The Case of the Displaced Detective

by Stephanie Osborn

  Dear Lord, I’ve wanted this for so long. But now that I’ve got it, what the hell do I do about it?! I mean, this is HOLMES!

  * * *

  But Holmes was lost in the impassioned embrace; the rational detective utterly subsumed in the man. He had seen her body; studied it, touched it weeks before, and now he wanted it, wanted her. Her lips, too, he had tasted, although never like this. He knew desire, he knew need, in ways he had never before considered. The poets term kisses, “sweet,” but God in heaven, until this moment I had no idea…

  After a few instants in which he detected her obvious surprise, Holmes felt Skye respond: A tentative tongue lapped his. Part of his being relaxed—he had been accepted—as he coaxed her into a more ardent response; the rest of Holmes found itself aflame, wanting more.

  When her hands slid up his naked back, he could have laughed aloud for joy. What came out, however, was a groan of hedonistic pleasure as she explored his musculature. Holmes had always made a point of keeping himself in the best shape possible, though Watson had never become aware of the fact; and not a spare ounce of flesh clung to his wiry frame. But for the first time in his life, he discovered an advantage to that practice over and above the ability to do battle with an adversary. Skye’s hands caressed and explored him, urging him on to ever more fervent kisses, while he gave over his back to her touch.

  By this point he was completely aroused, and no thought of retreat occurred to his mind, which was overwhelmed with sensation. So when her hands cupped his hips and pulled him closer, he growled into her mouth and pressed his hardness into her, then moaned in approval. After several minutes, as both grew more and more excited, Holmes raised his head. An intimate conversation on conjugal relationships weeks earlier had come to his thought, and now he needed to know where he stood in relation to it.

  “Skye?” he whispered, hoarse, gazing questioningly into those soft azure eyes in the moonlight.

  * * *

  Skye understood the question without need of elaboration.

  “Yes,” she breathed, both admission and permission contained in one response, still half-wondering if she was in a dream.

  * * *

  Holmes’ respiration threatened to stop once more at the implications of that single word.

  He reached for the buttons of her pyjama top with fingers that shook. When all had been unfastened, he rose to a kneeling position, bending over her and sliding one arm beneath her body. Lifting gently, he used his other hand to tug the shirt off her arms, his lips seeking her mouth once more. The pyjama shirt fluttered through the air and disappeared over the event horizon of the bed. Still kneeling, he pulled her close, then groaned again, reveling in the feel of her warm skin against his own, her soft breasts conforming to his hard, strong chest.

  “God help me. A man could lose himself in you.”

  “Is this a bad thing?”

  Holmes lowered her back to the bed, his own body following close. Briefly, the past weeks of intense mental debate crossed his mind. But it was all discarded in the face of the passion he could no longer deny. Vernet, he thought whimsically. You did this to me, Uncle Horace, Grandmère.

  “Once, I would have thought so,” he offered, turning his head and tucking his face into her neck to trail kisses across the warm, fragrant skin, “but I don’t know that I do, any longer. Not now. Not as long as The Woman in question is you.”

  * * *

  Skye shivered in rapture, both at his words and his mouth’s caresses. She felt Holmes’ long fingers tugging at her bikini panties in mild frustration, and she grinned. Planting her feet on either side of his thighs, she pushed up to free the scanty garment from her hips, and heard him gasp his pleasure as, for a split-second, his body balanced on hers, groin to groin.

  “My dear Skye,” he panted, as she wiggled beneath him, ridding herself of her panties, “you are utterly full of surprises. I never dreamed the act of disrobing could be so enjoyable.”

  * * *

  Skye giggled, to Holmes’ delight.

  “I’m glad you approve.”

  “How could I fail to?” he murmured, his lips tracing delicately across her face. Her body was now nude beneath him, strong and slim but voluptuous in its curves, and his sensitive hands, used to exploring crime scenes in detail, now turned their attention to the complete exploration of her body with equal facility. He kept this up for some time, until he felt small warm hands slip beneath the back of his pyjama pants, where they began to caress and fondle his hips. A moaning sigh left his lips, and instinctively Holmes tucked his pelvis forward, driving firmly against the woman in his arms.

