THE HORSES WERE FED, THE EVENING chores done. Skye perched on the deck steps along the south wing of the house, contented, watching as the sun set to her right, copper-burnishing Pikes Peak on her left and Dog-Leg Rock straight ahead. It was a peaceful evening, and she noted one of their “ranch hands” at the far corner of the upper pasture, ostensibly mending a fence; in reality, adding a tiny video monitor to the fence post. Soft, familiar footsteps approached, and Holmes sat down on the step behind her, stretching his long legs down on each side of her before leaning over her and nudging her back into his chest, leaving his hands resting on his thighs.
“It is a lovely evening,” he observed.
“I was thinking the same thing, not two minutes ago. Look at that cloud over Pikes. Doesn’t it look like spun gold fluff drifting into the heavens on the evening breeze?”
Skye felt, rather than heard, Holmes’ chuckle.
“I think we need to investigate your genealogical antecedents further, my dear. I am certain there is an artist or poet somewhere in your background.”
* * *
Skye stifled a giggle, pouting and pretending to be hurt.
“Well, if you’re going to make fun of me…”
“Now, now, my dear,” Holmes protested, not fooled for an instant. “If you would only stop to think, you should come to understand that was a compliment. You wax poetic.” He paused, thoughtful. “It does occur to me to wonder what you might produce, should you turn your hand to the writing of poetry. Or stories of adventure.”
“Oh, it would probably all be drivel,” she dismissed the idea with a wave of her hand.
“But you already write articles for scientific journals. So you can write. It simply becomes a matter of redirecting the focus of that writing.”
“You’re fishing for another Boswell.” Skye shot him a mischievous glance.
“No, encouraging the latent talent I detect within you.”
“We’ll see. Maybe one day.”
“I do hope so.”
“You’re good for me, Sherlock,” Skye declared, apropos of nothing in particular. She leaned against him, resting her head on his shoulder.
“Odd you should say that. I was considering a similar thought earlier today.”
“What, that you’re a good influence on me?” she teased.
“No. I am certain you recall the source of our…recent misunderstanding…as clearly as I.” It was not a question, and there was only one recent misunderstanding they could possibly reference.
“Yeah. It’s okay, Sherlock. Don’t dwell on it.”
“I have not. But occasionally I introspect. And today, I confess I had a revelation.”
“What sort of revelation?” Skye twisted to look up at him.
“You will recall that our misunderstanding came about because I was conflicted between emotion and intellect.”
“Yes. You’ve been worried that what you felt for me would interfere with your deductive reasoning, distracting you and getting in the way. Even, maybe, destroying your ability by, for instance, preventing your being able to make the hard decisions.”
Holmes paused, surprised at how very well she understood his concern. “Precisely. But today, the same consideration struck me in an entirely different light.”
“How, then?”
“As Watson would certainly tell you, and as you have no doubt observed, when I am on a case, I am a man transformed: Passionate, intense, and generally irresistible of deviation. The excitement produced by a case serves to accelerate those processes of reasoning and deduction which are my metier, and I not infrequently astonish those present, by dint of the seeming instantaneousness of those processes.”
“Yes,” Skye murmured, nodding her understanding.
“Imagine my surprise, then, when I discovered that those deep feelings I harbour for you have served only to focus and amplify this tendency. Rather than distracting me, the knowledge you are there beside me anchours me. I now recognize much the same thing happened with Watson, as he was my closest friend. And while he was inestimable in providing a sounding board for my thoughts, yet I still desired no harm to come to him, and this is one of the factors which provided that intensity of focus, which only developed in its fullness after I began including him in my investigations. How much the more, then, you? The sole being in this continuum, or any other, I permit so deeply within the inner sanctum, as it were?”
Skye considered his words, then nodded.
“Moreover, I find sharing a bed has given me an insight into you positively unparalleled in my experience. I once said it was impossible to know what a woman was thinking, or to build deductions inferred from her behavior, for she was such a quicksand of fleeting emotion. That may still be true for the majority of women; I do not yet know. But I find I cannot say it of you. The constancy and fidelity of your being is remarkable. I know you, Skye. As surely as I know myself, I know you—your gestures, your expressions, your turns of phrase. What you will do, what you will say, even, I sometimes fancy, what you are thinking. It is the most reassuring sensation.”
* * *
Skye smiled, turning around to note the gold floss cloud had faded to neon pink against a deep cerulean sky.
“And that’s a good thing,” she said, allowing a hint of question in her tone.
“It is. For it is good to know that…” he paused. Then, in an unsteady, hesitant voice, he resumed with soft emphasis, “…that The Woman I Love…can be depended upon, no matter the circumstance.”
Skye’s head shot around as if on ball bearings, and she stared at him in shock.
