The Case of the Displaced Detective

by Stephanie Osborn

  “Absolutely, Sherlock,” Skye agreed. “So definitely go home and rest.”

  “But how long can we afford to put it off, do you think?” Chadwick wondered worriedly.

  “My preliminary calculations indicate we should have at least a week before matters begin to grow critical,” Holmes noted confidently.

  “I’d agree with that,” Skye nodded, and the other three recognized the slightly unfocused look in the blue eyes indicating she was running mental calculations. “Just remember that until the rest energy is back to normal, there’s probably gonna be a slow bleed off. But it’s an exponential decay, which means it’ll speed up with time. So I don’t think I’d push it to two weeks. Ten days, max.”

  “Agreed,” Holmes answered promptly, and Chadwick shot a glance at him.

  “You’ve already looked at this? In that much detail?” she asked her companion.

  “Indeed,” Holmes confirmed. “I have been considering the matter off and on for several days, now. I could see the increasing weariness in both Skyes, and felt a brief holiday would be in order, once we reached this point.”

  * * *

  “And you, Brother Me, could stand a respite, as well,” Sherlock declared. “You and I have pushed ourselves to breaking before, but it will not do, now. Too much rests upon it. And I recognise the impending signs in your face, for I have seen them in my own.”

  “True enough, I suppose,” Holmes agreed with only mildly acidic reluctance. Sherlock restrained an eyebrow; he had detected a certain hint of dissembling in the protesting nature of his doppelganger’s tone, and suddenly realized it was being maintained for appearance’s sake alone. So he delicately pressed ahead.

  “In addition, it may give you opportunity to act upon some of those matters which we discussed,” Sherlock added casually.

  “I had planned upon it,” Holmes answered unassumingly.

  Chadwick shot the two men puzzled glances; Skye merely gazed into space, as if still performing calculations in her head.

  “Capital,” Sherlock murmured. “I can assure you, it will only aid you in your endeavours.”

  “Never fear,” Holmes nodded.

  * * *

  “Good,” Skye said, coming back to the conversation. “In that case, you two go get some rest, and Sherlock and I’ll try to tie up the loose ends on our case, here.”

  “Okay, Sis,” Chadwick finally relented, rising and moving to the control console. “We’ll give the two of you the same number of days we take, before we come back to report in. Y’all need a break, too.”

  “Works for me,” Skye agreed. “Take care, guys.”

  There was a soft sough like the wind, and the sitting room of the cottage returned, as Holmes and Chadwick disappeared.

  * * *

  Holmes and Chadwick left Schriever for the first time in several days, headed up Ute Pass in the pickup truck, with Holmes driving. When they arrived at the ranch in Florissant in the middling twilight, a younger couple emerged from the house to greet them, followed by a toddling girl of around three years of age.

  “Hello Billy, Tina,” Chadwick smiled to the MI5 operatives, who now functioned ostensibly as the ranch foreman and cook, respectively; Violet Skye Ranch was now a successful, prosperous horse breeding and training facility, nearly four times the size it had been when Holmes had arrived in that continuum. But in point of fact, Billy and Tina Williams were the permanently assigned liaisons for Holmes and Chadwick, for both the British and American governments. “And how’s our Martha?”

  “Ooo!” the little one squealed, seeing both Chadwick and Holmes emerging from the vehicle. “Unca Sherwock an’ Auntie Skye!” She promptly launched herself at Holmes, who smiled indulgently and scooped her up in his arms. “I habben’t seed oo in so wong!”

  “Hello there, little Martha. It is good to see you, too, child. And is Martha going to answer Auntie Skye?” he asked the child.

  “Marfa’s good,” the little girl beamed, reaching out from the sanctuary of Holmes’ arms to hug Chadwick’s neck. “Mummy an’ Da’s good, too.”

  “Indeed we are,” Williams noted with a fond smile, putting an arm around his wife. “So is the ranch—cat, horses, and bees; we’re taking good care of things for you. But…” he hesitated, seeing the weariness in the pair who’d just arrived.

