The Case of the Displaced Detective

by Stephanie Osborn

  * * *

  “Sherlock?” she breathed into the darkness, trying to convince her eyes to focus.

  “Right here.”

  “Where?”

  “In the chair in the corner.”

  “You…didn’t come to bed?” She glanced at the clock. “It’s late.”

  “Not yet.”

  “Why not?”

  * * *

  “Our new ranch hands have not yet returned. All is well,” he added hastily, seeing the spasmodic motion of her body telling of her alarm. “I could make them out from the windows in the sitting room. They are simply being very thorough, while it is night and they are unlikely to be observed.”

  There was a protracted silence, but Holmes knew she was not asleep, merely thinking.

  “You could’ve come to bed anyway.”

  Holmes pondered how to get her to understand.

  “Which shows more devotion, Skye? To take pleasure in the arms of a paramour, heedless of threat and danger; or to stand guard over a dear one, while her injured body takes the rest it so sorely needs?”

  That silenced her. Then she pressed, “You ARE going to get some sleep, aren’t you?” and Holmes knew her mindset had transitioned from Why didn’t you come? to Don’t overdo.

  “Yes, my dear, this I swear: I will sleep eventually. Captain Ryker will return sooner or later, and once he does, I will rest.”

  “Okay. You wanna come stretch out over here while you wait?”

  “No. That might invite sleep too quickly.”

  “I could, um, keep you awake…”

  “I have no doubt. But should Ryker’s team arrive while we were…so occupied, what would you recommend I do?”

  “Oh…”

  “No, my dear, as you point out, it IS late, and sleep is what you need now. Do not bother your head, but rather relax and take your rest. I have matters well in hand.”

  “Okay.” Skye yawned and stretched, then turned over and curled up, pillowing her face on her hands, childlike. Holmes smiled and watched as Skye drifted back to sleep.

  * * *

  The “B” landed on the back door an hour later. Holmes met Captain Ryker, ascertaining all was well. Ryker informed Holmes his men were already on shift—two in the bunkhouse, getting some rest, and two patrolling the perimeter, while the captain himself oversaw the operation from the new control center in the bunkhouse. Holmes thanked him, and informed him that the detective intended to go to bed. Ryker assured him it was safe, then vanished into the darkness.

  Holmes returned to the master bedroom. He secreted the revolver between the mattress and headboard again, amused to find it nestling beside Skye’s Glock. Then he sat wearily on the side of the bed and removed his clothes, not bothering with pyjama pants, nor knowing or caring where they’d gotten. He flipped back the covers and lifted his long legs, tucking them in beside Skye before pulling the blankets over his fatigued body.

  Five minutes later, he was asleep.

  * * *

  Skye awoke an hour past dawn with the knowledge that a warm body lay nearby. Rolling over, she saw the gold-pink light of morning falling on Holmes’ relaxed, peaceful face, and smiled tenderly.

  He’s a really handsome man, she observed for the thousandth time since she’d met him. I can’t believe he actually wants me. And now, neither of us is alone. Her heart sang with joy.

  Skye tentatively shuffled over until she could press against Holmes’ side. “Mmm,” he murmured in his sleep, shifting toward her. Skye’s face lit up with a happy smile.

  She laid her head on his shoulder, allowing her hand to slide across his bare chest. In this position, she relaxed and drifted in and out of a light doze for two more hours, enabling Holmes to sleep awhile longer. Eventually, however, he began to stir, and Skye became attentive, recognizing the signs he was waking.

  As he did, she let her fingers feather across his chest again, stroking, while she planted several tender kisses on his shoulder. He sighed in his sleep, and his head tilted toward her. Mischievously she let her hand slide beneath the covers, following his torso down, while simultaneously trailing kisses from his shoulder along his chest. By the time her lips reached his nipple, her hand had reached a certain lower extremity. In seconds, Holmes’ eyes snapped open, and he stared at the ceiling with languid, dreamy eyes.

