“Well, that’s true,” Ryker admitted.
“It isn’t much different from the museum, is it?” Wang noted, studying the drawings.
“No, it is not,” Holmes agreed. “Some of the details are different, however. Colours, fabrics, and whatnot.”
“Can I have a copy of the set?” Stevens asked tentatively.
“Me, too,” Wang nodded.
“Make it three,” Ryker grinned.
“I want a set,” Miss Brooks piped up.
“Copies all around,” the director chuckled. “And don’t forget Williams’ unit, or he’ll never forgive me.”
Holmes blinked, then stared at the group.
“But…why would any of you want a copy?” he wondered. “It is—was—my home, and only has personal significance to me.”
“Sherlock, I’d be willing to bet a really big chunk of change most of these folks first got interested in investigation, intelligence, and counter-intelligence through Watson’s stories of your adventures.” Skye laid a hand on his forearm.
“And you’d be right,” the director confirmed. “The number of times that crops up in application interviews is amazing.”
“So,” Skye continued, “what does that make you, in their eyes?”
“A hero,” Ryker answered her. “A real, flesh and blood hero and inspiration. That gives it personal significance to every last blessed one of us.”
Holmes fell silent, dumbstruck. Finally he offered, “Admiration is one thing, but I do not wish to be put upon a pedestal. I am only human, after all, and it is a considerable distance to fall.”
“That, Sir Sherlock,” the director remarked, “is exactly why they—oh hell, I might as well admit it—why WE love you so much. You ARE human. You’re no longer merely words upon a page, but a living, breathing, feeling person—someone we may one day earn the right to call friend.”
“Some of us already do,” Ryker murmured proudly.
And suddenly the detective understood what Skye had been trying to tell him the previous day. I have made a difference in this world, he realized in wonder. For over a hundred years, I have had a presence here. Without ever having lived here until recent months, I have affected lives, I have been a force for good, at least as much as ever I was in my own world. And all because of Watson’s stories. When I meet the dear old chap at the Pearly Gates, I shall owe him a profuse, and profound, apology.
“Very well, then,” he agreed. “Is there a particular way you should like to have prints made?”
“If you’ll let me borrow this, I’ll take them to the graphics department first thing tomorrow morning and have a limited run made,” Ryker offered, patting the sketchbook almost reverently. “Go ahead and sign them, then we’ll have the prints numbered. I’ll make sure to run an extra set for Soames, too; I’m sure he’d love to have them, even if only as a go-by in maintaining the museum display. I ought to be able to get them back to you tomorrow.”
“Don’t forget the Queen,” the Director suggested. “I’m certain she’d be delighted in a set.” Skye’s eyes widened. So did Holmes’; then he shook his head, still bemused by the whole thing.
“All right,” Holmes finally acquiesced. He signed all of the drawings in the corner—W. S. S. Holmes—then handed the sketchbook to Ryker, who put it carefully with his uniform jacket.
Then the lot sat down to a congenial and delicious prime rib dinner, which was finished off with a trifle—Holmes’ favorite dessert—and a simple white birthday cake.
Holmes could not have imagined a more special celebration.
* * *
Late that night, Mr. and Mrs. Holmes lay quietly in bed. The hotel suite was dark, and the pair cuddled close, content simply to be together. After some time, Skye’s voice vibrated softly through the darkness.
“Sherlock?”
“Yes, Skye?”
“Can I ask you some questions?”
“Always.”
“Even personal stuff?”
“Anything. As you already know, I may not be able to answer every one of them, but for you, and no other, I will certainly try.”
“Okay, then. Um, why are you so independent?”
“Am I?” he wondered. “It seems to me that I have not been so since I first encountered Watson, so many years ago. And certainly not since coming here. But perhaps I am more independent than the average person, at that. Why, I cannot say for sure. Most of it is likely a natural bent, for Mycroft was of a similar mind. Some was due to my upbringing,” he decided. “Father desired us to be strong and able to stand upon our own two good legs. It is because of him I have the pugilistic and martial skills I possess.”
