But there is another possibility, that nagging, skeptical voice in the back of his mind whispered. Perhaps you are not really here at all. Perhaps your body lies broken at the foot of the Reichenbach Falls, and this “reality” is merely the final throe of that great mind, the last hallucination of a dying man.
Holmes considered this notion carefully, deeming it more probable than the other. In the end, however, he could think of no way to determine the truth, for if this existence really was entirely within his mind, there were no external, objective clues he could utilize to ascertain the fact. But he ultimately decided it did not matter. He was happy; he loved and was loved, and he would continue in this way, this life, for as long as he was in it.
And if I am truly blessed, it will be for a lifetime, even if only subjectively, even if only seconds pass in the world outside my mind. And perhaps it amounts to the same thing anyway: A world apart from the reality in the which I was born.
Satisfied with his conclusions, Holmes reached for the blankets, pulling them over The Woman and himself before resting his head once more on the pillow beside the golden hair. He wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her close, then drifted into a warm, happy sleep.
* * *
Holmes woke with the howl of anguish still on his lips. His grey eyes were wide and dilated as soon as he opened them: The dim room appeared far too bright to be lit only by a nightlight. A frightened Skye leaned over him, worried blue eyes gazing down as she frantically shook him by the shoulders.
“Sherlock! Wake up! Wake up, sweetheart! What’s wrong?”
“Skye!” he gasped, staring up at her as if she were a lifeline. “Oh, my dear Skye! My bonny heart!” Holmes clutched her close, then kissed her as if he never thought to do so again.
He rolled them both over until Skye lay beneath his tense, strained body. In seconds he was making love to her regardless of his own body’s pain, frantic, needing to convince himself she was really there.
* * *
Overwhelmed and confused, but sensing his uncharacteristically frenzied, near-panicked state, Skye willingly submitted to him, holding him close and whispering soothingly in his ear. When he finally collapsed into her arms with a cry, spent, and buried his face in her neck, she tightened her arms around him and stroked her fingers through his hair.
They remained so for long minutes, Holmes’ body still trembling in reaction. When that, too, began to subside, Skye breathed into his ear.
“Do you want to tell me about it?”
“Nightmare,” came the succinct response from somewhere in her shoulder.
“Nooo,” Skye murmured with gentle, amused sarcasm, trying to coax him into talking. “Do tell.”
He was silent, and she slid her hands comfortingly along the taut cords of muscle in his back.
“C’mon, sweetheart, it’s me. It’s Skye. Your Skye.” Another soft caress. “Talk to me.”
The back beneath her hands expanded as he inhaled deeply, and she felt the moist warmth of his breath on her skin as he let it out again.
“Reichenbach,” he confessed reluctantly.
“You relived it?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“You fell this time?”
“No.” Holmes finally raised his head to look into her eyes, and she saw the echoes of horror in the steel-grey gaze. “You did.”
“I did?”
* * *
“Yes,” he whispered miserably. “I was on this side of the tesseract, and I could not get through. He was enraged, was Moriarty. You’d thwarted him, you see—denied him my death, so he decided…I watched Professor Moriarty pick you up and…” He turned his head away, closing his eyes against the image seared into his mind. “You fell, and fell. And then…you struck the rocks, and…” Holmes’ voice cracked. “Oh, dear God, Skye. You simply…shattered. I…” He buried his face in the pillow beside her head. “And I could not even get to you, to hold you while you died,” he groaned, voice muffled.
“Ssh,” Skye murmured, and he felt her stroking his head and shoulders with tender fingers. “Everything’s fine. I’m right here, and I’m okay. It was just a dream.”
“Was it?” Holmes wondered, remembering his nighttime speculations. “Or do we, in our dreams, access other realities?”
“Wh-what?” Skye whispered, shocked.
“Conan Doyle obtained the information in some fashion, Skye,” Holmes suggested unhappily. He raised his head to look at her once more. “His subconscious somehow transcended spacetime. What if…what I saw…” he couldn’t bring himself to say it, “actually occurred, somewhere…out there?”
