The Case of the Displaced Detective

by Stephanie Osborn

  “Try the tea and let me know what you think of it,” Skye suggested, waving her glass at Holmes’ in a metaphorical attempt to break the ice. “Iced tea is popular in the southern United States where I grew up. Instead of cream and sugar, it has sugar and lemon. It’s great for cooling down on a hot day.”

  Politely, eyes still firmly fixed forward, Holmes took a sip, then nodded.

  “Try tasting it next time,” Skye said dryly.

  * * *

  Holmes blinked, then shot her a sidelong glance, realizing his dissembling was neither deceiving so astute a companion, nor helping the situation. Blast it.

  * * *

  Skye saw his eyes dilate as they fixed on her form once more, then his gaze slid away. Boy, is he uncomfortable, she thought, hiding a wince.

  * * *

  Holmes took a deliberate sip of the iced tea, allowing it to remain in his mouth, savoring it for a moment before swallowing. Then he nodded.

  “Quite different from what I am used to, but very refreshing.”

  “Unlike my swimsuit,” Skye observed bluntly.

  “I…” Holmes began. The flush, which had started to fade from his face, returned. “Skye, you are barely covered.” His tone bordered on, but did not quite cross the line into, indignance.

  “Holmes, this is what swimsuits look like nowadays,” she explained patiently, understanding his reaction, and glad to get the matter into the open so they could discuss it. “If it makes you more comfortable, I can go buy a one-piece, but all that’ll do is cover up my middle. It won’t hide my shape, it won’t cover my arms and legs, and I’ll still have shoulders and cleavage.”

  Holmes absorbed that, but said nothing.

  “I guess this means we won’t be buying you swim trunks anytime soon,” Skye sighed frustratedly, setting her tea in the shade and lying back. “I’d hoped to take you swimming at one of the lakes this summer. And you’ll need to get some tan built up first so you don’t sunburn.”

  “If that,” he aimed a wiggling finger at her garments, “constitutes female swimming attire, what, pray tell, constitutes the male?” Holmes frowned.

  “Anywhere from trunks like long boxer shorts, to something closer to the bikini bottom I have on.” Skye shrugged.

  A sound suspiciously akin to a disdainful snort was her only response.

  Skye sighed again and settled down to absorb the warmth beaming down from its source nearly a hundred million miles away. The deck grew quiet. Holmes sat gazing out over the ranch, sipping his tea, while his nearly nude liaison lazed in the sun.

  * * *

  After about ten minutes of silence, during which it became apparent Skye was more inclined to somnolence than further conversation or activity, Holmes began to relax, his high color fading to near normal. Initially he hadn’t been entirely certain of Skye’s intentions, but as the minutes passed it became obvious her intent was indeed as she had said, and she was passively soaking up sunshine. That conclusion reached, and the silence growing tiresome to his active mind, he found himself automatically practicing his usual observing technique, clandestinely eyeing her as she lay, seeming asleep.

  She was muscular, as he had suspected for some time; but her muscles, unlike his, appeared covered with a thin layer of subcutaneous fat, giving her body a softer, smoother appearance. She was possessed of long, strong legs, shapely with muscle; a flat belly; shoulders that were wide for a woman; and two mounds of flesh rising smoothly and aesthetically from her chest, not unlike two low, broad mountains.

  Holmes felt heat rise in his cheeks once more, and he glanced away, stared at Pikes instead, and sipped his tea.

  A few minutes later, Skye’s drowsy voice queried, “Holmes? What time is it?”

  “Hm?” Holmes fished his pocket watch from his jeans. “Almost ten-twenty.”

  “Oh, I better roll over,” she decided, suiting action to words and pillowing her face on folded arms.

  This gave Holmes something new to observe, and he studied her back with curious interest for several moments, able to use less stealth in the doing, as the likelihood of being caught decreased. The musculature was more apparent here, and he became aware how she could handle her horses so readily, even when they were being recalcitrant.

  His eyes slid lower, and the artist within him noticed her backside had curves every bit as aesthetic as her chest. But, he concluded, they were less like mountain peaks, and more like rolling downs. But before he could get further with the thought, Skye grunted and pushed up.

