Before Skye could answer, Holmes nodded again. “Thank you. I was pondering how best to handle caring for the animals.”
“Consider it done. I’m off,” Caitlin reverted to her usual cheery self. “See you guys at noon.”
* * *
Holmes refused to discuss the case with Skye until she was strong enough to go home.
“No, my dear, I will not,” he reiterated unequivocally, “because there is neither need, as Harris seems to have retreated from the spotlight, and we have no other leads. Nor is there cause to divert your attentions from the more important matter of healing.”
So it was nearly a week before Skye could pry anything of substance from Holmes’ lips. He spent almost all his time in her room at the base hospital, even sleeping in the recliner by the bed—Skye didn’t realize he was standing guard, although Holmes was beginning to wonder if he wouldn’t have done so anyway, to watch over her.
But he found his way up Ute Pass each day to the ranch. Most days he caught a ride with Caitlin; sometimes he took a taxi. For the most part, he only stayed long enough to do the chores, bathe and dress in clean clothes before descending into the Springs once more, although on Friday he spent several hours away. Skye assumed he was sleuthing, but she had little time to wonder, as the doctors kept her busy with follow-up examinations. Eventually both of them arrived back in her hospital room.
* * *
The odd missive from Colonel Jones had also found its way to Holmes at the hospital, mostly bland updates on their investigatory progress, and the autopsy report on the dead saboteur, none of which held any earth-shattering information. Not that he had expected it to. Holmes was sufficiently satisfied with the military investigators’ abilities to allow this part of the case to remain out of his hands for the time, while he guarded Skye.
“After all,” he pointed out to Skye after he returned from his extended absence on Friday, “these gentlemen and ladies are rather more skilled than the Yard chaps of my day.”
“So it’s good to have competent backup?”
Holmes met her eyes, replying with a world of meaning, “Yes, it certainly is.”
Skye’s grin turned into a wobbly, pleased smile, and she dropped her gaze to the blanket as a delicate flush covered her face.
He paused, giving her a chance to collect herself, then added, “There are now custom bulletproof vests awaiting us both on the ranch, by the way. Might I remark that your aim was excellent, my dear? The post-mortem found no less than three bullets from your weapon embedded in Thompson’s solar plexus, out of the six you fired; his descending aorta was quite lacerated. Two of the remaining three were also found within the corpse, one in the chest, the other in the abdomen. The other two rounds were found within your magazine, unfired. By contrast, his weapon contained ten rounds, all of which were emptied, and only two of which found their target. And that, I suspect, was due largely to your efforts to shield me.” He bowed. “Indeed, I should say I have an excellent ‘investigative assistant.’”
Skye blushed deeper, her grin growing wider.
“I do have one question, though, Holmes.”
“And what is that?”
“Do we know how Thompson got a weapon onto the base?”
“As a matter of fact, we do. It seems there was a hidden compartment within the driver’s seat of his automobile. They found two…I believe the term was, ‘static-proof bags’ inside. According to Colonel Jones, using such bags to contain the desired contraband would have prevented even a trained dog from locating any firearms or explosive devices. By the way, it is my understanding they have yet to find the ‘package.’ Nothing of that nature was discovered upon the body. Jones is operating on the theory that the package may have been delivered at an earlier time and cached somewhere within the facility. He is performing a detailed search of the Chamber for contraband.”
“Oh,” Skye said, frowning in thought. Her companion saw it, and decided it was time to divert the conversation to some lighter fare.
* * *
“Now,” Holmes rubbed his hands together briskly, “I have a message or two secreted about my person. Nothing is written on paper; rather, each message IS my person. They are nothing especially important, however, so do not feel pressured, my dear, if you do not feel up to it today. But by way of exercise, and to combat ennui, let me see what you can read.”
Skye’s eyes narrowed, and to Holmes’ delight, he saw a canny look enter the sapphire gaze. Her glance traced his form from head to toe.
