“Take care, Doyle,” Mycroft offered.
Doyle departed, and Watson and Mycroft continued to survey the flat silently. Finally Watson gave up; this second loss of his dearest friend was proving far too difficult to prolong.
“Well, Mr. Holmes, I must be going,” he told Mycroft reluctantly, trying not to wince at the use of the surname. “Mary is in a delicate condition, and she will be waiting.”
“I understand,” Mycroft nodded. “But…Watson?”
“Yes, Mr. Holmes?”
* * *
“Just Mycroft, please,” the portly government attaché suggested gently, having seen the wince and understanding its origin. After all, Watson had been his brother’s best friend, so close as to be nearly another brother, the elder Holmes brother considered; it was therefore quite appropriate to include him as family, especially now. “Do you think you could come by my rooms in the morning? Say, ten o’clock? There is a little matter I should like to discuss with you…”
“Certainly, Mycroft,” Watson nodded with a knowing half-smile. “I shall be there.”
“I look forward to seeing you, John. I’ll have a bit of brunch laid on when you arrive.”
The two men nodded congenially, almost affectionately, to each other, and Watson left. Mycroft moved to the sofa, sitting down where his brother had sat so often, and pondered the events of the last twenty-four hours.
Well, Sherlock, as Doyle said, I suppose we shall all meet again eventually, Mycroft thought. Though I suspect we three will have to wait longer for you and your “angel” to arrive at the Pearly Gates than, perhaps, Doyle suspects. She is a lovely thing, your “angel,” quick-witted, obviously intelligent, and caring, and I am glad you have at last found someone worthy of you, wherever you found her—or maybe, he pondered perceptively, she found you. Perhaps the Holmes-Vernet line will continue past our generation, after all.
I hope you do not mind if I make use of your Boswell, as your own services are henceforth denied me. You trained him well, and I have little doubt he will make an admirable foundation for my budding little intelligence group, though it will never be what I had planned, with you absent from it. Be happy, brother mine, and know you will be dearly missed, wherever you are.
Mycroft Holmes rose ponderously to his feet and made his way down the stairs. He stepped through the front door; produced a key from his pocket and locked it securely, then paused for a moment, staring at the door and considering.
Watson is hardly done chronicling Sherlock’s adventures, he thought. I’ve no doubt there are enough records of cases in those files upstairs to keep him busy for many years to come, doing so. And the pair had, and has, many eager admirers. Perhaps it is worthwhile maintaining the flat in memoriam. I should like to honour my brother, and I am certain Dr. Watson—Brother John now, I suppose—will feel the same. Not to mention, Sherlock would prefer to ensure dear Mrs. Hudson has a comfortable living; he made that quite plain. She is no longer so very young, after all. And according to Sherlock, there is a tidy little sum to be had among this Colonel Moriarty’s things, some of which should do nicely for the purpose. Yes, I think perhaps that is a capital idea.
Mycroft Holmes turned and descended the steps to the street, meandering his way down to the corner, where he hailed a hansom cab.
“Diogenes Club, my good man,” he told the driver, and they hastened away through the foggy streets of London.
Chapter 10—Picking Up The Pieces
GRADUALLY THE STUNNED OCCUPANTS OF THE Chamber picked themselves up and checked for body parts. Just as happened many weeks before, several terminals lay smashed on the floor, and roughly half the consoles were overturned. Several groans echoed in the confined space, and a general undercurrent of mild cursing could be heard.
“Everybody okay?” General Morris called from behind one of the consoles.
“More or less, General,” Caitlin’s voice answered from somewhere in the room. “Except for our bad guy, that is. I think everybody else is…” she broke off as she managed to get her head above the top of the computer console.
There was a body near the middle of the room. Tall, lanky, dark-haired, with aquiline features, it lay, pale and silent, on the polished pink granite of the floor.
“Oh, dear God,” Caitlin Hughes whispered, dismayed. “Holmes…”
The shocked room fell silent. Skye crawled around the end of her console and stared in horror at that still, quiet body lying halfway between the monoliths and the wall. She launched herself from beneath her upended chair, scrambling to get to the side of that body. No one else moved as she dropped to her knees beside the motionless form.
