The Case of the Displaced Detective: Omnibus Edition

October 30

This is certainly not my usual notion of working out my thoughts.

Then again, it was hardly my idea.

To cut to the heart of the matter: In recent nights, I have been having a recurrent dream—more a nightmare, really, I suppose, though it lacks the standard horrific setting and characters. In it, Watson, dear old chap, searches all London for me, yet even when I respond to his calls, even when he is face to face with me, he can neither see nor hear me. It is quite annoying, all in all—and, frankly, not a little disturbing. Skye seems convinced it is my subconscious response to being forcibly yanked into a new continuum and having all contact severed with my former life, friends, and family. There may, I suppose, be something to that.

Nevertheless, it was her idea to keep a journal. I am not normally one for such things, save perhaps in order to record specifics on a given criminal, and when she suggested the idea, I merely smiled, nodded, and went on constructing my second beehive. It is, of course, far too late in the season to do much with it. But the first beehive is already occupied by a healthy swarm of honeybees, and I intend to have this, and one more, ready come spring.

I am quite sure my disinterest was patently evident upon my face; Skye is nothing if not observant. But my dear Skye is also nothing if not determined. And so this morning I found myself presented with a blank journal.

It is a handsome thing; bound in soft brown leather with an illustration from the Book of Kells embossed upon the covers. So she seems to already know of my family’s Anglo-Saxon origins. At any rate, it is too bonny a gift to ignore, nor would I wound her by so doing. She believes it will help—and perhaps, a great perhaps, it will. It cannot hurt, I suppose.

So the reticent detective sits here writing upon his drawn-up knees, unaccustomedly bemused, trying to decide what one says in such a journal. I should ask Skye, saving she appears to be already asleep. Her golden hair is spilled across the pillow beside me, and her eyelashes are quivering, denoting her dreams, without doubt. Would that I could read those quivers as I read her expressions, as I read marks in the soil; but I fear they will ever remain a mystery to me. She is a delightful thing, is my Skye. One would never guess she is nearing the thirty-ninth anniversary of her birth.

Which brings up another consideration: It is one week until her birthday, and I have yet to acquire a suitable gift. I find I am again torn, as once more, the detective and the artist do battle over this relationship.

Holmes looked up as the grandfather clock chimed in the hall. “Eleven o’clock,” he breathed. “Now I understand how Watson could lose track of time, when he was setting down one of our cases.” He closed the journal and laid it and his fountain pen on the nightstand. He spared one more fully illumined glance at the lovely face lying beside him on the pillow before turning out the lamp.

Then he uncurled his “desk,” stretching his long legs under the covers with a sigh as he slid deeper into the bed. Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, late of Victorian England, turned toward Dr. Skye Chadwick, hyperspatial physicist of 21st century America, pressed a soft kiss against her sleeping forehead, and drifted off to sleep.

Holmes had been covertly collecting dead and scrap wood for the last month, determined to provide a proper bonfire for Skye’s birthday. It seemed only appropriate to the English-born detective, as his bosom companion had been born on Guy Fawkes Day, that her birthday should be aptly celebrated. Two days before her birthday, on November third, a heavy snowfall blanketed the Colorado Front Range, and Holmes and Skye awoke to over a foot of snow covering the yard outside their ranch house near Florissant, Colorado, in the mountains to the west of Colorado Springs. The local authorities called later that day to inform Holmes that his request for fireworks on the Fifth was therefore approved. He shot a surreptitious glance at an oblivious Skye, his grey eyes twinkling with mischief and mirth; thanked the sheriff, and hung up.

Then they went outside to shovel a path to the barn and tend the horses. When all four woolly equines had eaten, they turned the horses loose in the pasture, then stood and watched in amusement as the horses bucked and cavorted like children in the first real snow of the season.

While Skye went back inside and prepared breakfast, Holmes continued wielding the snow shovel until the driveway was passable. Only then did he come inside and eagerly partake of the hot meal Skye had waiting for him.

But as soon as he’d finished eating, Holmes betook himself to the bedroom, where he showered and dressed in clean, warm clothes: hiking boots, flannel-lined jeans, a thermal t-shirt, and a flannel shirt. His cowboy hat went onto his head, and his denim jacket topped all.

This is nothing like my attire would have been in my own day, he thought with a mental sigh, catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Victorian attire was rather more…dapper. But it is comfortable, and warm, and apropos to the time and place, so it will have to do.

As he passed through the den, Skye looked up from the couch, where she read a technical journal. “Whoa. Where are you going?”

“Into town.” This answer contained slightly more information than his previous, but that wasn’t saying much.

