The Case of the Displaced Detective

by Stephanie Osborn

  “Oh, my,” Skye murmured, blue eyes widening. “Are they safe now?”

  “They are. And not even I know where they have been taken. Which is as it should be.”

  “And I fill in for Victor until this whole mess is over,” Watson declared with satisfaction. “So I’ll be handy if you need me, as well.” He picked up the overnight bag beside his chair. “And now, since you are reunited, and it is a most special day, I shall take my leave and pop by tomorrow to see about Skye.”

  “Capital, my dear Watson,” Sherlock said, taking Watson’s free hand. “You are invaluable, in all your incarnations.”

  Watson laughed, shaking Sherlock’s hand vigorously. Suddenly he dropped his bag, grabbed Sherlock’s shoulder and drew the detective into an affectionate male embrace. Sherlock stiffened, then relaxed into it, returning it.

  Watson next went to Skye and deposited a fatherly kiss on her forehead. “You behave, young lady,” he said sternly, then his eyes twinkled. “But—given the day—not too much.” He shot a mischievous glance at Sherlock, who felt his cheeks warm.

  And he was gone.

  Skye rose from the sofa, letting her robe slide off, revealing the red nightgown her husband had so favored on his birthday. She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around Sherlock’s neck. His hands, in turn, automatically went to her waist.

  “Welcome home, Sweetheart,” she said with a smile. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

  Sherlock bent his head to hers.

  * * *

  The table was formally set for two; the curry and rice were in covered warmers on the table, ready to serve, and all that lacked was lighting the candles. Sherlock had retired to the bedroom to change into the gift Skye arranged for him long before: Rich, dark blue silk lounging pyjamas which matched the dressing gown he’d received for Christmas. Now he lit the candles, seated Skye, and sat down himself.

  Watson had been right; his curry rivaled any Holmes had ever tasted, and the couple devoured it in enjoyment. When that was finished, Skye rose and prepared the dessert—a decadent double chocolate torte with hot fudge sauce. Where it had come from, Sherlock didn’t know. But it matters not, he thought, savoring its richness, while watching the red clad siren across the table from him. It is almost as delicious as my wife.

  * * *

  “You have a bit of chocolate sauce on your face, Skye,” Sherlock observed when they’d finished eating. He stood and came around the table, offering his hands to help her to her feet.

  “Oh,” she said, reaching for her napkin. Sherlock snatched the napkin from her hand, tossing it back onto the table. She stared at him, confused. “But you said I had…”

  “I know,” he noted, a mischievous glimmer in his grey eyes. “I have my own plans for removing it.”

  He bent his head and covered the chocolatey spot with his lips, licking the sweet from her skin; then he pulled her against himself.

  “Ohh,” she whispered, wrapping her arms around his waist. “I missed you.”

  “I know,” he murmured, following suit. “Would you like to see what I have for you?”

  “Besides the obvious?” she answered mischievously, pressing closer, and he chuckled.

  “Indeed. Feel honoured, Wife. Never before have I interrupted an investigation to obtain a gift, let alone a suitably…romantic one,” his cheeks developed a dusky tinge.

  He drew her into the sitting room, seeing her comfortably on the sofa before joining her. He pulled the shopping bag before them, and Sherlock extracted a small envelope, handing it to her.

  Skye opened it to find a card in traditional red heart shape. Inside, the printed sentiment simply read, “You already had it, but I thought I’d give it to you again anyway.” It was signed, “Your very own Sherlock.”

  * * *

  Skye smiled, sapphire eyes glimmering with love. From beneath a magazine on the tea table, she produced another envelope and handed it to him. He extracted the card within, to find a night scene: A single black, silhouetted figure stared upward at a shooting star in a deep blue firmament. It read, “I made a wish upon a star…”

  He opened the card, to find the identical image, saving the lone figure had been joined by a second, and they stood in a gentle embrace, still looking upward into the heavens. The remainder of the sentiment read, “…and then you were there.”

  It was signed, “To my very own dream come true, to the man I can’t live without. Love, Skye.”

  Sherlock swallowed once.

  “I love you,” Skye whispered, gazing at him with adoration in her azure eyes. Sherlock met those eyes.

