“Alarm clock,” Skye noted, mischievous.
“Ring,” Holmes added in whimsy.
* * *
Holmes did inform Ryker, in the presence of his men, of the new sleeping arrangements, and did so coolly—with a smugness in which there was more than an inkling of pride—and nary a hint of color in the high cheekbones.
Ryker was pleased, although he hid it well; he had assisted in what he had privately dubbed the covert Operation: Make-Up by procuring a dozen pillows. Not that Holmes had confided in him—that wasn’t in Holmes’ nature, admitting to something so personal, especially to someone outside his inner circle, and Ryker knew that full well. But Ryker also knew the look of a man who’d had a devastating row with the woman he loved. When he’d delicately offered his assistance, to his surprise Holmes had accepted, assigning him the pillow acquisition in only a few hours.
And, Ryker noted, the two who had made the appreciative comments regarding Skye were duly chastened by the news; embarrassed to discover their faux pas in the presence of her paramour. Several discreet, and very awkward, attempts were made to apologize, as they tried to explain they were merely admiring of Holmes’ lady.
* * *
A privately amused Holmes repaired to the house, to find Skye preparing dinner. She was expectant, awaiting his promised explanation. But he checked the fax machine and discovered no waiting message on it, and this perturbed him sufficiently that she volunteered an offer to wait until morning to receive her explanation.
They ate and spent some time watching documentaries on television before retiring early. Holmes allowed himself to be led to the bedroom he now shared with Skye, voicing no objections. Nor did he need to be coaxed into bed. But he did make sure that the Glock and the Smith & Wesson were ensconced between the mattress and the headboard.
When they finished lovemaking, Skye curled up beside Holmes, nestling into his side, promptly falling sound asleep. Holmes approved, glad she was able to rest well despite—or perhaps because of—having a new bed partner; he hoped it would help her heal faster.
Holmes, however, found sleep more elusive. In the last day he had discovered an insatiable need for his lover’s body, and the recognition of this condition caused great apprehension. It did not occur to him that this might be a normal response, the origin of various references and jokes about newlyweds and honeymooners; nor would it have provided any comfort if it had. Holmes was, after all, hardly a “normal” sort of man, and not-so-secretly prided himself on that fact.
But the idea that his intellect could be clouded by his relationship, at exactly the time when the object of that relationship most needed his protection, frankly alarmed the detective. After forty-five minutes of anxious staring into the darkness, Holmes eased himself from bed and reached for his pipe. He moved to the north window and opened it a few inches, stepping to the side to pack, tamp, and light his pipe, ensuring the flame’s flare couldn’t be seen from outside. Moving before the window again, he stared at the dim landscape, puffing on his tobacco, thinking over the case and his circumstances.
It would not do, he decided. He could not let anything happen to this being who had become the centre of his world; certainly not through his failure. Holmes had had failures before. Though they were nothing new in his experience, they still and invariably hit him hard; but previously, there had always been an element of wounded pride to the pain. This…this was different. He wondered candidly, if after losing every other anchor he had ever possessed, whether he would be able to survive such a devastating loss—or would even want to.
But retreat from Skye was no longer an option. In the last two days he had grasped that, in her own way, Skye had been ripped from a large part of her life, as well, and needed him, needed his attentions—his love, even if it wasn’t verbalized. He feared he had come near to destroying her by his refusal to acknowledge what he felt for her.
So Holmes was left with little option but to press on, forcing his mind to focus on the task at hand, and muddle his way through integrating softer emotions into his psyche. After all, Skye managed it. Therefore, if she can…With an emphatic draw on his pipe at that thought, he set his mind to reviewing the facts of their spy case, attempting to fit them into some kind of working order, something to show him the underlying pattern.
* * *
Twenty minutes later, on his second pipe, a warm hand splaying against his naked back invaded his ruminations.
“Sherlock? Are you okay?” Skye’s voice asked.
“Yes, my dear Skye. I simply needed to think.”
“About…us?”
