“Today’s the anniversary,” she revealed, struggling against the collapsed lung. “Mom and Dad died a year ago today. I’ll see them soon, Holmes. I’ll see them soon.”
“Oh, dear God, no. Skye…” he whispered. So that is why she pushed for it today. Today, of all days, she knew she could let go if she had to. “Skye, keep fighting.”
“Tired…of fighting. Nothing…to fight for…anymore.”
“No! I need you here. I cannot lose my…my liaison.”
“Liaison?” she repeated, her smile sad and unutterably weary.
“My ally, my companion and…sole friend,” he breathed, gazing into the cerulean eyes, willing her to understand, yet afraid she might.
She nodded at that, then coughed painfully, watery blood burbling from her mouth. No longer hesitating, casting all thought of vain modesty aside, Holmes eased her into his lap, then tugged his shirt loose from his trousers. He whipped it off over his head, baring his body from the waist up.
I would never have done such a thing in my own day and age, he considered, folding the garment to apply it to both wounds at once. But this is a new day, a new age, and like it or not, I am now a part of it. And The Woman will die if I do not. I will no more permit that than I would permit such a thing to befall Watson. Not when I…when my regard for her is so…when I cannot live… Holmes broke off, in agony. Then his heart added, I would rather have died at Reichenbach than live to see her die because of me.
The revelation shook him to the core. He knew what it meant, and he knew what his response would be. If she dies, I will speedily avenge her, and then…I will ask to be…returned.
Skye groaned at the pressure on the wounds, but Holmes gritted his teeth and continued applying it, gathering her up with his other arm.
“Try to relax, as much as you can, my dear. But don’t let go. I…” his voice broke, and he stopped, collecting himself. “I have already lost Watson to the vagaries of spacetime. I will not, I must not, lose you, too. Fight…for me.”
* * *
Skye smiled up at him again, seeing his lips quiver for a moment. The steel-grey eyes looking down at her were misted, she noted. He cares. Like when Watson got shot, she thought, light-headed and oddly amused at the caprices of a mind in pain; she was dying, and here she was, thinking of the stories. No. I’m thinking of Holmes himself, not the stories. He cares. But how much? He already seems so far away. Does he care enough…to…? Only one way to find out.
Her right hand fluttered through the air like a small wounded bird, landing lightly on his face. Her fingers cupped around his high cheekbone, and she breathed, “I won’t let go if you won’t.”
“Then, by God, I will not,” he swore softly, grey eyes blazing.
Enough, she thought wistfully. Enough, and not enough.
* * *
She closed her eyes and her body fell limp, her hand dropping to her side. Holmes’ breath hitched in alarm, and he twisted her in his arms, leaning over her in a manner calculated to use his torso to apply pressure to the wounds while his freed hand sought her throat, feeling for a pulse. It was there; weak and thready, but there. She was shocky and cold, her body reacting to the trauma and blood loss. I must keep her warm, he worried, and gathered her as closely as he could, offering his own body heat to combat the shock.
Holmes slid his fingers up and over her jaw line, into her hair, cradling her head in his palm before tucking it under his chin. He reached for her hand and laced his fingers through hers, squeezing gently.
“I have you, Skye. I will not let go.”
* * *
Harris hid in the darkened support room near the security airlocks, where he’d been since mid-afternoon, managing to sneak in between patrols. He had fallen asleep for a couple of hours, until he was awakened by the commotion outside, the shouts, the gunshots. He’d heard Sherlock Holmes himself talking to Dr. Chadwick when it quieted down, though he had no idea when they’d arrived.
He’s smart, but not that smart, Harris decided smugly. And it sounds like she won’t be around much longer. Pity about that. But the apparatus itself is the important part.
Then the paramedics arrived, and Harris sat tight, praying nobody came into the room for anything. Nobody did, and after ten minutes of frantic activity outside, silence descended once more.
Harris cracked the door and peered out. Nearby, Sergeant Thompson lay in a congealing pool of his own blood, his inanimate face white.
