The Case of the Displaced Detective

by Stephanie Osborn

  “Information on the New Year’s celebrations tomorrow night,” Skye replied immediately. “Other than that, I think Sherlock and I plan to wander London. I’ve never been here, and he’s interested in seeing what’s changed in the interim.”

  “Good plan,” Ryker said sagely. “I’ll bring along the info in the morning. If I might suggest, though, I’d strongly recommend that the two of you stay here for the rest of the day and take it easy; the jet lag from the States is hell if you’re not used to it. The hotel has a four-star restaurant, which also does room service, so you don’t even have to leave your room to eat if you don’t want to. You might enjoy some of the BBC stations on the telly, too. Our British programming isn’t quite like the norm in the States.”

  “Dr. Who?” Skye perked up.

  “Tonight at eight, as a matter of fact.” Ryker grinned. “Another fan of the Doctor, eh?”

  “Yes, she most certainly is,” Holmes agreed before Skye could speak. “The airing of episodes is, I understand, rather delayed in America over what it is here, and somewhat more sporadic. But Skye is generally firmly planted before the television whenever it is on. I find it a bit bemusing, personally, but I can see why a hyperspatial physicist would enjoy watching this…Time Lord gibberish.”

  “I’ll bring along some jelly babies, fish fingers, and custard tomorrow, then,” Ryker smirked, and Skye burst out laughing.

  * * *

  The newlywed couple did spend the majority of the day resting, and did not venture out for dinner, choosing room service, dressing gowns, and curling up on the sofa together instead. The next day Ryker indeed brought jelly babies, fish fingers, and custard—and an invitation to a very private New Year’s party, courtesy of the Director General of Her Majesty’s Secret Service.

  The elegant private party was in a hotel penthouse near the Ministry of Defence, opposite the Millennium Wheel. The rooms and the rooftop patio overlooked the site of the fireworks display along the Thames, and the party was attended almost exclusively by members of the Secret Service. Consequently, the couple could relax their guard, as virtually all of the partygoers were already cognizant of Holmes’ existence. The pair were duly received and welcomed; though most guests were bemused, and a few distressed, to discover that Skye was now Mrs. Sherlock Holmes. Holmes smoothed the matter gracefully, much to Skye’s gratitude, as the scientist simply had no idea what to say in response to, “Married?! Mr. HOLMES??”

  As the fireworks began, everyone donned cloaks and coats and moved to the patio to watch, amid many oohs and aahs.

  But when the clock neared midnight, Holmes took Skye’s hand and drew her inside, into an empty alcove.

  “What’s wrong, Sherlock?” she asked, concerned something had occurred to either offend him, or trigger his bloodhound response.

  “Nothing, my dear,” he said, drawing her into his arms. “I merely thought to steal a brief kiss from my wife at the turn of the year.”

  And as Big Ben chimed in the distance, he did.

  They emerged onto the patio only a moment later, in time for the rest of the fireworks.

  * * *

  As the party progressed and the champagne flowed, the Director General approached the couple. “The two of you are having a good time, I hope?” she asked amicably.

  “We are, indeed, madam,” Holmes smiled, holding up his champagne flute. “I cannot imagine a more elegant way to spend my first New Year’s in this continuum.”

  “And you,” the Director General dropped her voice as she turned to Holmes’ companion, “Lady Skye?”

  “Oh, please, just Skye, or maybe Dr. Chadwick-Holmes, or, um, Mrs. Holmes if you’d rather,” Skye murmured. “I feel like a total fraud with all this ‘Lady’ business. Yes, I’m enjoying myself immensely. Thank you for inviting Sherlock and me.”

  “Ah, but I would not have missed meeting the two of you for worlds,” the other woman smiled. “It is an absolute delight to meet a personal hero AND his wife, especially when that wife is a celebrated scientist in her own right.”

  Skye blushed, and Holmes beamed at the compliment to his spouse.

  “Well, thank you,” Skye said, embarrassed. “That’s…um, not usually the reaction I get.”

  “I noticed,” the director grinned sympathetically. “But I meant it, all the same. In fact, I’m very glad you both came. I should like to discuss some business matters with the two of you in a few days.”

  “Oh?” Holmes immediately perked up.

