“Here, stand up, Doctor. You’re going to need this pretty soon.”
Using his pocketknife, Jones made a clean slit in the center of the sheet. When Skye stood, he popped it over her head, draping it over her shoulders and down her body.
“Hold out your arms,” he hissed, then whipped the twine about her waist, tying it firmly. Smith saw what he was doing, and began arranging the folds of the makeshift robe, ensuring it adequately covered the garments underneath.
* * *
“Nevertheless, brother Mycroft, I can assure you I came from another…realm, for want of a better term. I have not been on this Earth.”
“Pish-tosh and bunkum,” Mycroft dismissed the comment. “Now, Dr. Watson here sent me a telegram that you needed my help, something about a new Napoleon of crime. I assume you speak of this Colonel James Moriarty.”
“Ah, I thought you would already know of him,” Holmes smiled. “Yes, I have been sent back in order to ensure he does not pick up where the late, unlamented Professor left off.”
“Here, Sherlock,” Mycroft said, returning to the door and fetching the valise he’d left there, handing it to his younger brother. “I had a small case of your things kept with me at all times, just in case I should hear from you unexpectedly. You can get out of those outlandish foreign clothes and into something proper, while you tell us what you require.” He took a seat at one end of the nearby sofa.
Holmes reached for the valise and began to explain the plan.
* * *
Morris came back in while Mycroft was still speaking. Minutes later, Caitlin Hughes arrived as well, having been brought out of hiding to help when Williams had contacted Ryker. Skye’s eyes lit up when the familiar voice of her friend murmured a greeting in her ear, but she never took her eyes off the tesseract core.
“You’ve got help now, sweetie,” Caitlin added softly, “and more on the way.”
“Good,” Skye murmured. “Here. You run the focusing for a few minutes. Make sure only Sherlock or myself are able to pass through the tesseract. I think I’ll have to put in an appearance in a minute. And, um…try to give Sherlock a little privacy while he’s changing?”
“Okay, I’ll try,” Caitlin agreed, attempting to keep an eye on the periphery of the tesseract core while averting her gaze from the half-nude detective in its center.
Skye prized off her shoes and socks with her toes and turned toward the tesseract core, but Jones grabbed her.
“Wait, wait! Stand still. I’ve got another idea.”
Skye held very still as the military police chief swiftly unfastened and picked apart her customary French braid, freeing her long blonde hair, then energetically fluffed it about her shoulders until it was a wavy golden cloud.
“Yeah, this oughta work,” he muttered to himself. Reaching for his belt, he removed his mini-maglight from its holster. “Duct tape?”
Without even looking, Caitlin reached into a cabinet and handed him a roll. Quickly the project manager shifted the tesseract focusing so the loud ripping sound of the duct tape could not be heard in the other continuum.
“Sorry if I get a little familiar here, Doctor,” Jones murmured. “Trust me, this will help the image.” Sticking the barrel of the tiny flashlight to the center of the tape, he turned on the light, opened it to wide beam, and reached inside the rear of Skye’s shirt, taping the whole thing directly to her back inside the neckline, facing upward. Then he fluffed her hair over it.
Skye’s golden mane promptly lit up, shining from within.
“Perfect,” Jones smirked. “Instant halo.”
* * *
Holmes was nearly done changing into a proper Victorian suit, laying his twenty-first-century garb on the arm of the sofa nearby. He glanced at it anxiously, well aware he could not leave it behind, and equally aware he could not afford to let his brother examine it.
Just then the disembodied voice of his “angel” returned.
“Sherlock, are you ready?”
“I am, Skye. What do you need of me?”
“It is not what I need of you, Sherlock,” the echoing voice grew nearer, “but what I may do for you.”
Suddenly a vision in white appeared, walking straight through the wall beside the fireplace. She was tall and straight, though not as tall as the men, with fair skin and shining blue eyes, a gleaming white robe girdled simply at the waist with bare toes peeping beneath, and golden hair glowing softly in the dimly-lit room. Mycroft, Watson, and Doyle leaped to their feet and stared in shock.
“I am here, Sherlock, though for only a moment,” Skye smiled at him. “Give me your discarded raiment. It shall be taken back to await your eventual return.”
