“Hey, Sherlock,” Skye offered a belated greeting, glancing up at her mate, “did you have any luck, sweetheart?”
“I suppose it depends upon what you term ‘luck,’” Holmes remarked. “I ascertained that none of Thompson’s cronies have been seen at the Low Buzz since some time before you shot and killed him.”
* * *
Williams’ eyebrows rose precipitately. Shot and killed? Dr. Chadwick, in a gun battle? Shit and damnation, SHE must be that FBI agent in the report! Bollocks, she IS a fine piece of work. It’s no wonder Holmes fell for her.
“So you don’t have any leads?” Skye queried.
“Not at the present, no,” Holmes admitted. “I hoped you might have something here.”
“I’m getting there.” Skye patted the sofa beside her. “Sit down and keep me company while I finish these, then I’ll explain what I’ve got.”
“Orders for dinner before I go?” Williams interjected as Holmes moved around to sit beside Skye.
* * *
Holmes glanced at Skye, who shrugged.
“Surprise us,” he waved a nonchalant hand at Williams. “Your taste so far has been excellent.”
“Thank you, sir,” Williams grinned. “I’ll endeavour to continue that trend.”
He slipped out, and it was Holmes’ turn to sit close and put his head together with Skye’s over the laptop. Except he put his arm around her. And kissed her.
And she noticed.
* * *
It took awhile, but by dinnertime Skye managed to compile a complete list of full names and addresses for the phone numbers Harris and Thompson had in common. Skye used the laptop’s fax and sent the file to Colonel Jones; unfortunately Williams had told her the computer hookups in this saferoom, while screened, were not ciphered, so she couldn’t email the information.
Williams arrived with dinner: salad, bangers and mash with Brussels sprouts drizzled in balsamic vinegar, and pound cake with strawberries and cream for dessert. He also brought a carafe of coffee and a small bottle of top-shelf brandy. “Here you go,” he smiled, setting the tray on the coffeetable. “I hope this will do.”
“Excellent, my dear boy!” Holmes exclaimed, sitting up and reaching for one of the salads. “Come, Skye, put aside your computer and eat, my dear. You have been hard at it for several hours now.”
“Were you successful?” Williams wondered, perching on the arm of the wing chair nearby.
“Yeah,” Skye acknowledged, setting the laptop on the end table before taking the salad Holmes handed her and eating. “I just sent Colonel Jones the list of names and addresses. Of course the unnamed phone numbers didn’t show up anything in the reverse search, but…” her voice tapered off as an idea struck, and both men turned to look at her. “Oh! I am such an idiot!” she exclaimed, reaching for the laptop. “Hang on a second.”
Skye began a quick websearch; Holmes leaned over to watch, chin almost resting on her shoulder, continuing to eat his salad absentmindedly.
“Mmm…okay, lessee,” she murmured, typing swiftly. In seconds she had brought the Air Force Academy webpage onscreen, and she located the phone directory. Entering Ctrl-F, she searched on the first of the two numbers she suspected as Academy numbers, and hit paydirt.
“Hah! The 94th Flight Training Squadron! I’d lay money that’s the group our ‘sleepover’ cadet’s with.”
“And you’d be right, from what I was told,” Williams nodded. “So that’s the contact info for the cadet.”
“And this other, similar telephone number?” Holmes wondered, a knowing look in his eyes.
* * *
Skye searched on it; her brows drew together and a worried look appeared in her azure eyes.
“It’s the number for the physics department,” she murmured apprehensively. “Somehow, it just doesn’t seem good to me that the Air Force Academy’s physics department phone number is in a list with known and potential spies who are after a hyperspatial physics project.”
“No, that’s not good news,” Williams agreed, concerned.
“And what about the third unidentified number, my dear?” Holmes turned to Skye.
“Well, I couldn’t find it so I’m ninety-nine percent sure it’s in the Mountain. And I don’t have access to the directory. It’s strictly controlled and password-protected. It sure won’t be on the web.”
