The Case of the Displaced Detective

by Stephanie Osborn

  The interlude had started out as an impulsive moment watching the tree, late on Christmas Eve. Holmes, already clad in pyjama pants and dressing gown, had banked the fire and turned down the thermostat, then joined his bride on the couch for what was intended to be a brief hug and a minute or two of peaceful contemplation before bed. But he quickly discovered Skye’s beautiful black satin and lace nightgown, fetching though it might be, didn’t begin to keep her warm, so he tugged the big woolen throw around them both in an effort to prevent her chilling.

  It wasn’t long until he found himself lying on his back, his newly minted wife atop him, the blanket covering all. Holmes smiled up into her sparkling blue eyes, seeing the lights of the Christmas tree reflected in them.

  “Might I assume you are happy tonight?” he asked softly.

  “You may so assume,” Skye grinned down at him. “In fact…”

  The blanket shifted position, and Holmes sighed his approval.

  “Yes, I believe you are,” he decided. Leaning up, he captured her lips, coaxing her down into his arms. They remained so for a good half hour.

  * * *

  At last the grandfather clock in the north hallway chimed midnight. Skye raised her head and looked down into silver eyes.

  “Merry Christmas, Sherlock,” she whispered with a smile.

  “And a very merry Christmas to you, too, my dear wife,” he murmured, eyes almost glowing. “You do not now, I hope, plan to cease what you are doing…”

  “Oh, no,” she grinned.

  “Good,” he smiled, shifting position.

  “No, no,” she protested at his movement. “Lie back and relax. Let me do this.”

  “But—”

  Her hand appeared from beneath the blanket. She pressed her index finger to his lips, silencing him.

  “Hush. Consider this a little Christmas gift. Relax and enjoy. And if you want it to happen, let it happen. Don’t worry about me.”

  So Holmes settled into the sofa cushions, gazing into his bride’s joyous face with shining argent eyes.

  After several minutes, during which silence reigned and the only motion in the room was a gentle, rhythmic movement of the blanket, Holmes leaned his head back into the cushions. The silver eyes fluttered closed, and the firm lips parted in a sigh, curling into a smile at the corners. Skye looked lovingly down into his face, seeing the pleasure written there. Bending her head, she nuzzled his throat. This evoked another sigh, and Holmes tilted his head, exposing his throat further in a wordless request. His breath quickened and deepened, and the smile of pleasure on his face grew.

  Meanwhile Skye delighted in his responses, noting every unspoken appeal and answering it. And still the only other movement apparent in the room was the slight shifting of the blanket.

  This went on for another half an hour. By that time, Holmes was panting, his body rigid with anticipation. An idea occurred to her, and Skye gave a wicked little smirk. Holmes abruptly gasped as his head snapped back and his smile became a grimace of bliss. Skye watched his reaction, depositing a tender kiss on the upturned tip of his chin as he groaned.

  Suddenly his arms shot from beneath the blankets, instinctively wrapping tight about his wife, pulling her hard against his chest. His hands slid down her back to cup her hips through the blanket, just before shoving down.

  * * *

  Skye’s eyes widened in shocked delight. Pivoting against his hands to arch against her groom, she cried out, clutching at his shoulders. Holmes dug the back of his head into the cushions as his grimace intensified and he gasped for breath. Skye crumpled atop him, and he held her tightly for long moments as they both struggled for air.

  Gradually they relaxed into the sofa and each other. Holmes slid his arms back beneath the blanket before they could grow cold, and eased them around his wife, cradling her gently. Skye smiled and turned her face into his neck.

  “That was undoubtedly the best Christmas gift I have ever received,” he murmured into her hair.

  “Good,” Skye giggled. “If you want to make it an annual tradition, let me know.”

  “Oh, quite! I think that a capital idea, my dear Skye,” he decided with a grin, settling down comfortably. “Mm.”

  “Yeah.”

  * * *

  The room grew quiet once more. Not even the blanket moved, as the pair simply enjoyed the moment.

  When the grandfather clock chimed 1:00, Skye sighed.

