The Case of the Displaced Detective

by Stephanie Osborn

  “Ah, my dear! It seems we both got our come-uppances this time!”

  “Remind me never to start a snowball fight with you again,” Skye said with a wry grin, then started to giggle. “Or at least, to make sure you’re on my side against somebody else!”

  Holmes laughed again. “Well, let us untangle ourselves, my dear wife, and get upright and upon our feet. I think we will need to see about putting something warm within us after this, not to mention getting dry. My jeans are quite thoroughly soaked, I fear.”

  They scrambled to their feet, brushing snow off each other, still laughing.

  “Here,” Skye said, retrieving their cowboy hats and knocking off the snow before donning her own and handing Holmes his. “I had no idea you had such a good strong arm and deadly aim!”

  “Ah, well, one never knows what skills may be required in a first rate consulting detective,” he grinned, as a liveried young man approached.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Holmes?” the man inquired politely.

  * * *

  The couple exchanged a subtle glance, and Skye read her husband’s thought in his gaze. Acknowledge, but with caution.

  “Yes?” she said calmly.

  “I was instructed to deliver this. Here, madam,” the servant said, handing Skye a small square envelope, the wax seal bearing a royal imprint. He waited while Skye opened the envelope, and Holmes looked over her shoulder. Inside was a handwritten invitation on royal stationery.

  * * *

  The Duchess of Kent respectfully requests Sir Sherlock and Lady Skye Holmes should take tea with her, in appreciation of their most excellent snow battle, that they may the better warm themselves after a winter afternoon’s amusement in the snowy gardens. If you would, please follow Brunton; he will show you the way.

  * * *

  “It seems there are a few other members of the Royal Family who…know,” Holmes observed in a low voice.

  “Looks that way,” Skye agreed nervously. “Shall we, or would you rather not?”

  “I have no particular objection to getting dry and warm, my dear,” Holmes pointed out. “Lunch was several hours ago, and a cup of hot tea, or better yet coffee, would not come amiss.” He glanced at his companion, perceiving her anxiety over yet another meeting with a royal; then murmured in her ear, “Trust me. You need not be afraid of protocol here; any member of the Royal Family who enjoyed watching us fight in the snow will not be in a frame of mind to stand on formality. And you have only to follow my lead.” Skye noticeably relaxed.

  “Lead on, Brunton,” Skye grinned, gesturing to the liveried servant, who turned and led the way into the private quarters of Kensington Palace.

  * * *

  January Fifth dawned clear and cold. Snow was still on the ground, so the Holmeses rose from their big, cozy hotel bed and attired themselves in warm, comfortable clothes for sightseeing. Holmes managed with difficulty to hide his excitement from his wife; and Skye managed with even more difficulty to hide the small overnight bags from her husband, bags Ryker would spirit away once they’d left the hotel. Then they set out, headed for the Hyde Park Corner station of the Underground. It was patently obvious to Holmes that Skye was initiating the birthday “surprise” visit to Baker Street, but he worked very hard to conceal the fact that he was already aware of it.

  Skye struggled some with the tube routes, finally concluding after several minutes of studying the map that she didn’t know her way around London quite as well as she’d hoped; she simply couldn’t seem to locate the Baker Street station on the map in order to determine their route. Holmes, eager to be off, was puzzled by the delay, causing him to grow impatient. Skye realized this when he began to fidget, and tried to hurry; but this only resulted in increasing her disorientation.

  When he recognized her confusion, Holmes unassumingly offered to help, pointing out that they’d need to change from the Piccadilly line to the Jubilee tube at the Green Park interchange, and Skye sighed.

  “You already know, so you might as well take care of it,” she murmured, stuffing her disappointment into a corner of her thoughts and handing him the cash she had reserved to buy the tickets.

  * * *

  Holmes saw the brief flicker of crestfallen defeat in her eyes, and his heart ached. Oh, I am sorry, my dear, he thought contritely. I let my blasted impatience get the better of me, and spoiled your surprise. What he said was, “Wait here, my dear Skye,” here he made sure to use the tone she adored, “and I shall be back momentarily. I cannot tell you how delighted I am to be making this trip with you.”

