“I think we should consider the matter carefully before taking the next step,” Sherlock noted. “Handled incorrectly, the whole truth comes out. Yet we cannot afford to wait too long; we know another is intent on finding his way into the sarcophagus.”
“Whoever it is can’t possibly know what’s in there,” Ryker pointed out. “It’s a death warrant to go in any farther than we went today.”
“That is likely so. Still, it is just possible that they are after either exposing the base, or obtaining the radioactive fuel for their own nefarious purposes. In the which case, they will know how to approach the deadly material contained within. Wife, you have been uncharacteristically silent on the matter, and you are the scientist specialising in the subject. What say you, Skye?” he addressed her as she re-entered the room.
“Um…what, Sherlock?” Skye glanced up at them with a blank expression. “I’m sorry, I’m afraid I…wasn’t listening. I’m kind of tired.” She shivered. “Honey, could you start a fire in the fireplace? I’m freezing.”
“I’ll get it, Holmes,” Ryker offered, moving to the fireplace in the sitting room and kneeling. “You go ahead and catch her up on what we’ve been saying. Can’t say as I blame you, Boss; it’s been a stressful day, and I’m tired, too. Not to mention the wind was pretty stiff out there in the field, and you’re smaller than the rest of us.”
“Certainly,” Sherlock agreed. “And you do have a point, Ryker. Poor Skye is probably half frozen; I should have considered urging her inside the lorry, out of the wind, instead of standing about with us. My dear, we were discussing how to proceed with the reactor and the damaged containment sarcophagus. We are trying to find some happy medium between acting with all due haste to prevent a calamity, and preventing word of the underground base from leaking.”
* * *
Skye struggled to listen to her detective husband as a chill went through her frame; she was exhausted beyond reasonable explanation, and only wanted to lie down and sleep. Momentary dizziness gripped her, and she fought it down to answer Holmes.
“I think maybe we need t-to…sleep on it,” she murmured wearily. “Leave the guards on it tonight and decide what to do tomorrow. Maybe slap a guard perimeter around it…”
“But if we put a lot of guards on it, then anyone watching will KNOW something’s up,” Ryker observed, having laid the logs on the grate atop the kindling. He struck a match and held it to the kindling. With a cheery crackle, it lit.
“After today’s exercises, they will likely know in any case,” Holmes said, watching the logs catch and the flames leap up. “Guards are definitely in order, and I am glad for tonight’s detail, but they should—”
Another wave of dizziness, far stronger than the first, assailed Skye, and this time she could not fight it off. She staggered, stumbled, then fell to the Persian rug.
* * *
With an exclamation of distress, Holmes spun, leapt the coffee table and knelt beside his wife, laying a hand on her shoulder.
“Great Scot, she’s burning up! Ryker, is your unit still outside?”
“Yes, sir! You want me to fetch Dr. Wilder?”
“Please. Make haste. By the feel of her, Skye is quite ill.” The detective lifted his wife and laid her on the sofa nearby as Ryker sprinted out the front door.
Two minutes later Ryker was back with Dr. Wilder. The physician moved immediately to the couch with her medical kit and knelt. Holmes eased aside to allow access for the medic as she took Skye’s vitals. After a few more anxious minutes, the physician raised her head.
“It’s a nasty case of influenza,” Dr. Wilder diagnosed, and Holmes tensed, feeling the blood drain from his face. “Looks to be the very strain we immunized for this year, which is surprising. Did Mrs. Holmes not take a flu shot this year?”
“No,” Holmes sighed, dismayed. “She reacts rather violently to them, I have it to understand. So, as she was not working on the base this past autumn, and in fact interacting little with the populace as a whole, she opted not to take it.”
“She still should have had it before flying over here,” Wilder pondered. “Vaccinations like that are de rigueur for international travel these days.”
“The good Lord knows, she had everything else,” Holmes noted with distaste, despite his anxiety. “Roughly a week prior to our wedding, my poor wife was made a miserable pincushion—which is something I have experienced firsthand myself. It must have been an inadvertent oversight. I wondered, at the time, why she submitted to them. I did not know we were coming, as the trip was a gift, or I might otherwise have made certain all was properly done.”