Skye stared up at him in utter terror. Holmes saw urgency in her eyes, and suddenly she was shoving at him, desperately pushing him away, frantically scrabbling her way off the bed before fleeing to the bathroom. Holmes leaped from the bed and ran after her. By the time he caught up with her, she was already on her knees, retching into the toilet.
Holmes knelt behind her, wrapping his arm around her waist to give her support, a support she instantly clutched, hanging on with her own arms. He stretched toward the countertop, blindly fishing on its surface with one hand until he found one of her hair elastics, then he gathered her long golden hair at the nape of her neck and secured it out of the way with the elastic. Skye continued to retch, but as there was nothing in her belly to purge so early in the morning, all she did was gasp and gag for several minutes.
When she could catch her breath, Holmes murmured, “Skye?”
“Y-yeah. I’ll be…be okay…in a minute.”
“Forgive me, my dear.”
“For…for what?” she panted.
Holmes stood, drawing Skye to her feet. Before answering, he moved to the sink and poured a cup of cool water, handing it to her. Skye took it, rinsing her mouth and spitting into the toilet, before sipping it cautiously, pausing to ensure it would stay down.
“For frightening you,” he finally replied, leaning against the vanity and folding his arms casually. “I know how much it troubles you, your perceived ‘interference’…”
“No,” she waved him away. “That…it…yeah, it bothers me, but that wasn’t what freaked me.”
“What, then?”
“It was…Sherlock, do you remember the first time I had a nightmare, after you moved in?”
“Yes. We were finally starting to become close, and I fear I reacted entirely too negatively and pushed you away. You see, that was when I realised just how far within my normal reserve I had permitted you, and where it might be leading. It…worried me considerably.”
“It was when I realized I’d fallen for you,” Skye confessed. “Because of the dream.” She shook her head, remembering. “I was mortified. I never thought you could ever want me, and I didn’t see how I was going to hide it from you. You, of all people.”
Holmes recognized her mind was trying to create a diversion, but he also knew she needed those few moments to steel herself, so he permitted it.
“Had I been less concerned with my own responses, and less obsessed with the espionage case, you likely could not. It is just as well, however, for it allowed us the time we both needed to…adjust our perspectives. But tell me about this dream, Skye. It sounds as if it was rather more than your normal nightmare about your parents.”
“It was,” she acknowledged, pale face becoming paler. Holmes noted the increasing pallor, and watched her closely, seeing her eyes grow distant as she relived the nightmare. “See, I was here, in Colorado instead of Texas, and I found the accident literally right outside Schriever.”
“So the setting changed substantially from its norm.”
“Yeah, but that wasn’t the worst part,” Skye muttered, voice becoming uneven. “When I got to the wreck…”
Holmes pushed away from the countertop, taking a step toward her, already knowing what was coming.
“Go on, Skye.” He retrieved the cup of water from her hand, setting it aside on the vanity. “Tell me what
you found.”
“You were in the car with Mom and Dad,” she whispered. “And all of you were…were…”
“Shh. You need not continue.” Holmes nodded in comprehension. “Quite symbolic, that dream. I think that your subconscious mind bespoke fear of losing everyone you have ever loved. Even before you consciously realised that love.”
“But…if you were right before, and things like that are…are really like looking through a wormhole, then…somewhere…Oh, God…”
The rest of the plea for divine help went unspoken as Skye’s face drained of the last of its color. Her knees buckled, and Holmes grabbed her, pulling her against himself to keep her upright.
“Back to bed for you, my dear,” he murmured urgently, fully grasping if she did not get horizontal quickly, she might very well pass out; but he was loath to place her on the cold hard tile of the bathroom floor.
Just then, Holmes heard the door into the saferoom open and close. He snatched one of the big bath sheets off the nearby towel rack and enfolded Skye in it. Then he swept her into his arms.
Injured muscles protested exceeding loudly at that move, and Holmes instantly realized he could not get Skye back to bed unaided.
