The Case of the Displaced Detective

by Stephanie Osborn

  “Well, let us bundle up in our coats and hats and find out,” Holmes suggested ingenuously, fetching Skye’s coat from the mudroom and handing it to her as he donned his own. They put on gloves and mufflers and cowboy hats before Holmes shepherded Skye out the door into the snowy yard.

  “HAPPY BIRTHDAY!” the chorus was loud and enthusiastic. Skye started in surprise, then gave her mate a sheepish, knowing grin. He returned it mischievously as the others began singing the classic song. Nate Hughes handed Holmes the lit torch he held, and Holmes put it to the dry wood in the driveway turnaround. It blazed up cheerfully, and everyone gathered around its warmth and light.

  Nathan and Caitlin Hughes had flown in from California, staying in a hotel in Woodland Park for the night. General William F. Morris and his wife Julia drove up from Colorado Springs. Colonel Henry “Hank” Jones, head of Schriever Air Force Base Military Police, and FBI Agent Adrian Smith were in attendance. Will “Billy” Williams had brought Tina Tyler, both of Great Britain’s MI5 organization, and both stationed in Colorado Springs.

  Now that Holmes and Chadwick were on the scene, General Morris and Colonel Jones broke out the fireworks, and the two men—and Holmes—proceeded to set up several bottle rockets while Williams and Tyler chanted the Guy Fawkes Night rhyme. Skye stood back and stared in enchanted amazement at the celebrants.

  Both Caitlin and Nate Hughes came by and hugged her, as did Mrs. Morris. This was the cue for the others to take turns greeting Skye while bottle rockets, Roman candles, fountains, and firecrackers lit up the snow-covered front yard with multicolored sparkles and glitters. The effect was, the birthday honoree decided, not unlike an aurora in reverse. Skye grinned, utterly delighted; she remembered Holmes had once made a remark about a bonfire for her birthday, and a proper Guy Fawkes Night celebration, but she’d had no idea it would be like this.

  While Skye watched the men set off bottle rockets and firecrackers—and got in on the act herself—Caitlin disappeared into the house with a grocery bag, emerging soon with piping hot cups of cocoa. She passed around the tray containing the drinks and everyone helped themselves, keeping warm around the bonfire until the substantial collection of fireworks was depleted. This took easily the better part of an hour, and was capped off by the launching of no less than five large “mortar” chrysanthemum displays, lighting up the surrounding countryside. Faint whoops, whistles, and cheers echoed from rocks near and far, as distant neighbors applauded the finale of the show.

  By that time, the dry, hot-burning wood of the bonfire was burning down as well. Holmes, Jones, and Smith banked snow around the embers to prevent their escape and allow for slow extinguishing as the snow melted. A grinning, happy Skye led the celebrants into the house.

  * * *

  Everyone congregated in the kitchen around the food, chatting and laughing; even Holmes was uncharacteristically talkative in the large group. In addition to the crudités, cold cuts, finger sandwiches, and shortbread Skye had prepared, Caitlin and her husband brought a double chocolate cake, the Morrises brought barbecued meatballs, Williams and Tyler brought a mammoth cheese tray, and Jones and Smith brought a wide selection of chips and dips. Everyone made much of Holmes’ spiced wine punch, finding it wonderfully warming after being outside in the cold.

  “Where did you get the recipe?” Caitlin wondered, addressing the detective.

  “I bet it came from Mrs. Hudson,” Williams grinned.

  “I’ll lay money on Dr. Watson,” Jones added.

  “No,” Holmes demurred but offered no further information. His effusiveness evaporated, replaced by his normal taciturn reserve. Skye noticed and stepped in.

  “It was his mom’s recipe,” Skye explained with a smile. She laid a light hand on Holmes’ arm, subtly reminding him he was not alone.

  Everyone nodded, understanding the detective’s sudden reticence. Leaving her right hand comfortingly on Holmes’ arm, Skye picked up her mug to sip her mulled wine, and Jones lunged forward.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa, waitaminit here. Wait just a doggone minute,” he said, catching her hand and taking the mug out of it. “What is THIS?” He splayed out her fingers, letting the overhead lights catch the glittering bauble on her left hand. “This looks suspiciously like an engagement ring!”

