Am I no better than the other men of my era, whom I decried for repressing intelligent women? Evidently there is more to such constraint than merely frowning upon the sex and refusing to permit their advancements. The mores and training of my generation amount to a subtle “us versus them” conflict. My very proclivity toward matters of propriety is shackling Skye. But am I capable of releasing it? Perhaps not fully, he decided, but I must at least try, and aim for a release sufficiently great that she is freed. I will not be so dogmatic that I chain so large an intellect, or so caring a heart.
“No, Skye,” he said, his tone as gentle as he knew how to make it. “That will not be necessary. If I hope to live in your world, I must learn to abide by its conventions. Only allow that I will have considerable discomfort as I proceed to adapt.”
She nodded, trying to hide her relief.
“Will you let me check the cut on your chest?”
Holmes’ gut promptly clenched. Beginning immediately, he thought ruefully.
“Yes,” he answered.
Skye slipped into the adjacent bath and returned with the antibiotic cream, adhesive tape, and another Telfa pad. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she delicately peeled the bandage away from the wound. Holmes was surprised at how painless the process was; Skye manipulated the tape to avoid pulling chest hair, and the Telfa pad functioned as advertised.
The weal was angrier than she wanted to see, Holmes decided, watching her face: Skye frowned, pursed her lips, then reached for the tube of antibiotic. Next came the return of the soothing massage by warm fingertips on his chest. Holmes’ first instinct was to block out the sensation, but his self-chastisement moments before was fresh in his mind. So he determined not only to allow Skye to do what was needed, but be consciously and deliberately aware of her deeds on his behalf, so he might appreciate them more. It would not be much of an improvement in his attitude, he considered, to permit her actions, yet remain ungrateful for them. So he devoted his observational skills to her actions, allowing himself to experience her touch.
It was pleasant, he decided. The cut itself was sore, and the skin fevered, but the medicated cream was cool and Skye’s touch was gentle, managing to be both relieving and energizing.
“That feels good,” he offered gruffly after a few moments. Skye gave him a startled glance, then her face lit up.
“Good. You seem tense, and I was afraid I was hurting you.”
“No,” he said, forcing his taut body and agitated mind to relax. “Are you capable of hurting someone?”
“Yeah. You saw me at the range. Trust me. If I have to, I can.” Skye’s face hardened.
“But not without cost,” Holmes suspected.
“Probably,” Skye admitted, but did not elaborate. Instead, she studied the welt on his chest. “Okay, I got the antibiotic worked in good. But I don’t like how red and angry it looks. I’m gonna glop on some extra before I put on the pad.”
“If that is what you think should occur, my dear Skye, by all means, do so,” Holmes murmured in acceptance. “I place myself in your capable hands.”
He caught himself, replaying his last statement and worried she would perceive it as a double entendre. But Skye smiled her appreciation of his newfound confidence in her, and suited actions to words. Soon—all too soon, some part of his brain decided—she was done, and his chest was bandaged once more. Skye folded the covers up to his bare shoulders, then put away her supplies, returning with a glass of water, an antibiotic, and an analgesic. Holmes pushed up enough to swallow the medications, then settled his aching, fevered body back into the bed. Skye adjusted the covers again, almost but not quite tucking him in, and Holmes shot her a grateful glance.
“All right, get some sleep,” she said. “I’ll pop back in a few hours and check your temperature. If you’re asleep, do you want me to wake you? I can probably take your temperature without waking you up, if you want me to.”
His mouth suddenly dry at the thought of her tending him while he slept, Holmes swallowed, then answered, “You may use your best judgment, Skye. You are an intelligent woman, and you know what you are doing.”
“Okay. Thanks, Holmes. That means worlds to me, coming from you.”
Skye disappeared through the door, closing it behind her.
Holmes lay, feverish in the dark, and reprised the feel of gentle, soothing fingers on his skin.
* * *
By the time Skye was ready to go to bed, Holmes was asleep. It was a restless sleep, true, but sleep it was. She chose to let him sleep as she checked his temperature, and found it had risen: It was now 101.9°. She frowned to herself.
