For in those days, I dwelt in rooms at university, and per assignment shared them with Roger Summersby, the track and field man. A fine chap was Summersby, tall, strong, handsome, and an altogether fair and just fellow. He had no idea of my interest in Lily Cranwell—she saw to that! Nor had I any idea of her interest in him, let alone the fact that she had struck up a close acquaintanceship with me merely to obtain an entrée into his circle. And she was successful in the attempt, it seems. The two began to meet behind my back, not that Summersby knew. It was the first time I had let my guard down around another, more the fool, me; I trusted her, using my powers of observation only for her amusement when she was near, and so was ignorant of her deception.
Until the evening when I came by her last class of the day to walk her to her boarding house and inadvertently overheard her talking to two female companions about the upcoming graduation ball before I myself came around the corner and within their sight. It seems they were discussing her likely escort to the affair, and the two top contenders, in her friends’ minds, were Summersby and myself. In point of fact I had, indeed, been considering eschewing my normal avoidance of such events, and asking her to attend with me. That is, until Lily gave a scornful laugh at the mention of my name and let slip her secret—along with several pointed and uncomplimentary remarks regarding my person, appearance, and character. Her lady friends found it all most amusing, judging by their response.
Dear Lily did not get an escort home that day; her friend Holmes unaccountably failed to arrive. Instead I betook myself to my rooms and managed somehow to find a way to delicately broach the subject to Summersby, who, decent chap that he was, was incensed at discovering her machinations. He promptly asked another young lady to the ball; as per usual, I did not attend. Summersby informed me later that “our Lily,” as he took to calling her in a somewhat less than respectful tone, arrived at the ball unhappily without escort. I learned a valuable lesson: never to take anyone at face value but always to let those powers of observation and deduction with which I was gifted filter my bosom companions. But, I fancy, Lily learned a lesson, as well—after that, her little “friends” were no kinder in their remarks toward her than she had been of me.
Soon after, I found myself with work aplenty as a consulting detective, which is when I decided to move away from university and take up rooms in Baker Street with Watson. To compound my adverse reaction to the female sex, several of my very first cases dismally failed to cast their leading ladies in a flattering light. The fact that the women were also inconstant of mind did not lend credence to their gender’s cause. I found I could appreciate a woman’s beauty without feeling it necessary to place faith in her, a sort of detached aesthetic. This has remained consistent throughout my career—until I met Skye. I had perforce to place my faith in her when I came to this continuum, and found her utterly trustworthy, in addition to having an unparalleled intellect. Her visual appeal is without question. In this universe, she is my Mrs. Hudson, my brother Mycroft, my dear friend Watson, and even, to some extent, myself. I can no longer imagine my world without her.
Which brings us full circle back to today’s significance and why this blasted dream should have recurred at so inauspicious a time.
* * *
Holmes paused to flex his hand and massage out a cramp. Skye took his hand in hers, removing the cartridge fountain pen from stiff fingers and taking over the massage, while scanning down the lengthy journal entry he’d just completed.
“Sherlock, read back over what you’ve written. Then I want to ask you a question.”
“Skye, before I do, do you understand, since that day, I have never mentioned the incident?” He flushed. “Nor even thought about it in many years?”
“I do. May I remark on it?”
* * *
Holmes nodded once, keeping his gaze fixed on the fingers massaging his hand.
“Lily Cranwell was a fool,” Skye said bluntly. “There’s another word I’d use, except it would be insulting to dogs. But I’m glad, because if she’d had one eye and half-sense, I wouldn’t have you.”
Holmes’ gaze shot upward, and he stared at her for a moment, registering the blaze of anger in the sapphire eyes, before reacting.
“Ha!” he exclaimed, then shook his head. “Seldom am I surprised by much, but you have a positive talent for it, my dear.” Long thin fingers wrapped gently around her hand, squeezing briefly before releasing. “Now, let me read through it, then you may ask your question.”
* * *
Skye silenced, and watched Holmes’ face as he read back through his own words. She noted when his brows drew together, and again when his forehead creased; moments later, his eyes narrowed thoughtfully.
At last he raised his eyes to hers, and she saw the glimmer of approaching comprehension in them.
“I may be too close to it to have seen it. What is your question, Skye?”
“Are you SURE it’s really Watson in your dream, Sherlock?” Skye looked up into his eyes with concern.
The grey eyes dilated in sudden, shocked recognition, and Holmes paled until his face was nearly white. Skye caught his hand, alarmed. Finally he answered her.
“No, Skye, it is not. At the end, when he lifts his face to look at me—good Lord, Skye. It is you.”
Chapter 2—Promises
THE REVELATION WAS ENLIGHTENING. IT BECAME immediately apparent to Holmes and Chadwick that the detective had developed a subconscious concern that he could lose Skye to the same sequence of events which had separated him from his former life. Doffing dressing gowns and crawling back under the covers, they spent the next hour discussing the matter, but in the end, neither Holmes nor Skye could think of a way to definitively put the matter to rest. For as Holmes pointed out, “Granted, the program has been shut down. But as there was no Project: Tesseract in my own continuum, there can be no guarantee a tesseract from outside this continuum may not perpetrate the same cycle of events.”