  “I suppose we should go to bed.”

  “Ah, but it is cold out there,” Holmes nodded into the open room with a grin, “and it is so very warm here.”

  “I know,” Skye said ruefully. “I was almost asleep when the clock chimed.”

  “So was I.”

  “But if we stay here, we’ll wake up in the morning twelve different varieties of stiff, with cricks in places we didn’t even know we had. Especially you, Sherlock, because you’re some longer than the couch is.”

  “True. Still, it will be a bit of a shock to emerge from our cocoon, for the room has had more than ample time to cool down.”

  “Maybe we can manage to get up and go to bed without having to lose the blanket?” Skye giggled at the notion.

  “You mean keep it wrapped around the both of us as we rise?” Holmes wondered with some surprise, and Skye nodded, still giggling. “That may prove something of a challenge, my dear. Still,” he considered, a roguish light entering the grey eyes, “it could also prove…entertaining.”

  He paused, then offered, “As cold as Colorado winters seem to be, you really should have worn something warmer than this nightgown, wife. I cannot think all that lace provides any warmth at all. And your arms and shoulders are completely bare, save for those two little straps.”

  Skye blinked, then glanced at him uncertainly.

  “But…did you think it was pretty?”

  “That goes without saying, my dear.”

  “Okay,” Skye said, confidence returning, “then it doesn’t matter.”

  Holmes raised his eyebrows in amusement. “So we are operating on the theory that if it is sufficiently appealing it need not be warm, for your husband will provide suitable warmth?”

  Skye stared at him, disconcerted.

  “Well, no, I just…wanted to look pretty for you,” she finished shyly.

  “Then you succeeded,” he informed her, as grey eyes softened, and he smiled at her, “though effort was not required in the matter. Now, let us see about getting ourselves to bed without becoming chilled to the bone.”

  * * *

  The blanket shifted about drastically as the pair tried to accomplish their goal. It took considerable effort, and at one point, Skye literally crawled around Holmes’ seated body, ducking completely under the cover, but eventually they found themselves on their feet with the blanket still wrapped about them both.

  “Best damn game of Twister I’ve played in awhile. Okay, now we have to get it turned around,” Skye noted, holding the blanket’s ends closed behind Holmes’ back, while facing his front. “Because I don’t have x-ray vision, and you’re taller than me. So I have to lead the way down the hall, which means you have to hold it closed.”

  “Very well. Stand still a moment,” Holmes agreed, thoroughly amused by this point. Pulling his arms in tight, he turned slowly until he was facing the other direction. Then he took the blanket from her. Keeping it closed, he started to turn, then realized his elbow was in imminent danger of smacking Skye in the head. “Hm.”

  “Ooo, hold still,” Skye said. “Stay right there and don’t move.”

  “Very well…”

  She ducked inside the blanket and under Holmes’ elbow; seconds later her head popped up in the circle of his arms.

  “There,” she said in satisfaction. “Now I turn around to face forward,” she suited actions to words, “we swing around to aim at the hall, and we’re off.”

  “Wait. We have not turned off the tree.”

  “Oh, okay.”

  They turned toward
the tree and shuffled over to it. Neither could see their feet, and twice they nearly tripped over gifts.

  “This grows ridiculous,” Holmes observed with a chuckle, “but it is quite warm.”

  “Yeah,” Skye giggled again, fishing blindly with her bare toes for the floor switch that would shut off the entire tree. “Bingo.” There was a click, and the Christmas tree went dark.

  “And now for bed. I think it would be more easily managed…thus.” Holmes stepped forward until he was standing beside Skye, his left arm around her shoulders, his right arm reaching across his chest to ensure she stayed enfolded in their warm woolen cloak. “There. Now let us to bed, my dear.”

  With that, they headed into the depths of the dark house. Within moments, they were snugly ensconced in the center of the big bed. Ten minutes after that, they were sound asleep.

  * * *

  They slept late again the next morning, then did what all newlyweds do before rising. After getting up, they fed the horses together, shared another breakfast feast, and put the Christmas goose—provided by the Cimarron Springs Hotel—in the oven to roast; then they moved to the den.

