The Case of the Displaced Detective

by Stephanie Osborn

  * * *

  “Aw,” Skye murmured, touched. She had caught the tremor in his voice and it moved her deeply to know the man she loved had been disturbed by the prospect of losing her. She did not believe it arose out of love, not romantic love anyway, but to know she was important in his life was comforting. She had decided in the hospital that, if he wanted her beside him in any capacity, she would do her best by him. Better to have his friendship than not to have him at all, she determined.

  * * *

  But before she could formulate a coherent reply, Holmes patted her shoulder.

  “Now you, my dear, are in need of rest. Enough of such worries for the time. Close your eyes—there’s a girl—and sleep. I shall be in later with your medications.”

  Skye let out a long, contented sigh, and Holmes watched for a moment, as she seemed to melt into the bed. Then he rose from the bedside and left the room, quietly closing the door behind him.

  * * *

  The rest of the day went well, and for that first day, there was no question—Holmes brought Skye her meals in bed. She was still very tired and in a fair amount of pain, and he couldn’t bring himself to force her out of bed merely to come to the kitchen and eat, when it was so easy to bring a tray to the bedroom. Bathroom breaks proved a bit problematic, but Skye assured him that if he would only help her into and out of the bed, she’d manage the rest on her own.

  “Because the incision where they dug the bullet out of my spleen hurts like bloody blue blazes, especially when I try to sit up in bed. Not to mention I look like a blimp, so it’s harder than usual to begin with.”

  “It would stand to reason, in both cases. Your body took considerable abuse, Skye.”

  “I know. I’m just impatient.”

  The rest of the day went well. Skye watched the small television on the corner of the dresser, but only made one attempt to read: Her pain medications rendered it difficult to focus. Holmes did the chores, and after dinner, when he brought her pain medications, he also proceeded to tuck her in for the night, metaphorically at least. With a comfortable sigh, Skye settled down. Holmes turned off the bedside lamp, closing the door behind him as he left, and in less than a half-hour, Skye was soundly asleep.

  * * *

  The next morning, Sunday or not, the physical therapist showed up. Skye’s lung had collapsed as a result of the gunshot penetration and had to be reinflated, and her doctors were concerned it could collapse again, so they had prescribed deep-breathing exercises to strengthen her lungs and the surrounding muscles.

  “Hi there, I’m Martha Carpenter, and I’m going to be your nurse and physiotherapist, dear,” the plump, motherly woman remarked; she vaguely reminded Holmes of Mrs. Hudson. “Call me Martha.”

  “Okay, Martha. I’m Skye. Oh joy, I’m so looking forward to PT,” Skye tried not to groan, struggling to sit up in bed. Holmes helped her shift into position before piling all four of the bed pillows behind Skye’s back, helping her to sit comfortably.

  “Now, now, Skye, this won’t be quite as bad as you think. We’re going to use an exercise machine to help us.” Martha dug in her therapy kit for a tube-and-bottle apparatus. “This is a blow-bottle, Skye,” she handed the device to the scientist. “I’m going to teach you how to use it, and I want you to use it every day, to do the exercises I’ll show you. Are you her boyfriend?” she asked Holmes.

  “Um, no,” a blushing Skye answered before a mildly taken-aback Holmes could. “Mr. Holmes is one of my two best friends, and he…rents…my spare bedroom.”

  “Oh, okay, so this is Mr. Holmes,” Martha nodded knowledgeably. “Is he your principal caregiver, then?”

  “Yes. I will have assistance from Skye’s…other best friend,” a warm glow filled the detective, “a woman by the name of Dr. Caitlin Hughes.”

  “Good. I’ll teach you how to take care of this little device, then, when we’re done,” Martha observed. “It’s important to clean it, preferably after every use, to avoid infection. Skye’s at risk for that, given the lung puncture, and pneumonia at this stage would be bad.”

  “Oh, I can do that. Holmes doesn’t have to clean up after—”

  “Now you be hushed,” Martha scolded. “If he doesn’t want to, he can say so himself.” She glanced at Holmes.

