bed with a lighter heart than before.

The next day, we visited my father's grave. It was an excursion that we made every fortnight or so, a kind of melancholy picnic.

Sometimes – often enough that it no longer shocked me – we would find strangers there, paying respects or merely gawking. So I wasn't surprised to find a man already there, standing before the headstone and smoking a cigarette.

We normally hung back and waited for the visitors to leave, but this time, my mother stiffened. She said something I didn't catch, drew herself up to her full height and marched forward. I trailed along in her wake.

The stranger heard her approach and turned. I saw that he was some years older than her – it was impossible to say how many; he could have been as young as thirty-five or as old as fifty – thin to the point of emaciation, dark-haired with a beak of a nose and the remnants of great beauty in his face. He watched us approach with an unreadable smile.

Mother stopped a few feet away from him and said, "Adrian."

"Surprise," this man said with a smile. He took a few quick steps forward, and would have kissed her on the lips had she not stepped back. "I'm hurt, Mary. Not a letter, not a note, not even a quick telegram to tell me he was gone." He spoke quickly, though clearly; his accent was undefinable, some mixture of British public school and New England, overlaid by hints of Europe and places unknown.

"I honestly never thought I'd see you again," my mother said. She sounded as though she wished she weren't seeing him now.

"I'd fully intended to stay away. I suppose I surprise even myself, sometimes."

"Your mother was heartbroken."

"She always enjoyed a bit of melodrama."

"All those years, and not a word."

"I came back to her eventually. I spent a year with her, before she died." His voice was light. "Did she not tell you? I suppose she knew you wouldn't care."

With acid in her voice, my mother said, "Did you inherit?"

He laughed. "Dear Mary, what a cynic you are. Yes, I inherited. I am wholly independent, I'm even considered respectable here and there."

He circled her as he spoke, meeting my eyes for the first time. Although I was quite certain he'd already registered my presence. "Aren't you going to introduce me to my brother?"

My mother smiled, suddenly all sweetness. I was torn between a desire to gape at this apparent and unexpected relative, and the urge to flee.

"Jonathan," she said, "this is Adrian Norton. Other than the two of you having the same father, he's not really worth knowing."

Adrian Norton laughed, a bitter note in his amusement. I was studying him, trying not to appear obvious about it. At that time, I had a vague grasp of the general facts of life; my understanding of the emotional aspects was rather more limited. I had read Uncle John's stories; it was clear enough who his mother was. But putting the pieces together was beyond my ability.

"You don't look surprised," Adrian said to me.

"I suppose you look like him."

If he noticed that I hadn't answered his question, he said nothing, but I was pleased that my shock wasn't evident.

"Your mother once told me the same thing." He was watching her as he said this, waiting for a reaction. He didn't get one, but he laughed as if he had and dismissed me from his attention. "I've missed you, Mary."

"You barely know me."

"I've spared a few fond thoughts for you over the years."

She snorted. "I'm sure."

"I wasn't surprised to hear you'd married. It was quite inevitable." He sounded bitter.

"Adrian." My mother took a step forward. She was almost exactly his height. "Believe it or not, I'm glad you're alive. But will not discuss—" she glanced at me, and finished, "in front of your father's grave."

What she meant was, Not in front of my son.

"Of course," he said. "Very insensitive of me. I'm sorry."

She accepted this with a regal nod, and turned away. I followed, but I looked back, and met my brother's eyes.

He winked at me.

That evening, after dinner, my mother and I walked across the downs. It was full summer, and traces of light remained on the western horizon.

I said, "Tell me about my brother."

She was silent for so long that I thought she wouldn't answer. Eventually she said, "There's little enough to tell. He's six years older than me. Raised largely in Europe and America. Expelled from various schools. His parents loved him. He was the perfect son, until the War."

"Was it shell shock?"

Words I had heard whispered among boys with younger fathers than I.

Mother shrugged. "He was injured in '17. Not terribly – he was sent back to the Front – but he was different after that. Or so I was told. I didn't meet him – I didn't even know of his existence until I was nineteen. He was already addicted to morphine by that stage – he'd begun using it in hospital – he was beginning to experiment with other things."

"What happened?"

What I meant was, why had no one ever told me of his existence?

Aside from what he represented, of course, a lapse on on the part of my Victorian father, and a reminder of a time that perhaps he didn't want to remember. I didn't have the words to express this feeling at the time, but it had a crystal clarity in my mind.

"His father – Godfrey Norton, I should say – tried to help him, but he was determined to lose himself. They were living in Paris at the time. Mr Norton was ill – he never recovered from the influenza the year before – and Adrian had no respect for him. Nor love. He'd met your father two years earlier, you see, and he knew his parents had lied to him.

"Chance brought Holmes and I into the family circle for a time. Unwittingly, I think that was the final blow. Mr Norton died. There were ... other events. Adrian vanished. Holmes escorted Irene back to America. I returned to England alone. And Adrian was completely lost to us."

"Didn't anyone try to find him?"

"I did."

"Didn't Father--"

"He never discussed it with me."

It was clear from her tone that no further questions would be permitted. I would have to content myself with the little information she had chosen to share. I was burning with curiosity about the rest of the story, but it would be no use asking.

"What do you intend to work on in Oxford?" I asked, and we discussed her work until we returned to the cottage.

I waited for my chance to catch her off-guard and continue with my questions about my brother, but the opportunity didn't arise again that summer, and in the end, I put him out of my mind.

To be continued... Hopefully not long into the New Year. I detest editing, but I desperately want to have this finished and posted before the end of February. The rest of the story is set in July 1939, which is, as you may imagine, not the most comfortable of years.