“I suppose one might…say it so.” Holmes averted his face.
“Okay,” Skye turned her attention back to her data. “Time flows a little differently over there than it does here. In the few hours he’s been gone from here, he’s had about a week to get started there. The repercussions are already propagating through that continuum, though, so we can’t drag our feet.” She pulled out a DVD from a nearby case and popped it into the computer’s drive, opening the video contained on it and fast-forwarding through it. “Wonderful!”
“What is?” Holmes asked, coming to her side.
“Conan Doyle visits Watson, to check on him after your ‘demise,’ this very night! I can put you down right in the middle of it.” Skye turned her attention to her companion and lover, scrutinizing him.
Holmes was still clad in cream linen trousers and a royal blue t-shirt, with white athletic shoes on his feet; he was fit and appeared in excellent shape. Skye tried to put aside the knowledge he was still recovering from a beating, thankful the only remaining external sign of that beating was some residual stiffness. She glanced down at her own attire.
“Take off your shirt,” she demanded, reaching for the buttons of her own top.
“I beg your pardon, Skye?” Holmes’ eyes widened.
“Sherlock, there’s nobody here but us,” Skye fussed, unbuttoning her shirt as fast as she could, while conveniently neglecting to remind him of the security monitors. “And you’ve seen me in the altogether lots of times. Now is no time to go all Victorian gentleman on me. Take off your shirt! And give me your pocketwatch, too.”
Holmes yanked his shirttails from his trousers, then hauled the t-shirt off over his head.
“Give it to me,” Skye ordered, “and put this on.” She handed him the silk poet shirt. “Hurry! We’ve got to get you over there!”
“May I at least enquire why I must give up my pocketwatch?” he asked with more than a hint of annoyance.
“Because it doesn’t have a gold sovereign on the chain anymore, it has a bullet. That’s a sure sign you’ve been someplace…dangerous.”
* * *
Bemused, Holmes handed over the timepiece, then allowed Skye to trade shirts with him and watched as she pulled the t-shirt on over her head; she winced mildly in discomfort from the motion. He galvanized himself into activity then, donning the white silk shirt and buttoning it. But when he started to unzip his trousers to tuck it in, Skye stopped him.
“No. Let it hang loose and flowy.”
“Skye, you are, of course, the expert here on modern attire,” Holmes admitted, trying valiantly not to become irritated with his mate, “but am I allowed to ask why?”
“It’s more angelic that way.” Skye smirked widely.
“More—” Holmes broke off, recalling their earlier discussion on seances and ghosts. “Ah.” He removed his revolver and holster from its hidden spot in the small of his back, and laid it on the console. “In that case, this, too, should remain here.”
He unbuttoned the shirt, slipped it off, removed his bulletproof vest, and laid it beside the weapon before donning the shirt again. “And this, as well.”
“Oh, no, Sherlock!”
“You know as well as I do, my dear, that if a bullet watch-fob is a positive giveaway that I have not been in ‘Heaven,’ how much the more a weapon?” Holmes shook his head. “And a ‘modern’ weapon, at that? Let alone advanced body armour? No, they must stay here. I will have…other opportunities…once I arrive there. Not to mention other plans.”
“Okay, Sherlock.” Skye took a deep breath and capitulated. “All I have to do is dial in the time and bring it to full focus. Are you ready?”
“Save for one thing only.” Holmes nodded soberly.
“Then whatever it is, do it.” Skye shook her head.
* * *
The scientist suddenly felt her feet leave the floor as she was caught in a fierce embrace. Firm lips covered her own and a gentle tongue parted them. Skye flung her arms around Holmes’ neck and kissed him hard. He returned it in kind. Finally Holmes broke the kiss and eased Skye to the floor. He looked down at her with pained grey eyes, catching up her hand as it slid down his chest.
“Skye,” he whispered in a rough voice, “do you recall what you told me, right before you…‘became’…Sandy?”
“Yes,” she breathed.
“Here,” he told her, grey eyes somber. Holmes pressed her hand to the center of his chest. “No matter what happens. Right here. Always.”