“You haven’t been driving that long,” Skye pointed out, fishing her boots from under the coffee table. “You haven’t ever tried to drive in snow before. Hang on a second, and I’ll drive you wherever you need to go.”

“I shall be fine, Skye,” he declared, hiding dismay. “I will not be long.”

“Sherlock,” she protested, shoving her feet into her boots, “if there’s black ice on the road, you could wipe out before you blink. Now hang on, and I’ll take you.”

Skye paused, looking up into his hawklike, determined face in stunned confusion.

“No questions, my dear Skye,” Holmes said, allowing a twinkle to appear in the grey eyes. “You shall stay here today. I hardly think it necessary to say anything more.”

Sapphire eyes blinked back at him, still bewildered and worried. It suddenly occurred to Holmes that Skye was focused upon his safety to the exclusion of all else; her upcoming birthday, and his likely reason for going into town, simply were not in her realm of thought at that moment. One of the most brilliant scientists in the world, he considered, and the only thought in her mind at this moment is keeping you safe, Sherlock. You are indeed fortunate, old chap. Finally he decided another, more direct hint was in order.

“November third,” she answered, watching him anxiously, trying to understand.

Holmes’ lips twitched in amusement. My, she is fixated this morning. “And what is so important—to you—about November fifth?”

“Oh! My birth— Is THAT why you don’t want me coming with you? You’re getting something for my birthday?”

“Finally!” Holmes exclaimed in lighthearted gratification. “I was beginning to think that brilliant grey matter of yours would never awaken this morning!”

“Well, I hadn’t really bothered to wake it up.” Skye ran a hand over her face, grinning sheepishly. “Days when I don’t need to get out, I like lazing in front of the fire.”

“And it shows, my dear.” Holmes laughed in that silent way he had. “Not that there is anything wrong with that; I have been known to do the same, when there is no case pressing. Stay here and relax. I shall not be gone over-long. Would you like for me to bring anything home for tonight? Or is there anything we need from the grocer’s?”

“Not particularly. But I still think I ought to drive you. I’d much rather spoil a birthday surprise than have you hurt…or worse.”

“I shall be fine, my dearest Skye,” Holmes assured her softly, touched by her concern. “Do you recall when I spent some little time with Agent Smith in September, training on modern FBI techniques?”

“That included all-terrain, all-condition driving. I am now quite as good behind the wheel as ever I was in the seat of a hansom. And that is saying somewhat.”

He turned for the door, and Skye called, “Oh, hey! Will you be back in time for lunch, or not?”

“Mm,” Holmes pulled his pocket-watch from the coin pocket of his jeans and checked it. “It is already quite late in the morning. No, my dear, I shall merely obtain a bite in town. But you may expect me for tea.”

“Okay,” Skye said cheerfully, coming to him and wrapping her arms around him. “Tea it is.” She stretched up and kissed him.

The fond gesture took him off guard, and the detective caught her close, returning the kiss. After several moments, he put her aside.

“I had best go,” he said in an uneven voice, “before you change my mind on the schedule for the day.”

“I’ll still be here when you get back.” Skye giggled mischievously. “Is there…anything in particular…you want for tea?” The devilish sky-blue eyes glimmered.

“‘All that I have to say has already crossed your mind.’” Grey eyes gleamed in response.

“‘Then possibly my answer has crossed yours,’” she smiled, continuing their quotation game, started some weeks before.

“I…eagerly anticipate it,” Holmes’ grin grew wider as he dropped the game. “Perhaps I shall get home BEFORE tea-time.”

Holmes returned several hours later, bearing several bags and packages, one of which was hidden in his jacket pocket. The rest he left in the kitchen, putting the bottle of wine into the refrigerator to chill for that evening. A single, freshly baked shortbread cookie wedge lay on the kitchen table; he stared at it for no more than a moment before it dawned on him that the cookie had been positioned very deliberately relative to the table and the door. Upon its urging, he walked to the kitchen door and peered out.

A bright red napkin lay in the doorway to the den; another wedge-shaped cookie rested on it, pointing into the den. Grey eyes narrowed, and Holmes’ lips quirked in a hint of amusement. The game is afoot, I suppose, but not quite the game to which I am accustomed.

Holmes retreated to the kitchen, catching up the first cookie and nibbling on it as he headed down the hall. He stooped and picked up the second cookie with its napkin before continuing into the den.

Skye wasn’t there, as he had half expected. But another golden cookie and scarlet napkin lay on the coffee table, pointing toward the hallway into the north wing. Instead of following the toothsome clue, however, Holmes paused, surveying the room.