  “Well, really!” he remarked in a breathless tone. “This is an interesting way to awaken of a morn.”

  “If you don’t like it, I’ll stop.”

  * * *

  “No, don’t stop,” Holmes whispered. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close, allowing her touch to fully waken and arouse him as he nuzzled her hair. “You do make an interesting alarm clock, my dear,” he breathed into her ear.

  “I’m glad you approve,” she giggled. “You do approve, don’t you?”

  “Quite so. Come here.” He kicked off the covers and pulled her atop his torso. Skye pressed close, straddling him; Holmes groaned as he felt her rest against him. In seconds they were one, their arms around each other as they kissed fervently. After several minutes, Skye pushed up to sit atop him, and he grasped her hips as she rocked on him.

  “Yes, my dear Skye, you make far and away the best alarm clock it has ever been my good pleasure to utilise.”

  Skye beamed, then before she could stop herself, a snorting guffaw of laughter escaped her. Holmes looked askance with amusement.

  “And what was that all about?”

  She giggled again, then said, “Just wait till I ring.”

  Holmes’ silver-grey eyes crinkled, and he burst out laughing.

  “Ah! My dear!” he gasped when he could get his breath again. “A point! A definite point!”

  “Don’t get me started on points, either,” she retorted, pushing down with eloquent meaning, eyes twinkling with mirth, and once again Holmes roared with laughter.

  “I should say you already had, my dear. And a fine one it is,” he riposted, wearing a deliberately smug expression, which in turn sent her into a giggling fit.

  Skye leaned down, lying against him, to drop a delicate, affectionate kiss on the aquiline nose. Smiling into his amused eyes, she spoke with adoration.

  “Sherlock, forget alarm clocks. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” She paused, and he watched as she blushed a tender pink. “I…I love you, Sherlock,” she whispered her confession.

  Holmes’ breath caught. She loves me, he thought blankly. The “great detective” is loved by a beautiful, intelligent woman. I had not thought to see the day. His mind swirled, his heart felt as if it would burst. Suddenly his eyes fixed on hers, and he realized she hoped—nay, expected—him to speak, to reciprocate the declaration. He opened his mouth to answer.

  And was abruptly rocked with dread and horror.

  * * *

  What am I doing? he upbraided himself. I am falling into the same snare over which I have so often reproached others. I am becoming some sentimental, vapid fool, at exactly the time when this dear woman needs my protection most.

  But The Woman held him in the most intimate embrace possible; she had accepted him as her life’s mate, had declared her love, and now gazed at him tenderly, awaiting an answer. Holmes’ situation was untenable: His artist’s heart told him to respond, his detective’s mind told him to retreat, and his bewildered body, caught squarely between the two warring organs, simply refused to react. He stared up into her face in confusion and distress.

  * * *

  After a few moments, when Skye realized no answer was forthcoming, she blinked, disconcerted.

  “Sherlock?” she whispered, feathering her fingers down his cheek. When he flinched in response, Skye felt the blood drain from her face as she paled. A cold hand gripped her gut as the bottom seemed to fall from her world.

  * * *

  “You…you do love me, don’t you?” she breathed, and Holmes read in her eyes the pit of agony over which she was suspended.

  He closed his mouth
for a moment, swallowing hard, then opened it to speak again. But there were no words, nothing formulated in his brain to say; truthfully, he didn’t know how to answer her. Was what he felt love? Was it right, or even wise, to admit to it, if it were? And yet, if he did not, he instinctively knew The Woman would feel used, exploited; as if all he had desired was to be serviced by a member of the opposing gender. But if he acknowledged it, encouraged it, would he end by losing those vaunted faculties which had enabled him to solve so many abstruse cases in the course of his career? More, would it cause the death of this woman who loved him?

  Mind and heart reeling in agonized bewilderment, Holmes found he could not meet that tortured blue gaze: He looked away. And then he closed his eyes against the sound which assaulted his ears. It was not loud, the sound that Skye made, not sharp; no, it was a soft wail of utter privation, of grief so desolate that no words existed for its expression, only this low, primal sound.

