* * *
“That does not surprise me,” Sherlock nodded, gaze thoughtful. “She is faithful and constant, is Skye. Do you know, I very nearly broke her, when I…” He cut off what he had been about to say, and stared fixedly across the fields and hedgerows. A hint of pain glimmered deep in the grey eyes.
“I fear I did,” came the low response.
“What is broken may be mended,” Sherlock said calmly. “If mending is desired.”
“I…do not know how,” Holmes confessed softly. “Did you have a…misunderstanding, as well?”
* * *
“Though we did so term it at the time, and sometimes still do on the rare occasions when it is referenced, I do not think I should call it a true misunderstanding, looking back at it,” Sherlock considered. “We understood each other perfectly. The problem was that for the first time I did not understand myself; and Skye, used to a confident, certain Sherlock, did not realise this. I have never felt more confused, or more wretched, in my life than that day…” His voice tapered off as he recalled the intense pain of their estrangement. A soft sigh was his only agreement.
“And yet,” Holmes finally said, “the two of you moved past it.”
“We did,” Sherlock verified. “There were several things that wanted doing.”
“And they were?”
“First, I had to admit to the truth,” Sherlock confessed, waving his pipe in the air for emphasis. “Like it or not. Truth is truth, and there is no gainsaying it. And the truth was that I was tied to this woman, body and soul.”
Silence came from the other side of the tesseract.
“Secondly, I had to decide what to do about it,” he continued. “How was I going to act upon this knowledge? Had Skye not brought the word ‘love’ into play so quickly, I have sometimes wondered if we might have settled into a comfortable relationship allowing time for the thought to grow in me, of its own accord. But with that large heart of hers, Skye tends to emotional, though not intellectual, impulsiveness; it is one of the things I…” he paused, “love…about her.”
“So you were forced to choose,” Holmes agreed. “Accept, or reject.”
“Precisely,” Sherlock noted. “But the decision was not all on my side. I fully expected to be told to pack my things and go. It would have been well within Skye’s prerogative; by her lights, and with the information she had to hand, I had behaved the utter cad. She could not know the battle raging within, or how that battle centred upon the fact that I was fighting to keep her alive.”
“Exactly!” Holmes exclaimed. “She was in danger, and the least distraction could have meant her death. My conscience…I could not have abided it, Sherlock.”
Sherlock nodded, full understanding arriving in that moment. “As Skye would say, hold onto that thought for an instant. I may take it that both Skyes informed us we would not be thrown out…”
“Correct,” Holmes answered quietly.
“Which gave her initial decision,” Sherlock pointed out. “It then came down to our making our own decisions, you and I. And I may assume that we made different decisions, but for essentially the same reason—her safety.”
“It sounds so,” Holmes admitted.
“And so the last thing to be done,” Sherlock continued, “was to admit the truth, and my decision regarding it, to SKYE.”
There was a long silence this time.
“You did not take that step, did you?” Sherlock pressed.
“…No. I did not.”
“Perhaps it is not too late,” he observed.
“Perhaps,” Holmes agreed. “And yet…I am not, nor have I ever been, especially voluble in such matters…”
“We are much the same,” Sherlock shrugged, before a recollection struck. “Do what I did,” he suggested.
“Which was?”
“I wrote what Skye calls her ‘love letter’ from me,” he confessed, heat suffusing the high cheekbones. “It was hardly the most eloquent thing I have ever set to paper…but The Woman—or perhaps I should say, The Women—in question are truly exceptional at understanding us, old chap.”
There was a pause, and Sherlock could sense the consideration coming from the other continuum.
“Purely as a point of speculation, Sherlock…” the other detective murmured.
“Yes?”
“What would you have done if Skye had not been so forgiving?”
“If she had thrown me out, you mean?”
“No,” Holmes said thoughtfully, “In all honesty, I simply cannot see Skye doing that. Vindictiveness is not in her nature. Rather, what if she had not…accepted your overtures…after that? Where would you be now?”