“Ah. Well, Colonel Jones can locate that one for us,” Holmes decided serenely. “Send this new information off to him and finish your dinner, my dear. You are still recuperating, even if you are almost back to full health. I’ll not have you getting run down.”
Skye did as Holmes requested, faxing the information and settling down to eat as he and Williams discussed how to handle surveillance on the persons in question. Nothing was decided by the time they’d finished their meals. At Skye’s invitation, Williams joined them for coffee and brandy, and Holmes produced his pipe, savoring the combination of tobacco and brandy.
“You’re running low on tobacco, Mr. Holmes,” Williams noted. “Shall I arrange to get more for you?”
“That would be greatly appreciated, Williams. I have eked it out by my habit of drying the dottle and smoking it of a morning, but even so, my supply is dwindling. Skye can tell you where it was obtained, and what, precisely, it was. I find I like it.”
“Oh, I got it at the Garden of the Gods Trading Post,” Skye noted. “It’s the native heirloom, organic stuff. It’s not hard to find there.” Williams pulled out a notepad and scribbled down the information.
“Got it. There’ll be a fresh packet on your breakfast tray in the morning. If the post isn’t open by then, I’ll have it in time for lunch.”
“Excellent. As I am sure you already know, I find my pipe a great aid to the deductive process at times.”
“Of course,” Williams grinned. “What Holmes-ophile wouldn’t know that?”
* * *
Holmes blinked at the term, and Skye put her fingers to the bridge of her nose, not sure whether to laugh or groan.
“Good Lord, are Watson’s stories so well known as all that? Do you mean to tell me there is actually a specific designation for those who follow the stories?” Holmes exclaimed.
“Sweetheart,” Skye muttered from behind her hand, “there’s a whole list of expressions pertaining to you, the stories, the details, and the people who study them.”
“Sherlockians, Holmes-ophiles, Sherlockiana, Holmesiana, the list goes on and on,” Williams grinned audaciously, sipping his brandy.
“Great Scot,” Holmes sat dumbfounded. “I had no idea.”
“You’re a famous man, Mr. Holmes. But it’s our good fortune in this instance that in this reality, you’re considered purely fictional. If our targets knew you were real…” Williams shook his head.
“But they do,” Skye protested. “Bob Harris was on my team. He was there when Sherlock came through the tesseract.”
“Then they either didn’t believe Harris, or they don’t think a 19th-century detective can do much here.”
Skye and Holmes glanced at each other in sudden understanding.
“Harris thought you were retraining me for a ‘modern’ occupation,” Holmes pointed out.
“Yeah. Maybe that little faux pas was useful, after all. They’re grossly underestimating you.”
“It would appear so, my dear.”
“Well, either way, they don’t seem to be after him,” Williams observed. “My people have heard scuttlebutt ‘on the street’ about a spacetime portal, but nothing whatsoever about Mr. Holmes.”
“Oh, shit. There’s street talk about the project?!” Skye was horrified.
“Calm yourself, my dear Skye. Just because there are rumours does not mean they are significant.” Holmes laid a hand on her arm.
“No, and they’re NOT significant. They’re all unsubstantiated and fairly wild. The best of the lot,” Williams started chuckling, “said that you—not you personally, mind, but rather I should say, the project—is working to reverse-e
ngineer some alien technology out of Area 51.”
* * *
That one got to Skye despite herself. She snorted, began to chuckle, and started laughing. Laughs became outright guffaws.
In moments she fell over with her head in Holmes’ lap, and he urgently juggled pipe and brandy snifter before getting the snifter safely onto the end table. He grinned down at his darling, glad to see her mood lifted so quickly, before succumbing to his own curiosity.
“What is Area 51?”
This produced another loud guffaw from Skye. She sprawled across the sofa, head still in Holmes’ lap, helplessly waving her hands in the air as she howled with laughter; Holmes waved his pipe in counterpoint, working hard at keeping it out of her inadvertent reach. Both men realized she was in no condition to answer the question, as she was red-faced and unable to get her breath for giggling, so Williams responded.
