“No shit, Sher—” Caitlin broke off. Not fast enough, however.
Holmes, easily able to complete the statement, raised one eyebrow, looking askance at Hughes.
A very tired Skye dragged one weary hand across her face, which was now too pink, Holmes observed. He moved in, edging closer to Skye.
“Might I take it I should get used to being referenced as a…‘literary character’?” he queried, pausing during the statement to permit another level of meaning, allowing his amusement to tinge his voice. “Not to mention idioms and figures of speech…”
“I’m afraid so,” Skye sighed.
“It seems this lends a whole new meaning to the expression, ‘becoming literate,’” Holmes decided dryly.
Skye put her head in her hands.
* * *
A tall, lanky form entered her peripheral vision, subtly invading her innermost personal space, and Skye took the hint, glancing up to find Holmes standing exceptionally close, almost—but not quite—intimately so, gazing down at her.
Holmes’ grey eyes were dancing with suppressed laughter, and while Caitlin and General Morris were bent over the password-prompt, he mouthed, “Everything is all right, Skye. Relax.”
As she met his eyes, she realized this man was not only brilliantly intelligent, but also possessed a level of understanding that had not come through in the literary tales of his exploits. It stood to reason; to be as successful as he was, Holmes had to have an above-average comprehension of human nature. He was more than the mere thinking machine to which the stories alluded. Moreover, it seemed he had a well-developed sense of humor into the bargain. At that moment, the oddity of the situation hit her full force, by way of Holmes’ amused gaze, and she clapped her hand over her mouth and nose as she let out a loud snort, then began to giggle.
“Oh, Lord have mercy,” she groaned, snickering. “We did the Time Warp. And now I have Sherlock Holmes in my office. I honest to God have Sherlock Holmes in my bloody freakin’ office. And he’s making literary jokes.” Skye went off into peals of laughter.
Holmes joined her.
Hughes and Morris stood and stared.
* * *
After awhile Caitlin got the video downloaded to Skye’s computer, and they let Skye and Holmes watch it together. Holmes was fascinated, bright eyes darting around the screen, taking everything in. Skye tensed noticeably, forcing herself to watch the fight once more. Morris and Caitlin watched over their shoulders, and toward the end, Caitlin bent forward.
“Right there!” she exclaimed, tapping the screen. “Did you see, Skye?”
“Yes,” Holmes agreed before Skye could answer. “You reached for Moriarty to catch him.”
“But he was already gone before you could react,” Caitlin pointed out. “You would have saved him for that jury trial if you could’ve, Skye.”
* * *
Skye took a deep breath and let it out very slowly, sinking deeper into her desk chair with an expression of release. She felt long, slim fingers brush a single encouraging pat along her shoulder before retreating, and she allowed the faintest smile to cross her lips as she leaned back and closed her eyes.
“I do think this underscores the fact that our current protocols are entirely inadequate, whether they’re in effect or not,” General Morris decided. “And maybe it even says something about the wisdom of continuing this project.” He shot a hard glance at Skye.
“I’d been thinking about that myself, General,” Skye confessed, opening sad eyes. “I didn’t see it before, but I know now, it’s dangerous. What if, for instance, Moriarty had been the one who fell through the tesseract, instead of Holmes? Or what if our version of a Moriarty got his hands on it, or on the technology? A North Korea, or a Libya? We’re talking about something way the hell bigger than a nuke—” she broke off and shot an apologetic look at Holmes, “a nuclear bomb, here. The Special Relativity Theory,” Skye added to Holmes by way of reminder, and he nodded thoughtfully. She sighed. “We’re talking about something with the potential to maybe even carom through all of spacetime.” Steeling herself, she stared into Morris’ eyes. “We should shut the project down.”
“Skye, it’s your whole career,” Caitlin protested, stunned and horrified.
* * *
Morris sat back and watched shrewdly as the two women argued the matter for him. Holmes did likewise, leaning his hips against the desk beside Skye and folding his arms casually.
