A DISREPUTABLE-LOOKING SKYE SLUNK THROUGH THE hotel and into the saferoom without being seen by guests or regular staff, aided by the MI-5 operatives who awaited her. There, she found the bedroom door closed and Williams waiting for her in the den with makeup wipes and tissues to remove her streetwalker disguise.
“What happened?” she demanded, as she scrubbed away her exaggerated makeup and discarded the battered denim jacket and scruffy brunette wig. She snatched up the t-shirt Williams held and threw it on over the skin-revealing bandeau she wore, tugging it down over skintight jeans. “How bad is he hurt? Who did it? Where did it happen? Is he in the hospital?”
“Calm down, Dr. Chadwick,” Williams soothed. “I recalled you as much for your own safety as to be at his side. He’s here, in the bedroom, resting. He’s not seriously hurt, just thoroughly bruised and banged up and not in the best of moods. Nothing broken, and nothing ruptured. Evidently a street gang who felt he was invading their turf accosted him. Supposedly he was wearing the wrong colors or some such. Something about a Bloods necktie, I gather. I’ve contacted Ryker, Smith, and Jones, as well as a few other operative friends, and we’re still trying to ascertain if it was a legitimate gang misunderstanding, or if somehow they were sicced onto Holmes.”
“How do you know he’s not hurt badly?”
“Because I have paramedic training. I’m not only the team lead, I’m the ‘patch ‘em up guy’ in my unit, and I have access to our service doctor if we should need him. It took some doing to persuade Holmes to let me examine him, I guess because of Victorian attitudes, but I’ve already taken a good long look at him. Nothing serious. Trust me. It was merely a case of beating on him by way of ‘teaching him a lesson.’ Admittedly, we’re fortunate they didn’t pull knives. But,” Williams paused, uncertain how to proceed.
“’But’ what?”
“Well…” Williams gave her a helpless look. “Forgive me if I offend, Doctor. But I know you and Mr. Holmes have…an intimate relationship, and…well, I’m afraid you’ll have to be very gentle with him for a few days.”
“Why?”
Williams grimaced sympathetically as he explained.
“Among other injuries, Mr. Holmes took a knee in the groin. Nothing bad,” he hastened to add, “but he’s…bruised. And while it isn’t much, it doesn’t take much there to be very painful.”
“Oh,” Skye said, nonplused, before pulling a face. “Poor Sherlock. No wonder he balked at an examination.”
“Yes. He looks rather beaten up, black eye and such, but keep in mind when you see him: It looks worse than it really is. He’s decidedly annoyed, I suspect at himself as much as anyone, so he could use a little calming and probably some TLC, too. He’s had ice packs over half his body for awhile; I removed them about five minutes ago. He’ll have to endure them again later, I’m afraid. I’ve already given him something for pain—no, it wasn’t a narcotic,” he added, seeing Skye’s alarmed look. “I know his history, and he himself requested something non-narcotic, I’m pleased to say. So I gave him a horse-sized dose of naproxin for pain, and some diphenhydramine to help him rest. He might even be asleep by now.” Williams jerked a thumb at the door. “Why don’t you go in? I’ll wait out here for a moment should you need anything.”
“Okay,” Skye murmured consent, opening the door and slipping into the darkened bedroom alone.
* * *
She eased the door closed behind herself and stood, allowing her eyes to adjust to the dim illumination from the nightlight in the far corner. After a few moments, she was able to discern the outline of Holmes’ body in the bed. Seconds later she saw the glitter of eyes in the shadowed face.
“I guess you’re awake,” she murmured, moving toward the bed.
“I am,” Holmes said brusquely.
“How are you feeling?”
“Like a damned fool.”
“No,” Skye shook her head. “Don’t blame yourself. I should have…it was my fault,” she said miserably, offering herself as a scapegoat. “I know you had gangs back in the Victorian timeframe, but street gangs like this developed in the last, oh, half century or so, what with illicit drug smuggling and internationally-organized crime. Some of ‘em are damn near paramilitary groups. So there are some neighborhoods it’s dangerous to go into, in any city. You didn’t know. I’m your liaison—I should have warned you, should have told you what to look out for. I’m so sorry, Sherlock. I let you down, and you got hurt.”
* * *
Holmes watched her, seeing her distress, knowing in the next moments the blue eyes would likely well with guilty, worried tears, although seldom did such tears ever overflow. Frankly he was in no mood for it, but neither did he want to make matters worse by being too sharp. Her expression when she’d entered the bedroom indicated Williams had abruptly recalled her with little explanation save that he’d been injured. Undoubtedly she had spent an anxious time of it until she could get back and find out what happened.
She was frightened, and she will always associate such things with finding her parents, no doubt.
At the thought, Holmes’ irritation deflated. He took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh, then patted the bed beside him.
“Come here, Skye,” he said softly. “It is not your fault. Truthfully, I saw one group of them and was manoeuvring to avoid the confrontation I perceived coming. It was the other group I failed to notice,” he admitted unwillingly, “because I did not know the neighborhood as well as I should have liked. As well as I would have, had I been in my London.” He let out a sigh of regret. “I was, quite simply, outmanoeuvred on unfamiliar territory. I suppose it could happen to anyone, in the circumstances. I suspect I needed more time to learn my way around the city before taking up such an intensive case as this is proving to be.”
While he talked, Skye kicked off her shoes and crawled onto the bed beside him, sitting cross-legged next to him.
“Maybe we should team up for awhile. I still don’t know some parts of the Springs that well, myself. It might be safer. With the two of us working together, we ought to learn even the seedy parts pretty well, and fairly safely.”
“It will be a few days before I am able to take to the streets again for anything,” Holmes said sourly, annoyance returning as he realized how his plans had been derailed. “I seem to be one large bruise.”
“Well, then it’s time to let me take care of you again, for a change. That’s how relationships are supposed to work, you know.”
“You need to keep following Jenkins. We must stay close to our prey.”
“Maybe Williams can help us there. He has a whole network of operative friends. If we sic ‘em onto our suspects directly, instead of using them only as my backup…”
Holmes chuckled, stopping abruptly at the pain in his pummeled rib cage.
“The twenty-first century Colorado Springs version of the Baker Street Irregulars, eh? It might work, at that.”
“And it has the advantage of not raising suspicion by our suspects seeing the same old broad wandering around all the time,” Skye grinned, lacing her fingers in his.
“What is an ‘old broad’?” Holmes wondered, tugging her down onto the bed by those same fingers. He stared at her in confusion.