  Holmes manufactured an innocent, unassuming expression and put it on, looking back at Martha calmly but silently.

  “See there?” Martha commented to Skye. “Now you just do what I tell you, and keep up with your exercises, and let the rest of us take care of you.”

  “For a change,” Holmes interjected. Martha grinned.

  “You’ll be well in no time. Are you in much pain?”

  “I’m fine,” Skye muttered sheepishly.

  “She finds it difficult to rise from a prone position,” Holmes observed, seeing Skye wasn’t admitting to it, “and cannot yet bend over—to reach her shoes, for instance.”

  “Yeah, but everything’s all swollen,” Skye protested.

  “You said yesterday it hurt, Skye,” Holmes reprimanded.

  “And I need to know,” Martha nodded approval at Holmes, “so I don’t start you off with something too hard, or that’s going to hurt too much. I want you to do these exercises, not quit because you’re in pain.”

  “Okay,” Skye sighed, defeated. “What he said, then. The spleen incision seems to aggravate the worst. But there’s also a lot of chest soreness. I sneezed this morning when I woke up and thought I was gonna die.”

  “You didn’t tell me that.” Holmes grimaced.

  “By the time I could get my breath to call you, it was all over.” Skye shrugged.

  “All right,” Martha decided, “let’s get started…”

  * * *

  When Martha was done with Skye, the scientist was exhausted and sore.

  “Who knew breathing could be such hard work?” she muttered to Holmes. “I feel like I’ve run a marathon.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Martha remarked. “You’re in very good shape, dear, but unless you actually do things like marathon running, your lungs aren’t as strong as you think. When I’m done working with you, you’ll have a good, efficient respiratory system. Now, Mr. Holmes, let me teach you how to handle this thing, and I’ll be off…” She picked up the blow-bottle and led Holmes into the bathroom to show him its proper care.

  * * *

  As Martha left, Caitlin arrived.

  “How’s my sis?” the full-figured redhead asked brightly, coming into the bedroom. She took one look at Skye and stopped dead. “Wow. You look like shit.”

  “Gee, thanks,” Skye muttered sarcastically, shooting Caitlin—and Holmes, who stood behind her—a rueful half-grin. “I won’t editorialize on what you looked like when you had pneumonia.”

  “She has just completed physical therapy,” Holmes explained.

  “Ew,” Caitlin decided. “So would a hot shower make you feel better?”

  “A hot shower would feel like heaven,” Skye enthused. “Can I hope you’re here to help me do that?”

  “You betcha,” Caitlin beamed. “Mr. Holmes, if you would excuse us?”

  “Of course,” Holmes murmured, retreating. “I will remain within earshot should I be required.”

  “Excellent,” Caitlin said, satisfied. “C’mon, Skye, let’s get you into the bathroom.”

  * * *

  The hot shower helped, as did the luncheon Caitlin prepared with Holmes’ assistance. Then Caitlin did some laundry for them, and when that was done, she hugged Skye gingerly and prepared to head home.

  “I’ll pop in every day after work for the next few days, until you two get settled into a routine. By that time, you probably won’t need my help with the shower, Skye. Chin up, girl, you’re gonna get better faster than you think.”

  “I hope so,” Skye fussed fretfully. “I hate feeling so helpless, and like I’m a burden on people.”

  “You’re no burden. Besides, I owe you, hon. And I suspect Mr. Holmes feels t
he same way.”

  “It is certainly true Skye has my gratitude for all she has done on my behalf,” Holmes agreed.

  “See? So just relax,” Caitlin soothed. “Oh, I also took the opportunity to make a list of what groceries you needed. I’ll pick those up before I come over tomorrow, and bring ‘em by.”

  “Cait, you’re a jewel,” Skye smiled.

  “Well, I have to get groceries for home anyway, and I’d rather you had someone with you all the time, at least for the next few days.” Cait shot a surreptitious glance at Holmes, and he realized she must have some idea of what was taking place behind the scenes. “This way, Mr. Holmes can stay here with you, and I can get your stuff when I shop for my own. So it’s not an issue.”

