“Quite the contrary,” he informed her, and suddenly his voice was full, almost strident in its tones. “The two of you, wait here, please.” He turned toward the door.
“Holmes, where are you going?” Ryker asked anxiously.
“To rectify matters,” Holmes’ voice called up the stairs, as his footsteps bustled down them.
“Uh-oh,” Skye murmured worriedly, meeting Ryker’s perplexed gaze.
* * *
Shortly thereafter, Mr. Soames made his way back up the stairs to the recreated flat. Hesitantly he approached Skye, then to her surprise, bowed.
“Mrs. Holmes, please accept my humblest apologies,” he offered softly, as Ryker watched curiously. “I didn’t mean to offend. I had no idea your curriculum vitae was so…impressive.”
“It’s okay.” Skye smiled wanly, waving off the man’s apology. “It’s not like I don’t understand why you were…puzzled…by my relationship with Sherlock.”
* * *
“You get it a lot? That reaction?” Soames cocked his head to one side, an expression of sympathy on his face.
“Well, yes and no.” Skye shrugged. “There aren’t a whole lot of people in the general public who know he’s really THAT Sherlock, for reasons I’m sure were briefed to you. But whenever someone finds out, that’s pretty much the usual reaction, yeah.”
“Well, you should have him use your title more often,” Soames considered. “It would settle everybody pretty quick, I’d wager.”
“My title?” Skye wondered, confused. Surely Sherlock didn’t mention meeting with the Queen, did he?
* * *
“As soon as he called you The Woman, I knew how things were.” Soames chuckled. “If you can earn HIS respect, you’ve certainly got mine, madam.” Then he and Ryker watched in satisfaction as Skye fairly lit up with love and pride.
* * *
After several hours spent in conversation with Soames, a conversation in which Holmes reminisced quietly to his enchanted companions, Ryker led the couple down the street a few blocks to one of his favorite pubs. There he left them to relax and eat, with instructions to return to the museum after six, when it was closed. Soames would be waiting to let them in, and they would have the flat to themselves for the rest of the evening. They would have to be gone by nine o’clock the next morning, so the museum could be set to rights before opening half an hour later; but in the interim, it was theirs—provided, Soames had joked, Mr. Holmes didn’t try to do any indoor target practice.
Holmes rather whimsically refused to promise, and Soames laughed in delight, having come to understand at last that before him stood no rigid literary icon, but a flesh and blood man. And that man was possessed of all the attributes of a brilliantly intelligent, talented, charismatic gentleman.
* * *
And so by seven in the evening, Mr. and Mrs. Holmes were comfortably ensconced in the sitting room before a crackling fire, which Soames himself had laid for them. Initially Holmes had automatically taken up his accustomed chair to one side of the fireplace, and Skye, with a grin, had taken the other, knowing full well it would have been Watson’s seat, back in the day. Holmes settled in, resting his head against the back of the armchair, steepled his fingers and closed his eyes, letting memory take over for the time. Skye sat quietly, reading the expressions on his face. She knew the instant his mind shifted from fond memories to the present.
“If I could, I’d bring him here and put him in this chair for you,” she murmured, knowing he would immediately recognize of whom she spoke.
“Ha! Well read, my dear,” he answered, opening his eyes and giving her a fond smile. “And that, with my eyes closed. You are getting very good. No, it’s quite all right. I do miss him, and likely always shall; he was, after all, my bosom companion, and one of the very few to whom I ever assigned the appellation ‘friend.’ But it has been nearly a year now—lacking only a few months. There is a…I suppose one may call it a grieving process, and I am dealing with it. No, the reason why I relish this opportunity, and why I did not wish you to return to the hotel, is because I desired to introduce you to my old life.”
“Oh?” Skye said, startled.
* * *
“Yes indeed. My one regret, when I returned so very briefly to thwart Professor Haines, was that you were unable to be with me.” He rose and moved to the tantalus in the corner, examining the decanters and bottles and finding several of them actually contained the appropriately labeled liquors, as opposed to the colored water he had half expected. Momentarily he wondered if Soames had made the change, expressly for the evening. “Would you care for a brandy, my dear? Or perhaps some port?” He extracted two glasses from the cupboard and picked up the brandy decanter.