“About the case,” he told her, dissembling only mildly.
Arms slid around his waist from behind, and instinctively he arched back into her body, feeling the warmth of her skin against his own.
“Talk to me. Maybe that’ll help,” she offered.
“You have a way of making that difficult, my dear,” Holmes noted in short-winded, rueful amusement. “One must be able to get one’s breath in order to speak. And in any event, I was merely reviewing the facts of the case.”
“You were right. I’m a distraction to you.” Shamefaced, Skye slid around his side to confront him.
Holmes looked into her face, only to find that the sapphire eyes could not meet his silver gaze. He discarded the spent pipe, resting it in the ashtray he’d placed nearby, before answering.
“I will manage, Skye,” he said softly, nudging her chin up with one hand. “I am nothing if not adaptable. I would much prefer you did not trouble yourself over it, and concentrated instead upon your recovery.” He bent his head and kissed her, and she pressed close despite herself.
A soft groan escaped Holmes as his body responded. He deepened the kiss, shifting to ease her against the wall beside the window. Skye’s hands slid up his chest and around his neck, and soon he nudged her thighs apart with his knees. He reached behind her to hook his hands underneath her hips, raising her off the floor just enough to accommodate his longer legs as he stepped between her thighs. Then he lowered her onto himself.
* * *
They both sighed. For several moments, Skye was content to remain like that, pinned between Holmes’ body and the wall. Then she tightened her arms around his neck and wrapped her legs about his waist, allowing his hands the freedom to rove her body.
* * *
Holmes’ brain raced. His senses were full of Skye, the forefront of his thoughts busy processing the sensory input speaking of his lover’s desire. In the back of his mind he still fought to organize the facts of the case into a telling whole, an elusive portrait depicting a tale of murder and espionage.
But his body was slow, unhurried; taking its time evoking pleasure in The Woman. She tilted her face to him for his kisses, and he provided them, all the while willing his mind to identify and correlate facts.
He could feel the heat rising in Skye’s body. His hand cupped her breast, and his mouth left hers as his head bent to that warm mound of flesh. He kissed her nipple, then sucked it into his mouth to ravish it with lips, tongue, and teeth.
Skye moaned, and Holmes felt her body soften as she sank further onto him. The urgency of his mind reached his body then, and he pressed her against the wall. Conscious thought abandoned him. Skye arched with a soft cry, and he reveled in her body’s peak.
Seconds later, his own body surrendered. His eyes fluttered shut and a hoarse groan of passion left his lips. But even as he yielded, a blinding light erupted behind closed eyelids, and he knew.
Panting, Holmes leaned heavily against the wall; Skye hung, limp, from his torso. With an effort, he pushed away from the wall and staggered to the bed, carrying Skye. Flopping face down on the bed, Skye beneath him, he lay for long moments, catching his breath. Finally he raised his head and gazed into two pools of adoring blue.
“I have it,” he told Skye. “Not the entire puzzle, but everything that has come to this point, and some of what is approaching.”
* * *
They were
tucked into bed once more. Skye listened as Holmes explained, “The intent was never to destroy the tesseract. The first act of sabotage, the Trojan virus, was intended to do just what it did—shut down the project. Almost certainly it was introduced into the computer system before my advent, otherwise they would have known they had no need of it: The program was already going to be shut down, just upon the principle of considering its ethics. But at any rate, they wanted the apparatus left alone, yet unharmed, for an extended period of time. In fact, if you will recall, it was Harris who asked in the debrief about the project shutdown.”
“Yeah, you’re right; he did. That makes sense. But it was an awfully dangerous attempt.”
“Not really. Because of Harris’ inside information, the spy ring knew there were procedures and systems in place to shut down the device in the event of an emergency such as they triggered. The fact your friend Chad happened to be in the core at the time it occurred was an unfortunate, and unforeseen, event.”
“Not that they cared,” Skye growled, and Holmes swore the temperature in the room dropped ten degrees. “But okay, I see your point. If Chad hadn’t been in the core at the time, there would have been an earthquake and an emergency shutdown, followed by closing down the project while we analyzed what happened, but no serious harm done.”