  “Idiot, what am I thinking? I’ll end up like a lobster. Holmes, I need your help.”

  “Of course, Skye,” he responded, putting aside previous musings. “What do you require?”

  “Here,” Skye grabbed a large blue plastic tube beside the cooler, tossing it to him. He caught it dexterously, studying the labeling. “Pop off the cap, squeeze a big glob in your hand, and rub it into my back. It’s sunscreen. As fair as I am, if I don’t use this, I’ll sunburn inside ten minutes.”

  Holmes stared in something akin to horror, his gaze alternating between the tube and Skye’s back.

  “Skye,” he began, his face turning pink.

  “I know, I know, I’m so pale I shouldn’t be sunbathing at all,” she said sheepishly, inadvertently cutting him off. “But I found out years ago, if I don’t get a little sun at the beginning of the season, when I do get out in the summer, I’ll burn despite everything I do. This way, I get a little tan, and then I can use the sunscreen in the middle of the summer and I don’t have a problem.”

  “Skye,” Holmes tried again, more decided this time.

  “I’m sorry to ask you to do it,” she continued babbling, revealing her own embarrassment at her lack of independence in the situation. “I got my legs and arms, but I couldn’t reach my back, and I couldn’t find the sponge on a stick I used last year. I must have thrown it out.”

  “SKYE,” Holmes said firmly.

  Skye quieted, twisting to look at him.

  “Skye, I shall not be doing this,” he said unequivocally, handing the tube of sunscreen back to her. “You are asking me to rub my hands on your bare skin, and that would simply be improper. No gentleman would do such a thing to any lady not his wife.”

  “But…but…you gave me a shoulder rub to relax me the other day, after the…the accident,” Skye pointed out, confused.

  “That was…different,” Holmes said, uncomfortable. “You were properly covered, and in considerable emotional distress. You required calming. I repeat, no gentleman would touch the bare skin of any woman to whom he was not wed.”

  “Not here. Not now. I mean, you wouldn’t ask a perfect stranger to do it. But it doesn’t have to be a spouse, Holmes.”

  * * *

  “No, Skye.” He shook his head, frowning, before putting down the tube and folding his arms, the very picture of Victorian male resolve. Skye pushed onto her side, resting on one elbow to stare at him, puzzled.

  “Holmes? We’ve been in almost constant contact ever since…well, since you arrived on this plane. That’s…what, at least four, five weeks now?”

  “Yes, I believe so,” he thought, reckoning back. “Closer to six, I should think.”

  “It seems like longer,” Skye mused. “I swear, it seems like I’ve known you for…”

  “Indeed,” he agreed softly, understanding. “A very long time.”

  “So we’re friends, aren’t we?”

  “Yes, I suppose so.”

  “You’re not sure.”

  “I had not stopped to consciously consider the matter in detail. But yes, you are a trusted confidante. One of the few I have had in my life. Yes, I believe the term ‘friend’ does apply.”

  “Have you ever seen a bad sunburn?”

  “Watson sunburned his nose once, while we were in disguise on a case,” Holmes recalled in sympathetic amusement. “Talk of ‘A Study in Scarlet.’ He looked quite the sight, and complained for two days. Then it peeled, and he looked even worse.”


  “Imagine my entire back looking—and feeling—like Watson’s nose.”

  Holmes blinked in surprise, then visibly winced. He picked up the tube of sunscreen and considered it, studying the labeling.

  “This prevents that?” he queried softly.

  “Yeah.”

  * * *

  Skye was unable to see Holmes’ internal turmoil. His mind told him he should leave, he had no business being there, let alone touching her as she was suggesting. Not to mention the fact that her current attire, in Holmes’ opinion, was not something a lady would wear in the company of a man with whom she was not intimate, and it instinctively raised strong questions in his Victorian mind regarding her moral virtue.

  But, as she had so adroitly pointed out, they were friends. They had been thrown together in completely unique circumstances for a month and a half, a baptism of fire for their alliance. After all, how often did a man move to a different universe to live? No, Holmes knew Skye well enough now to trust her, and she had never done anything untoward regarding him until this moment. And, he considered, in this world, she was not asking for anything improper even now, but requesting the aid of a friend to avoid a painful injury.

