The Case of the Displaced Detective

by Stephanie Osborn

  “But WHY did Dr. Chadwick act at ALL?” the general pressed insistently.

  “Dr. Chadwick-HOLMES,” Sherlock corrected sharply, and the general nodded cursorily.

  Skye drew a long breath.

  “Believe me, gentlemen,” she said, subdued, “I’ve pondered that matter for many and many long hours myself. I readily admit that I’ve been a fan of the literary Holmes since childhood, and finding him to be a real person, not merely a character on paper, was really…cool. But if you’ll look through my dossier, you’ll see that I had been a fairly active reserve policewoman, not so very long before. When you’ve got that kind of training, and been through some of the…situations…I’ve been through, sometimes it just…kicks in,” she said, shrugging. “At one point during the fight, the understanding, the conscious comprehension, that we were in two separate universes…disappeared. I became a police officer looking at a murderous attack—a murderous attack upon someone I ‘knew,’ no less,” Skye added, using her fingers to imply quotation marks. “The cop in me…stopped it.”

  “Literally,” Sherlock murmured.

  “But that instinctive reaction,” Skye continued, “is exactly why we—note I said WE—shut down the project.”

  “And Skye was one of the most vocal team members on that matter,” Sherlock pointed out. “Despite the fact that the project comprised her entire career.”

  There was a pause in the proceedings, while the officers absorbed this information.

  * * *

  “You had more to say on another matter, Mr. Holmes,” the admiral recalled. “Please continue, if you would.”

  “With regard to our…romantic…relationship,” Sherlock forged ahead, trying to ignore the heat that rose in his face, determined to defend his wife, “there are several matters to be noted. First of all, Mrs. Holmes, née Chadwick, was a model of decorum with regard to her deportment with me, from the very beginning. She is the epitome of a lady. It was that, combined with her intellect, AND her COMPLETE trustworthiness, which attracted me to her to begin with. She, quite simply, rang true at every point. It was many months after my arrival before anything developed between us greater than friendship. My awareness of my feelings began to surface when Skye nearly died in an attempt to prevent sabotage of her apparatus,” he admitted, feeling his color heightening. “And in every instance of the progression of our relationship, I, not Skye, was the instigator. And in every instance, Skye evinced decided, observationally verifiable, and very real surprise. Which surprise, given my reputation until that point, is quite understandable.”

  Sherlock moved forward to stand directly beside his wife, confident.

  “By way of example,” he added, “shortly after I began to board at her ranch, we attended a social event together. It was the birthday party of a neighbor, and Skye brought me in order to help me acclimate to the modern social functions. While there, however, one of her acquaintances made untoward remarks regarding the nature of our relationship—which at the time was purely that of a new arrival and his liaison. Skye became incensed and set the young man straight in short order. It was a decided dressing-down.”

  The tribunal sat silently, considering the couple.

  “Let me also remind this tribunal,” Sherlock declared firmly, even stridently, “that Skye did, indeed, nearly die in defense of Project: Tesseract. And in addition, she risked her feminine virtue, by disguising herself as a woman of EASY virtue, in order to obtain information which eventually led to the breaking of the spy ring. The second, in particular, did not come easily to her. And had it not been for our detailed preliminary planning, would have resulted in the loss of said virtue, when the scenario turned ill. It DID result in her injury. Both acts—the offering of her life, and her virtue—were completely voluntary.”

  Meaningful, impressed looks were exchanged among the Joint Chiefs at that declaration.

  Sherlock paused and glanced significantly at his wife, then observed, “And as Skye is a civilian, and not a member of the military, I submit that the jurisdiction of this tribunal is highly in question.”

  Skye continued without hesitation, following on smoothly from her husband’s thought, “We must therefore ask what the true reason for this meeting is.”

  That brought several raised eyebrows among tribunal members.

  Just then, the door behind the Joint Chiefs opened.

  The Commander in Chief walked through.

  “Excellent deductive work, both of you,” he said with a smile.