  The warmth of her body moved from his so fast that, were it not for the residual sensation, he would wonder it had ever been. Misery filled him, a sense of wretchedness such as he had never known. Nausea rose up, as bitter as the self-disgust threatening to overcome him, and he fought it back down. He swallowed bile, then forced himself to turn and look at her, to view the damage he had wrought.

  * * *

  Skye lay near the far edge of the bed, her back to him. He had never seen any living human body so tightly curled into a fetal ball, her arms and legs wrapping around herself as if she tried to protect her body from physical blows, to garment her nakedness with her own flesh; a kind of human manifold. No further sound escaped her, but her frame shook, trembling badly; and while he watched, she tilted her head back far enough to gasp for breath, before burying it once more in the fetal huddle of her body.

  Horrified, Holmes crawled to her. He put out a faltering, irresolute hand, touching her fingertips in mute confession. To his limitless relief, she did not flinch away. Nor, however, did she reach out to him, not even to the intertwining of fingers. She simply did not respond. As close as he was, he could now hear her faint sobs, and as he sought to offer some meager comfort, a wordless apology, those sobs grew louder. But, despite his best efforts, his voice remained stubbornly absent.

  He lay down behind her, wrapping his body around hers and pulling her into his arms, against his chest. A groan of agony issued from her throat then, and he thought he would surely die of her pain. And still his voice refused to come.

  Holmes held her miserably for over an hour, listening to her broken weeping, trying desperately to force the words from his mouth she so badly wanted to hear, and finding nothing would pass his lips.

  * * *

  Eventually they rose. Neither said anything, and Skye barely acknowledged his presence. Ignoring the fresh tearstains on her cheeks, she went into the master bath—and locked the door.

  Holmes stood for several minutes staring wistfully at that door. When he heard the sound of the shower, he turned and gathered up his discarded clothing, retreating across the hall to his own bedroom, there to prepare for what promised to be a very long, very painful day.

  * * *

  Indeed, they made a disconsolate pair, and even little Anna avoided the tension in the house. Both were quiet, and although he stayed nearby, Holmes avoided meeting Skye’s eyes. By lunchtime, Skye realized he was ashamed, and he fully expected to be turned out of the house. She shook her head wryly, resolving to handle the matter directly.

  “Holmes,” she addressed him in a voice raw from the morning’s weeping, and he looked at her, a flash of pain in the grey eyes at the recognition it was not his given name she used. “Relax. I’m not a vengeful sort. You can’t help it if you can’t say what you don’t feel.” She laughed bitterly. “I suppose I have enough love for both of us. I’m not gonna throw you out, so don’t worry about it. If you want to go, of course, I won’t stop you. But if you want to stay, stay. I’ll just have to…reassess; teach myself that what I want isn’t gonna happen. Make myself understand I really am alone in the world, and…always will be. All I’m asking now is that you give me a chance to pick up the pieces.”

  * * *

  Holmes nodded reluctantly, hearing so many things in her statements he wanted to correct, yet unable to find the words.

  “I believe I, too, need some time to ‘reassess,’ as you put it,” he began hoarsely, “and I noted at the morning feeding that Silver Blaze wanted a good currying, despite our new ‘ranch hands.’ I shall be in the barn if you require anything.”

  “Okay. Take him out for a ride after, if you want to. Fat old boy could probably use the exercise.”

  Holmes nodded mutely, rising and leaving the house.

  * * *

  A wistful Skye watched from the window as Holmes brought out the big gelding and groomed him. She observed that one of the disguised bodyguards, after speaking briefly with him, retreated and left him be; noted, too, he appeared relieved by the fact.

  She felt numb. She had given him everything she had to give, everything she had held in reserve for so long, all the love, all the passion, waiting for the right man. That man had come, was standing right there before her in the barnyard; and she knew now she had been foolish, all those years, to think he would automatically reciprocate. A single, harsh laugh escaped into the empty house, echoing mockingly.