“Sherlock?” she whispered, looking up into shining silver eyes in the fading light.
* * *
“Yes, Skye?” Holmes met her eyes uncertainly, letting her alone, of all the world, see his vulnerability.
Skye twisted fully around, kneeling on the step and wrapping her arms around his neck, hugging him tight.
“Dear God. Sherlock, I’ve never been so happy in my life.”
“Good,” he whispered, letting his hands span her waist to hold her close without appearing to do so. “I knew you would be.”
After several minutes, during which the guards-cum-ranch-hands discreetly faded into invisibility, they moved apart, and Skye settled onto her step once more. Holmes leaned forward, resting his chin on top of her head, and together they watched twilight encroach.
“I suppose,” he considered, “I should look into the possibility of making the matter permanent. No, that was not well stated. ‘Official’ is the better word. I should look into making the matter official.”
* * *
Skye gave a shrug, happiness growing into joy.
“It all depends on what you want to do, Sherlock. As far as I’m concerned, we already are, and Colorado law is pretty laid-back on the subject. All we really have to do is declare we’re permanent, sign a paper or two, and as far as the state is concerned, we’re official.”
The thought seemed to startle Holmes, and Skye wondered if she’d misunderstood what he meant.
“Interesting,” he murmured, and she felt his chin move against the top of her head as he spoke. “I…Skye, would you feel slighted if I asked to take my time? As you know, I am…” He sighed and broke off. “I was decidedly unconventional in my own day and age, but I find I am still rather tradition-bound, relative to your time.”
Skye understood then: There were too many options, and Holmes wanted to explore them in more detail, hoping to select one that would make them both comfortable and happy.
“Sherlock, it doesn’t matter to me in the least. You know my views on the subject—it isn’t about the ceremony, it’s about the bond between two people and their Creator. We can have a big church thing, or a little church thing, or a civil thing, or nothing at all. As long as you’re here…” She searched behind herself for his hands, tugging them around her waist. “…I’m happy.” She drew one of his hands to her mouth and kissed its palm, hearing the catch of breath overhead. “You do what makes you happy. If you’re comfortable and secure with it, so am I.”
There was a long silence, then the chin on her head disappeared. Warm breath feathered in her ear seconds later, and she shivered in delight.
“By Jove, it took losing everything I had ever known and traversing spacetime itself, to find you. But what I have discovered is breathtaking.” A soft kiss was pressed behind that same ear. Skye turned her head into Holmes’, expressing her appreciation, and he nuzzled.
By this time it was full dark, the stars appearing overhead, and the pair sat invisible in the darkness.
“We…w-we should go in. It’s getting chilly.”
“Is it? I’d not noticed,” Holmes’ lips murmured from somewhere beneath her blonde hair. “Perhaps I simply need to be more energetic in my attentions; then you would feel warmer.”
“I was actually thinking we could be ‘energetic’ inside, take our time, and do it right. But maybe you’d rather have dinner instead.” Skye giggled.
“Is it dinnertime?”
“It is.”
“Yes, I suppose it is, at that. Perhaps later,” Holmes decided, as a guard exited the bunkhouse. “But I do think retiring indoors might be a good thing, after all.”
He stood, holding out his hand to help his giggling lady to her feet. Her laughter was infectious, and by the time they passed through the back door, both were chuckling.
* * *
Holmes lay in bed, his shadowed face staring at the dim ceiling in thought. One arm was curled behind his head; the other gathered Skye close. Her head rested on his shoulder, and she snuggled into his side.
“What are you thinking about?” she asked.
“You.”
“Me? What about me?”
Holmes turned to look into her eyes.
“Skye…you have never truly wept for your parents, have you? You as much as admitted it, that day in your office when you told me what happened to them.”
“No, not…not really.”
He watched as pain flashed deep in the sky-blue eyes. Her eyelids fluttered in response, and she drew a long, shaky breath. Holmes withdrew the hand behind his head and cupped her cheek with it.
“If you require it, draw upon my strength, for I will support you, but let it out, Skye. Before it destroys you.”
Her blue eyes warmed, and she gave him a tender, yet rueful, smile.
* * *
“You don’t understand, Sherlock. I can’t. I don’t dare.”
“Why not?”
“Because if I do, all the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t put Skye back together again,” she explained, a frisson of anxiety running through her. “There’s always been too much riding on it, too much weight on my shoulders—first the tesseract project, and now this investigation and…and they’re out to get me. I can’t risk it. Didn’t it ever occur to you to wonder why I understand your concern over emotional distractions? Why, though it hurt, I never got angry at you for it?”
“Yes. You have been…so very patient…”
“It’s because I have my own emotional distractions to fight. I…if I let go, I’ll come apart at the seams, and…and I honestly don’t know if I’d be able to pick up the pieces. Ever,” she added. A shiver of dread racked her body.
