“I’m awake, I just hadn’t gotten up yet,” Skye observed, scurrying off the bed and reaching for Holmes’ dressing gown. Holmes watched with interest as she wrapped it snugly about her nude form, finding it wonderfully alluring to see his beloved Skye wearing his own garment in so intimate a fashion. She hurried to the door to let Williams in.
* * *
“I do hope you slept well, Doctor,” Williams remarked solicitously as he stepped inside the door. “And how is Mis—Mr. Holmes!” he exclaimed delightedly, catching sight of the detective sitting up slowly in bed. Williams flipped on the overhead light, adding welcome illumination to the bedside lamp’s glow. “Easy there, sir. Don’t be in a rush this morning. Although it probably feels like hell, you’ve no serious injuries; but if you push it, you might pull something. And that would not be a good plan.”
“I’ve no plan to rush anything this morning,” Holmes admitted, tone evincing his exasperation at his condition, and trying not to grimace. “I have felt worse from such beatings, but it has been awhile.”
“Let’s get these cold packs off you,” Williams suggested, moving to the bedside, “have some breakfast, then I’ll give you a quick examination.”
“Agenda items one and two are more than acceptable,” Holmes decreed, showing his vexation beyond dispute. “Item three leaves somewhat to be desired.”
* * *
Williams suddenly dropped to a crouching position beside the bed, eyes troubled. Skye and Holmes stared at him in surprise.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Holmes,” he murmured contritely. “I’m not Dr. Watson. But I’m doing the best I can, and I swear I’ll take the best care of you—and Dr. Chadwick—I know how.”
Wow. Sherlock must have given him some serious grief yesterday before I got here, Skye decided, watching in amazement. Poor guy. He all but worships Sherlock, and it must’ve upset him pretty bad. He doesn’t know Sherlock well enough yet to understand it isn’t personal. Sherlock is just aggravated at the situation, not at Williams.
Holmes glanced at Skye for a moment, as if knowing what she was thinking.
“It seems to be a theme of my life here,” he observed to Skye.
“Comes of being a famous literary personage,” she told him with an understanding smile. “Lotta people feel that way about you.”
Holmes nodded his comprehension before looking back at Williams.
“How old are you, Williams?”
“Twenty-nine, sir.”
“Well, well. Come, my good man, get up from there. You are only ten years younger than I, all told; and perfectly capable, from what I’ve seen. I have been called arrogant and egotistical, both of which are likely true; and Skye could tell you I can be fiendishly grumpy at times. But take me down from that pedestal you seem to have me upon, right away, lest I fall from it. It wouldn’t matter if you were Watson. I gave him the devil’s own time of it whenever I was recuperating from an injury or the like. So pay me no mind, and do what is required to patch me up and get me going again.”
“Are you sure, sir?” Williams asked hesitantly, before moving to the side of the bed where he began circumspectly removing the cold packs from Holmes’ various contusions.
“Yes. And stop calling me ‘sir.’ Just Holmes will do. Else you shall make me feel like I’ve lived the entire time since my birth, instead of skipping that whole bit in between.” His grey eyes twinkled at the operative. “I’m thirty-nine, not one-hundred-fifty-some-odd.”
That finally got Williams to grin. “I’ll tell you what I told Dr. Chadwick last night, Mister—er, Holmes,” he confessed. “I wouldn’t have missed this adventure of yours for the world. You’ve no idea how excited MI is to discover you’re a real, flesh and blood person, and to be able to work with you.”
“Emphasis on flesh and blood,” Skye muttered, getting her first good look at Holmes’ injuries in the bright overhead lighting, and trying not to cringe.
“Indeed,” Holmes sighed. “Go ahead and say it, Skye.”
“No, it’s okay, Sherlock.”
“Say what?” Williams wondered.
Holmes pitched his voice in a passable imitation of Skye’s higher tones and remarked, in a perfect recreation of her southern American dialect, “’They beat the shit outta you, sweetheart.’”
Skye smacked her hand over her face, and Williams laughed aloud.
