“Holmes,” he barked as he held the receiver to his ear.
“Mr. Holmes, it’s Dr. Wilder,” the voice on the other end announced. “I hope I didn’t wake you. I know it’s late. I wanted to check on Mrs. Holmes.”
“If at all possible, come over right away, doctor. Her fever is quite high—over 104º—I cannot get it to subside, and she is delirious.”
“I’ll be there in five,” the doctor answered swiftly, and hung up.
Chapter 3—Remembrances
THE DOCTOR WAS AS GOOD AS her word. Not only did she arrive in record time, but she brought Ryker and a small guard contingent to keep watch on the house.
“With The Boss that sick and you tending her, Holmes,” Ryker explained as Wilder bustled past them into the bedroom, “we weren’t gonna let you stay alone.”
“It may all be moot, Ryker,” Holmes admitted with a sigh, his mood decidedly subdued. “She remembers nothing.”
“Nothing?” Ryker stared at the detective, stunned.
“Nothing,” he whispered, raising pained grey eyes to meet those of the operative. “Ryker, she does not know me.”
“Oh, Holmes,” Ryker murmured sympathetically, tentatively putting a hand on the other man’s shoulder. Holmes tensed, but permitted the contact. “Surely she recognises you.”
“I fear it is worse.” The detective shook his head. “Skye has been calling for her mother. I believe she has reverted to childhood memories.”
Ryker’s jaw dropped in horror, and Dr. Wilder’s head shot around to listen in astonishment and dismay.
“But that would mean…the tesseract work…” Ryker whispered, shocked.
“If her memory does not return, she cannot finish it.” Sherlock nodded. “She will not remember sufficient science to do so.”
“Good God,” Ryker breathed. “That’s…”
“Disastrous,” Holmes finished the other man’s comment. “There is no one else in over seven hundred continua capable of helping complete the work. How very unique is my wife…”
He glanced over his shoulder at Skye. She was clad in one of Holmes’ own button-front shirts, having been so dressed by Holmes himself before the arrival of the doctor and the guard contingent, and was now lying on the bed, tended by Dr. Wilder.
* * *
“I can’t believe this is happening,” Ryker muttered, agitated. “Of all the awful coincidences—what rotten timing!”
The detective’s head suddenly snapped around to stare at the agent.
“No…there is no such thing as coincidence, Ryker,” he murmured, eyes growing distant even as his expression became taut with excitement. “No, this was no coincidence. I should have seen it before.”
“What is it?”
“It is a delaying tactic. Skye did not merely ‘happen’ to contract this. She has not been around anyone who has been ill, and it struck her down far too quickly to be a normal mode of contagion. No, she was deliberately infected.”
“But how? How did she catch this nasty little bug, if not through normal means?”
“What did you say?” Holmes barked, staring at Ryker. “A bug?”
“Yeah. Modern terminology for a germ.”
“But I thought it referred to either an insect, or a computer software error.”
“It means those things, too. It’s kind of…well, it means any tiny thing that can be a nuisance or worse.”
* * *
“Of course!” Holmes exclaimed, suddenly grasping the whole situation. He spun toward the bed, gazing at his unconscious wife. “Skye, my dear gem! Even in your delirium, you were trying to give me clues! Ryker, she has been going on for some time about handkerchiefs and ‘bugs!’” he explained. “I assumed she referred to insects, and that it was merely the nonsense babbling of a fevered mind, but she meant this influenza virus! A virus on a handkerchief! And that is a trail which leads us directly to Dr. Victor, who offered his handkerchief to dry her hands at McFarlane’s house today, when she walked up to use the facilities!”
“But why? Why would he do something like that?”
“To deliberately infect her, my dear fellow! And possibly transfer the contagion to me as well. By doing that, he knew he could ensure that we would be off the case for at least the duration of her illness. Ryker, there are several things that want doing, and you, my dear chap, are in a position to do them.”
“Tell me what they are, Holmes, and I’ll do ‘em,” Ryker said instantly.
* * *
In a matter of minutes, Ryker was off to comply with Holmes’ requests. The detective returned to the side of his stricken wife. Dr. Wilder spared him a brief glance.