* * *
Skye nodded, sapphire eyes glimmering with tears that did not fall. Holmes reluctantly let her hand drop, then took up a position near two of the monoliths. Skye turned her attention to her computer, taking a deep breath to steady herself.
“Okay, Sherlock,” she instructed, voice only slightly wobbly, and as businesslike as she could make it, “I’m going to dial in the time and locus, and we’re going to watch for a couple of minutes. That way, you know what’s going on between Watson and Conan Doyle, and hear what’s being said. Then I’ll bring the tesseract to full focus, and you can step through. Remember what I told you.”
“I shall not forget,” he nodded, then added, very deliberately, “my dear Skye.”
Skye’s knees gave way at the tone and words, and she sat down heavily in the console chair.
Chapter 9—Ghosts of Christmas Past
DR. JOHN H. WATSON, M.D., and Dr. Arthur Conan Doyle, M.D., sat in Watson’s dimly-lit study after dinner, in two comfortably worn leather wing chairs on either side of the fireplace. The fireplace itself provided the bulk of the lighting; a small lamp was lit on the table between the two men. Watson smoked his pipe, and Doyle smoked a cigar. Two brandy snifters sat on the end table between them.
“You look rather better than the last time I saw you, Watson,” Doyle remarked quietly.
“I suppose so,” Watson said, subdued. “My home life certainly has its joys of late, and that has been an immense help. But it has been some eight months since he…Doyle, I still cannot say it.” Watson discarded his pipe to put his head in his hands. “I am slowly growing used to no longer being summoned to Baker Street. But it seems impossible that he is not someplace about London still. I never thought that great mind capable of being…removed…in so violent, and despicable, a fashion. I cannot seem to wrap my brain, my very soul, around it.”
“I know,” Doyle agreed, shaking his head. He put his cigar in the ashtray beside Watson’s pipe and leaned forward, placing a comforting hand on his companion’s shoulder. “My greatest regret is that I had not the opportunity to come to know him better. I have been your friend, agent and literary co-author these many years, but my own life’s affairs kept me from doing as I ought, and involving myself more deeply in your life, and his.” He sighed. “He was your most bosom friend, Watson. As near, perhaps, to a brother as possible, lacking but the ties of blood. It is altogether right you should grieve him, and such things have their own timetable. They do not operate according to Bradshaw, I fear.”
“Too well I know,” Watson murmured from behind his hands. “Still, I begin to wonder if I shall ever get over the horror and bereavement.”
“How is Mrs. Watson holding up?”
“Oh, she is strongly affected, too,” Watson admitted, raising his head. “Holmes was never thought a sentimental man, but my dear Mary sensed the large heart hidden behind the great mind. Do you know, he never once neglected her birthday?”
“Is that so?”
“It is,” Watson averred. “He saw the good her love did me, and seemed to appreciate it, on my behalf, I believe.”
“I think you are right, then.”
“Still, she is trying to bear up. For the sake of the child, you know. It would not do for her to fall into a melancholy at this time.”
“No, not at all. So have you ascertained her confinement date as yet?”
“Yes, it will be this August,” Watson smiled wistfully. “If it is a boy, we shall name him Sherloc
k.”
“No doubt,” Doyle could not help the grin that spread across his face. “A fitting name.”
“Indeed, and I am honoured by it,” a deep, familiar voice said softly.
Poor Watson’s eyes grew round, and he stared at Doyle.
“My dear Doyle, I think perhaps my worst fears have come to pass. I have indeed lost my mind, and may be sinking into brain-fever.”
“Not unless I am as well, old friend,” Doyle breathed, glancing warily around the room.
“You heard it too?”
“He did,” the disembodied voice came again. “And now you shall both see it.”
A spectre in white materialized, walking directly through the fireplace and into the room.
Sherlock Holmes stood before them.
Watson fainted.
* * *
When Watson came to his senses, his collar-ends were undone, and the taste of brandy was upon his lips. Doyle and Holmes both bent over him, concerned.
“My dear Watson,” Holmes murmured, as Doyle checked Watson’s pulse, “I owe you thousands of apologies.”