  * * *

  Caitlin was as good as her word. She kept a close eye on the pair, assisting whenever needed, often arriving on the heels of Martha the physical therapist. Martha and Caitlin soon considered themselves a tag-team in Skye’s recuperation, partnering with Holmes in the overall endeavor.

  Holmes found himself thrown into even closer quarters with Skye as he cared for her, and this created significant turbulence within his being. The great intellect was still secretly at war with the artistic soul, the soul possessed of the heart of a romantic. More and more he found himself wanting to be near her, to be with her; she invaded his dreams at night, and even when he was reviewing the latest missive from Colonel Jones, Skye was never far from his thoughts.

  This circumstance irritated him almost to the point of disgust. It simply would not do, this infatuation he seemed to have for his liaison. Holmes was above it; he had, years ago, deliberately chosen to forswear the softer emotions—save the friendship he had developed with Watson, and then only after meeting the man and getting to know him. So, too, had he permitted a friendship with Skye, finding her equally worthy of that sole relaxing of his standards. He had developed his compassion over the years, realizing it was hardly becoming of one dedicated to upholding moral truth and justice to be as cold and merciless as those he purported to abjure. These were softer responses he permitted.

  But love was utterly out of the question. He had observed the tendency in most of the population to be reduced to insipid, cloying comportment and positively asinine reasoning by the onset of this single emotion. Holmes flatly refused to be one of the masses in this respect. He would not submit to allowing such behavior, such attitudes, within himself.

  But he made the mistake of allowing that rejection of the softer sentiments to come through in his behavior several days after Skye returned home. He let his care of her become matter-of-fact and offhand, then watched in consternation as her eyes widened and she retreated mentally and emotionally. This resulted in a near-catastrophe later that day; finished with the afternoon tea he had brought her, she attempted to return the tray to the kitchen by herself. But the chest muscles on her left side had been partially cut, both in order to extract the bullet and to reinflate the collapsed lung; they weren’t yet strong enough to support the weight of the tray and its contents.

  So a tremendous crash in the hallway startled Holmes from his study of one of Skye’s forensics texts. Sprinting into the hall, he found Skye leaning against the wall clutching her left breast, the remains of her tea tray about her feet. She looked up at him with pain-filled eyes.

  “Skye!” he exclaimed in exasperation. “What the devil are you doing?”

  “Taking my tray back to the kitchen.”

  “And why did you not call me to take it for you? You aren’t strong enough to lift that.” Leaving the tray and its contents where it lay, Holmes herded Skye back to the bedroom.

  “I didn’t want to bother you.” Skye tucked her head, ashamed.

  “Why would you think it would bother me?”

  “I’m not stupid, Holmes. You’ve been short with me all day.” Skye looked at him reproachfully.

  Holmes stopped dead. Damnation, he thought in consternation. I’d no idea she knew me that well. She knows I am perturbed about something, and she knows it has to do with her. And it hurts her. I must find a way to resolve this…this emotional impasse, and soon, else either I shall lose my closest associate, or she will deduce the nature of the problem. And neither alternative is acceptable.

  “Forgive me, Skye,” he offered. “I had no intention of being brusque with you. My mind has been on…” He cast about in his head for some suitable source of distraction.

  “Oh,” Skye said in relief, crawling back into bed. “Is it the case, then?”

  “Yes,” Holmes jumped on the proffered subject. “Perhaps we might discuss it later.”

  “Okay. But Holmes, are you sure you’re not just sick and tired of having to tend a full-grown baby?”

  Holmes drew a deep breath, admitting honestly, “I am no nursemaid, Skye. My temperament is ill-suited to the task. Nevertheless, as I believe I have mentioned, I have had occasion to tend Watson in the past, with Mrs. Hudson’s capable help, of course. And now I have Dr. Hughes and the good Martha to assist. It is a matter of friendship, Skye.”

  “But I don’t want you to feel obligated.”

  “I do not. A full-time nurse was offered while you were still in hospital, but I strongly suspect we would both be more comfortable without such disruption to our home life.”

  “Well, that’s true. And there’s nowhere for her to sleep, anyway. Unless she’s willing to camp out on the couch in the den.”