He detoured, moving to the bookcase along the south wall and pulling several books from the top shelf, well above Skye’s ready range of vision, though not his own. The small box came out of his pocket to be secreted behind the books; the books went back into place. An altogether excellent hiding place, that. I shall come back and rearrange things later, in case I should need to use it for Christmas as well. Perhaps a lower shelf…

He found another cookie on an identical napkin inside the arch into the north hallway. By this time, Holmes was grinning, having noted the door into the master suite was closed—and the last cookie lay on a fourth napkin on the floor, pointing to the closed door.

He bent and picked up the last cookie, adding it to the pile in his left hand. He pushed open the bedroom door and looked inside.

Skye sat on the side of the bed, clad in pale blue satin. The bed was turned down, and the blankets lay invitingly open. The near nightstand contained a large tray, on which sat a tea service for two. The rest of the shortbread lay on a platter beside the teapot, along with assorted other finger foods. Holmes’ dressing gown draped casually across the foot of the bed, awaiting him.

A call regarding a case came up late that afternoon—well after tea time, fortunately—from Peterson Air Force Base, and Holmes took the information, choosing to consider it from the comfort of home, given the additional snow flurries drifting down from leaden clouds scudding overhead. He pondered the rest of the afternoon; then he and Skye discussed it over supper in some detail, before repairing to the den. Holmes stoked the fire, Skye put some Wagner on the stereo, and Holmes fetched the chilled wine from the refrigerator, snagging two wineglasses and the corkscrew on his way past the kitchen cabinets. They settled down on the sofa before the fire as Holmes opened and poured the wine. Clinking his glass to hers, Holmes declared, “To the first snow of the season.”

“With plenty more where that came from,” Skye grinned, and they sipped. “Your pipe is on the end table by your elbow, if you want it.”

Holmes sat his wineglass on the end table beside the pipe. Then he prized off his boots with his toes and tucked his stockinged feet into the corner of the sofa. In a matter of minutes the pipe was duly packed, tamped, and lit; tendrils of smoke curled about the dark head as he reached for his wineglass once more. He reclined into the corner of the couch and opened his arms; Skye leaned into his warm body. A small Siamese cat emerged from behind the sofa and curled up on Holmes’ shoes, purring.

They spent the evening in silent contentment, brooding on the ramifications of the case. Their only accompaniments were the soft strains of Wagner, gentle purring, and the cheerful crackle of the fire.

Holmes rose very early the next morning, wrapped himself in his dressing gown, and called down to Peterson. The night before, the pillow talk between himself and Skye revealed each had independently come to the same conclusion on the little puzzle, so Holmes felt quite comfortable notifying the base military police of their solution. After the phone call he checked the thermostat, nudging it upward to counter the nip in the air. A peep through the window curtains indicated the weather had cleared: A bright blue sky, shading to pink in the east where the sun rose, gleamed over a sparkling white landscape. Then he stoked the fireplace, adding several logs to warm the house more quickly.

While he was doing this, a sleepy Skye, bundled in her thick winter robe, her feet shoved into threadbare slippers, emerged from the bedroom wing. She was immediately preceded by a small but irate Siamese cat, fussing at having been routed from her snug position under the bed covers.

“There you are,” Skye muttered groggily, spotting Holmes. “The bed got cold when you got up.”

“Come here by the fire and get warm, my dear.” Holmes drew Skye to the fireplace as the logs caught and the flames leapt cheerily. Anna decided that was an excellent plan as well, and the little feline curled up on the warm hearth. “At least within the house, this is not so very different from winters in Baker Street, though the season arrives much earlier here. But the routine is similar in many respects. I find myself enjoying it.”

“Ah, you just like havin’ somebody to snuggle,” Skye teased him, trying to slide her arms around his waist.

“I should have thought it was the other way around, judging by appearances this morning.” Holmes raised an eyebrow and deftly avoided clinging hands with a swift, nimble hip twist.

Skye didn’t protest the statement. “C’mon back to bed,” she murmured, tugging cajolingly at the tie of his dressing gown. “The sun’s barely up, I already heard you call down to the base, and the horses won’t be expecting breakfast for a couple more hours yet.”

“And semi-retired scientists no longer have to make their way down the mountain unless they so choose, eh?” Holmes wondered in amusement. “Not to mention you have no horses to train at the moment.”

“And what, pray tell, did you have in mind, should you convince me?” Holmes teased.

“Sleep,” Skye said succinctly. She looked up at him with drowsy blue eyes. “I kept thinkin’ ‘bout the case, ‘stead of sleepin’ last night.”