“Have you had the shot, Mr. Holmes?” Wilder pressed.
“Yes. I did do some consulting on the base in the autumn, so I was required to have it, as well as a few others. I am quite up to date on my vaccinations.”
“Well, that’s something,” Wilder decided with relief. The group fell silent as Wilder tended the sick woman.
* * *
Influenza, Holmes thought, clenching his jaw against the roiling sensation in his gut. The same thing that made Watson nearly despair of me in the Russian outbreak. The same thing that killed a million people around the world, only a couple of years before I came to this continuum. And my wife has the damnable stuff. God, help me. God, help HER.
* * *
“How serious is it?” Holmes finally asked the physician in a distinctly subdued manner. “Will she…survive?”
Dr. Wilder blinked in surprise, then suddenly remembered to whom she was speaking: A man who had lived through at least one deadly pandemic long before the advent of modern antiviral medications, and for whom the term influenza was not to be taken lightly. His experience gave him reason to be concerned, she concluded.
“Not to worry, Mr. Holmes. Influenza is much less serious nowadays than it used to be—at least this strain is, though there are a few potentially fatal ones out there. Mrs. Holmes is in no danger, unless her fever runs very high. Some tender loving care, and she’ll be fine in a few days’ time.”
* * *
Thank God, Holmes thought, relieved. He closed his eyes briefly and nodded silently. “What needs doing?”
“Oh, I’ll give her an antiviral here in a moment, and some decongestants for use later. Then it’s a matter of keeping an eye on her fever. If it spikes up around 39.5º or so, start lukewarm sponge baths. Other than that, acetaminophen and plenty of fluids are the rule. Keep her in bed and make sure she rests.”
“Thirty-nine and a half degrees…centigrade?” Holmes verified.
“Oh, that’s right. You’re probably used to the old Imperial System of units. Yes, that would be around, uhm, 103º or 104º Fahrenheit. Do you have a thermometer of some sort?”
“Not here, no.”
“Okay, I’ll get you set up,” Wilder offered. She extracted an electronic oral thermometer from her medical kit and demonstrated to Holmes how to use it, then set it aside on the coffee table and turned her attention to her patient. “Mrs. Holmes? Are you awake?”
“Mmh,” Skye groaned, rousing from her fever induced lethargy. “Yeah.”
“Brae, go fetch a glass of water,” Wilder ordered, and the captain was off to the kitchen, returning seconds later with the requested drink. Taking the glass, she addressed Skye again. “Mrs. Holmes, you need to take some medications, love. Can you sit up for me?”
With an effort, and a certain detective’s supportive arm at her back, Skye pushed into a seated position. Wilder handed her the glass of water, then got out several different tablets and capsules from her kit.
“This is an antiviral, and this is acetaminophen, and here’s a decongestant,” the doctor explained, handing over each medicine in turn. “Down the hatch, now.”
Skye popped the pills into her mouth, washing them down with a mouthful of the water. She started to set the glass aside, but the medic stopped her.
“Drink it on down, dear,” the physician urged. “I want you properly hydrated.�
�
“I’m freezing,” Skye murmured, obediently sipping the water.
“I know, love,” Wilder said sympathetically. “Your fever’s around 38.5º C. I expect you feel like someone’s beating on you, too.”
“Yeah,” Skye sighed, setting the empty glass aside and leaning back. “I ache all over. And I’ve got concrete setting up in my head.”
“Yup, that’ll be the flu,” Wilder nodded confidently. “Mr. Holmes, get your wife to bed; I’d recommend stripping her down and keeping a sheet and maybe a light blanket over her tonight. If you have to sponge her down to lower her fever, concentrate on areas where there’s lots of blood vessels. That’d be areas like—”
“The throat, the wrists, the underarms, backs of the knees, the feet,” Holmes nodded knowledgeably. “And other, more private areas. I have some knowledge of anatomy, doctor; thank you most kindly.”
