While he was doing this, a sleepy Skye, bundled in her thick winter robe, her feet shoved into threadbare slippers, emerged from the bedroom wing. She was immediately preceded by a small but irate Siamese cat, fussing at having been routed from her snug position under the bed covers.
“There you are,” Skye muttered groggily, spotting Holmes. “The bed got cold when you got up.”
“Come here by the fire and get warm, my dear.” Holmes drew Skye to the fireplace as the logs caught and the flames leapt cheerily. Anna decided that was an excellent plan as well, and the little feline curled up on the warm hearth. “At least within the house, this is not so very different from winters in Baker Street, though the season arrives much earlier here. But the routine is similar in many respects. I find myself enjoying it.”
“Ah, you just like havin’ somebody to snuggle,” Skye teased him, trying to slide her arms around his waist.
“I should have thought it was the other way around, judging by appearances this morning.” Holmes raised an eyebrow and deftly avoided clinging hands with a swift, nimble hip twist.
Skye didn’t protest the statement. “C’mon back to bed,” she murmured, tugging cajolingly at the tie of his dressing gown. “The sun’s barely up, I already heard you call down to the base, and the horses won’t be expecting breakfast for a couple more hours yet.”
“And semi-retired scientists no longer have to make their way down the mountain unless they so choose, eh?” Holmes wondered in amusement. “Not to mention you have no horses to train at the moment.”
“Not in the wintertime, no.”
“And what, pray tell, did you have in mind, should you convince me?” Holmes teased.
“Sleep,” Skye said succinctly. She looked up at him with drowsy blue eyes. “I kept thinkin’ ‘bout the case, ‘stead of sleepin’ last night.”
“Ah,” Holmes said, letting his sympathy show in the grey eyes. “Toddle on back to bed then, my dear Skye. The house should be warmer very soon, and you will not feel so cold.”
“You’re not coming back with me?” Disappointed blue eyes gazed up at him.
“The steps and driveway need to be cleared, my dear. We shall have quite a few guests tomorrow evening, to celebrate your birthday.”
“And we’ve got all day today and tomorrow to do that.”
“Along with a certain amount of cooking and cleaning to be done. You did ask me to make that hot mulled wine, and you wanted to make a quantity of shortbread.”
“But it’s really cold out, Sherlock. At least wait until the day warms up a little.”
“There is much to do, Skye,” Holmes remained firm. “I am not an especially enthusiastic host, as you already know. But as this is a special occasion, I intend to do everything in my power to see to it all is in readiness for our guests.”
“Okay, never mind.” Skye frowned, then sighed. She turned toward the bedroom alone. “I’ll lie down for twenty more minutes, then I’ll get up and help you.”
Holmes watched her go. Just then, the grandfather clock at the end of the hall struck 6:45. He drew a deep breath, considering. Moving back to the window, he checked the little weather station Skye had under the eaves of the deck, noting the temperature: It was a scant six degrees above zero, and temperatures were not forecast to rise above freezing for several days.
But it will certainly be a bit warmer in a few hours. In this respect, it IS much different than winter in Baker Street—it is far colder! Perhaps Skye is right; it would be better not to tempt frostbite until the sun is higher in the sky. Shoveling snow can wait. All will be done in due time.
And the detective headed back to a warm, cozy bed, where he was welcomed enthusiastically, if sleepily.
* * *
November 4
Tomorrow is Skye’s birthday. I have settled on a gift I think she will like. I find myself anticipating unveiling it before her with the same excitement with which I was used to reveal the solution to a case. Ha! I wrote that as if I no longer relish such things. No, Sherlock, the artist in you goes far too deep. You will always have a flair for the dramatic—but you have been fortunate in finding companions who do not merely overlook your foibles and eccentricities, but dote on them. At least Skye and Watson always have, although Lestrade and Gregson were less than fond of them.
And I have not experienced any more “Watson dreams,” at least in recent nights. Perhaps Skye was right, and this journal business has proven useful. I hope so; I see little in here but thoughts I should have preferred to remain private, surrounded by meaningless drivel. Perhaps I can soon quietly put the matter, and the journal, away and to rest.
