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.

WISH YOU WERE HERE

By Wilhelmina Rush
wilhelmina.rush@gmail.com

http://www.wildrosepublishing.com/authors/wilhelmina.rush.htm

“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.

BUT ONLY JUST

By Wilhelmina Rush
wilhelmina.rush@gmail.com

“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

“Russ.”

“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.

NO MATTER

By Wilhelmina Rush
wilhelmina.rush@gmail.com

“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

“Russell.”

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
wilhelmina.rush@gmail.com

“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

wilhelmina.rush@gmail.com

"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.”

A COLD AND BITTER RAIN

By Wilhelmina Rush

wilhelmina.rush@gmail.com

"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

A Girl Always Knows

By Wilhelmina Rush

wilhelmina.rush@gmail.com

"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. 

The Song of Angels

By Wilhelmina Rush
wilhelmina.rush@gmail.com

"The Song of Angels" is the fifth in a series, directly following “The Rules of the Game.”

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

March 1920

“Damn it, Holmes,” I hissed, “Would you hurry up?  I think I’m getting chilblains.”  I clenched my teeth and fought back the shivers that wracked my body.  The bitter winter rain had penetrated my woolen overcoat, leaving it cold and damp against my skin. I stamped my feet, restoring circulation in my legs.

Since early morning, we had occupied ourselves with sifting through the charred remains of Dr. Daniel G. Norton’s experimental laboratory and machine shop.   True to his methods, Holmes had insisted on investigating the scene before interviewing any of the persons involved.  We had talked to no one here at the base.  And, though my partner and best friend seemed keenly interested in several items among the salvage, he made no move to closely examine them.

We were being watched. 

The Rules of the Game
By Wilhelmina Rush
wilhelmina.rush@gmail.com

"The Rules of the Game" is the fourth in a series, directly following “Cinderella Home from the Ball.”

Special thanks go to RUSS-L members Sarah M., Kristin R. (and her dad Larry B.), Joanne S., and Alice W. for their help in researching the RMS Mauritania, and to Dorothy Y. for her help in providing the Oxford academic calendar.  Without their help, I couldn’t guarantee that Russell would have time for her next adventure or that Holmes’ old bones could take it...  -Wil

Long live Laurie R. King. The characters are hers (Holmes, Mycroft, Uncle John, and Mrs. Hudson, by way of Arthur Conan Doyle, though much improved in her retelling) but the adoration and shameless homage is all mine. Enjoy.

March 1920

“Damn it, Russell.” A familiar, sardonic voice woke me from a deep sleep.  In the dim light of the second-class cabin, I saw Holmes standing at the foot of the bed.  His gray eyes flashed daggers at me.  I cleared the grogginess from my head and reminded myself to proceed with caution. 

“A little small, isn’t it, Holmes?”  I sat up and straightened my eyeglasses.  “Certainly, you could have booked something a little more comfortable.”

Holmes removed his jacket, looking around the cabin.  His eyebrow arched as he turned back to face me.   “I didn’t know I’d be having company.”

I watched as he entered the small adjoining bathroom and washed his hands.  The water pressure was low and he easily spoke over the noise.  “How did you get here, Russell?”

“I followed you from the Sussex train station.”

“I saw no one.”

“Holmes, as Uncle John once quoted you as saying—‘That is what you may expect to see when I follow you.’”  I was teasing him, trying to mask the concern and confusion I felt.  However, Holmes knew me too well to leave it at that.

“Russell,” his voice had a hard, impatient edge to it, “Let’s not play games.”  He dried his hands and came to stand before me.  His gray eyes stared into mine, and he demanded, “Why are you here?”

Cinderella Home from the Ball--PART 1 of 2
By Wilhelmina Rush
wilhelmina.rush@gmail.com

"Cinderella Home from the Ball" is the third in a series, starting with "What Lies Beneath" and continued in "A Commentary on the Partnership."

Long live Laurie R. King. The characters are hers (Holmes, Mycroft, Uncle John, Mrs. Hudson, and Billy by way of Arthur Conan Doyle, though much improved in her retelling) but the adoration and shameless homage is all mine. Enjoy.

