The Case of the Displaced Detective

by Stephanie Osborn

  Rummaging in the dresser, she extracted her favorite nightgown, a pale blue satin ribbon of a garment he had yet to see and which brought out the sapphire of her eyes vividly. She slipped it over her head and let it cascade down her body to the floor.

  Then she made her way across the hall.

  * * *

  Skye tapped on the door, her heart pounding in her throat. The catch of breath from within the room was audible, even through the door.

  “Come in.” Holmes’ muffled voice was unsteady.

  She pushed open the door and stepped inside.

  The only light in the room was the bedside lamp. As she entered, Holmes, wrapped in his burgundy dressing gown, sat up in bed as he discarded a book on the nightstand. When he saw her, the grey eyes blazed with silver light.

  “God help me,” he whispered, shaken. “Aphrodite come to a mere mortal.”

  Without either being aware of how it happened, they met at the foot of the bed, and Skye’s bare feet dangled several inches above the floor while Holmes explored her mouth in detail. They remained like this for several minutes before Holmes allowed her body to slide down his, returning her feet to solid ground at last.

  * * *

  His breathing was ragged, the grey eyes dilated—he knew, because the room got brighter—and he found himself unable to move away, even a scant few inches. But he cupped her face in his hands and trailed kisses across it, pausing frequently to look deep into the azure eyes and ensure he saw no resentment there. When he reached her lips once more, he kissed her for a few moments, then murmured against her mouth.

  “I wasn’t certain you’d come.”

  “I’ve never gotten a love letter before,” she replied with a shy smile. “I had to, just to…to know.”

  Holmes started to answer, but his voice failed at the term with which she’d referenced his missive. At last he found his voice.

  “I…was sufficiently clear, then?”

  “As crystal.”

  He stepped back just far enough to bow dramatically. Then he replied, only half in jest but wholly theatrically.

  “I await your command, milady. Only recall that I am a foolish man, laden with frailties, and have pity.”

  “Oh, hush that nonsense.” The corners of her mouth twitched with affectionate amusement as she caught his hands and tugged him upright. “You’ve gotten so good at fitting in here, I forget sometimes that you come from a more rigid society, not to mention you never allowed yourself to consider love. I ought to have been delighted just to know you care.”

  * * *

  Holmes said nothing to this, but led The Woman to the side of the bed, where he saw her seated amid an almost decadent pile of pillows. She wondered where he had gotten them all—she knew she hadn’t had this many in the whole house—before he brought her a glass of shiraz from the heretofore-unnoticed bottle on the dresser, reserving a glass for himself as he slid in beside her.

  “A toast?” Skye smiled up at him.

  “I…” Holmes stared at her, uncertain. Skye bit her lip in remorse, realizing she’d put him on the spot again, but unsure how to gracefully extricate him. Finally he offered, “To us…?”

  * * *

  “To us. Perfect.” Her eyes lit up, to his relief, and they clinked wineglasses.

  They said little else, content to sit side-by-side and sip the wine. When their glasses were empty, he set them aside. Then he pulled her close.

  “Skye…you will stay here tonight, will you not?”

  “You’ll have to throw me out to stop me. I think you’re stuck with me, Sherlock.”

  Warmth flooded him, and he eased her into the pillows to kiss her thoroughly. Dimly he was aware of her deft hands at his waist, untying his dressing gown moments before it fell away, exposing his body’s response to her. Warm hands stroked his skin, and he moaned his approval.

  “Skye,” he whispered against her face, “my Skye.”

  “My Sherlock,” she breathed into his ear, and a tremor shuddered through his body.

  He leaned across her, deliberately inviting a delicious assault on his nipples, to turn out the light.

  Chapter 3—Hitting Their Strides

  THE MORNING WAS LATE GETTING STARTED because the night had been very late ending. They woke at the same time, and Holmes pulled Skye close.

  “Mm,” she sighed, snuggling into his warm body. “Good morning.”

  “Good morning to you as well, my dear,” Holmes murmured into her hair. “A better morning than…well.”

  “Yes,” Skye agreed without rancor, understanding.