  “And I love you,” he breathed. Gently he placed a small package wrapped and bowed in scarlet in her hands. “Here is the first of two. This one was not planned, but it caught my eye in a shop window, and…well.” He gestured for her to open it.

  * * *

  Inside the box was an oblong velvet box. Inside that was a ruby pendant, faceted in heart shape, hung on a white gold chain. He wants to make sure I know his heart belongs to me, Skye thought, and smiled, immediately donning the necklace.

  “It’s lovely, Sherlock. I’ve never seen anything like this.”

  “I rather liked it,” Sherlock agreed. “And it looks…nice…there.” He lightly fingered the ruby, in the hollow of her throat; then he handed the second package to her; this one was large and flat, wrapped and beribboned in pink and white. “And here is this.”

  Skye unwrapped the box, lifted the lid, and unfolded pink tissue paper. A handful of satin and lace emerged. Soon she was lifting out a pale blue babydoll nightgown.

  “I can assure you, it is sufficiently appealing that your husband will most definitely keep you warm,” Sherlock said with a straight face, but his eyes twinkled.

  “Then let’s go get warm,” Skye grinned.

  They rose and headed for the bedroom.

  * * *

  The next day—very late in the morning—Watson stopped by to see about Skye. The babydoll and the silk pyjamas had disappeared many hours before, and had only recently been replaced by normal jeans and sweaters. Watson declared Skye fit to resume work, provided she took her decongestants and analgesics as needed, and rested when necessary. Then he returned to the clinic that was once his, and now was again, albeit temporarily.

  After lunch, Ryker visited. “Well, I think I know what the men are after, now, although where they got the idea is a bit balmy. Hi there, Boss,” he greeted Skye belatedly. “Looks like you’re feeling better.”

  “I am,” she agreed. “A little weak yet, and if I wipe my nose any more it’s gonna fall off, and I’m on my fourth, or, um…” she briefly reckoned on her fingers, “maybe that’s fifth, box of tissues since Sherlock went under cover, but pretty good other than that.”

  “Fourth—FIFTH box?!” Ryker exclaimed, startled, as Holmes frowned.

  “Yeah,” Skye said ruefully. “I seem to average a rate of about one, one and a half, boxes a day. I feel like I’m blowin’ my brains out, half the time. I didn’t know I had that much room in my whole head.”

  “Wow,” Ryker said, at a loss for words. Sherlock tapped his foot.

  “So what are they after?” Skye returned to the original subject.

  “THANK you, Skye!” Sherlock exclaimed in impatient frustration. “Please get on with it, Ryker.”

  Ryker grinned mischievously at Skye.

  “No, don’t do it,” she warned, wagging her finger. “Bad Brae. Bad, bad Brae.”

  The two laughed, and Sherlock glowered.

  “Sorry, Holmes,” Ryker chuckled. “Okay, I had to do a hell of a lot of digging into the history of the bases, but here’s the gist of it. In 1943, RAF Woodbridge was constructed as one of three airfields that were intended to accept damaged bombers or aircraft running short on fuel, returning from raids over Germany. In other words, it was expressly designed for emergency landings. That’s why it has such long, heavy duty runways, and is so close to the coastline. Its first name was actually RAF
Station Sutton Heath,” Ryker explained.

  “All right,” Sherlock nodded. “I comprehend so far. Pray continue.”

  “Okay. It seems that, in July of 1944, a Luftwaffe fighter on a North Sea night patrol accidentally landed at Woodbridge. The Nazi German crew only had a hundred hours of flight training. They were flying by compass heading, or so they thought; but they went exactly bass-ackwards.”

  “And they thought they were over their own airfield!” Skye exclaimed, eyes wide with amusement. “But they landed by accident on their ENEMY’S airfield instead!”

  “Exactly right,” Ryker grinned.

  “Boy, I bet THAT was a helluva shock,” Skye opined. “Talk about a woops.” All three chuckled.

  “Yup, a real FUBAR, that. Now, they had some experimental Nazi equipment on board, radar and such, so the aeroplane was taken into custody, the crew became prisoners of war, and the whole thing went classified while the Allies deconstructed the equipment and devised countermeasures,” Ryker continued.