  “How is the continuum?” a worried Tina pressed her husband’s aborted question, as several of the MI5 operatives cum ranch hands emerged from the bunkhouse wing of the barn, anxious to hear the news. “We felt that big quake a couple of days ago…”

  “The continuum is stabilized,” Chadwick announced with a tired grin. “We decided to get some rest before tackling the membrane.”

  Soft exclamations of relief and triumph made their way around the assembled group. “You two are amazing,” Tina murmured with a smile.

  “Aw,” Chadwick blushed. “We had help.”

  “Indeed,” Holmes agreed. “And if the brain of one Skye Chadwick is formidable, how much the more, two?”

  “Not to mention, two Holmeses,” Chadwick retorted affectionately, elbowing her companion in the ribs. “Four of us made for a darned good team, I guess.”

  “Wow,” Wang muttered, eyes wide. “Two of each of you. Cool.”

  “Now,” Holmes interjected, before anyone else could speak, “the news has been duly delivered. Into the house with you, Chadwick. You are dead on your feet, and it is late.”

  “Have you eaten?” Tina wondered, taking Martha from Holmes and turning to lead the way into the house. A small feline awaited them in the partially open door, peering out eagerly. “Do I need to prepare a light supper?”

  “No, dear,” Billy noted to his wife. “Holmes called up earlier and had me contact the hotel. The restaurant kitchen sent a nice dinner to their office.”

  “Yes, and it was utterly and indescribably delicious,” Chadwick smiled, scooping up Anna and petting the little cat affectionately. Anna purred loudly, rubbing ecstatically against Chadwick’s cheek, then leaning out and head-butting Holmes’ shoulder. “I don’t think I could have faced another cold sandwich at console. Thanks so much.”

  “Inside, Chadwick,” Holmes ordered amiably, briefly scritching Anna’s ear. “I shall not tolerate your diversions at this stage.”

  “Okay,” Chadwick capitulated agreeably enough, allowing Holmes to herd her into the house with a rather familiar hand firmly on her back.

  * * *

  As the door closed behind the four adults and one child, the ranch hands glanced at each other, intrigued.

  “Did they seem awfully…chummy…to you?” Wang asked Hargreave.

  “Yeah,” Hargreave agreed. “I’ve never seen ‘em not snipping at each other before.”

  “Maybe it’s because the stress is off?” Huggins wondered hopefully.

  “Maybe,” Wang grinned, “and maybe it’s finally giving ‘em a chance to realise what they’ve really got.”

  “Whaddaya mean?” Hargreave wondered.

  “Well,” Wang began, prudently lowering his voice, “they weren’t always snippy. According to General Morris, originally they were the best of mates, and got along gangbusters from the very first.”

  “They did? They were?” Huggins muttered, surprised.

  “They were,” Wang confirmed. “Barely a cross word ever spoken between ‘em. An’ when I got here with Captain Ryker…well, let’s just say Ryker an’ I had a conversation or two. Looked to us like they were, uh, something more than best mates, if you get me. Nothing blatant, not outta those two. It was more…the way they looked at each other. You know what I mean?”

  Neither said anything, but both Huggins and Hargreave had wide eyes.

  “They haven’t done much detective work in recent years; been way the blazes too busy with the tesseract mess. But if you’d ever seen ‘em in action together, you’d almost think they were the same mind in two bodies.” Wang shook his head in amazement. “Just mind-boggling. I swear, they were meant for eac
h other.” He sighed, and he grew glum, mentally reliving the sadness and stress of past events. He was silent for some time, remembering.

  “Then, a couple days after we got here, they had some sort of row,” Wang eventually added sadly. “We never found out what. There wasn’t any shouting or such; that’s not their way. But they were never the same after.”

  “Aw,” Hargreave whispered, disappointed.

  “If you had to say, based on what you saw,” Huggins asked with interest, “what would you say happened?”

  “If I had to say,” Wang shook his head, “and I hate speculating about ‘em, ‘cause I’ve known ‘em about as long as anybody alive now, an’ I…I really care about ‘em…” He hesitated, torn.

  “C’mon, Wang,” Huggins murmured encouragingly. “If we’re gonna help ‘em somehow, we gotta know. That flower Holmes ordered—it’s gotta mean something. Didn’t you see Chadwick holding it?”