  Skye shot an uncertain glance at Holmes, who shrugged.

  “Um, that’s because it is,” she murmured, and the room erupted in happy congratulations.

  “So when’s the big day?” General Morris boomed. “Julia and I will expect invitations!”

  This was followed by a general chorus of “Yeah!” and “You betcha!” Holmes moved closer to Skye but did not touch her, subtly urging; and she shook her head, raising her hands.

  “Hold on, guys,” Skye calmed the enthusiastic group. “It isn’t gonna be like that. Sherlock and I…this isn’t any big deal. It’s just…formalizing things. It won’t be fancy, and it sure won’t be a big church thing. Y’all oughta know we wouldn’t go in for that sort of stuff anyway. It’s going to be a quiet ceremony with the minister and a couple of witnesses.”

  Faces fell all around the room.

  “Aw,” Jones murmured disappointedly, and Smith nodded his agreement.

  “We wanted to see you two finally tie the knot, Doctor,” Morris offered explanation gruffly. “Especially those of us who were there in the beginning.”

  Skye was at a loss, not having realized their friends would make such a to-do over the matter. She glanced up at Holmes, and her eyes told him, I don’t know what to say.

  Holmes straightened and remarked smoothly, “And that is greatly appreciated, General. Now, the den is much roomier, and warmer as well, for the fire is burning nicely. Shall we prepare plates and retire there? If need be, Skye and I can bring the food in on trays.”

  Their guests understood the subject was closed, and the very private couple would handle things in their own very private way—as usual, General Morris noted discreetly to Colonel Jones.

  * * *

  The evening was congenial, with friendly talk around the fireplace. Skye watched as Holmes made a deliberate effort to shake himself from his reticence and to put forth as much of his charm as possible, which was considerable. The resulting twinkle in his eyes told Skye he was enjoying himself once more, and she shot a happy smile across the room at him. He returned it without seeming to, meeting her eyes while allowing his own to crinkle.

  Skye cut her eyes at Caitlin, then pointed her chin toward the kitchen. Holmes nodded imperceptibly, then shot his eyes toward Williams. Skye smiled, and laid a light hand on Caitlin’s shoulder, coaxing her into the kitchen to ask her to stand beside her at the wedding.

  * * *

  Holmes waited, playing the enthusiastic host, until the two women came back from the kitchen a few minutes later. Caitlin’s eyes sparkled wetly, and she furtively dashed away a tear while grinning from ear to ear. Holmes shot an inquisitive glance at Skye, who winked at him. He raised an eyebrow and the corner of his lips curled upward. Then it was Skye’s turn to play solo host to the gathering as Holmes surreptitiously drew Williams down the north hallway and into the study.

  * * *

  Roughly a quarter-hour later the two men were back in the den. Williams beamed with pride, and Holmes shot a duly smug glance at Skye, who grinned.

  The party went late. Caitlin Hughes, Skye’s best friend, had brought a small gift, a lovely pair of handmade silver and turquoise earrings; but Skye had let it be known that she did not want gifts, and her guests abided by her wishes. Not until every drop of the wine punch was consumed and little was left of the food save crumbs, did the celebrants head home.

  When the last guest had departed, Skye floated happily through the house, doing the bare minimum of tidying required before retiring for the evening. Holmes banked the fire in the fireplace, then joined her in the kitchen as she put away the perishable remains of the food.

  “Leave the rest for the morning,” he told her. “It is late, and w
e have had an unusually busy day.”

  “Suits me. I wouldn’t mind cuddling with my fiancé anyway.”

  “Before the fire, or in bed?” Holmes wondered.

  “Maybe both. A little while in front of the fire, and then to bed.”

  “Then come,” Holmes said, catching her hand and leading her to the sofa, turning off the lights as he went.

  * * *

  November 5

  This night’s entry has nothing to do with dreams. Well, that is not strictly true, I suppose. Rather, I should say, this journal entry has nothing to do with nightmares. I’ve not dealt with that little complication in half a fortnight; I have my hopes the matter is finished.