  * * *

  It was Skye’s turn to groan, and she slid her hands out of Holmes’ pyjamas, grabbing at the soft cloth and tugging. Holmes’ response was immediate. Pushing up to a kneeling position, he shoved his pyjama bottoms down to his knees, then leaned forward and kicked his legs free. He laid his body down atop her, rubbing lightly, in turn letting her enjoy touching and stroking his tall, trim, sinewy frame. She clung to him, cradling him against her body for long minutes as he stimulated them both.

  Finally she grasped him by his hipbones.

  “Holmes,” she pleaded against his lips.

  He smiled and traced a line of kisses to her ear while simultaneously nudging her thighs apart with his knees.

  “Call me Sherlock now. Only…my closest family…call me that.”

  * * *

  Skye’s breath caught audibly as she grasped his meaning, and Holmes raised his head to smile down into her sparkling, joyful gaze.

  “Does that please you?” he murmured, seeing understanding in her eyes.

  “Yes…Sherlock,” she whispered, and he thrilled at his name breathed so meaningfully by her lips.

  “Then let this please you more,” he replied softly, and, gathering her close, he made her his. She gasped sharply as he entered her, then moaned, clutching at him as he thrust, wanting him closer.

  Holmes did his utmost to oblige, allowing the very last of his inhibitions to slip away. The sensuality of the artist ruled him in those moments, and he reveled in the soft sounds of longing issuing from his lover’s lips. The same strength and endurance that saw him through an intense case were now devoted exclusively to the matter of making love to The Woman of his desire.

  He felt Skye stiffening beneath him, and his rhythm became more urgent. Several more energetic thrusts, and she exploded under him with a cry, gasping his given name.

  The sound of his own name on her lips in that instant, that moment when nothing existed save pure, unsullied honesty and joy, sent shivers down his spine, and Holmes gave himself over to experiencing her pleasure—just before experiencing his own.

  * * *

  Holmes gasped in bliss that was more than physical. In all his thirty-nine years, never had he encountered a sense of homecoming such as he knew now. One hour in Skye’s arms, and a sense of connection, a bond of fidelity, and a certainty of love and acceptance, had all forged themselves deep in his being. He felt more esteemed, more appurtenant, here in this time and space where he had not been born, than he ever had in his own spacetime, where he had always been looked upon askance, the odd man out.

  But The Woman had accepted him to the core of her being, had offered him expressions of tenderness that were not merely those of bodily affections. She had chosen to use his Christian name, a name used only by the dearest of family, by those who loved him best; a name not even Watson had used except on the rarest of occasions. And—he had seen it in her eyes—she had used it knowing full well its meaning to him. Indeed, his had been the name on her lips in her moment of total vulnerability.

  Delicious, satiated warmth filled Holmes. Skye’s body lay beneath him like the sweetest gelatin, soft and pliable and just as luscious. After a moment, concerned for any physical discomfort in her healing body, he murmured, “Am I too heavy?’

  “No,” was the soft answer, emphasized by enervated hands slipping around his waist to
lock in the small of his back.

  “Mmm.”

  “Yeah.”

  A long, contented silence ensued.

  Finally Skye’s tentative, small voice broke it.

  “Sherlock?”

  “Yes, Skye?’

  “I…do you…you won’t…” she broke off, and Holmes realized she was struggling to communicate. “In the morning, will you…?”

  The detective experienced an abrupt flashback to a night that had started like this one, though it had not ended so; followed by a morning in which he had retreated from the intimacy beginning to form between them. Holmes knew what she was trying to say, and knew she was afraid of his answer.

  “What do you want me to do?”

  The arms around his waist tightened, and a convulsive sound, very much like a sob, shook her frame. It was the only answer she could manage, but it was telling enough. Holmes remembered what had instigated this passionate interlude: Skye’s hysterics. He decided it was time to settle her, before those hysterics could return.