“So you wall it off, and refuse to deal with it at all. That is unhealthy, Skye.”
* * *
As soon as he said the words, the direct parallel between her coping technique and his own rose up to stare at him, accusing.
“I know,” she added miserably. “But until I can figure out how to let it out and not go crazy, what choice do I have?”
Holmes didn’t have an answer for that.
* * *
They were sound asleep, curled around each other, when the racket arose outside, punctuated by two sharp gunshots somewhere in the front yard. Grey eyes and blue snapped open, staring into each other in the moonlight. Holmes’ revolver was in his hand before Skye could blink, and he rolled out of bed into a crouch facing the door, gun up and cocked. With his other hand he reached for his dressing gown, draped over the bedpost.
“My dear Skye,” he murmured calmly over his shoulder, “do you have your Glock in hand?”
“You betcha,” Skye growled, sitting up and hefting the weapon.
“Then do you stand guard while I don my dressing gown.”
Skye watched door and windows while Holmes flung on his dressing gown and belted it securely. Outside, the sound of a fierce dog barking added to the commotion. Still facing the door, Holmes directed an order at Skye.
“Get off the bed and put on some clothing, dearest; I’ll not risk the villains taking advantage of you in that state of undress. Then get down here.” Adrenaline-fueled, he shoved the substantial nightstand several feet from the bed and pointed to the alcove thus created. “Stay there until I return, and keep your weapon at the ready.”
Skye tumbled out of bed, scrabbling her way into her discarded blue jeans and t-shirt while Holmes stood watch.
“Hurry, my dear,” he murmured, restraining his impatience with an obvious effort.
“I’m hurrying as fast as I can!”
* * *
As soon as she was decent, Holmes vanished through the bedroom door, and Skye crouched in the shelter he’d made. There was more shouting outside, more dogs barking; then, much closer, the faint sound of metal rasping on metal, and the quiet grate of a window opening.
Skye eased her head up, peering over the bed toward the windows. Her eyes widened as she saw the silhouette of a head in one of them. He saw her at the same time, and cocked his head in savage amusement. Skye’s lips twisted in disgust. Idiot, she thought.
“Well, well, this’ll be easier than I thought. Bogey in my sights. Target acquired.” The intruder raised a pistol. “Let’s go, you, nice and quiet.”
“Guess again, Junior Bird Man,” Skye snarled, bringing her Glock over the edge of the bed.
* * *
Holmes stormed out the front door, revolver at the ready, into organized chaos. Immediately he dropped and rolled into one of the large arborvitae beside the door to obscure his outline. Four of their five guards were nearby, one handling a guard dog, the others behind various forms of cover.
“Report!” he barked to the nearest recognized shadow, then caught himself. Great Heavens. ‘Commander Holmes’ has worked on the base for far too long.
“Trespasser with a gun,” Ryker’s voice hissed. “We caught him off guard and he drew down.”
“Anyone hurt?”
“Don’t think so.”
“Where is the intruder now?”
“Ran toward that clump of aspen in the far corner,” Ryker’s gun pointed to the aspen grove in the northwest corner of Skye’s property. “Halliwell headed down the road. He’s gonna circle around the rise and come up behind him. When he gives the signal, Wang will release the dog, and we’ll try to flush the perp into the open.” Ryker gave Holmes a sharp glance. “You didn’t leave Dr. Chadwick alone, did you?”
“No. She had Glock with her.”
“She’s some kinda lady.” Ryker chuckled.
“She is,” Holmes grinned. “I—”
The jarring boom cut off all further conversation. It was immediately followed by the sound of shattering glass and a high-pitched scream.
All from INSIDE the house.
Holmes and Ryker lunged for the front door.
* * *
Holmes slammed a path across the house with a cool determination belying the horrified dread within, battering through doors as he made his way to the master bedroom. Ryker was a step behind, followed by one of his men. The unit leader had only paused long enough to bark an order to the remaining men to guard the house entrances and get a vehicle ready, in case they were needed for emergency transport of wounded. As he approached the bedroom door, Holmes brought up his revolver, then darted through the opening at an angle, gun at the ready. Ryker came right behind, flanking the other side of the door. The guard remained in the hallway.
* * *
Skye crouched on the near side of the bed, Glock in a two-handed grip aimed at the broken window across the room, arms braced on the mattress. She risked a swift glance over her shoulder.
“Sherlock! I knew those had to be your footsteps. He jimmied the window. He was going to kidnap me. I think I got him, but I didn’t want to get too close to the window, in case he was faking.”