* * *
On this particular day, Holmes was clad in tan chinos and a scarlet short-sleeved polo shirt, which set off his brunet complexion well. His feet were encased in brown socks and loafers. A leather belt, mate to the loafers, cinched his trim waist. Skye thought he looked quite fit and attractive, and she let her expression say so. But she was focused on details far more obscure than articles of clothing, and her bright azure gaze probed every inch of his body.
* * *
Holmes suddenly felt his breath taken away by that glance. The realization she now knew him well enough to detect the smallest minutiae, the slightest discrepancy not only in his appearance, but in the very shape and posture of his body, shook him deeply and profoundly. He abruptly found himself struggling to maintain his composure.
“What flavor?” Skye pointed to his left trousers pocket with a grin.
“Butterscotch, of course,” he chuckled, glad to have the diversion of thought, pulling the small bag of hard candy from his pocket and offering it to her. “I know it is your preferred sweet.”
She extracted a piece of candy, unwrapping it and popping it into her mouth to suck while, to Holmes’ mild surprise, she continued to scrutinize him.
“Hmm. Holmes, sit down there.” Skye pointed at the straight-back visitor’s chair, and Holmes sat obediently, aware she was ferreting out something else.
“Put your feet up on the bed,” she ordered, and he suppressed a smile.
Oh, very good, my dearest Skye, he thought proudly, completely missing the fact that he had used a very telling endearment, while raising his legs and crossing them at the ankles. Very good indeed.
“Oh, that’s great news,” she muttered after several seconds inspecting the soles and heels of his shoes. “I’m glad to see you doing that. Not that I minded, of course. But when I’m laid up like this, you can get around without having to depend on someone else. Have you gotten your permit yet?”
“More. I have, this very morning, gotten my licence,” he confessed with a chuckle, extracting his wallet and slipping the new drivers’ license from it, flipping it onto the bedclothes for her to examine. “With help from General Morris as to preceding paperwork. He—and, I suppose, the powers that be—finally took your injunctions to heart and forced through a birth certificate, social security identification, and a few other matters, on my behalf. I gather an organization known as ‘MI-5’ provided significant…overseas assistance. I am now fully ‘legal,’” he said smugly.
“So that’s where you were this morning! Do those ‘few other matters’ possibly include a concealed carry permit?” Skye wondered, surveying the license before handing it back. “Or is that little bulge at the top of your…um, hip, due to something other than a pistol?”
“They do, and you have deduced it,” Holmes nodded, pleased at her skill. “Morris did not like what happened to you as a result of my lack of weaponry. Not only did he expedite the paperwork, he expedited the weapon acquisition. Next time I shall be able to defend myself, instead of getting my dearest companion shot.”
It dawned on him just then: Skye had readily recognized the slightly different conformation of his backside as a result of the concealed carry. He struggled to avoid flushing in embarrassment. I suppose turn about is fair play, but when did she…?
“What did you get?” Skye wondered, interrupting his musings.
“I am most used to a revolver, so that is what I obtained.”
“What kind?”
“Smith & Wesson, .357 magnum. The same as I shot in the Peterson range.”
“Nice choice.”
“I thought so. Soon we shall both be duly outfitted for whatever comes our way. Now, I have it to understand from the nurse at the station that they intend to release you tomorrow.”
“That’s what it sounds like.”
“So let us discuss a few matters of logistics. Skye, I am patently no nursemaid. But as I have mentioned in the past, I have learned a few things from Watson over the years, and I am quite prepared to see to as much of your convalescence as I can…if you wish it. I can, for instance, help you get about the house, and prepare some basic, healthy meals. I can also, if…necessary…change the dressings on your wounds. Thanks to Watson, I have also learned to recognise when infection is setting in, and can get you to your doctor, should that occur.” He dropped his gaze briefly. “I…cannot help you with more personal matters. While I could draw water for your bath, I expect you would be more comfortable having Dr. Hughes come in and help you in and out of the bath.”
* * *
Skye realized Holmes was embarrassed. He was considerately offering to help, but also candidly admitting that said help was limited by his own knowledge and experience. And that experience did not extend to tending private female matters.