“Precisely. Now, we have reason to suspect Sergeant Thompson, with his past as a hacker, as well as the style of the Trojan programming, was the source of the original virus sabotage. And Thompson was the man we confronted—and you killed—in the second sabotage attempt. Further, so far they have not found the expected C-4 device. Does that tell you anything?”
“Ooo. The second sabotage attempt was going to be another virus.” Skye’s blue eyes dilated.
“It is by no means certain, but I deem it highly likely. A virus introduced while the system was unused and unattended. He probably had it on the datastick that was destroyed by your bullets. But this new virus was probably intended not to disrupt, but to allow them access—for their ultimate goal. The question now becomes, what is that goal?”
“But they didn’t succeed,” Skye pointed out.
“No, but Harris is still at large, with possible entrée. And he would have known the plan.”
“So you’re saying we need to keep an even closer eye on Bob, assuming we can find him. And see if he leads us to the backup copy of Thompson’s virus.”
“If he has not already located and introduced it. It is just possible Thompson was a sacrificial lamb intended as a diversion, although I currently deem that unlikely. I will send word to Colonel Jones in the morning. But if we find Harris and he leads us to the backup, should we take him into custody and analyse the virus for its intended effect? Or should we permit him to infect the tesseract computers, in order to draw in the rest of the ring?”
“Maybe, if we let him upload it, then tighten security around the tesseract while keeping the thing shut down, we can set a trap for ‘em.”
“Possibly. I will arrange to discuss it with Jones when I notify him of my—of our—conclusions.”
“Of your conclusions,” Skye corrected amiably. “You’re the one that figured it out.”
Holmes gave her a warm glance, and almost—almost—verbalized his affection. Instead, he put his arm around her, cradling her close, and told her, “Now go to sleep, my dear. You need your rest. You had physical therapy today—or rather, yesterday, now.”
“Okay,” Skye responded, stretching up to kiss his cheek. “I love you. Good night, Sherlock.”
“Good night, my dear, dear Skye,” he murmured, letting his lips brush her forehead.
The dark bedroom fell silent, and soon they were asleep.
* * *
The next morning, Holmes’ alarm clock rang for him, and they rose, dressed, and made breakfast. While they ate, the fax machine in the study let out a loud bleat. At that memory prompt, Holmes turned to Skye.
“Your desired explanation was simple, my dear, and most of it you now know. General Morris, Colonel Jones, and myself feared for your life. Due to the shooting, and your resultant emergency surgery, we thought it probable that information would leak about your participation in the thwarted sabotage attempt. In the which case, reprisals might have been rapidly forthcoming. It seems, however, although the news of the event did find its way back to our espionage ring, your identity has not, at least as yet. Nevertheless, we instituted a secure system of care around you, consisting of myself, your friend Caitlin, Dr. Wellingford, your surgeon, and the good Martha. Not to mention Colonel Jones and his subordinates.”
“What about Bob?”
“First of all, as he apparently never arrived to meet Thompson, it is unlikely he knows of your participation in that altercation. Secondly, as I mentioned last night, he is still missing. No one has seen him since the attempt. Not even Agent Smith’s people can locate him. They have discovered he had aeroplane tickets for Guadalajara under an assumed name, and indeed his checked luggage arrived at the international airport there, but sources indicate he never boarded the plane, and there has been no sign of a man fitting his description in that region of Mexico. At least, not one that has…I believe ‘panned out’ was the term Smith used.”
“So was that the message you were waiting for?”
“Yes. Smith left notification they had a lead at last, and I was awaiting word on its outcome.”
“Then let me go find out,” Skye said, hopping up from the table and scampering eagerly down the hall.
Holmes smiled, delighting in her enthusiasm and finding it a close match to his own. Nevertheless, he concentrated on finishing the excellent frittata Skye had made, before turning his attention to the latest clues.
