The first floor was just as Ryker had described. The sitting room was properly appointed, even to the wallpaper and upholstery, and looked out onto Baker Street through several windows, including a central bow window. A small chemical lab stood in its proper corner; a well-stocked tantalus stood opposite, just as it should. In still a third corner sat a small dining suite and sideboard. An old-fashioned desk occupied the fourth corner; in a niche of the desk a cordless telephone nestled discreetly. A warm, crackling fire already graced the exhaustless-gas fireplace. Ryker picked up an incongruous remote control from the tea-table and hit a button.
Panels in the back wall of the sitting room opened up, revealing an entertainment center, complete with stereo, VCR/DVD player, and wide-screen television. Skye laughed, and Sherlock chuckled.
The bedroom off the sitting room was identical to Holmes’ old bedroom, saving that it presented the appearance of having been stretched: It did contain a king-sized bed, as well as a larger dresser and wardrobe than Holmes had possessed. To Skye’s evident surprise, their luggage already awaited them there.
“Sneak,” she told Ryker, who grinned.
“I’ve learned a trick or three, being around the pair of you,” their liaison noted smugly.
Bath and kitchen were across the hall, the former conveniently opposite the bedroom, the latter over from the sitting room; a privacy door between divided the hallway, effectively creating a master suite in the back of the floor, separate from sitting room and kitchen. A large shower was in the corner of the bathroom, in addition to a lovely claw-footed tub which notably resembled the one Holmes recalled. Though perhaps rather bigger, he decided. Maybe even big enough for…He glanced at Skye with a thoughtful gaze, then shot a hard, inquisitive look at Ryker. The latter’s unassuming expression told the tale, and the detective let his grey eyes crinkle in amusement.
The kitchen took Holmes back in memory to Mrs. Hudson’s domain, despite the modern gas appliances and the microwave oven artfully tucked into a corner. The pantry was fully stocked, as was the refrigerator.
The second floor contained three moderately sized bedrooms and a bath, all of which had been themed on either Watson’s bedroom, or Holmes’ own.
“It’s wonderful,” Skye murmured, amazed. “I can’t believe you did all this.”
“We are well aware of what the two of you have just accomplished,” the Queen noted softly. “To provide a special—and safe—home for you here is little enough recompense.”
“There’s security and to spare, around the entire flat,” Ryker said quietly. “For obvious reasons. It’ll even withstand a car bomb.”
“The windows?” Skye’s eyebrows rose.
“Bulletproof, one-way glass, and equipped with automated blast shutters,” Ryker elaborated. “As soon as a sharp pressure gradient is detected, they snap closed.”
* * *
Skye glanced at her husband, who as yet had said nothing. But the grey eyes sparkled, and his jaw was tight. The line of his shoulders, however, was relaxed. He’s deeply touched, and he loves it, she realized. And he feels right at home. She smiled to herself sadly, making a decision. Drawing a deep breath, she turned to their companions.
“Braeden,” the scientist asked, “do you think you could contact Billy and see about having our things packed and shipped over? The horses too, I suppose, and little Anna. Oh, and we’ll need to find a place to board the horses, maybe outside the city…”
“Surely it would be more feasible to sell the horses,” the Queen suggested. “I am quite certain that more than suitable mounts can be found for you here.”
Skye bit her lip, as Holmes turned to stare at her.
“Yes, I’m sure you’re right,” she agreed, stifling a sigh at the thought of losing her beloved horses. “The ranch will have to go on the market, of course. Then there’s the matter of my fitting in. I’ll have to find a job—teaching, maybe.”
“Possibly a baronetcy and a stipend can be found,” the prince suggested. “That would cover the matter quite thoroughly, I’m certain. And certainly Sir Sherlock’s ancestry is right in line with such a thing. ‘Country squire’ and all that.”
Skye nodded, then continued, “And I don’t have a clue about what it takes to become a citizen here…”
“Oh, I can help with that,” Ryker interjected.
“Skye,” grey eyes blinked in shock, “may I enquire what the devil you think you are doing, my dear?”
* * *
Holmes carefully hid the sudden strain in his voice behind a polite, vaguely bemused tone, for the sake of the royal couple. Skye turned to look up at him with a tired smile.
“It’s perfect, Sherlock,” she informed him. “You’re home. 221B Baker Street exists here now, and at least on the inside, it’s so much like it was in your own continuum, it’s positively incredible.”
“This is my continuum now, Wife,” he pointed out, “and we already have a home. I certainly have no objections to this gratifyingly familiar additional domicile, but we really must discuss the details and options before making the sort of irrevocable changes you suggest. I see no particular reason to abandon the one in favour of the other, especially in our line of work.” He turned to the royal couple. “The gift is most magnanimous, Your Majesty. I have no doubt we will make glad use of our new home, during our hopefully frequent stays in London.”
* * *
“And that is all we could wish, Sir Sherlock,” Her Highness noted, diplomatically hiding her understanding smile. “It is yours to do with as you wish. I believe Captain Ryker has the title to the flat?”
