Dear Reader,

If you have never read the Mary Russell series by Laurie R. King, please read this!

Here is an explanation of who this character is:

Mary Russell is a feminist of the 1920's that is apprentice, partner, and later wife of the illustrious Sherlock Holmes. She is a rambunctious young woman with lots of energy and is a match of wits for Sherlock Holmes. She is witty and very strong-willed, but is not foolish because of pride. She is the perfect match for a man like Holmes.

Mycroft Holmes and Sherringford Holmes (who you will meet in the course of this story) are the brothers of Sherlock Holmes. Sherringford is the oldest one, but is the most unlike his brother. In other words, he is so naive that he makes Watson look like the most brilliant man in the world. Mycroft, on the other hand, is slightly smarter than Sherlock. Also, there is a feud between Sherringford and Sherlock about names: Sherringford hates to be called Sherry, and Holmes hates to be called Sherlock.

The children:

David Matthew Holmes: The first born of the quadruplets, he is very headstrong and clever. He is very egotistic and hates to be wrong.

Judith Renee Holmes: The second born of the quadruplets, she is very smart and intellectual with a good head on her shoulders. She is the know-it-all and always seems to be right.

Jonathan Mycroft Holmes: The third born of the quadruplets, he is extremely likable and very kind. He is the compassionate one and has a very imaginative mind. He's the one that comes up with the stories to tell when they're in a jam.

Violet Mary Holmes: The last born of the quadruplets, she is the one that always gets her way. She has perfected the art of fake crying and has the cutest face. She is very clever and smart, knowing the most about a person's personality just by looking at their face and demeanor.

Dear LA~,

Here is an explanation to Holmes' portrayal in this story: (taken from the Author's Note in The Beekeeper's Apprentice by Laurie R. King.)

"I can only say that they [Holmes fanatics] are right: The Holmes I met was indeed a different man from the detective of 221B Baker Street. He had been ostensibly retired for a decade and a half, and was well into his middle age. More than this, however, had changed: The world was a different place from that of Victoria Regina. Automobiles and electricity were replacing hansom cabs and gaslights, the telephone was nosing its obtrusive self into the lives even of the village people, and the horrors of war in the trenches were beginning to eat at the very fabric of the nation.

I think, however, that even if the world had not changed and even if I had met Holmes as a young man, my portraits of him would still be strikingly different from those painted by the good Dr. Watson. Watson always saw his friend Holmes from a position of inferiority, and his perspective was always shaped by this. Do not get me wrong--I came to have a considerable affection for Dr. Watson. However, he was born an innocent, slightly slow to see the obvious (to put it politely), although he id come to possess a not inconsiderable wisdom and humanity.

So, yes, I freely admit that my Holmes is not the Holmes of Watson. To continue with the analogy, my perspective, my brush technique, my use of colour and shade, are all entirely different from his. The subject is essentially the same; it is the eyes and the hands of the artist that change."

Thank you very much for reading this!!!!!!!

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Disclaimer: The characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and Laurie R. King, except for the children and for Alexia Houston, who you will meet later on.

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She was tired. Dead tired. She had set her alarm for eleven. She got up, turning the alarm clock off as she got out of bed. She had not changed out of her clothes to sleep, letting herself get up and splash cold water on her face. Wiping the water off her face, she adjusted her glasses on her face and noticed her revolver was out on the bedside table. He never forgets a thing, she thought to herself as she crept down the stairs in her stockings, carrying her boots in her hand. She carried her electric torch in her right hand, her revolver in her pants picket. (A/N: An electric torch is another way to say flashlight in England...right?)

She checked on the children; they were all snug in their tiny little beds, sleeping peacefully. Mrs. Hudson was still asleep. The house was totally silent except for the quiet breathing of sleeping people.

The floorboards creaked as she slipped silently into the kitchen. She could feel the cold tile through her socks as she walked towards the back door. She was about to open the back door when she saw something out of the corner of her eyes. It was small, but not unnoticeable; it shone brilliantly in the moonlight. She walked to the counter and picked it up. It was a very small little ball made of a shiny metal; it looked very much like gold.

She turned the lights of the kitchen on, the ball of gold in her hand. She inspected it closely. It was a small ball, fitting easily in the palm of her hand. It was very smooth, a perfect sphere. There wasn't a scratch or mark on the golden ball. She marveled at it for a bit, then pocketed it into her light coat she put on. She turned off the kitchen light and exited through the back door, locking it with her key from the outside.

She sighed, looking out into the cloudless night. The sky was filled with stars, twinkling down on the earth. The moon was full that night. She breathed deeply, letting the night engulf her in a calming lull.