  Holmes stoked the fireplace and turned on the tree, hiding his grin as Skye tried hard to restrain herself from rummaging among the packages beneath the tree. Devilishly, he completely ignored the gifts and catching her hand, drew her along with him to sit side by side on the couch, easing an arm around her shoulders and settling back with a contented sigh. Skye squirmed mildly until Holmes pulled her cozily against his body.

  I wonder…what would it take to get her attention away from the gifts? he considered playfully, deciding to act upon the idea. Holmes bent his head to his bride’s, teasing her lips with his own. In short order he was being kissed fervently, and two small hands were sliding around his waist to caress his back. I suppose that answers that question, he decided in amusement. If this sort of thing keeps up, Watson should indeed have due cause to accuse me of arrogance.

  * * *

  But at last he raised his head and gazed down into Skye’s face with eyes that were dancing with merriment.

  “There are quite a few gifts under the tree, my dear. I might have thought you would be interested in at least one or two of them.”

  Skye stared up at him in embarrassed chagrin, realizing her groom had deftly suckered her by appealing to her more fundamental responses; she huffed in feigned offense and pulled away.

  “Now, now,” he murmured, refusing to release her. “I am entirely too flattered by your attentions to allow you to so easily escape.”

  “Then we have a problem.”

  “And that would be?”

  “We’re over here,” she jabbed a finger downward, “and the presents are over there.” Skye pointed at the tree, six feet away. “If you want to open presents, one of us has to get up and GET them.”

  “Touché, my dear!” Holmes chuckled. “You have informed me you always liked sitting on the floor beneath the tree to open your gifts. Shall we do so?”

  “Have I told you you’re an indulgent sweetheart?” Skye said, grinning, as they took up positions on the rug beneath the Christmas tree.

  Holmes’ cheeks flushed as he folded his long legs and sat down on the floor.

  “I have been called many things, Skye, including scoundrel, meddler, and busybody, as well as a few things that do not bear repeating. But I can honestly say I have never been called that.”

  Skye merely grinned.

  “Where do you want to start?” she asked. “We have a lot of presents from the wedding…”

  “Start with the wedding gifts, I suppose. We can work on those together.”

  * * *

  So the two of them fished gifts from beneath the tree and opened them. Several bottles of brandy turned up, as well as an expensive bottle of twenty year old Chateau Mouton Rothschild from General Morris and his wife. One of the wags in Williams’ MI5 unit gave them a boxed set of Monty Python DVDs, and Ryker’s unit had banded together to give them a complete Wedgwood tea service. Caitlin and Nate Hughes gave them a Waterford crystal decanter set. Colonel Jones gave them a large CD storage unit, with a note informing Holmes that it was intended to take the place of his pigeonholes, notebooks, and files. Agent Smith gave the couple a stereoscopic microscope for forensic work.

  “Wow,” Skye murmured in amazement, looking at the array of combined wedding and Christmas gifts from their friends. “Those guys pulled out all the stops. There’s some really nice stuff here.”

  “Indeed,” Holmes agreed, appearing rather astonished. “Your friends are most generous.”

  Skye shot him a surprised, and mildly shocked, look.

  “MY friends? Sherlock, they’re just as much YOUR friends as mine. They care about you, a lot. Especially the boys and girls from MI5; I think they like me for my own sake now, but initially, they showed such regard for me mostly because of YOU.”

  The grey eyes blinked, then fixed their gaze upon Skye’s face, searching. She remained calm and steadfast, and after a moment the expression on Holmes’ face softened and he nodded.

  “Very well,” he murmured. “OUR friends are most generous.”

  “Shall we start on our presents to each other now?” Skye smiled.

  “Indeed.” Holmes grinned. “Here,” and he handed her a small package.

  It wasn’t long before Skye was wearing a pair of glistening diamond stud earrings, and caressing the tooled leather of a new saddle. Holmes, wrapped in a new Prussian blue silk dressing gown, was packing the first of two new pipes—one briar, one meerschaum—with tobacco from a large beribboned canister of the organic, heirloom herb.