“Doesn’t matter,” Skye declared. “I won’t be party to the lot of us walking squarely into an ethical morass as big as I now know this one to be. If I can reflexively react that hard, we’re opening up a whole can of worms for the technicians working it, even if we don’t have the bad guys after the thing. Think about the descendant of an Auschwitz survivor watching events from a Nazi Germany. Or someone watching the JFK assassination. The temptations to ‘fix things’ are going to be too great. I should have thought about this sooner. But I never dreamed it would…that I couldn’t…my objectivity…No,” she shook her head. “It won’t do.”
“You’d really give it all up? TWENTY YEARS of work?” Caitlin asked in disbelief.
“Yes,” Skye responded instantly. “In a heartbeat, now.”
Morris pursed his lips in austere approval, but said nothing.
“You could always go back and stop yourself,” Holmes interjected, curious to see what her reaction would be.
* * *
Skye turned and stared up at Holmes for a long moment, considering the implications.
Stopping myself would mean…he dies. I wouldn’t be there to break Moriarty’s grip. Dear God.
“No,” was all she said.
* * *
Holmes pursed his lips and directed his contemplative gaze across the room. Despite everything, she does not regret saving my life, he thought, gratified.
* * *
In his grey eyes there was a hint of satisfied almost-smugness at the realization. Skye saw his expression, and brushed his arm. Holmes looked down and met her eyes.
“Yes,” she murmured to him, confirming his musings. His eyes flashed appreciatively.
* * *
“Well, now, let’s not go too fast, here,” Morris rumbled thoughtfully, as Holmes retrieved his chair and settled back, sliding into a half-slouch and steepling his fingers to ponder. “I agree, it’s not a weapon that good guys would even consider, although plenty of bad guys might. But there may still be a way to do the scientific research, if we can put enough safeguard procedures—or even hardware and software—on it to prevent that ‘fixing’ tendency you refer to. I mean, that’s why this is a secret project anyway; to keep knowledge of it under wraps, not to make weapons. In the meantime, let’s do what we have to do to slap an end bracket on this little incident, then put a hold on the project, while we think. I expect that’s going to be DSS’s conclusion too. Skye, I hate to do this,” he shot the scientist an eloquent glance, “but you’ll be on unpaid administrative leave while the project is on hiatus. Pay is suspended effective immediately. I HAVE to do SOMEthing, and at least this way you’ll be available for the analysis.”
Holmes and Hughes started, shocked; they’d hoped the general would let the matter go, under the circumstances. Skye merely nodded acceptance.
“It beats the brig. Thanks, General.”
“You know this will go up through channels, once the DSS investigator arrives.”
“Yes sir. I don’t expect the Pentagon to be very happy with me. My career is probably over regardless of what happens to the project.” Skye sighed.
“I’ll do everything I can, Doctor, to soften the effects,” Morris added gently.
“That makes two of us, Skye,” Caitlin affirmed, and Morris nodded approval. He considered for a moment, then glanced at Holmes.
“And Mr. Holmes, have you come to a conclusion as to what you want to do? I know what I’d do in your shoes, and you’re a brighter man than I am; still, it’s your decision.”
�
��As you say, General, the choice is obvious,” Holmes agreed, sitting upright. “I did not willingly face death at Moriarty’s hands in order to free London of his shadow, only to myself create an even bigger tempest in a far larger teapot. Nor, I find, do I enjoy the prospect of dying, having once been rescued therefrom. No, I believe I shall stay here, if I might have some assistance in coming to terms with this new world in the which I find myself.”
“That’s easy enough. I suspect I know just the person to provide you as a liaison, too. She’ll soon have plenty of time to devote to it, at least for a few weeks.” Morris beamed at Skye. “If that suits the two of you.” He smiled.
Skye shrugged, nodding affably, before glancing questioningly at Holmes.
“I believe that will do nicely,” the detective averred.