  A male hand slithered down her spine, cupping her hip and tugging.

  “Might my alarm clock be coaxed into providing a proper awakening?” Holmes requested, eyes twinkling.

  “Sherlock, if your alarm clock rings any more, she’s going to be ticking funny for the next three days.” Skye giggled.

  “Ha! That bad, eh?” Holmes laughed aloud.

  “Oh, not bad at all. Really good, actually. But seriously, it’s late, and today is physical therapist day, and do you really want Martha to catch you with me, doing…er…it?”

  “Ah,” Holmes said, seeing her point. “Skye?”

  “Hm?”

  “Are you embarrassed to…be with me?” There was the merest hint of vulnerability in the grey eyes.

  “No, why? Oh, you mean the therapist?”

  “Yes.”

  “No, that has more to do with,” she blushed, “wanting to keep private matters private. See, it isn’t that I mind her knowing you’re my guy, it’s just I don’t want her knowing the…the details. Let alone walking into the middle of said details. And besides,” she added, sitting up and scooting to the bedside, avoiding his eyes, “I thought you might not want it known.” She rose, hunting for her nightgown.

  “Skye?” Holmes rolled over to lie on his stomach, elbows on the mattress, chin in his hands, watching as she knelt and fished her nightgown from its silken drift beneath the bed. His steel-grey eyes shone silver in his relaxed face, and his hair was mussed. For all his thirty-nine years, it gave him an endearing, boyish look.

  “Yeah, Sherlock?” She raised her head to look squarely into that warm, considering regard. Skye could have sworn her womb flipped over in response.

  “What are the modern terms for a couple such as we?”

  Skye blinked in surprise, sitting on the bedside to think.

  “Well, there’s ‘lovers,’ but that’s a little blatant, and considered impolite in mixed company. ‘Boyfriend’ and ‘girlfriend’ are probably most often used. Sometimes that’s a little awkward, though, depending on the ages of the lovers; past a certain age, it’s ridiculous. ‘Significant other’ is another term that got popular a couple decades ago. It generally indicates spouses in a permanent relationship like marriage, but without the formal wedding ceremony. Why?”

  “I was wondering what to call you, should anyone ask. Though likely appropriate, ‘significant other’ sounds dreadfully…ungainly…to me. Would ‘girlfriend’ suit, for now? Or is that, as you say, too juvenile a term for such an intelligent, mature woman as yourself?”

  The query took Skye’s breath away.

  “No, it’s fine,” she said faintly. “But don’t feel you have to say anything, Sherlock, if you’re not comfortable with it. I mean…if you can’t say…the other thing…don’t worry about this. Nobody has to know.”

  “As you wish.” Holmes shrugged. “Run and get dressed, my dear. I will ensure our ranch hands have cared for the horses, and see about breakfast.”

  “Better hurry. The therapist will be here in about forty-five minutes.”

  “It will not take long to confirm the horses have been fed, come back, and make eggs and bacon. Now go.”

  Skye went, with a giggle.

  * * *

  Martha was exceptionally pleased with Skye’s progress that morning, and declared that after one more session, she would release her patient—provided said patient was good
, and continued the exercises on her own for another few weeks. A delighted Skye promised, and Holmes added his firm assurance—along with a stern glance at the subject of that assurance—that Skye would, indeed, do so.

  When the session was over, Holmes took the blow-bottle and carried it off to clean and put away for its next use. The therapist watched him go.

  “You’re a lucky woman,” she told Skye once Holmes was out of earshot. “Not only is he a keeper, he’s an absolute delight to listen to. That English accent! I could die.” The woman grinned conspiratorially with Skye.

  “Oh, crap. Is it that obvious?” Skye murmured, flustered, blushing twelve shades of red.

  “No, dear. You don’t flaunt it, either of you. But I’ve got eyes, and he’s taken such good care of you the whole time I’ve been coming to work with you. I can tell things have heated up between you, too. You’ve watched him more than usual, and he’s possessive of you today.”

  Skye didn’t think she could blush any deeper. But somehow she managed it.

