The Case of the Displaced Detective

by Stephanie Osborn

  Skye giggled again as Sherlock flipped the covers over their heads.

  Chapter 7—Considerations

  SOME TIME AFTER, THE PAIR AWOKE in the wee small hours before dawn, relaxed and content.

  “Sherlock,” Skye murmured, as her husband’s sensitive fingers trailed over her skin, “I have a question.”

  “Indeed? What might it be?”

  “It’s really, really personal.”

  “And my fingers upon your breast are not?”

  “Okay, you asked for it.” A giggle floated through the darkness.

  “I did.”

  “I don’t understand how it is that you can spend pretty much all night making love to me, and yet when you were in your own continuum, you never even so much as looked at a woman. At least after the ‘Lily’ incident.” She paused thoughtfully. “Our entire relationship as lovers has indicated you’ve got a strong libido. How on earth did you…?”

  * * *

  Sherlock felt his cheeks grow warm, thankful for the darkness.

  “Yes. It seems I do. It is, I think, partially a function of my artistic heritage. I had been considering the matter earlier this evening, after you fell asleep. I had not planned for any other eyes save mine to see this, but…perhaps it is as well that I permit you to read this evening’s journal entry. It is, quite likely, the…best…way of answering your question.”

  * * *

  “Okay,” Skye murmured into the darkness, well aware of her husband’s reticence on the subject, “my eyes are covered. Hit the lamp.”

  Sherlock switched on the bedside lamp, then extracted his journal from the bedside table and turned to the last few pages while Skye uncovered her eyes and allowed them to adjust.

  “Here,” he said, very subdued. “It is…not something of which I am especially proud, but as my wife, you have the right to know.” He placed the journal in her lap, then watched her face as she began to read.

  * * *

  February 24

  3:32 A.M.

  I have recently come to a startling conclusion. I believe narcotics no longer have a hold upon me, nor will they, ever again.

  When I first started using cocaine and morphine, they were believed to be wonder drugs, with no thought of harm from them—the dangerous, addictive components of opium were believed removed in the refining and purifying. My rationale for use was rather more cryptic than Watson gave me credit, however. The drugs—cocaine in particular, which was my preferred of the two, as its withdrawal effects were less...indisposing—indeed had stimulating effects upon the mind as he thought, and that is all I allowed Watson to believe, right to the end. But it was not principally for its mental effects that I utilised the drug.

  For…certain researchers…had discovered that cocaine in particular heightened the senses, sometimes to the point of ecstasy, and this could occur in a…shall we say, a VERY private fashion. Therefore, shortly after administering the dose, I usually retired to my room; there, Watson believed, to sleep off the effects. And this I did do, eventually. In point of fact, however, my reclusiveness at such times was to relieve said ecstasy in private; it was my relief from my imposed celibacy. And I only and ever used it between cases, never during.

  For the effect upon my manhood and desires after the medication had worn off was precisely the opposite: All desires were then SUPPRESSED. Watson often noted my lack of appetite for food in the early days of our relationship, but did not equate it with the drug use. Nor did he recognise my lack of interest in women as partially enabled by the same. And this usage was deliberate. It helped ensure my head could not be turned while I was actively pursuing a case. Consequently it also enabled me to focus even more upon my observation and deduction.

  But as time progressed, and Watson protested more and more at my use, research began to emerge proving the good doctor correct. Neither cocaine nor morphine was such as a man respecting his own intellect, let alone his body, should utilise for any reason, saving for the direst of pain or emergency. It was then I decided, what with my increasing age (being no longer a very young man in his prime, but nearing middle age) and habitual spurning of the opposite sex, that I could do without the artificial suppression. I therefore attempted to eliminate the use of both cocaine and morphine. This proved disastrous. I VERY shortly found that I had, to my horror, become addicted to the wretched stuff.