Hiding his delighted smile, and trying not to show how beautiful he found her, Holmes gathered his 21st-century clothing, including the athletic shoes, and gravely presented it all to Skye. She turned and moved to the wall.
“Friend Raphael, might I humbly request your assistance?” she called.
* * *
Smith yanked off his sport coat and wristwatch. He was clad in a short-sleeved shirt underneath the jacket, and he ran over to the tesseract, standing just outside the core in front of Skye. He glanced at Dr. Hughes, who nodded; then he stuck his hands into the space between the columns, trying not to shiver at the strange sensation.
* * *
The four men watched as strong, muscular, spectral arms reached through the wall toward the angelic woman, taking Holmes’ garments from her, then retreated with the clothing, the entire lot simply vanishing into the wall. Skye turned, moving back to Holmes’ side, standing slightly behind him and careful to stay far enough away from the others so Mycroft could not get a good look at her robes. Mycroft raised an eyebrow.
“Gentlemen,” she addressed them, “this is a very important matter. Do you yet persist in unbelief?”
“No,” Watson murmured.
“Nm-mm,” Doyle shook his head.
Mycroft’s eyes narrowed briefly; he glanced past Skye at the wall beside the fireplace, thinking hard. Finally he sighed.
“Milady Skye, tell us what is required. Regardless of where he has been, Sherlock is my brother, and I will help him, even if duty did not demand it.”
Skye smiled beatifically at Mycroft’s declaration, as Holmes dropped his gaze to hide his emotion.
* * *
“I am pleased to meet you all at last. Dr. Doyle.” Skye nodded, and the physician promptly bowed low. “You are much respected, sir. Keep writing. Your literary endeavors, both with and without your co-author, do you much credit.”
“They are far more Watson’s than mine,” Doyle admitted, and Skye smiled again.
“There will be others, never fear.”
Then Skye turned to Holmes’ sibling.
“Brother Mycroft, the man of duty and honor. Your brother loves you greatly, though he says little. And I have no doubt the sentiment is returned.”
“Your servant, milady.” Despite his massive, portly frame, a deeply-affected Mycroft swept a courtly bow, denying nothing.
Lastly she turned to Watson, and Holmes raised his head, intent upon watching the meeting he had desired to see for so long.
“And my dear Dr. Watson. I have heard so much about you,” Skye said tenderly.
“Probably only half of it is true,” Watson chuckled, rueful and self-conscious. He smiled and daringly moved to stand in front of Skye.
“Which part?” Skye smiled. “That you are Sherlock’s dearest, most trusted friend? That he misses you very much? That your loyalty is unequaled? Or that your sense of humor raised him from the doldrums at times when even his cocaine could not? Let alone having rescued him from that insidious substance long ago…”
Holmes could feel himself smiling from the inside out. But this is wonderful! She is telling him all the things I should have done, all the things I wanted to say but could never find words. This is more delightful than I could have hoped. I only wish Watson could know who she really is,
and what she means to me.
Meanwhile, Watson was flushing deeper and deeper scarlet.
“You…know all that?”
“I do.”
“How?”
“Because I told her,” Holmes murmured, “and because it was given to her to see it, at least in part.”
“It is very good to meet you face to face, Dr. Watson,” Skye said softly. “To meet you all in person. I am more honored than you will ever know. But I fear we have no more time to waste in greetings. The hour is urgent, and I must explain a few matters to you.”
* * *
“Sherlock has already told us all about Moriarty,” Mycroft stated.
“He has, but he has not explained about himself. As you have no doubt observed, he is, once more, flesh and blood, in order to interact with your world. This means he can be killed.”
“Again,” Doyle winced.
“Yes. Obviously this is not desirable, but I have no power to remedy that. I do not know what would happen to him, should he die…twice. Such power and knowledge reside only in the hands of the Almighty. So you must all remain faithful and vigilant to help him. And,” Skye added, trying to hide her anticipation of their pain, “when his task is completed at the last, he must return with me. He cannot stay.”