Sherlock pondered the question for a few moments. “Still by her side, I think, if not so close. I did, and do, value her friendship and advice too much to easily cast it aside.”
“Yes,” Holmes answered thoughtfully, “I believe we would have made the same choice there. And it likely will not surprise you to find that they feel the same.”
“No.”
There was a silence. Finally Holmes broke it.
“Thank you, Other Me. I know I asked much of y– of myself,” he chuckled. “And I know how difficult it was to answer. All the more thanks, then.”
“What do you intend to do with the information?” Sherlock probed.
“Think, for now,” Holmes replied.
“Sherlock,” Sherlock addressed his other self in all seriousness, “she is a treasure. More than you can imagine, more than my poor words can possibly express. I urge you, do not let this opportunity slip through your fingers. If you do, I fear you may not get another chance.”
“I…understand,” Holmes answered soberly. “I will be in touch.”
“Very well.”
There was a faint sigh, like the summer wind in the grass of a meadow. Gone, for now, Sherlock decided. And the afternoon grows chill, for the sun is descending. Time to retire within, and see if my dear wife has yet awakened.
He rose from his rustic seat on the low stone wall and moved to the back door of the cottage.
* * *
Inside, he removed his jacket, hung it on the kitchen coat rack, and draped his muffler over it. Then he slipped into the sitting room to check on his wife, anticipating a few happy, stolen moments of watching her sleep. Skye still lay on the sofa, but to his surprise, her eyes were turned to the door in expectation of his entrance. A bright, knowing blue gaze met his own, and his brows creased in puzzlement. A movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention, and he glanced aside.
The curtains were fluttering in a soft breeze from without.
The window was open, and she heard it, he realized in dismay. She heard it all. Blazing warmth rose in the high cheeks.
Skye got to her feet and came to him. Taking Sherlock by the hand, she led him to the sofa and seated him in its corner. Then, to his wonder, she crawled into his lap and curled up there, wrapping his arms about herself like a blanket before snuggling close.
She understands, he thought as he smiled to himself. As usual, she understands.
The detective’s arms tightened about his wife, and as she pressed her face into his chest, Sherlock allowed his head to drop back until it rested on the sofa. He drew a deep breath and let it out in a contented sigh.
Chapter 8—Mending Broken Things
HOLMES LEFT THE CHAMBER THOUGHTFULLY. MAKING his way through the security airlocks, he ascended to the office level to check on Chadwick once more before going to the smoking area outside the building.
Inside their office, he found her lying on the sofa in the corner, soundly asleep. She was curled into a tight ball, face pillowed upon a cushion. He stood over her, looking down at her for several long minutes, studying her features pensively.
Her pale face was pinched and tired, even in sleep. The light tan she once sported had faded long since; the sunlit recreations they used to enjoy had been sacrificed years ago to too many hours in the Chamber with the
tesseract. Her body was taut and seemed anxious despite her resting state, the cords of muscle in her forearms standing out plainly; her hands were balled into clenched fists and tucked protectively into her chin. There were lines on the forehead and at the corners of her eyes that were not there when he had arrived in this continuum. Briefly Holmes wondered what had put them there: The struggle against the continuum collapse, or the pain of a love rejected and a heart bereft and alone. Both, perhaps, he decided with a noiseless sigh.
Long, gentle fingers on a bare arm ascertained she was cold. Holmes turned aside, silently opening the supply cabinet in the opposite corner of the office and extracting a fluffy, knit woolen afghan in a peaceful shade of slate blue. He unfolded it and spread it over the sleeping form, tucking it protectively around the body that he suddenly recognized was far too thin. His breath caught in alarm at the realization.
She has not taken care of herself as she ought—which is typical, he comprehended. And evidently I have not sufficiently done so for her. But had she not had the continuum destabilisation to contend with, to force her to keep going, in what condition would she now be? Hughes once said Skye was prone to withdrawing and simply…quitting…when in the midst of overwhelming grief and depression. And I saw that tendency firsthand after the tesseract accident. I had my hands full with her, then.