* * *
The next morning was Skye’s birthday. Holmes slipped out of bed early, quietly rushing through his morning toilette and wrapping himself in his dressing gown. Then he hastened to the den, stoked the fireplace, and tweaked the thermostat to warm the house. From thence he repaired to the kitchen, where he made a large western omelet, toast with butter and jam, and sliced half a small honeydew melon, placing it all on a tray with hot tea and cream before carrying it to the bedroom, where he set it on the nightstand.
Then he sat down on the bedside and gazed at The Woman, noting how the warm pink of the morning light fell on her satiny skin, making it seem to glow. An idea struck him, and suddenly he knew what he would give her for Christmas. He smiled, then laid a light hand on her bare shoulder.
“Skye, wake up, my dear. Happy birthday.”
“Mmh,” followed by his beloved snuggling deeper into the warm blankets, was his only response. Grey eyes warmed in affectionate tolerance.
“Wake up, Skye,” he nudged the shoulder under his hand. “Breakfast is ready.”
“Umph,” emerged from her lips. “‘S cold out there.”
“I am prepared to keep you warm. I have hot tea…among other things.”
The deliberately suggestive remark, which would have coaxed an interested, interrogative sapphire glance from her at any other time, sailed right past the sleepy brain this morning. God bless her, my Skye is NOT a “morning person,” Holmes thought with a grin. Impishly, he reached over and ran his index finger through the strawberry jam on the breakfast tray, then brushed his fingertip across her lips.
There was a moment’s pause as Skye took in the sensation of what Holmes had done. Finally a small pink tongue flicked out and disposed of the jam on her mouth. Her lips smacked together a couple of times before the tongue emerged once more, in search of sweets. Holmes touched his sticky fingertip to the rough little appendage, and found his finger sucked inside her mouth, where that same tongue deftly removed every last trace of jam. The detective laughed silently, watching with eyes he knew had dilated when the room increased in brightness.
Skye’s eyelids slit open, and he glimpsed a bleary azure gaze, visible only as two narrow lines of color veiled between golden lashes.
“Did ‘oo bring me breakfas’ in BED?” she wondered sleepily, surprise evident in her tone.
“I did. Happy birthday, my dear.”
Skye pushed up to a seated posture under the covers, and Holmes poured a cup of tea and added cream, handing it to her.
* * *
The day was not as busy as Holmes had expected. The horses were duly tended, and the pair came inside afterward to thaw before the fire. Holmes slipped back outside, ostensibly to ensure the driveway was in good shape with no icy patches, while Skye prepared party food in the kitchen. In reality, he produced the substantial quantity of scrap wood he had hoarded and hidden for weeks, forming it into a proper—and rather large—pyramid shape to produce a good bonfire in the driveway turnaround, where it would be out of sight of Skye’s view from the windows. General Morris and Colonel Jones were bringing the fireworks, so the detective had no worries on that score.
Back inside, Holmes checked on Skye, who was thoroughly enjoying herself in the kitchen, baking shortbread and preparing finger foods; their guests had insisted upon bringing food as well, s
o the table would be overflowing that evening. Seeing her happily busy, he repaired to the master bathroom, where he showered, shaved, and completed his preparations. Moving into the bedroom, he dressed in the clothing he planned to wear for the party: black jeans and a thick, cabled silver-grey turtleneck tucked into the waist of his jeans. This basic outfit was completed with his dress black cowboy boots and a tooled black leather belt with a simple silver buckle.
When he emerged from the bedroom, he discovered Skye had hot roast beef sandwiches and cocoa ready for a late lunch before the fireplace. She was just putting the tray on the coffee table when he entered the den; her bright blue eyes dilated and she smiled when she spotted him.
“Nice,” she observed appreciatively. Warmth filled Holmes at her simple, straightforward reaction.