* * *
Three faces fell in bitter disappointment. Holmes’ jaw tightened, and his gaze dropped. A pair of angelic blue eyes filled with tears that did not overflow.
“I am sorry,” she whispered. “I know this causes each of you great suffering. If there were another way, it would be done, I assure you.”
“But we’ll see you both again,” Watson observed gruffly.
“Someday,” Holmes nodded, voice hoarse. “When…everyone has crossed over.”
“Now I must go,” Skye said, starting to struggle with her role. She turned to her beloved detective. “Sherlock, you have my blessing. Go forth and triumph.” She stretched up and planted a tender kiss on his forehead, then turned toward the wall, where she knew her exit lay.
* * *
Holmes caught her hand, suddenly knowing how to tell Watson what he wanted his old companion to know.
“May I have your full blessing, Skye?”
“You may,” she smiled, allowing Holmes to pull her close and kiss her tenderly. Mycroft’s eyebrows rose, but he said nothing, merely allowed his lips to quirk in amusement. Doyle watched, nonplused.
But Watson’s eyes lit up as Holmes and Skye parted.
“Now I see,” he chortled happily. “I found my angel on one of our cases, but you found yours…elsewhere.”
“Indeed,” Holmes smiled, watching as Skye vanished through the bookcases.
* * *
Within twenty minutes, all the team leads—with the exception of Dr. Wellingford, who was on an emergency call and would come as soon as he could—had arrived and taken their stations. Morris circulated a handwritten note explaining the plan, and one by one all the leads nodded their concurrence.
They all watched as Skye, unwrapping herself from the sheet and laying it nearby, took over from Caitlin. Jones fished the flashlight from the back of her shirt, laying it atop the sheet in case the rig should be needed again. Skye shoved cold feet back into her sneakers.
“All right,” Skye said calmly, “time to skip ahead a few hours.”
* * *
When next the Project: Tesseract team brought the closed-loop string beam into full focus, Sherlock Holmes once more occupied his sitting room in Baker Street. A confused and excited Mrs. Hudson had just scurried out after delivering a very disconcerting bear hug to the embarrassed detective, and now he sat at his desk, pondering over the composition of a telegram.
“Sherlock?” Skye called. “We’re back. Do you have anything yet?”
* * *
Holmes raised his head, his lips curling up slightly as he listened to the familiar voice. The knowledge that, for fully twenty hours, Skye had been completely beyond his reach had been torturous and acutely lonely. His old bed, in particular, had seemed cold and empty. Would I could share it one night with her, he sighed to himself, but I suppose that is not to be. So he was relieved to hear her voice once more.
“Hello, my dear Skye,” he smiled, turning in the direction of the voice. “Welcome back. You were missed. Has the cloud of witnesses arrived?”
“They have,” Skye’s voice answered, and Holmes heard the grin in it. “So far, I haven’t been zapped by any lightning bolts yet, either, thank heaven. I’m sure no angel.”
“That depends upon one’s definition,” Holmes pointed out. “In my opinion you make a fine messenger of all that is good and right. As to your question, yes, between Mycroft’s contacts and the Baker Street Irregulars, I have a firm line on the new Moriarty’s whereabouts at all times. You know, I do believe the Irregulars work almost as fast here as ours do there?”
“Not surprising,” Smith’s voice replied. “We haven’t found a way to speed up basic footwork yet. We’ve just gotten a little more complex with our data storage, evidence analysis, and communication.”
“True. Speaking of communication, I was composing a telegram to Haines.”
“Let’s hear it,” Skye’s voice responded eagerly.
“Very well. It reads quite simply. 221B BAKER STREET STOP 7 PM STOP I AM NOT AMUSED STOP S-H.”
“Ooo,” Skye’s voice murmured. “Perfect. That oughta get his attention.”
“In spades,” Jones’ voice agreed.
“I am glad you both approve.” Holmes laughed silently.
“Add my endorsement on that,” Smith’s voice piped up.
Holmes waited expectantly.
“Okay, what—or maybe I should say who—are you waiting for, Sherlock?” Skye’s voice wondered.
“General Morris, of course,” Holmes chuckled. “My guardian angel has given approval, and two of the three members of the Trinity.”
