“Are they your more critical components?” Jones pressed.
“Yes and no,” Skye decided. “Wouldn’t you say, Cait?”
“Yeah, Skye,” Caitlin averred. “These are all critical, sure. But there’s several components I’d call critical that aren’t on this list.”
“Hell yeah,” Skye agreed vehemently. “Like the one that just went kablooie on us and killed Chad.”
Smith grew pensive and Holmes nodded. Jones said, “Opinions, gentlemen?”
“Inconclusive,” Holmes replied.
“Agreed,” Smith remarked, then he shot a meaningful look at Jones, who nodded ever so slightly. The two men had known each other and worked together long enough to communicate certain things without needing to vocalize them; and that nod was Smith’s cue. “Listen, I understand Dr. Chadwick here is Mr. Holmes’ liaison, and she looks beat. Maybe Mr. Holmes needs to see the two ladies home. You’re going to have your hands full for a few days, Hank, so if you’ll give me a list of projects and their managers and chief scientists, I’ll look into this while your people investigate the accident. I can coordinate with Roberts and Mr. Holmes as I go.”
“Sounds good, Adrian,” Jones agreed easily. “C’mon to my office and I’ll get you the info.”
“Okay,” Smith shrugged.
“Not to be rude,” Caitlin asked, addressing Smith, “but who exactly are you, sir?”
“Oh, sorry,” Jones apologized. “Dr. Caitlin Hughes, Project: Tesseract manager; Dr. Skye Chadwick, Tesseract’s chief scientist, this is DSS coordinator and FBI Special Agent Adrian Smith. He’s helping Mr. Holmes and myself on a little matter.”
“Ah, okay,” Caitlin nodded, offering her hand.
* * *
Smith accepted it, shaking firmly. When Skye offered her hand as well, Smith noted there was a knowing gleam in her tired blue eyes. Oh, that’s right, as his liaison, she’s working with Holmes, and knows about the investigation, he remembered.
“Well, why don’t you three head on out? Holmes, I’ll come by first thing in the morning and tell you what I learned, if anything.”
“Not hardly,” Skye announced determinedly. “I just lost one of my team, not to mention a friend. I want to know what the bloody blue blazes happened, and why. Like hell I’m waltzing out of here.” Her face was closed, a stubborn scowl on it.
“Yes, you certainly are waltzing out, young lady,” General Morris boomed from the doorway. The others turned. “Everything’s under control. Jones’ people are interviewing your team, everybody’s stopped throwing up, and the Chamber is on full lockdown. Guards are posted in addition to the regular security system. Nobody goes in or out of that facility until 8 A.M. tomorrow morning. After what happened down there, I want everyone to go home and get some rest tonight. That includes you.”
“But General!”
“Hank, can you get a couple of your men to escort Dr. Chadwick off the base?” Morris threatened.
“I sure can, General,” Jones responded readily. “I really would hate to do that, though.”
* * *
Holmes sat and watched this by-play for several minutes, noting the grey, pinched look on Skye’s face was still there, and Caitlin looked faintly ill, a distinct greenish tinge to her skin contrasting unpleasantly with her red hair. Finally he interjected.
“Come, Skye. You know General Morris is correct, and has only the best interests of you and your team in mind. Moreover, Dr. Hughes appears to be somewhat the worse for wear. And you need a change of clothing, my dear. Let us go home.”
Skye slumped, glancing at Jones.
* * *
“It’s under control, Doctor,” the colonel confirmed softly, understanding. “You performed admirably well. I’ve never seen such a cool head in a crisis like that. Go home. You’ve more than earned it, both of you.”
With a sigh of defeat, Skye nodded.
“Can you drive, Skye, or do you need me to call a driver?” Morris asked quietly.
“No, I can drive,” Skye said in a hollow tone.
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
* * *
Holmes stood and held out a hand. Skye took it, and he tugged her to her feet.
“Dr. Hughes?” Holmes queried gently, seeing the other woman staring into space. “Would you like for us to drop you at your home?”
“What? Oh, um, yeah. That would be nice. I could probably call my husband to come get me, but he’d have to come down the mountain,” she said, her voice faint. “Thanks.”