“It’s a super-secret military area inside the Nevada Test Site, where some people think extraterrestrial technology is being investigated. The whole alien scenario is false, of course, but folks get interesting notions sometimes.”
Holmes’ eyebrows shot up in surprise and amazement at the explanation.
“Wa-ha,” emerged from Skye’s mouth, and Holmes was hard-pressed not to laugh himself. “Hee! Muh-my life’s work, and…ha-ha-ha! I mus’ be an alien!” She turned and poked Holmes in his flat, muscular belly. “How ‘bout that, Sherlock?! A 19th-century man, an’ a woman from another planet! An’ we’re a couple!” She went into gales of laughter.
Holmes looked askance at his lover, well aware of Williams’ presence in the room. He wanted to be circumspect while simultaneously providing Skye with the opening he knew she wanted.
“Well…I suppose I could think of…worse things,” he decided after a moment. “It does sound a very strange pairing, I must admit, but it seems to work well enough.” He allowed a glint of mischief in the steel-grey eyes, and he added, “I think I should have appreciated being apprised of your…true nature…before it got quite so far as all this, however.”
* * *
Skye stopped laughing, sitting up and staring into those gleaming grey eyes. A chuckling Williams saw the spark in the blue eyes and sobered, wondering if he was about to see the great detective and the great scientist fight.
“Are you saying it would have made a difference?” she asked point-blank.
* * *
“No,” Holmes replied, his amusement reflected in his twinkling eyes as he saw the glint in Skye’s gaze while noting the sudden unease on Williams’ face. “But I might have been a bit more…inquisitive. Purely for the sake of science, of course.”
“Of course,” Skye grinned, maintaining her position nose-to-nose with her companion. Holmes remained very, very still. “You still can, you know.”
“Williams,” Holmes said, without breaking eye contact with Skye, “do you think you could notify Colonel Jones right away of the need to identify the unknown telephone number? It is of the utmost importance. Also it might be useful to obtain a list of faculty in the Academy physics department. And my boy, if you could obtain some matches to go along with that tobacco, I would be most indebted. I find a lighter tends to damage the bowl of the pipe.”
* * *
“Um, certainly, Mr. Holmes,” Williams blurted, aware he was being dismissed and suspecting why, as he knocked back the last of his brandy, stood, and scooped up the meal tray. “Give me a ring in the morning when you’re ready for breakfast.”
“Certainly,” Holmes murmured, gazing into Skye’s eyes with a slight smile. “We must finish our plans for surveillance, also.”
“Um, of course. Good night.”
The operative hurried out of the saferoom.
* * *
“Finally,” Skye noted mischievously without moving. “He’s a nice guy, but it took him forever to finish that brandy.”
“Indeed,” Holmes agreed, maintaining his position. “But he was more than ready to go, at the last; he had no idea what was about to happen next. Of course, had he taken the time to observe and reason from it, he would have deduced the answer.”
“And what would that have been?”
“That what was about to happen depended entirely on spacetime.”
“Time for the space between the covers—and not before—you mean?” Skye grinned, edging nearer.
“But of course, my dear Skye,” Holmes murmured, closing the distance.
* * *
After a post-mortem of the previous twenty-four hours followed by some intimate private time, they lay in bed, content to hold each other. Holmes could feel Skye’s velvety cheek pillowed against his chest, and he stroked the golden hair, his grey eyes soft and thoughtful. After a few minutes, he cupped her chin in his fingers and turned her face up to his.
“Skye,” he murmured, looking into the twin sapphires gazing at him, “do you…know…how I feel, my dear?”
“What do you mean, Sherlock?” Skye blinked in surprise.
Holmes paused, then admitted, “I had an interesting conversation with Sally today.”
* * *
“Sally?” Skye was having a hard time keeping up with the apparent non-sequiturs.
“The barmaid at the Low Buzz.”
“Oh. What did she have to allow?”
