The Case of the Displaced Detective

by Stephanie Osborn

  “Of course,” Skye murmured politely, continuing to concentrate on the calculations her doppelganger had made.

  “Sure, Holmes, go ahead,” Chadwick agreed. “You had that big cup of coffee before we came downstairs.”

  “Precisely,” Holmes muttered, the barest hint of what might have been embarrassment in his tone. “I also find myself in need of sustenance, as I had little breakfast this morning; I shall return shortly.”

  “Oh, hey, if you feel like it, bring a snackie my way when you come back,” Chadwick suggested. “I wouldn’t mind something to nibble on, myself.”

  “Very well,” Holmes said amiably.

  There was the sound of a chair scraping back, then footsteps retreating. A door closed, and all was silent.

  “This looks good, Sis,” Skye decided after a few moments, looking up. “I think we’re getting really close.”

  “Okay, flip to page 208 and look at the observational data,” Chadwick suggested.

  Skye did so, and scanned through the table there. “Oh, that’s bang on,” she said after only a few seconds.

  “I thought so,” Chadwick agreed. “But take a look at row twelve, column four. Does that data point look off to you?”

  “Mmm…” Skye considered. “No, not too badly. Lemme see…” She turned to the desk and scrabbled in a drawer, extracting a calculator. Fingers tapping like a machine gun, she entered data points rapidly, then calculated the mean and standard deviation. “No, it’s within the standard deviation, Hon, by a good twenty percent.”

  “Good,” Chadwick said. “I hadn’t had time to work the statistics on it yet. I was considering throwing out that point.”

  “No, it looks like you’ve got good data, all the way through,” Skye said. “But we can go through it point by point, if you want to.”

  “I think I do,” Chadwick said.

  “Okay,” Skye agreed. “You got a copy?”

  “Yep.”

  “Okay. Point one: three point oh four five, ten fifty-six point three seven.”

  “What was the standard deviation again?”

  “Oh, it was…lemme see…”

  * * *

  While Holmes was gone, the two women looked over the experimental results once more.

  “Looks good to me,” Skye finally decided, mildly nasal; it was nearing time for her medications. “I think we’ve got our confirmation, in spades.”

  “I’d say so,” Chadwick agreed. “When Holmes comes back, we’ll get started.”

  “Okay.”

  * * *

  “Um, Skye, changing the subject a minute—can I ask a question?” Chadwick wondered hesitantly, her mind temporarily slipping away from the tesseract and its readings. “Something kinda personal?”

  “Uh, I guess so,” Skye agreed uncertainly. “I may not answer, if it’s too personal, but you can ask.”

  “Fair enough,” Chadwick said. “I don’t think it’ll be anything really bad. I was just wondering…does your Holmes…love you?”

  “Oh yeah, no question,” Skye informed her other self with a grin. “He loves me.”

  * * *

  Sherlock came in through the door to the garage, doffing his coat and hat as he did. He heard the soft back and forth sounds of a conversation, exclusively in his wife’s tones, and knew the tesseract was active. He nodded to himself, his lips compressing slightly, and headed for the study.

  But as he approached the door of that room, he began to piece together the topic of discussion. This is not a tesseract brainstorm session. They are conversing about me, and about our marriage, he realized in some disquiet. Surely Skye would not disclose any… personal…private…information…

  He stopped in the hall, listening, perturbed and mildly bewildered.

  * * *

  “But…how do you KNOW he loves you?” Chadwick wondered.

  “He tells me,” Skye said simply.

  “TELLS you?” Chadwick nearly blurted in her amazement. “You mean he actually SAYS, ‘I love you, Skye’?”

  “Sometimes, but not very often.” Skye laughed. “He’ll talk all the way around it, though. Like maybe I say, ‘I love you, Sherlock,’ and he answers, ‘And I, you, my dear.’”

  “Hah!” Chadwick exclaimed. “Everything BUT the L word.”

  “Right. See, Sherlock…” she paused, trying to figure out how to explain while keeping faith with her husband’s privacy. “Sis, have you ever heard the expression, ‘Still waters run deep’?”