Dead white—literally, Harris thought callously. Oh well. The damn fool couldn’t even recognize Sherlock Holmes when he saw him. Boss decided he was expendable anyway. I tried to warn him, but he wouldn’t listen.
At the far end of the corridor, crime scene tape had been erected, but there was no other sign of life—at least as yet.
Okay, Bob, get going, before they come back and lock this place up tighter than a certain Victorian detective’s ass. You’ve only got a four-minute window.
Harris slipped down the corridor. Donning latex gloves, he punched a code into the cipher lock on the door to the airlock, then slid a special badge-like card into the reader, and sneaked inside.
Elevator down, and inside the main Chamber. Piece of cake. Especially since the Boss provided me with the backup to Thompson’s shit. And all they’ll see in Security is one’a their own guards doing a walk-through on the digital video. Gotta love the latest technology. So many workarounds.
Inside the Chamber, he moved to the director’s console. Pulling a data stick on a lanyard from inside his shirt, he awoke the computer terminal with the same card he’d used to access the airlock and shoved the data stick into a USB port, then opened a file on it, extracting and installing its contents.
It was done inside ten seconds. Harris retrieved the data stick, concealing it and the card inside his shirt once more, then hurried out of the control room, up the elevator, through the airlocks, and down the hall past Thompson. He ducked under the crime scene tape and was gone.
The Case of the Displaced Detective:
At Speed
Chapter 1—Ruminations and Rehabilitations
SKYE WOKE UP IN A HOSPITAL bed on Peterson Air Force Base near Colorado Springs the afternoon following the shooting, which was Saturday. Her chest and belly ached miserably, and there was a taste in her mouth as if all the armies that had ever marched had tramped across her tongue.
“Uhg,” she groaned softly, smacking her mouth in disgust.
As sensation and full consciousness slowly returned, a previously unnoticed grip on her fingers tightened, and a familiar, English voice murmured, “Skye?”
“H-holmes? Is that you?” Skye wondered, confused.
“Yes, Skye. I am here.”
Through the slits of her barely open eyelids, she saw a dark form loom over her, coming to sit gingerly on the edge of the bed. As her eyes finally responded to her mental command to focus, the form resolved into Holmes, who was now dressed in the RAF uniform he kept in their office. He reached for something beyond her range of sight, then brought his left hand back with a small plastic cup, a straw tucked inside it.
“Here. Sip this.” His right hand never let go her own. Skye allowed him to place the straw in her mouth before sipping the cool water.
“Oh, that’s better. My mouth tasted nasty.”
“That would be the narcotics,” he replied, the hint of a smile on his tired face as he returned the cup to the bedside table.
* * *
“Oh.” Skye gave him a bleary-eyed scrutiny, and Holmes read it accurately.
“No, my dear. Watson broke me of that habit some years ago, at my own request, I might add. And I must confess, I find this world of yours stimulating enough that I have no interest in such substances, anyway.” He allowed the hint of expression to become a full-fledged smile, and he said, “Dear old Watson, it seems, was equally as determined as dear new Skye. But it does mean I have some experience with nasty tastes in one’s mouth.”
“How bad?” Skye gest
ured to her bandaged, aching torso.
“Punctured left lung, lacerated spleen.” Holmes drew a deep, pained breath. “Considerable blood loss. The spleen was not so damaged as to require complete removal, fortunately. There is speculation it caught a ricochet; the bits of metal pulled out from that organ definitely did not add up to a complete bullet, as opposed to the one in the lung, which emerged intact. But lung and spleen are repaired now, and you are getting blood.” He gestured at the IV bags hanging nearby, where a deep-red fluid dribbled through a tube into her arm. “In fact, one of those is mine. They were low on your blood type.” Then he quipped, “And relative to some of the people in this age of yours, it seems I am quite the healthy specimen.” He paused, becoming very serious. “Skye, I must apologise…I had to break my oath to you.”
* * *
“Wh-what?” Skye wondered, confused.