  “Yeah,” Wang grinned weakly. “We can hope, I guess. Anyway, if I had to say, I think they musta got the shit scared out of ‘em over something—it’s why they called us in—and it made him revert back to his old Victorian patterns. You know, keeping EVERYone at a distance, and such like.”

  “Afraid he was gonna lose his objectivity, maybe?” Huggins suggested perceptively. “Be too preoccupied to notice clues? It would fit with what Watson wrote about him.”

  “Maybe,” Wang nodded. “And if that HAD happened, his losing his objectivity and observational skills, it woulda been bad, really bad, given what was going on around ‘em at the time. Like…‘somebody not walkin’ away from it’ bad.”

  “Yeah,” Hargreave agreed. “So they got snippy after that?”

  “Yup,” Wang verified. “And I think the snippiness is the sign of two broken hearts that never quite pulled away, and never quite mended.”

  “Two,” Huggins murmured thoughtfully.

  “Two,” Wang declared, firm. “But you know, maybe…just maybe…now that the stress is off…”

  “For the first time in years,” Hargreave grumbled.

  “Yeah, so maybe Holmes is starting to think about it again,” Wang offered hopefully. “Maybe they both are.”

  “Now that,” Hargreave decided, “would be really…good.”

  “Wouldn’t it, though?” Wang agreed.

  “Well, let’s go, mates,” Huggins offered. “We can think about it, and try to figure out how to help nudge ‘em along. Meanwhile, it’s time to drop feed for the horses, then loop the perimeter…”

  * * *

  That night, after Billy and Tina had taken little Martha off to their own house—a cozy, relatively new little cabin in a far corner of the ranch—Skye went into the study and sorted through the considerable stack of mail their liaisons had left. It was mostly periodicals and journals, as the Williams couple had handled matters like utility bills and such as they came up, leaving Holmes and Chadwick free to work on the tesseract. While she was thus occupied, Holmes took the opportunity to slip out of the room, unnoticed.

  He moved quietly into Chadwick’s bedroom. Having cared for her as she was recuperating from her gunshot wounds after the second sabotage attempt on the tesseract four years prior, he knew his way around intimately, even though he had been in the room little in recent years.

  For that matter, I have been in my own room but little in recent years, he thought with a rueful chuckle. No, both Chadwick—Skye, he corrected himself, and I have become thoroughly familiar with our desk chairs and the sofa in the office corner, instead. It will be nice to sleep in a proper bed for a change. My own bed, at that.

  He sighed, silently hoping that way of life might soon end, and applied himself to turning down the bedclothes and finding suitably comfortable sleepwear for the woman who, whether friend or lover, was still the center of his existence. Quietly rummaging through the dresser in search of a pyjama top for Chadwick, he came across a flowing pile of pale blue satin instead, hidden at the bottom of the drawer, beneath a stack of folded sleep shirts and utilitarian flannel pyjamas. Pulling it out of the drawer, it spilled over his hands to the floor, the sleek feel of it deliciously sensual. His breath caught.

  This is altogether lovely, he thought, surveying the satin and lace nightgown and picturing the physicist within it. Her eyes would fairly glow, and her hair…He swallowed hard, trying to put the appealing image from his mind. I wonder when she obtained it…and why. I have certainly never seen her in it.

  Allowing the long suppressed artist within to emerge, he yielded to the resultant impulsiveness and laid it on the bed, ready for Chadwick to wear when she retired. Then he slipped out of the bedroom and made his way to the kitchen.

  * * *

  A little while later, Chadwick felt a tap on her shoulder. “Here,” a familiar English voice murmured over that same shoulder, “drink this, then go to bed, my dear.” She turned to see Holmes standing there with a mug in hand.

  “What is it?” she queried, accepting the mug as he proffered it.

  “A milk punch. Similar to a hot toddy, but more soporific. You need to sleep, and sleep well, tonight. You have not had a proper rest in days, if not weeks.”

  “Aw,” she murmured, touched by his consideration, dropping her gaze to stare into the cup lest he read too much in her eyes. “You’re taking care of me?”

  “Attempting to, at any rate. It came to my attention today while you slept that you are entirely too thin and tired, Skye. Expect to be plied with food and drink, and to be ushered into bed at a reasonable if not early hour, in the next few days.”