“When’s the last time she had any acetaminophen?” the physician queried.
“I gave her the next scheduled dose shortly before you arrived. Tell me what I may do to help.”
The doctor pondered for a moment, then told him, “Answer some questions for me. I need to know some things so I can determine what antipyretic she can tolerate.”
“Of course.”
“Is she pregnant?”
Holmes’ eyes grew wide, and he felt his cheeks grow hot, but answered the doctor’s questions forthrightly, recognizing the need to obtain information.
“No, not to my knowledge. She is on ‘The Pill,’ she has told me, so it is unlikely.”
“Is she an asthmatic, or allergic to any anti-inflammatories?”
“No.”
“Does she have ulcers, kidney problems, or is she on blood thinners?”
“No, she was quite healthy until contracting this confounded disease. A bit run down, perhaps, from too many long hours spent working this blasted hyperspatial problem, but I watched over her and attempted to prevent her becoming unduly fatigued or malnourished.”
“Okay, good. In that case I’m going to give her a hefty dose of ketoprofen and see if that doesn’t bring her fever down. If it doesn’t, we’ll have to resort to some serious measures. Help me sit her up, then go get a biscuit and some water.”
Together the detective and the physician got Skye into a seated position. Then Wilder took the other woman’s blood pressure while the detective hurried to the kitchen, returning with a packet of crackers and a glass of water.
“Here,” he said, placing them on the bedside.
“Feed her a couple of biscuits, Mr. Holmes, while I get out the ketoprofen. It shouldn’t be taken on an empty stomach,” Wilder noted.
Holmes extracted a cracker and sat beside Skye, who appeared to be sleeping sitting upright. He laid a gentle hand on her shoulder, and she opened bleary eyes.
“Here, my dear,” he murmured, offering the cracker. “Can you eat this?”
“Um…a cracker?” Her head wobbled, and she looked at the object in his hand, trying to focus on it.
“Yes, Skye,” he said with a smile. “It is time for more medicine, and you must have something in your belly before taking it, else it may make you ill.”
“Ugh,” Skye grimaced, “’M sick ‘nough awready. Gimme.”
But instead of taking the cracker, she opened her mouth wide. Holmes’ eyebrows rose, but he gingerly stuck the cracker into her mouth. She bit down and munched slowly, swallowed, then opened her mouth for more. When the last of the cracker had gone down, she croaked, “Water?”
Wilder nodded, waving a hand at the glass of water on the bedside, and Holmes held it steady while Skye took several sips, moistening her dry mouth. Sherlock fed her two more crackers, each followed by water, before Wilder stopped him.
“That’s good,” the physician said. “Here, Skye. This will make you feel better very fast, love. Down the hatch.” She popped the capsule into Skye’s open mouth, and Holmes held the glass for Skye to wash the capsule down. “Good girl,” the doctor added.
“Want Mama,” Skye murmured, her Southern dialect thick. “C’n I lay down now?”
“Yes, dear, you can lie down now,” Wilder soothed, and Holmes helped Skye settle back into a prone position.
“Just rest. I’m afraid your mum can’t be here now, but this nice man is going to give you a bath and help bring your fever down, okay?”
“Husband-man?” Skye surveyed Holmes consideringly.
“That’s right,” Wilder nodded. “He loves you very much, and wants to help.”
Holmes felt himself flush again at the doctor’s words, but gazed steadily at Skye, who returned the look with as much interest as her exhausted, fever-confused mind could manage.
“Hokay,” Skye agreed, closing her eyes and flopping her arms out wide. “He looks nice. He’s cute.”
Dr. Wilder choked back a snort, and Holmes’ lips twitched despite himself.
“Well, her opinion of your looks doesn’t seem to have changed, at any rate,” Wilder muttered under her breath to the detective, stifling a giggle with effort. “Though I’d bet you’ve never been called ‘cute’ in your life.”