  There were only two gifts left under the tree by this time: A large, flat package, and a very small one. Holmes pulled out the large one and handed it to Skye, an unassuming expression on his face.

  * * *

  “Here you are, my dear. One last little—well, not so little—gift. I hope,” he added, hiding his uncertainty, “you will like it.”

  Skye gave him a happy smile.

  “It’s from you,” she said simply, and the detective’s heart warmed.

  * * *

  She ripped into the wrapping paper and exposed a large picture frame, handmade of rustic wood to match the cabin décor. Carefully removing the protective padding over the actual artwork, she gazed down at a beautifully rendered charcoal portrait of a sleeping woman. The woman in the image was nude, but tangled in the bedclothes in such a way that nothing untoward was revealed save the overall voluptuousness of the form. As Skye’s round eyes studied the portrait, it slowly filtered into her consciousness that the woman in the picture was familiar; as she looked closer, she gasped.

  “It’s me! Ohmigosh, it’s me! Who did—”

  Skye glanced at the bottom right corner. A discreet “W. S. S. Holmes” was written there with a mild flourish. She blinked, then glanced up in astonishment at the man who was now her husband.

  Holmes watched her with a gentle gaze. He did not smile, but his eyes were soft, and crinkled slightly at the corners.

  “It is entitled, ‘Love, Sleeping,’” he informed her quietly. “There is another, smaller version—actually the original sketch—on the back, if you will turn it over; but that one is emphatically not for public viewing.”

  Skye flipped over the portrait, to find a smaller framed version of the image carefully attached to the back. She lifted it away easily, as it was only affixed by the hanging wires, and studied it. This one depicted her body fully nude as she slept in their big bed, each intimate detail lovingly rendered; and she felt her cheeks warm.

  “I had thought to hang that one inside the closet door,” Holmes flashed her a sly grin. “That way, we may enjoy it every day, yet it will be out of sight, in the event of visitors.”

  “You mean YOU can enjoy it every day,” Skye teased, returning his grin, and Holmes assumed an innocent expression.

  “Why should I need to bother, when I have the model so readily to hand
?” he wondered, and Skye blushed deeper, turning her attention back to the two works of art.

  “Seriously, Sherlock,” she said, impressed, “these are beautiful. When did you find the time to do it?”

  A slight smile graced the aquiline features.

  “While you were asleep in the mornings.”

  “But you’re not a morning person, any more than I am.”

  “I can be, when it is needful.”

  And he thought this was needful. What an incredible man he is. Skye shook her head in amazement.

  “Top-notch detective; skilled horseman, martial artist, swordsman, musician, impersonator and actor, apiarist. I didn’t know you were an artist into the bargain. My husband is a man of many talents.”

  “Well, the talent evidently comes through Grandmère,” he noted sanguinely. “The Vernet side of the family, you know. I cannot claim to have any particular skill at painting, but I can sketch fairly well, both with charcoal,” Holmes nodded at the portraits in her hands, “and with coloured pencils, though I prefer the former. In the early years of my practice, I used sometime to sketch the crime scenes in my notebook, as a means of recording the scene as well as training my eye to pick up the detail necessary to proper detection. Usually it was a standard pencil or charcoal sketch, though occasionally I used a pen if that were more readily to hand. A few times I experimented with recording colours in the tinted pencils, with reasonable results; but I found it to be an undue waste of time, for the most part.”

  “It must have made for good practice, though, because this is gorgeous. Where do you want to hang the large one?”

  “Anywhere you like,” Holmes shrugged, “but I had thought you might be most comfortable with it in the bedroom.”

  “Yeah, good point. In the bedroom it is, then. And this last,” she reached for the only gift left under the tree, “is for you. I’ll admit I had a little help getting this one arranged. I’d never had to get one of these before.”

  Holmes raised a curious eyebrow, but accepted the present and promptly tore away the wrapping paper. Pulling his jackknife from his pocket, he slit the tape and opened the small box, extracting the folded paper inside and studying it. The aquiline face lit up.