  * * *

  In short order, the Holmes couple came to understand that the entire scenario which had just ensued was a test to ascertain that all was indeed as it appeared, especially given the unanticipated circumstance of Sherlock marrying Skye. In reality they had been brought there in order that the President might present Skye with a medal of honor. Skye glanced at Sherlock.

  “Déjà vu all over again,” she muttered.

  “Indeed,” he said, trying not to grin. “You did so well with the Queen, that I shall keep silent and let you handle the matter, Wife.”

  “Gee, thanks,” Skye said, heavy on the sarcasm.

  * * *

  The various military officers and the President took in the exchange between the married couple with some amusement.

  “Is there a problem, Dr. Chadwick-Holmes?” the President asked.

  “Potentially, Mr. President,” Skye admitted. “We had this same conversation with the Queen of England only a few weeks ago, when she knighted Sherlock.” Eyebrows rose all around the room.

  “Congratulations, Sir Sherlock,” the President offered. Holmes held up a forestalling hand.

  “I stand on no such formality,” he noted. “Mr. Holmes will do nicely. It pleased the Queen to do the thing, and that is sufficient.”

  “But they had to create a whole new protocol for it,” Skye explained. “Only a very limited number of people know that Sherlock was knighted, because of the potential for revealing that he’s really THAT Holmes. Then the tesseract gets revealed too, and here we go ‘round the mulberry bush again. Doesn’t this,” she gestured at the boxed and beribboned medal in the President’s hand, “have the same potential?”

  The President and his military officers smiled knowingly.

  “This isn’t the first time we’ve had occasion to do something like this, Doctor,” the President noted. “And we already have the protocols in place, dating back to World War Two. That’s why it’s occurring in the Pentagon, under the auspices of the Joint Chiefs. This isn’t a regular Presidential Medal of Freedom; it’s a Presidential Medal of Honor.”

  “I’ve never heard of that,” Skye murmured.

  “Exactly,” the President grinned. “In cases where an individual’s service is above and beyond the call, but the awarding of a public medal would compromise national security—or, in this case, worse—the Medal of Honor is awarded in the presence of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, by the Commander in Chief, in a suitably secure facility. The transcript of this entire meeting will be classified and filed with Project: Tesseract documentation, as well as an encrypted annotation placed in your personnel dossier.”

  He removed the medal from its case, handing the case to Sherlock. Then he placed the ribbon around Skye’s neck.

  “I hereby award this Medal of Honor to Dr. Skye Chadwick-Holmes,” he intoned, “for service above and beyond the call of a citizen’s duty; for the willingness to give her life, and more, in the protection of All That Is; and for her dedication to scientific ethics despite the cost to her own person and career. Congratulations, Doctor.”

  The President shook her hand, and the Joint Chiefs stood and applauded.

  * * *

  Agent Beaufort congratulated Skye as he escorted the couple out of the room; Skye’s medal was now back in its case, safely hidden away in Sherlock’s inside coat pocket.

  “Sorry to have had to start the thing that way,” a rueful Beaufort apologized. “I know you were tired and kind of upset, and I
hated like hell to do it. But I had orders to handle it like that.”

  “We understand,” Sherlock waved aside the apology, as Skye nodded agreement with her husband. “The Queen did something similar when we arrived in London.”

  “Would you like to stay in Washington overnight and celebrate?” Beaufort asked. “I have orders to set you up in a suite, with dinner reservations, if you’d like. Or if you’d rather, the plane that brought us here is still waiting with your luggage, and you can head straight home. Direct, private flight to CoSpr, no dealing with layovers.”

  The pair glanced at each other, and Beaufort could have sworn some unspoken communication passed between them.

  “No, Agent Beaufort,” Sherlock stated for them both, “I think we shall take advantage of your aeroplane and betake ourselves home to Colorado, if you do not object. No doubt the classified records of our most recent case will be shared with Skye’s parent country very shortly, and you will understand that we are in some need of rest. Or at least Skye is.”

  “I’m doing okay,” Skye demurred, “but I will be glad to get back to the critters. Our two-week trip to England lasted several months longer than I’d planned on.”