“Williams!” he bellowed at the top of his lungs. “Come quickly! Your assistance is required IMMEDIATELY!”
Running feet sounded in the small apartment, and Williams called from the bedroom door, “Where—?”
“The bath!”
Williams appeared in the bathroom door, eyes widening as he took in Holmes holding a limp and obviously disoriented Skye.
“Hell’s bells, he’s better, and she’s worse!”
“Not sufficiently better to return her to bed by myself. A bit of help would be appreciated, my good fellow, and quickly, before my shoulder gives out. I fear I may drop her otherwise.” While Holmes’ phrasing was typically formal, his tone and rapid speech revealed his urgency.
“Let’s go for a seat carry. Stay right there, and when I tell you, grab my elbows.”
Williams moved in front of Holmes, pressing lightly against Skye’s other side. He laid his palms against Holmes’ wrists, sliding his hands along Holmes’ forearms to the elbows, locking his fingers firmly around those joints.
“Okay, turn your hands and grab my elbows, and let me have part of her weight,” he ordered.
Holmes complied, greatly relieved by the immediate reduction of stress on protesting body parts, and the two men walked sideways, cradling Skye between them. As they worked their way through the bathroom doorway, Williams asked, “What happened?”
“A little matter of some severe nightmares, and ensuing discussions,” Holmes informed him without telling him much. “And a concern that at least some dreams could prove to be views into alternate realities.”
* * *
“Oh, dear Lord,” Williams murmured fervently, immediately grasping why Dr. Chadwick was near-catatonic despite the lack of detail in Holmes’ explanation. They moved to the corner of the bed and eased her down to the mattress. While Holmes busied himself with adjusting the bath sheet to ensure Skye remained decently covered, Williams checked her pulse.
“’M okay, guys,” Skye slurred, finally rousing. “Lemme lie here f’r a minute.”
“Pulse is a little rapid, but that’s to be expected,” Williams noted. “Looks like you two had a bloody hell of a wakeup call.”
“It was not my preferred alarm clock, no,” Holmes said blandly, meeting Skye’s gaze with an aloof expression but gleaming eyes, and Williams wondered why Dr. Chadwick suddenly bit her lip. “But we will be well, in the end.” He reached for his dressing gown, wrapping it about his tall nude form.
“Okay, maybe a bite of breakfast will make the two of you feel better,” Williams suggested. At that, Skye grimaced, then glanced at Holmes and shook her head, putting her hand to her belly.
“Not yet.”
“Dr. Chadwick became sufficiently upset as to experience significant nausea earlier,” Holmes explained, kneeling beside her as she sat up slowly, and easing a comforting arm around her. She wrapped her forearm across her chest to hold the terrycloth in place.
“Ooo. Did you throw up?” Williams asked sympathetically.
“I woulda if I coulda,” Skye said ruefully. “My stomach was empty, fortunately.”
“She gave it a valiant effort, however,” Holmes agreed.
“Okay. Wait here.”
* * *
Williams left the room and they heard him rummaging in drawers in the sitting room. Moments later he returned with a bubble sheet of medication.
“Here. Take one of these. It’ll help settle your stomach.”
“Will it make me sleepy?”
“No, this formulation won’t.”
“Okay.” Skye accepted the medication, tearing loose a blister pack and peeling the backing off while Holmes retrieved her cup of water from the bathroom. Skye washed the pill down, and Williams retreated to the sitting room while the pair got dressed.
Chapter 7—Flashbacks, Flash Forwards, and Flash Dances
BY THE TIME HOLMES AND CHADWICK were dressed—assisting each other due to their respective indispositions—Skye’s nausea had abated, and she was able to nibble the French toast and fruit Williams brought them.
“So tell us, my boy, what is afoot, as we agreed,” Holmes said when they were halfway through breakfast.