  No, instead I am pleased to say that quite another, and far more agreeable, matter is over and done. Skye’s birthday has been cheerfully celebrated, and my expatriate companions and I have celebrated Guy Fawkes’ abortive rebellion, as well. Matters went nicely; Mother’s hot punch receipt was duly appreciated and Skye is happy.

  Much to my satisfaction, my gift to Skye was very well received. It had occurred to me that she would not necessarily welcome the thought of a formal marriage. She is indeed “old fashioned,” and yet sufficiently iconoclastic that I confess I had my doubts. I know in her own mind and heart she already considers us duly wed by Providence—considered it from the first, in fact—hence was not overmuch concerned about outside opinions. I myself am suitably bohemian in habit and outlook to have accepted the matter as it stood; yet I felt there was something not quite right in refusing to at least offer my name to The Woman. Evidently she liked the idea, although I have no expectations she will actually take my name.

  And so we shall be wed the day before Christmas Eve, and will spend the holidays together as formally sanctioned husband and wife. The thought is admittedly strange to me, who once eschewed all such considerations. But it is also welcome; Skye is a part of my life now, as irrevocably an associate of my inner circle as ever Watson was, as much a family member as Mycroft. And the good Caitlin and faithful Billy of this continuum will stand for us when the time arrives.

  Speaking of Williams, tonight he discussed some interesting events occurring in England. I do not fully understand the terminology, I fear. I shall undoubtedly have to discuss this “U.F.O.” business with Skye. But I cannot think it a good thing that Royal Air Force bases are being “buzzed” by such objects. Then again, I have it to understand that the objects are often hoaxes, or cases of mistaken identity, so in all likelihood there is nothing to it. Still, I informed him, after the first of the year, I should be available to look into the matter if need be. If nothing else, I shall expose the hoax for what it is—with Skye’s eager assistance, I have no doubt. It is precisely the sort of case to which she would be drawn as moth to flame, allowing scope for her scientific knowledge as well as her deductive bent.

  Ah, I suppose I shall have to cease writing for now. For some reason, Skye seems to desire the attention of her affianced; I cannot imagine why. Something about an alarm clock ringing…

  * * *

  Holmes awoke with a start, agitated. He glanced at Skye, noted she appeared asleep, then slid out of bed and moved to the east window, staring into the darkness with steel-grey, troubled eyes. Behind him, worried blue eyes snapped open, instantly awake. Moments later a gentle hand laid itself on his naked back.

  “Put on your dressing gown before you freeze,” Skye’s soft voice urged him. “Another Watson dream?”

  * * *

  “Mm,” was the closest to an acknowledgement Skye could get from him. She fetched his dressing gown from the bedpost and gave it to him, and silently he wrapped it about himself.

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “No.”

  “Could you, even if you did?”

  * * *

  Holmes paused for a moment, considering her question. A single shake of the dark head gave his answer.

  “Do you think you could write it down instead?”

  He sighed, trying to remain patient with her questioning; he understood she was attempting to help. “Possibly,” he admitted at last.

  “Then get your journal and write. Now. Write down all your thoughts about the dream, whether they seem related or not. Let it ramble. If you do it now, while the dream is fresh in your memory, we might get some clues from your subconscious as to what’s going on.”

  Holmes scowled, then drew a deep breath, realizing she was likely right. “Very well,” he murmured, biting back any sharpness in his tone.

  He moved to the bed and pulled the journal from its hiding place under the contents of the nightstand drawer. Holmes piled all the pillows within reach against the headboard, sat down and leaned back against them, drawing up his knees to provide a writing surface, as Skye crawled in beside him. He flipped to the first clean page and began to write.

  “Sherlock? Would you mind if I…?” She waggled a hesitant finger at the leather-bound diary.

  Holmes glanced up from the page and saw troubled blue eyes gazing back at him. Immediately he took her meaning. He hesitated, his innate reticence asserting itself. But he had asked her to marry him that very day, and Holmes was wise enough to understand that secretiveness made a poor foundation for such a relationship. Besides, if I cannot trust her, I cannot trust myself, he noted. By way of answer, he twisted in bed and dropped his left shoulder, enabling her to read what he was writing.

