The Case of the Displaced Detective

by Stephanie Osborn

  “What do you want me to do?” Caitlin asked, following the couple.

  “Sit,” Skye grinned, waving one hand at the kitchen table while pointing Holmes to the canister of tea with the other. “We’ve got it under control.”

  * * *

  They did, Caitlin realized, watching them work together. Holmes and Skye wove in and out and around each other in perfect synchronicity, and by the time the tea had steeped, they’d prepared finger sandwiches, apple wedges, grapes, sliced Cheddar, and tinned shortbread. Skye brought the tray of food to the table, and Holmes carried the teapot, then returned for the teacups and cream.

  * * *

  In moments the three sat down to a simple but filling afternoon meal. The camaraderie was warm and cheerful, and Holmes was reminded of the best days in Baker Street, when he and Watson would join with Mrs. Hudson in good-natured jibing. Holmes found himself content. More, he was glad.

  When tea was over, it was time for Caitlin to go. Skye and Holmes followed her to the front door, and Holmes carried the box containing the donated items—and Skye’s hidden technical info—to the car. Caitlin turned to Skye just inside the door, as Holmes returned. Ryker wandered by with a hammer, ostensibly checking the front fence line for repairs; in reality, keeping guard over the front entrance.

  “Can I tell people?” Caitlin asked, eager and wistful.

  Skye and Holmes exchanged glances, then withdrew from the doorway, turning their backs to the outside. Skye answered in a low voice.

  “We don’t want this talked about, Cait. For starters, we don’t want to be a subject for gossip.”

  “And for another, it may be best if I remain an unknown factor for the moment,” Holmes observed. “We already know they seek Skye. The less they know of me, the better. As far as they should be aware, I am simply an anachronistic boarder, who has few skills to recommend him to this new time, save perhaps working with Skye’s horses.”

  “Yeah, I guess so,” Caitlin said, becoming serious.

  “I would think Jones and possibly Smith should know, however, if they do not already,” Holmes considered. “Just as our ‘ranch hands’ do. And certainly General Morris could be trusted with the knowledge.”

  “Okay, I’ll give them the news, but otherwise keep my mouth shut. What about Nate?”

  “Provided he knows not to say anything to anyone, it’s fine,” Skye decided.

  “Oh, he knows about stuff like that. After the malfunction, I…I had to talk to him. It was all ‘in the clear,’ unclassified, of course, but I just…I cried half the night, Skye. He’s a good man. As long as you’ve known us, you know that. He won’t say a word but he’ll be happy for you.”

  “Okay,” Skye smiled, and she and Caitlin hugged. “Take it easy, Cait. Thanks for running that stuff down to Divide for me, and for…accepting.”

  “No problem, girl,” Caitlin tossed off, then turned to Holmes. “Would you object…I mean, would you mind if I…?” Caitlin waved a hand at Skye, flicking her fingers between herself and the other woman, before gesturing to Holmes.

  “Ah,” Holmes said, catching her intimation. His first response was reticence; then he remembered this was the woman Skye viewed as family. He hesitated a moment longer, then reluctantly stooped, thereby granting permission for the shorter woman to hug him gingerly.

  “Take good care of her,” Caitlin breathed in Holmes’ ear. “If she let you…if you…She’s crazy about you, Holmes.”

  “I understand, Caitlin, and I shall. Trust me.”

  She released him, and hurried to her car. Moments later she was headed for the highway.

  * * *

  The pair wandered back into the house, moving to the sofa and sitting side by side. Holmes kicked off his shoes and tucked his feet into the seat before sliding an arm around Skye. He pulled her into him, sighed, and allowed his eyes to unfocus as his thoughts turned toward their case. After a few moments, a soft voice interrupted his musings.

  “Sherlock?”

  “Yes, Skye?”

  She fingered the chain of his watch, which rested against his thigh.

  “You have something new here.”

  He glanced down to see her touching his new watch-fob. It was a small, rough cylinder of metal, though somewhat irregular in appearance, and shone bright silver, testament to its newness.

  “Yes. I thought it appropriate.”

  “But…what is it?”

  “What do you think it is?”

