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The Story So Far....
Welcome to my Russell/Holmes fan fic site. The stories here are serialized, and thus, are best read in the following order:

*Intellectual Pursuits
*A Girl Always Knows
*What Lies Beneath
*A Commentary on the Partnership
*Cinderella Home From the Ball (Parts 1&2)
*No Matter
*The Rules of the Game
*The Song of Angels (Parts 1&2)
*A Cold and Bitter Rain
*A Cool, Sunny Day in Early April
*Duplicity (Parts 1&2)
*But Only Just
*Wish You Were Here (Parts 1&2)

September 2007
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 Wish You Were Here, Part II, by Wilhelmina Rush

To my dismay, I discovered Holmes had meant what he’d said—I had not a visit, letter, or telegram from him. Nothing. Mrs Hudson had even refrained from mentioning his name in her bi-weekly epistles.


I missed him terribly.


I tried to convince myself that it was only intellectual compatibility I craved. To attend this need, I added an advanced chemistry class to my overburdened schedule. When that provided no respite from my unease,  I wondered if I lacked a more ephemeral stimulation and began haunting the university symphony orchestra to hear the violins. Still, I felt a growing emptiness.


Finally, my heart found solace in the oddest way. As the weather turned colder, I took to wearing the black scarf Holmes had so carelessly left behind on the train. The soft knit was a caress on my skin and the fibers exuded a familiar, comforting scent of wool, tobacco, after shave, and home.




By Wilhelmina Rush



“Wish You Were Here” directly follows “But Only Just” in my ongoing Russell/Holmes fan fic series.


Long live Laurie R. King. Mary Russell and Mr Thomas are hers. Sherlock Holmes, Mrs Hudson, and Dr Watson, by way of Arthur Conan Doyle, are much improved in her retelling.


October 1920


“Mary,” Mrs Hudson said, fussing and reaching to straighten my hat for the third time, “don’t you worry. He’ll be here. You know he wouldn’t miss sending you off.”


I suffered her motherly ministrations as a welcome distraction to the disappointment curdling my insides. Where was he?  Overhead, rain beat a frenzied tattoo on the aging shake roof, and water fell in sheets around the small rail station. I was thankful for having garaged my Morris in Oxford during my last short trip there. Country roads could be treacherous in bad weather.


The train waited, huddled, appearing drenched, chastened. The heavy downpour diffused the steam, making the air shimmer in the low light. Through the gloaming, I noted movement within the train, a passenger bringing his face to the window in an attempt to see through the fog. Several compartments down, a child’s tiny finger drew stick figures in the condensation on the glass.


Mrs Hudson twisted her small frame, craning her neck to peer around the ticket office. Her lips set in a firm, thin line.  As she turned to examine the other, equally empty end of the platform, I thought I heard her mutter, “Damn that man.”


My sentiments exactly.



By Wilhelmina Rush


“But Only Just” directly follows “Duplicity” in my ongoing Russell/Holmes fan fic series.


Long live Laurie R. King. Mary Russell is hers and Sherlock Holmes, by way of Arthur Conan Doyle, is much improved in her retelling.



July 1920




“Mmmmm…” I sighed, my eyes closed.


Strong rays pierced the seaside haze to warm my bones—even the knots in my bad shoulder relaxed. And in delicious contrast, ribbons of cool, salty air blew on shore, heightening the sensation of my skin to an agonizing awareness.


I felt the weight of his gaze on me, hotter than the sun. Arching my back into a stretch, I turned in my beach chair to face him.





By Wilhelmina Rush


“No Matter” is a one-shot, but falls in place between “Cinderella Home from the Ball” and “The Rules of the Game” in my ongoing Russell/Holmes fan fic series.


Long live Laurie R. King. Mary Russell is hers and Sherlock Holmes, by way of Arthur Conan Doyle, is much improved in her retelling.



February 1920




Damn the man. I had been sleeping. Bright sunlight poured into the room as he threw open the blinds. I clamped my eyes closed.


Whatever my best friend and partner wanted, it could wait. My lips moved, forming words the words Go away, Holmes, but no sound came from my throat. Which was just as well, considering how much it hurt to speak.


The mattress squeaked as he sat on the edge of my narrow bed. The aging bedsprings gave way under even his meager weight and I felt myself sliding toward him.


Russell.” A cool hand pushed back my matted hair.


His touch felt delicious. I swallowed hard, cringing as the effort tore at my inflamed tonsils. “Holmes,” I breathed through chapped lips, “Why are you here?” He rarely visited me in Oxford, and he couldn’t tolerate sickness.


“Russell, you’re ill.”

DUPLICITY--Part 2 of 2

by Wilhelmina Rush


Mrs. Hudson placed a plate of warm current scones on the table and tossed her hands in the air. “Now you two aren’t even speaking to one other!”


I had returned to Holmes’ cottage for breakfast, more from habit than desire. We sat at the small kitchen table in silence, stalemated. He had fortified himself behind the Times, occasionally flapping the flimsy as he turned the pages. I occupied myself stirring copious amounts of sugar into my over-sweetened coffee. Smugly, I noticed that the faint clinking noise of the spoon on the china cup appeared to irritate the man across from me.