  * * *

  November 6

  3:14 A.M.

  I have had another of the damnable dreams. Once more, a desperate Watson is roaming the streets of London searching frantically for me, yet he cannot see me, or even hear me, when once he finally finds me. It is as if…there is an invisible wall between us, or I am a ghost. And I know this will happen, from the first moment I hear him call my name. He is utterly and incontrovertibly beyond my reach, and I, his. And I know something dreadful is about to happen, for by the time he comes upon me, he is near panic, shouting—nay, screaming—my name, and I am filled with a sense of dire foreboding. Yet the dream always ends before I find out what that something may be.

  It is hard enough having lost him to the vagaries of spacetime, without having to endure these repeated reminders of that loss. To abruptly and irrevocably find oneself in a world—nay, an entire universe—that is not one’s own, where my very existence is viewed as the figment of another man’s vivid imagination. Where nothing is familiar and friends and family are left behind, never to be seen or heard from again—this is the stuff of nightmare. If I did not have Skye beside me, I am not certain I should be able to abide it. Indeed, were it not for the anchour who even now curls against me, I might well have gone mad long since, or, in extremis, requested to be returned to Reichenbach to let Moriarty finish me. For, in my world, it seems I was fated to die at the falls. And indeed would have done, had not that same anchour lying beside me yanked me through a rift between worlds, into her own. That concept in itself is almost enough to require an anchour.

  I do have such an anchour, however. And therefore I have set out to create for myself a new life. A life where I may put aside the pain, smooth over the transition of the abrupt change, and move on.

  But no! I must perforce be reminded of that change, night after night, instead of being allowed to settle into this new life. This new life, I might add, in which I have discovered satisfaction and—dare I say it? Yea, the Vernet within dares—joy, the likes of which never existed for me in my own continuum. Yet where is that joy now? This dream holds only apprehension, dismay, and despair.

  And therein lies another grievance I have against these dreams. Of all nights for them to return, why should it be tonight, after Skye has done me the honour of granting her hand in marriage? I readily admit I am not the world’s most romantic man, nor particularly wish to be; still, one would expect…other dreams…to occupy my sleeping mind on this particular night. Thoughts of future happiness, of marital bliss, would be the source of dreams for most men tonight. Indeed,
despite the fact I am emphatically not “most men,” still, my affianced has reawakened a dream I thought long dead.

  For I did not always eschew the softer emotions. Though it was occasionally speculated by the less reputable members of the press that my childhood was something other than ideal, even possibly abusive, in truth Mycroft and I had warm, caring parents. It was not until I began my work that I found it necessary to wall off that part of my being, quite simply in order to deal with the horrors to be found in my chosen profession. And of course I did not wish sentimentality to unduly influence my reasoning processes, as not uncommonly men’s lives rest in my ability to reach the proper outcome of a case. But Skye has proven an amazingly strong anchour, not only in my transitioning to this continuum, but in my learning to permit access to some of those sentiments once more.

  She has also restored my faith in the feminine sex, a faith lost about the same time I began my life’s work. No more of that need be said here.

  Ah! The dangers of allowing one’s fiancée to read over one’s shoulder! Skye insists quite vehemently that I should record that former loss of my faith in women, as if it might have some bearing upon the subject under consideration. Well, whether or no, I suppose my betrothed has the right to know, and as I intend to lock this tome safely away after tonight, none other but her eyes shall ever see this confessional.

  It was while I was at university that I met her. Her name was Lily Cranwell, and she was a bonny little thing. Slender and petite, with nut-brown hair and green eyes, quick-witted and possessed of what was, for the time, a fairly considerable intellect in a woman. We had several classes together, and I used to encounter her in the quad, as well. There were few women at university in those days, so she was rather popular. Still, when she asked to study with me, it was an eye-opener. I was young, scarcely of age, and I dared in my naiveté to think we might strike up a more familiar relationship. It was not long, perhaps a few fortnights, before I commenced to fancy we had succeeded, for she began seeking me out, even—by the middle of the Michaelmas term—insisting I walk her to classes. Little did I know.