  * * *

  Skye’s knees nearly buckled at his tone, and she leaned against the wall beside the map to ensure she remained upright. Sapphire eyes watched the tall, trim figure of her husband move to the vending panel where he acquired their tube passes. He turned with a smile, and Skye leaned harder against the wall.

  Damn, he’s handsome! And he’s all mine! Whoa, get a grip, girl. If this keeps up, I’m gonna have to drag him back to the hotel, and that WILL spoil the whole thing. He knows where we’re going, but not what we’ll find once we get there, and I’ll need my wits about me to handle that right. So settle down, Skye, get the hormones under control, and give your man a good birthday.

  Holmes returned to her side, and she slid an arm around his waist.

  “C’mon,” she told him as they turned toward the tube platform. “Let’s go make a very special visit.”

  * * *

  They finally emerged from the Baker Street Underground station near the Marylebone Road, abstractedly dodging a certain bronze statue with a vaguely familiar visage, and Holmes’ face lit up.

  “Baker Street!” he exclaimed eagerly. “We are here at last! Come, my dear, I can travel THIS street blindfolded!”

  And before Skye could respond, he had spun, striding north along the eastern sidewalk, his long legs swiftly eating up the distance.

  “Sher- honey, wait!” Skye called, practically running after him. “I need to tell you something first!”

  But by this time he was already approaching the Melcombe Street intersection, the grey gaze glancing about enthusiastically, taking in everything. Skye finally caught up to him, and he responded.

  “No, no, my dear Skye, I well understand things will have changed somewhat, in the many intervening years. Still, it will be nice to see the old lodgings once…more…”

  The deep voice tapered off; the firm stride faltered and came to a stop. Holmes turned to stare at the bank office building across the street, but said nothing. Skye looked up at the pale face, taking in the fixed gaze of the grey eyes, and the painful tautness around them; she winced and bit her lip. Way to go, Skye. Too late. Way too late.

  “Good God,” he whispered in shock, “it is gone?”

  Skye laid a gentle hand on his arm and pulled him out of the center of the sidewalk, into an alcove in the buildings behind them, to be less obvious to passersby.

  “That’s what I needed to tell you,” she said sadly. “In this continuum…it never was.”

  “Never…was?”

  “No. Just like you and Watson. When Doyle wrote the stories, the street numbers on Baker Street only went to 100. Upper Baker Street didn’t even get street numbers until the 1930’s.”

  “Why the hell did we come here, then?” Holmes muttered bitterly. “Aside from reminding me of my status…”

  Skye affectionately slipped her arm into his, gently urging him farther down the street toward Regents Park, hoping her presence and her tone would provide soothing balm to her husband’s wounded spirit.

  “Because there’s something you DO need to see here. It’s probably not set up quite right, and you’ll almost certainly laugh, but you need to see this, so you’ll know what your ‘status’ in this continuum really is.”

  She pulled him to a stop across from 239 Baker Street, and turned him to face that building. Holmes stared for a moment in mild disbelief, then his eyes narrowed skeptically.

  “A museum?”r />
  “A museum,” Skye grinned cheekily, nudging him fondly. “Your fans love you so much, that when they realized there wasn’t a real 221B in this continuum, they had to create one.”

  Holmes’ head snapped around to look at her, and Skye saw the question in the grey eyes.

  “Yes. They do. Many do, anyway. And from what I understand, to this day they still get scads of letters addressed to you.”

  “And…what is inside?”

  “A recreation of your and Watson’s old rooms, as well as they could manage it from the descriptions in the stories.” Skye shrugged. “That’s why I said it’s probably not set up quite right, but it was the best they could do.”

  * * *

  Just then Captain Ryker emerged from the museum’s doorway, clad in casual civilian wear in order to blend in. He gave the couple an encouraging smile and waved them over. Skye and Holmes crossed the busy street and met the agent.

  “Hi, Captain,” Skye smiled. “As you can see, we made it.”

  “I see that,” he offered Skye a smile, all the while taking in the tightness around Holmes’ eyes. “I’m sure the trip was a bit difficult in…places, but hopefully the two of you will enjoy this little stop. C’mon in.”

