Title: Prothalamion
Author: LizBee
Summary: Russell and Holmes are engaged.
Now the fun begins.
Warnings: Why yes, it is the biggest cliche in the
fandom. WHAT?
Fandom: Mary Russell (Sherlock
Holmes)
Spoilers: MREG
Disclaimer: Russell is the
property of Laurie R. King. Holmes is public domain, although it's
probably only fair to name-check Arthur Conan Doyle.
Notes: Thanks
as always to Branwyn, aka Cesario. The title is Greek for "song before
a wedding", and it was suggested by Branwyn, who swiped it
from Busman's
Honeymoon. Do you feel educated? I do.
Prothalamion
by LizBee
“Here,” said a policeman, “you can't be
carrying on like that here, it's a crime scene – oh, Mr
Holmes. I didn't realise it was you.”
To his credit, the young man barely batted an eyelid as Holmes released
Russell from a damp embrace, the vigour of which largely compensated
for the odour of river-water. She shifted unsteadily as he
let her go, and the exhaustion in her face was the primary reason
Holmes permitted the young constable to lead them away and have them
escorted to the station to give statements.
Separate statements, he noted with oblique amusement, as if this whole
affair were some kind of elaborate confidence trick.
Inspector Tomlinson evidently held no respect for the reputation of a
legend. Holmes hoped that Russell was faring better with
Lestrade.
Some hours later, when a satisfactory statement had been taken at last,
he was permitted to see the police doctor, who sniffed
unsympathetically at his bruised and swollen hand. Holmes
narrowly resisted the temptation to tell him it had been injured in the
course of knocking his fiancée
unconscious. Some people took a
remarkably dim view of such things.
Outside, he was surprised to find Russell, waiting in the back of her
car. Q raised a jaunty hat to him as he opened the door;
Russell contented herself with a vague wave of the hand. She
looked very pale under her artificially red hair, and he said,
“You needn't have waited.”
“It hasn't been long.”
“How is your head?”
“Could be better.” With a ghost of a
smile she said, “I told the doctor that I walked into a
door. Shall we take you to Mycroft's?”
“Please.”
Her eyes were closed as they drove, but her hand curled around his, and
she smiled when he squeezed it. She was almost asleep when
they reached Mycroft's flat, and he left her in Q's hands without a
word. He let himself into his brother's rooms, bathed, and
slept.
It was early evening when he woke. The evening papers covered
the morning's events only in the briefest of terms, and only one
mentioned his name. Russell, thankfully, was never referred
to by name, although one of the less reputable papers included a
regrettable comment about an eminent gentlemen seen enjoying the
company of an attractive redhead. It was anonymous enough to
avoid notice, but Russell would be displeased.
On arriving home, Mycroft's first words were, “I hear you had
an interesting day, Sherlock.”
“It was a rather more strenuous conclusion than I usually
prefer,” he agreed. “And bathing in the
Thames is always unpleasant. Or were you referring to my
engagement?”
He did not receive so much as a flicker of surprise in
reward. Mycroft said, “I must confess that I
thought the first account of your antics at the dock was a
joke. However, I take it that congratulations are in
order?”
“You sound displeased.”
“Not at all,” Mycroft said quickly.
“Your association with her could hardly persist under the
current circumstances, and if she were to marry anyone but yourself, I
would certainly lose her professional services.” He
raised his eyebrows. “I'm sorry, Sherlock, you were
expecting romantic predictions of fat children and bland domestic
bliss?”
“No, but do give me some credit, Mycroft. I
wouldn't marry her if I didn't think I could make some kind of
husband. However unlikely.”
“I daresay Miss Russell will make an equally unlikely
wife.”
“I certainly hope so,” Holmes said.
*
He returned to Sussex the next day, to tend to his bees and allay Mrs
Hudson's concerns about Russell's health. She was extremely
put out that he hadn't hurried Russell back to the cottage as soon as
she'd been released from the Essex house, and was only mollified when
she telephoned in the evening to say that she was on her way to Oxford
for a few days, and would return home later in the week.
Holmes spent two days at the cottage, attempting to immerse himself in
chemistry and beekeeping, and attempting – not entirely
successfully – to evade the dark mood that always followed
the end of a case. His normal pursuits were all unspeakably
banal; there had been no cocaine in the house since 1917, and Russell
was out of reach.
On the third day, he succumbed to the inevitable. Rising
early, he went for a brisk swim in the icy waters of the Channel, and
set out for London, to dine with Watson and hopefully sort out Conan
Doyle's nonsense once and for all. And, of course, to share
the news.
All in all, he felt afterwards, it was not an entirely satisfactory
discussion. He was still brooding on it the next day, when he
set out across the Downs to meet Russell. Despite the early hour, he
found her going through the farm's books with Patrick; she waved at him
and told him to wait. When her business was finished, she
tucked her arm through his and they set out for his own
cottage. And if, after they had moved away from the house,
they abandoned propriety for an entirely warmer greeting, only the
sheep and birds were there to see it.
In the end, they settled on a pleasant hillside under the weak winter
sun, not far from where they first met. Holmes noted with
approval that there was colour in Russell's cheeks, and the dye was
fading from her hair.
She said, “I'd prefer a quiet wedding if you don't mind,
Holmes.”