He watched as Chadwick sighed under the warmth of the coverlet, and the tense huddle of her body relaxed, loosening into a comfortable sleep. Then another thought struck the detective turned hyperspatial scientist, and took his breath away with dread.
What will happen to her, once the continuum is stabilised? Once the threat to our world has been removed? She said she hadn’t time to grieve before. What will happen when she is given that time? When she is given the opportunity to dwell on tragic events? Will she give up, and waste away? Has her body already been pushed past its point of resilience? What if she…he stared down at the frail, exhausted frame curled under the blanket, horror filling his being, what if, even now, she has developed some dreadful disease, borne of too much stress, and too little hope…?
Holmes’ face contorted in anguish for a brief instant. Finally, slowly, he turned away and moved soundlessly for the door.
Had Chadwick been awake to see, she would have observed in shock that Holmes was moving like a man of twice his years, and one in deep pain into the bargain.
* * *
Holmes was alone in the smoking area outside. He extracted his pipe, packed it with the kinnick-kinnick obtained at the trading post, tamped and lit it. He did not waste energy in unnecessary pacing; instead, he leaned against the nearby concrete column and stared past the dual perimeter fences, onto the sunlit open prairie. Uncharacteristically, he noticed neither the long shadow of the mountains beginning to encroach upon the view, nor the hint of autumnal gold starting to tinge the prairie grass. His dark grey eyes were drawn in pain, and lost in thought.
Gradually the aquiline face relaxed. The grey eyes warmed, turning a soft silver. The corners of his mouth quirked slightly. He nodded to himself, as if coming to some decision.
Finishing his pipe, he tapped the ash into a nearby receptacle, cleaned it with his pipe tool, and put it away.
Then he pulled out his cell phone and, with a mischievous half-smile, placed a call.
* * *
When Chadwick awoke, she did so slowly, with a reluctance to return to the waking world that had become commonplace to her in the last year or so. Her dreams were usually much more pleasant than her reality, especially given the unstable continuum, and her subconscious preferred to stay in a more agreeable place for as long as possible, on those rare occasions when it had the chance.
But as she awoke, her senses registered welcome, if unexpected, anomalies. For one thing, she was unaccountably warm and cozy. For another, there was a subtly sweet fragrance wafting into her nose—and something tickling the tip of said nose. Beyond the sweet fragrance was another scent, richer and more savory, which in turn blended with a slightly musky, familiar masculine smell. Her cheek, she gradually realized, no longer rested against a sofa cushion, but against something slightly rougher…and warmer.
With an effort Chadwick forced her eyes open, to find herself staring cross-eyed at a spray of lupine tucked into her hand, and whose blossoms tickled her nose. So that’s what smelled sweet, she thought, her wits not fully awake as yet. I wonder where it came from. She stretched, then yawned.
“Ah, there you are,” a deep voice, possessed of a distinct English cadence, noted quietly from somewhere above her.
Chadwick glanced up to see grey eyes smiling down at her. She blinked sleepily, trying to force her own eyes to completely focus. After a moment, she realized Holmes was not merely leaning over her; the warm pillow cradling her head was in fact his thigh, clad in wool trousers. And a scrutiny of his eyes revealed she had not been the only one who had taken a nap. Flushing at his proximity, Chadwick pushed away, trying to sit up.
“I-I’m sorry,” she stammered softly, struggling to lever herself upright while not crushing her flowers. “I didn’t mean to take up the whole couch. I—”
“Hush, my dear,” Holmes murmured, his hands catching her shoulders and preventing her from rising. “Not so fast. You have slept deeply for several hours, and I strongly urge you to take your time awakening. You are fine where you are.”
“But I…”
“You are fine, Chadwick,” Holmes reassured in a firm tone, smiling. “When I decided to join you in a nap, I placed you in a position I thought would be comfortable for us both. All is well, and we have both rested. And when once we are properly awake, a nice hot meal awaits us.” Holmes pointed at the desk. “Courtesy of a certain hotel with British interests.”
