“What is it?” she asked, instinctively reaching for a towel to cover herself.
Holmes laid a firm but gentle hand on the towel, keeping her from lifting it off the rack.
“I know what you are feeling, Skye,” he murmured, careful to look directly into her eyes despite the desire to let his gaze roam, “and I intend to help.”
“I…don’t think you can, Sherlock.” Skye shook her head.
“I can.” He nodded confidently.
“How?”
“You are not tainted, my dear Skye. Neither in my eyes, nor in those of your colleagues. But as you feel so, I shall assist by helping to bathe you until you are satisfied you are clean. I am here for you, Skye, and I have no intention of leaving.” He took her tenderly by the shoulders and looked down into her eyes.
Skye gazed up at him with azure eyes glowing with gratitude and love. She wrapped her arms around his waist and hugged him tight.
* * *
When Williams came back, Holmes was padding silently around the flat on bare feet, dark hair damp but combed into place. He was attired in nothing but his dressing gown and a pair of soft, worn jeans—instead of the trousers he’d had on earlier—making tea in the tiny kitchenette-cum-wet-bar in the corner of the den. The detective waved him into the bedroom. Williams stopped in the doorway, and Holmes came to stand beside him as the British operative surveyed the bedroom.
Only one of the bedside lamps was on, providing minimal illumination. Skye was tucked quietly into the big bed, eyes closed, resting peacefully.
“You got her settled,” a pleased Williams whispered to Holmes, who nodded.
“It was merely a matter of ensuring she understood she was not at fault,” he murmured in an undertone, sipping his tea. “And that she was…accepted.”
“Excellent.” Williams nodded, suspecting how Holmes had convinced her, but not about to ask.
The two men moved to the bedside, and Holmes lifted the covers just enough to allow Williams to position the cold pack he held in his hand. Skye gasped at the chilly sensation on her sensitive, swollen breast; she stirred and opened her eyes.
“Hi there,” she mumbled drowsily.
“Hi. Feeling more relaxed?” Williams wondered, as Holmes tugged the covers back into place.
“Yeah. I’ll be okay.”
“Good. You did really, really well, Dr. Chadwick; my sincerest compliments. And Agent Smith sent word he’s planning to put you in for a commendation. Above and beyond, and all that. Do you need anything for pain?”
“No, I’m fine.” Skye’s eyelids fluttered sleepily.
“Would either of you like something to eat?”
“Maybe something to nibble. Sherlock gave me a pretty stiff brandy before he tucked me in bed, and to put it bluntly, I’m snockered.”
“That was the idea, my dear. I intended you to relax and rest.” Holmes chuckled.
“Nicely done, Holmes. Now I know why her eyes aren’t focusing!” Williams laughed. “I was worried for a minute, there. Well in that case, I’ll keep the snacks light, so the good doctor doesn’t sober up too much. Do you want anything, sir?”
“Back to ‘sir,’ is it?” Holmes smiled.
“Uh…do you want anything, Holmes?” Williams corrected himself sheepishly.
“Perhaps a sandwich and some soup. Nothing…heavy.”
“Coming right up.”
* * *
Shortly thereafter Williams brought up a small tray of hors d’oeuvres—fruit, vegetables, cheeses—for Skye and half a chicken salad sandwich and a bowl of freshly made chicken noodle soup for Holmes. He also brought up a bottle of naproxin and another of promethazine, prescribed by the staff physician, for Skye.
“The one will ease the pain and swelling, and the other will make sure she sleeps,” he murmured an aside to Holmes, who nodded. Then the operative discreetly removed the ice pack, finding Skye was drowsing deeply enough she never felt it.
With that, the operative left them to themselves, knowing they needed quiet time together and that the detective would take good care of his lady.
* * *
Holmes sat down on the bedside and tucked away the sandwich, then began on the soup. Skye woke from her doze, gazed at the tray of food on the nightstand and sighed despondently, then settled into her pillow without even attempting to eat. Holmes gave her an inquisitive glance, promptly putting down his nearly-empty bowl.
“Here,” he murmured, picking up a grape and offering it. “Eat.”