Her silent bubble burst and she came out of her reverie when she heard a rustling in the bushes next to her. She turned toward the sound abruptly, fingering her revolver in her pocket. She tensed, drawing the revolver from its hiding place. She saw the bushes move again. Then, she saw...a rabbit, munching on the shrub. She let out her breath she had been holding and smiled in relief. She put her revolver back in her pocket, made sure her throwing knife was in the slot in her boot, and shooed the rabbit off, mentally telling herself to find a way to keep animals from eating the shrubs.

She kept walking towards the Downs, wondering if she actually needed to dance. She decided that it would be best to just wait until she got nearer.

As she walked, she thought about her family. Not about her mother and father and brother, but of her family now: Holmes and the children. She thought about how hard it was, but the delights that come with it. She reminisced on the time she had had the children; it was long, painful, but wonderful in many different ways. She spent less time in Oxford now and much more with her children; Holmes also had spent less time on his work and instead concentrated on the children.

Her reverie was grabbed away from her when she noticed the presence of a tree not but three inches from the tip of her nose. She noticed she was not twenty feet from the Downs. She remembered the words Holmes had told Mrs. Hudson: "The girl with the strawberry curls danced off into the night on the Downs." She was soon drawn to the thought that, just possibly, she might have waited too long. What if they had waited and already gone, deciding she wasn't coming? Should she have left earlier? What was Holmes up to, at any rate? Well, she decided, I'm not getting far by merely speculating. She straightened her tall frame, rubber her eyes to make sure she was fully awake, and started to dance onto the Downs.

As she danced, she thought to herself, Oh, God! I feel like such an idiot! But, soon, as she kept dancing deeper and deeper into the Downs, she suddenly felt aware of a presence, a feeling of, almost, danger lurking in the shadows. She pushed he thought away, but from then on kept out a wary eye.

"Glad you could make it." She stopped dead in her tracks. The voice behind her was quiet, cool, stern. "Though I didn't expect you to dance so well out here." The voice clapped its hands slowly, mockingly. "Don't turn around, my dear. Stand right where you are." She stood, hardly breathing, going through her head, trying to remember the voice. She had heard it before, but where?

"It's nice to see you again, Mary. It's been quite a long time. It has been, what, twelve years since we last have seen each other?"

A scene flashed through Russell's head: A girl a year older than her stood in front of her. Only, the girl was fifteen. She herself was fourteen. The girl had wavy black hair and large coal black eyes that looked into her blue ones. They were filled with anger, remorse, pleading, and rage. Then, the girl grabbed her by the arms, shaking her body, shouting at her. Mary could see herself respond by wrenching her arms from the girl's grasp and slapping her face. The black-haired girl lunged at Russell. Mary retaliated, clawing at the girl. They were rolling in the grass, in the dead of night. Suddenly, the girl stopped. Mary did also. The girl then took off into the night, but not without leaving something behind: a thin, silky scarf, made up of thread of shiny gold.

Russell had wondered who the girl was. Why had she done such a thing to her? Was this her?

"What do you want?" asked Russell, trying to hide her doubt and fear from her voice.

"Answers," said the voice.

"To what?"

"The accident." Russell's heart stopped beating. Her breath was gone. She remembered the accident well: it took her father' life, her mother's life, her brother's life. And, because she had kept her father from looking at the road, they were dead. All because of her.

She also remembered the other car. There was another car that hit her family's car, sending them off the cliff. She couldn't remember anything about the people in the other car, absolutely nothing.

She let the pieces fall in place. "It was my fault. I am very sorry, but it was an accident. My father looked away from the road because he was scolding me. But I can't help that. I'm truly sorry for what I've done, even tried to kill myself. But it's the past now. All we both can do is leave the past be and go on with our lives."

There was silence after Mary's speech, and then, "Miss Russell, I cannot forget what I lived through. It is impossible for me to put those memories behind me. My family died, too, in that accident. My father. My mother had died right after giving birth to me. My father was all I had left. I had no family. I was forced into obedience in an orphanage. I had nothing except a few things: my pictures, my memories, and my scarf with the golden balls. I had that little fight with you a while back; I had to vent my anger, and, because you had been involved, you because the one I pinned it on. I left there a golden scarf. I wore it the day of the accident. I took the golden balls off the edges and put them on a string, wearing them always.

"I have been waiting for this moment for a long time, Mrs. Holmes. I've been wanting to tell you how much pain I've felt and how lonely I've been. How I have suffered so much and have lost so much. All because of you." Russell now had started a cold sweat, feeling her stomach turn into an icy pit inside her body.