“I swore to you I would not let go. And I tried, Skye. I even insisted on being in the surgery. They scrubbed and gowned me around you, but I never let go.” He squeezed her fingers gently. “I thought perhaps you might be able to feel it in your subconscious. And I considered if I let go, you might, too. I could not have that.”
Skye stared at him, shocked at the revelation of what he had done in his effort to ensure she remained alive.
“But they needed more blood for you,” Holmes went on. “I volunteered. I had no idea they would need to take me into another room to obtain it. I came back as quickly as I could. And I have not let go since.”
“Thank you.” Tired, dark-circled blue eyes smiled back at him, more gratefully than he knew.
“I could not have my pupil expire under my tutelage. Especially one that has now saved my life twice.” Holmes waved it away.
“Holmes…” Skye began, face falling.
“Yes?”
“Never mind.” She sighed, discouraged.
* * *
He gazed down at her. Her expression was easy to interpret, given her level of pain and the medications coursing through her system.
“Never a pupil that is not also a deeply held, trusted friend,” he said, his grip on her fingers tightening. “Never. And…there have only and ever been…two.”
Drowsy blue eyes shone happily before sliding closed again.
* * *
Morris came by late that evening. He brought Caitlin Hughes’ love, and word she would be by soon; and the news that Colonel Jones had set his tactical guard force around the Chamber. He added that Jones himself would not come by to visit, to prevent drawing undue attention to the injured scientist, but sent his greetings, good wishes, and congratulations.
Morris did not tell her there was a clandestine guard around her in the hospital, or that Holmes had requested it. “After all,” the detective had said, “I cannot be awake continually, and news of this is certain to get back to our little ring, as soon as Thompson fails to report in.” Morris and Jones had agreed, and the matter was arranged.
But Morris was beginning to suspect the ups and downs he’d seen in the relationship between Holmes and Chadwick were due to something more than the occasional clash of demanding, eccentric personalities. He had seen the expression on Holmes’ face when he entered the base emergency room alongside a critically-injured Skye, holding tight to her hand: it had been the look of a man whose heart was being ripped from his body. Clad in a wrinkled, loose, blood-soaked shirt, untucked over blood-smeared trousers, Holmes was pale to the lips, and he refused to leave Skye, demanding to be allowed into surgery with her. When the medics attempted to forestall him, he drew himself up to his full height, stared down that aquiline nose, and informed them categorically that he had given Dr. Chadwick his word not to leave her, and had no intention of breaking it. Morris interrupted the argument with an order to have Holmes scrubbed and gowned, and the detective sneaked him a furtive, grateful glance before following the ER staff through the double doors to surgery—still clutching Skye’s white, limp hand.
Morris hadn’t seen Holmes again until Skye was moved from recovery into a room. And even then, the detective was still holding the scientist’s hand. Noting the general’s curious glance, Holmes calmly and rationally explained the nature of his promise to Skye, and Morris admitted it made sense. It seemed Holmes also explained it to the medical staff, because they encouraged him in his endeavor, agreeing on its beneficial effect on Skye’s subconscious.
But Morris still thought it was interesting.
The general noted, however, the conjoined twin effect had now been broken: Though he remained close and attentive, Holmes was no longer in constant contact with Skye. Morris wondered if it was because Skye was now awake, and the contact might give away more to her than Holmes was willing to admit.
He decided to keep his visit short for Skye’s sake, seeing the dark circles under her eyes and the way she kept blinking sleepily. But he was curious when, after they’d been chatting for about five minutes, Skye turned her attention to Holmes and murmured a cryptic, “Nasty taste.” Holmes chuckled and reached for the cup of ice water on the table, holding it for her to sip. “Ooo, better,” she said after several swallows. “Thanks.”
“Nasty taste?” Morris wondered.
“From the pain medications,” Holmes explained. “We had that little discussion when Skye first awoke.”
“Tastes like I’ve been drinking straight MMH,” Skye made a face.
“Monomethyl hydrazine?” Morris queried in amusement. “Yeah, that’d be nasty, all right.”
“An organic compound? What is its use?” Holmes’ eyes brightened at the discussion.
