The Case of the Displaced Detective

by Stephanie Osborn

  * * *

  That night, upon preparing for bed, Holmes smoked no less than two pipes before retiring. It was a pretty little problem of its own, this reaction he had to Skye. She was an attractive woman in many ways, and Holmes was well aware he had an artist’s sensibility for beauty. He was also aware beauty was not merely in the outward appearance: Skye had all the qualities Holmes admired, regardless of gender. She was thoughtful and imaginative, with a strong moral fibre tempering the lot; possessed of a keen intellect, quick-witted, sharp-eyed, determined to the point of stubbornness, and as she had proven, loyal to the death. She was also possessed of a sensitive, caring nature.

  I once told her I doubted she could harm another with impunity, he recalled. And now she has killed a man. I wonder if there will be repercussions. He put that thought aside for later, determining to watch for any signs that might cause concern.

  So the detective was quite knowledgeable of the fact she held strong appeal for him. Moreover, he knew his sentiments were unusually deeply attached in this instance.

  But Holmes had serious doubts what he felt for her could be construed as love, excepting possibly that congenial affection found between bosom friends. No, in all likelihood, it is merely the strong affection found between comrades in arms, those who have done battle side-by-side, complicated by the fact we are of opposing genders. After all, I have every reason to feel strong gratitude to her. She has now saved my life twice; she has supervised my transition to this new spacetime continuum, seeing me ensconced in a new life; and has even opened her home to me. Indeed, and well you should feel gratitude, Sherlock. Else you should be thoroughly put to shame. She has a large heart, has my dear Skye, and on several occasions has bared it to me rather despite her wont, I suspect, in order to aid me in understanding this world of hers the better.

  He shook his head. No, it is not love, not as the poets term it. I need not concern myself with it further. Undoubtedly it is a response which will fade in time, and likely was brought on by the emotional reaction of seeing my closest friend—in this world—at death’s door. It will be best put from my mind, and allowed to wither.

  That determined, Holmes tapped the dottle from his pipe and crawled into bed.

  But he found it most annoying when a reproachful Skye haunted his dreams, looking at him with a sad, cerulean gaze.

  Chapter 2—Artistic Pursuits

  AFTER THE FIRST WEEK, SKYE GREW stronger faster. The stalwart Martha arrived every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, and refused to allow Skye to come down to Colorado Springs when asked. She soon declared Skye’s progress excellent, and added lightweight chest exercises to the breathing exercises. She monitored Skye’s diet, advising Holmes on her food, to help her improve. By this time, Skye was up and about herself, assisting in the kitchen, though Holmes rose before she did and had breakfast ready when she woke.

  Caitlin, too, continued dropping by to help out. Sometimes Nate came with her; then Holmes would go outside and the two men would work around the barn, mow the lawn, trim the shrubs, or any of the thousand-and-one outdoor activities a ranch required. They talked little, but Holmes was glad of the male camaraderie, knowing inside the house, Caitlin and Skye were happily ensconced in what Holmes privately—and affectionately—thought of as “female frippery.” It was good for everyone, he decided.

  Skye continued to improve, her color returning along with her strength. The day Dr. Wellington came up the pass to remove Skye’s stitches, Holmes worried she might hurt herself all over again celebrating, but she handled it without incident. It would still be several weeks, even months, before she was fully recovered, but everyone was pleased with her progress. And Holmes was learning to ignore the flutters and yearnings manifesting in his chest whenever Skye was about, as well as the rather stimulating dreams occurring with disturbing regularity.

  * * *

  But one thing he could not ignore was the absence of information from Schriever. It had long since been decided that he and Skye should remain secluded on the ranch—she as a potential target, and he as her staunch bodyguard. He knew neither Jones nor Smith was ignoring their situation; one of the principal reasons Holmes made a point of rising before Skye was to call Jones each morning and check in without her knowledge. The officer, he found, was as frustrated as Holmes: There was nothing reported because there was nothing to tell. It was as if Harris, and the rest of the espionage ring, had dropped off the face of the earth.