  * * *

  Holmes was silent for a good ten minutes after entering the museum and going upstairs. As Skye had said, it was not a perfect reproduction, but it was close enough to evoke an odd feeling in the detective. Not unlike becoming lodged in the side of the tesseract, I suppose. Not quite here, and not quite there.

  He listened while Ryker told the story of the Special Operations Executive, a World War II branch of MI6, which had been headquartered near the opposite end of Baker Street, and had taken on the mantle of the Baker Street Irregulars. Then he heard the story of the museum itself from the chief curator, who happened to be on duty that day. He shook his head in amazement. I seem to have had an amazing influence upon this world, yet I was never here until this March past. Interesting.

  * * *

  Skye watched her detective husband carefully. The discovery that his former home did not exist here, and never had, had hurt him deeply, far more than he was willing to admit. Ryker was astute enough to have noted the pain, but only Skye recognized how far within Holmes it had run. But she also observed how his current environment was soothing him, and she was relieved.

  * * *

  Because of Ryker’s presence, they were allowed to roam through the rooms relatively freely. The curator, one Soames by name, and a highly intelligent and friendly man, helpfully and very enthusiastically babbled on about this or that artifact; Holmes ignored his chatter for the most part, only occasionally finding himself having to stifle a wry chuckle at some mildly comical, inadvertent inaccuracy. After a bit, the detective decided the man was really quite versed on the subject of his published adventures. Absently he picked up the Persian slipper containing pipe tobacco and moved it to its proper place on the mantel, his other hand automatically reaching for the spot where one of his pipes should have been, but wasn’t.

  “Here now!” Soames exclaimed indignantly, descrying the rearrangement. “I really must ask you not to be doing that, sir! We work hard to maintain the exhibit, and we can’t have people moving things around higgledy-piggledy! If you can’t keep your hands off things, I shall have to ask you to leave!”

  Holmes spun in shock, rudely jarred from his reminiscent reverie, and Skye stepped forward, dismayed. Ryker put out a hand.

  * * *

  “Let me handle this,” he murmured. The pair nodded reluctantly, and Ryker turned to the curator. “Sir,” he began with deceptive quietness, “you are a retired RAF Flight Lieutenant, are you not? And for a time, you worked in military intelligence?”

  “Yes sir, that was my commission. How…?”

  “I believe a few days before Christmas, you had a…very special appointment…with my supervisor? Wherein your commission was temporarily reactivated, and you were given a briefing. A briefing about a certain…guest, who would be visiting sometime in the next few weeks?” Ryker pressed.

  “Him?” Soames’ eyes widened, and he stared at Holmes.

  “Him.” Ryker nodded.

  “Ohmygaw,” Soames whispered, awed. “I see it now. I hardly believed it at the time. I…” The curator stepped forward, seeming almost drawn to Holmes. “Begging your pardon, Mr. Holmes. I…I had no idea. You go right ahead and…and fix anything you like. I…we’d be honoured to have you make it right, sir.”

  Holmes nodded, swallowing once, and Skye realized guiltily that the day was proving an emotional roller coaster ride for her mate, instead of producing the warm fuzzies of acceptance she’d hoped. He located the pipe he’d tried to find earlier, and wordlessly moved it to the correct location as Soames tentatively approached Skye.

  “And if I might ask, who may you be, madam?” he addressed her in a polite, friendly fashion.

  “She is my wife,” Holmes added over his shoulder in a subdued, mildly preoccupied fashion, turning his attention to the desk and proceeding to rearrange the papers there.

  “Wife?” Soames repeated, eyes growing large with something akin to horror. “But…” He shot a quick, confused look at Ryker.

  “Do you remember being briefed about Mr. Holmes’ liaison?” Ryker murmured. “Dr. Chadwick, the scientist who brought him here?”

  “Ah,” Soames grinned slyly. “A cover story, eh?”

  * * *

  Holmes turned and fixed his intent gaze on the curator.