  God bless Watson, for he had experience treating opium addicts, and he recognised delirium tremens when he saw it, no matter how adeptly I sought to conceal it. With a directness which did credit to his absorption of my techniques, he deduced my attempts and set out to help. After considerable research, he contacted some specialists on the continent—always from his consulting-rooms, and always with his patient anonymous. For, quite aside from the loss of confidence by prospective clients, it would not have done for my enemies, especially Moriarty, to have gotten wind of my condition; it would have meant a death sentence, possibly for both of us. And thus he eventually developed a technique to wean me from the insidious substances.

  And so I became free of them, and so Watson allowed all references to them in his stories to fade away. Thus I believed myself also free of considerations of feminine attraction—until I met Skye. Initially I thought this as potentially disastrous as the narcotic addiction.

  But here is the interesting fact: Skye is the only woman who garners my attentions in the least. Other females I may acknowledge as women, even attractive women, but only she is The Woman, My Wife. And SHE has become my “drug” of choice.

  For I know she is always there when I should need or want her, and her response will be as fervent as my own. And it matters not any longer if I may need my “drug” during a case, for Skye most assuredly does not create in me the mental distortions of cocaine, or morphine, and as soon as need is sated, my attention can fully focus upon the case once more. Indeed, sometimes she provides the divertissement my subconscious needs to work upon the problem, in precisely the same way as my violin, or a concert. Not to mention the fact that she is often beside me on said case, and even when not, is entirely capable of discussing it with me in minute detail, a thing which is a decided boon to the work. No drug can accomplish anything remotely akin to the many and varied abilities she brings me.

  Moreover, the last thing I should wish is to do anything to harm that delightful conjugal relationship we share. This, cocaine would definitely do.

  So it is that I conclude that narcotics no longer have a hold upon me—though I shall not tempt Providence by using them except in the direst of emergency injuries.

  Rather, a certain scientist and detective holds me far more strongly than ever said narcotics did.

  What a powerful thing is love.

  * * *

  Skye took her time, considering the entire matter carefully, and Sherlock realized from her expression that she was mentally placing herself in his position. When she got to the last page, she completed the entry, then sat staring at the page. Sherlock drew in a deep breath, trying to settle himself.

  “Skye?” he queried hesitantly.

  “I get it,” she said, nodding. “It makes sense. It worked for you, at least for awhile. And no one knew at the time that there were dangerous side effects.”

  “No.”

  * * *

  “It’s okay, Sherlock,” she said softly, looking up at him and seeing a creased forehead and dark, solemn eyes. “Once you knew, you did the right thing. And your new ‘drug of choice’ is very happy about being chosen.”

  He drew a long breath, then nodded slowly.

  “You are the answer to so many questions I did not even realise I had, Skye,” he confessed. “So many needs, so many desires, none of which I knew were there. Until you filled them. In truth, I should wish to lose you no more than you do me.”

  “And that’s as it should be,” Skye smiled, reaching past him to place the journal on the nightstand and turn off the light. “And now your drug is after you again…”

 
; “Heavens above,” Sherlock’s mock-appalled voice came through the darkness, “I never knew a drug could become addicted to its user.”

  A giggle was his only answer.

  * * *

  The next morning, they awoke very late, but together.

  “Good morning, Wife,” he murmured drowsily into her ear. “How do you feel today?”

  “Uhn…that remains to be seen,” she replied with a yawn, stretching gingerly in his arms, testing the bruising in her body and finding it acceptable. “I’m not awake enough yet to tell you.”

  * * *

  “Take your time. I think we have little on the schedule for today. But I do have a question.”

  “What?” she wondered, rolling over to look at him. Her left eye was still blackened, but the swelling in her face had decreased to the point where it was almost non-existent.

  “How do we know if our other selves have been successful or not?”

  * * *

  “Well, unless the absolute worst happened,” Skye decided after a moment’s consideration, “they’ll probably pop by—literally—at some point and tell us, one way or the other. After all, time goes by, both here and there, though the rates are different. There’s only so much negation of time passage the tesseract will allow. It can,” she explained, seeing confusion on Sherlock’s face, “negate time passage here, for instance, but while time is passing over there, time is passing here, too, just at a different rate. So while they’re working—and I expect they had to do some repairs and replacing of monitors after that tremor, let alone the emergency shutdown—we get to sit and wait.”