  Chapter 12—Settling In

  AFTER A LONG, IF FAIRLY COMFORTABLE, flight and a drive up Ute Pass, the Holmeses found themselves at the ranch again. Their MI5 caretakers handed over to them, and the pair started the process of unpacking and settling back into their first home. After a long day, they crawled into bed as the clock tolled midnight, and Holmes pulled out his journal, to Skye’s secret amusement.

  * * *

  March 26

  Midnight

  One year in my new continuum, to the day. As I noted yesterday, how many things can change in a year’s time: I now live in a completely different universe. I have two homes, one in America, the other in England. I drive automobiles. I use advanced forensics equipment, computers, and other such electronics; I have a set of Irregulars spanning two continents, formalised by no less than a Royal Proclamation. I lost Watson, then found him again—after a fashion, at least. I bested two Moriarties; assisted twice in the saving of All That Is. I have been knighted. And last, but possibly most important and amazing of all, I fell in love and married. I have a wife.

  And that wife and I are, at last, home in Florissant once more. Little Anna-cat, the horses, and my bees are all well. Barwell, Billy’s designated caretaker for the ranch, has officially turned over the ranch to us and departed down the mountain for Colorado Springs. The house and ranch buildings are intact. But although the first hints of spring were arriving in England, the spring thaw has yet to begin, here. There is still a thick covering of snow blanketing all, and likely will be for at least another couple of weeks, so Skye informs me.

  And…the Watson dreams have ceased.

  * * *

  The pair settled in comfortably, greeted enthusiastically by their animals, though occasionally there was a vague expression of regret upon Sherlock’s face when he watched little Anna. Their bills had been cared for in their absence, and the rest of the mail consisted of magazines and journals; they took their time going through those.

  Several small cases awaited them from both Colonel Jones and Agent Smith; these were solved with due aplomb, sometimes without having to leave the ranch. One or two such matters floated across the Pond as well, washing up on their doorstep, and received equally successful attention.

  Within a few weeks, the snow began to melt as winter in the Rockies gradually relented to spring. One afternoon shortly after the last of the snow had melted from the pastures, a pickup truck turned into their driveway. An open-framed, wooden crate was in its bed, with some sort of wire container inside that. Sherlock, who had been headed for the kitchen, detoured and peered between the curtains of a front window.

  “Skye,” he queried, “do any of our neighbours have a medium blue Ford lorry, some five years old?”

  “Um,” Skye said, looking up from her physics journal, “not that I know of, Sherlock. Why?”

  “Because one has pulled into our drive. Ah! Billy and his friend Miss Tyler are getting out.”

  “Oh,” Skye said casually, putting aside the journal and getting to her feet. “I wonder what they want. Probably a case.”

  “Most likely. They must have brought up a large piece of evidence. There is a crate in the back of the lorry.”

  Skye opened the front door as Tina and Billy got the crate out of the back of the pickup and carried it toward the house.

  “Hi there,” Skye called. “How are y’all?”

  “Quite well, thanks,” Billy grinned.

  “Yeah,” Tina agreed, beaming. “Billy just asked me to be his girlfriend. He’s already solved any conflicts over the matter, work-wise, so there won’t be issues, and the team’s all for it, he says.”

  “Oh, that’s WONDERFUL!” Skye exclaimed, as Sherlock smiled slightly. “And of course you said yes.”

  “Of course,” Tina grinned. “Almost faster than he could ask.” Billy flushed, but grinned back.

  “And so what is the reason for this visit?” Sherlock wondered. “Surely it was not merely to inform us of your new romantic status.”

  “No, we have a delivery,” Billy smirked, as he and Tina maneuvered the crate through the front door. A small whimper came from inside, and Sherlock cocked a curious eyebrow. “Here we go.”

  They put the crate down on the floor as Skye closed the front door against the damp spring breeze. Then, with a flourish, Billy opened both a wooden gate and a metal gate with a single lever, and a fuzzy explosion ensued.

  Suddenly Sherlock had an armful of wriggling, yapping fur, licking his face enthusiastically. Grey eyes blinked in surprised shock, and he pulled back enough to ascertain what had leaped into his arms.