“I bet your mom was responsible for the violin, though, wasn’t she?” Skye surmised, temporarily diverted from her initial inquiry.
“She was,” he confessed, the grin audible even in the dark. “But Mother and Father both encouraged the development of our intellects. Though to complete answering your original question, it was my difference from other children, and later, young men, that finished the matter, I suspect. My interests, skills, and abilities frankly set me apart, whether I would or no.”
“Did you want to fit in?”
“Passionately, at first,” the detective admitted. “For a child—especially so active a boy as I was—playmates are all-important. I had few. I did not excel at team sports such as cricket or rugby. I was far too gangling a youth for the latter especially, as I discovered at the cost of the only broken bone I have ever suffered.”
“What was it?”
“Arm. Left radius, to be specific. So that put paid to the matter fairly rapidly. When I was old enough, I joined the local hunt, which proved more congenial to my innate abilities and natural bent. That is where I first developed my intimate knowledge of horses, as well as such a solid seat.”
“In more ways than one,” Skye’s devilish grin could be heard in her voice. There was the soft spatting sound of bare skin being patted in the dark.
“Mph! Stop that!” Holmes chuckled; then, knowing what she was about to say, added, “For now.”
“Oh. Later?”
“‘Later’ is acceptable,” he responded, amused. “At any rate, my participation in the hunt lasted for a few years, until I decided small wild things were becoming too scarce in the English countryside to be chasing them haphazardly through fields and woods, only to end their lives at the snapping teeth of a pack of hounds. By that time, I was ready to begin university anyway, and this matter of my independence was firmly cemented a few years later by the actions of ‘our dear Lily.’”
“Oh, yeah,” Skye muttered darkly, as if pronouncing imprecations. “Her.”
Holmes chuckled, openly amused and secretly pleased by the evidence of Skye’s jealousy and protectiveness.
“Why did you wish to know, my dear?”
He heard the sheets rustle, and felt her shoulders shrug in his arms.
“Just trying to figure something out.”
“And what would that be?”
There was a long silence.
“Skye?” he prompted after a moment.
“Well,” Skye finally murmured in a small, hesitant voice, and Holmes paid close attention, immediately comprehending something important was about to be confessed. “I know you…you want me.”
“I should think it obvious.”
“And I know you…love me.”
“Without question.”
“But Sherlock…” he felt her swallow hard, “do you…”
She broke off, and there was a pause.
“Do I what, Skye?” he urged gently, suspecting what was coming.
“Do you NEED me?” she blurted.
“As breath,” he responded instantly, without hesitation.
“Really?” It was a childlike whisper.
“Really,” he averred. “Skye, you are a brilliant hyperspatial dynamicist. But do you fully understand the dynamics of our relationship? Do you comprehend, for instance, that in
my own reality I had an entire retinue of persons upon which to rely—Watson, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft; Lestrade, Gregson, and the rest of Scotland Yard; Billy, Wiggins and the Irregulars? But all of that was ripped away when I came here. No, it is NOT your fault, and I’ll hear none of it,” he put a silencing finger to her lips as soon as he heard her intake of breath. “It was far preferable to having my brains dashed out upon the rocks near Meiringen. My entire point, my dear, is simply this: I went from a complete…‘support network,’ I believe you would term it, to essentially nothing, in a matter of seconds.”
“But you have a support group,” Skye pointed out. “And it stretches across two continents.”
“I do now. I did not at first,” Holmes reminded her. “For some considerable time after I arrived in this universe, there really was but one person in my support group, and she comprised the whole of my world, the one being I knew beyond all doubt I could trust. You.”
“So…all this is about being grateful?”
He chuckled.
“You, of all people, know me well enough to appreciate that no amount of gratitude would induce me to propose marriage if both my heart and mind were not in accord regarding its desirability, my dear.” He paused long enough to press his lips to her cheek. “No, Skye, listen carefully now, for I shall only say this once. You are my mainstay, my anchour, and the one fixed point of reference I have in this world. I should say that was needful, wouldn’t you?”