“Oh, it’s a reference to an older woman, and not a very complimentary one. As in, ‘broad in the beam.’” Skye laughed as she stretched out beside him.
“Ah. Then the term does not belong in any reference to you,” he declared, trying to put his arms around her and failing.
“You didn’t see my disguise today,” Skye snickered. “You’d already left by the time I got it on. It was pretty…disreputable.”
“Still,” Holmes replied firmly, dismissing the entire concept with a single word. He made another, more determined, attempt at drawing her into his arms, and only stopped when his shoulder balked. Holmes sighed, realizing just how stiff his body was, and fully cognizant of the fact it was only going to get worse before it got better. At the same time, he knew Skye needed the comfort of closeness; the blue eyes gazing at him still held the same distress in their depths that had appeared only minutes earlier. For that matter, the thought of warm, soft arms around his battered body sounded wonderfully soothing to the detective. So Holmes swallowed his pride.
“Skye, hold me.”
“Wh-what?”
“Hold me. I fear I cannot get my insulted muscles to cooperate.”
“Okay, I’ll try,” Skye said hesitantly. “Tell me if I hurt you.”
“You will not hurt me. Just hold me.”
* * *
Quickly she sat up and disrobed, then slid under the sheets, reaching for him and gathering him gently into her arms. A chary Holmes rolled over, cautiously allowing her to pull him partly on top of her. He curled his body slightly, tucking his top knee between her thighs and resting his head on her shoulder. His long fingers skimmed across her belly before his hand tucked itself beneath her far side in a loose embrace.
“Mm,” he sighed in obvious relief, after a few moments. “This is likely the most comfortable I have been since the fight.”
“Good,” Skye murmured in his ear, rubbing his bruised back in a soothing fashion, careful to keep her touch feather-light. “You should try to get some sleep if you can.”
* * *
“Provided you will stop blaming yourself, I will try.”
“…Okay.”
Holmes’ aching body relaxed against his mate’s, and he finally allowed the medications to take effect. In minutes he was sound asleep.
* * *
Roughly an hour later, a light knock fell on the bedroom door. Holmes never stirred. Skye, who still cradled the detective’s sleeping form, was briefly alarmed.
Oh, joy. Sherlock will not like this. Aside from the fact neither of us has a stitch on, he’s snuggled right up to me, and I know how he hates for people to see his private, intimate side. But if I move, or get out of bed, he might wake up, and he needs to rest, SO badly.
Skye pondered, then made a decision. Quickly she reached over and grabbed her discarded clothing, shoving it all out of sight under the blankets, pulling the covers to her throat; she turned her head and softly called, “Come in.”
* * *
Williams entered the dim room, standing until his eyes adjusted; then he started in embarrassed surprise and turned for the door as he realized the condition of the couple.
“Oh, forgive me for intruding…”
“It’s all right. I’m covered, and he’s out like a light. If we’re quiet, and I stay put, he’ll probably stay that way.”
“You got him settled?” Williams wondered softly, reaching outside the door and bringing in a cooler.
“Yeah, I guess. I got him talking, anyway, which usually gets the matter into the open. He can brood, if you let him.”
“Good for you,” Williams nodded. He brought the cooler to the foot of the bed, placing it out of the way on top of the bedclothes, but within Skye’s easy reach. “I’m sorry to bother, but I need to check him, and put some ice packs on him.” He patted the cooler. “Do you think he’s asleep enough a nystagmus test won’t wake him?”
“I’m not sure, but you can give it a try. I gather he took a couple whacks to the head?”
“Oh hell, yes,” Williams responded in disgust. “And the chest, back, belly, groin, legs…” He paused as Skye winced. “Bloody little bastards. By the time my colleague could get to him, there were probably eight or ten gang-bangers swarming over him, early to mid-teens mostly. Holmes is lucky.”
“You had a colleague tailing him?!”
“Not tailing him, exactly,” Williams noted apologetically. “The two of you are much too important to risk, Doctor. You’re one of the top hyperspatial physicists on the planet. Mr. Holmes is not only probably the best detective in the world; he’s also a hero to many, including myself—and most of the boys and girls in MI-5. If something happened to him on my watch, I don’t want to think. Besides, even back in the day, Mr. Holmes almost always had his police backup, not to mention the Irregulars. We certainly didn’t interfere, but…he’s had backups since about day three. From all the reports I’ve gotten, it’s not easy following him—he really is quite amazing at it. But since we always knew who to look for, my people usually managed it, barely. We just…” he gave her a helpless look, “couldn’t let you go it alone. You mean too much to us, professionally and personally. I hope you aren’t offended.”
“No, no,” Skye waved away his concern. “Not me. I’ve been glad to have my own backup. It’s come in useful once or twice. In fact, I was suggesting to Sherlock we might use your operatives to do the observing while he’s laid up. I’m not too keen on either leaving him, or going back out on the streets without him. He’s the expert there; I’m not.”
“Way ahead of you, luv,” Williams grinned. “The ‘Aerotech Drive Irregulars’ have already been called into action. Your marks are being tailed even as we speak. Not to mention the gang that did this,” he gestured to her bed partner, “is being investigated. I might add that Mr. Holmes gave as good as he got, if not better. He’s here, in relatively decent shape, all told, though black and blue. But a couple of the gang members have already showed up in hospital. One has a broken arm, I’m told. Another has a concussion, and a third has a separated shoulder.”
“Good,” Skye muttered viciously, and Williams chuckled in sympathy.
“I really think, had he not been outnumbered so severely, they could not have taken him down. My colleague said it was…quite impressive.”
* * *
Skye recalled the battle over the Reichenbach, and nodded. “Yeah, he knows what he’s doing in a fight, all right.”
“Doctor, could you help me? If you’ll tilt his head, I’ll do the nystagmus test.” Williams moved to the bedside next Holmes, pulling a penlight from his pocket.
“Sure,” Skye murmured, slipping her fingers under Holmes’ jaw and lifting his head from its position on her shoulder. “How’s that?”
“Perfect.” Williams gently parted Holmes’ eyelids with the fingers of his left hand, flicking the light across each of his eyes in turn and watching for abnormal responses in eye movement and pupil contraction. “Good. Still no sign of a concussion. He’s in the clear, I’d say.”
Skye eased Holmes’ head back to her shoulder. Holmes sighed in his sleep and burrowed his face into her hair. Williams smiled, a hint of male affection in the expression.
“I would never have thought the great detective could love so deeply. He is quite madly in love with you, you know. But then, as strong as was his friendship with Dr. Watson, I suppose I oughtn’t to be surprised.”