Ryker turned to his subordinate, issuing an order via a finger flip. The guard, Stevens by name, nodded, turned, and sprinted back down the hall, intent on exiting and circumnavigating the house. Holmes ran to Skye and dropped to his knees at her side, while Ryker maintained his weapon trained on the broken window.
“Skye, are you hurt?” an anxious Holmes queried, shoving his revolver into the pocket of his dressing gown and taking her shoulders, which were trembling.
“No, I’m fine,” she panted. “Got a serious adrenaline buzz on, though.”
Holmes’ hands roved her body despite her reassurances, seeking injury. He found none, and sat back on his heels in relief. The grey eyes blazed molten silver.
* * *
“It was a diversion,” he growled, cold fury raging. “A simple diversion, while his compatriot went for the real target. And we fell for it.”
“He got away,” Stevens called through the window. “But ‘The Boss’ was right. She did get him, and how. There’s a pretty good smear of blood down the wall.”
“Forensics!” Skye called back. “Don’t mess up the evidence!”
“All over it. Uh, well, not all over it, rather. Mr. Holmes, you might wanna take a look, too.”
“Just a moment,” Holmes replied. He glanced at Ryker. Ryker stared back.
“You know what we need to do,” Holmes answered the unspoken thought.
“Yes.”
“My resources are limited, as yet.”
“Mine aren’t,” Ryker retorted. “Give me a few minutes to arrange it.”
“We will need a few minutes to prepare, anyway.” Holmes turned to The Woman as Ryker left the room. “My dear Skye, get out two small suitcases, if you would,” he ordered, padding over to the window to examine it.
“Sherlock, be careful. There’s broken glass all over, and you’re barefoot.”
“I shall be fine,” he replied, studying the evidence on the window’s sill and frame. “Stevens, are there marks from a ladder out there?” he called, while Skye rooted in the back of the closet and pulled out two carry-on suitcases, one soft-sided, the other Holmes’ military duffel.
“Yes, sir,” Stevens noted. “Stands to reason; the window’s too high off the ground otherwise. He kicked it over when he got shot, and evidently fell out the window, which is how the window broke. The ladder’s lying here by the wall. It’s the one The Boss was using to trim the shrubs day before yesterday.”
“Footprints?”
“Yes, sir, in the shrub beds. Briscom’s gone to get cameras and casting material. And I got blood samples for the lab.”
“Any indication the kidnapper hesitated, was uncertain which window to approach?”
“No, sir. Looks like he walked right to it.”
“Very well. All right,” Holmes murmured, withdrawing from the window. “The kidnappers—two, apparently—have had us under surveillance for some time; possibly the hikers on the hillsides to the north. They know the layout, and they know you left the stepladder out, Skye.”
“Damn. I’m…I’m sorry, Sherlock.” Skye glanced up at him, concerned. The disturbed, anxious expression on her face caused him to focus on her for a minute.
“Relax, my dear. It was merely opportunistic usage. None of us thought to put the ladder away, the more so as the shrubs were not finished. This is, after all, a functioning ranch, not a bolthole. Don’t worry yourself over such a trifle. Everything is well in hand. Leave the bags; I shall help you pack in a moment. I already know precisely what I want.”
“Okay,” Skye murmured, sitting down on the bed and watching.
“So they create a diversion,” Holmes continued his scenario, “one blatantly trespassing by the road, brandishing a weapon, while the other slips in from the side, managing to evade the patrol. He moves for the house, takes the ladder he already knows will be there, and unhesitatingly places it beneath our bedroom window.”
“So far, so good.”
“He climbs to the window, forces it, and is partway into the room when you confronted…” Holmes turned and stared at the window, trying to recall the sounds: The loud boom, the glass shattering, the scream he now knew had come from the would-be kidnapper. Holmes fought off the overwhelming relief that thought brought him, threatening to divert his reasoning in the process, and added, “Skye, your pistol is a nine-millimeter, is it not?”
“Yeah, Sherlock. One of the standard police calibers.”
“Too small.” Holmes shook his head.
“For what?”
“The boom.” Holmes spun and moved to the wall beside the door, commencing an intense search. “The sound of the shot was much too loud for your gun to have produced. There,” he said, pointing to an area about six feet above the floor.
A small round hole pierced the sheet rock.
“He got off a shot,” Skye realized, eyes wide.
“At the precise instant you did. That is why the concussion was so loud. You are most fortunate, dearest.” Holmes glanced from the window to the wall. “He was quick, this one.”
* * *
“He was young,” Skye shrugged, and Holmes spun toward her, eyes blazing with excitement.
“You saw him?”
“Not only saw him. I can tell you where to start looking for him.”
“Then tell me.” Holmes stalked over to the bed and dropped down to sit beside her. “Details, please.”