  “Yes. I shan’t discuss business tonight, but I understand you’ve already received some preliminary briefings regarding the Bentwaters affair?” the head of the Secret Service confirmed.

  “Yes, I have,” Holmes verified, “and I, in turn, discussed the matter with Skye, as requested.”

  “Very good,” the director agreed. “The situation is continuing to develop—further sightings—and is becoming increasingly complex. We may soon desire your expertise.”

  “You shall have it,” Holmes nodded.

  “Is there any particular rush?” Skye wondered casually. “Sherlock’s birthday is coming up, and…well, this is the first birthday he’ll celebrate where we’ve been together. I’d like to be able to do something nice for him without having to worry about getting shot at, or whatever. You know how it is.”

  * * *

  Holmes raised an eyebrow, falling silent as he watched the exchange.

  “Ah, yes, I’d almost forgotten. No, I think you may safely celebrate Sir Sherlock’s birthday without fear of interference. Perhaps we can meet the day before?”

  “Um, well, maybe the day after would be better?” Skye suggested nonchalantly. “Uh, I—”

  “Skye, I see your champagne glass is empty. Allow me to refill it, my dear. Would you like anything to eat?” Holmes offered, realizing something was in the wind, and his wife was struggling to talk around it to avoid spoiling the surprise. And, had this conversation not taken place, she might well have gotten away with it completely, the adorable little minx. She has learned exceedingly well.

  “Oh, thanks, Sherlock,” Skye smiled at him. “Yes, some sort of protein to offset the alcohol, if you don’t mind.”

  * * *

  “Why?” the director wondered, grinning, as Holmes headed for the bar with Skye’s champagne flute. “We provided a driver, so you haven’t to worry.”

  “Oh, neither of us particularly likes the idea of not having our wits about us,” Skye explained. “You, of all people, know how it is.”

  “I do, indeed. A wise practice. So you should prefer to meet on the seventh?”

  “That would be perfect.”

  “But you plan to arrive in Baker Street on the fifth, right?”

  “Oh, be careful!” Skye murmured, dropping her gaze. “Sherlock just glanced this way, and he’s excellent at reading lips.”

  “Oh dear, I hope I didn’t spoil anything,” the other woman breathed, shifting her posture in order to innocuously avert her face from the detective. “Do forgive me.”

  “No problem. Either he saw, or he didn’t. I’ll be surprised if I can keep it a secret until I can get him there, anyway. Whether we take the Underground, our driver, or a taxi, he’s gonna know pretty quick, I expect.”

  “It’s what happens once you get there that counts,” the director agreed with a matching grin. “I’ve already arranged things for you on this end. But you know he will not recognise…?”

  “Yeah,” Skye nodded acknowledgement. “I’ll have to handle that delicately. I’m sure it’ll hurt.”

  “Yes,” the director agreed, then smoothly changed subjects as Holmes returned deftly juggling two champagne flutes and a small plate of hors d’oeuvres, which latter he intended to share with his wife. “Brooks?” The director waved over a young woman, a petite brunette, attractive in a bookish sort of way. The woman approached, and the director said, “Brooks, do you have your palm computer with you?”

  “Of course, madam,” Brooks responded, extracting th
e small device from her evening bag.

  “Good. You’re a gem, my dear. Holmes, Doctor, this is my assistant, Sherry Brooks. Brooks, this is Sir Sherlock and Lady Skye.”

  * * *

  “Oh, my,” Brooks murmured, gazing in amazement at Holmes. “This is really him? THE Sherlock Holmes?”

  “The last time I checked,” Holmes responded dryly. But he smiled to take any sting out of the comment, and waved one of the champagne flutes at his wife, his hands still full. Brooks dropped a curtsy.

  “It’s an honour, sir. A-and milady,” she added hastily. Holmes shot Skye a “not again” glance just in time to catch her trying not to roll her eyes. He narrowly avoided an undiplomatic snort.

  “Do I have any openings this Wednesday?” the director wondered. “Preferably as early as possible?”

  “Yes, madam,” Brooks said, manipulating her palm computer. “From about eight forty-five until nearly eleven. Then you have to prepare for the meeting with the Prime Minister.”