  “It sorta looks like a bullet, but it’s all smushed,” Skye murmured, studying the object. “And it’s been…well, not bronzed. ‘Silvered’ is more like it. If that’s a word.”

  “That is, indeed, what it is. It is coated heavily with silver, a hard metal, because lead is a soft metal, and I did not wish it damaged.”

  “But…where’d you get it?”

  “From you.”

  “Me?!”

  “Yes. It came from your lung.”

  * * *

  “Ohmigosh,” Skye breathed in stunned surprise, fingering it again. “This is the bullet that hit me in…?”

  “Yes. I asked to have it, and the surgeon obliged.”

  “But…why?”

  “’Why’ what?”

  “’Why’ lotsa things. Why keep it, why have it turned into jewelry, why,” she hesitated, “replace your gold sovereign with it?”

  “For several reasons.” Holmes gazed at her with a smile in his eyes. “First and foremost, I asked for it because it demonstrated my bosom companion’s willingness to offer everything for me, even her very life. It has been a treasured memento since that day. I kept it in my coin purse until a few days ago, when I had it made into this fob.”

  * * *

  Skye flushed, swallowed, and glanced down.

  “As for why it is on my watch-chain instead of the sovereign,” Holmes continued, watching his lover, “even as The Woman has been replaced by a worthier version, so too the watch-fob. And as a sovereign represented the first, this,” he tapped the silver-coated bullet, “represents the second—and final. And it…is far more meaningful. The first symbolised a struggle for power and control. A battle of intellects. The second represents a life…in many, many respects.”

  He placed a fingertip under her chin, and raised her face to look into it. Skye gave him a wobbly smile, and he bent to kiss her.

  “Anything else, my dear?”

  “Um, yeah, one more thing.” She tucked her head again.

  “Then let us hear it.”

  “You asked Cait to call you ‘Holmes.’”

  “Yes, I did. She is, after all, your sister in every way that matters. Did you object?”

  “Not at all. I was thrilled. But I was wondering something…”

  “What?”

  “Well, I call you Sherlock now. But—”

  “But I did not invite Caitlin to use that name?” Holmes finished for her, lips curving in the ghost of a smile.

  “Well…yeah.”

  “Nor will I,” Holmes murmured, putting his fingers back under her chin and tilting her head to look into her face again. “At least, not for a very long time. In this continuum, that name is yours, and yours alone, to use.”

  “Oh,” Skye said, and silenced.

  But Holmes had seen the blue eyes gleam with happiness.

  * * *

  An hour and a half later, there was a knock on the back door. Holmes went to answer it. Ryker stood there.

  “Yes, Ryker?” Holmes went on instant alert. “Is all well?”

  “Yes sir, Mr. Holmes. I have a message for you both.”

  Skye, sitting on the couch, twisted to look at the door. “Yes?”

  “Your friend Dr. Hughes made that first ‘donation of canned goods’ for you,” Ryker said, eyes twinkling. “The Jones family really appreciated it, ma’am. They were awful hungry, and the pantry is bare now. Dr. Hughes said the rest of it will go to the food bank in Woodland Park tomorrow.”

  “Good,” Skye said in da
rk amusement. “So the ‘weather’ in the pass was okay?”

  “Yes, ma’am. No problems with ‘road conditions.’ There were ‘road crews’ out to work on things.”

  “Excellent,” Holmes murmured. “Thank you, Ryker.”

  “You’re welcome, sir.”

  Ryker returned to whatever he was doing in the shed, and Holmes closed the back door.

  * * *

  “Well, that’s taken care of,” Skye observed. “One less potential source.”

  “Indeed. I am gratified Caitlin took my suggestion. It only occurred to me this morning, and rather than risk unduly agitating you should there be no jeopardy, I had Ryker contact her to ask her opinion on the matter. I am not as yet entirely clear upon modern security classification schemes.”

  “Oh, good thought. I guess Cait wasn’t sure either. She said she discussed it with Morris and Jones. Jones made the decision, I gather.”

  “Jones is a worthy ally,” Holmes acknowledged, returning to his seat on the sofa. “He and I already have as congenial a working relationship as I had with Lestrade only after years of working with the good Yard inspector.”

