The Case of the Displaced Detective

by Stephanie Osborn

  “You are certain, Skye?” he asked, daring the briefest glance at his wife from the corner of his eye.

  “I’m a little bunged up, but I’ll be all right,” she said, averting her face to ensure he wouldn’t see the bruising until after he’d released Cunningham. Holmes stepped back.

  “This vermin is yours, Ryker,” he noted with distaste. “Please see that it is handled…appropriately.”

  * * *

  Ryker gestured to two of his men, who instantly stepped in to take control of a badly shaken and decidedly injured Cunningham; an unconscious Fereaud was already handcuffed on the floor. The unit leader caught Holmes by the elbow while Murphy untied Skye’s hands and helped her to her feet.

  “C’mon,” Ryker murmured, gently ushering them both toward the door, “Enid—Dr. Wilder—is right outside, waiting to see about you. We’ll take care of these two.”

  * * *

  Outside, Holmes discovered his wife’s true condition as Wilder examined her. She was badly bruised across most of the right side of her body where it had slammed into the wall. Her left cheek was puffy and lacerated from a ring Fereaud had been wearing; her left eye was blackened, and swollen nearly shut. Dr. Wilder delicately palpated Skye’s cheek and eye orbital, checking for damage to the bone, before easing her patient’s mouth open and inspecting her teeth, which were, for a wonder, all intact. Finally she nodded in satisfaction, and applied an antibiotic ointment to the lacerations.

  “Nothing broken, just soft tissue trauma,” Wilder said quietly, with an encouraging smile. “And it should all heal up with no scarring. As a precaution, we might take a few x-rays in a day or so, when the swelling has subsided, but I don’t think you have anything to worry about. If the cheekbone or orbital were broken, you’d have howled like a banshee just now, when I palpated it. You’ll be fine, Mrs. Holmes.”

  “She looks like she has been through hell,” Holmes grumbled, pale with fury. “I arrived just in time to see the other man strike her—he knocked her halfway across the room.”

  “I’ll be okay, Sherlock,” Skye murmured through swollen lips. “Yeah, they were rough, but I’m all right.”

  “They did not…abuse…you in any other fashion, before I arrived, did they?” he queried intensely.

  * * *

  One look at his face told Skye he would not be put off, and even Dr. Wilder turned anxiously to watch her response.

  “No,” Skye said calmly. “They manhandled me when they first kidnapped me, ‘cause I tried to fight back, but they only hit me the once. And they didn’t do…anything else.” She added in discouragement, “I was still too weak to fight very well, I’m afraid.”

  Sherlock sighed in relief, and both he and Wilder relaxed.

  * * *

  “I think perhaps I shall teach you a few more hand to hand defensive measures. Something which will be effective regardless of your energy levels. Perhaps some Eastern martial arts will do.” Sherlock sighed again, concerned at the degree of physical punishment his wife had taken in recent weeks.

  Skye echoed his sigh, and looked up at her husband with a pleading expression that wrenched his heart.

  “What do you want, my dear?” he murmured in response to that expression.

  “Can we go home now?” she whispered. “I mean, back to Gibson House.”

  “Immediately, if not sooner,” Holmes replied softly.

  * * *

  Back at the cottage, Skye went to the sofa in the sitting room and eased gingerly into a seated position. Sherlock brought an ice pack for her cheek, then watched from the kitchen door, eyes narrowed in pain.

  This was all because of me, he decided gloomily, sinking deep into his own thoughts. Because I violated my precepts, because I allowed her close. They targeted her to reach me. For the first time, I believe I may understand the other Sherlock’s rationale in toto.

  “Quit that,” Skye murmured, leaning her aching head back against the sofa and holding the towel-wrapped ice pack against her face.

  “Quit what?” he wondered, struggling to grasp her antecedent, his musings interrupted.

  “Blaming yourself for this,” she sighed, closing her eyes wearily. “I’m proud and happy to be your wife. I did try to tell them I wasn’t the ignorant little drudge they thought, but it wasn’t what they wanted to hear. That’s why they hit me. Not because of you.”

  “But they kidnapped you because of me.”