“What is wrong now?” the low voice wondered from the bed. Skye jumped.
“Oh, drat. I was trying so hard not to wake you.”
“No matter. I fear I will sleep little tonight anyway,” Holmes remarked wearily. “I feel like…well, I shall not subject your ears to the only appropriate description I can devise. How high is my fever?”
“Almost a hundred and two. I’m going to get you some more acetaminophen.”
“Very well.”
Skye left the room, returning with the medication, a glass, and carafe of water, all of which went on the nightstand. With an effort, Holmes pushed up to a seated position while Skye extracted a dose of analgesic and poured a glass of water. Holmes downed water and medication, then he lay back down and grumbled, “Really! This is a bit much, I think.”
“Well, normally you wouldn’t get all those vaccines at once. If I had it to do over again, I think I’d have told Peter to break it up into a couple different sessions.”
“And I think I should have let you. This is almost as bad as the influenza I had two years ag—back in ‘89.”
* * *
“Ooo,” Skye murmured, sitting down on the bedside.
Holmes was too tired to attempt to move away and currently did not care enough to bother, so he permitted it while she asked, “You had the Russian flu during the pandemic?”
“I did. Thank God for Watson. It was…quite unpleasant.”
“So you must feel really tough about now.”
“I am not familiar with the turn of phrase, but the description seems apt enough.”
“Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“Not at the moment, my dear,” he sighed his discouragement. “If I do not improve soon, I fear I shall be invalided upon the morrow.”
“I’d already planned on it,” Skye soothed, laying a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry about it. Wait until the autumn, when you see me take my flu shot. Then you’ll see sick. I hate those things. I react bad to ‘em. The only reason I take them is because I have to.”
“Will you expect recompense at that time, for your care of me now?” Holmes raised a sardonic eyebrow.
“No. Actually, I only said it by way of illustration. I don’t even know if you’ll still be here come fall.”
“What do you mean?” Holmes asked, shocked by her statement.
“Well, you’re not tied here, you know. You’re making good money now, so you can afford to go anywhere you like, and once you get used to the time and place, you won’t need me. You can go wherever—to the Springs, or Washington, or New York, or home to London.”
“And is that what you want me to do?” Holmes wondered, something inside protesting the thought.
“Anything I want is completely beside the point. It’s what you want that matters.”
“I should still like to know. I would not have simply moved out on Watson without due consideration of his wishes; nor would I show you less regard.”
* * *
Skye swallowed, thinking quickly. She had grown accustomed to Holmes being there, and enjoyed his company, his intelligence, and his quick wit, even if he could be acerbic at times. She suspected she was attracted to him, especially given his status as one of her longtime heroes; but knew that fact would make him extremely uncomfortable. However, she also knew the idea of his departu
re created an ache inside she didn’t want to acknowledge or analyze.
So she settled for a heartfelt, honest, “After…everything…I want what’s going to make you happy, Holmes. Whatever that turns out to be.”
* * *
Holmes blinked, touched by her sincerity. But even in the dim light from the hall, he had seen the flash of pain in her sapphire eyes, and knew it had cost her dear to make that statement. His mind leaped back to the image of a grief-stricken Watson, discovering Holmes’ personal effects abandoned on the ledge over Reichenbach, and it took no stretch of the imagination to substitute Skye. But before he could say anything, Skye rose.
“Time for me to go to bed, Holmes. I’ll pop back in to see about you in a couple hours. If you start feeling awful, don’t lie there and endure it. Bang on my door if you can, or give a yell. I’ll leave the bedroom doors open a little so I can hear, and I’ll come running.”
“Thank you, Skye,” Holmes said, recognizing another of her diversions and, understanding, allowing her to escape. “Sleep well, my dear. Good night.”
“Good night, Holmes.”
* * *
Skye set her alarm clock for Holmes’ next medication dose. She tiptoed into his room to find him asleep, tossing restlessly. His temperature was 102.8°, and after a few minutes she checked it again to find it was 103.1°.
