The Case of the Displaced Detective

by Stephanie Osborn

  “Aeroplane tickets to London,” he declared, grinning broadly. “In five days’ time.”

  * * *

  While Holmes hung the larger charcoal portrait over the bed, and the smaller one on the inside of the closet door using a spare wreath hanger, Skye repaired to the kitchen and got their Christmas feast under way. Thanks to the hotel that was the cover for Williams’ team, the couple was having a traditional English Christmas dinner: A small roast goose with chestnut, sage, and apple stuffing; gravy, Yorkshire pudding, roasted potatoes with rosemary, and steamed Brussels sprouts drizzled with balsamic vinegar. Mince pie was ready for dessert, and to Skye’s amusement, the hotel kitchen even tucked in a Christmas cracker for them to pull afterward. Hot tea and the Holmes family mulled wine rounded out the meal.

  It was ready late in the afternoon. The couple sat down to a groaning table and Holmes drew a deep breath, taking in the entire scene. Skye had gone to some effort to create as formal an effect as possible with the kitchen table, and he smiled to himself at how well she had evoked one of Mrs. Hudson’s holiday meals. He wondered briefly if it had been intentional or not, then shrugged off the thought. It did not matter in any event, and he knew Skye simply wanted the meal to be special for them both.

  * * *

  Looking up, he shot her a smile, then held out his hand, palm up. Skye laid her own hand in his, and he wrapped his long fingers about it. Then, somewhat to Skye’s surprise, the dark head bowed. She tucked her head quickly, but Holmes said nothing, merely remained so for several moments. Skye smiled to herself, and sent up a quick prayer of thanksgiving for the man beside her, unaware a similar invocation was being offered on her behalf.

  When blonde head and dark had risen, they dug in.

  One huge meal and a cracker later, they retired to the den with mugs of hot wine punch. Holmes put another log in the fireplace while Skye put a CD of carols in the stereo, and they curled on the sofa together, sipping their wassail. Content, they alternated between watching the lights of the Christmas tree and the flickering fireplace. Outside, a Colorado sunset burnished the snow, elk foraged in the lower pasture, and snowflakes drifted down in a gentle flurry.

  Chapter 3—New, Old Venues

  December 30

  We are, at long last, en route to England: London specifically—Heathrow Airport. The good Billy and his Aerotech Drive Irregulars will see to the ranch in our absence. Sergeant Alan Barwell is house-sitting; little Anna seems quite taken with him. We have already departed Dulles Airport on a British Airlines flight, with seven hours in the air yet ahead of us before landing at Heathrow. I must admit to some difficulty keeping still in my seat; if hands itch to touch a desired object, what do feet do in response to the desire to tread one’s old paths?

  Nevertheless, still I must remain, for awhile at any rate. The bonny lass who now shares my life is sound asleep in the seat beside me, her head pillowed upon my shoulder. She advised me to rest as well, to avoid “jet lag,” which I experienced mildly when I visited Washington late last summer. I can only imagine how severe this jet lag shall be upon travelling halfway around the world.

  Which is why I am sipping a brandy, which I found could be purchased from the flight attendants. What with the quiet darkened cabin, my dear Skye resting upon my shoulder, and the soporific effects of the brandy, I have no doubt I shall soon sleep.

  * * *

  Ryker met them at Heathrow, seeing them through customs and baggage claim before escorting them to a waiting vehicle. He climbed in beside them, and the driver whisked them off to their hotel.

  There, they discovered that not only was it a decidedly upscale establishment, but they had a suite reserved within it. Ryker and the bellman carried their luggage to their bedroom, and Skye gaped at the luxury of the suite while Holmes tipped the bellhop.

  “Ryker,” she whispered in an aside to the operative, “I know I told you to set us up in a nice hotel, but…I didn’t budget for this.”

  “Not to worry,” Ryker smirked, sotto voce, “everything is taken care of. Just like it was when the two of you stayed at the Cimarron Springs last summer. Consider it a combined wedding and Christmas present from…um, some very important people.”

  “Oh, my,” Skye breathed in astonishment.