“Hmph,” Morris grumped. “Since I’m the oldest, I assume I must be the father, then. Which makes Hank the son…”
“So I must be the holy hand grenade,” Smith murmured. “No, wait, make that ghost.”
“Oh, dear Lord,” Skye’s voice muttered. “God, You can hit me with that lightning bolt any time now…especially if it’ll get me outta this…”
“Calm yourself, Skye,” Holmes said tolerantly, rising from the desk chair. “I happen to think the Almighty likely has a decided sense of humour, and if we do not maintain a sense of humour throughout this, you, my dear, are apt to have some sort of fit.” The detective shot a twinkling, amused glance in the direction of Skye’s voice.
“Boy, does he know YOU,” Caitlin’s voice remarked.
“I should think so,” Holmes noted dryly, but did not elaborate. “Now if you all would be silent while I call Mrs. Hudson to have this telegram sent, it would be appreciated. Skye, should you want to impress upon her my inherently-ethereal nature, feel free.”
“Got it, Sherlock,” Skye chuckled. “I’ll see what I can do.”
* * *
Five minutes later, Mrs. Hudson was in even more awe over Holmes’ return, and hurried down to street level to call Billy and have the message delivered to the telegraph office, with express instructions the note was to be burned and the ashes thoroughly scattered immediately after.
Then, to her great regret, she was off to see her sister, at the detective’s insistence. Holmes was reluctant to put her in harm’s way any more than Watson. So she gave him one more tear-filled hug, rather decidedly to his discomfiture, although it was merely because he was aware of being watched. Truthfully, he had always considered Mrs. Hudson another trusted compatriot, verging on a doting aunt, and he had found himself missing her as well, more than once, since arriving in Skye’s continuum.
So Holmes permitted the embrace and surreptitiously returned it, knowing he would likely never see his dear landlady again. Then Holmes personally carried her suitcases down to the street and called the third hansom cab to pass—wh
ich just happened to be driven by a tall, massive driver enfolded in a dark, red-tipped cloak. Holmes gently put Mrs. Hudson inside, then retreated into the house as the cab drove away.
It was time to wait.
* * *
The telegram arrived in Moriarty’s old lodgings, and its current occupant picked it up from the tray and read it. He blinked, then read it again.
“Dammit,” Bartholomew Peter Haines, AKA Colonel James Moriarty, cursed bitterly into the empty room. “Don’t tell me Harris screwed up. The damn idiot sonovabitch was probably dyslexic, in addition to having a nose the size of Alaska.” He paused to consider. “Then again, this could be a bluff by Watson or Mycroft. Probably Mycroft. Watson isn’t smart enough.”
Ringing the bell, Haines waited until a servant arrived.
“Yes, Colonel Moriarty?” the experienced manservant queried smoothly.
“Send someone round to have a look at 221B Baker Street,” Haines ordered, dropping readily into a cultured English accent. “Someone with some wits, who won’t be seen. I’ve just had a telegram purporting to be from Sherlock Holmes, and I want to know if it’s a ruse, or if he’s really back.”
“Yes, sir. Right away. I’ll send Parker, sir.” The manservant’s eyes widened in surprise.
“Excellent,” Haines purred. “I’ll want word immediately.”
* * *
Two hours later, Parker—who looked amazingly like the Parker of Skye’s continuum, save for the Victorian clothing—arrived in front of Haines.
“Yes, sir,” he murmured breathlessly. “H’it’s ‘im, sir. I’ve seen ‘im before, I ‘ave, though ‘e might not ‘ave seen me. ‘E sent me gang up for a burgling job five year ago. ‘E was looking out the bow window of ‘is flat, through the curtains. I’d not mistake that hawklike face.”
Just then the manservant arrived with another telegram. Haines picked it up from the tray, unfolded it, and read.
NOW YOU KNOW STOP WORLD TOUR OVER STOP I WILL NOT HAVE IT STOP IF YOU DO NOT COME HERE I WILL COME TO YOU STOP REPEAT I AM NOT AMUSED STOP S-H.
Haines stared at the telegram with a scowl.
The Case of the Displaced Detective Page 69