  “Yeah,” Chadwick said succinctly.

  “Well, that’s Sherlock,” Skye noted. “Mine and yours both. The things that mean the most to him, the emotions that run the deepest, are the hardest for him to say. So—this might sound odd—the fact that he’s only able to say those words to me once in awhile is one of the surest proofs I’ve got that he really does love me.”

  “Oh,” Chadwick murmured thoughtfully.

  * * *

  Hidden in the hallway, Sherlock stood listening. It had not yet reached his consciousness that what he was doing might be construed as eavesdropping, and as a detective, such things mattered little to him anyway. He now knew his wife would not say anything behind his back to which he would object, and he was fascinated by this conversation.

  I have long known she understands me better than any other, he thought, but really! I had no idea her comprehension of my being was this…complete. He pondered for a moment. I am glad she…knows…

  He eased silently toward the door, intent on watching his wife as she discussed their relationship.

  * * *

  “But that’s not the only way I know,” Skye continued. “I realized pretty quickly that he had ways of telling me how he felt without ever saying a word.”

  “What do you mean?” Chadwick asked, curious.

  “Oh,” Skye shrugged, just as Sherlock peered surreptitiously around the doorframe. “There’s a way he can look at me, for instance; it’s his way of telling me he thinks I look nice, he likes my outfit and stuff, without saying anything. You might have seen it once or twice—his eyes start at my head and go all the way to my feet, then he reverses it and moves back up to my face. He meets my eyes, and then his own eyes crinkle like he’s going to smile, only he doesn’t, quite.”

  * * *

  In the Chamber, Chadwick sat at the console, stunned.

  “Y-yes,” she stammered slightly, “yes, I think I’ve seen that.”

  HELL yes, I’ve seen that, the scientist thought, startled. I’ve seen that in “my own” Holmes—though I don’t guess I really have the right to call him mine. I’ve often wondered what he was thinking, when he did that. Not, I suppose, that it matters, or really means anything. Other than, “I like what you’re wearing,” I guess.

  She sighed and turned her attention back to her counterpart in the other continuum.

  * * *

  “And there are other ways he ‘tells’ me,” Skye went on. “Once in awhile I’ll find a flower left somewhere for me, usually a lupine.”

  “My—your—our favorite flower,” Chadwick noted, stumbling over which possessive pronoun to use.

  “Exactly,” Skye smiled. “Last September, he found out I loved a particular Celtic singer. So imagine the monumental coincidence when a CD of that singer’s latest album showed up on the kitchen table one morning about a week later.”

  “Aww!” Chadwick chortled, delighted. “That was sweet.”

  Sherlock flushed in embarrassment, still peeping around the doorframe, undetected.

  “And there are other, day to day things,” Skye added. “Like the way he’ll say my name, or the way he touches me. And I almost never have to tell him I’m hungry anymore—one glance at me, and he’s suddenly declaring it’s time to eat. I swear, lately he knows I’m hungry way before I know myself.”

  Chadwick chuckled, then sobered. “You know, Holmes does that a lot, too,” she murmured thoughtfully. “‘Mine,’ I mean.”

  “We’re all so darned obsessed with
our work,” Skye pointed out, “we have to look after each other, I guess.”

  “I guess,” Chadwick agreed.

  * * *

  The door of the Chamber opened quietly, and Holmes put his head through, intent on asking Chadwick what she wanted to eat. A quick glance took in the posture of both “his” Chadwick and Dr. Chadwick-Holmes, and he instantly realized that the two women were deep in a discussion of their respective companions. His own surname on Chadwick’s lips provided confirmation of his deduction.

  He paused, uncertain, in the doorway. Do I really want to hear this? he wondered, brow creasing in sadness.

  Holmes stood there for only a couple of seconds before silently withdrawing.

  * * *

  “So do you love him?” Chadwick asked. “I mean, it sure looks like you’re nuts about him.”

  “Oh, I am,” Skye grinned. “I’m crazy about him. I’m surprised you even had to ask, after the beta burn scare.”

  Warmth flooded the detective who stood just outside the study door.