“He made the mistake of tilting his head. That let the moonlight fall on his face and gave me a clear look at him. He was tow-headed and clean-shaven, with a military crew cut. There was a small white scar above the left corner of his upper lip. He was lean and tanned, around eighteen or twenty. He used fighter pilot terms, like ‘bogey’ and ‘target acquired.’ And to top it, he’d forgotten to take off his Air Force Academy class ring. Get me the class photos from the last couple years of Academy students, and I’ll identify the guy for you.” Skye was confident, detailing the incident and reaching her conclusion.
Holmes stared at her with sparkling, delighted eyes.
“My dearest Skye, you are a gem, a positive gem,” he said, hugging her impulsively before standing. “Now we must hurry. Although I hate to admit to it, our home is no longer safe. We must disappear, and quickly.” He went to the closet, extracting an eclectic selection of Skye’s clothes, tumbling them into one of the bags. “Get your toiletries, my dear. Bring as much of your makeup as you can fit for any disguises we may need.”
Skye stared at him for a moment. Then she tiptoed around the glass on the floor to peep out the window. Stevens was near the far northwest corner of the house, studying the footprints in the dust. Satisfied they would not be overheard, she turned back to Holmes.
“Sherlock, how are we going to disappear? I don’t have anyplace to go—not that wouldn’t put friends in danger—and you don’t have any hiding places…uhm, boltholes…established yet, do you?”
“No, I do not, but Ryker is arranging matters.”
“Sherlock, we know Schriever has been infiltrated, Cheyenne Mountain and Peterson are almost certainly tied in, and now it looks like the Academy is involved, too. You said yourself this guy,” she pointed to the broken window, “had inside information, had been watching the house. How do we know one or more of our bodyguards aren’t involved?”
* * *
Holmes stopped packing, looking up at her.
“We do not, but it is highly unlikely.”
“Why?”
“Because our guards are not from any base in Colorado, nor even from the United States. They are MI-5.”
“British counter-intelligence?! Her Majesty’s Secret Service?”
“Yes,” Holmes agreed, turning to the closet and selecting clothing for himself. “When we realised our quarry was after you, and likely had multiple inside contacts, Morris made a call to his most-trusted confidante in the Pentagon. That contact, in turn, pulled in some…friends. Given proof of my involvement, it presented no difficulty. The unit was put on alert and flown over from England within hours of the discussion with the general. Morris kept them secreted off-base at an undisclosed location until needed.”
“Sherlock…do they know who you really are?” Skye gaped.
“Yes, madam, we do,” Ryker’s voice, suddenly possessed of a cultured English cadence, responded from the door. The pair in the bedroom looked up to see the MI5 officer standing in the opening. Holmes nodded a greeting, then grabbed several handfuls of undergarments from the dresser for himself and Skye, stuffing them unceremoniously into the bags. “We were given a full and proper briefing on the matter before departing Northolt, and again by Brigadier General Morris upon arrival in Colorado Springs. May I add, we are honoured to assist a true hero of the kingdom…and his lady.” Ryker bowed.
“So you have a vested interest in protecting us.” Skye shook her head in wonder.
Ryker’s eyes twinkled, and he resumed the twang of a Western ranch hand, laying it on thick.
“Yes’m, we do. Ever’ danged one of us has read Mr. Holmes’ adventures, and now ‘at we’ve met ‘im in th’ flesh, we ain’t about t’ let nothin’ happen to ‘im. Or ta you.”
* * *
Skye giggled despite herself, but the two men could hear the note of strain in the sound. Holmes gently smacked her shoulder with a familiar hand, diverting her attention to urge action.
“Go. Get the makeup together, my dear. We must hurry.”
Skye scampered into the bathroom and seconds later came the sound of items being dumped into a container. Holmes turned to the closet, extracting a pair of jeans and a dark grey polo shirt. He looked at Ryker and circled a finger; the other man discreetly turned his back while still maintaining his guard. Holmes’ dressing gown came off and disappeared into one of the suitcases before he slid his long, lean body into the jeans, then flipped the shirt over his head, not bothering to tuck it in. A thought occurred to him, and he added another pair of shoes for each of them to the cases, along with leather belts, just before shoving his feet into his cowboy boots.
“Leave the rest,” Ryker murmured. “We can see to anything you need.”
Two minutes later Skye emerged with Holmes’ shaving kit stuffed near to bursting, and a large zipper-style plastic bag of makeup, sponges, and application brushes.
“Here’s the makeup,” she handed Holmes the plastic bag, and he stuffed it into the corner of one of the suitcases. When he held out his hand again, she plopped the shaving kit in it. “That’s all your stuff, including your pipe, plus my toothbrush, antiperspirant, and the like.”
Holmes nodded and tucked it into the other suitcase.
“Put on some shoes, my dear, and let us begone.”