“Well, she told Charlie, if he were still having difficulties with Susie—because, of course, Susie was not with him—he should ensure the lady in question knew how he felt. According to her, it seems women need to hear such things from time to time.” He paused, and looked at Skye self-consciously. “I…am not known for being voluble with regard to the softer feelings, so it occurred to me to wonder if…”
Skye smiled, understanding what he was asking.
“There are lots of different ways to say it, Sherlock. You don’t have to always vocalize it. I don’t know, maybe the fact that we’ve honed my observation skills makes me a little different, but you tell me several times a day, every day, exactly how you feel, without saying a word.”
“Would you care to elaborate?” Holmes blinked, cocking an eyebrow.
Her smile deepened, and she took his hand in hers, pressing his palm against her cheek, letting her eyes flutter closed as he took control of the gesture and cupped the side of her face in his hand.
“Like this,” she murmured, stroking the back of his hand. “The way you touch me. A certain look in your eye when you glance at me. The tone of your voice when you speak to me. And your lovemaking fairly screams it aloud. I think it’s your artistic side, finding ways to express itself to me. Dear God, Sherlock, there’s a particular way you can say, ‘My dear Skye’ that leaves me weak in the knees. I’m almost a puddle on the floor, five seconds after you say it.”
She opened her eyes and looked up into his face, seeing the dawning comprehension there.
“I’ll admit, at first I thought I needed to hear it,” she continued. “Thought you needed to say it, for it to be true. But you know what? I was wrong. I know how you feel. You tell me every single day.”
“Good,” he murmured, bringing his other hand up to cradle her face in his palms. “But you deserve more, my dear. You deserve to hear it.”
Skye shook her head. “You don’t have t—”
“Hush,” he whispered urgently, putting a finger to her lips. “While I am able to say it. It is not something that will ever come readily to my lips, I suspect, despite—or perhaps because of—the power of the feeling behind it.”
She nodded, comprehending, and silenced.
Holmes leaned close, letting his fingers slide back into her hair, as he breathed, “I love you, my darling Skye.”
His lips were already brushing hers as she responded, “And I love you, my adored Sherlock.”
* * *
The kiss was deep, and long, and filled with all the hope and feeling either of them could have wished. Soon they were joining again, each eager to ensure the simple words spoken from the heart were supported by proof i
n deed. When they were done, they pressed close, complete in one another as they had never dreamed possible. Skye’s cheek once more found its way to Holmes’ chest, and the detective’s languid hand again discovered the pleasure of stroking silky golden strands. They lay so for a long time.
“Skye?”
“Mm?”
“How familiar are you with Air Force pilot terminology?”
“Um, reasonably so. Why?” Skye blinked at the unexpected question.
“Sufficient to teach me to pass as a pilot?”
“Provided you don’t actually have to fly a jet, yeah, I think so.”
“Please begin, then.”
“Right now?!”
“If you have no objections.”
* * *
A knowing, rueful grin spread over Skye’s face in the dim glow from the nightlight in the corner. Their intense romantic interlude was evidently over for the time, as the rational detective resumed its dominant place in Holmes’ life. But Skye knew the sensual artist always lurked in the background; knew too that both halves of the man in her arms loved her. And she was content in that knowledge.
“Okay, let’s start with some of the call lingo. Letters are always called out as words, to ensure they’re understandable. For instance, if I was to say ‘B’ over the radio, but there was some static, you might think you heard the letter ‘D’ instead. So they use a phonetic alphabet. The American version is different, but I’ve heard some of the RAF guys that come through, and theirs goes like this: Able, Baker, Charlie, Dog…”
* * *
The next morning over breakfast, Holmes and Skye discussed the options for a surveillance plan with Williams.
“I’d like to ensure the two of you have backup,” Williams insisted. “It isn’t that you aren’t competent; heaven forbid. It’s…well, we don’t need either of you being found out.”
“There is no risk of being found out. They will see nothing, which is all they may expect to see when I follow them.” Holmes shook his head.
“But what about Dr. Chadwick?”
“She will be fine. There is less chance of her being detected if she is allowed to do her work, than if she has half-a-dozen agents wandering around behind her.”
The Case of the Displaced Detective Page 55