Not good, she decided, noting he showed no sign of waking this time. Not good at all. Fever’s spiking. He had to have a good ‘constitution’ or he couldn’t do what he did the way he did it, but Watson still chronicled some failures of that constitution, when he pushed himself too hard. And, Skye realized in horror, he’d just completed the most extensive investigation of his career, exposing Moriarty, right before the continuum swap. Not to mention getting dragged here. Oh, dear Lord. The poor man’s exhausted. I’ve got to get his fever down, or I may have a serious problem on my hands. I don’t want him to get really sick because of this.
Skye went into the bathroom and fetched a basin of lukewarm water and a washcloth. She tugged the covers down to Holmes’ waist, dipped the cloth in the water and wrung it out, then sponged down his chest and arms, avoiding the bandage over his cut.
* * *
Holmes lay, deep in a restless sleep plagued by fever dreams. Odd shapes and leering faces peered at him out of the corners of his mind.
He was standing on the ledge overlooking the Reichenbach Falls, but the water flowing over the cataract was purple. The peaks in the distance were pink granite, and golden-haired women in bubble-gum-pink bikinis cavorted in the spray from the falls at its base far below. Holmes found himself dancing a waltz with Watson, teaching him the steps, heedless of the cliff’s edge so near. A half-expected tap on the shoulder, and Professor Moriarty cut in, taking Watson’s place, but trying to usurp Holmes’ lead, forcing them ever closer to the edge.
Moriarty vanished and Skye was there, her hand on his chest, pushing him away from the edge. Moriarty’s scream echoed from the chasm’s depths, transmuting into a coyote’s howl at its end. The pink Alps around them morphed and flowed, becoming the Rocky Mountains, as Skye peeled away his clothing, letting her hands massage his bare chest.
He was chilled—no, burning—but her hands felt soothing, caressing his flaming skin and calming it. But within him, a fire ignited, threatening to consume him. It would burn her if it did, and he fought, struggling to get away, lest she be caught up in the conflagration of his being. Skye smiled at him, her hands pulling him closer.
“Relax,” she whispered into his ear. “Don’t be afraid. I’m here. Whatever you need, whatever you want, I’m here.”
‘She does not know what she offers. Does not know what it…what I…’ Holmes groaned.
“I’m smarter than that, Sherlock,” she told him as if reading his thoughts, using his Christian name, the name no one used except close family, his loved ones. Her hands slid sensually across his chest, quenching the flames while stoking them higher. “Give me the chance to show you. Relax…”
* * *
“Relax,” he heard the quiet voice as his mind drifted up into consciousness. Something soft and wet, wielded by gentle hands, drifted across his bare chest. “It’s okay, Holmes. I’m right here.”
“What…Skye?” he whispered, confused.
“Yes, it’s Skye. Your fever’s gone up again. I’m trying to cool you down so you’ll be more comfortable.”
Holmes finally recognized the tactile sensation of the wet washcloth sliding across his torso, but still struggled to separate dream from reality. His body ached, chills racked his frame, but the lukewarm water felt good, as did the hand that spread it over his body.
“What is…did I…?”
“Hush. You’re having fever dreams. You were moaning. Everything’s fine. We just have to get you through this, and soon you’ll feel lots better. And then you won’t have to worry about catching any of these diseases. Just relax.”
“Mm-hm,” Holmes muttered dazedly. “Fever…”
“You let yourself get run down, outmaneuvering Moriarty, didn’t you?”
“Yes, I was forced to use myself up rather freely,” Holmes answered absently, feeling the soft flow of wet-terry-covered hands over his lean, muscular belly, sliding up his trim side, across his wiry shoulders, around his lanky throat. Somehow it felt cool and warm all at once, and it comforted him. “But after all, it was Moriarty…there was no quarter asked, and none given, on either side.”
“I know,” Skye nodded, dipping the cloth into the water and twisting it out. “But that’s why this is hitting you so hard now.” She folded the cloth and laid it across his brow.