“Rocket fuel,” Skye explained, groggy but lucid. “Chemical formula CH3N2H3. It’s a hypergolic fuel that, when mixed with dinitrogen tetroxide as an oxidizer, instantly reacts and produces a substantial thrust.”
“But it’s toxic as hell,” Morris laughed.
“I see,” Holmes said, fascinated. “Chemistry is something I have yet to resume dabbling in, since arriving here. I shall have to see about that, once the investigation is complete.”
“When I get outta here, I’ll see what we can do, Holmes,” Skye offered. “Cait’s a chemist by education and training, you know. Not to mention Agent Smith and the various FBI labs.”
“Excellent. I shall look forward to it.”
“And on that note, I’ve got to get on home; Julia will be waiting, and she’ll want to hear how you’re doing. I’ll pop by as often as I can, Skye. You behave, and do what you’re told for a change so you’ll get well,” Morris admonished the scientist, who managed a weak snicker. “And you,” he jabbed a finger at Holmes, “take good care of this young lady.”
“I intend to,” Holmes replied very soberly. “Insofar as is in my ability.”
“Which is considerable,” Morris nodded agreement, and departed.
* * *
Caitlin came by the next morning, bringing a bouquet of flowers. Holmes noted they were lupines, probably greenhouse-grown given the time of year, mixed with Indian paintbrush, and Skye was delighted. With tears in her emerald-green eyes, the project manager hugged her best friend.
“You scared me witless,” Caitlin muttered, dashing away moisture in her eyes as she grumbled. “Don’t do anything like that again!”
“What, exactly, would you have had me do, Cait?” Skye wondered. “Sit back and let the apparatus get sabotaged? Let Holmes take a bullet in the chest? Tell me what I should have done differently, and next time that’s what I’ll do.”
“How about arranging for a proper vest in advance next time?” Holmes answered for Caitlin.
* * *
“Thank you!” Caitlin said. “See? Even Mr. Holmes agrees with me!”
“Believe me, guys, nobody regrets that more than me,” Skye admitted ruefully. “But I wasn’t used to having a vest, and…I just never thought. Stupid oversight. Absent-minded-scientist syndrome strikes again. I’m sure Colonel Jones and Agent Smith never considered I wouldn’t have one. Holmes probably didn’t kno
w they existed, and by the time it dawned on me I’d be facing down something serious, it was kinda too late, ya know?” She shook her head and gave Holmes an apologetic glance. “I’m not exactly the best investigative assistant in the world, I’m afraid.”
“You will do, well enough,” Holmes said in a deadpan tone, but both women saw the twinkle in his eyes, which were a light grey, open and cheerful. “I have no plans to replace you anytime soon, in any event.”
“She makes herself into a blasted human shield, and then says she’s not a good assistant,” Caitlin fussed, then rounded on Holmes heatedly. “All I can say is, you better damn well be appreciative, Mr. Holmes. If she gets herself killed because of you, you’ll be answering to me, and it won’t be pretty.”
“Cait!” Skye exclaimed, shocked.
* * *
Holmes met the indignant verdigris eyes of Skye’s best friend with single-minded sincerity.
“If Skye should ever die because of me, Dr. Hughes, I can assure you, I will either avenge her speedily, or very shortly find myself answering to a far higher Authority than you. I give you my word as a gentleman on that.”
“Okay.” That mollified Caitlin, who nodded.
“As for appreciation,” he added, glancing at Skye, “I would hope it goes without saying.”
Skye gave a little Mona Lisa smile, staring at her hands on the coverlet; she nodded.
“Good,” Caitlin remarked vehemently, then completely changed her tune. “Mr. Holmes, do you need a lift up to Skye’s place to get a change of clothes?”
“That would be greatly appreciated. When you are ready, come by. I will make myself available at your convenience.”
“Okay. How about lunchtime, after church?”
“Perfect.”
“Oh, and if you want, Nate or I can pop by to feed the horses and the cat. Just let us know. We got your message and took care of it yesterday and this morning already.”
The Case of the Displaced Detective Page 40