“No, Madam, the Director has it,” Ryker said. “She thought it might be best kept in a special safe in Headquarters, given certain… circumstances. The Holmeses can have access to it anytime they like, of course. Consider it the ultimate in safety deposit boxes. And,” he added to the couple, “she suggests that, as newlyweds, you may not have considered the matter of wills as yet, but it should be your next priority, especially given your professions. She and FBI Agent Adrian Smith have already agreed to safeguard copies of that document, via the aforementioned ‘ultimate safety deposit boxes;’ you may, of course, choose your own executors.”
“Hm. Excellent point,” Sherlock murmured.
“Actually,” Skye added, “I already worked one up, in case the tesseract work frazzed. It’s in my luggage.”
* * *
Sherlock fired a disturbed glance at his wife.
“I’ll get it out tomorrow, and Sherlock and I can re-work it for both of us. We’ll need witnesses, I guess, and maybe…do those things get notarized?”
“Not to worry,” Ryker reassured them. “I’ll witness it, and see to it everything is properly managed, both for British and American law.”
“Excellent, then,” the prince agreed. “Now, we know the newlyweds have had a busy time of it recently, and I see weariness in the Lady Holmes’ face, Milady Wife, though I’ve little doubt she would deny it. May I respectfully suggest of Her Majesty the Queen that we allow the pair some privacy to settle in?”
“A most thoughtful idea, sir,” the Queen nodded. “Ryker, could you possibly spirit us out of here?”
“Right away, Your Majesty,” Ryker smiled, turning briefly to the Holmeses. “I’ll hold off calling Williams until the two of you decide what to do. My cell phone’s on if you need anything.”
“Gotcha,” Skye nodded. “Thanks, Brae.”
Holmes added, “And thank you, Your Majesties.”
Within moments, Holmes was alone with his wife in his new, old flat.
* * *
The evening was quiet. Skye tried to convince her husband to relax in the sitting room while she prepared dinner, but Holmes would none of it.
“I am no more blind than the Prince Consort, Wife. You ARE tired, weary beyond anything I have seen in you, after all you have been through; and the unexpected meeting with the Queen stressed you badly. The departure of adrenaline after so long living with i
t tends to leave one feeling decidedly wilted, as I have had occasion to know myself. I will not have you exhausting yourself further by waiting on me.”
“But you’re tired, too,” Skye protested. “This case was stressful for both of us.”
“All the more reason for the both of us to prepare dinner, and to make it a simple one.”
In the end, Holmes had his way, and they ate hot sandwiches at the table in the sitting room, watched television over brandy, and went to bed early. Even so, Sherlock still poked curiously around the flat, especially interested in the forensics lab downstairs, before preparing for bed.
“Skye?” he eventually called into the air, as he crawled into the big bed alone.
“Yeah?” issued from another room; Holmes found himself uncertain as to which one.
“Where are you? You should be in bed, my dear.”
“I’m coming,” Skye called back from somewhere in the depths of the flat. “I got diverted by something I discovered in the apartment.”
“A familiar complaint, I find. This flat is full of fascinating hidden surprises. And what might yours have been?”
“I found where the CD collection is hidden.”
“Ah. Behind the painting of Lord Byron, I deduce?”
“Yup! And the movie collection is on the other side, behind Wordsworth. They’re both nice compilations, too. I’m guessing Brae had Billy go through our collections in Florissant.”
“Indeed,” Holmes nodded with a smile, reaching for his journal where it lay on the nightstand. He stopped with it in hand, however, as it suddenly occurred to him that he had not unpacked it from the luggage. Did Skye get it out for me…? Surely Ryker would not have so violated my privacy…he wondered briefly, flipping quickly to the last page containing writing.
It was then he realized that the writing was not his own.
* * *
March 10
9:37 p.m.
Dear Sherlock,
First let me say that I didn’t read anything in here. I don’t even know what’s in here other than what you yourself already showed me, those two times. You’ll see I turned to a completely blank page to write this, to avoid invading your privacy. Please forgive me for even opening it, but you’re entirely right about how tired I am. I think it’s gonna be awhile before I can close my eyes and see anything other than damn tensor analysis. But I think some time in London, just goofing around with you, will help a lot—I can decompress. If it’s okay with you, I think I’d like to maybe see some plays over in the West End and do a bit of shopping, nothing fancy, but it’d be fun and get my mind off of wormholes for a change.
Drat! I AM tired! Here I am, rambling on in your journal, in ink no less, so I can’t even erase it. I’m so sorry, Honey. Anyway, my whole purpose in writing in here was because I just wasn’t up to a big discussion about where to live. So I figured I’d write my thoughts down here, and you could see and understand.
It’s really simple, Sherlock. I don’t have anything tying me to Colorado anymore. I don’t even have anything tying me to the States anymore, when you get right down to it. So I don’t want you to feel like you have to live there on account of me. Yes, I love the Rockies, but I love you more. And now there’s a real 221B Baker Street, in THIS continuum. This is a beautiful flat. I like it a lot. But more importantly, I can tell you LOVE it, and you’re comfortable here. So if you’re happy here, then this is where we should live.
See, it’s like this. Home, to me, isn’t a place—it’s a person. It’s you. Wherever you are is home to me. “Intreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee: for whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy people shall be my people, and thy God, my God.”