  Part of Holmes, a very small part, hoped it was an indication the ring had been thwarted and given up. But he knew it was foolish to even consider such a thing, and it made no difference: The ring must be broken up and apprehended. No, his concern was growing into misgivings regarding his allies’ ability to prosecute the case.

  Until the case lurched into life once again, taking a distinctly troubling turn.

  * * *

  The fax machine in Skye’s office let out a loud beep. Skye was busy with Martha, so Holmes went to see what had arrived. He picked up the single page and read.

  Tu Jul 8 10:38am MDT

  H/C:

  Stay on guard. Recent events disturbing. Contact made with several specific medical personnel on case: Generic queries regarding patients with specific injuries, queries originating ostensibly by insurance company. Insurance company denies making inquiries. No names mentioned; presumed not yet known, but uncertain at this time.

  In addition, one shooting off-base. A female MP, approximately 5’8” in height, with long straight blonde hair, shot in parking lot of a shopping mall in Colorado Springs last night. Condition serious, but not life-threatening. Cause of attack unknown. Strongly suspect a case of mistaken identity.

  Will stay abreast of situation and send immediate notification if further information obtained.

  Assume they are searching for C., and take all possible precautions.

  -H.J.

  Holmes paled, but otherwise showed no reaction. He had half-expected this, but hoped it would take longer to occur. There was, in the end, only so much planning he could do. The ranch had no security system of which he was aware and he could not stand guard over it all himself. And as Skye was still recovering from her injuries, she couldn’t be told of the danger. Holmes took the fax and stashed it in his bedroom, in the sock drawer of his dresser, out of sight.

  Perhaps it is time to activate that contingency General Morris and I discussed. But I need more information.

  When he returned to the den, Skye asked, “What was on the fax?”

  “Nothing of importance,” Holmes lied smoothly. “Merely…what do you call it? Junk mail?”

  “Aw, shit. They got my fax number again. I hate that.”

  “Indeed,” Holmes said, ignoring the speculative glance Martha gave him. “I threw it away.”

  “Good. I’ll have to make sure it’s on the do-not-call list…again. They keep dropping that number for some reason.”

  “That sounds like an excellent idea.”

  “All right, Skye, back to work,” Martha ordered, and Skye resumed her breathing exercises.

  Holmes sauntered out of the room, but he was restless the rest of the day, and seemed uncharacteristically absent-minded to Skye.

  * * *

  Holmes was extremely troubled that night. He helped Skye to bed, seeing her asleep before he could even put the room to rights and slip out; for him, sleep was far slower in its approach. He retreated to his bedroom, where his first order of business was to load his revolver, placing it within easy reach—though hidden—by the bed. Then he turned out the light and put on his pyjama pants and dressing gown. He shoved his feet into his slippers, all the while debating the wisdom of disrobing, of even pretending to take rest…and reached for his pipe.

  He paced in the dusky room, deep in thought; smoking the pipe, keeping the bedroom window cracked for ventilation purposes against the fragrant but thick tobacco smoke.

  “Damn it all, the data are still insufficient,” he grumbled on the third pip
e. “I do not even know if they know where we live, although if they do not, they will soon. But I can do no more without information. There is no help for it. I may as well retire for the night, for I can do no good by wearing myself out before I know if there truly is cause for concern.”

  Holmes tapped the remains of his tobacco into the ashtray nearby; removed his dressing gown and hung it on the bedpost. Easing his feet from his slippers, he swung his long legs under the covers and settled down. Even then, however, sleep did not come.

  He lay for a long time, wary, listening to the soft noises inside and outside the house. In the distance, borne on the faint breeze, a coyote howled plaintively; farther away, another answered. Had he not been so tense, Holmes would have enjoyed the serenade with the same appreciation he showed to any soprano’s aria. But he WAS tense, extremely so, and thus the beautiful, eerie sounds evoked disquiet rather than peace. His mind dwelt on a single problem.