* * *
“Some brandy might be nice,” Skye acquiesced, happy to find that not only was Holmes in good spirits, he keenly desired her presence there.
“Here you are,” he said, handing her a glass of the libation as he passed by on his way to the sofa with his own glass. Kicking off his loafers, he tucked his feet underneath himself, curling in the corner of the sofa nearest his bride. “I fear we may lack certain amenities tonight, but I have survived worse.”
“Such as?” Skye wondered, sipping her cognac by way of avoiding his eyes, lest he see the twinkle in her own.
“Oh, a little matter of toothbrushes, dressing gowns, and the like.”
“Did you look in the bathroom?” she queried innocently, taking another sip.
Holmes shot a sharp glance at her, setting his brandy on the table. Without a word he rose and stalked, stocking-footed, out the door of the sitting-room and down the hall. Laughter rang out, and soon he returned, his blue dressing gown wrapped about his body, having divested himself of his sweater and shirt; his bare feet now clad in his slippers.
“Nicely done, my dear; never have I had a thing so thoroughly accomplished right under my nose! I shall have to keep my eye upon you now. And may I presume there are slippers and a nightgown for yourself in the bedroom?” he inquired with a smile.
“You may,” Skye grinned.
“Then by all means, go and make yourself comfortable, my dear, then come back and finish your brandy with me on the sofa,” he suggested.
Ten minutes later, Skye returned, clad in a cherry red silk nightgown, her blonde mane loose and spilling about her shoulders. Grey eyes dilated, and Holmes put aside his brandy as Skye sat down beside him on the sofa.
* * *
He pulled her into his arms, smiling his approval of her color choice. Hm, he thought as he bent his head to hers, red is, after all, in the same colour family as pink… Firm lips brushed soft ones, and soon the brandy was forgotten.
Some minutes after, Skye observed, “I don’t think this was a regular evening activity, when you lived on Baker Street.”
“Hardly,” Holmes snorted his amusement. “I cannot say for certain, nor should I especially wish to find out, but I suspect Watson’s moustache would have scratched dreadfully.”
Skye burst out laughing, and Holmes grinned.
“Well,” she gasped between spasms of mirth, “I guess I’ll forego the comment about the bearskin rug on the hearth.”
“Oh, why?” Holmes wondered in a tone of protest, depositing another kiss on the corner of her mouth. “I had thought it might factor into our evening.”
“As long as it never factored into any other evenings, I’m okay with it,” Skye retorted, snickering.
“I give you my word, my dear,” Holmes said, eyes mischievous. “At no time did the bearskin so much as factor into a dream—until I met you. Besides,” he added regretfully, “I fear the bed may be rather too small for such activities. It was never intended for two.”
“Oh, but that’s what’s going to make it fun,” Skye smirked. “Bearskin AND bed.”
Holmes raised a delighted eyebrow.
“If a Victorian setting has this much favour with you,” he decided, “when we get home we are redecorating the h
ouse.”
Skye’s peal of laughter rang through the flat.
* * *
The bed was indeed small for two occupants, but Skye declared that only made it cozier. The bearskin hearthrug had received due attention earlier, and the limits of the bed’s coziness were thoroughly explored. Now the pair perforce curled close in the dark, the only light filtering through the blinds at the window. Coziness was favored, however, for the room was a trifle cool, as the building’s central air automatically shut off after museum hours, and the fireplace was in the sitting room adjacent; but the connecting wall contained the fireplace, so the bedroom was not unduly chilly. Somewhere in the distance a clock tower chimed midnight.
Skye raised her head at the sound, and looked into her groom’s bright grey eyes in the dim light.