“No,” Skye said, startled and moved. “He’s always been capable of it. He…he told you how much…?”
“Not directly, no. That isn’t his way, as I’m sure you know more than anyone. But if you knew how he speaks of you…” the operative shook his head. “His confidence and faith in you are total and complete. But he is constantly concerned with your safety, too. Not unduly so, but it is obvious—if one pays attention—you’re never far from his thoughts. He seems to be integrating the softer emotions with that famous intellect quite nicely.” He laughed softly. “When it’s only him and me about, he either refers to you as ‘The Woman’—which is telling, in itself—or as ‘my bonny comrade in arms.’ Oh, he loves you, all right.”
* * *
Williams moved to the cooler chest, watching the slow, happy smile spreading over Skye’s face.
“Mm-hm,” he muttered, satisfied, “I thought you’d want to know. He’s not known for being…effusive.”
Williams removed a handful of cloth-covered cold packs from the cooler, then moved to Holmes’ side once more. Easing the blankets off the injured man’s back, the trained paramedic gently positioned the cold packs on the worst of the contusions, using a strip of surgical tape where necessary to ensure the packs didn’t fall off. Holmes grunted in his sleep, instinctively squirming toward Skye’s warmth and away from the cold, but Williams followed with the packs, and finally Holmes was still.
Williams tucked the covers back around Holmes’ nude form, then returned to the cooler, pulling out two more packs.
“Um, Dr. Chadwick, I was wondering if you could please position these,” he requested, handing them to her. “That way I don’t have to risk your modesty.”
“Sure. One in the groin, I assume. The other?”
“Yes. The other against his upper right ribcage. If you would, leave them on for no more than about fifteen or twenty minutes, then remove all of them and put them aside. I’ll leave the cooler here, and in about an hour, please get out another set and put them on. Whatever you do, don’t fall asleep with them on him, because we don’t want skin damage.”
“Got it. If I start getting too sleepy, I’ll take ‘em off first.”
“Good girl. Tomorrow perhaps we can get him into the hot tub in the loo. It will help loosen his muscles. But for now, rest and ice are the rules of the road.”
“Okay. Hang on, lemme get these in place.”
* * *
Skye eased one of the packs under the covers, shivering when it accidentally brushed her bare skin.
“Oh, poor Sherlock, he’s gotta be freezing,” she mumbled, peeking under the covers to spot the bruise on his torso. “Oh, there it is. He’s actually lying on it.”
“Oh really? That’s a good sign,” Williams decided, keeping his eyes discreetly averted.
Skye slid one end of the cold pack under Holmes’ side to keep it in place. He muttered something unintelligible in his sleep, the tone of voice vaguely acerbic, but didn’t awaken.
“Now for the fun one,” Skye grimaced. “If this doesn’t wake him up, he’s really out of it.”
* * *
“As you say,” Williams agreed, secretly glad it was Chadwick applying the pack this time. Holmes had given him a rather significant, and not especially reserved, piece of his mind when the operative had done so earlier.
* * *
Skye slid the last cold pack beneath the covers. Abruptly she realized she was going to get part of the benefits of this one, as Holmes’ basic position had not changed since he’d fallen asleep. His left knee was still tucked between her thighs, which meant his groin rested against her left hip.
“Oh, joy,” she grumbled. “This is gonna be cold.”
But she eased the pack down her side anyway, trying not to shiver, worming it delicately between her hip and Holmes’ crotch. He stiffened noticeably, then sighed as if in relief, and relaxed against her.
“He’s out of it,” Williams observed. “I’ll have to remember diphenhydramine works well on him.”
“Evidently so,” Skye agreed, sliding her arms back around her companion and cuddling him close.
“Would you like something to eat?”
“Maybe later. Something hot.”
“Hot? I wonder why,” Williams offered her a grin. “Very well. I’ll be back with ‘something hot’ in a few hours, then.” He headed for the door.
“Williams?”
“Yes, madam?”
“Thank you. For everything.”
Williams smiled. “I wouldn’t have missed this adventure for anything in the universe, Doctor.”
And he was gone.
* * *
Holmes, exhausted by his ordeal and lulled both by medication and Skye’s nearness, slept through the evening and on into the night, not even waking when Skye turned on the lamp upon hearing Williams’ knock at the door.
Oh, blast! she realized in dismay. I left my robe at the ranch! Ooo, there’s Sherlock’s dressing gown, hanging on the bathroom door. He won’t mind.
“Just a minute,” she called softly, slipping out of bed and putting on Holmes’ dressing gown before going to the door and letting Williams in.
She sat on the bedside long enough to eat the French onion soup and stacked hot club sandwich Williams brought her for dinner, then moved to sit by Holmes. Skye was diligently keeping up the cold pack therapy, switching them out as required, and Williams checked the cooler for supplies while she ate.
“Ah, very good. There’s plenty of cold packs to get you through until you’re ready to sleep, yourself. If he wakes up,” Williams pointed at the extra covered tray on the dresser, “feed him that. It’s the same as yours. The soup and sandwich are on a warmer plate, so they’ll stay hot for several hours. If he stays asleep, feel free to eat it yourself. I brought you some magazines, too,” he said, waving at the stack of glossy publications beside Holmes’ tray. “They’re just fashion drabble, but I thought you might like something to read while you tended him.”
“Thanks. You’re a treasure, Williams. But…I’ve got a question.”
“Shoot.”
“Um…who’s paying for all this?” Skye wondered uncomfortably. “This suite is…not cheap. We…Mr. Holmes and I…we can’t afford…well, maybe Sherlock can…maybe…”
“Not to worry. The Cimarron Springs Hotel is owned by…British interests,” Williams informed her, a sly grin on his face. He laughed softly, careful to avoid disturbing Holmes.
“Sonuvabitch,” Skye expostulated in surprise, then slapped a hand over her mouth at the unladylike phrase. “Pardon my French,” she murmured in embarrassment, as Williams laughed harder. “I guess I’ve been on a military base too long. You don’t mean to say…”
“I do.”
“MI-5?”
“Mostly. MI-5 and -6, actually, though. Joint Intelligence Committee.”
“You’re actively spying? Here?”
“Not against the Yanks; they know we’re here and often work with us. But this is a hotspot, and a good location for keeping an eye on…other concerns, if you get my drift.” Williams nodded concurrence.
“Oh, I get it.” Skye shook her head in amazement. “Boy, do I get it.”