  The crux of that problem: Skye was still too weak to do much at all, let alone anything of a highly physical nature. Oh, the pain had ceased, although the wounds were tender. It was, after all, three weeks since the incident, two since she had arrived home. But she had lost a lot of blood, had two internal organs damaged, and could have easily died if medical help had not been forthcoming. Despite himself, the thought sent a shudder through Holmes’ frame.

  It stood to reason it would be awhile before she fully recovered—her body had experienced too much trauma to heal any faster, no matter what her caregivers did. She was still undergoing physical therapy to rehabilitate the punctured lung; that was one process, in particular, which could not be rushed. And therein lay Holmes’ concern: if retaliation was in the air, Skye was in no condition to defend herself.

  Had she been male, had she been Watson, Holmes’ path would have been straightforward and clear. He would have stayed with her all night, never leaving her side, revolver in his pocket, ready for anything. He had done precisely this in the base hospital, where there was no question of propriety because of the medical staff coming and going. And if Skye had been a man, Holmes would be doing it even now.

  But Skye…is patently not male. In this moment of crisis, Holmes realized the truth he had struggled to deny for days: He secretly relished her womanhood. And part of his mind pondered whether he might proceed straightforwardly anyway.

  But Holmes’ habit of eschewing the gentler emotions was powerful. And his Victorian sensibilities, though more relaxed than upon his arrival in this continuum, were still not in complete abeyance. So while he chafed at not having her near, or at least as near as part of him wished, he could not rationally justify any other plan than the one he currently executed.

  At last, when the clock by his bedside read 2:04 AM, Holmes drifted into a light sleep.

  * * *

  They were dancing again. Holmes pulled Skye against his chest, remembering it was the accepted custom now, and closed his eyes with a sigh as she laid her head on his shoulder. Contentment swept through him, and he knew he could have stayed like this forever.

  A gunshot rang out, and he jumped, startled. He opened his eyes with dread, already knowing what he would see: Moriarty leapt from the Reichenbach ledge in the distance, pistol in hand. Skye’s bleeding body lay in his arms, pierced by Moriarty’s bullet, the bullet intended for him, her life ebbing away as he sought to staunch the blood with his shirt.

  “No, Skye,” he whispered, desperate. “Please. Do not let go. My dearest Skye, don’t let go.”

  Her head still rested on his shoulder, satiny cheek pillowed on his bare skin, and she smiled.

  “I won’t. But you have to give me something. An anchor to hold on to.”

  “Whatever you need, Skye. To my own life’s blood. Tell me what you need.”

  “This,” she said. And somehow her hand was inside his chest; he felt her tender fingertips stroke his living, beating heart. “My anchor. And I’ll be yours.”

  “You have it, then. Your anchour. And mine.”

  She smiled once more. Her soft lips nuzzled his naked shoulder, trailing delicious fire across his chest, igniting his very being.

  Holmes gasped as he gazed down at her nude, perfect body, no longer bleeding and broken. Skye smiled up at him, a beautiful, ethereal expression of pure joy as she pulled his unclad form into her arms. Their lips met even as their bodies met, and Holmes was lost in a sea of warm bliss…

  * * *

  The terrified scream woke Holmes from sleep, bringing him bolt upright in the bed, heart pounding. Skye!

  Flinging back the covers, he snatched the hidden revolver and sprinted for the door, sparing thought for neither dressing gown nor slippers.

  Running across the hall, he burst through the door of Skye’s bedroom, his weapon already raised to fire at intruders, only to find her sitting up in bed, alone in a swath of moonlight, blue eyes wide and dilated, trembling badly. Sharp grey eyes scanned the room like a hawk, detecting no sign of another presence. Ascertaining that danger did not appear to be immediate, he unceremoniously shoved the revolver into the waistband of his pyjamas, turned to the bed, and caught her by the shoulders.

  “Are you hurt, Skye? For God’s sake, tell me all is well!” he urged, staring down into the frightened blue gaze with wide grey eyes.

  “Nuh-no. S-sorry. It was…it was the nightmare again.”

  “Nightmare?” he whispered, lost in twin sapphire pools filled with moonlight. “Your parents?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Thank God.” Holmes drew a deep, relieved breath, calming himself. Repercussions. The reaction to killing Thompson is arriving. I did not think it would be without consequences.

