“Yes?”
“It’s like that. They can handle maybe like ninety percent of the time difference, but not a hundred percent. So I can’t dawdle.”
“Ah.”
“Not to mention, when I get into the ‘flow’ of the problem, I just…lose track of time.”
* * *
Sherlock nodded; this made sense to him, as much the same happened to him when he was working a case.
“And for another,” she continued, “once my brain is in that mindset, I want to get as much done as I can, while I can. If I stop, then return to it later, I’m liable to forget where I was going with it, and it takes time to figure out where I left off, when I do get back to it. It’s that old ‘finding a good stopping place’ I told you about, only…only more so, kinda.”
He nodded again, understanding despite the somewhat vague explanation. “But you are devoting so very much of your energies toward this…”
“Everything I’ve got,” she agreed. She paused, staring down at what was left of her plate of food, and sighed. For a split second, the extreme tension filling her became visible on her face. Sherlock noticed, and suddenly deduced the reason.
“But why? Skye, are you afraid?”
“Well, I am,” she admitted.
“Of what? And do not say, ‘air guns,’” he chuckled, referencing their quotation game to denote he would permit no opportunity to divert the question.
* * *
Skye snickered, then sobered quickly.
“Sherlock, if Professor Moriarty, or more reasonably Professor Haines, had sent you a note saying he intended to have me killed, what would you have done?”
“I should whisk you into hiding promptly, then spirit you out of the vicinity, possibly even the country. Much as I did after the sabotage attempt last summer.” Firm lips compressed grimly.
“And if those murder attempts began immediately after the threat?” she pressed, returning to her fruit. “And were ongoing and continuous?”
“I would pull in all my resources, and every favour I had outstanding, exerting all my skills to—ah.” Full understanding glimmered in his eyes.
“Exactly. You’d put everything you had into ensuring my safety.”
“Yes.”
“Well, that’s kind of what I’m doing. You’re really good at observation and deduction, Sherlock. You just think like that; it comes naturally to you.”
“So are you. You are very observant and quite skilled at deductive reasoning.”
“Not the way you are, because it’s not exactly the principal way I think,” Skye confessed. “Yeah, I’m pretty good, because I do have a definite bent that way; the scientific method is real close to your deductive method. But I’ll never be as good as you are, not only because I have less experience, but because I have to…‘shift gears’ mentally, juuust a little bit, to do it,” she explained, making a tiny space between her thumb and forefinger. Then she stood and moved to the desk, setting aside the empty fruit plate just as Sherlock was beginning on his.
* * *
Silently noting her failure to completely straighten up when she stood, Sherlock rose and followed her, absently bringing his plate with him.
“Sherlock, do you see this?” Skye patted the notebook on the desk, and he glanced down at it.
At the top of the current page was a large diagram, with a good half dozen different axes marked on it, several multi-dimensional surfaces roughly sketched out, and what looked to Sherlock like the crude penciled representation of an entire ball of yarn running over the page. Beneath that, and evidently based upon it, was a large series of equations; and beneath that were several huge matrices derived from the set of equations. His eye scanned down through it, studying it with an effort: Sherlock had learned matrix algebra and tensor analysis in the time he had been with Skye. It was obvious to him that she was trying to use those equations to solve for several variables.
“Do you understand it?” she asked softly.
“More or less,” he nodded. “It takes some concentration, but yes, I can follow it.”
“This,” she tapped the page, “is how I think, Sherlock. I’m good at it because I’m one of the few people around who can readily think in multiple dimensions. I can see the branes and strings in my mind’s eye, and if the system isn’t too complex, I don’t even have to draw a diagram of the system to derive the equations and matrix. This one’s pretty complex, hence the henscratching that passes for a drawing at the top of the page, but you get the idea.”
“Yes,” Sherlock nodded, glancing from the page to his companion. He cocked an eyebrow. “Quite an amazing little mental feat here, my dear.”