“So you have nothing to worry about. Mr. Holmes is a loyal citizen of the United Kingdom, and you’re a loyal citizen of the United States of America. And those two entities are working together to ensure the two of you are properly taken care of. Just as the two of you are working together to take care of them.” He grinned. “Once those nasty little disagreements back in 1776 and 1812 were worked out, we’ve always been good mates anyway, the U.K. and the U.S.”
Skye snorted loudly, then clapped her hands over her face again, shooting a wary glance at Holmes. He had shifted position, sprawling on his stomach, but showed no sign of waking.
“Yeah,” Williams agreed with a grin. “I better get out of here before the two of us start in on the Boston Tea Party jokes and wake the poor bloke up. I’ll see you in the morning, Doctor.”
“Good night, Williams. And thank you.”
Williams let himself out cautiously. Skye doffed Holmes’ dressing gown, grabbed a magazine, and slid back into bed beside her detective, settling in for a light read.
* * *
After a couple of hours of reading broken only by applying cold packs and polishing off part of the food Holmes would apparently not be needing, Skye decided her eyelids were too heavy to fool with any more for the night. She laid aside the magazines and slid out of bed. Pulling the sheets off Holmes, she removed all the cold packs and discarded them; hefted the cooler and set it on the floor beside the bed. Crawling back in beside Holmes, she tugged the blankets over them both, turned out the lamp, and settled down for the night.
Holmes sighed and stiffly turned toward her. Skye snuggled up to his lanky body, wrapping her arms around him. Another sigh escaped him, and he sank deeper into sleep. Skye smiled, allowing herself to drift off.
* * *
Holmes woke the next morning, lying groggily on his back. The bedside lamp was on, and he had a general impression of being cold. Sensing a warm body nearby, he rolled over stiffly, bumps and bruises protesting, until he found the source of heat. This resulted in his face being pressed into a soft, fragrant, very female breast. The scent was immediately recognizable, however, so it troubled him not in the least. His arm wrapped around a narrow waist, pulling the warm body firmly into his unaccountably cold one. Suddenly Holmes gasped in shock, straightening abruptly and pulling away.
“Well, now, that is a bit off-putting,” he observed, opening his eyes to stare into amused sapphire orbs.
“What is?” Skye wondered, obviously fighting to keep the smile off her face as her lips twitched.
“As a general rule, a man does like to show his lady due proof of his fond regard, of a morning,” Holmes observed in disgruntlement. He raised the covers and peered down the length of his body. “But that does make it deucedly difficult.”
“I take it cold packs are not conducive to proving your regard,” Skye said in a deadpan tone, eyes twinkling.
“Hardly,” Holmes admitted, reaching down to remove the offending item.
“No,” Skye smacked his hand away. “Let it alone. You’ve got five more minutes before you can take it off. And then Williams will be here.”
“Williams?” Holmes said in surprise. Then he narrowed his eyes, studying her state of undress. “Has he been coming in and tending…?”
“Only at first. He brought the cold packs and showed me what to do, and checked you for concussion. Then again when it was time for dinner—which you slept right through. I stayed covered, and he was a gentleman.”
“Very well,” Holmes agreed, mollified. “But about this—” He reached for the cold pack again, and Skye caught his hand.
“Sherlock, let it be. Please. I stayed up until past midnight, then got up again around five this morning, so I could change these things out and keep the swelling down. I know what you want, and I love you for it, but believe me when I tell you it’d hurt like hell. Give it a couple of days.”
“Very well. It seems everything must wait while I heal.” Holmes huffed, disappointed.
“Not the investigation. The Aerotech Drive Irregulars—yeah, that’s really what they’re calling themselves—went into action. It turns out you and I are both considered invaluable, so you had backup handy too, which is how you got rescued so fast.”
“Yes, I was aware of the fact. I knew the first day Williams set them to follow.”
“Well, good. I hope you didn’t mind too much, because I’m really grateful,” Skye said in relief. “Our targets are still under surveillance, and an investigation into the gang that attacked you is ongoing. You put several of ‘em into the hospital,” she told him boastfully.
“Good,” he decided, secretly gratified at her pride in his abilities. “That is something, at least.”
“Yep. Everything’s fine. So just lie there and rest. Williams will be here soon with breakfast, then he said something about getting you into the hot tub. When I take the cold packs off in a few minutes, we won’t inflict any more of ‘em on you, I promise.”
“Well…if my alarm clock will not ring for me, will it at least offer a token of affection?”
Skye giggled, then leaned over and kissed him. Holmes pulled her close to deepen the kiss, but she gasped and flinched away, instinctively grabbing protectively at her naked breast.
“Woo, that’s cold,” she muttered, laying her other hand against the pack on his chest. “Sorry. I forgot that one was there, and I wasn’t expecting it.”
“I should hope I put a few of them into hospital,” he grumbled under his breath, “for the intense aggravation they have caused me.” Holmes scowled in annoyance.
“Aw, c’mere,” Skye murmured sympathetically.
She eased herself into his chest, settling gingerly against him, cold packs and all. Their lips met, and Holmes all but groaned his appreciation as they explored each other’s mouths. They were still at it when the knock came on the bedroom door five minutes later.
“Wup,” Skye exclaimed, “hang on a minute, Williams.”
“Yes, madam,” Williams called from the other side of the door. “I take it you are not up as yet? I hope I didn’t wake you.”
“I’m awake, I just hadn’t gotten up yet,” Skye observed, scurrying off the bed and reaching for Holmes’ dressing gown. Holmes watched with interest as she wrapped it snugly about her nude form, finding it wonderfully alluring to see his beloved Skye wearing his own garment in so intimate a fashion. She hurried to the door to let Williams in.
* * *
“I do hope you slept well, Doctor,” Williams remarked solicitously as he stepped inside the door. “And how is Mis—Mr. Holmes!” he exclaimed delightedly, catching sight of the detective sitting up slowly in bed. Williams flipped on the overhead light, adding welcome illumination to the bedside lamp’s glow. “Easy there, sir. Don’t be in a rush this morning. Although it probably feels like hell, you’ve no serious injuries; but if you push it, you might pull something. And that would not be a good plan.”
“I’ve no plan to rush anything this morning,” Holmes admitted, tone evincing his exasperation at his condition, and trying not to grimace. “I have felt worse from such beatings, but it has been awhile.”
“Let’s get these cold packs off you,” Williams suggested, moving to the bedside, “have some breakfast, then I’ll give you a quick examination.”
“Agenda items one and two are more than acceptable,” Holmes decreed, showing his vexation beyond dispute. “Item three leaves somewhat to be desired.”
