A Monstrous Regiment of Women - Laurie R. King [109]
“Oh, well, Holmes,” I drawled into his climbing voice, “look on the bright side. You’ve complained for years how tedious it is to have everyone with a stray puppy or a stolen pencil box push through your hedges and tread on the flowers; now the British Public will assume that Sherlock Holmes is as much a fairy tale as those photographs and will stop plaguing you. I’d say the man’s done you a great service.” I smiled brightly.
For a long minute, it was uncertain whether he was going to strike me dead for my impertinence or drop dead himself of apoplexy, but then, as I had hoped, he threw back his head and laughed long and hard.
Suddenly, without warning, I found myself turning to him, leaning into him until my face was buried in the lapels of his coat. “Oh God, Holmes. I was so frightened. Even now, the thought that He is out there somewhere paralyses me with terror.” We stood together for a long moment, and he cleared his throat.
“There is only one solution, you know, Russell.”
“Yes. I know.” His white evening scarf was soft against my cheek, and he smelt of wool and tobacco. I sighed, and stood away from him, only peripherally aware of his hands falling back to his sides. “I seem to have spent the last few weeks running away from things. I can’t very well do it now.”
“You will not be alone,” he said quietly. And indeed, from that moment on I was not. I tucked my arm into his, and in amity we walked out of the park and caught a cab.
What the walk and the conversation had begun, the food finished, though what had helped most was having my anger redirected at its rightful target. After eating, we walked through nearby Covent Garden and then up to my flat, where I made coffee and we sat talking and I dozed off in front of the fire. Holmes woke me and sent me to my bed, where I slept, not for long, but deeply. I woke and put on my dressing gown to prowl the dark flat that smelt now of Holmes’ tobacco, but the restlessness of the day before was controllable now, and the shame something to be acknowledged and not dwelt upon. I made myself some warm milk with a grating of nutmeg and stood at the window, watching the empty street below. After a while, the beat constable appeared, reaching for doorknobs, shining his light into corners, quite unprepared for any of the evil things that might befall him, but solidly, stolidly, reassuringly English. He passed on. I finished my drink and, walking past the smell of a pipe, returned to bed, and to sleep.
“Are you quite certain you feel up to it, Russell?” Holmes pressed.
In answer, I held my hand outstretched over the breakfast table. Steady as a rock, I noted proudly, and then noticed for the first time what Holmes was wearing.
“Where did you find the dressing gown, Holmes?”
“Lent me by the good Mr Quimby.”
“Good of him. I was afraid they might be offended, an unchaperoned female and a male guest.”
“I told the missus I was a bodyguard, and she had no further qualms. Women find me reassuring.”
In the general run of things, Holmes was as reassuring as a shark, but I said nothing, applying myself to the eggs and the toast that tasted of actual food again.
“You wish to begin at once?” he asked again.
“Of course. We’ve no time to waste.”
“Do not expect to be fully yourself for some days, Russell,” he warned.
“I’ll try not to fight off more than six thugs at a time. Joke, Holmes, only a joke. There isn’t anyone in the Temple to fight, anyway, not at night. The guard is a drowsy old man.”
“Miss Childe has taken on bodyguards, one or another of whom follows her about during the day.” I looked