  Holmes nudged Skye’s elbow, attempting to get her to relieve him of one of the glasses, but her attention was upon the appointment discussion. He rolled his own eyes and tried to shift his grip without spilling anything.

  “Oh, that’s right. And I’ll undoubtedly need time to arrange the data for the Holmeses,” the director decided.

  “Perhaps nine-thirty?” Brooks suggested.

  Another subtle—and failed—attempt to get Skye’s attention brought a memory to Holmes’ mind: of a time when he had been in Skye’s position, with Watson beside him juggling several hefty reference tomes Holmes had requested, and which he then had refused to take in hand. The sleuth was suddenly hard pressed to avoid snorting aloud for the second time in as many minutes. Poor Watson, he thought in mingled amusement and guilt. Now I know what it must have been like.

  “Yes, that sounds about right,” the director considered. She turned back to the Holmeses. “So may I expect you in my office on Wednesday the 7th? Say, half-past nine?”

  * * *

  “That will be fine,” Skye nodded, then corrected herself as she turned and espied Holmes’ predicament. She hastily accepted the champagne and snagged a cracker with crab dip from the plate, adding deferentially, “Sherlock, is that okay with you?”

  “I suppose,” Holmes decided affably, now easily handling the single flute and the plate. “I am on no particular schedule myself, so if it suits you, wife, I am in accord.”

  “Excellent,” the Director General remarked, as Brooks entered the appointment into the schedule. “I’ll look forward to seeing you.”

  * * *

  1 January

  What a lovely gift, to celebrate the turn of a New Year in London with my new wife. Skye has no notion, I wager, how much I look forward to showing her around “my” city. Though I know this is not truly my London, still I cannot think it will be so very different. I understand many areas were severely bombed during World War II and had to be rebuilt, but the street layout is by and large unchanged. I plan on spending the next fortnight exploring it once more, and moreover, in introducing my Skye to it. I have hopes she will love it as much as I.

  My fortieth birthday is fast approaching, and the lovely scamp to whom I am wed evidently has something special in mind. And she very nearly pulled off the matter as a total surprise—but not quite. I would not disappoint her for the world, but I already know she intends to take me back to Baker Street, though why she plans it for the day previous to my birthday I have, as yet, no notion. No matter. This will be the greatest treat of all. I can show her my old lodgings, and how Watson used to sit across from me, and where Mrs. Hudson served our meals—all the thousand and one small details of my old life, about which she has questioned me exhaustively in the time since my arrival in this reality. I do not doubt she anticipates it as eagerly as I. Still, I must guard myself, and try to appear duly surprised when she springs the matter upon me.

  Dear God, but my wife is extraordinary.

  * * *

  In the days following the New Year, the pair explored London thoroughly, paying special attention to areas Holmes had been wont to frequent, or in which certain of his more momentous cases had occurred, as well as specific attractions Skye wanted to see.

  They prowled the British Museum merely for the pleasure of it, though Holmes admitted he had had occasion to investigate one theft there—successfully solved, of course. “It was before Watson’s time,” he noted, “so few ever heard of it.”

  A production of Tristan und Isolde at the Royal Opera House occupied one very elegant evening, much to Holmes’ delight; between the locale, the music, and the formal evening dress, he felt completely at home. As they left the theatre, however, the detective silently reached for his wife’s hand, taking it in his own and folding his fingers around hers. She glanced up at him, meeting his warm, considering silver eyes gazing back.

  “Everything okay?” she asked, concerned.

  “Fine,” he replied, then referenced the performance. “I simply find I prefer living with a spouse, to dying with her.”

  Skye smiled, and they caught a cab back to their hotel.

  A quick jaunt to Greenwich Park, and Holmes had the gratified pleasure of watching Skye in a frenzy over visiting the Royal Greenwich Observatory. But they were both disappointed—Skye bitterly so—to discover that it was now little more than an historic building, and the actual observatory organisation was no more.

  An unusually heavy overnight snowfall sent them rambling through nearby Hyde Park and Kensington Gardens, close by their hotel. Skye raved over the loveliness of the pristine, snow covered landscaped gardens; Holmes merely shoved his gloved hands deeper into his pockets, tucked his chin into his muffler, and wandered on.