* * *
Williams suddenly dropped to a crouching position beside the bed, eyes troubled. Skye and Holmes stared at him in surprise.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Holmes,” he murmured contritely. “I’m not Dr. Watson. But I’m doing the best I can, and I swear I’ll take the best care of you—and Dr. Chadwick—I know how.”
Wow. Sherlock must have given him some serious grief yesterday before I got here, Skye decided, watching in amazement. Poor guy. He all but worships Sherlock, and it must’ve upset him pretty bad. He doesn’t know Sherlock well enough yet to understand it isn’t personal. Sherlock is just aggravated at the situation, not at Williams.
Holmes glanced at Skye for a moment, as if knowing what she was thinking.
“It seems to be a theme of my life here,” he observed to Skye.
“Comes of being a famous literary personage,” she told him with an understanding smile. “Lotta people feel that way about you.”
Holmes nodded his comprehension before looking back at Williams.
“How old are you, Williams?”
“Twenty-nine, sir.”
“Well, well. Come, my good man, get up from there. You are only ten years younger than I, all told; and perfectly capable, from what I’ve seen. I have been called arrogant and egotistical, both of which are likely true; and Skye could tell you I can be fiendishly grumpy at times. But take me down from that pedestal you seem to have me upon, right away, lest I fall from it. It wouldn’t matter if you were Watson. I gave him the devil’s own time of it whenever I was recuperating from an injury or the like. So pay me no mind, and do what is required to patch me up and get me going again.”
“Are you sure, sir?” Williams asked hesitantly, before moving to the side of the bed where he began circumspectly removing the cold packs from Holmes’ various contusions.
“Yes. And stop calling me ‘sir.’ Just Holmes will do. Else you shall make me feel like I’ve lived the entire time since my birth, instead of skipping that whole bit in between.” His grey eyes twinkled at the operative. “I’m thirty-nine, not one-hundred-fifty-some-odd.”
That finally got Williams to grin. “I’ll tell you what I told Dr. Chadwick last night, Mister—er, Holmes,” he confessed. “I wouldn’t have missed this adventure of yours for the world. You’ve no idea how excited MI is to discover you’re a real, flesh and blood person, and to be able to work with you.”
“Emphasis on flesh and blood,” Skye muttered, getting her first good look at Holmes’ injuries in the bright overhead lighting, and trying not to cringe.
“Indeed,” Holmes sighed. “Go ahead and say it, Skye.”
“No, it’s okay, Sherlock.”
“Say what?” Williams wondered.
Holmes pitched his voice in a passable imitation of Skye’s higher tones and remarked, in a perfect recreation of her southern American dialect, “’They beat the shit outta you, sweetheart.’”
Skye smacked her hand over her face, and Williams laughed aloud.
“That sounded exactly like her, Holmes! You have a really good ear. Was that actually what you were thinking, Doctor?”
“It was,” Skye admitted, “word for word. He even got the inflection right.”
“It is as I have told you, my dear,” Holmes said softly, “I know you.”
“I know you do,” she said, cupping his face in her hand, letting her thumb caress ever so tenderly beneath his black eye. “I know. But you know something else?”
* * *
“What?” Holmes wondered, studying her beloved face, looking for clues to her thoughts. Her face was carefully neutral, however, albeit with a twinkle in her eyes, and he had no clues with which to work, other than to realize mischief was afoot.
“You really have to stop trying to impress me with these black eyes,” Skye teased, and Holmes laughed, then winced as various body parts protested the action.
Williams slipped away to discard the used cold packs, giving Skye room to sit beside the detective. The operative returned with a large tray on which sat their breakfast. Holmes had a big vegetable and cheese omelet, fresh fruit, and oatmeal with tea; Skye, having notified Williams earlier of her preference, had a small slice of quiche and fruit with coffee.
Holmes dug into his meal eagerly; his injured body informed him in no uncertain terms that he was quite hungry. But he paused to glance at Skye in concern.
“Is that enough for you, my dear?” he wondered, studying her breakfast. “It seems…small.”
“Dr. Chadwick isn’t starving, Holmes,” Williams informed him with a mischievous smirk. “When you didn’t wake up last night for dinner, she ate hers and most of yours, too, I assume for a bedtime snack.”
Holmes’ eyebrows rose, and he glanced at Skye, who returned a cheeky grin.
“Ya snooze, ya lose,” she informed him. He chuckled.
“Now eat, both of you,” Williams decreed, “then I’ll have a look at matters, Holmes. In a couple of hours, though, I want Dr. Chadwick to help me get you into the Jacuzzi in the loo. How does that sound?”
“Given I’ve no notion what a Jacuzzi is, it sounds like Greek,” Holmes noted, making serious inroads on his omelet. “But if the two of you think it is a good thing, I suppose I shall submit to it.”
“You’ll like it, Sherlock. It’s kind of an artificial hot spring—with water jets.”
“Ah, the very odd tub in the bath, there,” Holmes observed, jabbing his fork toward the bathroom.
“That’s it,” Williams confirmed.
“Then it sounds excellent,” Holmes decided immediately. “Perhaps I shall be able to move again, when I have taken a good hot soak.”
“That’s exactly the idea,” Skye agreed.
* * *
Williams pronounced him as fit as could be expected, and some time later, it was time for a bath. It took considerable doing for Holmes to even get out of bed; he had been in it for nearly nineteen hours, and that was more than enough time for offended muscles to stiffen into impliability. But Skye and Williams helped him stretch lightly, then stayed beside him, one on each side, to stabilize him; thus they got him from the bed to the hot tub.
Williams had already run the water and turned on the jets. Holmes eased his legs over the side and settled into the hot water with a sigh of nigh-beatific bliss.
“Ah…this is almost as good as the masseur in my club in London.”
Williams chuckled, then turned to Skye.
“I didn’t set the heat too high, and the jets are on low-medium, so he can stay in there as long as he wants. Just get him out before he turns into a prune,” the agent teased.
“Okay,” Skye’s eyes twinkled. “No prune detectives. Got it. But you know,” she paused in a faux show of consideration, “it might sweeten his disposition, being a prune.”
“You know, it might, at that. Never mind, then. Let him puff and pucker like a hundred-and-fifty-year-old man.”
Skye bit her lip to stifle laughter.
“Hush,” Holmes ordered. His eyes were closed, and his head rested on the edge of the tub. The rest of him was submerged. “It is extremely unsporting to poke fun at a man when he’s down.”
Skye snorted.
Even Williams laughed.
“If you say so…sir,” he said roguishly, then fled, laughing again when a gout of water flew out of the tub, aimed right for him.