“Holmes!” Watson exclaimed, clutching at the amazingly solid apparition. “How…? Are you really…What are you doing here?!”
“I must admit, those same questions cross my mind, as well,” Doyle murmured.
“I have been…sent back, Watson,” Holmes explained quietly. “It seems my work in this world did not end at Reichenbach. A demon incarnate has entered your world, my friends—a man going by the name of Colonel James Moriarty.”
“What?” the other two men exclaimed, shocked.
“The man whose annoying letters I have received?” Watson added in distaste.
“The same. He is close akin to Professor Moriarty. Indeed, one might almost say…he IS Professor Moriarty.”
“And you are here to stop him,” Doyle concluded.
“I am.”
“And you require our help,” Watson said staunchly. “What do you need, Holmes?” He rose and moved to his desk, opening a drawer and pulling out his service revolver. With swift skill he loaded it, then slipped it into his pocket. “There. The game is afoot, and I am ready, old friend.”
“My dear Watson, you are ever loyal.” The detective’s grey eyes softened, a light appearing in them.
Watson felt his face flush, warmth suffusing it.
“But no,” Holmes shook his head firmly. “That is not the sort of assistance I will require, nor would I ask it at this time. You and Mrs. Watson are but newly expectant, and it would not do for young Sherlock,” here Holmes grinned widely, “or his parents to be put in danger by his namesake. No, it is a different type of assistance I need.”
“Name it,” Watson said instantly.
“I need Mycroft, and I need Billy. I must attire myself properly, and position myself appropriately to the game which is afoot. But I must remain unseen by the majority of people—saving only the two of you, the two I request, possibly Mrs. Hudson, and my prey.”
“This can be done,” Watson nodded confidently. He bent to his desk and scribbled a note, rang for the maid, then turned. “I shall send a telegram to Mycroft immediately and ask him to step round. One moment, my dear Holmes.” He stepped into the hallway to await the maid, firmly closing the door behind himself.
* * *
Doyle turned to Holmes in Watson’s absence. Holmes observed the skepticism on the doctor’s face.
“Mr. Holmes, pray do not take offense, but one must admit, it is not every day a ghost from one’s past returns to request aid…”
“Quite true, but this is no ordinary situation, Dr. Doyle. I can assure you, I came from a realm not of this world, sent back by the bonniest angel you could imagine, to complete my task.”
“An angel, eh?” Doyle said doubtfully, the man of science not quite certain what to believe. “So where is this angel? And why doesn’t it help you?”
A soft, feminine voice echoed through the room, and Holmes smiled, recognizing it instantly.
“I am not far. But it is not permitted for me to do this thing. This is Sherlock’s task, the completion of his great life’s work, and he and his friends must accomplish it.”
“Thank you, my dear Skye,” Holmes murmured.
Doyle sat down heavily, just as Watson returned.
* * *
Skye was watching the events in the core closely when Morris led Jones and Smith into the Chamber.
“What’s going on?” the general demanded. “Skye, we got Holmes’ emergency call. What’s happening?”
“Shush, General!” Skye hissed imperatively, rapidly defocusing the tesseract. “Get over here and be quiet, and I’ll tell you.”
The three men immediately silenced at the urgent undertone of the scientist’s voice, and slunk over to the director’s console. She gestured them to nearby seats.
“I’m adjusting the tesseract focus in real time. That’s why you have to be quiet, because when it’s in full focus, we can be heard on the other side. I’m doing it to avoid anybody from that continuum accidentally coming through, while still maintaining close contact with Sherlock, so don’t break my concentration.”
“Got it,” Jones murmured, as Skye returned the tesseract to full focus. “What’s the situation?”
“How many of the stories about Sherlock have you three read?”
“Most of ‘em, now,” Morris responded sotto voce, and the others nodded.
“Okay, Haines is trying to take over Professor Moriarty’s place in Sherlock’s old continuum,” Skye whispered. “He almost destroyed the tesseract after going through, but we got that stopped, and I was able to locate him. Sherlock followed him through and is trying to maneuver himself into position to get him back here. Once he’s here, we’ll need for you guys to take him into custody, and we’ll all have to move fast.”