* * *
Skye’s black Infiniti waited close to the side door when they slipped out. Most of the MI-5 guards clustered there to disguise how many bodies moved through the moonlight; in minutes, Holmes and Skye were huddled down in the back seat, while Ryker drove.
They chose the very long way to Highway 24, taking several back roads and going halfway to Cripple Creek in the process. After about twenty minutes, during which time they had yet to reach the main highway, they pulled onto a gravel road leading deep into the woods. There, a small, heavily armed group awaited them in the near pitch-blackness with another car. Ryker spirited the pair, with their luggage, into the other car, a nondescript dark Taurus.
As they continued through the woods, he murmured to the couple hunkered together in the back seat, “Don’t worry. That was the rest of my unit. They’ll take care of your car. It’ll be back on the ranch in an hour. But it’ll look like you’re still in it when it arrives. In fact, it’ll look like you’re still living in the house, indefinitely.”
“Excellent,” Holmes purred, using his body to shield Skye, who lay beneath him. “I knew our planning would prove useful.”
“Indeed,” Ryker agreed, letting another hint of his native dialect emerge. “It’s doubtful they’ll dare to come back, not after the capable way Dr. Chadwick handled herself. Still, this way they won’t even know you’ve gone, and that’ll really unnerve them.”
Ryker was a skilled driver, and soon they were on the main highway, zooming toward Colorado Springs. Down in Manitou Springs, Ryker diverted again, into the old city, up a dark, dog-leg alley between two artisan’s shops not too far from the cog railroad. There, another change of vehicles awaited: A navy Suburban. The trio flitted from the Taurus to the Suburban, and in seconds they were headed into Colorado Springs proper.
Once in Colorado Springs, Ryker accessed the freeway and checked their environment.
“No one’s following. We’re in the clear. And this is bulletproof glass. You can sit up.”
Holmes eased off his companion, and he and Skye sat up, straightening their hair and clothing and putting all to rights.
Near the airport, the Suburban exited the freeway onto a kind of “hotel row” along Aerotech Drive. Skye and Holmes watched as Ryker took them unobtrusively into a posh, independent hotel, the Cimarron Springs, moving to the loading dock in the rear and driving inside one of the garage openings.
“Righto, then. There’s Williams waiting,” Ryker pointed at the tall, broad-shouldered man with spiky strawberry-blond hair, who emerged into the interior loading area, “and this is where I pop back up the mountain. Williams is one of my best mates, and head of his own unit; you can trust him. If you need anything from your house, let him know, and one of my men will stop by with it.”
“Thank you, Captain,” Holmes shook Ryker’s hand. “Hopefully we will see you soon.”
“I’ve no doubt, Mr. Holmes,” Ryker smiled. “Be careful, and take care of that lady of yours.”
“As if there were any question,” Holmes chuckled. “Quite aside from…personal considerations, she has already saved my life twice; I owe her recompense.”
* * *
They slipped out the back of the Suburban before Ryker could register his surprise. Ryker popped the rear door to reveal their suitcases. Holmes caught one, but before Skye could lift the other, Williams was there, taking the second case. He slammed the rear door closed, then knocked twice on it.
“Come,” he murmured, gesturing them through the service entrance of the hotel, “before anyone sees. We need to get you into the saferoom.”
Williams led Holmes and Chadwick into the hotel as Ryker drove off into the night.
* * *
Five minutes of covert scurrying through darkened, empty service corridors and a short jaunt up the freight elevator brought them into a nondescript alcove in the fourth floor; inside the recess was a life-size portrait of the Cheyenne chief Dull Knife.
“Pay attention,” Williams murmured, the hint of a Liverpool accent emerging, “and make sure there’s no one in the hall before you do this. There’s a video monitor inside the room, with its camera trained on the corridor, to ensure you can exit unseen.” He flipped up a section of the wainscoting, exposing a number keypad. He punched the digits 7593. They heard a sibilance, and the portrait popped away from the wall. “Did you get that?”
“Yes,” Holmes murmured.
“My name,” Skye breathed, and both men chuckled.
“Yes,” Williams confirmed, sotto voce. “Telephone coded, shall we say. Inside. Hurry.”
Holmes’ hand on Skye’s waist guided her through the black opening, the detective hard on her heels. Williams slipped in and closed the hidden door silently behind them. The trio was plunged into darkness, and Holmes felt Skye lean against him. It was the only hint of her anxiety, and it was eliminated instants later when Williams located the light switch.
“Oh,” Skye murmured, dumbfounded, and she and Holmes turned to survey their surroundings.