The woman continued. "Now, turn around." Russell turned around. The woman's face was outlined by the reflections of the moon: Her outline was lovely, beautiful, even, but in a cold, rigid way. "We stand face to face. Mrs. Mary Judith Holmes, pleas follow me." Russell really didn't know exactly what was going on, but felt herself pulled along as she followed the woman out of the Downs and back to Russell's house. (Also, the woman had a gun in her hand.)

"The not was from you," stated Russell.

"Yes."

"Where's Holmes?"

"Not in Sussex."

"I did not ask you where he is not, but where he is."

"In Europe, if you must know."

"Where in Europe?"

"Austria."

"Why?"

"My, my, my! He doesn't tell his wife much, does he? He's on a case, if you so insist an answer from me."

"And the message to Mrs. Hudson...?

"Was not actually said, but written by me in his handwriting."

"How do you know so much..."

"About your life? Simplicity itself." Her tone was mocking now. "That Watson of your Holmes isn't the brightest fellow in the world, is he? Well, he is a very close acquaintance of mine; we have become quite good friends, actually. Maybe you have heard him mention a certain Alexia Houston."

Russell's blood began to really boil. Watson had said so much about this girl named Alexia. He said how much he liked her, how he felt like he was going through the same things Holmes and Russell did long ago, before they were married.

"It was like being able to open the roof of your house and peek in every once in a while, as your Holmes put it before. It was the perfect way to do my work without actually doing anything but listen politely."

Russell could stand it no longer. "How could you do such a thing, all because of me?!"

Alexia stared at Russell, an icy cold stare. "I have been focusing on this moment for all of my life. This has been my life's dream."

Russell, letting this new information sink in, decided that this woman really needed some men in white to take her to a padded room with straight jackets. Right then, the woman cocked the revolver and pointed it at Russell, saying, "Take the revolver from your pocket and the knife from your boot." Russell obeyed, considering her opponent was holding a gun and pointing it at her head. The gun and knife were placed onto the floor gently.

"Very good. Now, go outside the back way. I will be right behind you." They went outside, Alexia following Russell closely. When they were outside, Alexia closed the door and they stood, face to face. Then, Alexia spoke.

"Now, I will drop my weapon, and we will commence the fight," she said, abruptly. At Russell's questioning look, she added, "And no, I have no other weapons upon my body or anywhere concealed in this garden. Do you accept?"

"And if I don't?"

"I'll just have to pull the trigger."

"Fine agreed."

Alexia put down her weapon. They looked at each other, wondering and measuring up their opponents. Alexia had the advantage of knowing Russell more than Russell knew of her, but Russell had her deductive advantage. Then, they went at each other. They found themselves in an all-out brawl, rolling on the earthen floor. (A/N: We will not go into detail due to the PG rating. Thank you.)

They found themselves, after about ten minutes, unable to fight. They had both been injured badly. Alexia was unconscious while Russell only semi-conscious. She was able to open the back door and drag herself into the kitchen, then dropped from utter exhaustion and the concussion about to follow.

Right then Mrs. Hudson ran into the kitchen because of all the noise. She let out a scream, seeing blood around Russell's body. She then tried to get Russell up off the floor, which she successfully did after a few minutes. She then called the local doctor, telling him to come immediately. She went back to Russell, who she had brought into the living room and had put on the couch. She went back into the kitchen to get some hot water and towels. She went back to the couch. Russell was starting to wake up. She groaned, trying to look at Mrs. Hudson. She murmured "Out...side..." then became unconscious again.

Mrs. Hudson rushed outside to find a young lady out on the lawn, covered in even more blood than Russell. She was still alive, but barely. Mrs. Hudson rushed to the phone and called for some nurses at the doctor's office to come, too. She dragged Alexia to the kitchen and laid her on the floor, not knowing what else to do.

The doctor came with nurses a few minutes later. Here are his conclusions: Russell had a concussion with a broken nose, right arm, left leg in two places, broken hip, and broken right leg in four places. Alexia sustained a major concussion with a slightly cracked skull, broken nose, broken arms and legs, and a dislocated left shoulder. They both had numerous bruises and cuts.

They soon were put into separate beds, both still unconscious. They slept the night, recuperating from their scars (and a few other things).

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Sorry if this one was too long. I didn't know how to say it without making it boring or whatever. Hope everyone liked it!!!!!! It's dramatic, I know. I usually do humour, but I decided it'd be nice to do something different, you know?

To all who reviewed: Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you! This story is dedicated to all of you who reviewed!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Reviews on this latest chapter are very very welcome, whether flamers or not!!!!!!!!!

Thanks!