Skye said nothing for long moments, but he felt her ribcage flutter convulsively several times as a shudder wracked her body; momentarily she struggled for breath, and a sobbing gasp escaped her.
“Skye?” he whispered, worried. “Are you all right?”
“Yes,” she breathed, turning into him and burying her face in his chest. “Yes, I’m feeling wonderful.”
“I should have to agree,” he noted mischievously, pulling his overwhelmed wife close.
* * *
The next morning saw Brooks ushering them into the office of the Director General of Her Majesty’s Secret Service with a fawning courtesy bordering on obsequiousness—directed principally, Skye noted, at her husband. She shrugged, not sure whether to be amused or offended. Poor Sherlock, hero worship strikes again. Skye was relieved when the Director dismissed her assistant.
Characteristically, Holmes took no notice of Brooks. But he was amused—and gratified—to note the prints of his sketches already hung on the wall of the office, tastefully matted and framed. The director welcomed them cordially, and they sat down across the desk from her.
“Did you have a good birthday?” she asked Holmes with a smile.
“Capital,” Holmes chuckled. “Your aid to my wife in the setting up was most appreciated—by both of us.”
“Ah, I’ve been caught!” the director laughed. “Well, it isn’t every day I have the opportunity to do something for a living legend. I’m glad you enjoyed it. I know you’re here on holiday, and I hate to interrupt it, but I should like to request your assistance in this matter we’ve mentioned. It is in all probability a hoax, but if anyone can ascertain that, it’s likely to be the two of you.”
“So the UFO sightings are still ongoing?” Skye wondered.
“They are,” the director nodded, “and getting more frequent. Ryker, as your liaison while in the UK, is getting together a dossier on the matter, and should be here momentarily. He also has your sketchbook,” she added to Holmes. “He’s kept it in his classified document safe, like the treasure it is. He’ll return it when he arrives.”
The door opened on the tail end of the director’s comment, and Ryker noted, “He’s arrived,” as he entered. He had several items in his arms, including an accordion folder and Holmes’ sketchpad.
“Here we are.” He handed the pad to Holmes and the accordion folder to Chadwick-Holmes. “Have a go at that.”
Holmes placed the sketchbook on the end of the director’s desk and leaned over to watch as Skye opened the accordion folder.
“No security markings,” he observed, as she extracted the contents.
“No,” Ryker agreed. “The material in that folder isn’t classified. It’s just basic reports of the sightings. The only classified info is in regard to the base itself, and it’s something we can tell you, sitting here.”
“Ah,” Holmes nodded.
“Which do we need to know first?” Skye wondered.
Ryker glanced at his organisation’s leader, who shrugged.
“I suppose we may as well start with the classified information,” she decided. “Who knows? It may raise a red flag for you that we haven’t seen yet. Keep in mind you are under no obligation to do this; we only thought it might be good to have your eyes upon the matter in addition to our own.”
“Uh, boss, that’s no longer quite true,” Ryker said wryly, handing her the last remaining folder in his hand. “Have a gander at that first.”
The Director General took the folder, flipped it open; began to scan the report inside. Her eyes grew wide, and she paled slightly.
“I see,” she murmured, seeming stunned. “That clinches the matter, then. We require your help.”
Holmes and his wife glanced at each other, perturbed.
“What’s wrong?” Skye asked.
“Most everything,” the director noted morosely. “It seems there was a death in the civilian population outside the base last night, which is being blamed on a UFO. A significant segment of the local populace is up in arms, claiming the base is not abandoned, but active, and the UFO is in reality an RAF experimental aircraft. They’re blaming the government for the death, and calling for a high level, independent inquiry. Which latter is, of course, where the two of you come in.”
* * *
An hour later they had all the details in hand.