  No, she is still a lady. She simply does not realise the full import of what she is requesting of me.

  For Holmes knew a part of him very much wanted to touch her. Oh, he had coolly and even humorously analyzed her form with regard to topographic features, but it amounted to the same thing: He had thoroughly inspected her body, practically ogling it. Did not a lady deserve to be protected from such?

  And there was the matter of distraction. Holmes was in the midst of both a very serious case and the struggle to assimilate into a new life. Both required every ounce of grey matter he possessed in order to succeed. He had seen enough of the world—any world—to know: Touching led to…more. And “more” usually led to emotional entanglements. And Holmes refused to abide emotional entanglements, for in his opinion, they led inevitably to the dissolution of that high intellect which was his raison d’être.

  But Skye had created quite an unpleasant mental image for the detective. Despite his lighthearted reference to the incident, Holmes clearly recalled how Watson’s nose had reddened, then blistered, the blisters breaking and weeping. His poor nose had been raw and angry, scabbing over before it peeled only a few days later. And then peeled again, a week after that. The thought of Skye’s entire back in that horrid condition made even Holmes cringe. The idea that he, Holmes, could so simply prevent it nagged at his heart and mind.

  Holmes sighed, torn, then his eyes narrowed as he gave the matter further thought.

  * * *

  “So if you do not do this now, it will be worse this summer?”

  “It will be worse,” Skye nodded acknowledgement. “Believe me, I’ve tried.” She hesitated. “You wouldn’t have offended me, Holmes. If anything, I’d have been grateful. I’m sorry I offended you. I didn’t mean to. I guess…look, just forget it.” Metaphorically throwing in the towel, she reached for the tube, intending to get up and go inside.

  * * *

  Holmes pulled the tube out of her reach.

  She will be forced to curtail her leisure activities, if this is not done. And she will not have a position of employment for an unknown length of time. Skye will have nothing—NOTHING—to do.

  For a moment, he recalled the boredom between cases that once led him to the use of narcotic stimuli, and thought of the vivacious Skye in such a state of ennui. He made his decision.

  Holmes’ face was expressionless, the steel-grey eyes hooded, as he ordered, “Lie back down, Skye.” Startled, Skye obeyed, keeping her head turned to look at him. Holmes popped the tube’s cap open, squeezing the lotion into the palm of his hand. “I will not permit your harm, my dear, when it is in my power to prevent. Tell me how much,” he murmured, holding it where she could see.

  “That’s good,” Skye observed.

  “Move your hair, my dear,” Holmes said, shifting closer and moving into a kneeling position beside her. “I should not like to get this into your charming locks. It would be quite untidy.”

  Skye flipped her hair out of the way, then said, “Oh, wait a minute.”

  Holmes watched in dismay as she reached behind her back and unfastened her bikini top, pulling the straps out of the way. By Jove. Does she intend to disrobe now?! For God’s sake, Skye, do not sit up, he mentally pleaded. He nearly bolted, then and there, but mastered himself and remained. To Holmes’ titanic relief, Skye kept her chest flat against the deck. Or as flat as her chest would go, anyway. At least it proved sufficient to maintain Holmes’ now-fragile grip on his self-possession.

  “Okay,” she said when she was done. “This’ll be better. I’ve gotten nasty little burns from not getting the lotion under the straps, and then the straps move when I do.”

  “Ah,” Holmes said, understanding, trying to hide his trepidation even as his face flushed yet again. I said I would not permit her to be harmed, and I meant it, he determined, gritting his teeth against the sensation as his hand contacted her shoulder blade. “Is a massage technique appropriate?”

  “It doesn’t have to be elaborate. Slap it on. Just make sure you cover all the skin from my neck to my bikini bottom. It’ll dry on its own.”

  Holmes’ hand swept across her shoulders, spreading the lotion. Then he dispersed it across her back, trying hard to ignore the smooth skin gliding beneath his fingers.

  “Mm,” she sighed, and the sensual, unexpected sound nearly did away with his composure. “You have a nice touch, Holmes. Not so light it tickles, and not so heavy it’s pressing my ribcage into the deck.”