“Sherlock?” she whispered, gazing down into the pale, austere face as she gingerly patted his shoulders. “Say something, hon. Please. Oh, please God! Sherlock, wake up!”
Her fingers reached for Holmes’ throat, searching for the carotid pulse, but she was trembling so badly she couldn’t hold her fingers in position long enough to tell if he even had a pulse.
“Dear God,” she mumbled pleadingly, “not him, too. Please. Not him, too.”
* * *
Hughes and Morris exchanged worried glances. It was patently obvious to them what Skye was referring to, and obvious, too, that matters didn’t look good; the shock of the tesseract’s sudden deactivation had been severe, and Holmes had been effectively at point-blank range. Jones moved into position to begin CPR as Caitlin stooped over Skye, trying to draw her away from Holmes.
“C’mere, honey,” she said, taking Skye by the shoulders. “Peter’s on the way. Colonel, please, you and Teresa”—Caitlin gestured at one of their team leads, who was CPR-certified—“have a look at Holmes and see what’s to be done until he gets here.”
“NO!!” Skye screamed, nearly hysterical, shoving Caitlin back and smacking at Jones’ outstretched hands. “It’s too late! Get away, Cait! Stay away from me! Don’t get close to me! Don’t you understand? Everybody dies…” Her shoulders slumped and a sob burst from her throat.
A shocked Caitlin pulled back, unwilling to upset Skye any more. A silent, grim Jones rose and moved away, and the rest of the team simply stood and watched, stunned, as their indomitable chief scientist, who never lost her cool and certainly never cried, collapsed on top of Holmes and wept heartbrokenly, keening softly.
* * *
Skye heard Morris murmur from somewhere over her shoulder, close at hand, “Now, now, Skye, you know it has nothing to do with you.”
“No, you’re wrong,” Skye sobbed, burying her face in Holmes’ shoulder. “It’s all my fault. All of this. I told Sherlock payback for what I did would be a bitch. But I never thought he’d be the one to pay…”
“Perhaps…because…he hasn’t…” a quiet voice, barely a whisper, sounded in her ears.
“Wh- wha?” Skye whispered, wondering if she was hallucinating.
The vague sensation of a familiar hand splayed against the small of her back insinuated itself into her consciousness. It slid up her spine, then patted her between her shoulder blades. Several pleased gasps went up around her from various team members.
Skye pushed up from Holmes’ torso, letting her tear-filled gaze trail up his body to his face. Calm, if dazed, grey eyes looked back at her from a still-too-pale face.
“Sherlock?” she whispered in disbelief.
“Yes, my dear,” he murmured, staring deep into red-rimmed azure pools. “I do apologise for frightening you so, but impact with a solid granite wall tends to capture one’s attention for quite some little time, I fear.” He didn’t fully smile, being still rather too stunned, but his eyes crinkled.
“Oh, dear God,” Skye breathed, trying to take it in. “Dear God. Sherlock.”
“I assure you, I am completely intact, my dear Skye.” The hand on her back slid soothingly across her shoulders.
“Are you sure?”
“Quite su—”
* * *
His statement was cut off by a pair of soft, but very ur
gent lips. The arm across Skye’s back tightened automatically as the kiss deepened, neither of them caring very much in that moment about the fact they had an audience; it was doubtful the dazed Holmes was yet aware of their presence. The audience, however, looked on with interest.
“Wow…”
“Yeah. Some lip-lock.”
“Lip-lock? Are you kidding? That’s tonsil-hockey!”
“Who’s winning?”
“I dunno. I don’t think they care.”
“Damn. I didn’t think Dr. Chadwick had it in her…”
“CHADWICK?! I didn’t know Mr. HOLMES had it in him!”
“What about that Adler chick?”
“Oh, yeah…”
“I bet Chadwick’s prettier.”
“AND smarter.”
“Mm-hm,” a voice absently murmured the interjection. It sounded suspiciously like Holmes’.
“See there?”
“Yeah…”
Skye raised her head enough to respond.
“Shut up, guys, and get a clue. I’m busy here.”