  “Um…yeah, I guess you could say.”

  “Oh, come off it. Lovely distinguished gentleman who can’t keep his eyes off you, can barely keep his hands off you, and all you can do is guess? Grab onto him and make him yours, honey. Looks to me like he wants to be.”

  “Well, I don’t know exactly where we stand yet,” Skye grinned sheepishly, hiding her uncertainty. “We went from ‘friends’ to ‘special’ really fast, and it’s kind of…we’re still getting used to it.”

  “Oh, you’ll get there. Between him and your Caitlin friend, you’ve got one of the best family support structures I’ve ever seen.”

  Skye blinked in startled surprise. Family support…? A warm rush of love and gratitude ran through her. Yeah. Yeah, I suppose so.

  * * *

  Martha looked around, checking for eavesdropping, then added, “The ranch hands were a good idea, too. I’ve had some casual inquiries about my patients. Aside from the fact that I don’t take kindly to a breach of patient confidentiality, General Morris and Colonel Jones made my instructions perfectly clear.”

  “You’re part of the security around me, too?” Skye’s eyes went wide.

  “Of course she is,” Holmes replied from the door. “It would be foolish, in the circumstances, to have an uncleared civilian so close to a classified situation.”

  “Sh-uhm, Holmes, Martha says she’s been getting inquiries.”

  “I know. She, among others, has reported them to Jones, and Jones has relayed the information to me. Your descriptions are positively exhaustive, Martha.”

  “Thank you, sir. Coming from you, that’s high praise. It’s a pity the inquiries were all by phone; I’d love to get my eyeballs on this character. And you can call him Sherlock in front of me,” Martha added to Skye. “I know who he is.”

  “Am I the only person around here who doesn’t know what’s going on?” Skye plopped her head into her hand with a sigh.

  “Essentially, yes,” Holmes chuckled. “Which took considerable effort, I might add. You have become quite the observant little minx. Forgive me, my dear Skye, for keeping you so in the dark. I feared if you knew of the intrigues going on around you, you would worry, and it would slow your healing.”

  “And that’s a valid concern,” Martha backed Holmes up. “I was in full agreement. So was your primary surgeon on base, as well as Dr. Wellingford.”

  “No more of it,” Skye growled, scowling. “I get fully briefed over lunch.”

  “Make it dinner, and you have a deal,” Holmes agreed. “I anticipate additional information at some point during the day which may tie a few threads together.”

  “Okay,” Skye begrudged. “Dinner.”

  Martha laughed. “All right, I’ll see you in two days, then you’re done with me,” the therapist announced, departing. “Take good care of her, Mr. Holmes.”

  “I shall,” Holmes said, giving Skye a warm glance.

  * * *

  That afternoon, Skye decided she didn’t feel like working on her paper. So, impetuously, she went into her bedroom and rearranged drawers, consolidating items, and emptying space. When roughly half the dresser was empty, she moved to the closet, rummaging through it, dragging out storage boxes from the attic and adding to their contents.

  * * *

  Holmes, who had been outside talking to Ryker, and privately thanking him for the procurement of all those pillows, wandered in as she finished her task. Skye promptly roped him into taking the storage boxes back to the attic, helping him hoist the two large—and heavy—boxes up the fold-down steps and through the overhead opening at the end of the northern hall. With an effort, he shoved them into the corner of the attic, next to the huge box labeled “Christmas decorations,” then clambered back down.

  “Would you mind,” he asked, breathless with effort, “telling me what that was all about?”

  * * *

  Skye crooked her finger at him in the universal “come here” gesture, then led him into his bedroom. As soon as she walked through the door into what had become, essentially, Holmes’ domain, she felt the apprehension hit. Well, too late to back down now. At least let him see what you had in mind.

  She opened his closet door, pointed at his neatly arranged clothing; opened several dresser drawers to display socks and underwear, rather less neatly arranged. Then she marched across the hall into the master bedroom, pointing to the half-empty closet and dresser. Holmes’ eyes narrowed. Skye’s increasingly wobbly bravado quailed.