“Come, then,” Holmes murmured, helping Skye pack her laptop before shepherding both women out the door. Morris, Jones, and Smith followed them out, headed for Jones’ office to organize the survey of classified projects.
* * *
When they got to the little community of Divide at the top of the pass, Skye detoured onto North Road to drop Caitlin off at her house on Cedar Mountain Road. Her husband Nate, a short, stocky blond rancher roughly the same height as his wife, met her at the door as Holmes helped a wobbly Caitlin out of the vehicle. Caitlin hugged her husband fiercely, then went inside, leaving Holmes to sketch an unclassified version of events for her husband. Nathan Hughes’ eyes widened. He thanked Holmes and called a greeting to Skye before hurrying after his distressed wife.
Holmes climbed into the car and they resumed their journey homeward. Skye had been uncommonly silent throughout the drive, although Caitlin and Holmes had tried to carry on an innocuous conversation about the difference in the flora and fauna of England versus Colorado. Now that Caitlin was no longer in the car, the silence grew oppressive.
“Skye,” Holmes finally said with a kind of gentle sternness, “when we get home, you will go straightaway and get out of those clothes and prepare for bed. I will make dinner and bring it to you. If you have any strong spirits, you had best tell me where they are, as well. You have had a dreadful shock.”
Skye nodded as she turned into the driveway. They pulled up behind the house and got out. It was late, and twilight was well advanced. Skye stumbled and almost fell in the driveway gravel in the dim lighting, and Holmes swiftly grabbed her, holding her steady until she could get her balance. That was when he sensed her utter weariness and the emotions churning within her.
“Skye?” he murmured, deeply concerned. “Will you be all right, my dear?”
“I always am, Holmes,” she answered very quietly. Too quietly, Holmes decided. “But if you thought I felt guilty for playing God after you arrived here, it’s nothing to what I feel now.”
She straightened her shoulders, gently freed herself of his grip, and went into the house.
* * *
Skye did as Holmes had instructed, going straight into her bedroom and stripping down, then taking a thorough, hot shower before putting on fresh panties and a pyjama shirt. She fished her robe from the closet, shoved her feet into bedraggled fleece-lined houseshoes, and shuffled her way into the kitchen.
* * *
Holmes had found a big can of beef stew in the pantry. He had also discovered her small stock of liquor. A generous splash of red wine and some dried herbs rendered the taste of the canned stew more palatable, and by the time she wandered in, it was simmering cheerily. Holmes pressed a small glass of cognac into her hand.
“Drink this,” he ordered, herding her to a seat at the kitchen table.
Skye took the drink and sat down at the table, sipping the cognac.
“No,” Holmes corrected, watching her slowly imbibe the liquor. “Drink it.” He pantomimed knocking it back.
Skye glared at him. Holmes raised an eyebrow but stood firm. With a resigned sigh, Skye tipped the glass and shot it. She blinked, trying not to gasp, and a hint of color returned to her cheeks.
“Much better,” Holmes noted in satisfaction, turning back to the stove to stir the stew. Rummaging in the cabinets, he got out two bowls, two plates, two spoons, a bread knife, and a cheese cutter. These were placed on the table before he turned his
attention to the refrigerator. A block of cheddar cheese came out, and a loaf of thick-cut bread emerged from the pantry.
* * *
Soon, Skye was staring down at a large bowl of stew with crusty bread and thick slabs of cheese on the side. Holmes sat down, not across from her as she’d expected, but right beside her, his elbow mere inches from her own.
“Eat,” he said softly but adamantly, lifting his own spoon. “I am not beyond force-feeding you if you do not.”
Skye sighed again, then put her elbows on the table and buried her face in her hands. “In a minute,” she said, voice muffled by her fingers.
There was the quiet tinkle of silverware being laid down, and the low scrape of a chair being pushed back; Skye felt long, sensitive fingers feather across her shoulders.
“Skye? Do I have your permission…?” The fingers kneaded lightly by way of elaboration.
“Yes,” she murmured gratefully, still through her hands. “That would be…nice.”
The strong, supple fingers dug gently into tense shoulders, applying pressure to the clenched muscles there. It was apparent Holmes knew what he was doing, and he worked deep into her shoulders and neck, even slipping his fingers into her hair to massage her scalp. It was brief but effective. He ended by pulling her head back against his flat belly and circling his fingertips across her temples and forehead. When he released her head she let it lie against him for several seconds, eyes closed.