Well, he wasn’t much known for his enjoyment of feminine companionship to begin with. So it stands to reason. He’s come a long way, just living in the same house with me, letting me take care of him, let alone him offering to help take care of me.
“That’s okay, Holmes, don’t worry about it,” she reassured him with a smile. “I’m only allowed to shower for the next few weeks anyway, to prevent infection in the incisions. I’m sure we’ll manage fine. You don’t have to do anything. I’ll just be glad to get home.”
“Very well.” Holmes nodded. “We will simply see how matters go. Tonight I will prepare your bed; I am certain by the time we arrive home tomorrow, you will be more than ready for it.”
“Sounds lovely,” she sighed, leaning back into the pillows. “I can’t wait.”
* * *
The next morning, Holmes brought down a change of clothing for Skye. He had felt uncomfortable, rummaging around in Skye’s closet and dresser, but Caitlin had been busy, and assured him Skye would appreciate not coming home in hospital scrubs. So he searched through her closet until he found an old pair of soft, freshly laundered elastic pants in which he had seen Skye perform yoga, and that he thought might be a comfortable fit. But all of her shirts seemed too small: Skye’s upper torso was badly swollen from the dual traumas of gunshot and emergency surgery. So he got one of his own t-shirts for her to wear. Then he returned to Skye’s bedroom, mustered his composure, and delved through her lingerie, fishing out suitable undergarments. Her athletic shoes and a pair of socks finished the collection.
Slim fingers carefully folded everything, even the undergarments, smoothing over the silken fabric as gently as if it had been the skin of its owner, before tucking all inside Holmes’ own duffel bag. He intended to ensure she had everything she needed to recuperate well. Holmes was entirely too aware of how close he had come to losing Skye, and began realizing how important she was to him, every whit as important as Watson—though he was decidedly loath to use the one word that kept popping into his mind in relation to her.
He loaded the bag and a bed pillow into the car and headed down the mountain to the hospital at Peterson. There, he carried the bag into Skye’s hospital room. She was up and alert, and a nurse waited with her. Holmes greeted Skye cheerfully, handing the bag to the nurse.
“We are almost ready, Skye. While your nurse helps you dress, I shall bring the car around to meet you.”
* * *
He exited the hospital, navigating the Infiniti to the rear entrance to meet the wheelchair, then got out and helped the nurse ease Skye into the passenger seat. It wasn’t easy for her; the wounds in her chest and upper belly were obviously still very painful. Holmes looked into the blue eyes to check her condition, and saw a glazed expression, overhung with creased brows—her medication was in full effect, but she was still in pain from the movement. Oh, my poor dear Skye, he thought, hiding a sympathetic wince. Just then, she gave him a rueful glance.
“I know,” he said. “I will get you home as soon as possible, my dear.”
The nurse handed the detective the empty duffel. Holmes leaned into the vehicle, reaching past Skye into the back seat. There, he deposited the bag and produced the pillow.
“Here. Hold this close. The doctor said it would help during the drive.”
He placed it against Skye’s chest, wrapping it around her injured side before buckling her into the seat belt.
He went around to the driver’s side and climbed in, switching on the ignition. Skye hugged the pillow to her chest, and they started off.
* * *
In his office, Colonel Jones picked up the phone.
“Activate the security system full time,” he ordered. “I want observers on the audio and video round the clock, 24/7. Notify General Morris to activate backup per plan Bravo and have them standing by. Yes. Five minutes ago.”
He hung up, then picked up the phone again.
“Adrian? Yeah, they’re headed home. Yeah, a couple nearby for quick response would be good. As close as you can get ‘em without her knowing. You’re kidding. They do? Perfect. Yeah, that sounds good.” He hung up and leaned back in his chair with a sigh.
“Well, that’s as good as we can do for now,” he decided.
