We have, therefore, reached a compromise. I have sent a coded report to Ryker on this latest turn of events, and we await his organisation’s response. Skye will devote her full attention to the matter of saving this other continuum, and I will divide my time between what should be a relatively straightforward investigation and assisting her as much as in me lies, given my lesser knowledge in that area.
Chapter 7—All Work and No Play
THE NEXT MORNING, SKYE AND SHERLOCK sat down on the sofa in the sitting room just prior to nine o’ clock. Right on time, there was a hissing pop, like a cork released from a champagne bottle, and a whiff of ozone.
“Sis? You there?” Skye’s disembodied voice said. There came the brief sound of a chair scooting across the floor, as if adjusting position.
“We are both here,” Sherlock noted calmly.
“Oh,” Chadwick answered in a downcast tone. “That doesn’t bode well.”
“Not necessarily,” Holmes’ voice replied. “It simply means they, as we, are united on the matter.”
“True,” Sherlock verified. “We have come to a joint decision. Moreover, I have notified our Secret Service liaison of the entire matter, and he and his superiors concur with our decision. Skye will devote her full time to assisting you, and I shall split my time between helping her as much as in me lies, and working the murder case that used your unidentified wormhole terminus as its cover story.”
“Thanks, hon,” Skye murmured softly. Sherlock gave her an understanding glance, taking in her slight smile. Then they both turned their attention to the couple on the other side of the tesseract. “Sis, you said you had some data for me to start with. Best get to it.”
“Roger that,” Chadwick agreed. “Catch.”
And a spiral bound notebook suddenly emerged from the wall discus style, hurtling at Skye. With a laugh, Skye reached up and caught it smoothly, then quickly reached for the CD that flew behind it. Dropping the CD in her lap and keeping the notebook, she opened it and looked through it. After a moment, she glanced up at Sherlock.
“This is gonna take a bit,” she said apologetically. “And it’s not gonna make any sense to you, at this point. I’ll have to work through it, then start the calculations, and then I think you’ll understand it. You might wanna brush up on your matrix algebra, though. This is gonna be tensor analysis up to your eyeballs.”
“I understand,” Sherlock nodded. “Perhaps I can finish the housework interrupted yesterday, then prepare lunch, while you begin.”
“I still think you ought to go investigate the McFarlane murder,” Skye replied sternly. “You could be doing that while I’m coming up to speed on things, then help me with this later on.”
“Chad- er, Dr. Chadwick-Holmes,” Holmes’ voice noted, “might I suggest you allow your Holmes to do as he wishes, for now? If I understand correctly, there are two matters outstanding in the murder: the source of the beta burns, and the cause of death. The latter is in the coroner’s hands for the time, and the former can be pondered just as readily while tidying rooms as out in the field. Until the Other Me is comfortable with the concept of your working with us, this is probably the best compromise.”
“Thank you, Sherlock,” Sherlock said gratefully.
“You are quite welcome, Sherlock,” Holmes replied courteously.
Both Skyes laughed aloud.
“This is going to become confusing rather rapidly,” Holmes noted with amusement.
“Indeed,” Sherlock agreed with considerable humor. “I suppose, as the two Skyes have taken to calling each other sisters, I may as well dub you, ‘Brother Me.’”
Holmes’ laugh rang out on both sides of the tesseract, as well as two identical, and decidedly feminine, sets of giggles.
“Let us set to work, then,” Sherlock finally declared, a smile still on his face.
“Hokay,” Chadwick noted cheerfully. “Defocusing so you can go get your cleaning supplies.”
* * *
Sherlock spent the day finishing the housework, though he occasionally had to ask Skye for help or advice, not being used to doing all of the tasks. This was especially so in the matter of laundry, as dusting and loading the dishwasher were simple matters for him by this point. But the cleaning of Skye’s clothing was especially mystifying to the detective.
“Gentle cycle, special soap? This goes into the dryer, but that does not? Honestly, Skye,” Sherlock waved his hands about in annoyance. “How do you females keep up with the lot of this?”