  “But our two treasure hunters must believe that some of the purported ‘lost Nazi gold,’ of which I have read in Skye’s historical tomes, was aboard,” Sherlock theorized.

  “That’s my feeling,” Ryker verified. “I’ve dug up some articles in the less reputable ‘historical’ and treasure hunting journals proposing the notion. That seems to be the preferred idea among some circles for why the flight was classified, rather than war-critical technology. I’d guess our boys have been reading that junk.”

  “So,” Sherlock considered. “Greed is our motivating factor.”

  “Looks like it,” Skye agreed. “Enough greed to kill, kidnap, blackmail, forge documents, and a whole buncha stuff.”

  “How is the cave?” Sherlock queried.

  “Temporarily ‘sealed’ under guard,” Ryker declared, “while the experts back at HQ decide how best to enclose the contents permanently.”

  “Very well,” Sherlock decided. “Clandestine guard, I presume.”

  “You got it,” Ryker averred. “I called in another unit, because mine was spread thin, and the HazMat team is busy figuring out how to best close this thing up, but let’s just say ‘ghosts’ protect the cave now. Don’t worry; Gregory’s unit is the local unit assigned for the area, and they’re good. Really good.”

  “Great,” Skye decided.

  “And do we have surveillance on the house in Melton?” Sherlock pressed.

  “We do,” Ryker nodded, “from Gregory’s bunch, but our marks haven’t come back yet. Evidently it’s not uncommon that they disappear for a couple days or more at a time, according to Miss Victor. She thinks they had nicer quarters somewhere else.”

  “Likely, from what I saw yesterday,” Sherlock agreed. “I suppose I should next turn my attention to locating the ‘somewhere else.’”

  “But we don’t have any clues for that,” Skye protested.

  “Agreed,” Sherlock sighed. “Perhaps I can dredge up something in a return visit to the cottage in Melton tomorrow.”

  “That’s a plan,” Ryker concluded. “I can arrange for the surveillance to give you a heads-up if you need to clear out in a hurry.”

  “Then we shall do precisely that,” Sherlock decided. He glanced at the clock. “It is nearly tea-time. Would Wiggins care for a bit of tea? Skye is, as yet, probably not up to preparing it, but if you do not mind tea, cold sandwiches, and tinned shortbread instead of Skye’s home-baked, you are welcome to stay.”

  A huge grin spread across Ryker’s face.

  “Wiggins would love to stay, at least for a little while. We can coordinate things more, and maybe the Boss can fill me in on this continuum thing, too. All things considered, I’d like to understand more about that.”

  “Then do you stay and discuss wormholes with Skye, while I put the kettle on,” Sherlock agreed.

  * * *

  The next day, before dawn, Sherlock departed for Melton once more, fingerprints of Miss Mary Victor in hand for comparison. When he neared the village, he contacted the surveillance team via ciphered cell phone, to find that the coast was clear and nothing had yet been seen of their quarry. Sherlock parked near the railroad spur, choosing the back entrance as least likely to raise attention. He crept down the railroad in the pre-dawn light, donned latex gloves, and picked the lock once more.

  Inside, he performed a detailed inspection of the entire cottage. It was a single story dwelling, with no cellar due to its proximity to the river, so there was not much to inspect. The windows, contrary to outside impressions, had thick plywood nailed over them, with sufficient set-decoration on the outer side to fool a casual passerby; the external doors had been modified so that they only locked from without. He concentrated on doorknobs and any other items the men might have handled, looking for fingerprints; but those objects had been handled so much by Miss Victor that they were essentially rubbed clean of any other prints. Sherlock sighed and resumed his search.

  He found a dilapidated bed with a single top sheet and blanket, and signs that it had been Miss Victor’s, in the back room; the wardrobe held three changes of feminine garments. The kitchen had nothing in it but some stale dry cereal and a half used carton of milk in the refrigerator. A single bowl, spoon, and cup rested in the dish drainer by the sink.

  The bathroom showed signs of use, with a drinking glass and an abandoned toothbrush and tube of toothpaste; a hairbrush, with medium-blonde strands of hair woven into the bristles, lay on the vanity.