“No,” he whispered. “Don’t stop.”
“What, don’t stop sponging you down?”
“Yes,” he breathed. “It feels…good.”
“Close your eyes, then.”
* * *
Holmes obeyed, and she slid the cloth down his face, letting it wet the bruised skin as it went, down his throat, and back to his chest. She unfolded it, resizing it to fit her hand, then resumed bathing his chest and abdomen.
They remained so for a long time, pausing only long enough for Skye to get Holmes’ medication inside him. Gradually Holmes’ fever dropped, and as it did, his body relaxed. Skye coaxed him to drink water to avoid dehydration. At last he fell into a peaceful sleep.
Skye stared down at the slumbering detective for several moments, tempted to deposit a light, affectionate kiss on his forehead. But she knew he would find that offensive, an invasion of his personal space; and she refused to inflict it upon him, especially in sleep, when he was so vulnerable. Finally she stood, gathered her cloth and her bowl, and carried them to the bathroom sink, depositing the lot.
Then, bone weary herself, she betook her tired body off to bed.
* * *
The next morning Holmes woke to find Skye dressed and bathing his chest again. He felt better, but assumed by her actions that his fever was still higher than she was comfortable ignoring. Nevertheless, the sponge bath had the same soothing, almost sensual qualities it had the previous night. Seeing no reason to grow perturbed, Holmes contented himself with watching from behind sleepy, slitted eyelids as her hand drew the wet terrycloth over his body. Occasionally the bare fingers of her other hand brushed his side, removing the odd stray drip threatening to soak the bedclothes.
“Good morning,” he eventually managed to sigh, deciding a body composed of limp, overcooked linguini was still better than one comprised of icebergs floating in flaming pitch.
* * *
“Well, hi there,” Skye smiled at him, realizing he was awake. “How do you feel?”
“That depends. If you do not mind being told a falsehood, I should tell you I feel quite well, and ask what is on the schedule for the day. But I suspect you would not care to be so treated, and in any event, you are astute enough to see through it.”
“Aw. Do you feel any better at all?”
“Yes. But I feel utterly
spent.”
“Well, I might be able to do something about that,” Skye speculated. “Let me get your fever down more, and check your chest again. Then we’ll get you fed, and some electrolytes into you. That should help.”
“Do not trouble yourself, Skye,” Holmes sighed wearily. “I shall not have sufficient energy to eat.”
“I recall a certain detective threatening—or offering, depending on your point of view—to force-feed me recently. I appreciated it at the time, and seriously considered taking him up on it, so I won’t make it a threat. I’ll just say you need something in you, and if you need help to get it in you, I’ll be glad to assist.”
“I am not a child, Skye.”
“No, but you’ve had a round of…well…shit. Holmes, there’s not a person on the planet that wouldn’t feel as crummy as you do right now, after being shot up with that boatload of vaccines. You know, I helped Caitlin eat when she had pneumonia. You’re my friend, Holmes. I care about you. Let me help if you need it.”
* * *
“Skye, are you aware that throughout our association you have repeatedly and consistently violated one of my cardinal rules?” Holmes closed his eyes as a rush of warmth and affection swept through his fatigued body.
“Ohmigosh. What have I done? I didn’t mean to offend you…” Skye blanched, horrified.
“No, no, my dear, you have not given offense,” he soothed, “merely food for thought. No, you are the one person in my experience who has ever succeeded in combining great intellect with the softer feelings and sensibilities. You can, and have, coaxed me into doing things I would never have permitted, by pointing out that there are rational, as well as emotional, reasons to do it.”
Skye blushed, then queried cheekily, “Is that a yes, then?”
“I suppose so, provided I am given the opportunity to at least try to eat for myself.” Holmes laughed tiredly.
“Actually, I bet if I mix up some electrolytes for you and let you sip on that first, you’ll feel like eating and won’t need help.”
“Then let us have these electrolytes. I should prefer not to spend the entire day abed.”
The Case of the Displaced Detective Page 28