Two Skyes just chuckled.
“At times like this, one does miss Mrs. Hudson, does one not?” Holmes noted in an amenable enough fashion.
“Indeed,” Sherlock agreed. “That woman could be invaluable at times. Fortunately we do have the occasional help from Billy’s group, especially when we are deep into a case.”
“Same here,” Chadwick agreed, “but for different reasons. How’s it going, Skye?”
“Pretty well now, I think,” Skye decided, having moved to the desk in the study from the couch in the sitting room in order to access the computer and read the CD. “I think I got it enough to start setting up the first set of tensor fields.”
“Have at it then, Sis,” Chadwick encouraged. “We’ll dial out while you work. When do you want us back?”
“Um…how about in the morning?” Skye suggested. “I should get a bunch done, but not so much that I’ll waste a lot of work if you look at it and say I’m off in the weeds.”
“Done,” Chadwick said. “See you at nine in the morning.”
Another pop, a whiff of ozone, and they were gone.
* * *
It was late that night when Sherlock finally decided to call it a day. He prepared for bed, then went to the study attired in his dressing gown and slippers.
“Skye, it is time for us to retire,” he observed to his wife.
“Mm,” Skye vaguely acknowledged, still bent over the notebook containing her data and calculations from two different continuums. She had barely stopped long enough that day to eat lunch, tea, and dinner when Sherlock brought them to her, and even then, she had reviewed her calculations while doing so. Now she was still writing furiously in the notebook, occasionally grabbing a large pink eraser and obliterating a portion before replacing it with more equations. “Okay, hon, hang on a sec.”
“Very well,” Sherlock agreed readily enough. He stood in the doorway for a full five minutes, watching Skye work at a rapid pace. Then he moved to the wing chair in the corner and sat. After ten more minutes, a concerned Sherlock stood and moved to the side of the desk.
“Skye,” he repeated, “it is time for us to retire, my dear.”
“Yeah, I know,” she replied absently. “I’m almost there.”
But she still showed no sign of stopping. Finally he played his trump card: Sherlock moved in close, close enough for her to catch a whiff of his cologne, which he knew she favored.
“My dear Skye,” he murmured, in the tone she loved, “I await your bidding.”
And he slid long, sensitive fingers meaningfully across her shoulder.
* * *
Skye froze for the merest fraction of a second, watching the room brighten as her eyes dilated, before glancing up at him. She saw the warmth in the grey eyes, the slight smile on the normally austere lips, and knew what he offered. She scrunched her face and offered him a wry, apologetic expression just before she replied.
“I know. And I’m almost done, I promise. Go ahead to bed and I’ll be there in a minute.”
“Very well.” His lips curved into a full smile, and his eyes grew dark with expectant desire. “I shall be ready.”
* * *
Enticed by her encouraging response, Holmes left the study and made his way to the bedroom, where he doffed his dressing gown and slippers, turned out all the lights save the lamp by the bed, and slid his nude body beneath the sheets. And this shall prove most relaxing in the end as well, he thought, pleased. It has been entirely too stressful a day
. For both of us. He awaited her arrival in the bedroom eagerly.
Twenty minutes later, Skye had not come.
He rose, donned his dressing gown again, and crept silently down the hall on cold bare feet to the door of the study.
Skye still hunched over her calculations.
With a silent sigh, he stealthily returned to the bedroom, where he removed his dressing gown, pulled on a pair of pyjama pants, and crawled back into bed. He paused for a moment, then turned out the bedside lamp with resignation.
She is not coming to bed, he thought, trying to ignore the sense of hurt and rejection rising up inside at the notion. And that, after my making it plain I desired her presence, her attentions, and intended to provide her mine. Never before has she rejected my advances in this fashion. She needs rest; I thought surely this would…
But we are newlyweds, he noted in protest. Even if one considers our union beginning the first time we made love, as I know she does, as in truth I do, we have scarcely been mated more than half a year. And not even a month since the formal ceremony. I should have thought…she was never this obsessed before. Am I, then, to be relegated to an afterthought?