  “And I’m no slouch at defending myself, despite the hand-to-hand thing.” Skye shrugged. “If I’d been applying your principles they’d never have gotten close, because I’d have seen them coming a mile away.”

  “No,” Sherlock heard his own voice murmur regretfully, “instead, she was engrossed in her science, helping us.”

  “Yeah,” Chadwick’s voice sighed guiltily. “And her still weak from being sick.”

  “Yes, the science, AND what to make for dinner, AND when Sherlock was gonna get home, AND how the case was progressing, and running over the clues, AND, AND, AND, on and on,” Skye protested.

  “Still,” Sherlock muttered, “if it were not for the fact we married…”

  “No, no, Holmes,” Chadwick corrected. “She’s right. If we hadn’t distracted her…”

  Suddenly Skye snapped into an upright position, letting the ice pack fall to her lap. Her swollen face contorted into an angry scowl.

  “SHUT UP AND CUT IT OUT! JUST SHUT UP! ALL of you! It’s nobody’s fault except the two men who kidnapped me! I was busy, I had my mind on a dozen other things, and they snuck up on me! It’s that simple! Now everybody, just…be…” Skye’s face crumpled, and abruptly she was struggling to restrain tears, “quiet…”

  Sherlock came to the sofa and knelt beside her.

  “Skye, forgive me,” he whispered, taking her delicately by the shoulders with a gentle hold, trying to avoid the bruises there. “I only…I do not like seeing you in pain.”

  * * *

  “I know,” she sighed, leaning into him and resting her good cheek on his shoulder. “I’m just…it scared me.” She buried her face in his neck, ashamed at the confession.

  “I bet I know why,” Chadwick offered softly, through the wormhole. “Two reasons: You were afraid we wouldn’t get the tesseract solution completed, and…you didn’t want to leave Sherlock alone.”

  * * *

  “Y-yes,” Skye’s muffled voice came from Sherlock’s shoulder. “To both.” The detective slid his arms around his wife, holding her comfortingly.

  “Perhaps you would feel better if you ate a bit,” he murmured. “I have it to understand you were captured before tea-time, and it is past dinner now.”

  “No, I’m just tired,” Skye fretted. “And my head hurts. I wasn’t in their hands long; it’s no big deal. I only want to go to bed.”

  “No, Sis, you need to eat, just a little,” Chadwick scolded gently. “Let your hubby feed you a little something, then go to bed.”

  “And might I make a suggestion, Chadwick?” Holmes offered. “These two have done much for us. I think that perhaps it is more than past time for us to give something back. Perchance we can use the tesseract to stand guard over the house while she rests, that they may feel the safer?”

  “Wonderful idea, Holmes!” Chadwick agreed immediately. “We can keep it a little out of focus to isolate any instability waves, and stay outside for privacy—maybe hovering above the house—and scan the area around the cottage so nobody can get in without warning.”

  “That would be greatly appreciated,” Sherlock decided, seeing Skye was too emotional to answer. “Now, Skye, I know what it is to be struck in the face, so I will repair to the kitchen and prepare some soup while you rest here. Will that be acceptable? Do you think you can eat it?”

  “I…I suppose so,” she sniffled, pushing up. “But…um…”

  “’Um’ what?”

  “Can I come along?” she whispered, unable to meet the grey eyes. “I…don’t wanna be alone…”

  �
��Of course, my dear,” he murmured, eyes narrowing in pain.

  “We shall remove to the outside of the cottage, my friends,” Holmes noted softly. “The two of you need peace and quiet. We will keep close watch. Let yourselves rest well this night, for a change. Between Captain Ryker, and ourselves, no one shall reach you tonight. This I swear.”

  “WE swear,” Chadwick added firmly.

  “Thanks, guys,” Skye murmured, as Sherlock helped her to her feet and led her toward the kitchen.

  * * *

  In the end, Skye was too drained to eat on her own. A certain detective put her to bed, brought in a tray, and helped her eat a large bowl of vegetable soup.

  “You know, you once told me you weren’t cut out to be a nursemaid,” Skye sighed, as Sherlock fed her the last of the soup. “But lately you sure seem to be doing it a lot.”