“Finish your soup, Sherlock.” Skye sighed again and shook her head.
“I have already had sufficient. You need to eat. You have barely let a morsel pass your lips today.” Playfully he brushed the grape several times against her lips. “Open.”
With a wry grin, Skye parted her lips, and Holmes placed the grape into her mouth. With that, he settled into feeding her the finger foods, ensuring she consumed enough nourishment to sustain her until breakfast the next morning. Half an hour later she declared herself full, and he moved the remains of their dinner to the top of the dresser across the room.
She shifted uncomfortably, and he realized she was in pain. Immediately he went into the bathroom, fetching a cup of water. He sat it on the nightstand, then extracted a naproxin and a promethazine.
“Here, Skye,” he said quietly, offering her the medications. “Take these.”
Skye gratefully accepted the pills, popping them into her mouth and washing them down with the cup of water he held for her.
“Thanks, Sherlock,” she murmured, easing back into the mattress as he set the cup aside.
“Now, my dear Skye,” he said, crouching beside the bed to look levelly into her eyes, “we must have a little conversation.”
* * *
“About what?” she asked, shifting onto her side to look at him.
“I have, during the course of my career, been presented with three cases in the which women were…grossly violated.” The calm grey eyes showed a hint of anxiety. “One of these Watson and I very nearly literally tripped over, when we encountered the…event…in progress on our way home from a concert. I successfully concluded all three, including the unanticipated case, I might add; the assailant did not survive to complete the abhorrent deed, thanks to the presence of revolvers in our pockets, versus the knife he flung at us.
“But,” Holmes continued reluctantly, “I have never before been in the position of being beau to the woman violated. Admittedly, it was not nearly so bad as it might have been, but still, it was a violation, for it was against your will.” He met her eyes, and she saw perplexed concern there before he continued.
“I am, in all honesty, uncertain what you want of me at this time. I shall therefore submit myself to your will, my dear Skye.” The proud head bowed. “For tonight, and for as long as you need it so, I am your most humble servant. Tell me what you wish of me, and I shall endeavour to do it, to the best of my ability.” He raised his head enough to look at her once more. “At my request, Williams has already been kind enough to bring up additional bedclothes and place them on the sofa in the sitting room.”
* * *
Skye gasped in shock, and her vivid azure eyes grew troubled.
“You don’t want…but I thought…”
“I do not wish to distress you, Skye,” he whispered, pained. “I will do whatever you wish, but I thought it best to prepare for the possibility that you would not want me in your bed tonight.”
Skye understood then, and put out a hand, stroking the glossy dark head with tender affection.
“I think…tonight, of all nights…I need you here, Sherlock. In fact, if you wouldn’t mind, could you get ready and come to bed now? I know it’s still early…”
“You have but to ask it, my dear.” Holmes nodded. He rose and turned toward the bathroom. “Give me a few minutes to complete my evening preparations.”
“Sure,” Skye murmured, settling into the bed and trying to relax.
* * *
<
br /> Within five minutes, Holmes was back in the bedroom, removing his jeans. From the corner of his eye, he noted Skye watching the process with some interest. That is a good sign, he thought to himself, pleased, but I shall still ask. He turned to her.
“Skye? Williams also brought a set of pyjamas for me. If you would prefer…”
“I just want my very own Sherlock in bed beside me. He doesn’t need to worry about hiding himself. He didn’t hurt me, and I’m not afraid of him.” The blue eyes softened, and she smiled at him.
“Are you afraid of Andrews, then?” Holmes promptly obeyed, removing his dressing gown before turning out the lamp and climbing into bed beside her.
* * *
“No, not especially,” Skye said, rolling over to face him as he settled down under the covers. She clenched her jaw briefly. “But if he ever lays a hand on me again, he won’t go home with the hand still attached.”
“No, he will not,” Holmes ground out. Grey eyes blazed for a moment.
* * *
He calmed himself, and met Skye’s gaze. Her eyes are so beautiful and bright tonight, he thought, apropos of nothing in particular. “Now, my dear, you are quite safe. Go to sleep.”