  “That’s nice to know, but is he…I mean, I never had a really high opinion of…” her voice tapered off, embarrassed to say what she was thinking. But Holmes took her meaning.

  “Oh, Lestrade was right enough. Watson had some resentment, I fear, because in the earlier years of my career I did the work and Lestrade got the credit. Truthfully,” Holmes confessed, “initially I did, as well. No one likes to have another man take credit for all his hard effort. But Lestrade was an honourable, fair man, and upon realising what was occurring, gave credit where credit was due. Occasionally it proved beneficial to allow Lestrade to take the credit, when it would have been detrimental for one reason or another for my involvement to be known, and he and I had an understanding in those circumstances. Unfortunately Watson never quite got over those early adventures, so I am afraid he rather subtly—or maybe not-so-subtly—made Lestrade seem incompetent, when he was not. Unlearned, unimaginative, untutored in some respects, like most of the Yard inspectors, but not incompetent. I think Jones puts me in mind of Lestrade in more recent years, after working with me…rubbed off, shall we say.”

  “So…we’re in good shape.” Skye stared thoughtfully into space.

  “Very much so.” Holmes nodded.

  Chapter 4—Nocturnal Pursuits

  THE HORSES WERE FED, THE EVENING chores done. Skye perched on the deck steps along the south wing of the house, contented, watching as the sun set to her right, copper-burnishing Pikes Peak on her left and Dog-Leg Rock straight ahead. It was a peaceful evening, and she noted one of their “ranch hands” at the far corner of the upper pasture, ostensibly mending a fence; in reality, adding a tiny video monitor to the fence post. Soft, familiar footsteps approached, and Holmes sat down on the step behind her, stretching his long legs down on each side of her before leaning over her and nudging her back into his chest, leaving his hands resting on his thighs.

  “It is a lovely evening,” he observed.

  “I was thinking the same thing, not two minutes ago. Look at that cloud over Pikes. Doesn’t it look like spun gold fluff drifting into the heavens on the evening breeze?”

  Skye felt, rather than heard, Holmes’ chuckle.

  “I think we need to investigate your genealogical antecedents further, my dear. I am certain there is an artist or poet somewhere in your background.”

  * * *

  Skye stifled a giggle, pouting and pretending to be hurt.

  “Well, if you’re going to make fun of me…”

  “Now, now, my dear,” Holmes protested, not fooled for an instant. “If you would only stop to think, you should come to understand that was a compliment. You wax poetic.” He paused, thoughtful. “It does occur to me to wonder what you might produce, should you turn your hand to the writing of poetry. Or stories of adventure.”

  “Oh, it would probably all be drivel,” she dismissed the idea with a wave of her hand.

  “But you already write articles for scientific journals. So you can write. It simply becomes a matter of redirecting the focus of that writing.”

  “You’re fishing for another Boswell.” Skye shot him a mischievous glance.

  “No, encouraging the latent talent I detect within you.”

  “We’ll see. Maybe one day.”

  “I do hope so.”

  “You’re good for me, Sherlock,” Skye declared, apropos of nothing in particular. She leaned against him, resting her head on his shoulder.

  “Odd you should say that. I was considering a similar thought earlier today.”

  “What, that you’re a good influence on me?” she teased.

  “No. I am certain you recall the source of our…recent misunderstanding…as clearly as I.” It was not a question, and there was only one recent misunderstanding they could possibly reference.

  “Yeah. It’s okay, Sherlock. Don’t dwell on it.”

  “I have not. But occasionally I introspect. And today, I confess I had a revelation.”

  “What sort of revelation?” Skye twisted to look up at him.

  “You will recall that our misunderstanding came about because I was conflicted between emotion and intellect.”

  “Yes. You’ve been worried that what you felt for me would interfere with your deductive reasoning, distracting you and getting in the way. Even, maybe, destroying your ability by, for instance, preventing your being able to make the hard decisions.”

  Holmes paused, surprised at how very well she understood his concern. “Precisely. But today, the same consideration struck me in an entirely different light.”

  “How, then?”