  “Deal, provided you’ll do the same,” she fired back, sipping the soothing hot drink. His use of her given name had not been lost on her either, and it pleased her. “You’ve dropped a little weight, too. Your jeans are hanging looser than they used to.”

  * * *

  “Fair enough, I suppose,” Holmes agreed. It suddenly dawned on him that in order for her to have noticed the fit of his jeans, she had to have studied his body in detail. The thought was disconcerting, but not displeasing. Before he could react, however, she spoke.

  “This is good,” Chadwick observed, staring into the mug. “Brandy?”

  “Yes. With a bit of honey and milk. I would recommend drinking it, then going to bed post-haste, else you may become too inebriated to manage. I made it rather strong.”

  “Okay,” she agreed, putting aside the rest of the mail until the morning.

  * * *

  When a mildly woozy Chadwick entered the bedroom, she was startled to find the bed turned down. She was even more startled, and decidedly chagrined, to find her favorite nightgown laid out for her use. I’d almost forgotten about that thing, she thought in dismay. I’d wanted…after Holmes and I…I’d hoped to wear it for him one day, but that day never came. I don’t suppose it ever will.

  She sighed despondently, reaching for it and running her hand over its silken smoothness. Tina must have found it, and thought I’d like to wear it tonight. But I think I’ll just put it back in the dresser and get out a t-shirt. I don’t think I…

  Then the envelope resting on the pillow caught her eye.

  * * *

  It was clearly and simply addressed: Dr. Skye Chadwick. The words were formed by a black cartridge fountain pen in a firm, precise, almost bold male handwriting. A familiar handwriting, Chadwick found, after so many years of working closely with its creator. Chadwick bit her lip in embarrassment, wondering if Tina had, after all, not been the one to see to matters of bedtime preparations, and opened the envelope, extracting the missive inside.

  * * *

  My dear Skye,

  As you know, I am not especially glib with regard to my own internal discourse. Ofttimes I find the things that matter most are the things least easily spoken. I strongly suspect, after our long association, that you already know this about me. Still, it is essential you should understand this before I continue, and so I mention it now.

  I likely should have explained this ma
tter to you years ago; but it was that very reticence of which I speak that prevented me from doing so. I now realise you need to understand why I did not continue the relationship we had once begun. In one sense, it was a deliberate and considered decision. Yet in another sense, I had absolutely no choice in the matter.

  It is really quite simple: You had been gravely injured, you were still too weak to defend yourself, and an attempt upon you was highly probable, indeed almost certain. Yet simultaneously, I faced the fact that I had come to care for you, far more than I ever anticipated, more than I thought possible. I had believed such matters laid firmly and irrevocably aside, years before. But the distraction of your charms proved… substantial. It was not until that last day, however, that I fully realised how substantial. For I no longer trusted my mind to override the demands of my body, or my heart, and focus unyieldingly upon the problem at hand—namely, recognising and countering possible threats to your safety.

  Given those considerations, the potential failure of my deductive reasoning assumed immense, nigh monumental, proportions. For a failure of that ability would have meant the certain death of the one companion I had remaining to me. And that, I would not—no, Sherlock, be honest, with yourself and with Skye—I COULD not have abided.

  Still, I perforce wondered if our budding affaire de coeur would automatically result in the dissolution of those mental faculties upon which your life depended, or if I might, as the saying goes, “have my cake, and eat it, too.” Wondered if it were possible to integrate the two—heart and mind—smoothly, seamlessly. Wondered if I would be allowed the time to try.

  I spent that entire dreadful day struggling with these thoughts, Skye. I knew I had wounded you gravely, and my regret for that was, is, and I suspect shall ever remain, deep. But in the end, I did the only thing I felt I could do, the only thing I was absolutely certain would best ensure your survival: I set aside matters of the heart in order to safeguard the one who had stirred it. I held you at arms’ length because I cared, not despite, nor because such caring was lacking. I found I preferred to have you by my side, though more distant than ardour suffered, over spending a few nights in your arms, only to lose you forever. I hope you will understand my choice—if choice it may be called—as similar to the decision you yourself made; for I, too, am not suicidal.