  “BRENDAN!” he cried. “Little fellow! What in heaven’s name are you doing here?!”

  “Coming home,” Skye said with a grin, moving to her husband’s side and putting a light hand on the small of his back. “Brendan, meet your new daddy.”

  “He…” Holmes glanced up in astonishment, “he is mine?”

  “He is,” Skye’s grin grew even wider.

  “Now THAT,” Billy remarked to Tina with a matching grin, “is a rare sight: Sherlock Holmes, completely surprised.” Tina grinned back, pleased for the detective, and decidedly amused by seeing him so taken aback.

  The wriggling puppy licked Sherlock’s face enthusiastically, yapping happily, and Holmes grinned from ear to ear. The sleuth could hardly get a word out for Brendan lapping his face frenetically. Skye giggled. A snort escaped Billy, and Tina snickered. Finally Sherlock held the pup at arm’s length—then had to work to maintain his grip on the animal as it wiggled and writhed to get closer to its new master. Sherlock juggled the puppy while eyeing his wife.

  “Scamp,” he addressed Skye with mock sternness, then swiftly readjusted his grip on Brendan, who was trying to climb up his arm. “You are becoming quite impressive at pulling the wool over my eyes, my dear. No one has managed that so often nor so well in my entire forty years. And here I thought young Brendan lost to me, when all along, you were the purchaser.”

  “I was,” Skye grinned shamelessly, as Billy and Tina stifled laughter at the pup’s antics and Sherlock’s efforts to contain them. “I figured we needed a good tracking dog, and when you told me how Brendan picked YOU out, then helped you find an important clue, I knew he was the one. Not to mention how you could hardly stop talking about the little sweetie.” Brendan leaned over and swiped his tongue across Skye’s cheek at that remark, and everyone laughed.

  “You see, my dear?” Holmes observed, tucking Brendan under one arm before turning and leading the way into the den. “He is an intelligent one, our Brendan. HE knows upon which side his bread is buttered.”

  “Well,” Skye said, gesturing the two MI5 agents along, “I hope the Carvers trained him about cats and horses.”

  “Horses, I know,” Holmes nodded. �
��And cows, and geese,” he added with another grin, “for McFarlane kept all those. Cats…” Anna entered the den, “…may be another matter.”

  “Well, there’s only one way to find out. Put him down and let’s see,” Skye said practically, the animal trainer in her emerging.

  So Holmes set the dog on the floor and stepped back. Brendan immediately bounded eagerly across the floor toward the little Siamese. Anna responded by turning slightly sideways and arching her back, her tail going up stiffly.

  “Oh, no,” Tina groaned.

  * * *

  As the puppy approached, Anna fluffed herself. When Brendan was only a couple of feet away, Anna hissed a warning.

  Brendan immediately dropped to the floor right where he was, nose between his front paws, and lay very, very still. He watched Anna closely, but did not move so much as a muscle. Anna eyed him warily for several minutes, but the dog did nothing. Slowly the cat’s back lowered, her bushed tail growing smaller. When she had resumed an almost normal posture, though still watching Brendan carefully, Brendan dared one invitational tail thump against the floor.

  Anna cocked her ears forward. Brendan wagged his tail eagerly once, twice. Anna took a very slow, deliberate step forward, craning her neck, sniffing in the direction of the puppy. Brendan continued to remain still, but emitted a soft whine. Anna stepped forward again, still sniffing.

  It took nearly three minutes for the cat to cover the two feet to the puppy; during this time, the human inhabitants of the room scarcely breathed. Finally Anna and Brendan were nose to nose. Each sniffed the other; Anna moved the length of Brendan’s head, sniffing carefully. Finally she licked Brendan’s ear, then began grooming behind it. Brendan’s tail thumped happily on the floor, and he gave Anna an enthusiastic lick upside the head.

  Anna pulled back for a moment and gazed solemnly at the puppy. Then she very calmly licked her paw, set the fur on the side of her head in order, and gravely sat her down next to the dog. Brendan jumped up and frisked happily around his new furry friend, then scurried back to his master.