Skye looked up at her husband’s impressed face with an earnest expression.
“This string instability is my ‘Professor Moriarty,’ Sherlock,” she explained intensely, not even registering his compliment. “It’s threatening, not just several entire continuums, but possibly our own. Not merely an alternate version of you and me, but you, directly. I’m protecting you, in the only way I know how.”
Silver-grey eyes narrowed to hide the ache in them, and Sherlock swallowed once, deeply touched.
“Is there any way I can help you?” he asked, a slight roughness in the deep voice the only evidence betraying his emotion.
“Oh, I don’t know,” she shrugged dismissively, then changed her mind. “Well, you just did, actually. You can always glance over my work and make sure you don’t see any glaring errors, and I’d welcome that. But I think the best thing you can do is to…look after me, make sure I eat and sleep once in awhile. Keep me going. At least around your own work on the murder case. But not if it’s gonna be too much trouble. I’m used to taking care of myself.”
“Yes, you take care of yourself—but not nearly as well as you should. I have been, and will continue to, do my best,” he promptly agreed, sliding a gentle hand across her shoulder blades. He stopped with his hand still on her back, stunned, and spread his fingers, carefully probing her shoulder muscles. “My dear girl! No wonder you have yet to fully straighten up! Your back is as stiff as any board, and harder than the stone which fronted my former lodgings. This will not do.”
“Well, I’m kinda tense,” she confessed sheepishly, turning pink.
“I should say so,” he remarked dryly. “It is high time we did something about this. Come with me.”
Sherlock discarded his empty plate, setting it on the corner of the desk, and drew her across the hall and into the bedroom of the cottage, refusing to be stopped.
“Here,” he said, pointing her toward the foot of the bed. “Undress.” He moved to the windows and pulled the curtains closed.
Skye blinked, but began disrobing without question: When her husband used that tone of voice, it brooked no denial. While she did so, Sherlock rummaged in the linen closet down the hall and extracted a thick, plush blanket. This he folded lengthwise in thirds and spread on the floor beside the bed. Then he pulled out a sheet and unfolded it, accordion pleating it and placing it lengthwise beside the blanket.
As Skye was still undressing, he exited the bedroom and headed to the kitchen. Opening the cabinets, he foraged through them, locating the various oils for cooking. He opened each bottle in turn, dribbling a few drops of oil onto his fingertips and rubbing them together before wiping his hands on a dishtowel.
“Aha!” he said at last, a triumphant smile on his face. “This will do, well enough.” He replaced all of the containers in the cabinet except the one that contained sunflower oil.
* * *
He carried the bottle of sunflower oil back to the bedroom, where Skye sat nude on the corner of the bed, awaiting his return. Grey eyes dilated slightly; but the detective said nothing.
“Now what?” she asked him.
“Lie down on the blanket,” he pointed at the floor. “Face down.”
“Ah. I know what’s coming, now,” she declared with an anticipatory grin. Skye stretched out face down on the blanket and
folded her arms, resting her forehead on them. “How’s this?”
“Perfect.” Sherlock unfolded the sheet and used it to cover her temporarily so she would not take a chill. Then he stripped down to his shorts and knelt beside her. Uncovering her torso to the waist, he picked up the bottle of oil and poured a small amount into his palm. Cupping his hands together, he warmed the oil briefly, then spread it across her back in a broad, sweeping stroke. In moments Skye was enjoying a placid, mildly sensual massage, as Sherlock moved around and over her as necessary to access her body properly.
“Mmh. Do you have any idea how good that feels?” she observed in a muffled voice. “Even better than usual, I think.”
Her husband only chuckled softly.
“You know, I’ve never thought to ask you how you learned to do this,” she murmured languidly.
“Well,” Sherlock admitted uncomfortably, “it was seldom discussed, because of the potential for, ah, misunderstanding, but…it was because of Watson.”
“What do you mean?”
“You are aware he was wounded in Afghanistan?”