  “Indeed. Now, let me go and tidy up the tray lying in the hallway,” he noted, allowing his eyes to crinkle at her, “and then I shall return and discuss the case with my investigative assistant.”

  Skye giggled, and Holmes went off to clear away the mess.

  * * *

  “…So no one’s seen hide nor hair of Harris since the sabotage attempt?” Skye verified, propped upright in the bed by a stack of pillows.

  “Since before,” Holmes averred, slouched in the armchair in the corner, his long legs sprawled out in front of him. He had considered sitting on the bedside, but given his internal debate, vetoed the notion. “I suppose that is hardly surprising. His intent was to flee as soon as the deed was done. It is a reasonable hypothesis to assume he decided to flee beforehand, to provide himself with an alibi during the attempt. It would be rank foolishness to believe he actually went to visit family, as he told us.”

  “Agreed. It’s interesting, though. I wonder where and when he’ll turn up. Do you think he’ll have the guts to come back to the base?”

  “That remains to be seen. Personally, I doubt whether he would have the temerity. He did, after all, contravene ‘Sauron’s’ orders by failing to assist Thompson.”

  “So what about this military police thing? One of ‘em is in trouble, you said?”

  “I did. Surveillance records on the airlock access to the Chamber indicate a military police officer breached the crime scene tape and performed a walk-through of the facility.” Holmes shook his head. “Hopefully he did not inadvertently tamper with the evidence. I recommended to Jones that he be watched closely. He may have been an accessory, in which case he may know the whereabouts of the sabotage package. We stopped one attempt. That does not argue there will not be another.”

  “Ooo, good point. So what else is up?”

  “Mm, let me think,” Holmes pondered, searching his memory for items he could tell her without revealing her own potential danger. “Oh, an inventory of Thompson’s personal effects turned up one rather interesting detail. It seems Thompson was wearing something called a ‘datastick’ on a lanyard about his neck. It was hidden inside his shirt, and Jones and Smith suspect this was one of his hacking tools, containing appropriate programs.”

  “Oh, that’s interesting. What-all did it have on it?”

  “Unfortunately, that cannot be determined,” Holmes observed, permitting a wry twinkle in his eyes.

  “Why not?” Skye asked, puzzled.

  “Because the lanyard was of such length as to hide the datastick in the
region of the solar plexus, and because my investigative assistant is such a good shot. Between the copious quantities of blood, and the fact the thing took one of your bullets directly, it is mostly in pieces, I have it to understand.”

  “Oh,” Skye said, face falling. “Um…should I say I’m sorry?”

  “Of course not. You had no way of knowing, and having been in one or two altercations with a revolver myself, I had much rather you ended his destruction than allow it to go on, merely for the sake of acquiring one additional piece of evidence.”

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  * * *

  Another dismissive wave of a long thin hand was her reward.

  “Rest for now, my dear. I shall bring your supper in due course. By the way, your show of strength earlier was impressive.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You carried the tray most of the way down the passage before your grip gave out. As I did not hear the sounds of running feet, I assume you were walking at a normal pace.”

  “Yeah. I felt sore, but I was doing okay. Then, when the muscles started getting really tired, a sharp pain ran through my chest, and I dropped the tray.”

  * * *

  “Do we need to ensure you have not torn the stitching?” Holmes queried, raising an eyebrow in concern. He felt the flush as the high cheekbones turned a dusky red, for he knew checking that particular wound meant exposing her breast, but if the matter needed tending, it was best to know, and know quickly. He could always call Dr. Wellingford if necessary.

  “Um, no, it’s okay. I, um, I went into the bathroom while you were cleaning up the tray and checked everything.” Skye blushed, also understanding.

  “Did you check beneath the bandage?”

  “Yeah, I peeled it loose, checked, then stuck everything back. Had to add some more adhesive tape, but nothing’s bleeding, and no sign of additional bruising. I look like a rainbow already, though.”

  “Mm. Well, lie down and rest. You have enough time for a short nap before supper.”

  “Okay,” Skye agreed, pulling the pillows from behind her back and settling in.