“That sounded exactly like her, Holmes! You have a really good ear. Was that actually what you were thinking, Doctor?”
“It was,” Skye admitted, “word for word. He even got the inflection right.”
“It is as I have told you, my dear,” Holmes said softly, “I know you.”
“I know you do,” she said, cupping his face in her hand, letting her thumb caress ever so tenderly beneath his black eye. “I know. But you know something else?”
* * *
“What?” Holmes wondered, studying her beloved face, looking for clues to her thoughts. Her face was carefully neutral, however, albeit with a twinkle in her eyes, and he had no clues with which to work, other than to realize mischief was afoot.
“You really have to stop trying to impress me with these black eyes,” Skye teased, and Holmes laughed, then winced as various body parts protested the action.
Williams slipped away to discard the used cold packs, giving Skye room to sit beside the detective. The operative returned with a large tray on which sat their breakfast. Holmes had a big vegetable and cheese omelet, fresh fruit, and oatmeal with tea; Skye, having notified Williams earlier of her preference, had a small slice of quiche and fruit with coffee.
Holmes dug into his meal eagerly; his injured body informed him in no uncertain terms that he was quite hungry. But he paused to glance at Skye in concern.
“Is that enough for you, my dear?” he wondered, studying her breakfast. “It seems…small.”
“Dr. Chadwick isn’t starving, Holmes,” Williams informed him with a mischievous smirk. “When you didn’t wake up last night for dinner, she ate hers and most of yours, too, I assume for a bedtime snack.”
Holmes’ eyebrows rose, and he glanced at Skye, who returned a cheeky grin.
“Ya snooze, ya lose,” she informed him. He chuckled.
“Now eat, both of you,” Williams decreed, “then I’ll have a look at matters, Holmes. In a couple of hours, though, I want Dr. Chadwick to help me get you into the Jacuzzi in the loo. How does that sound?”
“Given I’ve no notion what a Jacuzzi is, it sounds like Greek,” Holmes noted, making serious inroads on his omelet. “But if the two of you think it is a good thing, I suppose I shall submit to it.”
“You’ll like it, Sherlock. It’s kind of an artificial hot spring—with water jets.”
“Ah, the very odd tub in the bath, there,” Holmes observed, jabbing his fork toward the bathroom.
“That’s it,” Williams confirmed.
“Then it sounds excellent,” Holmes decided immediately. “Perhaps I shall be able to move again, when I have taken a good hot soak.”
“That’s exactly the idea,” Skye agreed.
* * *
Williams pronounced him as fit as could be expected, and some time later, it was time for a bath. It took considerable doing for Holmes to even get out of bed; he had been in it for nearly nineteen hours, and that was more than enough time for offended muscles to stiffen into impliability. But Skye and Williams helped him stretch lightly, then stayed beside him, one on each side, to stabilize him; thus they got him from the bed to the hot tub.
Williams had already run the water and turned on the jets. Holmes eased his legs over the side and settled into the hot water with a sigh of nigh-beatific bliss.
“Ah…this is almost as good as the masseur in my club in London.”
Williams chuckled, then turned to Skye.
“I didn’t set the heat too high, and the jets are on low-medium, so he can stay in there as long as he wants. Just get him out before he turns into a prune,” the agent teased.
“You know, it might, at that. Never mind, then. Let him puff and pucker like a hundred-and-fifty-year-old man.”
Skye bit her lip to stifle laughter.
“Hush,” Holmes ordered. His eyes were closed, and his head rested on the edge of the tub. The rest of him was submerged. “It is extremely unsporting to poke fun at a man when he’s down.”
Skye snorted.
Even Williams laughed.
“If you say so…sir,” he said roguishly, then fled, laughing again when a gout of water flew out of the tub, aimed right for him.
* * *
The Jacuzzi helped considerably. So did the healthy, protein-rich lunch Williams provided afterward. But the operative deliberately kept news of the investigation away from the detective, knowing Holmes would expend his energies in intensive consideration of the details, instead of resting. Holmes was decidedly unhappy, but Williams promised that if the detective would cooperate, on the morning of the third day after the beating Holmes should hear all, and start taking charge of the investigation once more.