* * *
A frowning Skye came back a few minutes later, staring at the page in her hand.
“Sherlock? I know why nobody could find Harris.”
“Oh?” Holmes wondered, looking up from his tea. “And why is that, my dear?”
“He’s dead,” she said, handing him the fax. “He fall down go boom. Smith says they’ve located his badly-decomposed remains at the base of a cliff off a hiking trail near Dome Rock.”
“Dome Rock? Where is that?” Holmes queried, shocked.
“Wilderness area near the road to Cripple Creek. Wild, and pretty much unpatrolled. Time of death estimated within twelve to twenty-four hours of Thompson’s sabotage attempt.”
“Damnation.”
“Exactly.”
* * *
In an hour the pair were making their way to the scene, having had a covert escort to the area by Ryker’s team. It was beautiful, rugged, harsh terrain, populated by mountain sheep and deer. Somewhere during his sojourn, Holmes had acquired a pair of hiking boots, and he and Skye, both attired in boots, jeans, and chambray shirts, clambered along the bottom of the canyon toward the site where Agent Smith and his team waited.
It took a good half-hour to reach the location. But once they’d arrived, it was obvious Robert Harris had fallen a considerable way, and had been there a considerable time. The stench was strong, and despite herself, Skye paled, her face becoming a delicate shade of green. She immediately regretted having eaten such a large breakfast. Somehow, Holmes ignored the smell and approached Smith. Skye was envious of his single-mindedness.
* * *
“Good day to you, Agent Smith,” Holmes greeted the agent. “What have we found?”
“One very dead Robert Harris,” Smith noted, as the three other members of the CSI team gathered around. “This is my forensics team, Mr. Holmes. They…know about you. We talked about getting started, but decided to wait for you. I’d like your opinion on what we’ve got. It wasn’t like another hour or two was going to make a difference to him.” He waved the detective toward the body.
“Of course. I thank you.” In truth, he’d only been awaiting permission from the investigating officer. Holmes circled the remains, observing in detail the condition of the body and its tattered garments.
Then he moved closer and pulled one of his lenses from the hip pocket of his jeans, crouching beside the body.
“Wait, wait, wait!” Skye exclaimed, as Holmes reached toward the corpse. He froze, turning toward her as she whipped out a pair of heavy-duty latex examination gloves and darted forward, handing them to Holmes. “Wear these, so you don’t have to touch the body directly. That way, you won’t contaminate the DNA, and you won’t pick up any nasties yourself.” The forensic team nodded silent approval.
* * *
Holmes accepted the thin exam gloves and slid his long slim hands into them. Skye retreated again, unable to stomach the smell. Holmes lifted the cadaver’s hands, examining the nails and fingertips minutely, first with his eyes, then with the lens.
“Ah,” he murmured, sounding intensely satisfied. “Skye, did you bring the probe?”
“Yeah, Sh— uhm, Holmes.” She pulled a small leather roll from her hip pocket. Smith raised a pleased eyebrow, and smiled at her: He’d provided it for Skye some weeks before, at her request. She moved forward and laid the kit on a rock beside Holmes, then withdrew and turned away, still doing battle with the stench and her stomach.
Holmes opened the roll—a little forensics kit—extracting a probe and scraping under the discolored fingernails while the FBI team looked on with approbation. He placed the scrapings in an evidence bag Smith held out; then added without looking up, “Skye, might I have your assistance, please?”
Skye glanced over at the sound of her name, then scrabbled in her pockets for another set of latex gloves, donning them.
* * *
Smith took one look at her and murmured to Holmes, “Uh, you might want to let one of us help you, Holmes.”
“Why?” Holmes glanced up at the agent, startled.
“I suspect Dr. Chadwick may have less experience with decomposing bodies than the rest of us,” Smith offered sympathetically. “She’s having a little trouble with her breakfast, I think.”
Wide-eyed with concern, Holmes pivoted on his toes, still in a crouch, to look up at his companion and see her greenish-tinged pallor.
The Case of the Displaced Detective Page 48
