Chapter Six

On Mornings

Upon waking in unfamiliar places, there is always a brief moment of philosophical uncertainty as the brain starts out at Cogito, ergo sum and catches up with recent events.

I went downstairs, again hoping to find that this was all some sort of bizarre hallucination and that Holmes was sitting at the breakfast table, frowning over his paper. Sunlight streamed through the cracks in the boarded up windows. The house was as I remembered it last night, empty and bare.

Damn. I thought. Tears of anger and frustration sprang to my eyes, but I dashed them away. Much as I would have liked to indulge in a fit of hysterics, it would accomplish nothing.

I walked through the house, looking for this other Holmes. I finally caught sight of him outside the kitchen window, poking around among the disused hives. I had already begun to think of my husband as "my Holmes," and I couldn't help but thinking he would be amused at the possessive. The Holmes before me now was "the other Holmes," similar in mind and body, but not quite the same person.

He caught sight of me watching from the window, but didn't hurry his steps in the least. If anything, he lingered over the empty hives. A quick rummage through the kitchen revealed nothing edible, but for a suspiciously furry hunk of cheese and half a pot of lukewarm coffee. I ignored the cheese and poured myself a mug of coffee.

After a few fortifying sips I found that Holmes was still loitering among the hives, so I went out to meet him. He ignored my approach, being absorbed in prying open a hive to inspect the damage. From the state of things I thought that the house had been empty for perhaps a year and the hives unused for at least another year beyond that.

"A bit early to be thinking of retirement, isn't it?" I said conversationally. He paused for only the briefest of moments before responding.

"I have not even told Watson of my intentions yet. How do you know that?"

"Forewarned is forearmed." Holmes snorted derisively. I sighed and resorted to a more conventional route of deduction,

"All right, but what other need would a consulting detective have of a country cottage except as a retreat? Unless you plan on moving your base of operations from Baker Street." Holmes would not dignify me with a response, so I took it that the point was mine.

"Will you be returning to London?" Holmes asked.

"I…don't know." I sighed. "I have become a stranger in a strange land." I murmured, quoting the Bible verse in Hebrew. Holmes looked askance at me, but I didn't explain and he didn't press.

"I need to find Professor Jensen." I said finally. "If he got the same results as I did, he must be here as well. Perhaps he knows something more."

"Assuming that he did indeed follow his notes. He may well have added a critical component which he neglected to write down."

"Not Professor Jensen. He's very… scrupulous about things like that."

"Hmm." Holmes finally stopped tinkering with his hives and turned to face me. "I will give you the benefit of the doubt. We shall search out this Professor of yours."

I was completely nonplussed. I had been expecting to be dismissed out of hand, but Holmes seemed interested. He must have seen the surprise on my face, because he explained.

"You may be delusional, but then again you may be correct in every particular. Evidence is inconclusive at this point." And that seemed to be that. "Where are we going?"

"Oxford." I said, still a little confused and a bit suspicious. Perhaps he simply couldn't resist the curiosity of it. Of all the cases Holmes had ever heard, surely this one must be the most unique.

"Oxford? Oxford doesn't admit women as students."

"Yet." I corrected him. Strangely enough, I think it was this offhand statement more than anything else that convinced him of the truth of what I was saying. Oxford before 1910 was a firmly masculine institution, but my simple, confident declaration that would soon change made Holmes pause.

And so, to Oxford. Deprived of my dear old Morris, we took the train north. We spent the journey in mutual silence, absorbed in our own thoughts. Holmes had never been one for idle social conversation, and I was too afraid of what I might say. As we pulled into London, Holmes seemed to recall the conventions of social behaviour and made some perfunctory inquiries into my scholastic career.

I think I fascinated him. Certainly, he fascinated me. I was a quiet woman in spectacles who spoke knowledgably on chemistry, a subject always near to his heart. But I was, of course, a woman and therefore embodiment of all that Holmes so despised at this point in his career; intuition over logic, sensibility over sense, emotion over reason. My husband rarely spoke of his past career with me, but he didn't need to. I had known him for the greater portion of my life and what I couldn't deduce for myself was easily found out through chats with the Doctor. Uncle John knew Holmes better than either of them would admit.

This other Holmes was a very different man than the one I had known and married. Holmes himself had alluded to the fact that he had changed, one might say mellowed, a great deal since the time of Uncle John's narratives. Physically, he looked much the same. But for a few grey hairs and lines, Holmes looked much the same at sixty as he did at thirty.

The changes were almost entirely internal. This Holmes seemed to be simmering with tightly-controlled nervous energy. One tended to get the impression of a hunting hound, straining at the leash. My Holmes, to extend the analogy, was more of a wolfhound; the power and energy remained, but under an air of quiet tranquillity.

.•´¨•»¦«••»¦«•´¨•..•´¨•»¦«••»¦«•´¨•..•´¨•»¦«••»¦«•´¨•..•´¨•»¦«••»¦«•´¨•..•´¨•»¦«•.•´¨•»¦«••»¦«•´¨•..•´¨•»¦«•.•´¨•»¦«••»¦«•´¨•..•´¨•»¦«•.•´¨•»¦«••»¦«•´¨•.

Well, now that finals have been defeated, we're back on track. Hopefully I can pick up the pace of postings.

Questions? Comments? Criticisms? Complaints? Review!

.•´¨•»¦«•Kerowyn•»¦«•´¨•.