Russell fic. Ph34r me.
Jul. 9th, 2005 03:55 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lizbeeTitle: Seasons
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![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
cesario 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
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
On a wholly irrelevant note, I'm still feeling the House love, but I have to ask. Do Chase and Cameron actually serve a purpose in the show, beyond being hot? 'Cos ... not so much feeling the love towards them. They kind of annoy me, actually.
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
cesario 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
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
On a wholly irrelevant note, I'm still feeling the House love, but I have to ask. Do Chase and Cameron actually serve a purpose in the show, beyond being hot? 'Cos ... not so much feeling the love towards them. They kind of annoy me, actually.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2005-07-09 06:20 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-07-10 02:52 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-07-09 08:50 am (UTC)Mainly because this is good. And, dude, my mindset towards the entire Russell series is "Cheese. Cheese. Mmmm mmm mmmm. Delicious cheese." and then you have to go and write something that's good and makes me go "Aw man!"
no subject
Date: 2005-07-10 02:53 am (UTC)Mmmmmm, delicious cheese.Ninety percent of fandom activity involves taking cheese and making souffle.Mmmmmm, cheese souffle.Which is to say, thank you. See icon for further expressions of mood.
no subject
Date: 2005-07-09 12:14 pm (UTC)*blows nose loudly*
Oh, and Chase and Cameron are there for House to diagnose their psychoses. Plus, the Ducklings all specialize in different areas of medicine, so House can display his capacious general medical knowledge while shooting their ideas down. But hey, I'm not that hard to please, I like them all.
no subject
Date: 2005-07-10 03:34 am (UTC)...and having three boring doctors to make House look more interesting is redundant.
Because it has to be said...
Date: 2005-07-09 02:18 pm (UTC)Sorry. (Thank you for not making it cancer of the mouth.)
Lovely story. I suspect that any offspring of Holmes and Russell would actually be seriously scary.
Re: Because it has to be said...
Date: 2005-07-10 03:43 am (UTC)I'm going to pointedly ignore that, and we'll never speak of it again.
*pointedly ignores*
(Thank you.)
no subject
Date: 2005-07-09 04:44 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-07-10 05:45 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-07-09 06:22 pm (UTC)(waaah!)
And re House: Chase is there to have specific prejudices in contrast to House's generalized misanthropy and Cameron is there to voice the sympathy that House won't. I actually like Cameron, despite her admittedly annoying qualities, but Chase is pretty hit or miss for me. Now, House himself, well...that's different. ::loves:::
no subject
Date: 2005-07-10 05:54 am (UTC)I try to like Chase and Cameron, but ... I can't. Does this make me a bad fan?
no subject
Date: 2005-07-10 12:14 pm (UTC)(meanwhile, I actually *do* rec House/Cameron when I come across something interesting, but most of it seems to be authorial insert fic, as one might imagine. *g*)
no subject
Date: 2005-07-10 11:45 pm (UTC)(in case you're wondering who I am, I friended you a while back after sitting in quiet admiration of Girl Most Likely and your writing in general; I've been a bit of lurker ever since.)
no subject
Date: 2005-07-11 01:10 am (UTC)Thank you! *preens obnoxiously*
I'd encourage you to write more, except that I never, ever, want to see a sequel to this particular story.
*eyedart*
Right. No sequels, then. None.
*shoves files under bed*
But I think you got both Holmes and Russell spot on, which is indeed rare!
Oh, thank you. I have an amazing amount of posting anxiety in this fandomlet, because they're both so hard to capture, and Holmes was absolutely impossible until I read Locked Rooms. Looking over the Russell fic I've written -- which is considerably more than I've posted, because I'm the world's laziest editor -- he's conspicuous by his absence.
(in case you're wondering who I am, I friended you a while back after sitting in quiet admiration of Girl Most Likely and your writing in general; I've been a bit of lurker ever since.)
Oh, thank you. Again. *weak grin* I usually swing by and read your LJ every few weeks; I just took the plunge then and friended you properly at last. I had this weird idea that I'd done so already...
no subject
Date: 2005-07-11 05:04 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-07-13 03:52 am (UTC)Holmes dismissed Jonathan with a challenge to find the tallest tree on the grounds and climb it, and went in search of his wife.
Best. Parenting. Evar.
Also, re: name. Jonathan! Admittedly, I cannot remember Russell's father's name, so I may be interpreting this incorrectly, but to me that was like John (for H. Watson) + Jewish spelling goodness = domestic concordance. Huzzah!
In all seriousness, the voices are right, the tone is right, the story is right.
And of course yay for gratuitous Errol Flynn references! (Though they make me yearn for gratuitous Basil Rathbone references... he must have been around playing a heavy in some film or another...).
no subject
Date: 2005-07-13 05:03 am (UTC)Best. Parenting. Evar.
Alas, yes. I say alas, because the kid's in Russell's hands after Holmes passes on. Poor boy.
(Locked Rooms has some great scenes with Holmes in a paternal role. Which weirds me out in a way -- Laurie, I think, enjoys messing with heads -- but was also a pleasure to read.)
Also, re: name. Jonathan! Admittedly, I cannot remember Russell's father's name, so I may be interpreting this incorrectly, but to me that was like John (for H. Watson) + Jewish spelling goodness = domestic concordance. Huzzah!
*big grin*
Bingo! Got it in one.
(I really detest the fannish tradition of passing down names. I know it happens a lot in some cultures, and is apparently more common in America than Australia, but all I know is that no child deserves the name 'Sherlock', and if I see one more Judith, I'll push the bleeding pram over the cliffs myself. I can't tell them apart!)
In all seriousness, the voices are right, the tone is right, the story is right.
Thank you. Thank you. It's so nerve-wracking, moving into a new fandom...
*wanders off to find Rathbone biography*
no subject
Date: 2005-09-06 10:40 pm (UTC)And I agree--no child of Holmes', IMO, would ever be named 'Sherlock'.
no subject
Date: 2005-09-07 03:33 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-06-28 12:20 pm (UTC)This is brilliant work. I'm only two and a half books into the Russell series (I skipped A Letter of Mary to backtrack to O, Jerusalem) and I probably shouldn't be reading fanfic already...but this was superb. You captured King's voice perfectly and these scenes played out like chapters from a much larger text.
I'm astounded at your ability to emulate (match!) the original writing - I rarely read book-based fanfic because I always have at least one quibble with the fanfic author's interpretation, but this was spot on.
Fantastic work, and going into the mems.
Also, I love your Dalek icon. >_>