“Ah,” Holmes said, letting his sympathy show in the grey eyes. “Toddle on back to bed then, my dear Skye. The house should be warmer very soon, and you will not feel so cold.”

“The steps and driveway need to be cleared, my dear. We shall have quite a few guests tomorrow evening, to celebrate your birthday.”

“Along with a certain amount of cooking and cleaning to be done. You did ask me to make that hot mulled wine, and you wanted to make a quantity of shortbread.”

“But it’s really cold out, Sherlock. At least wait until the day warms up a little.”

“There is much to do, Skye,” Holmes remained firm. “I am not an especially enthusiastic host, as you already know. But as this is a special occasion, I intend to do everything in my power to see to it all is in readiness for our guests.”

“Okay, never mind.” Skye frowned, then sighed. She turned toward the bedroom alone. “I’ll lie down for twenty more minutes, then I’ll get up and help you.”

Holmes watched her go. Just then, the grandfather clock at the end of the hall struck 6:45. He drew a deep breath, considering. Moving back to the window, he checked the little weather station Skye had under the eaves of the deck, noting the temperature: It was a scant six degrees above zero, and temperatures were not forecast to rise above freezing for several days.

But it will certainly be a bit warmer in a few hours. In this respect, it IS much different than winter in Baker Street—it is far colder! Perhaps Skye is right; it would be better not to tempt frostbite until the sun is higher in the sky. Shoveling snow can wait. All will be done in due time.

And the detective headed back to a warm, cozy bed, where he was welcomed enthusiastically, if sleepily.

November 4

Tomorrow is Skye’s birthday. I have settled on a gift I think she will like. I find myself anticipating unveiling it before her with the same excitement with which I was used to reveal the solution to a case. Ha! I wrote that as if I no longer relish such things. No, Sherlock, the artist in you goes far too deep. You will always have a flair for the dramatic—but you have been fortunate in finding companions who do not merely overlook your foibles and eccentricities, but dote on them. At least Skye and Watson always have, although Lestrade and Gregson were less than fond of them.

And I have not experienced any more “Watson dreams,” at least in recent nights. Perhaps Skye was right, and this journal business has proven useful. I hope so; I see little in here but thoughts I should have preferred to remain private, surrounded by meaningless drivel. Perhaps I can soon quietly put the matter, and the journal, away and to rest.

The next morning was Skye’s birthday. Holmes slipped out of bed early, quietly rushing through his morning toilette and wrapping himself in his dressing gown. Then he hastened to the den, stoked the fireplace, and tweaked the thermostat to warm the house. From thence he repaired to the kitchen, where he made a large western omelet, toast with butter and jam, and sliced half a small honeydew melon, placing it all on a tray with hot tea and cream before carrying it to the bedroom, where he set it on the nightstand.

Then he sat down on the bedside and gazed at The Woman, noting how the warm pink of the morning light fell on her satiny skin, making it seem to glow. An idea struck him, and suddenly he knew what he would give her for Christmas. He smiled, then laid a light hand on her bare shoulder.

“Mmh,” followed by his beloved snuggling deeper into the warm blankets, was his only response. Grey eyes warmed in affectionate tolerance.

“Wake up, Skye,” he nudged the shoulder under his hand. “Breakfast is ready.”

The deliberately suggestive remark, which would have coaxed an interested, interrogative sapphire glance from her at any other time, sailed right past the sleepy brain this morning. God bless her, my Skye is NOT a “morning person,” Holmes thought with a grin. Impishly, he reached over and ran his index finger through the strawberry jam on the breakfast tray, then brushed his fingertip across her lips.

There was a moment’s pause as Skye took in the sensation of what Holmes had done. Finally a small pink tongue flicked out and disposed of the jam on her mouth. Her lips smacked together a couple of times before the tongue emerged once more, in search of sweets. Holmes touched his sticky fingertip to the rough little appendage, and found his finger sucked inside her mouth, where that same tongue deftly removed every last trace of jam. The detective laughed silently, watching with eyes he knew had dilated when the room increased in brightness.

Skye’s eyelids slit open, and he glimpsed a bleary azure gaze, visible only as two narrow lines of color veiled between golden lashes.

“Did ‘oo bring me breakfas’ in BED?” she wondered sleepily, surprise evident in her tone.

Skye pushed up to a seated posture under the covers, and Holmes poured a cup of tea and added cream, handing it to her.