It was not merely some single-room bolt-hole, it was a hidden suite. As it was a secure saferoom, there were no windows, but the amenities more than made up for it. They stood in an elegant sitting room in subtle tones of mauve and grey, complete with an entertainment center, wet bar, and stocked kitchenette. Abstract pieces of artwork, in colors matching the décor, were scattered about the walls. A telephone sat on the end table beside the sofa; Holmes pointed.
“Clean, with cipher capability,” Williams noted. “Hit the red button, and it rings straight through to me.” Holmes nodded, satisfied.
Behind the sitting room, and just as big, was the bedroom, with a thick, pillow-top king-size bed clad in blue shades of silk, a dresser, another entertainment center, and two nightstands. The floor was carpeted in a lush, medium-blue pile. Nighttime landscapes, both photographic and portrait, contrasted with the delicate cream of the walls. The luxurious white and chrome bath had a marble shower and separate jacuzzi, twin sinks in a marble vanity, and mirrors everywhere.
“My gosh,” Skye murmured, almost gawking she was so amazed. “I don’t know what I expected, but this sure wasn’t it.”
“We’ve had a few celebrities and international statesmen come through,” Williams noted, “and having a posh hidden suite comes in handy, on occasion. It’s regularly swept for bugs, and it’s soundproofed. There’s another series of saferooms below this one, intended for our operatives, but they’re not as nice. Ryker thought the two of you would enjoy this one,” Williams said, putting Skye’s suitcase on the stand in the corner of the bedroom. “May…I ask a few questions? They will be…somewhat personal, but will help me work with you better.”
Skye glanced at Holmes, and he read in her eyes: She defers to me. Very well. He turned to Williams.
“We reserve the right to refuse, should your inquiries become too personal.”
“Fair enough. My first question would be to Dr. Chadwick.”
* * *
“All right,” Skye murmured, surprised.
“Is Mr. Holmes as Sir Arthur Conan Doyle depicted him?”
“Oh, yeah. Every bit.” Skye chuckled dryly.
“Then…” Williams hesitated. Finally he added tactfully, “Do I need to provide an additional…sleeping berth?”
“No,” Holmes responded succinctly and definitively. Williams’ forehead creased in confusion and distress at the response.
“So Ryker is right, and the two of you are…” He half-turned in dismay. “I don’t understand. Holmes in the stories is…he doesn’t…he’s a thinking machine,” Williams protested, his expression indicating how badly this information offended. “Am I to expect you to assist in the investigation, or will you simply stay here and…tryst…with your lady-love?”
The agent’s insinuating tone was almost—almost—disgusted, but he evidently couldn’t bring himself to disrespect the famous detective that much. The operative’s pale blue eyes narrowed in distaste; the reddish-blond brows furrowed. It was obvious Williams held the Holmes of literary tradition in high regard, almost to the point of veneration, and was bitterly disappointed by what he saw as a weakness in the flesh and blood version.
* * *
An affronted Skye took a step toward the British agent, but Holmes put out a hand to halt her, his perilous grey eyes glittering. She nodded, and Holmes turned to Williams.
“I am as you see me, Williams,” Holmes observed with a biting undercurrent to his tone. “That is all you are required to know. You may assist us or not, as you wish. But you will most assuredly find me continuing to take an extremely active role in this investigation. And, in all likelihood, Skye—Dr. Chadwick, my liaison and bosom companion, if not my Boswell—will participate, as well. Although we will have to disguise her.”
“You damn bet I will,” Skye muttered, angry.
Williams stood for long moments, staring skeptically at Holmes.
“I am certain you have been provided with dossiers on us,” Holmes declared. “Have you read them?”
“I have.”
“Then use your eyes, man, and the brains God gave you. It is an elementary deduction,” Holmes remarked with asperity.
* * *
She’s right about one thing, Williams thought ruefully, feeling the sting of the detective’s rebuke. He certainly seems to act like the Holmes of literature.
Williams turned his attention to Skye, and there was silence for several moments while he surveyed her, pondering what he knew of the case and their interactions. She blushed under the scrutiny of the big, imposing man, but stood her ground, meeting the operative’s austere gaze without faltering. The younger man was no fool, and he astutely read much in her eyes: Intelligence, determination, humor, caring, and a deep love for the detective by her side. It occurred to him that Holmes had an artistic half, and this attractive woman—a world-class scientist in her own right—had worked closely with him for many months.
Plus, he thought, remembering the stories, Holmes wasn’t bereft of caring. The bond between him and Watson was very deep. But he lost Watson when he came here. So perhaps he sought to replace that relationship with another. Only the other happened to be female? A female possessing high intellect, an artist’s vision of beauty, and caring enough to save him from Reichenbach despite the cost to herself. Maybe it makes sense after all.