  “I will not stand by and permit you to suffer, if there is anything I can do to prevent it.” He shrugged. “I made vows to you, Skye, before God and every friend we had in this plane of existence. Even had I not meant them—and I certainly would never have made them had I not meant them—I would still feel bound by my word.”

  “Thank you, Sweetheart. You know,” Skye said, recalling, “you were…that was…”

  * * *

  Her voice tapered off, and she blushed.

  “That was what?” Sherlock wondered, not certain to what she was referring. He sat the bowl aside.

  “I saw you fighting,” she said shyly. “You’re really amazing. I mean, I’ve seen you fight a couple times before—in your own continuum—and you’re good. Really, really good. But before, you were always fighting for your life. This time, you put your own life in danger to fight for ME. My own knight, literally, coming to the rescue. It…you…” Skye lunged forward, wrapping her arms around him. “You’re wonderful. I love you so much.”

  Sherlock felt his face flame before gathering his wife against his chest.

  “Do you recall what I told you on my birthday, after we had gone to bed? When you were asking me about your importance in my life?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Do you recall my answer?”

  “Yes…”

  “How could I do any less?” Holmes shrugged.

  Skye smiled as best she could, pushing back and looking up at him. Then she stretched up and brushed his lips with her own. Sherlock returned the gesture very tentatively, all too aware how bruised and swollen were the lips caressing his.

  Then he gently put her away from him and reached for the bottle of naproxen Wilder had given them.

  “Here,” he murmured, extracting a dose, “take this, and try to relax. While you settle in, I shall prepare for bed, and we will make this an early evening.” He turned and held out the medication in his cupped hand, all in one motion. To his horror, Skye flinched away.

  “Skye?” he whispered, stunned. “What…?”

  “I’m sorry,” Skye whimpered. She buried her battered face in her hands. “When you spun and put out your hand, for a split second, I saw…him…instead of you.”

  “Oh, my dear Skye,” Sherlock breathed, gathering her into his arms. “You know I should never—”

  “I know,” she whispered, hiding her face in his chest. “But you might have to move kinda slow around me for a couple days, until I get things under control.”

  “Of course,” he murmured, stroking her hair. “Of course.”

  After several minutes, Skye eased away and reached for her glass on the bedside table. Sherlock gave her the tablets; she took them, and five minutes later they were both in bed.

  * * *

  Intimacy was eschewed that night in favor of rest. Sleep did not come easily for either of them, however. Skye’s battered body refused to get comfortable, and Sherlock found himself focused on her attempts to find, if not a cozy position, at least one that did not cause pain.

  “Perhaps if you rested against me more,” he suggested, a full hour into her restless perambulations.

  “No,” she grumbled, shifting position yet again. “I can barely stand to have my bad cheek against the feather pillow. Your shoulder’s a little too solid to rest it against.”

  “Hold still,” he instructed, crawling out from under the covers.

  “Sherlock? What are you—”

  “I said hold still, my dear,” he said amiably, clambering across the bed, directly across Skye, meticulously avoiding bumping her. Soon he was on her other side, flipping open the blankets and scooting beneath them. “There. We shall simply have to become used to sleeping on the ‘wrong’ side of the bed, until your face is well. I do hope your right side was not introduced to the wall sufficiently hard to prevent lying on it.”

  “It’s kinda sore, but nothing like my face,” Skye admitted, rolling gingerly onto her side and snuggling into Holmes with a relieved sigh. “Yeah, this is gonna work, I think.”

  Fifteen minutes later, both were at long last asleep.

  * * *

  They slept late the next morning, Skye needing the rest to heal and recover from her mental, emotional, and physical trauma. She awoke in pain, but Sherlock got some soft breakfast food into her, then gave her a prescription dose of naproxen for the pain. The detective was careful to move slowly and calmly around her, and in short order, she was feeling better.

  “Okay,” she murmured, “time to get back in the saddle. I’m almost done with the number crunching, and then I can hand it all over to the Other Me and the other you.”

  “But Wife,” Sherlock protested, “should you not wait until after you are no longer on pain medication? How can you know you will be thinking clearly enough to ‘crunch numbers’ correctly, as you put it?”