Bentwaters, as Billy had already explained, was still an active base, though its activities had been taken, literally, underground. It was heavily involved in the research and development of advanced aircraft, and even some spacecraft design. This included, but did not seem limited to, stealth technology, nuclear propulsion, electronic fly by wire avionics development, and unorthodox and potentially unstable aerodynamic shapes.
The historical UFO sightings in the region dated back several decades, when the base had been openly active; but there had been a lull in activity until some four months ago, when virtually the entire island nation had been buzzed by an unidentified bogey. The initial sightings in the recent series had been mostly by radar, specifically at the Fylingdales base, but these had gone on to include many ground-based visual sightings as well.
The government’s fear was that the objects might be spy craft of some enemy nation-state, though as yet the technology seemed untraceable to any other country. Other options for explanation being considered included a hoax, the usual bog gas, a collection of several innocuous natural phenomena, and lastly, extraterrestrial technology. Skye shrewdly eyed the director.
“And whatever it is causing these sightings, the British government has nothing to do with it?” she asked bluntly.
“Nothing whatsoever,” the director answered sincerely.
“Nor with the death of this civilian?” Holmes added sharply.
“Absolutely not,” the woman replied confidently.
Skye and Holmes exchanged glances; Holmes nodded and turned his attention back to the two members of the Secret Service.
“And what do the two of you consider it to be?” Holmes asked.
“I am maintaining an open mind,” the director stated, then admitted, “though I lean toward hoax as an explanation, personally. But regardless of the source of the objects, the attention it is drawing to RAF Bentwaters is putting the underground base—and especially its programs—at significant risk. The general public are already entirely too close to the truth for comfort, based on this latest report.”
“And you, Ryker?” Holmes pressed. “What is your opinion of the identity of this object?”
The
operative drew a deep, slow breath, considering, and obviously uncomfortable with the question. Finally he leaned over Skye’s shoulder and flipped through the documentation in her lap.
“The easiest way for me to answer is to make sure you have a look at this.”
“What are they?” Holmes wondered, gazing at the diagrams and statistics under Ryker’s finger.
“Flight profiles,” he replied succinctly.
“Ohmigosh,” Skye gasped when she saw the flight profiles of the objects. “This…this isn’t possible!”
“Not by any technology we have, no,” Ryker noted grimly. “Supersonic right angles and sharp reverse manoeuvres at those speeds do tend to shear apart anything we know how to build. And I use ‘we’ corporately, as in ‘human race,’ not just ‘Brits.’”
“My dear Skye, are you amenable to postponing the rest of our holiday while we look into this little matter?” Holmes glanced at his wife.
“I think you could talk me into it, Sherlock.” The sapphire eyes gazing back at him gleamed with fascinated curiosity.
“I suspected as much. There are some logistics to consider…”
“Already on that, Sir Sherlock,” the director noted. “Williams and his team will continue tending your ranch as long as you need to be away; he stationed a couple of his people in the bunkhouse, so they’re available around the clock. He sends word everything is fine, by the way—cat, horses, and bees, all making the winter in good shape. Barn, outbuildings, and house are weathering the snows well, and periodically his men dig things out after the latest snowfall—including, I was told to inform you, the deck.
“Meanwhile,” she continued, “we have a nice little cottage all ready for the two of you just outside Woodbridge in Suffolk, off the road to a little village called Tangham. Ryker can take you there as soon as you like, or we can provide a vehicle for your convenience. You’ll have all the support you require, and we’ll set up any background story you recommend.”
“Then,” Holmes decided, “I believe you have two independent investigators available immediately.”
* * *
Two days later the couple was comfortably settled in Suffolk, in a quaint, cozy little cottage known as Gibson House, roughly halfway between the town of Woodbridge and the supposedly abandoned base. Little in the way of a cover other than their standard story had been issued; on the other hand, their arrival had not been publicized except to note that special independent investigators had been dispatched to the area to begin looking into the matter.
The Case of the Displaced Detective Page 87