Brotherly Love
T'Len
2004
Series. Laurie R. King’s Holmes/Russell books
Rating: PG-13
Pairing : Ali/Mahmoud resp. Alistair/Marsh
Code: Russell POV
Summary: While Marsh lays in fever he dreams
Note: This is dedicated to the novel Justice Hall. It’s not a scene from the book, nevertheless something what may have taken place during Marsh’s illness and before Russell leave for France.
Sequel to: And only
the desert will know and Arguments
Feedback: tlen11@freenet.de
Disclaimer: This is only a little piece of fanfiction. I d
do not intend to infringe the copyrights of
the Conan Doyle estate or Mrs. King, I neither do own Sherlock Holmes,
Mary Russel or the Hazr-brothers.
If you are under age, please stay away. If you have a problem with m/m-
relationships, then look elsewhere for your entertainment. English is not my
native language, so please be patient with my mistakes. Thanks to Lady Charena
for the beta-reading. For all remaining errors, blame me.
“Ali, love.” The moan made me
abandon the book I had read in and look again after my temporarily patient. He
tossed restlessly in his bed, fever-triggered sweat gleaming onto his forehead.
I whip it away, tenderly stroking over his damp hair. “Ali.” Again he moaned
the name of his beloved.
Beloved! Again I pondered
some thoughts about William Maurice Hughenfort, called Marsh, the now seventh
Duke of Beauville and new Master of Justice Hall, to me better known as
Mahmoud, the Bedouin scribe and therefore spy for Mycroft Holmes, which whom I
had wandered five years ago for several weeks through Palestine, or better I
should say about his relationship to his “brother” Ali, in our current
destination better known as Alistair Gordon St. John Hughenfort, the Master of
Badger Old Place and Marsh’s distant cousin.
“Ali”, followed by some
murmur in Arabic, which I translated as a plea for not let him alone.
As I first met them I just
had fled England on the site of my then mentor and now husband Sherlock Holmes
letting behind a momentarily unsolved case, which proofed to be a threat for
our both lives and stumbling into a new one involving a plot against war-hero
Allenby himself and the people who tried to build up some peace in the Holy
Land. I had taken them for what they very much seemed to appear: two Arabic
cut-throats. It was Holmes who pointed it out to me that the men accompanying
us with more mistrust then anything else were neither Arabs nor brothers.
I don’t know if he then
already suspected the special way their relationship went but I suppose so. I for
myself became suspicious the day their spy-master Joshua granted me quickly my
own goat-hair tent as I insisted otherwise Holmes had to move in with them. I’m
not overlie prude and I hadn’t mind to pretend the whole time that I was a
beardless male Arab youth but nevertheless I wanted some sort of privacy then.
After all I only was a 19 year old girl, not involved in an private
relationship with Holmes then. Obviously this was a prospect they didn’t
welcome after all. And I begun to silently questioning myself why – and later
to which extend their relationship went.
“No… no.” Marsh was trembling
now. Again I whipped the sweat away. What had seemed to be unpleasant but minor
injuries from the shot he had got during yesterday bird-hunt had now turned to
a full fever. Not really live-threatening at the moment, but causing him some
trouble and obvious nightmares. I wondered if he was dreaming from this
torture, which brought him the scar on his face. We had caught his – and
Holmes’ - tormentor five years ago. Unfortunately this guy committed suicide.
“Ali!”, Marsh cried
I wondered if it had been a
good idea to send Alistair to his own home. It had took Iris and myself a while
to convince him that he needed some rest for himself. After all he had got some
of the pellets as well. Of course he could have stayed at Justice Hall. But
with Phillida’s – Marsh’s sister – guests still all over the place Alistair was
best cared for in Badger Old Place. I was sure the Algernon’s would do their
best for their master.
Naturally Marsh’s wife Iris
would have stayed with her husband all the night. Exhausted as she was after
the straining last days she had committed herself finally to a hot, soothing
bath and a brief rest while I was staying with Marsh for that time. Understandable
none of us wished to involve others in the nursing duties. After all it was
more then possible that the shot wasn’t an accident. So none was to be trusted
at the moment. Holmes had occupied himself meanwhile with reading through young
Gabriel’s diaries, surely not a more pleasant task then mine considering the
boys tragedy.
Marsh was murmuring again in
Arabic. Something about being strong and not telling about his shame as far as
I understood. And words of love for his “brother.”
How ironic, I thought, that
two men, well breed and educated, could find their happiness in a simple life
in the desert as they never would could at home. Although the bounds of
morality had loosen over the war years, in a society like this Ali and Marsh
were born in, some things just don’t be possible. Maybe the family could
overlook to some degree that the younger brother Lionel had preferred the
company of young men over women. Maybe one even wouldn’t mind that Marsh and
Iris – his lesbian, sham wife, lived apart - but never would it be tolerated
when Alistair and Marsh lived together like a couple.
In Palestine they could
travel together, hold hands in the open and greet each other with deep
affection – and some kisses – as Arab males do. Sleeping in one tent far away
from any other soul, which may be disturbed, anything seemed possible, even
intimacy in any meanign of the word. Here in old England with all-seeing and
-hearing servants all around and a not minder curious family it just was
impossible.
I looked again on Marsh, a
strong men, capable of killing without a second thought as I know from witness
and yet probably as much tender as rough. I didn’t know if he and Ali carried
their relationship through to the sexual content but I assumed so. But their
relationship – therefore I was sure – went much deeper then sheer desire of the
body. They had been in such close rapport back than in Palestine, nearly as if
they were acting out of one mind, speaking with one tongue, thinking with one
brain. Probably the concept of soul mates was not that impossible after all.
“Ali, need you:” Marsh had
ceased his tossing around. Somehow he seemed more calm now and his longing for
his companion more… should I say of an
intimate matter? At least he murmured something like ‘touch me’ in Arabic. He
also spoke from assuring that he still was alive.
I just was about to bent down
and giving him some re-assuring words in case he may hear me in his feverish
state as a silent figure appeared at my site and startled me. “Ali”, I sighed. He must have come over the hidden, narrow stairway Iris had showed me
some days ago.
I was about to question why
he had returned and then using this way but a quick glance in Alistair’s face
stopped the word on my tongue. He didn’t gave me a look as he brushed past me
and said: “I take care of him now.”
Of course I didn’t argue with
him. Ali ever had been nearly overprotective regarding Mahmoud. I suspected
that he blamed himself that his “brother” had been taken captive and tortured
once although I doubt that Ali could have done anything against it. And he
rescued Mahmoud after all. If he now had felt
it necessary to return to his beloved I surely wasn’t the person to
question his motives. Besides he wouldn’t have let my after all.
Marsh seemed to perceive Alistair’s
presence. He stirred but did not awake. “Ali” this time the whisper was full of
tenderness and love.
“I’m here, love, I’ll never
let you alone again,” was the answer, equally tender spoken.
The last I saw before I went
out to my own room was Alistair bending down and placing a tender kiss directly
on Marsh’s mouth.
End.