  “Thank you,” he murmured, concentrating on maintaining his aplomb while working the lotion into the small of her back. In some ways it was more difficult than he’d anticipated: His fingers wandered, spreading out, wanting to explore, and he had to focus to keep them in line. He ran his hand along the elastic top of her bikini bottom, ensuring the lotion covered that thin line of skin. He suspected he should allow his fingertips to slip beneath that elastic, but was not remotely about to attempt it.

  “There,” he remarked in relief, sitting back on his heels. “You are now properly protected, Skye.”

  “Thanks, Holmes,” Skye said, and he heard the seriousness of her tone; she was making it as obvious as she could how appreciative she was. She fastened her top, grabbed a small towel nearby, and handed it to him. “Here. Wipe your hand off on this.”

  Holmes accepted the towel, wiping the residue of the lotion on it. Skye reached into the cooler and produced an ice cube, tossing it to him. He caught it deftly, allowing it to melt in his hand and liquefy the dried lotion between his fingers, then removing the resultant slurry with the towel.

  “Need some more tea?”

  “No, not yet,” he said, glancing at his glass to confirm his decision, then settling back to try to relax again. In retrospect, it hadn’t been quite as bad as he’d feared. In fact, it had been mildly pleasurable, but the detective tried to put the sensation aside. He picked up his glass and sipped from it, letting it soothe his ruffled dignity. “And now you are adequately protected from sunburn?”

  “For the next hour or so, yeah. And by that time, I’ll be ready to go inside. Seriously, thank you, Holmes.” She gave him a look of indebtedness.

  “I suspect it would have been more difficult for both of us, had you gotten badly burned. I cannot imagine being able to wear a shirt at all under those conditions.” Holmes waved a dismissive hand, discreetly refusing to look in her direction.

  “I’ve done it, but it ain’t fun.” Skye rested her forehead on her folded arms once more.

  The pair fell quiet. Anna hopped up on the deck, and Holmes watched the little cat flop onto its back, turning its belly to the sunshine and writhing in pleasure before curling up in the sun and grinning at him. Holmes grinned back, amused by the feline’s antics.

  “Cat day,” he murmured, glan
cing between Anna and Skye. “Yes, it suits you.”

  “Hm-hm,” Skye chuckled. “It suits you, too, Holmes. You just haven’t learned to relax yet.”

  “No,” he admitted wryly. “And if you intend to show up regularly, clad like this, it is little wonder.” Holmes took a deep, exasperated breath.

  “Trust me, Holmes, this is a conservative suit. If you saw a woman in a Brazilian string bikini, your Victorian sensibilities would run screaming, if not outright curl up and die.”

  “Brazilian string?”

  “Don’t ask.”

  “Hm.”

  A curious Holmes made a mental note to research the matter, privately wondering how bad it could be; then he sipped his tea as Skye reached for her own, and he caught the thoughtful gaze she directed at him.

  “What?” he wondered, suspicious.

  “You need more social interaction. We’re going to a party tonight.”

  * * *

  Late that afternoon, Skye led Holmes into his bedroom, opened his closet door and perused the options.

  “Hm, lessee,” she considered, as he stood behind her, looking over her shoulder. “The party’s down at Woodland Park, at a clubhouse in a new subdivision. It’s George’s birthday, nothing fancy, but there’ll be a lot of people, because I swear he knows half the county. His daughter’s throwing the party for him. It’ll be ‘nice casual.’ I already gave him his present when I worked with his horse, so we’re good there. I think you can get away with a pair of twill trousers, a shirt of some sort, and a sport coat.” Skye reached into the closet and fished out a pair of grey trousers and a black corduroy sport coat. “This’ll work. You okay with it?”

  Holmes considered the proffered garments for a moment, then nodded his approval.

  “What color shirt do you want to wear?”

  Holmes studied the options, then reached past her into the closet and extracted a pale blue, short sleeved oxford cloth shirt.

  “Ooo,” Skye grinned appreciatively. “Those grey eyes of yours will pop. Cowboy boots, loafers, or oxfords?”

  “Loafers,” Holmes decided, having discovered the ease of the slip-on shoes.