I suppose “dapper” depends upon the fashion of the day, and the taste of the wearer, he decided, hiding a pleased smile. As well as that of the observer.
They sat together on the sofa and ate a quick, late lunch; then they curled up together, relaxing for awhile. It was a peaceful, cozy interlude; everything except for Holmes’ wine punch and the last minute things were ready. Some time later, Skye finally stood, intending to tidy away the remains of their meal, but Holmes waved a dismissal.
“Go prepare yourself for the party,” he told her, reaching for the empty tray. “I shall take care of this, then mix the punch.”
“Okay. The crock pot is on the counter, plugged in and ready. Mix your stuff in it, turn it on low, put the lid on, and leave it.”
Holmes nodded, and Skye scampered into the bedroom, closing the door.
Holmes carried the tray into the kitchen. Skye had wisely chosen to use disposable utensils for their lunch, so it was easy to dump the remains into the trash, sponge crumbs off the tray, and put it away in the pantry. Then he turned to the making of his mulled wine.
Holmes fished in the utensil drawer until he located the corkscrew, before proceeding to open two bottles of a good California merlot. He dumped them unceremoniously into the crock pot, being just careful enough to avoid splashing wine all over. This initial and essential ingredient was followed by a quarter-cup of brown sugar and an entire sliced orange. Skye had cut and folded a section of cheesecloth for him, leaving it on the counter beside the pot along with the roll of kitchen twine and the kitchen scissors. So Holmes rummaged in Skye’s spice rack, emerging with two cinnamon sticks, a whole nutmeg, and a scant palmful of cloves. All of these went into the cheesecloth, which was then gathered and tied closed with the twine. Holmes dug through the utensil drawer again, emerging with a kitchen mallet, which he applied smartly to the bag of spices until the contents were broken into large pieces. He plopped the bag into the wine mixture, covered it with the crock pot lid, and turned the device on the low setting.
Satisfied, he went into the den to await Skye. There, he proceeded to rearrange the books on the bookshelf—as well as the items hidden behind them.
* * *
Skye enjoyed her hot shower, and took her time with her toiletries. Not bad for a thirty-nine-year-old woman, she decided in satisfaction, looking into the bathroom mirror as she applied a hint of makeup. And I look as happy as I feel.
Soon she was dressed, having decided Holmes had a good idea: She wore a pair of comfortable, warm blue jeans topped with a soft, baby blue turtleneck, which emphasized her blonde complexion and sapphire eyes. Her feet went into her most comfortable cowboy boots. Her hair went up into its accustomed French braid. She debated about wearing earrings, but decided against it, opting to continue the casual look.
Satisfied, she emerged into the den to find Holmes waiting on the couch.
* * *
The detective immediately rose as soon as she came into the room, grey eyes gleaming as they scanned her from head to toe, then met her eyes. Skye saw the look in his eyes and dropped her gaze demurely, blue eyes shining, cheeks flushing a soft pink. I love the way he can compliment me without saying a word, she thought fondly as he moved toward her, taking her hand and drawing her to the armchair at the end of the couch.
“Sit here, my dear Skye,” Holmes murmured. “I have yet to present you with my gift, and I should like to do that now.”
“You didn’t have to get me anything, Sherlock. Just letting me have our friends here to celebrate was more than enough.”
“Now, now,” Holmes protested with a slight smile. “Certainly you would not consider me so thoughtless as to let your birthday pass with as little recognition as that?” He moved to the bookcase, removed several books from the middle shelf, then extracted a small, brightly wrapped and beribboned gift from the cranny thus revealed before replacing the tomes. Skye’s eyes widened in surprised amusement as his secondary hiding place was exposed, then her gaze softened as she saw the flush of excitement in his cheeks.
“No,” she smiled at him, “never thoughtless.”
“Happy birthday, Skye.” Holmes handed the small package to her.
Skye accepted the gift, turning her full attention to it so Holmes would see how much she appreciated the gesture. She slipped the ribbon from the small box—it was about two inches on a side, and cubical in shape, she observed—then unwrapped the paper.