“Only two days to wait,” Williams soothed.
“Two days! Do you have any idea how much can happen in two days?” the detective protested, wrapped in his dressing gown. “Entire empires have crumbled for want of less!”
“Then get Dr. Chadwick to help you stretch this afternoon and maybe give you some careful massage tonight, and I’ll tell you tomorrow afternoon, instead of the next morning,” Williams said calmly, unperturbed. “The Aerotech Drive Irregulars are on it, Holmes, and we won’t let you down, I swear. I’ll even report to Dr. Chadwick if that helps, but she is not to tell you, on pain of death.” He grinned, but his eyes were serious.
“Damn it! I am not some china bric-a-brac to be placed on a mantelpiece and dusted once a week!”
“Sherlock,” Skye said sternly, standing in the doorway, now fully clad in jeans and t-shirt. “Settle down.”
“I need information, Skye! Not to be coddled like some elder in his dotage!”
“Fine!” she cried, exasperated and out of patience. “Go out there and get yourself killed! Give me a call on your cellphone just before you expire, while you’re at it. That way I can come along and find you, too!” Her lip trembled and she spun away, turning her back on him.
* * *
That outburst stopped Holmes dead in his tracks. Without a word, completely ignoring Williams, he went to Skye and pulled her into his arms; she promptly buried her face in his chest.
I am a fool, twice over, he castigated himself. She is strong, but not utterly indomitable, and evidently she is far more worried than I had comprehended. I seldom consider the cost on myself—but she does. Watson did, too. I HAVE been known to tax my resources beyond their limits, in the past. I must learn to find a balance between “barely enough” and “too much,” I suppose. For her sake, if not my own.
Holmes turned his head, glancing at a bemused Williams, who was silently taking in the interaction between the couple while trying not to stare.
“Negotiation,” he offered succinctly, as Skye raised her head. “Skye spends the rest of the day helping me recover, to include stretching, massage, and another Jacuzzi bath; tomorrow morning, you give me the information I require. If necessary, I will direct the case from here for a few more days, until I am sufficiently healed to take a more active role. During that time, I will take whatever rest, food, and therapy the two of you consider are required to that end.” He looked back at Skye questioningly, and she nodded relieved acceptance.
Williams pursed his lips in contemplation of the offer, then nodded.
“Deal. But I’m not some street urchin, Holmes. I will hold you to it.”
“Fair enough. My dear Skye, let us get started.”
* * *
Holmes was as good as his word. He let Skye passively stretch every joint and limb in his body, then he crawled back into bed, covered up to keep his muscles warm, and rested as best he was able for two hours, trying his utmost not to fidget with impatience. When Skye allowed him to get up, he permitted his body to be stretched again, gently but effectively; performed some light isometric exercises, followed by more stretching. Gradually the flexibility returned. Williams brought up small meals every few hours, along with several nutritional supplements designed to help bodybuilders recover faster, and Holmes consumed it all.
After dinner, Holmes enjoyed another long soak in the hot tub, then crawled into bed.
* * *
Skye was waiting, with express instructions from Williams: She was to massage Holmes very lightly, specifically avoiding all bruised areas, lest a clot be dislodged and create a medical emergency. This thought did NOT excite Skye, and looking at Holmes’ body, she wondered if there was any part of him that she could massage, given those parameters.
But she did her best, and Holmes found her touch soothing regardless. In short order, it had the effect Williams had secretly intended: Holmes relaxed and fell into a peaceful sleep.
With a sigh of relief, a tense, weary Skye turned out the light and collapsed into bed beside him.
* * *
Holmes lay quietly on his side, head supported on his elbow, watching Skye sleep by the dim bronze glow of the nightlight. The clock on the nightstand nearby read 2:56 AM. He felt rested, flexible, and reasonably comfortable. So when he had awakened, he found himself in a contemplative mood. And he had found a source of inspiration for that contemplation in Skye.