“Uh-uh,” she said, scooting toward him. “Snuggle me.”
“What?”
“You said you were my servant tonight. I want to be cuddled.” A mischievous glint lit her eyes.
Holmes hid a grin with difficulty, and slid across the bed toward her. With some effort, she met him halfway, and he wrapped his arms around her as they curled together in the center of the big bed.
“Do you wish me to sing you to sleep, too?” he wondered impishly.
“Who said anything about sleep?” Skye retorted cheerfully.
“I did,” Holmes pointed out. “Twice.”
“Yeah, but you’re my servant, remember?” Skye grinned. “And I…uh-oh…”
“’Uh-oh’? What? Is something wrong?” Holmes asked, suddenly concerned.
“My eyes about crossed,” Skye admitted sheepishly. “What was that stuff you gave me?” She fluttered her fingers at the nightstand where the bottles of medication sat.
“Something called naproxin, and something else called promethazine,” Holmes said in a matter-of-fact tone. “Why?”
“Oh. Promethazine. Generic Phenergan,” Skye sighed. “No wonder. That stuff knocks me out cold.”
“Well, then this is excellent. You should sleep deeply and well.”
“But…I wanted…”
By way of Skye’s explanation, Holmes felt a warm hand slide down his belly, going ever lower, until he felt himself cupped intimately by sensitive fingers. He sighed.
“I should like nothing better, my dearest Skye, but it has been an extremely long, and very stressful day…”
“Aw,” Skye slurred, and it became obvious the medications were kicking in quickly. “This whole thing putcha through hell, didn’it?”
“It was…difficult.” His arms tightened around her.
“I’m sowwy,” she whispered, tucking her face into his chest. “If there’d been ‘nother way…”
“I know,” he breathed into her ear. “And it is not the first time I have allowed someone dear to me to walk into danger. I regularly walked into it side by side with Watson. But that was…different. A different kind of danger.” Holmes swallowed. “This is harder for me to overlook in myself. This time, I allowed you to walk into the danger of being violated in the worst way possible. And to do so…alone.”
“I wasn’ ‘lone,” Skye mumbled protest. “Y’all were close.” She pressed her hands reassuringly against his body, in her drugged state momentarily forgetting one hand still cupped his most private areas; Holmes bit his lip to repress the groan of pleasure it nearly forced from him. “’Sides, it was my idea, an’ my de- decision, Sherlock. Don’ feel bad ‘cause you hadda let me do what I hadda do.”
“I know. And in the end, you handled yourself well, and the worst possibilities did not occur. And here we are,” he said, pulling her close. “But you, my dear Skye, are already half-asleep.”
“Yeeeeah,” she admitted with wry regret. “More’n half, I think.”
“Then let us move this,” he reached down and removed her hand from his crotch, shifting it to his back, “and place it here. Else I shall be the one not getting any sleep.”
“Hokay, if you say so.” Skye giggled and kissed his chest.
“I say so.”
“I thought you was da servant.”
“I am. But a faithful servant is quite capable of directing his mistress, when she is incapacitated and in need of guidance.”
“Ooo, dat’s a good double en- entendre,” she observed, struggling momentarily to get the words out. “Mistress.” Skye giggled again.
“And would milady prefer the more commonplace ‘missus,’ then?” Holmes mischievously assumed the snobbish tones of a Victorian manservant.
Skye raised her head and looked at him in the dim light with patently unfocused eyes. Holmes’ own eyes danced with mirth at the sight.
“Ackshully,” she decided, her speech now badly slurred, “I perfer ‘my dear Skye’—so long’s you say it dat speshul way.”
“Very well then…my dear Skye,” Holmes murmured, couching his voice in precisely the timbre he knew affected her most.
Then he was amazed. The body against his really did try to melt, bones seeming to disappear, her entire form sagging against him as she sighed happily. Her face tucked itself into his shoulder, and within seconds she was asleep.
Holmes smiled to himself. He deliberately put aside all thoughts of the day’s events, relaxed, and joined Skye in a deep, restful sleep.