“Not as an adult, I can promise you,” Holmes agreed with amusement, glancing at the door to ascertain Ryker had indeed closed it when he left. The detective unbuttoned the shirt covering Skye’s nakedness and slipped it from her shoulders, discarding it, then reached for the bowl of water and washcloth. Testing it with his fingers, he decided it was still warm enough to use, and wringing out the cloth, he began swabbing his wife’s body.
“How does that feel?” Wilder asked the sick woman.
“Mmm,” was the only answer she got. But it was a satisfied sound, so Wilder nodded approvingly at Sherlock. Skye drifted into a light sleep.
For the next twenty minutes, Wilder monitored Skye’s temperature closely as Holmes continued to sponge his wife. Her fever rose no further, and at the end of that time, began to drop markedly.
“Excellent,” the medic sighed in relief. “It’s coming down to something we can deal with now.”
An hour later, Skye’s temperature hovered around 100º F.
“Normally,” Wilder offered in a whisper, “I’d be inclined to let her sleep. But maybe it’s more important to know if there are any lingering memory problems…”
“Do as you think best, Doctor.” Holmes glanced sharply at the physician, a hint of apprehension in the grey gaze. Wilder shook Skye by the shoulder.
“Skye? Wake up, love. We need to check on you.”
“Mmph?” Skye muttered, groggily opening her eyes with some difficulty. “Oh…no more aches…”
“Good,” Wilder smiled. “You feel better?”
“Yeah,” Skye admitted with an effort. “Kinda limp, but better.”
“Excellent. I have a very important question for you, Skye,” Wilder continued.
“What?” Bleary blue eyes fixed themselves on the doctor’s face.
“Look at this man beside you.”
Skye turned her attention to Sherlock, who sat on the bedside.
“Do you know who he is?”
Skye drew a deep breath, but said nothing, simply lying quietly, gazing at Holmes.
Wilder and Holmes exchanged concerned glances. Finally Holmes offered, using the deep, throaty tone he knew she had once loved so well, “My dear Skye, do you recognize me?”
Skye sighed, and her eyes closed. Holmes stared at the weary face in dismay. It would appear she still does not know me. I have indeed lost her. The universe has lost her.
But a small perception inserted itself into his consciousness: A warm hand had crept, unnoticed, across the sheets to slide atop his own. Weak fingers were trying to wrap themselves around his, and a small thumb gently stroked the back of his hand. His gaze dropped from her face to his hand, to find Skye prizing feebly at his fingers in an attempt to hold hands with him.
“Skye,” he repeated hoarsely, “do you know me?” He turned his hand over, lacing his fingers with hers.
“Yeah,” she breathed tiredly. “C’n I have a hug?”
“Not until you tell us who he is,” Wilder pressed insistently. “And what he means to you.”
Azure eyes fluttered open for a few seconds, badly startled.
“Musta been outta it, huh?” she muttered, closing heavy lids once more.
“Yes, you have been,” Holmes agreed. “Now please answer Dr. Wilder, Skye.”
Skye took a deep breath, strengthening herself for the effort, then murmured, “Love m’ Sherlock.” She squeezed his hand with limp fingers.
Holmes shot an imperative glance at Wilder, who immediately rose and slipped out the door, adding, “I’ll be back in a couple of minutes.”
As soon as the door closed behind the physician, Sherlock leaned forward, slipping his hands beneath his wife and lifting her into his arms.
“Here is your hug, my dear,” he whispered into her ear. “And gladly given it is. I am…relieved…to have you back. I was beginning to think I had a serious dilemma on my hands.”
She tried to raise her head from his shoulder; it lolled back, and he caught it in his hand, steadying it before she could injure her neck.
* * *
“I scared you,” she observed, gazing up into his face and seeing the residual traces of his anxiety. “I’m sorry. I really didn’t know you?”
“No,” he breathed, taut lines of pain appearing around the grey eyes. “Not only did you not know me, you were frightened by me.”
“FRIGHTENED?!” Skye whispered in shock. “Why??”
“We were both unclad, my dear, and I was bathing you to cool you. And you did not recognise me. Such circumstances were, naturally, a fearful situation for you. It was understandable, but…distressing.”