“Okay. Let me think,” Williams gathered his wits for a moment. “Well, let’s go back to the day you were attacked, first. Parker went into the park and ate an early lunch, which he’d stashed in his attaché case, then headed to a meeting at Schriever. The street gang is, relatively speaking, innocent of being involved in this whole endeavour, although Parker may not be. It appears this group is known in the area, and was likely known to Parker, too. Anybody tailing him would almost certainly have encountered this gang, so he might have been using them to ensure he wasn’t followed. We’re investigating the possibility. But your bright red tie, interpreted as a sign of Bloods involvement, seems to be what set them off. I’m not sure the group IS a gang in the organized sense; they seem to be a bunch of neighbourhood kids who’ve watched way the hell too many gangsta-rap music videos. And Colonel Jenkins had a nice lunch of chicken salad and a Michelob, then returned home.”
“Well, that was a disappointing report over which to have received a beating,” Holmes observed tartly.
“What he said,” Skye agreed, annoyed.
“Oh, and here’s this,” Williams said, handing over a folder. “It’s the composite sketches from Ryker’s kids, of the man who was with the cadet the night Dr. Chadwick was almost kidnapped.”
Holmes took the folder. Skye stood beside him, looking over his arm as he opened it. They both hissed as they spotted the images inside.
“Jenkins,” Skye said grimly. “It’s gotta be him, even with the beard; it’s too close. Colonel Jenkins was the accomplice in the kidnapping attempt.”
“Indeed. That is most damning.” Holmes frowned at the image. “This one bears watching closely.”
“I’ll keep the Irregulars on him like a drunk on a pint. Okay, lessee, what else? The guard that was in Dutch with Colonel Jones has been taken off report,” Williams continued, “and Agent Smith has located someone who can get us inside with Ben Andrews, our man in the Mountain. He wants the two of you to meet with him about the matter; says it’s most urgent.” He glanced at Holmes, who had finally raised his head from the drawing in response to the mention of Smith. “I’d say you’re up to it now, Mis—uh, Holmes. You’re not putting yourself in danger, especially if I provide a driver for you.”
“Who is this mysterious insider?”
“Some prostitute Andrews visits regularly.”
“Oh my,” Skye murmured, eyes wide.
* * *
Williams himself drove them to the meeting at Smith’s FBI office that afternoon, and escorted them inside. Smith awaited them, along with the prostitute. Everyone except Williams sa
t down around Smith’s desk; the British operative stood guard by the door.
To his dismay, Holmes immediately recognized the woman—it was the stripper from Spice, the one that had reminded him so strongly of Skye. The detective felt his face heat slightly, but he maintained a calm demeanor, and no one seemed to notice. He shifted his chair closer to Skye and nodded politely as Smith introduced “Commander” Holmes and Agent Chadwick.
“Nice to meet ya,” the stripper, one “Sandy Rhodes,” offered her hand. Skye shook it readily enough; Holmes hesitated imperceptibly before taking the proffered hand. “Agent Smith here tells me you’re the main investigators on this shit.”
“We are,” Holmes averred. “And he tells us you have information for us.”
“Well, I dunno I’ve got a whole lot for ya. I got this one client, see. I didn’t take much notice of him at first. Ya get all kinds in my business, an’ I figured he was either a loony or maybe talkin’ about some crazy roleplay game or something. But when I saw the news about that guy killed out at Dome Rock, I sat up and paid attention. See, Ben told me he’d knocked off the guy weeks before. Then I remembered he’d said some guff about killin’ a couple other guys back in the spring, and I got scared. So I decided to call one’a those crime hotlines, and next thing I knew, Agent Smith here was calling me back.”
“Can you describe this ‘Ben’?” Holmes queried, slouching in his chair, allowing his expression to become languid, the grey gaze heavy-lidded, as he drifted into his imaginative reverie.
“Ben Andrews. Oh, he’s ‘bout five foot eight or nine, I’d say,” Sandy thought hard, “not over-tall; dark hair, brown eyes. He’s a bodybuilder, so he’s stacked pretty well.”
“Is he right- or left-handed?”
“Um…right.”
“At any time in recent weeks, have you noted any…unusual scratches…upon his person?” the detective pressed.
The Case of the Displaced Detective Page 62