Chapter 2—Old Dogs and New Tricks
GENERAL MORRIS ORDERED GUEST QUARTERS PREPARED on the base, and dropped Holmes and Skye at the officer’s suite thus assigned. It was bland and nondescript and small: Evidently visiting officers were not expected to spend much time in their billets. A shaving kit awaited Holmes in the bathroom, and Morris had a call in to the officers’ tailor, so he and Skye could get a good idea what size garments Holmes wore. It turned out Holmes had used a tailor in London to obtain his clothing, and would not have had a notion regarding modern American sizing anyway.
Holmes immediately appropriated the shaving kit for his own, as Morris had intended. He opened it and fished out the contents, spreading them across the bathroom vanity and studying them with interested bemusement while Skye watched. The toothbrush he recognized, despite its plasticized manufacture; he inferred the tube of toothpaste from its packaging—Holmes had used a tooth powder from a chemist’s around the corner from his Baker Street lodgings. The function and application of the stick of antiperspirant, too, he inferred from the labels. Aftershave was fairly straightforward. But he held up the disposable plastic razor with undisguised puzzlement.
“Obviously it is intended for cutting,” he noted of the razor, “for I see the blade, but…?” He paused, considering, then deducing from the known facts. “By Jove. This is a safety razor?”
“Yes, it is. I’ll bet you used a straight razor, soap, and a brush for shaving, didn’t you?” Skye inquired.
“Yes.” Holmes studied the object.
“It’s designed to be disposable,” Skye explained, taking the razor from his fingers. “When the blade gets dull, you throw it away and get out a new one. There should be a can of shaving cream in there, too.”
Holmes poked around in the leather kit, producing the shaving cream. He handed it to Skye, who smiled.
“Okay, watch this, and pay attention to the angle, or you can cut yourself,” she suggested. Holmes watched closely as she removed the clear plastic cover from the razor blade and laid both aside. She picked up the can of shaving cream and shook it vigorously, then sat it on the counter and cupped her fingers in front of the nozzle, depressing the trigger with her thumb. A fluffy blob of cream emerged into her hand with a hiss, and grinning, she spread it over the back of her opposite forearm. Holmes turned on the hot water in the sink, and Skye rinsed her fingers, then picked up the razor and stroked it across her arm. She delicately removed both the shaving cream and a swath of downy, golden hair before rinsing the razor in the stream of water and repeating the process. When she was done, she casually dunked her arm under the water faucet, rinsing away the last traces.
“Interesting,” he muttered, running a considering hand over his chin and cheeks, studying his face in the mirror and noting the five o’clock shadow.
“Here,” she said, handing him the razor. “Wanna try?”
Holmes took the razor and set it aside. He removed his tweed jacket and waistcoat, slid his braces off his shoulders, then peeled off his shirt and tie, to expose muscular shoulders, long, wiry arms, and a powerful chest partly hidden by his undershirt, which he left on for propriety’s sake. He bent over the sink, scooping up several handfuls of the hot water and splashing them on his face.
But when he attempted to extract shaving cream from the can, Holmes found it took more consideration than he’d thought. His thumb came down too hard on the trigger, and shaving cream exploded from the nozzle, splattering all over his hand and arm, even splashing on his undershirt.
“Ah!” he exclaimed in dismay. Skye bit her lip hard to stifle laughter.
“Here,” she said, grabbing a hand towel and helping him clean up the spatters. “Light, steady touch. Try again.”
Wary this time, Holmes applied a more sensitive touch, varying the pressure until he got the feel of it. A downy puff of cream soon nestled in the palm of his hand, and a satisfied Holmes spread the cream over his face, then picked up the razor.
That, too, took getting used to, but he managed to avoid cutting himself. When his chin and jaw had received due ablutions, he ran his fingers over them again.
“Better. But still not as good as my old razor.”
“If you want, I can pick up some things for you tonight, and bring them in with me tomorrow morning.” Skye shrugged.
“You are certain you would not mind?” Holmes turned to look at her, deliberating.
“Of course not. We’ll sit down in a few minutes and make a list of what you need, I’ll go by the store after work, and charge it to the project.”
“Very well,” he agreed immediately, reaching for his shirt.