* * *
Holmes permitted the familiarity, looking down into the tired face and relieved to see it relax at last. Then Skye took a deep breath and opened her eyes, staring into space for a moment.
“Thank you,” she murmured, lifting her head, which seemed to him to be lighter than it had before his ministrations. “Very much.”
“Try to eat now.” Holmes nodded as he resumed his seat.
“Okay,” Skye mumbled, lifting her spoon and tasting the stew. “Oh, that’s not bad at all for canned stuff.”
“Despite how Watson’s stories often made it seem, Mrs. Hudson was not always available. She had a beloved sister she visited not infrequently, and on those occasions, Watson and I had to fend for ourselves. Watson was an excellent doctor, but he was an execrable cook, I fear.” Holmes smiled.
It coaxed a chuckle out of Skye, which gratified the detective. The usually reticent man began to ply her with stories over their meal; never any tales of adventure, simply tidbits of life in 221B Baker Street: The chemistry disaster that left the flat smelling of rotten eggs for three days. Or the time Mrs. Hudson’s cat tripped Watson on the stair landing while he was carrying an armload of discarded newspapers and he fell like a ton of bricks, sliding all the way to the bottom of the stairs and ending up half-buried in newsprint. Or the amusing and sometimes bemusing vagaries of Watson’s courtship of Miss Mary Morstan, which had puzzled Holmes no end. Soon Skye was smiling—wanly, true, and with obvious weariness. But it was still a smile, and that satisfied Holmes.
He talked, and she listened, eating absently as she did so. Only when her bowl was empty, the spoon scraping bottom, with nothing but crumbs left of cheese and bread, did he cease the tales. He rose and gathered the dirty dishes, putting them in the sink for later. Then he poured another glass of cognac, a stout one this time.
“Drink this, my dear, and then toddle off to bed. I will see both to the horses and to the cleaning up.”
“Do you want me to shoot this, too?”
“No, you may drink this slower.”
“Tell me some more stuff, then, while I drink it.”
“May I take it you are amused at the old-fashioned quaintness of it all?” Holmes gave her a smile with a hint of wistfulness.
“Oh, no, not at all,” Skye said, seeming genuinely surprised he should think so. “That never occurred to me. It doesn’t sound old-fashioned in the least. I just,” her still-too-pale cheeks flushed, “It was nice, hearing the little inside tales about two men I’ve read so much about. Watson’s stories focused on the cases, the adventures, and the reader only gets the occasional glimpse of what daily life was like for you two. I enjoy knowing more about your day-to-day life.”
* * *
A gratified sparkle lit grey eyes, and Holmes obliged. He told Skye about Watson’s attempt to throw Holmes a surprise birthday party on the occasion of his thirty-fifth birthday, and how Holmes knew about it from the very outset, despite Watson’s best efforts. How the detective put on the acting performance of his career, letting Watson think he had pulled the wool over Holmes’ eyes. Holmes went into detail about the cat and mouse games, and the way he had slunk around, forced to stand in the rain, hidden in a back alley until Watson ended his visit to the Diogenes Club to issue an invitation to Sherlock’s brother Mycroft.
* * *
Skye managed a giggle, to Holmes’ delight.
“When IS your birthday?” she wondered.
“January sixth. Of 1852. The day after Twelfth Night. And you?”
“November fifth. Guy Fawkes Day, almost forty years back.” Skye drained the last of her cognac, and Holmes saw the glazed expression in the heavy-lidded blue eyes.
“Really? In that case, we shall have to build a roaring good bonfire for you this November, my dear. Although I never much liked the practice of burning Mr. Fawkes in effigy. A bit lurid for my taste.”
“Okay,” her grin grew wider, and he noted her speech was slurred. “Maybe we can roast marshmallows too. If we aren’t hip-deep in snow already.”
Holmes’ eyebrows rose, startled, not having previously considered that the snow season came early in these parts. Momentarily he had a mental image of being snowed in on the ranch, Skye and himself tucked cozily into the sofa before a roaring fire in the fireplace, sharing a bottle of cognac while Anna purred nearby. It was altogether a pleasant and agreeable thought; and he pushed it away firmly.