* * *
The pair arrived at the ranch with no untoward incidents, Skye deciding Holmes was an excellent driver, especially as he took care not to jar her. Holmes parked near the side steps and came around to help Skye out of the car. He took her arm and helped her over to the steps. Skye stepped onto the first stair, then gasped loudly, clutching at her side.
“Oh, wow,” she moaned, trying to ease the pain in the incisions. “How can climbing a step hurt my chest and stomach so much?! It isn’t anywhere close to my legs!”
“As Watson was fond of remarking, it is all attached, my dear girl. Can you make it?”
“Yeah, if you don’t mind my waiting ten minutes in between each step. Be patient and I—”
Without warning, Holmes swept her up in his arms and carried Skye up the remaining few steps, then deposited her back on her feet.
“There,” he said quietly, moving in front of her to unlock the door. “The quicker we get you into bed and settled, the better.”
It was less than five minutes before Skye sat on the edge of her bed. Permitting no detours, Holmes guided her straight there, turning down the bedclothes for her. From her perch on the bedside, she struggled to lean down and reach her feet to remove her shoes. Pushing too hard, Skye grunted, a distinct note of pain in the sound despite herself. Suddenly Holmes was crouching in front of her. He deftly untied her sneakers and eased them from her feet.
“Now lie down,” he instructed.
* * *
Skye obeyed without question, inching herself down onto her good side, lifting her feet onto the bed, then rolling onto her back. The entire process was tentative and slow, but to Holmes’ gratification, was unaccompanied by any more vocalizations. She didn’t even try to reach for the covers, so Holmes grasped them firmly and tugged them over Skye’s exhausted form. She sighed in relief.
“Oh, it feels so good to be in my own bed again,” she breathed, closing her eyes.
“I knew it would. I remember how good it always was to come home to Baker Street after a case took me away.”
Cerulean eyes opened, looking up at him with pain Holmes suddenly realized was not physical.
“I’m so sorry, Holmes,” she whispered, glancing away, tears filling her eyes. She blinked hard, and one tear spilled over.
Holmes’ heart wrenched. She misunderstood, he thought, pained. Immediately he sat on the bedside, remembering how she had offered com
fort after he had received his immunizations.
“No, no, Skye,” he soothed, brushing away the tear with his fingertips. “There is no need for this, my dear. I was merely drawing an analogy. In truth, this ranch is my home now. And, as I have spent many recent nights in the chair by your hospital bed—‘recliner’ though it may have been—I, too, will be glad to sleep in my own bed tonight.”
“Are…are you sure?”
“Positive.”
“That makes me think. Why did you spend every night at the hospital? I would have thought…I mean, with your reserve…”
“Were you offended?” Grey eyes met blue, watching cautiously.
“No. It was kind of nice to know I was being looked after. I felt…” she shrugged, “safe.”
“Good.”
“But why?”
Holmes thought fast. He HAD been looking after her—standing guard. But when he requested the undercover guard detail from Jones to aid in that endeavor, he had conferred with that worthy as well as General Morris and Skye’s surgeon, who was a colleague of Dr. Wellingford. The surgeon had been concerned lest undue stress be placed on his patient, fearing her healing would be slowed if she were aware of the potential danger. So they decided not to tell Skye of their concerns until several weeks had elapsed, and she was stronger.
But Holmes was unwilling to suggest as a cover that the reason had been personal, concerned Skye might surmise the nature of the debate raging within. For he had realized she had become dear to him, dearer than he would ever have dreamed possible. In truth, the part of him that held her dear had found it very agreeable to remain by her side. But that was anathema to his thought processes and his principles. So his heart and his mind—the artist and the detective—were at war, and until the conflict could be resolved, the subject was verboten.
“Principally, Skye, it was as your friend Dr. Hughes said last Sunday,” Holmes dissembled only slightly. “You were willing to offer your life in defence of mine.” His voice shook and he steadied it quickly, continuing without pause, “I could hardly ignore the bonds of friendship, especially in such a circumstance. I swore I would not leave you, and I have abided by that oath to the best of my ability.”
The Case of the Displaced Detective Page 41