“Do you need any help, mate?” Ryker queried, as Holmes bent over his ill spouse, placing his hand on her forehead to feel her temperature, before allowing it to slide down and cup her cheek for the briefest instant. The affectionate gesture was barely noticeable, but Skye looked up at him gratefully.
“Not at the moment, Ryker,” Holmes decided. “But I thank you.”
“Brae and I’ll pop back by in the morning to check on her, Mr. Holmes,” Wilder noted. “Would you like a nurse tonight? I can arrange for Mrs. Holmes to have one for the next several days. That way, you can continue your investigation.”
“I…” Holmes paused, torn. There was a time when I would not have hesitated to accept, he thought. She should be in no danger; yet, if her fever rises too high, I fear it could damage that delightful intellect. And therein does lie danger. For she is needed to help stop the deterioration of the other continuum, and by extension, possibly our own. No, I cannot leave her in the hands of a stranger, even one of the Secret Service. Too much is at stake. Still, I may need the assistance of a nurse, if Skye becomes very ill.
“Let us see how the night goes, Doctor,” Holmes decided. “Not for tonight, not unless she grows worse—in the which case I shall contact you at once. Tomorrow, if she IS worse, I may need a nurse’s assistance, for I fear I am no nursemaid. But for now, I shall endeavour to tend my own wife.”
“What about the cave, Holmes?” Ryker wondered.
“We left a clandestine guard on it overnight. It might be wise to set up a shift schedule, sufficient for several days. I dare not leave Skye until her fever has gone down—the matter of the other continuum takes higher precedence than the murder case and the cave.” He scooped up Skye and headed for the hall.
“How do you figure that?” Dr. Wilder wondered, surprised.
Holmes paused and turned back to look at them. Skye’s head lolled tiredly against his shoulder as he observed, “It is my understanding that, if the other continuum collapses, it would likely take a number of continua with it, almost certainly including our own. I cannot speak for you, Dr. Wilder, but in my estimation, the dissolution of our entire reality trumps the potential exposure of a secret military base.”
Then he turned and carried his wife to the bedroom, as Ryker let himself and Dr. Wilder out.
* * *
Sherlock carried Skye into the bedroom, got her undressed and tucked into bed. She lay there miserably, shivering violently, even after he pulled the covers over her and tucked her in. He frowned as he watched her by the light of the bedside lamp.
“Skye, would you like some dinner, my dear?”
“N-no,” she murmured despondently. “Not hungry. Just wanna lay here and die.”
“Come now! Let us not use such morbid language, Skye.”
“’Member how you felt after all your vaccinations last spring?” Skye reminded him somewhat tartly.
“Yes, I do indeed.” Holmes winced, recalling.
“Okay, then. Lemme ‘lone.”
My, someone gets grumpy when she feels unwell, Holmes decided in fond amusement. Not, I suppose, that I have room to talk. If she can deal with my fiendish temper, I can certainly deal with hers. She is starting to sound distinctly congested, also.
He considered for a moment, realizing he was hungry, then suggested, “Would you mind if I ate?”
“No, go ‘head,” Skye agreed affably, turning to face him and curling on her side in an effort to feel warm. “You’ve had a long day, too. Go eat, an’ I’ll just lie here an’ try to rest. ’Ventually that medicine’s gotta kick in. Then maybe I c’n go to sleep.”
“Very well. I will return shortly. In the meanwhile, do try to rest.”
He left the bedroom and returned several minutes later with a sandwich in hand. Sitting on the bedside, he ate it silently, resting one hand lightly on Skye’s blanket swathed hip as he did so. She sighed.
“That feels good,” she observed quietly.
“What does?”
“Your hand. Just to know you’re there.”
That clinched Holmes’ decision. It is quite early, he considered, but if it helps her to feel better… He polished off the last of the sandwich, then disrobed.
“Move over,” he murmured, sliding in beside her. “There. Now, come here.” Gathering her close, he lifted her until he could cradle her in his arms, bringing his knees up on either side of her body to complete the effect. “How does this feel?” He settled the covers over them both.
“Ohh,” she sighed, relaxing against him. “Warm and comf’ble.”
“Good. Now settle back and try to sleep, my dear wife.”