December 1919

“There now, Miss, this empire waist is real flattering.  Creates lots of feminine curves.”  The lady’s maid chattered away.  Though a mere wisp of a girl, she had proven herself a master, performing miracles in dress and toilette.  I tuned out her never-ending but harmless prattle and relaxed under her expert ministrations.  “That gentleman friend of yours will be sure to take notice.”

 Cinderella Home from the Ball--PART 2 of 2


The music swelled.  Holmes very carefully placed his arms around me, mindful of my earlier reactions to his touch.  His precautions seemed unnecessary, however, and I felt myself relax and enjoy myself.  None of the confusing and distracting sensations that made such a mess of our ballroom dance lessons had resurfaced to spoil the evening.

“That’s it, Russ, you’re doing fine.  Just keep concentrating on your steps whilst I catch you up.  We’re being watched by two separate individuals.  The slight, blond man with the goatee that signed your dance card—“

“Mr. Simon Neva—“

“Yes, Mr. Small Boots.  And the other—not one of your admirers.  A burly dark man, clean-shaven, but with a scar along his jaw line.  Square toes.”

“Our informant?”

A Commentary on the Partnership
By Wilhelmina Rush
wilhelmina.rush@gmail.com

Long live Laurie R. King. The characters are hers (Holmes, Mycroft, and Mrs. Hudson by way of Arthur Conan Doyle, though much improved in her retelling) but the adoration and shameless homage is all mine. Enjoy.

December 1919

“Relax, Russell.  Tilt your head a little more to the right.” Gray eyes looked down into mine, one brow raised in silent challenge. “And arch your back more.” 

My right hand felt warm, almost sweaty, in his. Music played in the background, but I barely heard it over our pulses, beating a private rhythm in our palms.  Holmes’ right hand pressed into the small of my back, bringing my hips closer to his.  At his touch, my concentration wavered and a secret shiver ran down my spine.  Distracted, I trod on his foot.  Again.

“Damn it.  Sorry, Holmes.”  I broke the embrace and stepped back.  What was wrong with me?

“Russell, if you’d only follow my lead, this would come more naturally, I assure you.”  I felt his patience with me wearing thin, though as the firelight cast flickering shadows over his face, his expression was unreadable. 

A Cool, Sunny Day in Early April
By Wilhelmina Rush
wilhelmina.rush@gmail.com

Long live Laurie R. King. The characters are hers (Holmes and Uncle John by way of Arthur Conan Doyle, though much improved in her retelling) but the adoration and shameless homage is all mine. Enjoy.

April 1920

I was twenty when I first began to realize, in my naivete, that I didn’t know all there was to know about my best friend and partner, Sherlock Holmes. Twenty years old with my nose in a book as I walked the familiar paths surrounding my beloved Oxford University.

And, I nearly ran into him.

In my defence, I must say it was an engrossing book. 

What Lies Beneath
By Wilhelmina Rush
wilhelmina.rush@gmail.com

Long live Laurie R. King. The characters are hers (Holmes, Mrs. Watson, and Uncle John by way of Arthur Conan Doyle, though much improved in her retelling) but the adoration and shameless homage is all mine. Enjoy.

December 1919

I crept silently down the worn cottage stairs. I was bundled head to toe in my nightclothes, dressing gown, and the old down comforter from the guest bedroom, but I couldn’t calm the shivers that racked my body. I found Holmes sitting in the warm halo of the fire, wrapped in several old quilts. When the furnace gave out earlier that day, we had rearranged the furniture in the study, pushing the couch nearer the hearth, to take advantage of the heat. Now, Holmes lounged comfortably, I thought, pipe in hand, long, lean legs stretched out to toast his stocking feet on the fender. He looked so content that I almost hated to disturb him. Almost. 

“Holmes,” I said, my breath visible in the chill of the room, “I’m so cold.” I stood just outside the fire’s glow and looked down at my best friend and partner. 

Holmes placed his pipe on a side table and seemed to weigh something in his mind before turning to me. A brief smile twitched at his lips and his brow raised suggestively. Without a word, he parted the blankets that draped his shoulders, his long arms creating a neat, warm niche for me. I crawled in gratefully, laying my own blanket across our laps. Holmes settled his left arm across my shoulders, pulling the blanket around us.