  “Why?” Chadwick wondered. “I mean, what is it about him you find so appealing? He can be so…”

  “Sharp?” Skye grinned. “Distant? He can, but it’s important to remember he never means it personally, Sis. There’s a caring heart underneath his reserve. And that’s one of the things I love about him. Not to mention, he’s handsome! I don’t think a day has gone by since he arrived in this continuum that I haven’t made a mental note of just how good-looking he is!”

  “Well, he is, that,” Chadwick agreed with a smirk.

  The two women giggled, and Sherlock flushed again. I did not know she thought that, he considered. I knew she found me appealing, but handsome? After the likes of “our dear Lily” and similar, I had long since assumed such matters of appearance were beyond my purview.

  “And there’s his intelligence—the man’s a positive genius, but I don’t have to tell you that,” Skye noted. “And he has so many talents! His makeup, and acting, and the violin, and—has he ever drawn anything for you?”

  “He’s done one or two design sketches for the tesseract,” Chadwick admitted. “They were really good, very precise and detailed.”

  “Get him to sit down and just draw something for you, something out of his own head,” Skye suggested. “He’s really amazing.”

  “I’ll do that,” Chadwick decided.

  “And his sense of humor,” Skye continued, face breaking into a broad, affectionate smile. “I never realized, from reading the stories, just what a devilish mischief he can be.”

  “But there are hints in the stories, even so,” Chadwick grinned. “I know exactly what you mean there…although Holmes doesn’t laugh much anymore. Neither of us does, I guess. We’ve been in too serious a situation for too long. I sometimes think it’s a wonder he and I are still speaking to each other.”

  * * *

  “Well, that’s where the caring comes in, I’d say,” Skye said shrewdly. “No matter what happened between you, and I’m not gonna ask, but I know you’d stick by him regardless, because it’s what I’d do. And I know he has to understand you’re fighting with everything you’ve got, and you’re under a lot of stress, and he’ll make allowances. He may not always understand precisely why you react the way you do,” she added, recalling Holmes’ puzzlement in more than one recent incident, “but he understands the root cause, I think. He cares, Skye, I’m sure of it. He just doesn’t know how to show it…and he may not even quite realize it.”

  Chadwick sighed. “Well, we’d better get back to work, or the whole thing is gonna be moot,” she pointed out. “There’s no relationship here or there, if the continuums collapse.”

  “True,” Skye murmured, sobering. “Let me see those results again…”

  * * *

  A deeply gratified Sherlock slipped silently back to the mudroom, where he opened the garage door and closed it firmly. “Skye?” he called, fiddling with the coat and hat hanging on the rack.

  “In the study, Sherlock. The Other Me and I are in here working. C’mon in. She’ll defocus for you.”

  “Very well,” he called back, then recalled some important issues raised in her recent discussion. “Have you eaten lately?”

  “No, I was waiting for you.”

  “Very well, I shall pop by the kitchen and put together some sandwiches, and be right in,” Sherlock offered.

  “Actually, there’s already some made in the fridge,” Skye informed him. “Just grab ‘em, slap ‘em on the tray I left on the table, pour some tea, and bring it all in.”

  “And here comes Holmes, with a tray for us, too,” Chadwick’s voice added. “Thanks, Hon.”

  Within five minutes, both couples were eating lunch, while discussing the experimental results, and their likely significance, across the wormhole.

  * * *

  Right after lunch, the phone call came in. Sherlock took it as the other him, and the two Skyes, resumed work.

  “Mm,” he murmured. Skye looked up.

  “What is it, Honey?”

  Sherlock held up one finger, listening intently, and the others silenced.

  After several more moments, he replied, “Very well; thank you, Beasley. I shall notify Ryker directly.” The detective hung up the phone and turned to his wife and their doubles. “Fereaud and Cunningham came by the cottage in Melton, stayed a scant three minutes, and left as if the place were on fire. MI5 surveillance tried to track them this time, but still lost them on the A12 in the after-lunch rush.”

  “Damnation,” Holmes muttered.

  “Precisely,” Sherlock agreed sharply, annoyed by the fact. “I intend to run over to the McFarlane farm to inform Ryker directly, and see how the cave closure efforts are proceeding. It is entirely likely that they are headed there, deciding to rush their plans to conclusion.”