And that’s it, in a nutshell, Honey. I love you.
Skye
* * *
Holmes sat there staring at the page for several long minutes, his vision misted. Finally he lifted his gaze to see Skye standing at the foot of the bed, wrapped in her robe and watching him silently. He drew a deep breath and waved her into bed beside him, holding the covers open as she discarded her robe on the bedpost opposite the one holding his dressing gown, then crawled into bed.
Once she was comfortably snuggled under the covers next to him, he uncapped his fountain pen, twisted to one side, dropped his shoulder so she could read over it, and began to write—right under her entry.
* * *
March 10
10:22 p.m.
My wife does me more honour than she realises.
Nevertheless, this is a marriage of equals. “Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments.” And impediment would it be, should one member dictate to the other. Skye’s opinion is of great worth to me, as much in the matter of dwelling-places as in an investigative case. I should no more dismiss it than I should ignore my own reason.
And there is a thing which my dear Skye, in her weariness, may have failed to recollect, though I am certain she already knows. Watson would have the world—many worlds, evidently—believe that I am no more nor less than a thinking machine, and so I can be, when need demand; but I am a man, and one possessed of a decidedly Bohemian nature. And there is a certain log cabin to be found in the Rampart Range of the Rocky Mountains which holds many of my most intimate memories—not the least of which is my wedding. Both weddings, if we may so style the first, in the eyes of a righteous and merciful Providence. I find myself loath to allow the locus of those memories to pass into other hands.
Yes, this is London. But it is not MY London. In point of fact, it never was my London. Perhaps one day it shall become OUR London; I cannot say. Should that time come, we can reassess. But for now, as it is Skye’s desire for us both to be happy, I put forward the concept that this may best be accomplished by keeping this flat in Baker Street, AND the ranch in Florissant. For I have it to understand that there are already cases awaiting us in Colorado, as there undoubtedly will be more cases here in England. A nearby “home base,” if you will, is always wise to have.
* * *
Sherlock glanced up to ascertain that Skye was, indeed, reading over his shoulder. Glistening blue eyes met his grey gaze, and his own crinkled.
“So, is the matter settled, Wife?”
“The matter is settled, Husband,” she answered with a smile. “Both, it is.”
“Finally!” he sighed long-sufferingly.
Then he put away the journal and took his wife in his arms.
* * *
They spent two more weeks in London. These two weeks were, however, not spent quite so much as tourists; rather they settled into the Baker Street flat, making it thoroughly their own, and becoming nominal citizens of the city. To Skye’s immense delight, Sherlock reverted to his old ways, the ones of which Watson had so often written: lounging about the flat in his dressing-gown, experimenting with his chemicals, organizing his notes.
At the Director General’s urging, they constructed a will in two duplicate copies, had Ryker witness both, then placed them in his capable hands for appropriate care and handling. He assured them all legal formalities would be taken care of, and one copy should go into their British “ultra safety deposit box,” while the other should travel by secure route to Agent Smith for similar safekeeping. Within two days, he informed them all was complete.
* * *
“After all, it’s pretty simple,” Skye pointed out. “If one of us goes, the other gets everything. If we both get taken out and we have children, everything goes into trust for them, unless they’re of age, when they get it directly, even split. If we both get taken out, and we haven’t had kids by then, the ranch in Florissant goes to the FBI for their undercover work, specification made that MI5 gets to use it if necessary, as well; and the flat here goes to the Secret Service for use as a safehouse.”
“Precisely,” Sherlock agreed, hiding his personal discomfort regarding preparing for Skye’s death; he was more sanguine about his own. “And regardless, my Stradiv
ari goes back to the Crown, with some stipulations that it be assigned a certain sentimental value, and not merely historic worth.”
“Works for me.”
* * *
Dr. Watson visited for several days, enjoying the hospitality of one of their spare bedrooms, much to the pleasure of Sherlock and Skye. Each had come to love the old physician, and Sherlock was delighted to watch the interaction between the doctor and his wife, who often teased each other unmercifully, then laughed until they were breathless. The Holmeses were sorry to see him go back to his own home at the end of his visit.
“Don’t worry,” Watson told them with a twinkling smile as he departed. “You’ll be back, and I’ll be waiting. I may be a stodgy old sod, but I’ve got quite a few years left in me yet.”
“And visits to America to make,” Skye declared, to Sherlock’s pleasure.
“Be careful what you offer,” Watson fixed her with a twinkling, if stern, eye. “I’ll take you up on it.”
“See that you do,” Sherlock shot back.
* * *
From time to time the couple rambled around the nearby park, or went shopping in the various London districts. Most of their evenings were spent attending concerts and plays in the West End. It was a relaxed and comfortable way to wind down their sojourn.
By the end of it, Skye was her usual vivacious, sunny self once more, relaxed, well-rested and healthy. Holmes was, however, becoming restless, his usual craving for a case setting upon him. Ryker and the Director General of the Secret Service tossed several intriguing little problems their way; Skye and Sherlock solved them with reasonable aplomb, one or two being worked out without ever needing to leave the confines of Baker Street.
The Case of the Displaced Detective Page 124