“Yeah,” Skye drawled lazily, “though he was kind of inconsistent on whether it was leg or arm.”
* * *
“It was both,” Sherlock explained, continuing to work on her back, “though only the leg was a direct shot. The shoulder was ricocheted shrapnel.”
“Ow.”
“Precisely. The shrapnel remained in his shoulder, I suppose until his…” he hesitated briefly, “dying day; it was in too delicate a location to risk removing surgically, being so near the subclavian artery, yet was itself no particular risk, saving discomfort.”
“Double ow.”
“Yes. The bullet in his leg was readily removed, but it had, I fear, done significant damage to the tendons around the knee. Had he had access to the surgical techniques which you have now, it might have healed well, but as it was, there was not much to be done. Though he said little of it in the articles he wrote, from the first day I knew him, he walked with a limp,” Sherlock noted, moving down to work on his mate’s hips. “Watson was athletic, however, and had played many sports before the war, rugby most notably. Most of the time, therefore, he was spry enough, and in an emergency he could run like the devil—though it would cost him, later. But when the weather was inclement, it was a positive misery to him. And, at least before he set up his practice, he had no income other than his pension. A regular method of pain relief proved beyond his means.”
He drew a deep breath, then continued. “I have been called, even by Watson, a cold, often unemotional man. And I can be, when need demands. But when one’s closest friend is in pain day after day, even the most reserved of men must eventually respond. At first I managed to get him to my club, to enjoy the services of the masseur there. But that only worked a few times; Watson was a proud man, and he would not accept my ‘charity’ further.”
“So you learned how to give massages to ease Watson’s pain?” Skye wondered, shifting position to enable her mate to access the small of her back.
“Indeed. A few lessons from the masseur who worked upon Watson at my club, after explaining the situation especially as regards Watson’s pride, put paid to the matter, at least enough to serve the purpose. Though I will admit I had never before performed a full body massage until meeting you, my dear. I merely worked on the limited areas around Watson’s injuries. For me to have done more in that day and age would have been…anathema. But the technique is the same, and I am well aware of human anatomy, as a result of my studies, you know. It is no difficulty to ease your occasional discomforts, wife, whether due to sitting hunched over your calculations, or being thrown from one of your clients’ more recalcitrant horses.” He didn’t mention he found it a source of pleasure; he suspected she already knew.
By this time, Sherlock had reached Skye’s legs. She fell silent as he enabled her muscles to release and relax, and by the time he was ready to work the front of her body, he got no response to his soft request to roll over. He smiled to himself, a tender expression no other mortal save his wife would ever be allowed to see. Then he carefully scooped his forearms under her and turned her onto her back, so he could begin on the more delicate musculature of her chest and abdomen.
When he was finally finished with his ministrations, it was patently obvious from her respiration that Skye was in a profoundly deep sleep. Sherlock found himself mildly disappointed; he had hoped the session might end differently, but it was far more important in his mind that she rested properly. So he wrapped her with the sheet, stood, and turned down the bedcovers. Then he returned, lifted her in his arms, and tucked her ever so gently into bed.
He took a quick shower to remove the residue of the oil on his own skin before getting dressed once more. Then the detective wandered to the study, where he sat down at the desk and reviewed his wife’s calculations in more detail.
The Case of the Cosmological Killer:
Endings and Beginnings
Chapter 1 — A Different Game is Afoot
SKYE WAS SLEEPING PEACEFULLY IN THEIR bed in Gibson House, and Sherlock was deep in her hyperdimensional equations, reviewing them with all the grey matter he possessed, when a whiff of ozone reached his nostrils.
“Good day to you both,” he said into the air without raising his head. “How are matters progressing?”
“We have hopes,” his own voice came back to him. “The experiment devised by the firm of Chadwick & Chadwick, Limited, looks to prove successful.” Holmes’ voice was tinged with humor. “Or perhaps I should say, Chadwick & Chadwick-Holmes, Limited.”