Chadwick twisted around to look, and saw the desktop filled with covered trays and platters; two china plates and two rolls of proper silverware in real linens lay stacked on the corner. A bud vase, containing merely water, sat in the center, awaiting only her spray of lupine to make the setting perfect.
“Oh, lovely,” she breathed, delighted. “It’ll be great to have something besides a sandwich and coffee wolfed down while sitting at console.”
“Indeed. I thought it might do us both some good.”
Chadwick let her head drop back to her companion’s lap, where she lay for several minutes staring at the ceiling. Holmes, in turn, watched her without appearing to do so. After a moment, she brought the spray of lupine to her nose and inhaled the faint, delicate fragrance. “Where did these come from?”
“From a greenhouse,” Holmes replied, the barest hint of mischief in the grey eyes.
“I know that, silly,” Chadwick retorted, “it’s exactly the opposite time of year for the things. I meant…”
* * *
“You meant why,” Holmes noted softly. He drew a deep breath; he had been pondering how to answer this question from the moment he had asked Billy Williams to obtain the blossoms. “For now, let us say that…a certain bosom companion desired you to know…you are appreciated.”
“Gee, I wonder who that could be.” Sarcasm tinged Chadwick’s tone even as an impish grin lit her face—all too briefly, Holmes decided, before she sobered. “Well…for whatever it’s worth, that ‘bosom companion’ probably kept me going, these last few years,” she told him sincerely. “I don’t think I’d have had the strength to keep on if he hadn’t been here, especially after…after the sabotage, and losing half the team.”
Then what I feared is likely true, Holmes thought, disquieted. When the brane has been repaired, I shall have to work hard to avoid losing her to her despair.
What he said was, “Despite not having him as…close…as you would have wished?”
Chadwick shrugged and sat up slowly, having apparently grown stiff while asleep; Holmes’ arm behind her back aided her in the movement.
“He stuck by me, and supported me. That’s not about closeness. That’s about trust. And he trusted me.”
“And he will continue to do so,” Holmes replied simply, then stood. “Now, let us see to supper. I have it to understand the hotel chef outdid himself.” He offered Chadwick a courtly hand and pulled her to her feet.
* * *
After they ate, Holmes and Chadwick discussed their situation. With the cessation of tachyon condensation, the deterioration of the brane and resulting continuum destabilization had been halted. But there was still a small danger until the brane’s rest energy could be boosted back to its nominal level—and that alone was dangerous: too much, or too little, and the current stability could be undone.
So Holmes pressed for a period of rest, with alert monitors on the tesseract, while they themselves took time to recover. After considerable discussion, Chadwick yielded to the idea, deciding Holmes had had a point all along: there was more peril in trying to adjust the brane with a weary mind than in letting it be until they were well rested. But she insisted on talking with her counterpart once more before taking a break, and Holmes agreed.
* * *
“…So I have to say, I’m in full agreement with Holmes,” Skye declared.
The tesseract was inverted, and while she and Sherlock sat comfortably in their own sitting room in Gibson House near Bentwaters, the other pair was visible in the Chamber beneath Schriever, sitting in desk chairs across from them. The married couple noticed a certain relaxed behavior in the other Holmes; he sat casually slouched, legs crossed, body language more open than they had ever seen it, and directed toward his partner. Skye and Sherlock studiously avoided glancing at each other, but Skye felt the slight nudge her husband’s elbow made in her ribs, and pressed back lightly before continuing her statement.
“It isn’t like anyone’s ever done this before, and the theory is still pretty rough around the edges,” she noted. “You can calculate approximately what the rest energy should be, but you’re gonna have to fine tune it by the seat of your pants, watching the instrumentation, to get it exact.”
“And I should think swift reaction times are needed,” Sherlock chimed in. “Is not that correct, Wife?”
The Case of the Displaced Detective Page 116