* * *
The Jacuzzi helped considerably. So did the healthy, protein-rich lunch Williams provided afterward. But the operative deliberately kept news of the investigation away from the detective, knowing Holmes would expend his energies in intensive consideration of the details, instead of resting. Holmes was decidedly unhappy, but Williams promised that if the detective would cooperate, on the morning of the third day after the beating Holmes should hear all, and start taking charge of the investigation once more.
“Only two days to wait,” Williams soothed.
“Two days! Do you have any idea how much can happen in two days?” the detective protested, wrapped in his dressing gown. “Entire empires have crumbled for want of less!”
“Then get Dr. Chadwick to help you stretch this afternoon and maybe give you some careful massage tonight, and I’ll tell you tomorrow afternoon, instead of the next morning,” Williams said calmly, unperturbed. “The Aerotech Drive Irregulars are on it, Holmes, and we won’t let you down, I swear. I’ll even report to Dr. Chadwick if that helps, but she is not to tell you, on pain of death.” He grinned, but his eyes were serious.
“Damn it! I am not some china bric-a-brac to be placed on a mantelpiece and dusted once a week!”
“Sherlock,” Skye said sternly, standing in the doorway, now fully clad in jeans and t-shirt. “Settle down.”
“I need information, Skye! Not to be coddled like some elder in his dotage!”
“Fine!” she cried, exasperated and out of patience. “Go out there and get yourself killed! Give me a call on your cellphone just before you expire, while you’re at it. That way I can come along and find you, too!” Her lip trembled and she spun away, turning her back on him.
* * *
That outburst stopped Holmes dead in his tracks. Without a word, completely ignoring Williams, he went to Skye and pulled her into his arms; she promptly buried her face in his chest.
I am a fool, twice over, he castigated himself. She is strong, but not utterly indomitable, and evidently she is far more worried than I had comprehended. I seldom consider the cost on myself—but she does. Watson did, too. I HAVE been known to tax my resources beyond their limits, in the past. I must learn to find a balance between “barely enough” and “too much,” I suppose. For her sake, if not my own.
Holmes turned his head, glancing at a bemused Williams, who was silently taking in the interaction between the couple while trying not to stare.
“Negotiation,” he offered succinctly, as Skye raised her head. “Skye spends the rest of the day helping me recover, to include stretching, massage, and another Jacuzzi bath; tomorrow morning, you give me the information I require. If necessary, I will direct the case from here for a few more days, until I am sufficiently healed to take a more active role. During that time, I will take whatever rest, food, and therapy the two of you consider are required to that end.” He looked back at Skye questioningly, and she nodded relieved acceptance.
Williams pursed his lips in contemplation of the offer, then nodded.
“Deal. But I’m not some street urchin, Holmes. I will hold you to it.”
“Fair enough. My dear Skye, let us get started.”
* * *
Holmes was as good as his word. He let Skye passively stretch every joint and limb in his body, then he crawled back into bed, covered up to keep his muscles warm, and rested as best he was able for two hours, trying his utmost not to fidget with impatience. When Skye allowed him to get up, he permitted his body to be stretched again, gently but effectively; performed some light isometric exercises, followed by more stretching. Gradually the flexibility returned. Williams brought up small meals every few hours, along with several nutritional supplements designed to help bodybuilders recover faster, and Holmes consumed it all.
After dinner, Holmes enjoyed another long soak in the hot tub, then crawled into bed.
* * *
Skye was waiting, with express instructions from Williams: She was to massage Holmes very lightly, specifically avoiding all bruised areas, lest a clot be dislodged and create a medical emergency. This thought did NOT excite Skye, and looking at Holmes’ body, she wondered if there was any part of him that she could massage, given those parameters.
But she did her best, and Holmes found her touch soothing regardless. In short order, it had the effect Williams had secretly intended: Holmes relaxed and fell into a peaceful sleep.
With a sigh of relief, a tense, weary Skye turned out the light and collapsed into bed beside him.
* * *
Holmes lay quietly on his side, head supported on his elbow, watching Skye sleep by the dim bronze glow of the nightlight. The clock on the nightstand nearby read 2:56 AM. He felt rested, flexible, and reasonably comfortable. So when he had awakened, he found himself in a contemplative mood. And he had found a source of inspiration for that contemplation in Skye.
She had apparently kicked off the covers in the night, and now Holmes scanned her nude body with warm grey eyes in which was a hint of a smile. He wondered if she had any idea what he truly felt for her. He was well aware that his artistic temperament, passed to him through his Vernet blood, meant his passion for her was far deeper than it might otherwise have been; and where once he would have rued the fact, now he reveled in it.
She had become a part of him, this scientist; as essential to his well-being as water, or air. And, he decided, just as welcome. Part of his mind knew she was not truly a classic beauty by the formal artist’s definition, though most men considered her lovely; but as far as Holmes was concerned, she was the most beautiful woman in this, or any other, universe.
At least for the time, desire had not arisen, and he was content simply to lie beside her, secure in the knowledge that she was his. The need to touch her rose in his being, and he put out a tentative hand, allowing his fingertips to brush her far shoulder. She did not awaken.
He drew his hand slowly down her body, fingertips drifting lightly across her skin: Over her breast, across the pink scars of her gunshot incisions, along the side of her belly, past her hip joint and down her thigh; a slow, delicate journey of fond exploration. Then he moved his hand to her near thigh and repeated the process in reverse, allowing his touch to take in the sensations of contour and texture. She never stirred, but she sighed his name once, as his fingertip skimmed her nipple; and he smiled.
She knows my touch, even when asleep, he marveled.
Affectionately, Holmes tapped his index finger to the tip of her nose, then traced a slow path down her mid-body. A contented hum sounded in her throat, and he felt its vibration in her lips. The impression it left against the pad of his finger was that of a kiss, and it stirred him deeply.
Holmes trailed his finger across her chin and down her tender neck, feeling the slight mound of her Adam’s apple, pausing in the hollow at the base of her throat. There, he found her pulse, slow, steady, and infinitely soothing. He sighed, captivated by the intimate rhythm.
His finger moved on. Down between her breasts, across her belly, and Holmes spared a moment to delve into her navel, finding that little scar of her birth just large enough to contain his fingertip. He wiggled his finger mischievously, and she squirmed briefly in her sleep.
She is so delightfully ticklish, he thought with amusement.
Down over her lower abdomen, and his hand cupped her pubic mound with familiar affection.
A treasure, he thought in wonderment; a special treasure. The Woman has three special treasures. Here… His hand cupped tighter.