“I am glad to hear it,” Sherlock said softly.
“Speaking of Skye, where is she?” Chadwick wondered. “I wanted to give her the experimental setup and double-check for updates. We told her we’d come back at this time.”
“Oh, I am sorry. I am afraid she did not mention that,” Sherlock raised his head and shot a regretful but firm glance in the direction of the voices, knowing that the other Holmes would read his thought in his expression. “She is in bed, soundly asleep. She worked most of the night and barely ate at all today. I finally convinced her to take tea with me, and then discovered she was too inflexible to even stand upright. She permitted me to manipulate her musculature sufficient to release the kinks, but by the time I had done so, she was in a deep sleep. She is nigh exhausted.”
* * *
“Damn,” Chadwick breathed.
“He has a point, Chadwick,” Holmes observed quietly, referring to the refusal to awaken Skye he had noted in the other man’s face. “It does us no good if she exhausts herself on our behalf, and falls short of the mark when her body and mind cannot take any more.”
“I know,” Chadwick agreed. “That’s what I meant, not, ‘damn, she didn’t get the work done.’ She’s me, remember? And she’s pushing herself as hard as I do.”
“It appears so,” Holmes agreed. “And that is saying quite a bit.”
* * *
“Is that her work you were looking over?” Chadwick asked Sherlock.
“It is,” Sherlock admitted.
“Can you make anything of it?” Holmes wondered.
“I can,” Sherlock confirmed. “And it looks good, insofar as it goes. But it is incomplete. And as I have not been in this continuum as long as you have been in yours, I do not have sufficient knowledge of the science as yet to consider even attempting to complete it for her.”
“You are the expert here, Chadwick,” Holmes admitted somewhat grudgingly. “What do you wish to do?”
“Might I make a suggestion?” Sherlock offered.
“Please,” Chadwick said.
“Dial back in around noon tomorrow,” Sherlock advised. “It will not delay your experiment overmuch; for you, it is a matter of minutes. And this will give Skye time to ‘catch up’ her sleep—she has slept scarcely more than ten or twelve hours total in some three days—and I will see to it that she eats properly whenever she awaken
s. Then she will have the morning to complete her calculations here,” he waved the notebook at them, “and she can give them to you at noon, then eat lunch.”
“Ha! I know what you are doing,” Holmes discerned with amusement. “Just as I—just as we—once managed Watson’s finances to ensure he did not come to ruin, you are taking control of her schedule to ensure she obtains adequate rest and nourishment. I have been known to do that once or twice with Chadwick, here.”
“And, I would suspect,” Sherlock retorted with the faintest hint of a smile, “she has likely done the same with you, on more than one occasion.”
“She has,” Holmes admitted, and this time Sherlock did not hear begrudging in the other man’s tone. “We four can become amazingly single-minded when need drives us.”
“Indeed,” Sherlock nodded.
There was a brief silence, and Sherlock could picture Chadwick gazing at Holmes with a sort of grateful, wistful expression. Open your eyes, man, and see the treasure you have in front of you, before it is too late, he thought with some vehemence. Eventually Chadwick spoke again, and this time there was a soft smile in her voice.
“That sounds like a plan, Mr. Holmes, and we’ll follow it. Tell Skye we’ll see her at noon tomorrow. Meanwhile, you take good care of her, okay?”
“As much as in me lies,” Sherlock nodded.
“Which is considerable,” Chadwick chuckled.
The air crackled, another surge of ozone wafted through the room, and they were gone.
* * *
The other continuum checked in the next day, and a refreshed Skye had some refined numbers for them. Then they disappeared for a few days, during which time Sherlock insisted that Skye rest more than usual. She still spent time jotting alternative theories and equations into her notebook, however. This meant that Sherlock was, to some extent, bound to Gibson House to ensure Skye didn’t dive head-first back into her calculations, but took at least some rest, and ate properly and on time.
The Case of the Displaced Detective Page 101