  “All right, Honey,” Skye said, standing and giving him a light peck on the cheek. “I’d tell you to be careful, but I know you always are.”

  “I shall return as soon as may be,” Sherlock noted, accepting the chaste kiss and returning it in like manner.

  “Okay. I’m here working,” Skye agreed.

  The three returned to their data as Sherlock left the house at speed.

  * * *

  The trio continued to work intently, trying to coordinate their efforts, for over an hour, when Holmes glanced at his instrumentation.

  “Ladies,” he interjected into their soft give and take conversation, “I am seeing a particular pattern developing on my instruments.”

  “Whatcha got?” Chadwick wondered.

  “It is the same sequence of readouts I have seen before, shortly before an instability wave comes through,” Holmes noted.

  “Shit. You sure?” Chadwick verified.

  “Very,” Holmes confirmed. “I strongly recommend defocusing in order to protect Brother Other Me’s wife. We can, hopefully, focus back in when it has passed.”

  “Do it,” Chadwick ordered. “Catch you in a bit, Sis, if all goes well.”

  “It will,” Skye encouraged. “Hang in there. I’ll be here.”

  “Gone,” Holmes declared.

  There was a soft pop, and a sense of aloneness in the house. Skye nodded to herself, and bent back over the notebook, intent on making the last of the adjustments to the calculations, while some part of her mind wondered when Sherlock would get back, and if he would be in any sort of mood for dinner.

  * * *

  Outside Gibson House, near the kitchen garden door, two men crouched in the winter shrubbery. They glanced at each other; the taller one nodded and jerked his head at the door. The shorter of the two produced a lock-pick kit and moved to the door to begin work.

  * * *

  In the other continuum, Chadwick and Holmes watched the readouts on Holmes’ instrumentation, trying to ascertain a method of predicting the instability waves. In the tesseract core, Skye could still be seen, bent over the desk, scanning through the notebook and occasionally anno
tating what was there. But there was no longer a direct connection with her continuum.

  “Rest energy of closed-loop strings beginning to peak,” Holmes noted, pointing at the computer screen graphic. “When the readings reach…” he put his finger at a point on the vertical axis, “here…we should experience a tremor.”

  The pair watched the graph climb inexorably toward Holmes’ finger.

  Just then, they heard Skye scream.

  Blonde head and black shot up to look over the console at the core.

  “Damnation!” Holmes cried, leaping to his feet.

  “Oh, SHIT!” Chadwick exclaimed simultaneously.

  For the core depicted Skye, in her study, attempting to fight off two men. One was tall, with brown hair and blue eyes; the other possessed Gallic features and a dark complexion.

  Just then, the graph hit the critical mark. And abruptly jumped past it.

  “Hang on!” Chadwick cried, grabbing Holmes and yanking him back into his seat.

  The Chamber felt as if a meteor had hit it.

  * * *

  “Let…me…GO!” Skye cried, struggling against the two men as they manhandled her, attempting to get a solid grip on her. Papers slid off the desk onto the floor. “What do you think you’re doing?!”

  “Getting ourselves a little insurance,” the tall man said in a patently northeastern American accent—Brooklyn in Skye’s estimation—as he batted away her fist. He kicked the desk chair out of the way, and it overturned. “That husband of yours won’t be so damn hot to get in our way if we’ve got his pretty little wife, now, will he?”

  “You have no idea,” Skye ground out through gritted teeth, clawing and slapping and punching and kicking at the men. The short man drew back and swung at her, but Skye ducked, and he struck the computer monitor instead, overturning it. “Get away from me!” Snatching up a handy paperweight, she flung it at the short man, who also ducked.

  But her energy was still low from her illness, and within moments, Skye’s wrists were pinned behind her back by Fereaud, while Cunningham tied them together. They gagged and blindfolded her; then the heavily muscled Fereaud casually threw her across his shoulder and carried her out the back door. They made their way through the kitchen garden, scrambled over the low stone wall, and down a hedge-lined alley to their waiting vehicle.