  “Ah, I see. And if the worst happened? For if the worst has happened, then they are dead and their continuum destroyed. There will be no one to tell us.”

  “I’d say if we don’t hear from ‘em in a couple days, think the worst. And we’ll probably start seeing signs of instability in our own continuum by then.”

  Sherlock nodded silently. Automatically his arms tightened around her. They lay quietly for several minutes, pondering the matter.

  “Skye?”

  “Hm?”

  “If…the worst should happen…is there anything you regret?”

  “Other than not being able to tell the world that the real Sherlock Holmes loves me, I don’t think so, no.” She smiled up at him. The high cheekbones flushed, and the grey eyes glowed.

  “If we determine the worst is happening, you might find the real Sherlock Holmes taking out a large advertisement in The Times of London to say so.”

  * * *

  Skye’s sapphire eyes grew huge, and she stared at him in shock.

  “Sherlock…would you really…?”

  “No,” he said, allowing his silver eyes to twinkle mischievously. “But I was curious as to what your expression would be. It was quite amusing. I think I have never seen your jaw that slack before.”

  She smacked him on his bare shoulder. Hard.

  “Rascal,” she told him, and he laughed.

  “With you? Indeed,” he acknowledged. “But for a few moments, I shall be serious with you if you will, in turn, be serious with me.”

  “Of course,” she said, sobering instantly. “What is it?”

  Sherlock gathered her close and gazed into her azure eyes. “If our world were to end soon, Skye, is there anything you have left undone you should have liked to do? Any dream unfinished, any fantasy unfulfilled?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, Sherlock,” she murmured, overwhelmed by the thought. “It isn’t important.”

  “Yes it is, my dear Skye, for if it is within my power, I shall see them accomplished before…it is too late. Now tell me.”

  “One of my biggest fantasies had to do with you.” Her cheeks dimpled.

  “Oh? Then it should be easy to grant. Tell me.”

  “I wanted to make you lose control,” she told him with a smirk.

  “I beg your pardon, my dear?” He stared at her in shocked puzzlement.

  * * *

  “You’re always so in control,” she said, a hint of her frustration in her tone. “Even in bed. I wanted to…to just drive you crazy. I wanted to see you banging around, shouting, even screaming my name,” she admitted, grinning sheepishly, watching the color slowly creep up his face. “I wanted to know I could do that to you. But after last night…”

  “Yes, well, after last night,” the detective commented, flushing deeply, “I should think it a moot point. Are there any other such…matters…that come to mind?”

  “Not really,” she said, the smile fading from her features. “Nothing practical, anyway. I would’ve liked to have a family with you, Sherlock, our own little band of Irregulars, but…”

  “Indeed. I doubt we should have nine days, let alone nine months.”

  “Exactly. So…what about you?”

  “Me?”

  “Yeah, you,” Skye said pointedly. “Any dreams or fantasies I can manage for you?”

  Sherlock considered briefly. “As you say, nothing practical. And I could not go back to visit Watson in any event. We might, perhaps, go to visit Watson here, and have a few more conversations with him before…the end.”

  Skye swallowed, and she tried to keep the disappointment from her features as she added, “Nothing I can do for you personally? No fantasies of a wanton blonde hyperspatial physicist having her way with her husband?”

  * * *

  The detective gazed down into his wife’s eyes, knowing what she had hoped to hear. “I should have been curious about the children. Whether a daughter would present a kind of wormhole into your childhood; whether a son might show you myself as a boy.” Then his mood brightened, and he smiled at her.

  “As to…other fantasies,” he acknowledged, “you must understand, Skye, even though we have been…together…in…that way, for over half a year now, I do not think of myself as a…as a lover. My dreams of you are simple, and they are fulfilled every day, when I awaken and see your face beside me on the pillow. Last night was…” he hesitated, flushing once more, “beyond dreams.”