“Why?” Smith wondered.
“Because if we don’t, he’ll just turn and bolt back through the tesseract, and we’ll lose him again.”
“Good point,” Jones muttered.
“I’m going to do a shutdown as soon as he and Sherlock come through, but that still takes a few minutes, so make it snappy on the arrest.”
“A few minutes?!” Smith exclaimed under his breath. “Can’t you do it any faster than that? Flip a switch or something?”
“Well…” Skye muttered apologetically.
“Skye, you need assistance at this,” Morris decided. “We need to call in the team.”
“Sherlock and I discussed that, General. There’s a lot of risk in it. If we haven’t weeded out all the moles, we could put ourselves in even worse shape.” Skye tweaked the focus briefly as Watson re-entered the room, then returned it to full, centered on Holmes, and only then risked a split-second glance at the general. “If you do, make it only the team leads. I sure wouldn’t mind help, and we’ve already cleared them.”
“On it,” Morris nodded, rising and slipping from the room.
* * *
“All right,” Watson nodded to the apparition of his oldest and dearest friend, “I anticipate Mycroft within the hour. I sent a most urgent telegram, ciphered with—do you remember the coded message from your first case? Victor Trevor, and the Gloria Scott?”
“I do,” Holmes smiled. “Very good, Watson. You know, I have it upon excellent authority that you make a fine detective.”
Watson’s eyes went wide, his cheeks grew ruddy, and his mustache fairly bristled with pleased embarrassment at the unaccustomed praise.
“And whose authority might that be?”
“My…guardian angel on the other side,” Holmes stated, hiding a smile. “The bonny Angel Skye.”
“Sherlock speaks the truth,” the soft disembodied voice intoned once more. “Dr. Watson learned from a master, and he took to heart that which he learned.”
Watson grabbed for the other wing chair, sitting abruptly.
“Sherlock?” the angel’s voice sounded again.
“Yes, Skye?”
“Michael, Gabriel, and Raphael have arrived to provide intercession. Michael has called for assistance from…above. Soon you will be surrounded by a cloud of faithful witnesses.”
“Thank you, my dear,” Holmes nodded, hiding his relief at the knowledge Skye was no longer alone in the Chamber, and had trusted help. “That is encouraging news.”
A knock sounded on the door.
“James,” Mrs. Watson’s voice came through from the other side, “Mr. Holmes’ brother is here, seeming most urgent.”
“Send him in, my dear, right away,” Watson called, “but please retire to your sitting-room and stay there. The matter is serious, and could prove dangerous. I should not wish you, or our child, to be injured.”
“James,” Mary Morstan Watson sounded anxious, “you won’t take any unnecessary risks, will you?”
Holmes shook his head vehemently, mouthing, “No risks.”
“No, my dear,” Watson replied soothingly. “I shall not be taking any risks, upon my word. I am merely helping…an old friend.”
“Very good. Please, Mr. Holmes, go in.” The sound of soft feet pattered down the hall as the door opened and admitted Mycroft Holmes.
The corpulent figure froze inside the doorway; then Mycroft swiftly closed the door, placing a small valise on the floor.
“Sherlock?” he whispered. “Is it really you?”
“It is really me, dear brother,” Holmes grinned.
Mycroft scowled.
“Why have you not contacted me?” he demanded, showing outright anger for the first time since Watson had known him. “We had a plan worked out. I have followed it to the letter, even to the maintaining of your lodgings, but I heard nothing. Nothing! Even I have my limits, Sherlock, and I had begun to fear you really were dead.”
“He is, Mr. Mycroft,” Doyle murmured. “Dead, I mean.”
“Nonsense,” Mycroft boomed, coming across the room and taking his brother by the shoulders before enfolding him in a familial embrace. “Why, he’s as solid as I am, every whit muscle, and I’d swear he’s put on half a stone since I saw him last.”
* * *
At this, Jones leaped from his chair and ran from the Chamber, coming back moments later with a white bed sheet yanked from a cot in one of the restrooms, and a length of packing twine.
The Case of the Displaced Detective Page 68