  “Ssh, Skye. Rest, my dear. We shall talk about it in the morning.” Holmes moved off her, only to feel frantic hands catch at his sides.

  “Are you going back to your bedroom?” she whispered, subdued voice in direct contrast to the desperation of her grasp.

  “I…had not planned on it,” Holmes admitted, somewhat surprised by the question. The feeling of contented belonging, of a union unlike any he had ever dreamed, still lurked in the back of his mind, and he wondered uncomfortably if it was illusory after all. “I had intended to stay here. I…can watch over you better, as well. But…if you wish it, I will certainly do so.”

  “No, no. I…please stay.”

  “Very well.” Holmes leaned across her to take the pistol from the nightstand, flinching, startled, when an intense kiss was deposited on his left nipple. A happy giggle sounded beneath his chest, and he flushed, then chuckled.

  “Stop that,” he rebuked mildly.

  “Stop? Completely? Never again?” Skye queried, adopting an innocent, disappointed—and incredibly sensual—pout in the moonlight.

  “At least while I am handling a firearm,” he replied, picking up his revolver and hiding it between the mattress and the headboard.

  “Okay. Sorry. The opportunity presented itself and I couldn’t resist. Carpe papilla.”

  Holmes stifled a laugh.

  “Just remember, my dear Skye: I am exceedingly good at retaliation. I did not play cat and mouse with Moriarty for years without learning…” he paused to emphasize his next pun, and found his face did not flush at all, “tit for tat.”

  “Oh…”

  Holmes chuckled mischievously. He reached down to the foot of the bed, grabbing the covers and flipping them over himself and his companion. Lying back, he settled into the pillow Skye offered, staring up at the dim ceiling in the moonlight.

  * * *

  “Sherlock?”

  “Hm?”

  “Do you mind…if I cuddle?”

  “After…ahem, the last hour, do you have reason to doubt it, my dear?” Holmes’ eyebrows rose.

  “Um. Well, I guess not. But I know you’re reserved and I wanted to ask first. Besides, I’m getting cold.”

  “Come here.” Holmes shifted in bed, holding out an arm. Skye scooted over, slipping under his shoulder. His arm came down, pulling her into his side. She laid her blonde head on his chest. “Better?”

  “Mm-hm.”

  “Good. Go to sleep, now.”

  “Okay.”

  Five minutes later, they were both asleep.

  * * *

  Holmes awakened first the next morning, badly disoriented. When he figured out what the soft weight on his chest was, he stiffened in dismay, then relaxed as memory returned. A warm, genuine smile lit his normally sardonic features as he looked at the sleeping being in his arms, studying her peaceful face with ardent affection.

  But a nagging voice in the back of his head pronounced imprecations upon them for their wanton behavior.

  My, haven’t you found the cooperative little whore, in your “new world,” it said. How convenient for you. Now you no longer have need of…the other things.

  NO! Holmes declared, incensed. Skye is no harlot. She is a lady, and the GIFT she gave me last night was the highest of compliments.

  Then he ignored the voice and returned his attention to The Woman in his arms, contemplating her relaxed face in a way he had never before had opportunity to do.

  Desire stirred, but he glanced at the clock, saw it was early, and vetoed the idea; he preferred Skye sleep longer and awaken to a hot breakfast.

  * * *

  So Holmes retrieved his revolver and disentangled his limbs from Skye’s, pushing back the bedclothes and slipping out of bed. Glancing around, he spotted his discarded pyjama pants and reached for them, even as something out of the corner of his eye caught his attention.

  There was a stain on the sheet.

  A blood stain. Watery, but unmistakable, and only hours old.

  Holmes’ first reaction was horror, followed by fury: There HAD been an intruder, and he had hurt Skye. He spun, intending to begin a thorough search of the room for clues. But he brought up short at the realization that Skye would never have lied to him, especially if a home invader was near.

  And then it hit him.

  The explanation.

  No mere gift; I was given a treasure last night, he comprehended, almost in awe. The Woman gave me the most precious thing she had to give.