Then again, he considered, I have done this to her, once or twice; most notably during our first case shortly after becoming lovers, when I needs must wait for the perimeter guards on the ranch to signal all was well. I suppose now I know what it feels like to be on the receiving end.
Sherlock pondered the matter deeply for some time, struggling to resolve the artist’s rejection with the logic of the rational man of reason, and thereby put pain aside, all while still concerned for her welfare. But despite his reason, he had always been a sensitive man in some respects, as even Watson had recognized, and rationalizing away the hurt proved difficult.
So it was that, deep in his musings, he never heard the quiet footsteps slip inside the room, nor knew he was no longer alone, until soft hands slid sensually up his chest.
“Skye,” he gasped, instantly recognizing the touch as his body instinctively arched in response.
“Yeah, I’m finally here,” came the apologetic answer in the dark. “I’m so sorry it took so long, Sherlock. I’d had one of those ‘eureka’ moments just before you came to tell me it was time for bed, and I was trying SO hard to get my thoughts down on paper! I knew if I waited until morning it would be gone, I wouldn’t remember a thing, and this is so important! But I’m sorry I kept you waiting. I didn’t mean to. I didn’t WANT to. But I had to. I hope you understand.”
Sherlock sought to see her face in the darkness, but the night was cloudy, and no light filtered through the curtains at the windows to aid him. The familiar hands, however, kept up their delicious caresses, sliding over his skin and evoking delightful responses, slowly erasing the memory of heart’s pain.
“N-no matter,” he murmured. “It was not so very long, I suppose.”
As he spoke, he let his sensitive hands drift over his wife’s body, exploring and taking note of tactile details. Within the space of seconds he found she sat on the edge of the bed beside him, completely naked, her blonde mane down and loose, spilling about her shoulders. Touch made up for sight, and an image etched itself in his mind’s eye. Suddenly the detective was struggling to control himself.
“It was way over an hour,” she noted sadly. “It’s nearly one in the morning. I blew my promise to you on that score, seven ways from Sunday. I just couldn’t get it down in the notebook any faster.” Small questing hands drifted downward, beneath the sheets, and encountered cloth where none had been expected. “You have your pajamas on.”
“Yes. The night is cold, and I found the bed somewhat chilly without the additional body heat.”
“I’m sorry. Will this help?” And abruptly she lay atop him, her legs still dangling off the side of the bed, and planted a fervent kiss on his chest.
* * *
“Most definitely. But here. Let us take care of a few matters first.” He sat her upright once more, hitched his pyjama pants off and discarded them. The blankets exploded upward, and suddenly Skye found herself enveloped in a firm embrace beneath them. The body now pressing against hers was strong, and hard, and thoroughly aroused.
“There. That is far better. And this will be best of all…”
And with that, firm lips closed upon soft ones, and detective and scientist became one, even as artist and man of logic finally reconciled.
* * *
Despite the lateness of the hour, Skye endeavored to make up to her husband for breaking her promise to him. She left him in no doubt that she was still highly aware of their newlywed status, and reveled in it. He, in turn, let her know he appreciated her attentions, and reciprocated with his own. Soft sighs and moans, male and female, punctuated the darkness from time to time. Subconsciously each was driven to even greater passion by the knowledge that cosmological disaster could await in the near future, and it was no surprise when Skye clutched her man and screamed in pleasure. Seconds later, Sherlock was crushing her beneath him, crying out her name, before collapsing atop her.
They were silent for a long time, panting softly as pulse and respiration slowed to normal, content to lie quietly together. After awhile, though, Skye spoke.
“Sherlock?”
“Yes, my dear?”
“I really am sorry.”