  “Oh, naproxen doesn’t do that to me,” Skye waved away his concern. “I’ll admit, it used to make Caitlin pretty loopy, but I never had that problem. For me, it’s just super-duper aspirin. I’ll be fine.”

  “Very well. As my case appears to be complete, and Ryker’s message this morning indicated that they have developed a method and logistical plan for permanently sealing the sarcophagus, I shall keep you company. If you have no objections to my pipe smoke.”

  “Nope,” Skye grinned at him as best she could; her face was still swollen and she had a distinct black eye. “We’re on the home stretch, and the end is in sight, Hon.”

  “It does appear so,” Sherlock noted in relief. “But Skye?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You really did not need to compete with my record of black eyes to impress me, my dear.”

  They both began laughing.

  * * *

  Later that morning, an urgent call came in from Ryker. Skye, needing a momentary break from her numbers, answered it, careful to hold the receiver to the uninjured side of her face.

  “Gibson House. Skye here. Hi there, Brae. Oh—oh no. No, no, no. Oh, shit! Do you know where?!” The scientist was obviously alarmed, and not a little afraid.

  “What is wrong, Skye?” Sherlock rose from his seat in the wing chair and moved to stand close.

  “Hang on, Brae, so I can fill in Sherlock.” She glanced up at him. “Brae says Cunningham and Fereaud have escaped, and killed at least one policeman in the process. Two more are in hospital. It seems Brae’s unit turned them over to the local authorities, on charges of kidnapping and murder. The police took them to the hospital to be treated—Fereaud had a concussion, and Cunningham’s wrist had to be set and cast—and there was some sort of major snafu when they were released from the hospital. They’re on the loose.”

  “Where are they?” Sherlock snarled, cold fury rising within.

  “Did you hear that, Brae?” Skye asked the phone. She listened, then looked back at her husband. “Nobody knows yet. He wants us to be careful.”

  “Tell him we shall be. Exceedingly so.”

  “You hear, Brae? Okay. Um…keep us posted? Yeah. Yeah, it scares me, but I’d rather know. You need to go ahead and seal off that cave, Brae, as soon as possible. To hell w
ith the sarcophagus for now. You can always go back in later and do that, then seal things off again. Listen, have you got a spare pistol? We’ve only got the one…oh. Yeah, I understand. Well, but I’m a representative of the Crown…yeah? Okay, good. Yeah, bring it by as soon as you get the chance.” She hung up and looked at Sherlock. “He’s gonna come by with another gun, so we can both be armed.”

  “As far as that is concerned, we can manage in the meanwhile.”

  Sherlock disappeared down the hall, returning with the service pistol while casually swinging his cane. He handed the gun to his wife. “There. That is now accomplished.”

  “What is accomplished?” Sherlock’s own voice echoed back.

  Skye jumped, badly startled, then shook a worried head.

  “Fereaud and Cunningham got loose,” she informed their doppelgangers, realizing the tesseract had just focused in and neither she nor Sherlock had registered the whiff of ozone, so intent on defensive preparations had they been.

  “Oh, no,” Chadwick could be heard to whisper.

  “I’m expecting Captain Ryker in a few minutes, with a pistol for me—er, Sherlock,” Skye noted, shoving the pistol her husband had just given her into the rear waistband of her jeans.

  “We shall widen the focus to watch for him, and defocus to allow him entrance, when he arrives,” Holmes conceded immediately.

  “Thanks,” Skye nodded gratefully.

  “Hm,” Sherlock muttered to himself. Then he raised his voice. “May I take it you can observe more than the interior of a room?”

  “We can change the size of the field of view, yeah. We can take it down to almost the size of a car, which is what we did last night, or we can include the whole house,” Chadwick confirmed. “We just haven’t expanded it because of the danger of instability waves.”

  “‘The best defense is a strong offense,’ you are thinking, Brother Other Me?” Holmes queried.

  “Indeed,” Sherlock agreed. “If the two of you can stand guard over Skye—who is in no shape to pursue the game at the moment—I can join Ryker in tracking down the miscreants who harmed her and two policemen, and killed McFarlane and another police officer. They cannot be allowed to run free, especially with the sarcophagus undergoing repairs.”