“Busy?” Caitlin shot an amused glance at General Morris. The general was red in the face with his efforts to hold in the laughter. “Exactly how is this ‘busy’?”
“Mr. Holmes has been injured,” Skye replied archly, gazing down into dancing silver eyes, her own sapphire gaze devilishly mischievous. “I’m ensuring his vital signs are adequately monitored until Dr. Wellingford arrives.”
Holmes stifled a snort with effort.
“Is th-that…snrk…w-what…you call it?” Morris wondered innocently, beginning to gasp for breath in his losing battle with mirth. “I’ll have to ask Colonel Jones about it. I’ve never seen that technique before as a first response. Is it new?”
“It’s no technique I’ve ever seen,” an amused Jones said behind Morris, “but hey, if it works…” The room exploded in laughter as relief swept over everyone.
“C’mon, guys, break it up or get a room,” Caitlin grinned, bending down and offering Skye a hand up. “Here, Holmes, grab my other hand.”
“No, seriously,” Skye demurred, sobering and remaining firmly by Holmes’ side while placing just enough weight on his chest to prevent him from accepting Caitlin’s offer. “He hit the wall pretty hard when the tesseract deactivated. I saw it. I’d really like him to stay here until Peter gives him a quick once-over, in case something’s broken.”
“What’s broken?” Wellingford said, entering the room with perfect, if unintentional, timing. He took one look at the scene: One obviously very dead body in the corner by the door, Holmes and Chadwick apparently injured on the floor, the Chamber in disastrous disarray; and the physician’s anxious face grew more agitated. “Oh, shit, not again.” He hurried to Holmes’ side with his kit, plopping himself on the floor and beginning an examination.
* * *
Soon Wellingford confirmed Holmes’ verdict: The detective was indeed intact, having merely—but literally—had the breath knocked out of him. The physician, with Skye’s assistance, eased the detective to his feet.
“You’re gonna be bruised and stiff tomorrow, pal,” Wellingford observed, “big time, so a few ice packs might be in order…”
Holmes groaned, and put his fingers to the bridge of his nose.
“…But take it slow for awhile, and you’ll be okay.”
“I seem to have heard that quite a lot lately,” Holmes muttered peevishly.
“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of him,” Skye said in a subdued tone. “I’ll take real good care of him.”
Holmes dropped his hand, shooting her a sharp glance; Wellingford, Jones, Morris, and Hughes joined him in his scrutiny. They all observed her drawn, tense expression and pale face, and frowned to varying degrees.
“I don’t think so, young lady,” Morris blustered gently. “You got a very bad scare tonight, and I have it to understand you were recently…injured, yourself. Wellingford can come up tomorrow afternoon and see to Holmes—see to both of you. The two of you have been on the run for awhile, and you’ve done excellent work, I might add. You need to get home and sleep in your own bed for a change. And somebody else will drive you,” he added sternly. “You’ve both been through hell.”
“I’ll drive ‘em up, General,” Jones offered. “They’re in a rental, so I’ll drive it back to the Springs after I drop ‘em off.”
“Good man, Hank,” Morris agreed. “We’ve got things under control here. You two go get some rest.”
“Do you think you can get me your reports tomorrow?” Jones asked the pair hesitantly.
“No,” Skye murmured, not even trying to argue being sent home. “You’ve still got my laptop.”
“Oh, that’s right,” Jones noted, smacking his forehead. “Duh. Okay, I’ll send it up tomorrow and you can email your reports to me when you come down to the base.” He glanced inquisitively at Wellingford, who pursed his lips critically, then Jones added, “No rush.”
“Done,” Holmes noted cheerily, as everyone watched Skye surreptitiously. “Come, my dear. Time to go home.”
“And don’t do a thing tomorrow if you don’t feel up to it,” Wellingford admonished. “Take it easy. Sleep late. I’ll see you around one.”
* * *
Ryker’s unit met them when they arrived at the ranch and escorted them into the house. Skye was relieved and grateful to see the house in good shape, with repairs effected after her gun battle, erasing all signs of that event. Once inside, Jones gave the British unit a private briefing on what had happened, and instructed them to maintain vigilance for a few more days; the entire spy ring had not been rounded up yet, but Agent Smith’s people were hard at work doing just that. One and all, Ryker’s men nodded firmly, stern faces determined. Jones took his leave, and Holmes and Chadwick toppled into bed.