  “No. We married just before Christmas. She is my wife.” He shot a fond glance at Skye, who simply stood in the middle of the room, a stiff, neutral expression on her face.

  “I…don’t understand,” Soames said, frowning in increasing confusion. “This…this is all some sort of big practical joke, isn’t it?”

  “No, it isn’t,” Skye replied in a tight voice.

  “Then what’s SHE doing here?” Soames protested, disgruntled and affronted. “Mr. Holmes wasn’t…except for Miss Adler, he…he never…”

  Rummaging through the pigeonholes in the corner, Holmes merely rolled his eyes in amused indifference. Skye remained silent.

  “Is a world class scientist not a suitable intellect to match the great detective?” Ryker queried rhetorically and not a little sharply. “A mind that doesn’t detract from his work, but helps it, instead?”

  “Oh,” Soames said blankly. “Well, I suppose so…I mean, I thought…the stories said he…” He glanced at the newlyweds uncomfortably, then turned to Ryker, seeking instruction. “So tonight’s plan is…is still in effect?”

  “For both of them, yes,” Ryker confirmed, emphasizing the word both.

  “I…I see,” the curator noted hoarsely. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll see to the last minute arrangements. As it’s never been done before, there are a few things to tend.”

  The curator left, and Holmes turned his attention to Ryker.

  “‘Tonight’s plan’?”

  “The Boss over there and I thought you might enjoy spending the night here,” Ryker said simply, nodding at Skye as he used his team’s old undercover reference to the scientist. “My organisation…arranged for it.”

  Holmes’ eyes began to twinkle, and he grinned as he grasped the full scope of Skye’s special gift.

  “Well, that is not such a bad idea. Not at all. Even despite a few differences—which were not uncommon when Mrs. Hudson came through on a cleaning spree, in any case—it does feel very much like my old lodgings. Although,” he admitted, shooting a veiled but mischievous glance at Skye from the corner of his eye, “the accommodations may be a bit cramped. Still, I am sure we can manage—”

  Skye spun on her heel and stalked to the window, staring down on a sunlit, snow covered Baker Street. “I think it might be best if I stayed at the hotel tonight, Sherlock,” she offered very quietly. Too quietly.

  The two men glanced at each other, suddenly worried: Skye’s back was ramrod straight, but her s
houlders slumped disconsolately. As one, they moved toward her, but Ryker held back, allowing Holmes to go to his spouse.

  “Skye? What is wrong, my dear?” the detective murmured, sliding a gentle hand across her back, soothing in that special way he had.

  Skye shook her head.

  “I…it just hurts sometimes, being the Achilles heel of the ‘great detective,’” she admitted in a low voice.

  “But you aren’t,” Ryker protested before a startled Holmes could say anything. “You’re one of the few people…maybe the ONLY person…I’ve seen who can keep up with him.”

  “I am, to that guy,” Skye said ruefully, jerking a thumb over her shoulder at the door through which Soames had so recently departed. “I was, to the Queen. And I am, to just about everybody Sherlock meets who knows who he really is. It’s like…I’m the flaw, the unexpected crack running across the perfect marble sculpture and marring it.”

  She looked up at Holmes, wearing a wistful, apologetic expression. “I’m sorry, Sherlock. I seem to be ruining your reputation just by being here. Maybe…maybe we shouldn’t have gotten married after all. We could sort of gloss over things then.”

  Pain shot through the detective at her statement, pain so great he visibly flinched before regaining control.

  * * *

  “You…regret it?” he asked, a hint of hoarseness in the deep, quiet voice.

  “No,” Skye choked, struggling with her own control. “I just…feel bad when…when people don’t understand. When they don’t see you as a real feeling, caring person, but only as a static literary figure sprung to life, like you’re an actor playing a role or something. And I’m ‘out of character.’ It makes me feel…guilty, somehow. Ashamed. Like you’re consorting with a prostitute or some such, and I’m the prostitute.”

  * * *

  “Good Lord, Skye,” Holmes whispered, horrified at this revelation of her feelings. “This will not do. Not at all.”

  “I know,” she smiled wanly. “It’s why I said I should probably stay at the hotel tonight.”