  * * *

  “You want me to move my things in here? You want me to…move in with you?” Holmes queried, eyes still narrowed.

  “Move more in with me,” Skye amended, in a small, uncertain voice. “You already live here. I…just wanted to give you the option. Only if…if you want to.”

  Holmes sighed, Victorian sensibilities rising up.

  “Skye, I…”

  “I…didn’t think you would. I just wanted you to know…” she broke off. “Never mind. It was a stupid idea.” Her head bowed.

  “No, Skye, it was a lovely gestu—”

  But she was already gone, headed outside, striding across the pasture toward the horses.

  * * *

  When Skye returned, a certain amount of equanimity restored by time spent in the company of her horses, she went looking for Holmes to apologize for putting him on the spot once again. But when she stuck her head through the open door to his bedroom, she gasped in shock: It was empty. Not merely empty, but lacking any sign of an occupant: dresser and closet bare, bed stripped of sheets. Even the ashtray, which tended to migrate around the bedroom, was gone.

  Oh, no, she thought, horrified. Now you’ve gone and done it, Skye. You’ve run him off entirely.

  Shocked and confused, Skye staggered across the hall, pushing open her bedroom door to find the nearest telephone and call…someone. She didn’t know whom to call, but she had to try and find Holmes, try to apologize, get him to at least contact General Morris and find a safe haven where the anachronistic detective could live.

  So when she saw Holmes standing in her closet, arranging his clothes, she stopped dead, mouth hanging open.

  * * *

  He turned to greet her with a cheerful, “All done,” when he saw the look on her face. Sprinting across the room, he grabbed her by the shoulders.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I…I thought,” Skye stammered, obviously trying to get her bewildered brain to wrap around what was happening, “I thought you’d gone.”

  “Gone?” Holmes frowned, attempting to understand. “Gone where?”

  “Gone. Left,” Skye faltered. “You didn’t want to…” she pointed at the closet. “I put you on the spot again, and…” She shook her head miserably. “I thought I’d driven you away.”

  He stared at her for a long moment, taking in her broken explanation. Finally he offered softly, “Did I fail to convince you last night?”

  “I…” she began, then hiccupe
d. “It isn’t you,” she whispered, rubbing her forehead with the heel of one hand. “I keep telling myself to give you more time, then I get impulsive and want to show you how…how much I care, and…and I…” Skye took a deep breath, patently struggling to calm herself. “I guess I’m trying too hard.”

  “Hush,” Holmes murmured, trying to soothe. “Our…courtship, if one may call it that—though perhaps espousal is more accurate now—has indeed been turbulent. And impulsive, though hardly all on your side.” He took her shoulders and turned her to view the neatly organized closet. “Your offer was perfectly reasonable, once I stopped to look at it. It made little sense to maintain two separate rooms when we both knew we would be spending our nights in this one. It was short work to consolidate my possessions with yours, given the groundwork you had already laid.” He paused, uncharacteristically unsure of himself. “Skye, if ever I appear to balk, please give consideration to the fact I am likely NOT struggling with your idea, but rather with my stringent upbringing and long-held customs. I find I am trying to protect you…from myself. On many levels.”

  “I know. That’s why I keep telling myself to give you more time. It’s just hard sometimes.”

  “I understand. I will, however, be obliged to tell Captain Ryker of the new sleeping arrangements. In the event of a nighttime emergency, he must be aware of where to find both of us.”

  “Oh,” Skye blushed furiously. “I guess that’s true.”

  “I would have had to do so, in any event. This way is more to my taste. I had already overheard two of his men discussing how much they enjoyed—how did they put it? Ah, yes. ‘Guarding a body like hers.’ It was enlightening…” Holmes chuckled, rueful.

  “In what way?” Skye appeared uncertain whether to be angry or amused.

  “I suddenly understood, with amazing clarity, how jealousy could be a motivating factor in some crimes.”

  “Sherlock—you were JEALOUS?! YOU?!”

  “Let me simply say it will be my very great satisfaction to inform Captain Ryker, in the presence of his team, that you now have a very personal bodyguard, around the clock.”