“Happy birthday, Sherlock,” she breathed tenderly. “I wanted to do something special for your fortieth, and this was the best I could come up with. Sorry for the kind of weird timing on the visit, but I didn’t dare bring you here ON the sixth; from what I understand, the place gets practically mobbed on your birthday. I know it all started out kind of painful, but I hope tonight makes up for it.”
* * *
“This visit, this night, is your gift?” Holmes softly verified his earlier surmise, and she nodded shyly. “Then thank you, my dear wife. I cannot imagine how Providence managed to get so large a heart into your body.”
Skye blushed.
“The same way He got your mind into yours, I suppose,” she said, then added with a devilish grin, “Shoe horns probably help.”
The entire bed shook with Holmes’ laughter.
* * *
January 6
Skye is nothing if not creative with her gifts. A night in a recreation of my old Baker Street lodgings? Complete with the bride those lodgings never saw? The only things missing were Mrs. Hudson serving my birthday dinner, a congratulatory telegram from Mycroft, and Watson popping in after making his rounds to offer best wishes of the day whilst sharing a brandy by the fire. But as those things could not be, it proved a capital gift, nevertheless.
I must admit, however, this little adventure started out rather dismally. And when the curator hurt Skye, I saw matters must be handled at once. I knew, of course, that she has been rather uncomfortable over reactions to our marital status, but I had no idea the issue was causing her such deep pain. I shall have to remember to refer to her as The Woman more frequently; as soon as the words passed my lips, I noted instant comprehension in Soames’ eyes. It may save my dear Skye a world of hurt in the future.
Chapter 4—A Fresh Start
THEY WERE UP AND OUT IN plenty of time for Soames to set things to rights the next morning, Skye assuring Holmes that Ryker would pick up their overnight kits and return them to the hotel. A beaming Soames met them downstairs, and Skye thanked him sincerely for the opportunity to stay in the flat.
“Indeed,” Holmes agreed quietly, the grey eyes shining with unspoken gratitude.
“No, no,” Soames murmured with a happy smile. “I’m the one who should be thanking you—both of you. This is a dream, to actually meet the real Sherlock Holmes. I can’t believe it’s truly happening. Thank you so much.”
Holmes’ cheeks grew dusky, and his eyes sparkled. He took the proffered hand and shook it firmly; then the couple bundled up in their coats and departed the museum.
* * *
Eschewing breakfast, they spent the morning rambling through Regents Park while Holmes pointed out the walking paths he and Watson once frequented, then he took Skye by the hand.
“Skye, would you object to accompanying me on what may end up being a wild goose chase and a fool’s errand?” he asked in doubt.
“No, not at all. What did you have in mind?”
“First I should like to run down Baker Street to one of the shops, and acquire a sketch pad and some tinted pencils, to begin with. Then…and here is where the fool’s errand may enter play…I should like to try to find Watson’s old homes in Paddington and Kensington. I am curious to discover whether those houses exist, or not.”
“Are you sure it won’t just hurt you, instead of merely satisfying your curiosity?”
“No,” Holmes uncharacteristically confessed, “but…it is something I find I must know. And we may as well do it now and get it over with, for good or ill.”
“Lead on, then.”
* * *
In short order the art supplies were procured and an early lunch tucked away before the pair made their way on foot to Paddington. A left, a right, and another left off the main road, and they stood in front of the very first street address Watson could claim as his own after his marriage. Holmes gazed pensively on the house for quite some time. Skye studied his face for several moments.
“Yes and no, huh?” she observed.
“Indeed. It is, and yet is not, the house in the which Watson dwelt as a newlywed with his own bride. At least externally it is correct in most details, but…you see the wing to the left?” Holmes gestured at the structure in question. “It is a single storey, yet in Watson’s day and my continuum, it was possessed of two storeys, with his consulting rooms downstairs and study upstairs.”
“But this house doesn’t show evidence of such a major structural renovation as that would have been, to remove an entire story from the wing.”
“Exactly.” Holmes sighed. “Well, let us on to Kensington and see what may be seen.”
They cut across Kensington Gardens hard by the palace and waved to the Duchess as they went by, seeing her strolling in the snowy lawn as they took the Broad Walk through the gardens to Kensington Road.