  “As Watson would certainly tell you, and as you have no doubt observed, when I am on a case, I am a man transformed: Passionate, intense, and generally irresistible of deviation. The excitement produced by a case serves to accelerate those processes of reasoning and deduction which are my metier, and I not infrequently astonish those present, by dint of the seeming instantaneousness of those processes.”

  “Yes,” Skye murmured, nodding her understanding.

  “Imagine my surprise, then, when I discovered that those deep feelings I harbour for you have served only to focus and amplify this tendency. Rather than distracting me, the knowledge you are there beside me anchours me. I now recognize much the same thing happened with Watson, as he was my closest friend. And while he was inestimable in providing a sounding board for my thoughts, yet I still desired no harm to come to him, and this is one of the factors which provided that intensity of focus, which only developed in its fullness after I began including him in my investigations. How much the more, then, you? The sole being in this continuum, or any other, I permit so deeply within the inner sanctum, as it were?”

  Skye considered his words, then nodded.

  “Moreover, I find sharing a bed has given me an insight into you positively unparalleled in my experience. I once said it was impossible to know what a woman was thinking, or to build deductions inferred from her behavior, for she was such a quicksand of fleeting emotion. That may still be true for the majority of women; I do not yet know. But I find I cannot say it of you. The constancy and fidelity of your being is remarkable. I know you, Skye. As surely as I know myself, I know you—your gestures, your expressions, your turns of phrase. What you will do, what you will say, even, I sometimes fancy, what you are thinking. It is the most reassuring sensation.”

  * * *

  Skye smiled, turning around to note the gold floss cloud had faded to neon pink against a deep cerulean sky.

  “And that’s a good thing,” she said, allowing a hint of question in her tone.

  “It is. For it is good to know that…” he paused. Then, in an unsteady, hesitant voice, he resumed with soft emphasis, “…that The Woman I Love…can be depended upon, no matter the circumstance.”

  Skye’s head shot around as if on ball bearings, and she
stared at him in shock.

  “Sherlock?” she whispered, looking up into shining silver eyes in the fading light.

  * * *

  “Yes, Skye?” Holmes met her eyes uncertainly, letting her alone, of all the world, see his vulnerability.

  Skye twisted fully around, kneeling on the step and wrapping her arms around his neck, hugging him tight.

  “Dear God. Sherlock, I’ve never been so happy in my life.”

  “Good,” he whispered, letting his hands span her waist to hold her close without appearing to do so. “I knew you would be.”

  After several minutes, during which the guards-cum-ranch-hands discreetly faded into invisibility, they moved apart, and Skye settled onto her step once more. Holmes leaned forward, resting his chin on top of her head, and together they watched twilight encroach.

  “I suppose,” he considered, “I should look into the possibility of making the matter permanent. No, that was not well stated. ‘Official’ is the better word. I should look into making the matter official.”

  * * *

  Skye gave a shrug, happiness growing into joy.

  “It all depends on what you want to do, Sherlock. As far as I’m concerned, we already are, and Colorado law is pretty laid-back on the subject. All we really have to do is declare we’re permanent, sign a paper or two, and as far as the state is concerned, we’re official.”

  The thought seemed to startle Holmes, and Skye wondered if she’d misunderstood what he meant.

  “Interesting,” he murmured, and she felt his chin move against the top of her head as he spoke. “I…Skye, would you feel slighted if I asked to take my time? As you know, I am…” He sighed and broke off. “I was decidedly unconventional in my own day and age, but I find I am still rather tradition-bound, relative to your time.”

  Skye understood then: There were too many options, and Holmes wanted to explore them in more detail, hoping to select one that would make them both comfortable and happy.

  “Sherlock, it doesn’t matter to me in the least. You know my views on the subject—it isn’t about the ceremony, it’s about the bond between two people and their Creator. We can have a big church thing, or a little church thing, or a civil thing, or nothing at all. As long as you’re here…” She searched behind herself for his hands, tugging them around her waist. “…I’m happy.” She drew one of his hands to her mouth and kissed its palm, hearing the catch of breath overhead. “You do what makes you happy. If you’re comfortable and secure with it, so am I.”