  He eased the revolver from its uncomfortable perch in the waistband of his pyjama pants, where its weight threatened to overpower the elastic, either tumbling out—not a good thing—or sliding completely inside—also not a good thing.

  “Deuced uncomfortable, that,” he muttered in annoyance, rubbing the indent the cold metal had left in his skin as he laid the weapon on the nightstand, pointing away from the couple. He sat on the edge of the bed and took another deep, shaky breath.

  “I don’t think they make pyjama holsters.” Skye giggled, a faint note of hysteria in her laughter that disturbed Holmes.

  “No.”

  Suddenly Skye came apart at the seams, catching Holmes completely off-guard. With a keening wail she flung herself into his arms, burying her face in his shoulder, and Holmes found she was shaking so violently he could scarcely hold her. In seconds, hot liquid dripped onto the bare skin of his shoulder, trickling down his torso, as she burst into tears.

  Holmes blinked in consternation, silently cursing himself and the entire situation. This was bad; by now he had known her long enough to realize: Skye did not cry. She was far stronger than that, and far more reserved. And on the extremely rare occasions when she did, it was in private, never in front of him, or anyone. But she was also far from stupid; she had recognized the significance of his bursting into her room armed and ready. She knew it meant danger, and the likelihood of an attack. The shock of that new information, coupled with the nightmare and her weakened physical—and emotional—state, meant Skye didn’t have her normal reserves of strength to deal with the powerful emotions holding her in thrall.

  Pained by her extreme emotional response and wanting badly to lend her of his own strength, Holmes held her close, instinctively rocking as if she were a child and murmuring soothingly.

  “Hush, hush, my dear Skye. Everything is fine. You are safe, I am safe, and I fully intend matters will remain so. Hush.”

  Instead, Skye pressed closer, and he felt her shoulders heave rhythmically as she began hyperventilating. Several wailing sobs convulsed from her throat.

  Damnation. She is becoming hysterical. Her lungs alone…I do not wish to strike her, but I must cut this off, and quickly.

  “Stop,” he demanded, giving her a light shake. “Stop that right now, Skye.” He deliberately forced a hi
nt of anger, which he did not truly feel, into his tone.

  Skye froze for a split second, to Holmes’ satisfaction; his ruse had worked. Then she hiccuped against his shoulder.

  “Deep breath,” he ordered softly, and she obeyed, drawing in a long, shuddering breath and letting it out shakily. “Another,” he commanded, and again she obeyed, more steadily this time. “A third,” he said, and she did. She sighed, and he felt her relax against him.

  He was just about to release her and see about tucking her back in, when an unexpected—though not undreamed-of—sensation reached his consciousness. A soft, moist circle of flesh pressed against his bare shoulder, leaving behind a damp print and a powerful impression of intense, grateful affection.

  Holmes’ breath stopped, and very nearly declined to resume, so great was the impact of that small kiss upon his unclad skin. Something inside, something he didn’t even know he possessed, ignited. Without any conscious order from his brain, his arms tightened about her, refusing to let go. When his lungs decided to continue function, they worked to make up for lost time, and he found himself breathing rapidly, almost raggedly, while a hot flush stole across his body.

  * * *

  Skye, sensing the change in him, raised her head to look at him in concern.

  “Holmes?” she whispered, confused, meeting the dilated grey eyes. “Are you okay?”

  A soft growl rumbled somewhere down in his throat, and abruptly she found herself being kissed with an intensity that set her heart pounding and her mind reeling. The Victorian reserve had broken with a vengeance, and the passionate, artistic nature that lay beneath, only occasionally revealed by whim or need, erupted forth. Holmes kissed her hard, crushing her body beneath his own as he leaned her back into the mattress.

  Skye gasped, unsure what to think. Had the tactile sensations been less pronounced, she would have thought she was in a dream, and welcomed it. But this was no dream. Holmes, the man she adored from afar, the reserved deductive intellect, was kissing her with abandon, the body pressing hers into the bed manifesting the evidence of his desire.