Then it moved to her breastbone, pressing flat. And here…
Lastly, the heel of his hand rested itself lightly on her forehead. And here.
Holmes moved his hand back to her groin, cupping her tenderly once more. This treasure, she has given over entirely to me, he thought with possessive pride. This, transferring his hand to her sternum again, easing it between her breasts, she has given into my keeping. And this, his long fingers massaged her forehead with a feather-light touch, she has devoted, at least for the time, to aiding me.
What treasures do I offer her? Does she know, does she understand, that I offer her those same corresponding things? That my body is hers to enjoy, and my heart, that pitiful, underused organ, is entrusted to her? Does she realise my intellect is being devoted entirely toward ensuring protection for her and her life’s work? Does she comprehend I would fight my way across the continua for the right to have her at my side?
Holmes smiled down at The Woman beside him, letting the back of his knuckles slide down her soft cheek. His hand ended up once more between her breasts, rubbing lightly.
It suddenly occurred to him to wonder what Watson would think, if he should stumble across the detective in that moment, lying naked beside his sleeping lover, and satisfied to trace idle designs on her bare skin with his fingers. He would be utterly stunned, Holmes grinned, picturing the shocked expression on his old friend’s face. He would likely think I had sustained some form of brain damage in the transition between universes.
Holmes paused, as the full implications of the thought struck home. Could there have been brain damage? He was a very different man, in some ways, than the one who had confronted Moriarty in the Alps. Could that be…?
He glanced at Skye, sleeping peacefully beside him. What if…what if this…what I feel for her…is all some delusion, caused by a mental aberration? Holmes wondered anxiously. Then he shook himself. Nonsense, Sherlock. It has not affected your mental capacities in the least. Your deductive reasoning is as sound as ever it was. Were you suffering from a mental defect of such magnitude, that would not be the case.
But there is another possibility, that nagging, skeptical voice in the back of his mind whispered. Perhaps you are not really here at all. Perhaps your body lies broken at the foot of the Reichenbach Falls, and this “reality” is merely the final throe of that great mind, the last hallucination of a dying man.
Holmes considered this notion carefully, deeming it more probable than the other. In the end, however, he could think of no way to determine the truth, for if this existence really was entirely within his mind, there were no external, objective clues he could utilize to ascertain the fact. But he ultimately decided it did not matter. He was happy; he loved and was loved, and he would continue in this way, this life, for as long as he was in it.
And if I am truly blessed, it will be for a lifetime, even if only subjectively, even if only seconds pass in the world outside my mind. And perhaps it amounts to the same thing anyway: A world apart from the reality in the which I was born.
Satisfied with his conclusions, Holmes reached for the blankets, pulling them over The Woman and himself before resting his head once more on the pillow beside the golden hair. He wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her close, then drifted into a warm, happy sleep.
* * *
Holmes woke with the howl of anguish still on his lips. His grey eyes were wide and dilated as soon as he opened them: The dim room appeared far too bright to be lit only by a nightlight. A frightened Skye leaned over him, worried blue eyes gazing down as she frantically shook him by the shoulders.
“Sherlock! Wake up! Wake up, sweetheart! What’s wrong?”
“Skye!” he gasped, staring up at her as if she were a lifeline. “Oh, my dear Skye! My bonny heart!” Holmes clutched her close, then kissed her as if he never thought to do so again.
He rolled them both over until Skye lay beneath his tense, strained body. In seconds he was making love to her regardless of his own body’s pain, frantic, needing to convince himself she was really there.
* * *
Overwhelmed and confused, but sensing his uncharacteristically frenzied, near-panicked state, Skye willingly submitted to him, holding him close and whispering soothingly in his ear. When he finally collapsed into her arms with a cry, spent, and buried his face in her neck, she tightened her arms around him and stroked her fingers through his hair.
They remained so for long minutes, Holmes’ body still trembling in reaction. When that, too, began to subside, Skye breathed into his ear.
“Do you want to tell me about it?”
“Nightmare,” came the succinct response from somewhere in her shoulder.
“Nooo,” Skye murmured with gentle, amused sarcasm, trying to coax him into talking. “Do tell.”
He was silent, and she slid her hands comfortingly along the taut cords of muscle in his back.
“C’mon, sweetheart, it’s me. It’s Skye. Your Skye.” Another soft caress. “Talk to me.”
The back beneath her hands expanded as he inhaled deeply, and she felt the moist warmth of his breath on her skin as he let it out again.
“Reichenbach,” he confessed reluctantly.
“You relived it?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“You fell this time?”
“No.” Holmes finally raised his head to look into her eyes, and she saw the echoes of horror in the steel-grey gaze. “You did.”
“I did?”
* * *
“Yes,” he whispered miserably. “I was on this side of the tesseract, and I could not get through. He was enraged, was Moriarty. You’d thwarted him, you see—denied him my death, so he decided…I watched Professor Moriarty pick you up and…” He turned his head away, closing his eyes against the image seared into his mind. “You fell, and fell. And then…you struck the rocks, and…” Holmes’ voice cracked. “Oh, dear God, Skye. You simply…shattered. I…” He buried his face in the pillow beside her head. “And I could not even get to you, to hold you while you died,” he groaned, voice muffled.
“Ssh,” Skye murmured, and he felt her stroking his head and shoulders with tender fingers. “Everything’s fine. I’m right here, and I’m okay. It was just a dream.”
“Was it?” Holmes wondered, remembering his nighttime speculations. “Or do we, in our dreams, access other realities?”
“Wh-what?” Skye whispered, shocked.
“Conan Doyle obtained the information in some fashion, Skye,” Holmes suggested unhappily. He raised his head to look at her once more. “His subconscious somehow transcended spacetime. What if…what I saw…” he couldn’t bring himself to say it, “actually occurred, somewhere…out there?”
Skye stared up at him in utter terror. Holmes saw urgency in her eyes, and suddenly she was shoving at him, desperately pushing him away, frantically scrabbling her way off the bed before fleeing to the bathroom. Holmes leaped from the bed and ran after her. By the time he caught up with her, she was already on her knees, retching into the toilet.
Holmes knelt behind her, wrapping his arm around her waist to give her support, a support she instantly clutched, hanging on with her own arms. He stretched toward the countertop, blindly fishing on its surface with one hand until he found one of her hair elastics, then he gathered her long golden hair at the nape of her neck and secured it out of the way with the elastic. Skye continued to retch, but as there was nothing in her belly to purge so early in the morning, all she did was gasp and gag for several minutes.
When she could catch her breath, Holmes murmured, “Skye?”