“True. But I think we can agree the probability is fairly low.”
“Yes. That is likely. But is it calculable?”
“I can probably make a reasonable scientific estimate. Do you want me to try in the morning?”
Holmes pondered that for only a moment.
“No. Rationally speaking, it is not something that needs considering.”
* * *
Skye studied him for a long time.
“You know what? I’m gonna do it anyway, hon. No, no, I know you’re a strong man, physically and mentally,” she cut off the protest he had been about to make. “But this isn’t about rational thinking. This is a residual emotional response to a traumatic event, Sherlock, and it’s banging around in the back of your head. If my running a calculation to ascertain probability will help you resolve that subconscious concern, I’m gonna do it.”
“But it is not necessary, Skye.”
“I know,” she smiled at him, leaning past him to turn off the bedside lamp. “But I love you, and I want you to be as comfortable and happy as possible. And if that means spending some time doing something I’m trained to do, I’ll do it. It isn’t a hard calculation; it’s more a matter of estimating factors than doing any fancy mathematics. And I can do that based on our observations before project shutdown.”
“Have I mentioned recently that your intellect is quite impressive, my dear?” Holmes wondered, settling into bed.
“I guess it takes one to know one.” Skye snickered. “Relax, Sherlock. I promise neither of us is going anywhere.”
“Skye?” Holmes said into the darkness.
“Yeah, Sherlock?”
“Never make promises you cannot keep, my dear…”
* * *
The next morning after breakfast, Skye sat down at the desk in the study with a legal sized pad of paper and a pencil. “Okay,” she thought aloud, not realizing Holmes was leaning against the doorframe with folded arms, “we found five other continuums where I existed. For a worst-case scenario, I’ll assu
me I develop a tesseract in every continuum where I exist.” She made five hatch marks on her pad of paper. “Then I look at the continuums where Kip existed, but I didn’t, and assume he developed it instead. That’s another four.” Four more hatch marks went onto the corner of the page. “Mmm…who else might have the know-how to develop it?”
“Professor Haines,” Holmes declared from the doorway.
“Oh, good point,” Skye said absently, not even startling at the detective’s interjection. “Dunno how many other continuums he was in, because I never had a reason to look until it was too late; so I’ll have to estimate, based on other observations. Okay, on average we’ll say roughly ten occurrences of an individual…” Ten more marks scratched onto the corner. “Let’s add another ten for good measure, that representing someone we don’t know with the capability.”
“Twenty-nine,” Holmes noted.
“Now, we know that there are at least a hundred and fifty separate continuums we’d discovered,” Skye said, doing the arithmetic in her head. “That comes out to be nineteen point three percent.”
“One in five,” Holmes observed, his facial expression making it plain those were higher odds than he’d anticipated.
“Yeah, but that’s about the highest it could be. More continuums take that percentage down even lower.”
“Unless the undiscovered continua also contain undiscovered scientists with the ability to create a tesseract,” Holmes pointed out.
“But we’re also assuming every time a person capable of developing the science exists, they create a tesseract,” Skye argued, “and realistically, that’s not going to happen.”
“True. So there is at most approximately a twenty percent chance of other tesseracts.”
“Correct. Now we have to look at the probability that any one of those would look at our particular continuum. That’s one in at least a hundred and fifty, if not more. Which comes out to,” she paused, mentally calculating, “something like a tenth of a percent that any of the possible tesseracts would even choose to look at our continuum, let alone our particular time period.”
“One tenth of one percent…at the most,” Holmes reiterated. He raised an eyebrow.
“That’s right,” Skye grinned. “How do you like those odds?”
“I should say it was a horse race with a foregone outcome.” Grey eyes twinkled.
“Did that help?”
“I suppose I may know the answer tomorrow morning.” Holmes shrugged.
* * *
December 12
Winter in Colorado has set in with a vengeance, and is nothing like that to which I was accustomed in London. The last three days have seen what Skye calls “intermittent white-out conditions” in the area, as a blizzard has held us tightly in its grip. We have a cable run securely from the side door all the way to the barn, as it is highly undesireable to be in transit when such conditions arise without a dependable guideline to safety. The horses spend their time in the barn, and we spend our time in the house, comfortably ensconced before the fire, not uncommonly with a bottle of wine or glasses of brandy. My poor bees are as protected as possible, and fortunately the apiary is in the lee of the house. Happily their numbers are good, and the colony appears strong; if they cluster together properly within the hive, they should remain warm enough.
The electrical lines are down due to the high winds, and we are running the essentials via two petrol-powered generators; a farm fuel pump and tank were already installed when she purchased the property, and Skye ensures it is kept filled through the winter for just such occasions. Oil lamps are the lighting method of choice, and Skye happily leaves their maintenance to me, as resident expert in such matters. We are warming the house with the fireplace and a few strategically placed oil heaters. Little Anna is a furry indoor fixture. She decidedly dislikes snow, it seems. Though I freely admit it is highly diverting to watch her attempts to shake snow off all four paws at once, on those rare occasions when she dares venture forth! Such are felines.