* * *
Holmes awoke the next morning with a still-sleeping Skye pressed close. He smiled tenderly, gazing into the relaxed face and studying it. The detective already knew it as intimately as his own, but the fleeting expressions which crossed it, even when asleep, never ceased to fascinate him. He enjoyed secretly using his deductive skills in what he knew was a frivolous, whimsical fashion, as he attempted to infer the contents of her dreams from those expressions.
This particular morning, however, there was little with which he could work. The medications from the night before still held Skye in thrall, and abnormally, she had barely moved all night. So as Holmes delicately shifted position in an attempt to ease his arm, which was full of pins and needles, an odd sensation evinced itself: When his body moved away from hers, it left a gritty, sticky feeling on his chest.
Holmes looked down to find a small patch of crusted blood and drainage where Skye’s wounded breast had rested against his. Well, Williams said there might be drainage, he recalled, trying to overcome the disquiet the discovery created in him. And there is not much. He cupped her breast in his hand and tried to examine it. But there was insufficient light, so he eased away until he could reach one of the bedside lamps and turn it on. Skye stirred, unconsciously disturbed by his temporary retreat; but she promptly settled down once he returned. Holmes tugged the covers down to her waist and cupped her breast once more, gently pushing it up until he could get a good look at it.
It was bruised and discolored, with a small crust of partly dried blood around the nipple. But to Holmes’ relief there was no immediate sign of infection. So Holmes eased out of bed and headed to the bathroom. Wetting a washcloth, he held it against the dried blood on his chest until he’d softened the clot sufficiently to wipe it off. Then he scrubbed away the residual stain, concerned the sight of it might disturb Skye upon awakening.
Taking another washcloth, he saturated it in warm water, wrung it out and bore it back to the bedroom. By this time Skye had flopped onto her back, arms outflung in what was evidently a subconscious attempt to locate him. When Holmes eased down on the bedside, she sighed, her face turning toward him. He smiled.
Cupping her breast in his left hand, he laid the damp washcloth over her breast for several moments, allowing it to soften the cru
st around her nipple. Then, very, very delicately, Holmes bathed away the dried blood and plasma on Skye’s breast. The nipple erected under his gentle ministrations, and he smiled again. Once he was satisfied all the dried material was gone and her breast comfortable, he discarded the cloth and examined her breast more closely for injury or infection, even going so far as to sniff the nipple and the residue on the washcloth.
“Good,” he muttered to himself, satisfied all was well.
Then the detective succumbed to temptation, tenderly brushing the erect nipple with his lips, careful to do nothing to cause pain. Skye sighed, and he glanced up to find azure eyes gazing back.
“Skye?” he whispered uncertainly, face warming as he realized he had been caught. “Did I…I did not cause you distress, did I?”
“No. It felt good. I mean, it’s sore, but it felt good. I…I needed that,” she admitted. “Your touch is so different from Andrews’, it’s not even funny.”
Skye held out her arms, and Holmes went into them.
Chapter 8—The Puzzle Pieces Fall
WILLIAMS AND A COLLEAGUE CAME IN later that morning to find the bedroom door closed, and the bedclothes and pyjamas unused on the sofa. He smiled, glad to know Dr. Chadwick had been in good enough shape physically and emotionally to allow for a normal night. He turned to his companion.
“They must still be asleep, Tina,” he told the woman quietly. “After all the stress yesterday, I’m not surprised.”
“Neither am I,” the female operative agreed solemnly. “They’ve got guts, I’ll say that for ‘em.”
“They do. And to spare. We’ll come back—”
They were interrupted when the door to the bedroom cracked open, and Holmes’ face peered out.
“I thought I heard voices,” he remarked. “If you would wait a few minutes, we shall be right out. We were merely talking. I thought it good to begin the day…slowly.”
“Very good, Holmes,” Williams nodded, and he and Tina sat down on the sofa.
A little while later, the two emerged. Holmes was fully dressed in cream linen slacks and royal blue t-shirt, but Skye was wrapped in Holmes’ dressing gown, and walked tentatively, her arms folded protectively across her chest.
The Case of the Displaced Detective Page 65