She had apparently kicked off the covers in the night, and now Holmes scanned her nude body with warm grey eyes in which was a hint of a smile. He wondered if she had any idea what he truly felt for her. He was well aware that his artistic temperament, passed to him through his Vernet blood, meant his passion for her was far deeper than it might otherwise have been; and where once he would have rued the fact, now he reveled in it.
She had become a part of him, this scientist; as essential to his well-being as water, or air. And, he decided, just as welcome. Part of his mind knew she was not truly a classic beauty by the formal artist’s definition, though most men considered her lovely; but as far as Holmes was concerned, she was the most beautiful woman in this, or any other, universe.
At least for the time, desire had not arisen, and he was content simply to lie beside her, secure in the knowledge that she was his. The need to touch her rose in his being, and he put out a tentative hand, allowing his fingertips to brush her far shoulder. She did not awaken.
He drew his hand slowly down her body, fingertips drifting lightly across her skin: Over her breast, across the pink scars of her gunshot incisions, along the side of her belly, past her hip joint and down her thigh; a slow, delicate journey of fond exploration. Then he moved his hand to her near thigh and repeated the process in reverse, allowing his touch to take in the sensations of contour and texture. She never stirred, but she sighed his name once, as his fingertip skimmed her nipple; and he smiled.
She knows my touch, even when asleep, he marveled.
Affectionately, Holmes tapped his index finger to the tip of her nose, then traced a slow path down her mid-body. A contented hum sounded in her throat, and he felt its vibration in her lips. The impression it left against the pad of his finger was that of a kiss, and it stirred him deeply.
Holmes trailed his finger across her chin and down her tender neck, feeling the slight mound of her Adam’s apple, pausing in the hollow at the base of her throat. There, he found her pulse, slow, steady, and infinitely soothing. He sighed, captivated by the intimate rhythm.
His finger moved on. Down between her breasts, across her belly, and Holmes spared a moment to delve into her navel, finding that little scar of her birth just large enough to contain his fingertip. He wiggled his finger mischievously, and she squirmed briefly in her sleep.
She is
so delightfully ticklish, he thought with amusement.
Down over her lower abdomen, and his hand cupped her pubic mound with familiar affection.
A treasure, he thought in wonderment; a special treasure. The Woman has three special treasures. Here… His hand cupped tighter.
Then it moved to her breastbone, pressing flat. And here…
Lastly, the heel of his hand rested itself lightly on her forehead. And here.
Holmes moved his hand back to her groin, cupping her tenderly once more. This treasure, she has given over entirely to me, he thought with possessive pride. This, transferring his hand to her sternum again, easing it between her breasts, she has given into my keeping. And this, his long fingers massaged her forehead with a feather-light touch, she has devoted, at least for the time, to aiding me.
What treasures do I offer her? Does she know, does she understand, that I offer her those same corresponding things? That my body is hers to enjoy, and my heart, that pitiful, underused organ, is entrusted to her? Does she realise my intellect is being devoted entirely toward ensuring protection for her and her life’s work? Does she comprehend I would fight my way across the continua for the right to have her at my side?
Holmes smiled down at The Woman beside him, letting the back of his knuckles slide down her soft cheek. His hand ended up once more between her breasts, rubbing lightly.
It suddenly occurred to him to wonder what Watson would think, if he should stumble across the detective in that moment, lying naked beside his sleeping lover, and satisfied to trace idle designs on her bare skin with his fingers. He would be utterly stunned, Holmes grinned, picturing the shocked expression on his old friend’s face. He would likely think I had sustained some form of brain damage in the transition between universes.
Holmes paused, as the full implications of the thought struck home. Could there have been brain damage? He was a very different man, in some ways, than the one who had confronted Moriarty in the Alps. Could that be…?
He glanced at Skye, sleeping peacefully beside him. What if…what if this…what I feel for her…is all some delusion, caused by a mental aberration? Holmes wondered anxiously. Then he shook himself. Nonsense, Sherlock. It has not affected your mental capacities in the least. Your deductive reasoning is as sound as ever it was. Were you suffering from a mental defect of such magnitude, that would not be the case.
The Case of the Displaced Detective Page 61