“On that note, my dear, it is time you retired to bed. I think the cognac will aid matters in that regard. Should sleep prove difficult, however, there are a few other weapons in my arsenal. For many years after we came to share a flat, Watson suffered from insomnia. An aftermath of his Afghan tour, you know. A bit rough on the nerves, that. I am quite skilled in the concoction of hot toddies and various herbal soporifics—many of which he taught me. So I suppose one could say there was a fair and equitable exchange of information between us.”
Skye nodded her understanding, rising unsteadily. Holmes took her elbow and shepherded her to her bedroom, only coming as far as the door. As he handed her inside, he commented, “Oh, by the way, Skye, if you would like, give me your shirt and I will endeavour to remove the blood stains. Another talent I developed over the years was the removal of blood from clothing. Given my profession, it became something of a necessity.”
“No, it’s okay,” she mumbled.
“It is no problem, I assure you, Skye. Where is your shirt?”
“In the trash. Let it be. It’s just a t-shirt. I don’t think I could stand to wear it again anyway.”
“Ah,” he said quietly, understanding. “Very well, then.”
Skye turned to go into the bedroom, then stopped, doubling back and taking his arm. “Thank you,” she whispered, “for everything.”
Holmes looked down at her, then told her sincerely, “I am the one who should be thanking you, my dear Skye. Tonight you gave me a rare gift: the opportunity to reminisce about my life with Watson without a maudlin undercurrent to the memories.”
Skye smiled lopsidedly, the unguarded whimsy of the expression showing she was definitely under the influence; and in the back of his mind, the artist Holmes thought it was adorable.
“You can talk to me about it any time you want to, Holmes. I’ll listen.”
“Thank you. I will most assuredly keep that in mind.” Holmes chuckled warmly. “Now get into bed before you fall over, Skye. If you wake in the night and cannot get back to sleep, knock on my bedroom door and I will rise and prepare you a sleeping draught of some sort.�
��
“Okay.” Skye toddled into the bedroom and straight for the bed, forgetting to close the door. Holmes shut it for her with an affectionate smile, then headed for the barn, where he dropped hay and feed for the horses. Back in the house, he fed Anna, then put the dishes in the dishwasher; he had learned how to load the device, but as yet he still let Skye set and run it.
Then he retired to his bedroom for his nightly ritual of preparation, pipe, and bed.
* * *
Skye slept the entire night, which frankly amazed Holmes. What he didn’t know was that she skirted the thin edge of nightmare most of the night, and only by semiconscious willpower averted total immersion. She got up the next morning bleary but functional. A hot shower helped, and Holmes already had a basic breakfast ready in the kitchen when she arrived there—scrambled eggs, bacon, and good strong English breakfast tea with cream.
“Oh, bless you,” she muttered as he handed her a cup of tea. She wrapped both hands around its warmth and inhaled deeply of its rich aroma before sipping it. She pretended to ignore Holmes as he watched her with surreptitious satisfaction from the corner of his eye as he dished up the eggs. “And by the way, Holmes, you don’t have to baby me. I’m…tougher than I look.”
“I have not offended, have I?” Holmes paused, doubtful.
“No, no, not at all,” Skye demurred. “In fact you’ve been incredibly considerate, and I appreciate it more than I can say. I didn’t mean to sound ungrateful. I only meant you don’t have to go to extremes to ensure I’ll hold up. It was horrible, but…I’m okay.”
“You are certain?” Holmes queried, permitting a hint of anxiety to show.
“Yup.”
“All right. Please, sit, and we shall have breakfast.”
* * *
Caitlin didn’t make it down the mountain that day; her husband Nate called to say she’d had a bad night and would try to come in the next day, and no one was about to object. Holmes and Chadwick spent the day with Major Roberts, Colonel Jones’ top investigator, interviewing all of the members of the Tesseract team, usually in Skye’s office, which was handy. Their stories corroborated Caitlin and Skye’s, and by the end of the day, Skye, Holmes, and Roberts had in-depth knowledge of what each console position had observed. Roberts went off to write up their findings. Smith and Jones stopped by just before 5 o’clock.
The Case of the Displaced Detective Page 19