Author: LizBee
Summary: In 1931, Russell and Holmes return to California one last time.
Warnings: Rated 'O' for 'Offspring'. Also: Gratuitous Celebrity Reference.
Fandom: Mary Russell (Sherlock Holmes)
Spoilers: Locked Rooms, albeit location only.
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: Posted mostly because Branwyn made me. She also persuaded me to use a summary that didn't include the term "wacky hijinks", on account of how it doesn't really have any.
Seasons
by LizBee
Holmes had the distinct feeling that Russell was worried about him.
She wasn't so obvious as to be overly solicitous; indeed, her behaviour was almost defiantly mundane. But every now and then, he would look up and find her watching him, her expression unreadable. He was tempted to challenge her, but shipboard life made her irritable anyway, without adding domestic tensions.
Two days before they reached New York, she found him leaning against the railing on a noisy stretch of deck, smoking and watching a clump of children at play.
"Once we've dealt with this business in Los Angeles," she said carefully, "I'd like to go up to the Lodge for a few days. A week, perhaps."
"That would be pleasant," Holmes said neutrally.
Russell hesitated. "Holmes," she said, and he braced himself for an uncharacteristic onslaught of wifely concern. She was thankfully interrupted by the dinner bell; she went to dress, and he extinguished his cigarette and wandered over to retrieve their son from the crowd of children. Ideal timing all around, he thought: Russell could be distracted for a few more hours, and Jonathan was apparently on the verge of inspiring some sort of juvenile mutiny in the lower-decks. Or perhaps they were simply planning an expedition to the engine-rooms. It might have been a mistake to dismiss both nanny and tutors for the summer.
Still, he realised later, the absence of supporting staff had a certain advantage. He put Jonathan to bed, secretly marvelling at the boundless energy of a six-year-old, and said to Russell, "I suppose Jonathan will be in your hands in Los Angeles."
She put her book down. "I beg your pardon?"
"Well, this is a complex case, and I doubt the local authorities will care to deal with Sherlock Holmes's wife any more than they have to."
She gave him a suspicious look, but muttered, "I'll make them care."
"Of course you will," he agreed.
She was, indeed, in fine form in Los Angeles. In a town full of actresses, no one batted an eyelid at a woman who seemed to take on a new persona for every witness she interviewed. Holmes trusted in Russell to do the footwork. He spent much of his time in their rather gaudy hotel suite, smoking, thinking and having long conversations with his son about the nature of crime, and why, exactly, one would kill two unknown actresses, an agent and a publicist, steal a script from a heavily guarded vault but leave a small fortune in jewels and cash. Jonathan had a number of theories, more fanciful than probable.
The case wrapped up -- albeit not until after Russell had managed to get herself threatened and shot at, and made a marvellous spectacle of herself with Errol Flynn at the Cocoanut Grove – they went north, to the Lodge.
Holmes had only visited the house twice before, but he was always struck by the way it mirrored their Sussex cottage. The Pacific Heights house, long sold, had been designed for the tasteful display of wealth and power. The Lodge simply existed, in all its simplicity, home-like despite its owner's long absences.
He woke late on their first morning there, and lay still for a while, uncomfortably aware of the ache in his chest and the lassitude in his limbs. In another room, he could hear Russell in conversation with Jonathan. It sounded like a lesson of some kind; Hebrew, he suspected. Russell wasn't one to let a summer holiday come between her son and his education.
After a while, he drifted back to sleep.
When he did emerge, the sun was high overhead, and he found Russell sitting by the lake, wearing one of his shirts over her bathing costume. A book was in her hands and a cup of cold tea sat by her side, but her attention was on Jonathan, presently finding new, ever-more-complicated ways to throw himself off the dock.
Holmes handed her a fresh cup of tea and took a seat beside her.
"How long has he been at this?"
"An hour. He'll get hungry soon enough. Or bored." She gave him a sidelong glance. "What did Doctor Willis of Harley Street have to say?"
Holmes lit his pipe. "Have you been waiting two months to ask?"
"A month and a half." She sipped her tea and looked out over the water. "But I've suspected you were ill for longer. Were you planning to tell me?"
"Apparently there's no need."
Russell snorted.
"I was waiting until we had returned to England."
"It's serious, then." Her voice was flat.
"A growth on the lungs, Willis said. A year. Maybe two."
Jonathan crawled out of the water and called for them to watch him. When he had thrown himself back into the lake, Russell said in a low voice, "It's unacceptable. Get a second opinion."
"My dear Russell, that was the third opinion." She grew still. "The first doctor I saw suggested six months, and he considered himself an optimist."
"Unacceptable," she said again. Getting to her feet, she peeled his shirt off and marched down to the dock, throwing herself into the water with a force that looked almost painful.
The next morning, over breakfast, she said, "I'm cancelling my commitments in Oxford."
He raised his eyebrows. "For how long? The year promised by Willis?"
"Indefinitely."
"Don't be foolish. The opportunity may not come again."
She buttered her toast and said, "I think I can live with that."
He didn't argue the matter further.
Four days later, he and Jonathan returned from the town, bearing in triumph a two-day-old copy of The New York Times, fresh rope for the sailboat and half a dozen fresh oranges. The Lodge was still and silent. Holmes dismissed Jonathan with a challenge to find the tallest tree on the grounds and climb it, and went in search of his wife.
To his complete lack of surprise, he found her upstairs, in her parents' bedroom, hunched over a thin pillow, shoulders shaking with silent sobs. It was a singularly pathetic sight. She flinched as he touched her shoulder, but allowed him to pull her back into an awkward embrace.
"Why," she muttered, "do we put ourselves in situations where we can feel like this?"
He had no answer to that. She turned, kissed him fiercely, and buried her face in his shoulder and began to cry properly.
When she was calm again, she asked, "Where's Jonathan?"
"Up a tree somewhere, I expect."
"Oh. Good. Thank you."
"Russell—"
"Please, Holmes, don't say anything. It was just – I simply – it's not fair, and there's not a single goddamn thing I can do about it."
If she was getting angry, he decided, then she was beginning to feel better.
"Cheer up, Russell. I could be shot by gangsters when we pass through Chicago next week. Would that suit you better?"
"At least," she said, "I could shoot the gangsters." He laughed, and she snorted. "I'm glad someone finds this amusing," she added.
"I'm just admiring your practical soul, Russell."
She snorted again, and kissed him, gently this time. He reached up to pluck her spectacles from her nose and laid them carefully aside; she got up to close the door and curtains.
"I hope," she muttered, unbuttoning his shirt, "that it was a high tree."
"Highest on the property, I told him."
"As long as he doesn't fall out, I suppose."
She was, as always, marvellously alive, and strong. And if, even as her skin reacted to his exploring fingers, she was planning to hide her grief better next time – well, he knew her better than she thought.
For now, at least, she was calm and they were together.
Afterwards, they lay together in a drowsy silence, until a door slammed downstairs, and they heard Jonathan calling for them. They dressed quickly and went down to resume their lives, for the moment.
end
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