Skye insisted on putting ice packs on Holmes’ bruised back and head, and sitting with him in the meanwhile. But after twenty minutes had elapsed, Holmes discarded the packs and pulled Skye close. They did nothing except hold each other, but for the moment, that was enough.
* * *
After a few minutes, Skye murmured, “Sherlock?”
“Yes, Skye?”
“Are you…okay?”
“Let me assure you once more in no uncertain terms that I am completely fine, my dear Skye.”
“Then…um…I…”
Holmes felt a tremor shudder through her, and he put his fingers under her chin, tilting her face to his, gazing into her eyes in alarm. Skye’s eyes were wide and dilated, her nostrils flared.
“Skye, are YOU all right?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted honestly. “I…you told me once, I needed to grieve, to let it out…”
“And you said you dared not.” Holmes nodded.
“Only,” she whispered, voice choked, “I don’t think I have a choice now…”
“It is coming, whether you would or no?” he asked anxiously.
* * *
“Yeah. Everything.” Skye paused and swallowed hard, struggling to force the words out past the rapidly-swelling lump in her throat. “When I thought I…I’d lost…y-you, too…”
“Ssh. Then release the flood, my dear,” he breathed, gathering her against his chest. “I am here, and as I told you once before: By God, I shall not let go.”
* * *
It was harder than he’d anticipated. When it all finally released inside Skye, she wept violently, trembling uncontrollably and utterly incoherent. Howls of grief and keening moans forced themselves from deep within, and by the time she eventually quieted out of complete and sheer exhaustion more than an hour and a half later, Holmes’ face was drawn in sympathetic pain, his entire frame taut with the strain of enduring her agony.
But he never let go, and when she slumped against his chest, having passed at last to simple, soft weeping, his body finally eased. After about ten more minutes of quiet tears, she began to hiccup.
* * *
Outside, the guards of Ry
ker’s team relaxed, hearing the wails of grief and anguish from within the house finally fade.
“Thank God,” one of them said fervently, in a low tone.
“Amen,” Ryker murmured. “They must’ve been to hell and back. She never cries, according to my dossier.”
“Figure it’s the whole last year or so put together?” another asked astutely.
“Probably,” Ryker agreed. “Let ‘em rest now. Holmes is in there; he’ll take care of her. We’ll take care of things out here.”
“Yeah,” the other two agreed.
The men resumed their surreptitious patrol.
* * *
Holmes slid a hand along the base of Skye’s ribcage and massaged; soon her hiccups subsided. After, she lay limply on his tear-stained bare chest. He held her wordlessly for a long time, one arm wrapped tight around her, while the other hand stroked her hair.
“Skye?” he eventually whispered into her ear.
“Yeah?” Her voice was weak and she sounded badly congested.
“Do you think you might…tell me about your parents?” he wondered softly. “Nothing big. The little things, the details. Their favourite colours, their favourite foods, their hobbies. Of course I never had opportunity to meet them, and I should like to know more about the couple who bore you.” Holmes didn’t add he thought it might be cathartic.
“Okay,” she sighed tiredly.
“If it is too much right now, Skye, let it go,” he murmured, registering her exhaustion. “I only thought you might like to talk about them.”
“Oh, I do. It’s okay. I’m just kinda…have you ever seen really overcooked asparagus?”
“Yes,” Holmes chuckled. “And that is what you feel like, right now.”
“Pretty much. I guess that’s better than feeling like Humpty Dumpty.”
“Considerably better. Just rest, Skye. It can wait until tomorrow.”
“Actually, I’d been thinking about them while I was lying here. Remembering how, when I was very little, Mom would rock me to sleep and sing lullabies…”
“What was your favourite?”
“Oh, probably Brahms. Mama had a good voice. She was an alto, so when she’d sing a lullaby, it was so soft and low, I’d go right off to sleep, usually by the end of the second one.”
The Case of the Displaced Detective Page 71