  “Now, I hope the two of you rested on the flight,” Ryker noted aloud, “because the top boss wants to meet you in about an hour. Put on your spiffiest clothes and your fanciest shiny stuff and I’ll meet you downstairs in forty-five.”

  Holmes turned to stare knowingly at the agent, eyes narrowed. Then he drew a deep breath and let it out in a sigh.

  “Must we?”

  “She won’t be put off any longer, Mr. Holmes. And my head’s on the line for this,” Ryker replied firmly.

  Skye glanced back and forth between the two men, then she felt the blood drain from her face as understanding hit.

  “Oh. Oh dear,” she murmured in dismay. “Then I’ll stay here.”

  “Under no circumstances,” Holmes and Ryker chorused. “If you’re not both there, she’ll have my hide,” Ryker added.

  Skye glanced uncertainly at her groom. He appeared calm, but there was a plea in the grey eyes. She shook her head in anxious defeat.

  “Okay,” she grumbled, “but it be on y’all’s heads if I end up starting a war.”

  “I’ll take it,” Ryker grinned. “Now hurry and change. I’ll be downstairs in the lobby. The car is still waiting.”

  * * *

  In an hour’s time they were in a famous residence, being escorted into the presence of a very special Lady. Ryker’s top boss indeed, Holmes thought. The detective was calm, but the high cheekbones were flushed. Skye was pale, trying desperately to hide her uncertainty and discomfort.

  For the Queen sat regally before them, with the Prince Consort standing ramrod straight at her shoulder.

  * * *

  It could be a portrait straight from Victorian times, Skye decided, trying not to tremble as she watched the royal couple.

  Ryker, their escort, saluted smartly. Holmes bowed snappily, and Skye executed what she apprehensively hoped was a passable curtsy. If I keep my mouth shut, the anxious scientist thought, maybe I won’t accidentally cause an international incident. Damn, I wish Ryker had warned us! I could have studied up on the protocol. But then he’d never have gotten Sherlock here. At least it’s a private room, she observed, surreptitiously glancing about at their surroundings. There aren’t twenty bazillion retainers standing around to watch me make a fool of myself.

  “Your Majesty, Mr. and Mrs. Sherlock Holmes have arrived,” Ryker formally announced. “I personally escorted them from Heathrow.”

  “Very good, Ryker,” Her Highness smiled. “I am most gratified to meet them at last. They make quite the impressive team. I must admit, news of their nuptials took us entirely by surprise. Mr. Holmes is the last man I should have thought to take such a step. Did it prove advantageous to the business, then?” This last was directed at the couple in question.

  Skye’s eyes widened, and she dropped her gaze demurely. Does she think it’s only a business arrangement? Skye wondered, shocked. Some sort of…what do they call ‘em? “Marriage of convenience”? But how do you dare correct the Queen on something like that? So she steeled herself to hear an agreement, swallowing the pain and humiliation.

  But instead, Holmes’ cheeks grew duskier than before.

  “No, Your Majesty. I can assure you, our marriage is based on a much more substantial foundation than that,” he replied.

  * * *

  A surprised Skye raised her head and gazed at her husband with something nigh unto adoration. Holmes chose that moment to shoot his wife a reassuring glance; he saw her loving expression, and his breath hitched. Ryker tucked his head to hide his fond smile. The Queen exchanged gentle, amused looks with the Prince Consort.

  “So I see,” the Queen remarked dryly. “It seems Sir Arthur got a few things wrong, then.”

  “No, Madam,”
Holmes offered, returning his attention to his liege, “say rather I found the one woman in the multiverse capable of changing my mind on the matter.” The grey eyes crinkled, and the Queen laughed.

  “Let it be so said,” she agreed with a smile. “Well, let us get on with it. Ryker, fetch the sword.”

  Skye’s sapphire eyes grew round as Ryker moved to a nearby table, where a decorative ceremonial sword lay waiting. He donned white gloves, then picked it up and brought it to the Queen, who rose to her feet. He offered the sword to her hilt-first, with the blade lying across his arm, and she took it in hand.

  “Your Majesty,” Holmes ventured, “this is really not necessary.”

  “Such things are never ‘necessary,’ Mr. Holmes, but that does not argue they should not be done.”

  “But—and no offense, Madam—is it wise?” Holmes pressed.