“Y-yeah. I’ll be…be okay…in a minute.”
“Forgive me, my dear.”
“For…for what?” she panted.
Holmes stood, drawing Skye to her feet. Before answering, he moved to the sink and poured a cup of cool water, handing it to her. Skye took it, rinsing her mouth and spitting into the toilet, before sipping it cautiously, pausing to ensure it would stay down.
“For frightening you,” he finally replied, leaning against the vanity and folding his arms casually. “I know how much it troubles you, your perceived ‘interference’…”
“No,” she waved him away. “That…it…yeah, it bothers me, but that wasn’t what freaked me.”
“What, then?”
“It was…Sherlock, do you remember the first time I had a nightmare, after you moved in?”
“Yes. We were finally starting to become close, and I fear I reacted entirely too negatively and pushed you away. You see, that was when I realised just how far within my normal reserve I had permitted you, and where it might be leading. It…worried me considerably.”
“It was when I realized I’d fallen for you,” Skye confessed. “Because of the dream.” She shook her head, remembering. “I was mortified. I never thought you could ever want me, and I didn’t see how I was going to hide it from you. You, of all people.”
Holmes recognized her mind was trying to create a diversion, but he also knew she needed those few moments to steel herself, so he permitted it.
“Had I been less concerned with my own responses, and less obsessed with the espionage case, you likely could not. It is just as well, however, for it allowed us the time we both needed to…adjust our perspectives. But tell me about this dream, Skye. It sounds as if it was rather more than your normal nightmare about your parents.”
“It was,” she acknowledged, pale face becoming paler. Holmes noted the increasing pallor, and watched her closely, seeing her eyes grow distant as she relived the nightmare. “See, I was here, in Colorado instead of Texas, and I found the accident literally right outside Schriever.”
“So the setting changed substantially from its norm.”
“Yeah, but that wasn’t the worst part,” Skye muttered, voice becoming uneven. “When I got to the wreck…”
Holmes pushed away from the countertop, taking a step toward her, already knowing what was coming.
“Go on, Skye.” He retrieved the cup of water from her hand, setting it aside on the vanity. “Tell me what you found.”
“You were in the car with Mom and Dad,” she whispered. “And all of you were…were…”
“Shh. You need not continue.” Holmes nodded in comprehension. “Quite symbolic, that dream. I think that your subconscious mind bespoke fear of losing everyone you have ever loved. Even before you consciously realised that love.”
“But…if you were right before, and things like that are…are really like looking through a wormhole, then…somewhere…Oh, God…”
The rest of the plea for divine help went unspoken as Skye’s face drained of the last of its color. Her knees buckled, and Holmes grabbed her, pulling her against himself to keep her upright.
“Back to bed for you, my dear,” he murmured urgently, fully grasping if she did not get horizontal quickly, she might very well pass out; but he was loath to place her on the cold hard tile of the bathroom floor.
Just then, Holmes heard the door into the saferoom open and close. He snatched one of the big bath sheets off the nearby towel rack and enfolded Skye in it. Then he swept her into his arms.
Injured muscles protested exceeding loudly at that move, and Holmes instantly realized he could not get Skye back to bed unaided.
“Williams!” he bellowed at the top of his lungs. “Come quickly! Your assistance is required IMMEDIATELY!”
Running feet sounded in the small apartment, and Williams called from the bedroom door, “Where—?”
“The bath!”
Williams appeared in the bathroom door, eyes widening as he took in Holmes holding a limp and obviously disoriented Skye.
“Hell’s bells, he’s better, and she’s worse!”
“Not sufficiently better to return her to bed by myself. A bit of help would be appreciated, my good fellow, and quickly, before my shoulder gives out. I fear I may drop her otherwise.” While Holmes’ phrasing was typically formal, his tone and rapid speech revealed his urgency.
“Let’s go for a seat carry. Stay right there, and when I tell you, grab my elbows.”
Williams moved in front of Holmes, pressing lightly against Skye’s other side. He laid his palms against Holmes’ wrists, sliding his hands along Holmes’ forearms to the elbows, locking his fingers firmly around those joints.
“Okay, turn your hands and grab my elbows, and let me have part of her weight,” he ordered.
Holmes complied, greatly relieved by the immediate reduction of stress on protesting body parts, and the two men walked sideways, cradling Skye between them. As they worked their way through the bathroom doorway, Williams asked, “What happened?”
“A little matter of some severe nightmares, and ensuing discussions,” Holmes informed him without telling him much. “And a concern that at least some dreams could prove to be views into alternate realities.”
* * *
“Oh, dear Lord,” Williams murmured fervently, immediately grasping why Dr. Chadwick was near-catatonic despite the lack of detail in Holmes’ explanation. They moved to the corner of the bed and eased her down to the mattress. While Holmes busied himself with adjusting the bath sheet to ensure Skye remained decently covered, Williams checked her pulse.
“’M okay, guys,” Skye slurred, finally rousing. “Lemme lie here f’r a minute.”
“Pulse is a little rapid, but that’s to be expected,” Williams noted. “Looks like you two had a bloody hell of a wakeup call.”
“It was not my preferred alarm clock, no,” Holmes said blandly, meeting Skye’s gaze with an aloof expression but gleaming eyes, and Williams wondered why Dr. Chadwick suddenly bit her lip. “But we will be well, in the end.” He reached for his dressing gown, wrapping it about his tall nude form.
“Okay, maybe a bite of breakfast will make the two of you feel better,” Williams suggested. At that, Skye grimaced, then glanced at Holmes and shook her head, putting her hand to her belly.
“Not yet.”
“Dr. Chadwick became sufficiently upset as to experience significant nausea earlier,” Holmes explained, kneeling beside her as she sat up slowly, and easing a comforting arm around her. She wrapped her forearm across her chest to hold the terrycloth in place.
“Ooo. Did you throw up?” Williams asked sympathetically.
“I woulda if I coulda,” Skye said ruefully. “My stomach was empty, fortunately.”
“She gave it a valiant effort, however,” Holmes agreed.
“Okay. Wait here.”
* * *
Williams left the room and they heard him rummaging in drawers in the sitting room. Moments later he returned with a bubble sheet of medication.
“Here. Take one of these. It’ll help settle your stomach.”
“Will it make me sleepy?”
“No, this formulation won’t.”
“Okay.” Skye accepted the medication, tearing loose a blister pack and peeling the backing off while Holmes retrieved her cup of water from the bathroom. Skye washed the pill down, and Williams retreated to the sitting room while the pair got dressed.