  She blushed and smiled happily at him. “In that case, I—”

  He froze.

  “Hush,” he breathed, raising his head and staring into space, concentrating intently. Skye silenced instantly, and she, too, raised her head.

  “Voices. Someone’s in the house.” She stared at Sherlock. “Shit. Cunningham and Fereaud.”

  “And they are systematically searching,” he observed, listening to the change in location. “Quickly, Wife, get up and—”

  “They’re here!” Skye hissed.

  Sherlock flung himself bodily atop his wife in an attempt to shield her from the intruders, as she scrabbled the covers up around them both. He slid his hand between the mattress and the headboard, extracting the extra pistol Ryker had provided for his use. He brought the weapon up and aimed it at the closed door, still covering Skye with his body.

  * * *

  But instead of the bedroom door bursting open to frame the intruders, a soft call came from the hallway—in Skye’s voice.

  “Skye? Holmes? Are you there? It’s us—the other you.”

  The couple in bed drew long, relieved breaths.

  “Yeah, Sis, we’re here,” Skye answered. “We, um, we just woke up. Don’t come in.”

  “Understood,” Holmes’ voice replied. “We shall not intrude. We merely wanted to let you know that extensive post-tremor repairs have been effected, the tesseract has been adjusted per the new parameters, and the deterioration appears to have halted.” The familiar voice evinced even more familiar satisfaction and a distinct tinge of triumph.

  “Wonderful!” Skye exclaimed enthusiastically as Sherlock replaced the pistol in its hiding place. “That gives everybody a chance to catch their breaths.”

  “Indeed,” Sherlock muttered sotto voce, dropping his face into Skye’s shoulder. “And about time.”

  “Exactly,” Chadwick agreed, not having heard Sherlock’s comment through the closed door, m
uffled by Skye’s shoulder as it was. “But given the hard tremor that came through right as we were breaking connection, we wanted to make sure we let you know we were still here. Not to mention, checking on you to see if it caused any damage there.”

  “Thanks,” Skye responded gratefully. “Everything’s fine here. Well, a few things to pick up, I suppose, but nothing serious. You may have found half of a dilapidated old rocking chair and a bookshelf corner section, somewhere in the Chamber, Sherlock tells me, but that’s about the extent of it. We’d just been discussing the matter, though. We hadn’t heard from you. It was…concerning us.”

  “Mm-hm,” Sherlock murmured into her neck. Skye grinned; it was becoming patently obvious to the scientist that, once having proof the other continuum still existed and no unwanted intruders were within the house, it no longer concerned the detective.

  “Ah, so that is what produced the pile of kindling just outside the core,” Holmes remarked with dry humor. “We wondered where on earth—well, where OFF earth—erhm, where off OUR earth—the wood splinters had come from.”

  “Yeah,” Chadwick chuckled. “I’m afraid there’s no point in sending it back across for repair. There aren’t any pieces bigger than about ten inches, and a lot of it is just so much sawdust.”

  “Drat. I liked that rocking chair, too. Oh well. Never mind. So what are your plans next?” Skye queried.

  * * *

  One of Skye’s hands left Sherlock’s shoulder, vanishing under the bedclothes. Moments later, Sherlock raised his head, staring down into devilishly gleaming sapphire eyes.

  “Imp,” he breathed, just before his eyelids fluttered. He added fervently, “Dear God…”

  * * *

  “MY plans,” Holmes’ voice noted firmly, “are to see Chadwick, here, gets a decent sleep. No, my dear Chadwick, I know it is the middle of the afternoon. But you—we—have been working without stop for days—weeks. And the tale of this little adventure is marked in years, years of hard, long work and anxieties. But now we have the system stabilised, and can afford to take our rest before we attempt strengthening the membrane. You, in particular, could do with it. You are as exhausted as your counterpart.”