Inside the gift wrap was a small white box. And inside the white box was a smaller velvet box, patently a jewelry box. Skye blinked; she had not expected anything as extravagant as this appeared.
But when she opened the lid, she was dumbfounded. The diamond was substantial at nearly two carats, brilliant-cut, set in a simple ring of white gold. Her jaw went slack, much to Holmes’ gratification, and she swallowed hard before lifting her gaze to meet his eyes.
And found herself utterly thunderstruck. For Holmes no longer stood above her: He knelt before her, on one knee in the classic pose, silver-grey eyes shining.
Wide-eyed with shock, Skye whispered, “Sherlock? Does this mean…? I mean, are you doing…what it…looks like?”
“Does anything else occur to mind?” The silver eyes twinkled, and the corners of his lips crinkled momentarily. He removed the jewelry box from her enervated fingers and extracted the ring.
Skye gulped, still unsure, and afraid to believe it was happening. So she decided on one more verifying question.
“Am…am I supposed to give you a yes or no answer now?”
“I believe that is generally the usual response,” he nodded calmly, but Skye could see the vaguest hint of uncertain disquiet in the silver eyes.
“Yes!” popped from Skye’s mouth before she could even think.
* * *
Holmes watched her face light up with happiness. Hiding his relief, he slid the ring onto the third finger of her left hand; it fit perfectly.
“I had thought of several possibilities for a date,” he murmured. “It all depends upon how long you wish to wait.”
“What did you have in mind?” Skye wondered, staring at the ring on her finger with patent, disbelieving delight.
“We could wait until the anniversary of my arrival in this continuum, next March,” he suggested, keeping her hand in his and pulling her from the chair as he made his way to the sofa. “Or, since we betrothed ourselves upon the occasion of your birthday, we could wed upon mine, in January.” He sat in the corner of the sofa and tugged her down beside him. “Or…we could get married upon December 23rd, thereby having something of a Christmas wedding, while not interfering with that holiday overmuch.”
* * *
Skye listened, startled by the thought her beloved detective had put into the matter, especially given the evidence of sentimental reasoning behind it. But it suddenly occurred to her that any of those dates would also be easily remembered for their associations, and she hid an affectionate smile. I wonder if I’ll ever find out which is the real reason, sentimentality or an easily recalled anniversary, she thought with amusement. Not that it matters. She considered the suggested dates, then tentatively offered, “I like the idea of a Christmas wedding, and it’s so
on.”
“Not that we are in any particular rush, but that was my favoured date, as well. I should like, if you’ve no objections, to have a simple, quiet ceremony here at home.”
“Oh, exactly. You and me and the minister, and I guess we’ll need a couple of people as witnesses, to make it legal. But that’s about it.”
“I assume you will wish Caitlin to be one of those witnesses.”
“Yeah, if she can make it back from California for it. My matron of honor. Have you thought about a best man?”
“The two I would have chosen are not available.” Holmes drew a deep breath and averted his face. “Perhaps Williams—Billy—would do me the honour.”
“I’m sure Billy would be delighted to stand in for Watson and Mycroft.” Skye slid her arm through his.
“We will speak with them tonight, in private.” Holmes nodded. “The matter is settled, then.”
“Not quite,” Skye said very resolutely.
“Oh?” Holmes wondered, shooting her a sharp, inquisitive look; Skye noted the uncertainty was back. “What is there yet to be determined?”
Skye allowed her serious expression to degenerate into a mischievous smirk. “It has to be sealed with a kiss.”
“Ah,” Holmes said blandly. But his eyes glimmered cheerfully as he obligingly leaned over her.
* * *
The guests arrived an hour later, right after sundown, showing up virtually en masse. But to Skye’s surprise, they didn’t come inside. She stared at Holmes, then peeped out the window by the front door.
“Sherlock,” she whispered, mystified, “everybody’s standing around outside. It’s nastybad cold out there; what are they doing?!”
The Case of the Displaced Detective Page 77