“Hush. It is perfectly understandable, now you have told me what you were endeavouring to do. And had you stopped in the midst to explain it then, it would have defeated your purpose.” His smile made itself known in his voice. “And I would say you have more than made up for the delay. I only sought to get you into bed to take your rest, in any event. The… preliminaries, shall we say…were merely a bonus.”
“Sneak.” Skye chuckled. “Still, I want to do something.”
“And what is that?”
“I want us to sort of exchange promises while all this is going on.”
“In addition to our wedding vows?”
“Yeah, but temporary, and not quite as…as…”
“Serious, perhaps?” Sherlock offered.
“Well, serious enough, in a way,” Skye decided. “Not so… monumental, I guess.”
“Very well. What promises?”
“I know I barely spoke two words to you today except to answer your questions, and I’m sorry. So I promise to make a point of ensuring you don’t feel neglected, if you’ll promise to understand that I might not be able to simply stop my calculations in the middle. I may have to get to a stopping point first.”
* * *
Holmes considered the matter only briefly.
“That is a perfectly reasonable consideration, Skye, and I do solemnly promise to remember and comprehend that fact.”
“Good,” Skye said, taking a patently relieved breath. “I was worried. I thought you might be upset.”
“I was…perturbed,” Sherlock admitted honestly; he had made it a point, since deciding to allow her access to his inmost being months before, to be truthful to her in every instance, so that their relationship would always be founded upon trust. “You had not behaved in that fashion before, and I had no data from which to extrapolate a reason.”
“But now you know.”
“Now I know,” Sherlock nodded in the darkness. “All is well, wife. But it is now far past time we both got some rest.”
“Are you warm enough?” Skye asked mischievously, as they snuggled down together.
“Quite so. Now sleep, wife.”
“As my husband wishes,” Skye agreed, hints of devilment still in her tone.
“Pssht. Stop that.”
Moments later, they were asleep.
* * *
The next morning when Sherlock awoke around seven, he was alone in bed, and an extra blanket had been spread over him. A note on Skye’s pillow read,
Fresh pot of tea in the kitchen.
XOXOXO
-Skye
Holmes pondered briefly and curiously over the sequence of x’s and o�
��s, resolving to inquire of Skye regarding them later, then crawled out of bed to find the room already warm. He put on his dressing gown and slippers and padded down the hall and into the kitchen, where tea service for one awaited, the pot kept hot by a cozy. He prepared himself a cup of hot tea with cream; then, suspecting the location of his wife, headed for the study.
She was indeed there, wrapped in her robe, Scottish shearling house shoes on her feet, hunched over her calculations. I commence to be glad I acquired those slippers for her in that London shop, Sherlock decided. They are a decided improvement over the tatty old things she had been wearing. The study has no carpeting, and her poor feet would be utterly frigid otherwise, if she has been at this as long as I suspect.
“Good morning, my dear,” he murmured, bending over her and planting a kiss in her hair. “How long have you been at this, and have you yet partaken of breakfast?”
“Oh, hi, honey,” Skye said, glancing up at him with eyes that practically projected mathematical formulae from her mind. “Um, about two hours, and no.”
“Then might I suggest you locate a stopping point while I prepare food? Then you should dress before our doppelgangers arrive. The other Holmes may be me, but he is not ME me, if you follow me, and—damnation! This grows confusing even to express!”
“In other words, you don’t want him to see me in the same state you get to, first thing in the morning.” Skye chuckled.
“Exactly, my dear.”
“Okay. Actually, it’s good timing. I think I’m nearly at a break point.”
“Excellent. I shall prepare breakfast while you complete your figures and get ready.”
“Okeydokey. But could we eat in here?”
“I suppose,” Sherlock sighed in mock longsuffering.
Soon thereafter the couple was dressed and eating a proper breakfast. Sherlock was reasonably adept at preparing simple, hearty meals, and scrambled eggs, bacon, toast and jam were well within his repertoire from his Baker Street days. They finished eating about half past eight, and Skye nodded in intense satisfaction.
The Case of the Displaced Detective Page 96