  The front room had little in it save a rough wood table and two matching chairs, none of which was capable of sustaining prints. A deck of cards lay on a corner of the table, however, and this Sherlock appropriated, placing the entire deck into a forensics evidence bag. “We may at least be able to lift some fingerprints from them,” he murmured to himself, “possibly even DNA.”

  There was nothing else in the house, and Sherlock quickly checked with the surveillance team, ascertaining it was safe to go into the front yard. It was, and he slipped outside and looked around. No fingerprints were to be found on the outside doorknob either, presumably because the men had been wearing winter gloves. There were tire tracks in the gravel driveway, however, and he pulled a notebook and quickly sketched the pattern of tread, then sighed again.

  “Not enough. We shall simply have to wait until they return, then follow them.”

  He entered the front door, locking it behind him. There he gathered Miss Victor’s personal items, placing the smaller items into another forensics bag for safekeeping, and the clothing into an unused trash bag found under the kitchen sink, until they could be returned to their owner. Then he slipped out the back door, locking it, and headed down the rails.

  Ten minutes later he was on the road back to Gibson House.

  * * *

  After Sherlock left, Skye moved into the study and began considering the last of the calculations needed to correct the tesseract focus. As if on cue, there was a pop and whiff of ozone.

  “Hi, guys,” she said into the air.

  “Hi, Sis,” her own voice came back to her. “Feeling any better?”

  “Much better. Not only that, but we found out Dr. Victor was being blackmailed. The bad guys had his twin sister and were threatening all kinds of horrible stuff to her—AND him.”

  “Wow,” Chadwick said, stunned.

  “And what is that status?” Holmes asked.

  “Good,” Skye grinned. “Sherlock located the sister and he and ‘our’ MI5 team extracted her. She and Dr. Victor were whisked into hiding, and Sherlock’s gone to try to find some clues as to where our murderers have holed up in the meantime.”

  “Capital,” Holmes replied. “I am glad to see Brother Other Me is quite on top of things.”

  “Absolutely,” Skye averred firmly. “The two of you aren’t at all different in that respect.”

  “Indeed, it would appear so,” Holmes said thoughtfully.

  “Meanwhile,” Chadwick remarked, “does my Sis feel up to seeing what I’
ve done in the interim?”

  “I sure do,” Skye said cheerfully. “I have orders from Watson to take my medicines, and to rest if I get tired, but right now I feel pretty darned good. So let’s go.”

  “Wa-Watson?!” Holmes exclaimed, badly startled.

  “Yeah,” Skye grinned in the direction of the voice. “If you ever make it over to Great Britain, or rather WHEN you make it over, be sure to check out retired Dr. John H. Watson, M.D., now of Number 10, Willow Tree Close, Wickham Market.”

  “Dear God,” Holmes said blankly. Skye heard a slight thud, and thought it sounded rather like the former detective had sat down suddenly.

  “He nursed me through the flu, while Sherlock went off to find the Victor woman,” Skye explained softly. “My Sherlock was as glad to find Watson as you are to hear about him. And I think it’s why I’m feeling so much better. He judiciously adds old-fashioned remedies to the modern medicines, and the results are better than either one alone. He’s a good doctor.”

  “He always was,” Holmes murmured quietly.

  “Wonderful!” Chadwick exclaimed happily. “Holmes, once we get this mess straightened out, we’ll look him up.”

  “Indeed,” Holmes agreed, voice slightly hoarse.

  “So. Let’s get to mess-straightening, guys,” Chadwick noted. “Sis, here comes the notebook…”

  The spiral bound pad appeared through a wall, hurtling at Skye, and she snagged it out of the air.

  “Down to work,” Skye said, opening the pad. “Whatcha got?”

  “Turn to page 145,” Chadwick said, “and I’ll fill you in…”

  * * *

  Thus ensued a period of give and take between the three, Skye asking about the rationale for certain directions the work had taken, and the other couple explaining the differences between their tesseract design and hers. They iterated back and forth a few times, with Skye suggesting alternative approaches and catching one or two arithmetic errors, but by and large the three followed the calculations contained in the notebook.

  They had been at work for a couple of hours when Holmes remarked, “Ladies, if you will excuse me, I must take a brief break.”