A gasp drew my attention. Mrs. Hudson muttered under her breath, her eyes throwing daggers at a fraying haversack and a mud-packed spade leaning against the doorframe. Clots of dirt speckled her clean floor. “Mr. Holmes—”


The Times snapped shut. “Pray, don’t trouble yourself, Mrs. Hudson.” Gray eyes darted from his beleaguered employee to me. “I wonder if Russell should have another couple aspirin?”

DUPLICITY--Part 1 of 2

By Wilhelmina Rush


“Duplicity” directly follows “A Cool, Sunny Day in Early April” in my ongoing Russell/Holmes fan fic series.


Long live Laurie R. King. Mary Russell is hers and Sherlock Holmes, by way of Arthur Conan Doyle, is much improved in her retelling.


June 1920


“Hurry, Russell.” Barely even a whisper, the words held impatience and reproach. 


A hundred yards down the dark alley, a lonely streetlight flickered in the drizzle, casting eerie shadows. My hands ached with cold as they grasped the wet iron rungs of the fire escape. From my perch, I saw a finger of thick London fog slowly ebb across the slick cobblestones.


I looked over my shoulder to gauge my situation. The ladder ended ten feet off the ground. Below, my best friend and partner motioned for me to jump.


“Easy enough for you, Holmes,” I hissed. The man had a feline grace—he always landed on his feet. 


Now, Russ.  They’re gaining on us.”  He set down the large metal case we had just stolen and shot a worried glance down the alley.


I swung my boots free of the bottom rung, released my grip, and fell as Holmes stretched his long arms to catch me.


He missed.

Intellectual Pursuits

By Wilhelmina Rush



"Intellectual Pursuits" precedes “A Girl Always Knows.”


Long live Laurie R. King.  The characters are hers and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s.  However, the adoration and shameless homage is all mine. Enjoy.


August 1917


“Mrs. Hudson,” Holmes called in sing-song aggravation from the next room, “do stop monopolizing the child.” 


Mrs. Hudson shook her head and whispered,  “Mr. Holmes is just fussy because you and he are stuck indoors.”  The gusty rain pounded rhythms against the cottage windowpanes, threatening to drown out her voice.  What she said was true—inside, we were warm, dry…and bored.  Casting about for some occupation, I had taken to assisting his housekeeper in the kitchen, adding to my small repertoire of domestic skills.


“I am not fussy, Mrs. Hudson.” Our heads turned in surprise.  Holmes never let us forget his impeccable hearing.  “I simply believe there are only so many recipes for scones.”  He expelled a frustrated sigh.  “Russell!”


I shrugged and dusted what flour I could from my person.  Leaving the kitchen, I gave Mrs. Hudson a commiserating glance. 


In the study, Holmes slouched in an easy chair next to the north-facing window.  His glance followed me as I entered the room.  One long finger pointed me into the empty chair directly opposite his.  “Sit.”




By Wilhelmina Rush



"A Cold and Bitter Rain" follows “The Song of Angels.”


Long live Laurie R. King.  With the exception of an OC, the characters in “A Cold and Bitter Rain” are hers and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s.  However, the adoration and shameless homage is all mine. Enjoy.


March 1920

“He’s lost, Russ.” Tired gray eyes, rimmed in red, stared out at the relentless sea. “He’s lost.” 


My best friend and partner stood hatless, shivering, as the tide pulled around his ankles.  A cold and bitter rain pelted him, rivulets of water coursing down his weary body. I faced him, feeling the icy surf beat my calves.  Two hundred yards down the beach I could just make out the military ambulance parked outside Daniel’s cottage.  The lights on the vehicle were turned off, its engine silent. 


A dreadful realization tore at me.  “Holmes…What…How….”  We had spent the day with Daniel.  There had to be some mistake.  I had seen him only hours ago.


A Girl Always Knows

By Wilhelmina Rush



"A Girl Always Knows" precedes “What Lies Beneath.”


Long live Laurie R. King.  The characters are hers and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s.  However, the adoration and shameless homage is all mine. Enjoy.


May 1918


“Who’s there?”  I called into the warm, fragrant twilight.  My mind was fuzzy with the after effects of the sherry party I had just left.  A walk down the quiet lane back to my college had seemed like a good idea at the time, but soon I was conscious of how alone I was.  Strange noises called from the woods on either side of me.  The eeriness of the place hatched irrational fears.  It almost sounded like someone was following me, just out of sight.  I quickened my step.


I never saw it coming.  From out of nowhere, something swatted the side of my head.

The Song of Angels--Part 2 of 2

“My mother never said a word, and my father—” Daniel’s eyes flashed to Holmes for an instant, “—the late Godfrey Norton, the man who raised me, never let on he knew any different.  I believe that my mother thought she had taken her secret with her....”


“But the revised will.”  I said.


“Ah, yes.  That would be Wilcox’s doing.”  He tilted his head, straining to hear a faraway sound.  “The wind has let up.  Would you mind if we walked down to my cottage?  I think we might be more comfortable there.”


The two men looked at me and I nodded—I had warmed sufficiently to feel up to a walk.


The skies had cleared while we had been inside.  Sunlight poured down upon us with a surprising intensity. I squinted as my eyes adjusted to the light.  Where the world had been a palette of grays, now it screamed with riotous color. The wind coming off the water held a faint reminder of the morning’s cold, but tempered with the sunshine, the air almost felt balmy.  As Daniel led us down a gravel path to the shore, I slid out of my heavy overcoat. 


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