  “What?” the Queen paused, frowning in apparent confusion.

  “Given the circumstances of my…existence, is this a prudent measure?”

  The Prince Consort hadn’t thought Mrs. Holmes’ eyes could get any bigger, but they did at that statement.

  * * *

  So much for keeping my mouth shut, Skye thought ruefully. She stepped forward.

  “I beg your pardon,” Skye interjected, feeling herself flushing in embarrassment as everyone in the room turned to look at her; they were the first words she’d said since entering the presence of the Queen. “I know I’m probably breaking a couple of hundred rules of etiquette in this situation, and I’m sorry. I’m afraid I’ve never met royalty before, although I’ve met a congressman or two, not that it compares. I don’t know what proper protocol is in this circumstance, Your Majesty, so please forgive my ignorance. But if you’ll permit me to elaborate on my husband’s statements…”

  The Queen gazed impassively at the other woman, then nodded.

  Skye took a deep breath and tried to gather her thoughts. Holmes was watching her with those hawklike grey eyes, pride and curiosity mingled in them as he patently tried to ascertain what he thought she was about to say. She shot him a swift, wry smile, then focused her attention on the Queen, moving to stand before that august personage; consequently she missed the gratified flash in a certain pair of silver-grey eyes at her next words.

  “There probably isn’t anyone on this planet that’s any prouder of Sherlock—er, Mr. Holmes—than I am,” she declared. “And being an American, knighthood seems like a really huge deal to me; maybe even more so than to y’all. Nothing would make me happier than to see you do this for him. But, for one thing, Sherlock isn’t into fuss and fancy titles; when he says the work is its own reward, he means it. It’s a lot like how an artist views his work. If the work is good, he sees the fact, and doesn’t need someone else to validate it to know it’s good.”

  “And Mr. Holmes is nothing if not an artist, is that what you are saying, Mrs. Holmes?” the Prince queried.

  “Exactly,” Skye nodded. “But there’s something even more important, and that’s the continuum.”

  “Go on,” the Queen said softly.

  “Well, I guess everyone here knows Sherlock isn’t from this continuum,” Skye pointed out with a rueful chuckle, and was joined by the others. “And I guess you know the apparatus that brought him here has been dismantled, and why?” She glanced at the Queen and the Prince Consort; they nodded. Ryker, too, added his verification by way of a nod.

  “As Mr. Holmes was, and is, a citizen of Great Britain, the entire matter was shared as a state secret between allied nations,” Ryker explained. “They are aware of events, even as your President is.”

  “Then you know we barely averted a dreadful catastrophe,” Skye pointed out solemnly. “If you knight Sherlock, nothing could make me prouder. But if you do, won’t the secret get out that he exists, and why? And won’t that indicate how he got here? And if the wrong people find out, there could be a tesseract built by, uhm, ‘irresponsible’ people—and everything we went through this past summer will have been for nothing, because it’ll all start over again. No matter how proud I am of Sherlock, I’d rather have him here, beside me, with everything intact and safe, than be ‘Sir Great Detective’ at the risk of everything around us.”

  Skye felt Holmes move to stand behind her; felt his hand, light and gentle, on her shoulder. She glanced back at him to see an impassive face—with grey eyes warm and full of emotions: pride, gratitude, appreciation, strong affection, the barest glimmer of the love hidden deep inside, and a kind of firm agreement over all. Suddenly completely calm, the pair raised their eyes to the royal couple.

  * * *

  “I told you,” Ryker murmured.

  “You did,” the Queen agreed with a smile. “And I note they are united on the matter, as well.”

  “We are,” Holmes confirmed.

  “They pass the test,” the Prince added.

  “They do,” the Queen vouched. “You will please to note there are no others in this room—which is a secure room—save myself, the Prince Consort, and Captain Ryker, your liaison. The issue has already been taken into consideration and protocol duly modified to accommodate. All due security measures are in place, and the matter of your knighthood shall not become public record until such time as it is safe for the entire affair to be made public, even if that is long after we are all dead and gone; or until a reasonable cover story can be devised that includes a knighthood. But I shall not renege on this honour nor be dissuaded, unless you intend to cause affront to your sovereign by a direct refusal to her face.”