“I think I’m beginning to understand,” the agent offered, his hero-worshipping sensibilities soothed. “Beauty, intelligence, and a large heart—plus, she was your liaison and friend. And now fellow investigator. You must have been thrown together quite a lot. She grew on you, didn’t she? Probably without your even realising it at first…”
Skye blushed deeper. Holmes watched Williams silently, but his grey eyes flickered, betraying appeasement and appreciation.
That’s it, Williams crowed, seeing the fleeting expression on Holmes’ face.
“Very well; I do understand now, I think. I will, of course, do my best to assist you both with everything in my power—that was never in question. I’m no Mycroft, but I get quite a lot done, just the same. Please forgive my earlier bluntness, and chalk it up to a…temporary lack of comprehension.”
Holmes waved a long, thin hand, turning toward the suitcases. “All is forgotten.”
* * *
“Now, before I leave, a quick matter of logistics,” Williams suggested. “I’ll bring up breakfast late, say around nine, to allow you some rest; it’s very late already. After breakfast, we can make our plans for the day. Is that acceptable?”
“It is,” Holmes agreed, and Skye nodded.
“Good. Then might I suggest you retire now? You’ll be safe here; you have my word.”
“Thank you, my good man,” Holmes murmured, gratified. “It is good to know England remains supportive of her devoted son. Regardless of time or space.”
Williams snapped off a smart British salute; Holmes bowed. Then the intelligence operative departed.
* * *
The exhausted pair was in bed in record time. Skye turned out the bedside lamp and the windowless room was plunged into blackness.
“Oh, that’s no good,” Skye muttered, fumbling for the lamp and turning it back on. “I’ll get up to go to the bathroom and kill myself.”
Holmes sat up as a nude Skye got out of bed and wandered around the room searching.
“There has to be a nightlight in here someplace. Sherlock, look in the nightstand drawers. I’ll check the bathroom.”
Holmes pulled out the drawer from the nearest nightstand and fished around. He hauled out a telephone directory, Gideon Bible, travel magazine, Colorado Springs tourism brochure, notepad, half-a-dozen assorted pens and pencils…and a small, flat square of plastic with an electric plug in the back. The detective raised an eyebrow, considering the object. He shoved the rest of the items back into the drawer.
“Skye?”
Skye’s head popped around the bathroom door, and Holmes held up the object.
“This?”
“You lifesaver, you,” she remarked, coming over and taking it from him. “Wall socket, wall socket…”
“There,” Holmes pointed to the socket on the opposite wall, near the bathroom door.
Skye hastened to the electrical socket, stooping down to plug in the little light. It flickered, then glowed softly.
* * *
“Bingo,” Skye grinned, stretching her naked body. Grey eyes dilated as she did, and followed her until she lay by Holmes’ side once more. Again she turned out the lamp, and this time the room was not pitched into utter blackness. A warm orange light, not unlike low firelight, filled the space. Holmes turned to his consort and pulled her close.
“Sherlock,” she murmured as he nuzzled her neck, “it’s past 2:30 now. Shouldn’t we get some sleep?”
He pressed his face against her neck and took a slow, deep breath.
“We will,” he exhaled. “It is…You were nearly shot tonight. Nearly kidnapped.”
“’Nearly’ doesn’t count,” she told him with a grin.
“No. But it does…affect…your especial beau.”
“Oh,” Skye said, touched. She nudged his head out of the curve of her neck so she could gaze into his face. The silver of his grey eyes held golden glints in the dim light, and she saw disquiet there. “You need to know I’m okay, not just have me tell you.”
“Yes.”
“Okay, I’m here. Do what you need to relax.” Skye kissed him, pressing close.
Holmes’ slim fingers explored her body, starting with her torso. But to her surprise, he poked and prodded with the tips, rather than providing the smooth, sensuous caresses Skye had anticipated.
“Uff…ooo…Sherlock, what are you…THAT TICKLES!!”
* * *
A deep chuckle floated through the air.
“I know,” he said, and he grinned.
Time to lighten the mood.
* * *
“No fair!” Skye cried, trying to jerk away from his fingertips and finding Holmes’ long arms enabled him to follow her.
“You know the saying, my dear: ‘All’s fair in love and war,’” Holmes replied, and white teeth flashed in the dim light as he grinned again.
“And this is both, huh?” Skye gasped, struggling to escape his invasive fingers. “Well, there’s another saying: ‘Two can play at that game!’” and she went on the offensive, whacking him with a pillow before lunging at him, shoving the covers off his chest.
“But I am not ticklish, my dear Skye.”
“The hell you aren’t.”
Skye gritted her teeth against his renewed onslaught. Her hand disappeared beneath the blankets, sliding between his thighs. Holmes’ eyes widened in shocked surprise; the grin vanished.
“AH!” he cried, trying to crabwalk away from her in the huge bed.
Skye let out a triumphant giggle and launched herself at him.