  He swore, when I got shot, he’d hold on. I guess it would have been better if he hadn’t.

  Another image came to mind: The lupine sitting in the bud vase by her bedside.

  Dejection, voraciousness, and imagination. His voraciousness, my imagination, combined to make this dejection. I wonder if he was trying to tell me, even after…after everything. Or if he meant it as a tender gesture. Or if it meant anything at all, beyond, “I found your favorite flower.”

  Glancing out the window again, she saw Holmes had tacked the horse, and was tightening the girth.

  * * *

  Holmes swung nimbly into the saddle, then turned the horse and gazed toward the window, straight at Skye. She met that look, then retreated into the house, going back to her study.

  Outside, Holmes sighed, turning the horse’s head toward the trail.

  * * *

  Skye buried herself in her work, trying to write an unclassified paper on the theory behind Project: Tesseract. She was vaguely aware when Holmes came back into the house and greeted him warmly, if not enthusiastically; and when a cup of tea showed up at her elbow, she expressed her appreciation. She didn’t eat dinner, but then, she hadn’t eaten all day, and Holmes wasn’t surprised: He didn’t eat either.

  At ten that night, the detective came into the study and flashed the light switch.

  “It is high time a certain someone went to bed. You are still recovering, and our quarry is still at large. You cannot afford to become run down, Skye.”

  * * *

  Skye looked up blankly from where she sought to coordinate her handwritten notes into some sort of organized electronic format, and nodded comprehension. He was correct, and she knew it.

  “All right,” she sighed, stretching as she saved her work and shut down the laptop. “I’ll head that way in a sec.”

  Holmes nodded and withdrew.

  Unsurprisingly, when she arrived at her room, Holmes wasn’t there. In point of fact, his bedroom door had been closed, a dim light emanating beneath, and she sighed bleakly.

  As she entered her room, however, something different caught her attention. So she moved straight to the anomaly: the envelope lying on her pillow. She opened it and extracted the letter inside. It was handwritten, in Holmes’ bold script.

  My dearest Skye,

  I am a fool. I have told Watson this many times, but he seldom believed me. I am also stubborn, and set in my ways. This I also told him, and this he usually accepted as fact. But to be faced with my own folly, in the form of your pain, has been nigh unto unbearable today.

  If it helps at all, everything you wish to hear alr
eady exists within me. I find I am simply afraid—yes, the great detective is afraid!—to enunciate it. I had always believed the softer emotions opposed to that high form of intellect and reason to which I had devoted myself, and as they say, old habits die hard. Very hard, indeed. Because, you see, failure of that reason, at this point in my career, might very well lead to the loss of the one companion I have left to me, and I find I cannot bear the thought, having nearly lost her once already. Yet, by pushing away those emotions in favour of reason, I may well lose her anyway; though in a different fashion, every whit as irrevocable. A pretty conundrum, is it not?

  I fear poor Blaze received a hard workout today during our ride, for in truth I had little awareness of the mouth in my hands, or the flanks beneath my heels; he received an extra ration of grain for his valiant efforts. Fortunate, too, I suppose, that the perimetre was clear and I was not followed. For all my thoughts revolved around how to balance the conundrum, how to avoid loss on the one hand, and desolation on the other. I am no gymnast, it seems.

  But if you can find it within that exceptionally large, loving heart to forgive a stubborn, fearful ass, I will endeavour to show you how important you are to me. I shall attend you tonight in my bedroom; I may, as yet, be unable to say those words which you so greatly desire to hear, but I can demonstrate their truth. Should you decide you no longer wish to hear, in any form, I will understand, and will accept that my loss is complete.

  I await your bidding.

  S.H.

  Skye’s eyes filled with tears. She smiled tremulously, pressing her lips to the signatory initials, before tucking the precious missive into her nightstand drawer. Slipping into the master bath, she showered quickly, then prepared herself for an assignation, brushing her loose hair until it resembled spun gold, and dabbing on the fragrance which his subtle responses had told her he enjoyed.