We have kept the path to the barn open, but have bothered with little else; the winds are too bitter, and the snowdrifts too vagrant, to attempt clearing the drive. The vehicles are safe in the garage, and we will not remove them until the weather relents to allow for shoveling snow. Skye informs me that the roofs of barn, cabin, and outbuildings are designed with a slope sufficient for snow to slide off, so collapse is not an issue; and from time to time we scrape drifted snow from the deck to maintain its structural integrity, as well. Otherwise, nature is being allowed to have its way. And on those infrequent occasions when the wind lets up to allow visibility of said nature through the windows, it proves a lovely artist.
Skye and I have had several planning discussions; she desires to obtain a small tractor come spring, with certain accessories to include a snow blade for the driveway in winter and a mower for the pastures in summer. This seems wise to me, and as by that time we will be wed, our joint finances should be able to readily accommodate the purchase.
The discussion of finances after our marriage is under way; it seems, as with most other things, there are far more options available today than existed in my own day. It appears likely we will end with three, possibly four, accounts: a small private account for myself, and another for Skye, purely for incidentals and personal whims. There will also be a joint account, which will cover the ranch management as well; and likely an account for the consulting detection work, which we are setting up as a corporate entity under the name, The Holmes Agency. It will be duly “Incorporated,” for the United States; and “Limited,” for Great Britain—assuming our adventures take us there. Billy is undertaking the matter of British incorporation for us through his “connexions.”
Skye also informs me, much to my surprise, that she does intend to take my name, with one small modification: As she is already established professionally, she plans to use a “hyphenation,” becoming known as Dr. Skye Chadwick-Holmes in order to avoid confusion in her chosen field. These sorts of compound names were hardly unheard-of in my day, though for different reasons, and I find the idea congenial. But socially—and in our detective work—she will drop her maiden name altogether and be known simply as Skye Holmes. I wonder if she comprehends the honour she does me in this?
A few weeks ago, we celebrated an American holiday known as Thanksgiving, and I must say Mrs. Hudson would have been envious. Skye outdid herself on the meal. Some of the traditional components were unfamiliar to me, and the cornbread stuffing was quite unique in my experience, though delicious; but all in all it was not so very different from a holiday meal in Baker Street. Skye also took the time to explain the history of the holiday to me in detail; I had heard before, but had never bothered to ascertain the specifics of its origins. When I asked her if she had anything in particular in mind for which to thank Providence this year, she did not answer—at least, in words. But the look she gave me! Never have I seen two eyes convey so much in a single glance.
When she asked me the same question, I merely smiled, met her eyes forthrightly, and handed her a mug of mulled wine. That seemed to provide her answer, as she appeared highly pleased afterward.
Despite the weather, we have begun in earnest to decorate the house for the holidays. This is new to me, at least in the degree to which Skye extends it; Mrs. Hudson decorated, but not to this level, nor did it spread much into Watson’s and my domain. Then again, Skye indicates she has a certain vision in mind for the small ceremony to take place upon the twenty-third. It matters little to me, either way; it is the ceremony itself which is of import, not the decorations. But it matters to Skye, and in this one respect, she appears to be like the rest of womankind. For when I ventured some small comment of protest regarding the decidedly ambitious scope of the project, her face fell, and she remarked she only intended participation in such a ceremony once in her life and had wanted it to be “perfect.” Then she ceased her activities and settled into the corner of the sofa, trying her best to put on a cheerful, no
nchalant face. Another man might have fallen for it, for she is a very good actress; but it was obvious to me she was deeply disappointed, valiantly though she tried to hide it. There is a certain look to her eyes when she is upset and trying not to show it. A certain pinched look—and it was looking back at me.
In God’s name I ask, what is a man to do in those circumstances? I begin to understand the dynamics present in so many of the marriages I have seen. But I am not the type of man to allow a woman to wrap him around her fingers, no matter how dainty, no matter how skilled those fingers may be. Then again, Skye is not the type of woman to try, and I full well recognised her response was no attempt at manipulation. She was truly disappointed; yet was endeavouring to accede to my wishes as best she understood them. She did ask if I could live with what she had already done, and to this I consented. She accepted that with good grace, and offered to fetch my pipe, an obvious conciliatory gesture.
Even so, I considered letting the matter drop until I noted the set of silver holiday candlesticks that lay on the end table, originally intended for the mantelpiece. There was an antique look to the metal, and upon query, I discovered they were, indeed—they had belonged to Skye’s great-grandmother, which means they were of my own time. Once, such a discovery would have proved disconcerting, but that time seems to have passed. And so, a brief conversation later, I found that much of what Skye desired to put out consisted of treasured family heirlooms, special items she remembered from the holidays of her youth, with perhaps some live greenery added later in the month.
Another pretty little problem. In the end, I decided the matter of decoration was her province, not because of any gender distinction (though it would have been so in my day), but because it was important to her, and mattered little if anything to me. And so I told her to continue, and so she did.
The Case of the Displaced Detective Page 79