“Not at all, Russell. A large wedding would involve inviting
a great many people who have no business being there, and attending a
number of social events I'd just as soon miss.”
“Quite. And I'd rather not be paraded about on your
arm like a doll.”
“You would make a rather cantankerous trophy,” he
agreed. “And if we were to play the social couple,
I would eventually have to introduce to that ass Doyle.”
Russell snorted. “Poor Uncle John. Will
you ever forgive him for linking your name with Doyle's?”
“We've managed to put the fairy incident behind us for
now.”
“Oh?”
“However, he was not ... wholeheartedly overjoyed when I told
him of our engagement.”
“Why on earth not?”
“He feels,” Holmes wrapped a loose strand of hair
around one finger, “that I am taking advantage of our
friendship, and your innocence and inexperience--”
Russell's derisive snort cast a certain amount of doubt over her
possession of those qualities -- “and cutting you off from
more appropriate beaux.”
“Well,” said Russell carefully, “my friends, those
few I told, demonstrated an unflattering degree of surprise at the
news. So you have nothing to fear from any disappointed young
men.”
“I'm glad to hear it.”
“As for Uncle John, he'll come around when he sees how happy
I am.” Watson's concerns thus dismissed, she pushed
her spectacles up her nose and added, “what did Mrs Hudson
say?”
“I haven't told her yet.”
“Holmes!”
“Very well.” He stood up and pulled
Russell to her feet. “You may break the news
yourself, provided that you make sure she's sitting down
first.”
“Really, Holmes.”
“Mrs Hudson is older than I am, and shouldn't have to deal
with sudden shocks.”
“Fine time for you to start worrying about shocking
people,” Russell muttered.
Returning home, Holmes felt lighter than he had in days. Just
inside the gate, he caught Russell's hand and drew her closer to kiss
her lips.
Which was, in the end, how Mrs Hudson found out.
All in all, Holmes felt, she took the shock well.
*
Inevitably, the news began to spread. A popular gossip column
published a piece about the imminent nuptials of a prominent detective
and literary figure. Russell waved the newspaper at him in a
fury when they met at her solicitor's office to discuss their financial
affairs.
“I've had two telephone calls already this
morning,” she snapped.
“From friends or journalists?”
“Friends,” she admitted. “But
the author of this--” she waved the paper, rather than
scandalise her solicitor's secretary with an actual noun --
“was an acquaintance of mine before he was sent down last
year.”
“And I think we can rule out Mrs Hudson and Watson as the
source of the rumours.”
Russell gave him a sweet, furious smile as they entered the office, and
said, “I'll deal with it.”
Later, over lunch she said, with a slight hint of hesitation,
“I want to keep my own surname. Do you
mind?”
“Not at all. How else would I address
you?”
“Fair point.”
He waited until the waiter had refilled her wineglass before saying,
“Children?”
“Absolutely not.”
Holmes laughed.
“Really,” added Russell. “I'd
be a horrible mother, and your interest in our offspring would only
extend as far as subjecting it to minor psychological and chemical
experiments.”
Holmes couldn't disagree.
“In any case, my doctors aren't even sure I can have
children. If you're having dynastic visions, Holmes, I
recommend finding yourself another wife.”
“That,” he said, “won't be a
problem.”
*
The wedding was set for late March, that being the soonest Russell's
tailors felt they could produce something appropriate for the occasion,
and Mrs Hudson having forbidden her to wear either parents'
hand-me-downs.
On further consideration, Holmes was beginning to regret the
delay. Each successive day brought more unwanted attention,
from the good wishes of acquaintances and friends, to a severe missive
from Russell's great-uncle.
In mid-March, precisely thirteen days before the appointed date, he
returned from a long, pleasant and reconciliatory lunch with Watson to
find a note, typed and unsigned, containing a particularly despicable
line in anti-Semitic sentiment. Deducing the origin and
likely identity of the sender was but the work of an evening.
He sent a telegram to Lestrade, informing him of the particulars, and
set out for Russell's house.
She was still dressed when she came to the door, with a book in her
hand and ink on her fingers.
“What's happening?” she asked.
“How do you feel about an elopement?”
“Mrs Hudson would be devastated.”
“I'm sure she'd recover.”
“I'm sure she would, but is it fair? To say nothing
of Uncle John--”
“They are both accustomed to any amount of eccentricity and
rudeness on my part. Does it make a difference whether we're
married tomorrow or in two weeks?”
Russell smiled, leaning against the door frame.
“No,” she said. “None at
all.”
*
So they were married on a rainy Thursday afternoon, in an unremarkable
registry office in London. Russell wore a dowdy dress that
had once belonged to her mother. Her smile was small and
distant, and her grip on his arm was unusually tight.
“If you have any doubts,” he said as they waited in
a drafty hall, “this would be the time to mention
them.”
“Don't be ridiculous,” she said, and her mouth
twitched. “Mrs Hudson would never forgive
me.”
“Of course.”
“And,” she dropped her voice, “I am
rather looking forward to being married to you. So unless you are having
doubts--”
“Don't be absurd.”
“Good.”
Russell took a deep breath, and he felt her relax against
him. He squeezed her hand, then the registrar appeared, and
they rose to be married.
end