Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or Mary Russell.
A/N: I finally went fishing the other day, and came back not with fish sticks but with an editor. Although I was disappointed (I really wanted to eat that night), I think everything worked out for the best. So Thanks to Peter without whom I wouldn't have written this chapter but instead would be gnawing on fish sticks.
For Lack of a Better Title
By: Kirby Russell
That night, Mother Nature brought her circus side show for them to watch. She danced with scarves across the sky; orange and red intertwined in her right hand while her left spun purples and yellows. She danced around her orange orb in a scintillating spectacle, stunning her audience of two. The elder of her captive viewers sat in calm silence, fingers forming a steeple and eyelids drooping lazily. The younger of the two lay wide eyed at the vagabond performance. Even Mrs. Hudson's Earl Grey tea could not compete with this dance.
He turned his head to her and said quietly, awkwardly: "Quite a sunset, don't you agree Russell?"
"Like none I've ever seen, Holmes. It's so moving. The colours tease the eyes... taking the whole thing in is like- oh..., blast, the words refuse to come to me." He looked at her sharply, searching for signs of too much honey wine. She grinned back at him, knowing the exact phrase reverberating in his skull.
"No, I have not gone soft on you, Holmes. No need to worry. I am merely trying to fulfill my role as your new biographer."
As soon as the words were out of her mouth, his eyes steeled and his mouth lost all colour as he pressed his lips together.
"Need we talk of that, Russell? Surely you realize that you have just ruined the mood?" She grinned wider as he added:
"And I suppose you have every intention of following-"
"Yes, I do have every intention. Actually, I have the first two chapters right here." She held up a well-worn manuscript, before it was snatched from her fingers. Giving her a dubious look, he turned away and started reading. She found sitting stonily impossible, so she stood to wander. Not more than ten feet away though, she stopped when she thought she heard a slight snort from her companion. She turned around, not daring to hope, and saw his grey eyes coloured with emotion.
She walked slowly back to her chair and grabbed the back, looking unsurely at the brown hairs of Holmes's head. She trembled slightly, wishing she could read his cold mind. Down in a far off corner of her being she felt a powerful and shocking wave of caring, and that part of her wanted very badly for Holmes to say something, anything. She came back to her senses, mentally slapping herself. Holmes was pompous, sarcastic, arrogant... but still, that one corner of her nagged. What was wrong with her? She sat and glared impatiently at him to finish.
He tossed it on the table, arrogance and overbearing returning to his momentarily disorganized demeanor.
"Well, Holmes? What do you think of it? Questions or comments? [A/N: sorry, couldn't help myself]" She asked almost timidly, surprising herself again.
And again, he seemed almost to care for a moment as he prepared to render judgment on her manuscript. "It was... It... It follows the tradition set forth by your predecessor."
"So, er, nothing new then?" She asked, blindly hoping for some kind of mercy. But the logical side of her knew to expect the crushing words like a convict waits for the signal with the noose around his neck. She knew what was coming.
"Your style is inconsistent, not to mention horribly melodramatic. The plot is hardly concise, and you embellish much too often..." He paused and then asked: "Did you really find me that infuriating?"
"So, you liked it then?" she asked, ignoring his own question.
"Hah, I most certainly did not-" he was going to end there, but saw her rejected countenance and, taking questionable moral ground over a sobbing woman any day, continued, "-say that I enjoyed it, exactly. All I said was that you-"
"Did what any Grammar school child could do and nothing more." She mimicked an old teacher lecturing a student: "'10 for effort, Ms. Russell, and that's being very generous. But I'm going to have to give you 2 for structure and 0 for content.' You hated it and you want to go throw it in the fire like Watson's pieces. That's all you had to say, Holmes."
Before he could respond with some inept attempt at consoling, she stood up and briskly walked away, scrubbing her eyes violently. Holmes, confused, guilt-ridden and still holding the manuscript in his hand, watched her go with a growing sense of dread. Tomorrow was going to be awful. But tonight would be worse.
***
He sat alone in his study, the only light coming from the embers of the tired fire and the leaf in his pipe. As he occasionally breathed into the stem, the embers would flare up and illuminate his face in a reddish glow.
His thought was on the earlier disaster. What he had said about her writing was mostly true. He was not one for fairytales and happily-ever-after. But her portrayal of him was so rough, so incredibly honest; he could not even be sure Watson had ever made the mistake of trying it. No, Watson had never come close. Yet that was what shook him to his very being. He was not at all comfortable with that kind of insight into the deepest reaches of his skull. He had seen that kind of probing before, in Moriarty. Just the thought of an equal made him feel something he still was not used to: fear. Could he handle another Moriarty? He didn't know.
The questions and doubts rattled around in his mind. Could he let down any of the barriers between him and the world that he had built since birth? And for one woman? Again, he did not know. It was an unfamiliar feeling; one that was frightening and painful. His heart was not nearly as hardened as his diamond mind. Yet even as he felt, his face was expressionless. A lifetime's practice of emotional numbness would not be discarded at the first sign of contest.
As the night trundled slowly to morn, he sat awake and silently pondered his new challenges. And as he flipped yet again through the much-handled manuscript, he wondered what new battles the next day would bring.
Kirby: ugh! I promised fluffy happiness, but I delivered drama and tears. Next chappie, bunnies and poppies I swear!