Some half an hour later they stood before the correct address. “Not even close,” Holmes decreed, and turned away.
They walked the length of Hyde Park and arrived back at their hotel in time for early tea.
* * *
Holmes spent the rest of the afternoon sketching at the desk in their suite’s sitting room. As dinnertime neared, he showed Skye the results.
“This is what my old lodgings looked like, Skye, as nearly as I can make them,” he noted, laying out for her several pages of tinted drawings in the sketchbook. “Here is the outside of the building…” he held up a page displaying a multi-story terrace-style house fronted in what appeared to be limestone, well maintained and handsome, not unlike the exterior of the building in which they had spent the previous night. “And these next are the rooms within. The sitting-room, my bedroom, Watson’s bedroom, and the bath,” he pointed out, leafing through the pages of the sketchbook. “Here is even Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen downstairs. You can see that the museum is not so very far off in its appearance, though some of the furniture was upholstered differently, and the colours on the walls are at variance.”
“Wow,” Skye said in sincere amazement, pondering the detailed color depictions. “Those are incredible. I want to take these home and frame them, if you don’t mind, honey. Um, Sherlock, don’t take this the wrong way—I don’t want to belittle your work at all, but it’s almost dinnertime, and I’m starved. Would you mind running and getting ready for dinner, so we can go upstairs to the restaurant and eat? I made reservations earlier. We only foraged yesterday and today, but I want you to have one really nice meal for your birthday, and we’ll get a good view of the city up there. But let’s bring this, because I want to have time to look at it and do it justice.” She patted the sketchbook.
“Very well,” he agreed, rising and turning toward the bedroom.
Five minutes later they were headed up in the lift for the restaurant on the top floor of the hotel, the sketchbook tucked firmly under Holmes’ arm.
* * *
Of course it was a surprise party. A private room with panoramic windows had been set aside, and Ryker’s unit, as well as the Director General, her assistant, and one or two of the other high level Secret Service officials, eagerly awaited.
Holmes flushed with a combination of annoyance and secret pleasure: An
noyance that he’d been too absorbed in his sketches to notice the signs, and pleasure that the little group—and especially his wife—cared enough to celebrate his special day. Though I should not admit it for the world, he thought firmly.
He had to privately acknowledge, however: the decorations were something of a mystery to him. Black balloons, black streamers, and a banner reading, “Over The Hill,” he noted, bemused. Not to mention the sign saying, “Lordy, Lordy, Holmes is forty.” By Jove, it looks like some sort of bizarre funeral. Skye looks rather taken aback at the decorations, as well. I shall therefore assume Ryker & Co. are responsible.
“Well, I must say you managed to pull off a surprise party rather better than Watson did, my dear Skye,” the detective finally commented with fond humor. “Still, I am not certain this is a good thing. You have shown a distinct talent for deception in recent days. Can I trust you?” He let his grey eyes crinkle in an almost-smile.
“You know better than that, Holmes,” Ryker grinned. “The way The Boss looks at you, do you really have to ask? She’d sooner throw herself before a tube train, I think.”
Everyone laughed, and Skye blushed crimson. But Holmes caught the look in her eye just before she dropped her gaze demurely, and his breath caught in glad understanding. He is right, the detective realized. She really would prefer to die than break faith with me.
“Look, Ryker, this is what Sherlock did this afternoon,” Skye said in what her husband had come to recognize as one of her classic diversions, as she slipped the sketchbook from Holmes’ grasp. Holmes loosened his fingers to allow her to take the pad, willing to permit it and knowing the others would be interested in seeing. “After spending last night at the museum, he sat down and sketched out exactly what his flat really looked like, inside and out.”
Skye opened the sketchpad and Ryker and the others clustered around in fascination.
“Damn,” Ryker said, impressed, “I didn’t know he could draw, too.”
“It stands to reason,” the Director General observed. “His great-uncle WAS a famous artist, after all.”
The Case of the Displaced Detective Page 86