“Okay…” Another sigh escaped Skye, and she snuggled against him, falling into a fitful sleep within minutes.
Holmes’ smile grew deeper. He himself relaxed, under the influence of comfort, a bellyful of food, the nearness of his mate, and the warmth of her fevered body.
Five minutes later, he too was asleep.
* * *
He woke several hours later. The alarm clock read 11:04. The bedside lamp was still on. Skye was squirming restlessly and had managed to work her way off his limp slumbering form, though she had not herself awakened. His hand to her bare skin told the tale: Holmes rose in haste and went in search of the thermometer Dr. Wilder had left.
Returning with it, he sat on the bed and gently shook Skye by the shoulder. When her eyes finally opened, he murmured, “Here, my dear, let me take your temperature,” and promptly stuck the device into her mouth. Sixty seconds later it beeped, and he read the tiny screen, then took a deep breath. “104.3º. And not yet time to take more of the prescription febrifuge. This is not good.” He gazed down into glazed azure eyes, adding, “Stay here, my dear. I will be right back.”
She nodded weakly, and he laid the thermometer on the nightstand, stood and headed for the bathroom, coming back with a bowl of lukewarm water and a washcloth.
“Now it is my turn to return the favour of last spring,” he smiled at her, dipping the cloth into the water and wringing it out.
Gently Holmes tugged the covers away and wiped the damp cloth across his wife’s skin, moistening her throat, shoulders and breasts. Her breath caught as he skimmed the cloth over her left breast, and her eyes widened in alarm as she stared up at him.
“I…where am I?” she whispered, peering at him with eyes that wouldn’t quite focus. “What are you doing?”
“You are in our cottage in Suffolk, my dear,” Holmes explained, disturbed by her confusion. “You have a bad case of influenza, and your fever is quite high. I am trying to lower your temperature.”
“You’re…I’m…who are you?” Skye asked, and Holmes froze.
“You…do not know me?” he breathed, shocked.
“You…” Skye shook her head. She glanced down the length of her nude body, then looked up with troubled eyes. “I should know…no, I don’t know.” She blinked slowly, then scanned his naked form. “I’m cold, and I hurt. And I’m scared. Are you a doctor? Why aren’t you…?” She gestured jerkily, indicating his unclad state.
Oh, dear God, he thought in
horror as a shudder ran through him. “I am your husband, Skye,” he murmured, trying to jog her memory. “I am Sherlock. Your ‘very own Sherlock.’ Can you remember? Try hard, my dear.”
Her forehead creased, and she frowned. “Mama,” she said finally. “I want Mama. Is Mama here?”
Holmes swallowed hard, pain filling him. Not only did he feel rejected by the plea, but also he could not possibly remind his wife that her mother was dead while she was in her current condition.
“No, Skye, Mama is not here. But I will take good care of you, this I swear.”
Does she remember nothing of the last year? he wondered in dismay. Nothing of our marriage, of my arrival in this continuum, even of her parents’ horrific deaths? Then another thought struck him with the force of a sledgehammer, and he grew alarmed. “I want Mama” is a CHILD’S CRY…
By this point, the detective was in a state of agony. Skye does not know me. She is afraid because we are both nude and she does not recognise the man whose hands are upon her body. Good Lord, if this does not resolve itself upon lowering her fever, she is lost to me. And if she has suffered irreversible brain damage, if she truly has reverted to a childlike state, then our universe and many others are lost, as well.
He temporarily set aside the bowl and washcloth, reaching for his dressing gown to help alleviate Skye’s fear, but by this time she was delirious, unaware of her surroundings, and murmuring incoherently about handkerchiefs and insects. Nevertheless he donned the garment, cinching it closed, before returning to bathing her.
Long thin fingers, used to ferreting out clues, trembled as they gently swabbed Skye’s body. Dear God, he thought, almost desperate, in Your tender mercies, do not take her from me; I shall have nothing. And our world, and many like it, may very well collapse.
The telephone rang just then. Holmes set aside the bowl of water, throwing the washcloth in its general direction, before sprinting into the sitting room to answer the instrument.
The Case of the Displaced Detective Page 104