  “No, Madam.” Holmes flushed. “In all honesty, I should wish to do so; but I would neither insult you, nor disappoint my wife, by refusing. So I suppose let the thing be done.”

  “Good. I have no doubt you already know the form of the ceremony for the Royal Victorian Order. No?” she wondered, as a mildly abashed Holmes shook his head.

  “Queen Victoria would have instituted it a couple of years after his removal from that timeframe, Your Majesty,” Ryker murmured, then addressed Holmes. “But it is little different from those in use at the time.”

  “Ah,” Holmes responded, comprehending.

  “Very well; please kneel before me, Mr. Holmes.” The Queen hefted the sword.

  Grey eyes and blue widened, and the proud detective, with no more aces up his sleeve, knelt before his sovereign.

  * * *

  A beaming Ryker escorted them back to their hotel.

  “Congratulations, Sir Sherlock, Lady Skye,” he informed them in the privacy of their suite’s sitting room. “I’m honoured to serve you.”

  Holmes snorted in embarrassed annoyance and continued tucking away his medal and vestments in a suitcase, intent on getting them out of sight; but Skye held up a hand, startled.

  “Whoa. ‘LADY Skye’?”

  “You didn’t know?” Ryker wondered.

  “There is no reason for her to have known, Ryker,” Holmes retorted mildly. “She is American, after all, and has never been taught such things. Skye, as my wife, you are now automatically the Lady Skye Holmes, or simply Lady Holmes. We would thus be formally introduced to the Royal Family, the Prime Minister and a few top attachés and select members of the Secret Service—though to none other, because of security considerations—as Sir Sherlock and Lady Skye Holmes. With, I suppose, a few letters added after our surname.”

  “Oh dear,” Skye murmured, shocked. “I didn’t know it would apply to me, too.”

  “Well,” Holmes’ lips quirked, “it is generally considered—though not always true—that the wife of a man so honoured is likely also to be worthy of the honour, and so it is accorded her. In the event it is false, and I have known that to be so in more than one circumstance, it is still accorded her in deference to her husband. In this case, however, I should say it was true.”

  Skye blushed as Ryker added, “I’d have to agree with that, sir. As a matter of fact, Her Majesty wanted to find some way of honouring Lady Skye as well, and was considering making h
er a dame in her own right, but the citizenship and security clearance raised an issue. The U.S. Congress would have to approve it, you know, and that WOULD make it public. Not to mention, the Queen didn’t want to do anything that might cause a conflict of interest for Lady Holmes. I don’t know if she’s still looking into the matter or not.”

  “Oh, my goodness,” Skye whispered. “I had no idea.”

  “Well, so far your own country has not seen fit to honour you,” Holmes replied with asperity. “In all honesty, that rankles me yet. Regardless of the instinctive—and noble—reaction that brought me here, and their negative response to it, you still risked your virtue, not to mention your very life, to protect the tesseract. That should have received SOME recognition, to my way of thinking.”

  “Hear, hear, Sir Sherlock!” Ryker cheered.

  “Oh, great Scot,” Holmes exclaimed in exasperation, “Ryker, do stop going on about it! I am MISTER Sherlock Holmes, or simply Holmes to the closer of my associates, and I intend to remain so. If it pleased Her Majesty to do the thing, so be it, but I wish to hear no more of the matter.”

  “So where does that leave me?” Ryker asked with a teasing grin.

  “As procurer of pillows, I should think you would not need to ask,” Holmes retorted acerbically, and Ryker laughed outright.

  “Aha! Now the truth comes out!” Skye crowed. “I wondered where all those pillows came from, last summer! You had help!”

  “Well, of course, my dear Skye. You were in danger and recuperating from being shot. I could hardly go off and leave you in order to acquire them myself.”

  “Actually, I didn’t get them personally, either,” Ryker admitted. “I contacted one of my people offsite and had her fetch ‘em. She hadn’t a clue why, though,” he added hastily, as Skye blushed. “For that matter, we practiced a ‘Don’t ask, don’t tell’ policy all around. I didn’t ask, and Holmes didn’t tell. Well, is there anything the two of you need before I go?”