“Now, let’s show you the TV and the telephone, and you’ll be set for now,” she smiled, moving outside the door to give him privacy while he tucked in his shirttails. “Then we’ll get you measured for clothes, we can grab some lunch at the cafeteria, and…”
“And?” Holmes wondered, emerging from the bathroom, deftly knotting his tie.
“Well, we’re having a debriefing this afternoon at one o’clock. I was hoping you’d come. We might need to ask you some questions.”
“If I may be of assistance, I will certainly be there,” Holmes agreed.
* * *
Holmes was not overmuch impressed with lunch, but General Morris hastened to explain the cafeteria was hardly considered haute cuisine.
“Maybe tonight you can take him to the Officer’s Club for dinner, sir,” Skye suggested, as they ate in the more sedate—and less populated—officer’s section of the cafeteria. “He should enjoy that more.”
“Good idea,” Morris beamed affably. “It just opened a month ago, Holmes, and it’s quite a nice little place; very proud of it. In fact, it’s so new, it’s not even open every night because they’re not fully staffed yet, but it happens that tonight, it is. Would you like to join us, Doctor?”
“Not tonight, thanks,” Skye smiled wearily. “When we’re done with the debriefs, I’ll run by the store and pick up some things for Holmes. By the time I get up the pass and home, after the kind of day it’s been…”
“Skye,” Holmes offered, “if it will be too much trouble…”
“No, no, I don’t mind at all. I like to shop. It’ll give me some down time. But the more stuff I put on the schedule, the longer the day. And I still have horses to feed once I get home.”
“You have horses?” Holmes queried, perking up. He had already deduced from his escorted excursions around the base that strange conveyances called automobiles were the current mode of travel.
“I do. Four, in fact.”
“What kind?
“One is a big quarter horse gelding, one a thoroughbred-quarter cross—she’s a mare—and two Percherons to pull my buggy.”
“Do you go driving often?”
“Every chance I get. Would you like to come next time? Or maybe go for a nice, leisurely trail ride?” Skye smiled.
“Indeed I would. I have been known to do both. I handle a…” he broke off, realizing they would likely not know much about hansom cabs, “handle buggies and carriages rather well, if I do say so.”
“Done, then,” Skye beamed. “If the General can get you rounded u
p to get off base in a few days, maybe we can have a little jaunt this weekend.”
“Excellent!”
“Now hang on just a damned minute,” Morris protested. “We can’t have him running off all over the place. He’s classified. You’re lucky I’m letting him out to eat with us. I mean, given how he got here and all…”
Holmes narrowed his eyes in displeasure. Skye’s fairly blazed.
“What do you intend to do, General, keep him here under armed guard?” she dared to snap, annoyed. “He’s not a jet plane, and he’s not one of your soldiers. He’s a civvie, like it or not, and he has rights just like the rest of us.”
“I understand that, Doctor,” Morris responded coldly. “But given the nature of his…arrival, you can hardly expect me to let him wander around.”
Holmes decided it was time to interject.
“May I point out that this,” he made the smallest hand gesture, indicating the cafeteria environ without drawing attention, “is hardly the wisest locale for this discussion?”
Skye instantly silenced, and Morris looked at Holmes with new respect.
“Well, it seems you do have some appreciation for such matters,” he declared, sotto voce.
“I am known for being discreet,” Holmes murmured. “It is the nature of my business. I am also quite familiar with the inner, more…unspoken…workings of government.”
“Maybe I should put together some of Watson’s stories about your cases, for the General to read,” Skye suggested. “He’ll get a better appreciation for what you have done, and what you can do.”
* * *
Morris raised an eyebrow, as it dawned on him that perhaps Skye knew more about Holmes’ abilities than he, the general, did.
“That might be an excellent idea. I would especially commend to your attention the matters popularly known as the Beryl Coronet; the Noble Bachelor; the Greek Interpreter; and the Naval Treaty,” Holmes suggested.
Morris raised both eyebrows. Naval treaties? Interpreters? This man must know more about classified government work than I’d thought. That’d make sense; Chadwick’s not one for breaches of security.
The Case of the Displaced Detective Page 4