* * *
He tucked her head under his chin, content merely to sit holding her, and she sighed, leaning heavily against him in her weakness. Holmes fully realized that she was still very sick, but suspected that the crisis had passed. A thought occurred to him.
“Skye, do you recall what you were doing, scientifically, before you fell ill?”
She was silent for a few seconds, then queried, “You mean the tesseract?”
“Yes.” Relief shot through the detective.
“Yeah, I think I do, although at the moment I couldn’t tell you where I’d gotten to in the calculations. I got cotton for brains right now.”
“Perfectly understandable,” Wilder’s voice said behind them, as she opened the door and slipped in. “No, no, please don’t,” she protested, as Holmes released his wife and eased her to the mattress. “You’ve had an upsetting night, Mr. Holmes, and I just wanted to come in and check her temperature once more. I plan on spending what’s left of the night on your sofa, but I wanted to see Mrs. Holmes once more before stretching out.”
* * *
“Certainly,” Sherlock agreed, continuing to tuck Skye back into the bed as if the doctor had never said anything. He met his wife’s eyes briefly, and she knew as soon as the doctor was gone, the embrace would return, so Skye didn’t protest. “I am sorry we cannot offer you something more comfortable than the sofa, but the cottage is not equipped with a spare bedroom, I fear.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Wilder smiled, tucking the thermometer into Skye’s mouth. “The sofa in the sitting room is more comfortable than some of the cots in the teaching hospital where I did my residency. If you have a spare blanket, it might be nice, but I’ll manage fine if you don’t. Brae stoked the fire a couple of minutes ago, and the sofa is in front of it.”
* * *
Skye gestured with her hand, making an out and around motion, and Holmes nodded his comprehension of her improvised sign language.
“Linen closet down the hall?” he verified, and she nodded. “Very good. I shall be right back.”
He strode out and returned, blanket in hand, by the time the thermometer could beep. “Here you are, Doctor,” he said, laying the blanket beside the medic as she removed the thermometer from Skye’s mouth. “And how is my wife?”
“Fever hovering between 100º and 101º Fahrenheit,” Wilder observed. “As long as it stays in that neighbourhood, I’m happy. Mrs. Holmes might still have the occasional body
ache or chill, but nothing more serious. How is your congestion, love?” she asked Skye.
“I feel stuffy, but not real bad,” Skye decided. “Didn’t you give me something for that earlier?”
“I did,” Wilder smiled. “Good, you do remember.”
“It’s kinda woozy, though.”
“And no wonder. Your fever was around 105º when I got here. That’ll make most adults pretty loopy. In a few days, your memory should be essentially back to normal, although you may never remember much about what happened while you were delirious.” She rose. “Now, you and Mr. Holmes go back to bed, and try to get some sleep. I’ll be in the sitting room if you need me, and we have guards around the house that I can call if we need something from the village.”
As soon as Wilder left the room, closing the door behind herself, Holmes removed his dressing gown and slid under the covers. With a determined effort, Skye rolled weakly onto her side in an attempt to snuggle close to her husband. That worthy considerately drew her against him, leaned over and turned off the lamp, before settling down to resume his interrupted night’s sleep.
Chapter 4—Truth Will Out
SKYE WAS STILL SLEEPING THE NEXT morning, and so was Dr. Wilder, when Sherlock dressed and slipped across the hall and into the study for a very special appointment. Shortly after his arrival, there was a crackling sound and a smell of ozone.
“Hello there, Holmes,” Chadwick’s voice said cheerily. “I see you’re quite unharmed, and I hope the explorations went safely. Where’s the Other Me? Did she get a nice break and some fresh air?”
Sherlock’s brows knitted, and he pondered how to explain.
“What is wrong?” Holmes’ urgent voice queried immediately. “What happened to her?”
“She has influenza,” Sherlock admitted, “a serious case. She was delirious a good part of the night. We very nearly had a disaster on our hands.”
“Oh no,” Chadwick’s voice murmured in distress. “How bad?”
“She did not know me, at one point,” Sherlock confessed, “and she was calling for her mother. I believe she thought she was a child again.”
There was dead silence from the other end of the tesseract.
The Case of the Displaced Detective Page 105