  “Come on!” Skye prodded, exasperated. “You can’t tell me that artist’s soul of yours doesn’t think this is beautiful!”

  “No, but I should think it more beautiful were it less cold,” Holmes decided, privately wishing the cowboy hat he wore more adequately covered his ears and debating why he’d never noticed the lack in his silk hat in former days. “I know it is colder in Colorado, but it does not seem so.”

  * * *

  “It’s the humidity. Colorado is drier, and you don’t feel the cold as much. Not to mention, you’ve probably gotten used to modern heating systems,” she chuckled.

  Glancing stealthily at her husband, who had moved ahead some few yards, Skye bent and silently scooped up a handful of snow, packing it in her gloved fingers. With a devilish smirk, she let fly the icy projectile—straight at the back of Holmes’ head.

  * * *

  That worthy, however, had overheard the swish of her coat sleeve as she threw, and correctly interpreted it. He ducked enough to avoid snow down his collar, though not enough to prevent his hat being knocked off into a snowbank.

  “Aha, so that is the way of it, is it?” he said with a grin. Long fingers scooped up a huge handful of snow, swiftly packing it into a dense snowball.

  “Uh-oh!” Skye exclaimed, spinning and running for a tree, intending to use its trunk for cover. She wasn’t fast enough, however, and the snowball caught her squarely between the shoulder blades with enough force to send her staggering. “Ah!”

  Holmes grabbed his hat with one hand, scooping snow with the other. Shoving the hat on his head, he compacted the snow as he sprinted toward Skye, who was now making a mammoth snowball of her own. Both snowballs connected solidly with their respective targets, splattering each of them thoroughly.

  Realizing Holmes had her outdone in the force of throw department, Skye whipped off her muffler and emulated King David by way of an equalizer. Holmes rapidly discovered it behooved him to dodge behind a tree trunk when she fired a snowball in that fashion. But in her turn, Skye found her mate was a deadly shot, twice taking forming snowballs right out of her hands, and once disrupting the arc of her makeshift slingshot. Their laughter and good-natured shouts rang out over the gardens. Passersby laughed right along w
ith them, giving the couple a wide berth to avoid being caught by potential “friendly fire.”

  This went on for fully a quarter of an hour, with many strikes to each combatant. Holmes lost his hat again, and while retrieving it, Skye impudently plastered the seat of his jeans with a large, loose snowball.

  “AH!” he cried out, straightening quickly and trying to brush off his rear. “Unfair! That was COLD, Skye!”

  “It’s supposed to be, Sherlock!” she yelled back, giggling. “It’s SNOW!”

  “I believe retaliation is called for, wife!” He crouched and scooped up a mammoth handful of snow, beginning to shape it into a sphere.

  “Bring it on!”

  “Be careful what you wish for, my dear Skye!” he replied with a smirk. With a sudden jerk, Holmes flung the loose snowball at his spouse before she could move.

  Snow exploded in Skye’s face, filling her eyes, going up her nose and into her mouth. She dropped her own snowball, having lost track of it in her disorientation from the good-natured attack. She tried to make some sort of exclamation, but to Holmes’ ears, it sounded like, “Aghf!” and he began to laugh.

  “Awgh, sgud ub!” she informed him, and he laughed harder.

  “Stand still, Skye,” he offered, calling a truce, “and I shall help you.” He hurried toward his temporarily disabled mate.

  Blind, Skye put her hands to her face, still struggling to get the snow out of eyes, nose, and mouth. As she did, she automatically stepped backward; she hit a patch of ice on the sidewalk and slipped, her feet flying forward as her body lurched backward. Wide-eyed with alarm, Holmes lunged for her—and slipped himself.

  * * *

  The pair landed unhurt in a fortuitous drift of snow, sprawled in a tangle of arms and legs. Hats flew off again, and Holmes found himself face down in the snow bank, his own orifices now as full of snow as Skye’s. Raising his head, he simply blew to clear nose and mouth, then shook his head vigorously. Snow flew everywhere, and he laughed, for by this time Skye had managed to get her own face relatively free of snow, but was still scrunching up her nose in an uncomfortable attempt to dislodge the last of the frozen material.