  Holmes moved to the bedside and stood, looking down at the sleeping woman in the bed. He wore no smile, but the thoughtful grey eyes were warm, and he stroked her velvet cheek with the backs of his fingers.

  Then he turned, headed for his bedroom to get dressed.

  * * *

  Skye awoke later, cold and alone. Glancing aside, she saw Holmes’ pillow, an empty depression in the center where it had cradled his head. She sat up with a weary, disconsolate sigh, biting her lip as she fought back tears.

  “I guess that answers that question,” she whispered in abject disappointment.

  Right before she saw it.

  It was very late in the season for a lupine of any variety, she mused, staring at the freshly-cut blue flower in the vase by the bedside. Someone had to search the fields behind the house for some time, or call around to many florists, to find it. And that someone had to want, very much, to find it. Especially since the someone in question knew it was her favorite flower.

  Looking beyond the vase, she discovered that same someone had considerately laid out all her clothing for the day—ALL her clothing—on the chair in the corner.

  An overjoyed Skye smiled to herself, stretching gloriously. As she deepened the stretch, her incisions pulled sharply, and an unexpectedly loud grunt escaped her.

  “Skye?” Holmes’ voice called from somewhere in the house in response. “Are you awake? Are you all right?”

  “Yeah, Sherlock, to both,” she answered, scooting over to the side of the bed and sliding her feet to the floor. “I just woke up.”

  “Good. The horses and the cat have been fed. Breakfast will be ready soon. You do have time to shower and dress, however.”

  “Okay,” she piped, ambling toward the master bathroom.

  * * *

  “Sherlock?”

  “Hm?”

  “Did you…um, you don’t…didn’t…don’t…have a reputation as…as a ladies’ man.”

  “No, I do not, nor did not,” he agreed, sipping his tea at the breakfast table, answering the question she had asked, and the one she had not. “I was seldom impressed by most of the women of my day. In retrospect, I suppose that is likely because they were not allowed to be impressive. Or at least what I deem impressive. Rare were the women who showed any serious evidence of intellect. In fact, I only recall one.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Skye grinned, but Holmes observed discomfort in her sapphire eyes. “Iréne Adler. The Woman.”

  She
stole a peek at the chain of his pocketwatch, which hung from his jeans. A gold sovereign dangled there, as it had since she had begun observing him in his own continuum, as it had ever since he had arrived in hers. She looked away quickly. Holmes caught the surreptitious look.

  “Yes, that was the one to whom I referred,” he confirmed, glancing into his lap and thereby positively identifying the object of her attention. “And yes, that was the nomenclature I used to use.” He put down the teacup and took a bite of omelette.

  * * *

  A particularly well-made western omelette, Skye observed, glancing at the other half of the omelette, which rested on her own plate. Holmes was in danger of becoming quite the domestic if he wasn’t careful, she concluded.

  “But not anymore?”

  “No. The title has recently been given to another.”

  “Since you’ve come here?!”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, my. I didn’t think you’d encountered any females with her degree of…of…”

  “Deviousness?” Holmes offered, and she nodded, uncertain. “I have not. But the title has changed, and no longer bears negative connotations. It is now less an epithet, and more…an honourific.”

  “So,” Skye said, trying to hide the wistfulness in her gaze, “to be called The Woman is no longer a backhanded compliment, is that what you’re saying?”

  “That is precisely what I am saying, my dear Skye.”

  Skye studied her plate for long seconds, toying with her food.

  “Is it anybody I know?” she wondered casually, keeping her eyes downcast.

  * * *

  Holmes shot her an eloquent glance, then put down his fork. He laid a hand on her shoulder, and she looked up at him.

  “You know The Woman very, very well,” he informed her, gazing into her eyes. “Dare I say, it is like looking into a mirror. Now, eat your breakfast before it gets cold. Your therapist informed me yesterday you needed more protein.”

  Sparkling blue eyes met a bland expression, but there was a silver glimmer in grey depths.

  “Okay. Sherlock and The Woman, huh?”

  She understands, he thought with a hidden smile.