The day was not as busy as Holmes had expected. The horses were duly tended, and the pair came inside afterward to thaw before the fire. Holmes slipped back outside, ostensibly to ensure the driveway was in good shape with no icy patches, while Skye prepared party food in the kitchen. In reality, he produced the substantial quantity of scrap wood he had hoarded and hidden for weeks, forming it into a proper—and rather large—pyramid shape to produce a good bonfire in the driveway turnaround, where it would be out of sight of Skye’s view from the windows. General Morris and Colonel Jones were bringing the fireworks, so the detective had no worries on that score.

Back inside, Holmes checked on Skye, who was thoroughly enjoying herself in the kitchen, baking shortbread and preparing finger foods; their guests had insisted upon bringing food as well, so the table would be overflowing that evening. Seeing her happily busy, he repaired to the master bathroom, where he showered, shaved, and completed his preparations. Moving into the bedroom, he dressed in the clothing he planned to wear for the party: black jeans and a thick, cabled silver-grey turtleneck tucked into the waist of his jeans. This basic outfit was completed with his dress black cowboy boots and a tooled black leather belt with a simple silver buckle.

When he emerged from the bedroom, he discovered Skye had hot roast beef sandwiches and cocoa ready for a late lunch before the fireplace. She was just putting the tray on the coffee table when he entered the den; her bright blue eyes dilated and she smiled when she spotted him.

“Nice,” she observed appreciatively. Warmth filled Holmes at her simple, straightforward reaction.

I suppose “dapper” depends upon the fashion of the day, and the taste of the wearer, he decided, hiding a pleased smile. As well as that of the observer.

They sat together on the sofa and ate a quick, late lunch; then they curled up together, relaxing for awhile. It was a peaceful, cozy interlude; everything except for Holmes’ wine punch and the last minute things were ready. Some time later, Skye finally stood, intending to tidy away the remains of their meal, but Holmes waved a dismissal.

“Go prepare yourself for the party,” he told her, reaching for the empty tray. “I shall take care of this, then mix the punch.”

“Okay. The crock pot is on the counter, plugged in and ready. Mix your stuff in it, turn it on low, put the lid on, and leave it.”

Holmes carried the tray into the kitchen. Skye had wisely chosen to use disposable utensils for their lunch, so it was easy to dump the remains into the trash, sponge crumbs off the tray, and put it away in the pantry. Then he turned to the making of his mulled wine.

Holmes fished in the utensil drawer until he located the corkscrew, before proceeding to open two bottles of a good California merlot. He dumped them unceremoniously into the crock pot, being just careful enough to avoid splashing wine all over. This initial and essential ingredient was followed by a quarter-cup of brown sugar and an entire sliced orange. Skye had cut and folded a section of cheesecloth for him, leaving it on the counter beside the pot along with the roll of kitchen twine and the kitchen scissors. So Holmes rummaged in Skye’s spice rack, emerging with two cinnamon sticks, a whole nutmeg, and a scant palmful of cloves. All of these went into the cheesecloth, which was then gathered and tied closed with the twine. Holmes dug through the utensil drawer again, emerging with a kitchen mallet, which he applied smartly to the bag of spices until the contents were broken into large pieces. He plopped the bag into the wine mixture, covered it with the crock pot lid, and turned the device on the low setting.

Satisfied, he went into the den to await Skye. There, he proceeded to rearrange the books on the bookshelf—as well as the items hidden behind them.

Skye enjoyed her hot shower, and took her time with her toiletries. Not bad for a thirty-nine-year-old woman, she decided in satisfaction, looking into the bathroom mirror as she applied a hint of makeup. And I look as happy as I feel.

Soon she was dressed, having decided Holmes had a good idea: She wore a pair of comfortable, warm blue jeans topped with a soft, baby blue turtleneck, which emphasized her blonde complexion and sapphire eyes. Her feet went into her most comfortable cowboy boots. Her hair went up into its accustomed French braid. She debated about wearing earrings, but decided against it, opting to continue the casual look.

The detective immediately rose as soon as she came into the room, grey eyes gleaming as they scanned her from head to toe, then met her eyes. Skye saw the look in his eyes and dropped her gaze demurely, blue eyes shining, cheeks flushing a soft pink. I love the way he can compliment me without saying a word, she thought fondly as he moved toward her, taking her hand and drawing her to the armchair at the end of the couch.

“Sit here, my dear Skye,” Holmes murmured. “I have yet to present you with my gift, and I should like to do that now.”

“You didn’t have to get me anything, Sherlock. Just letting me have our friends here to celebrate was more than enough.”

“Now, now,” Holmes protested with a slight smile. “Certainly you would not consider me so thoughtless as to let your birthday pass with as little recognition as that?” He moved to the bookcase, removed several books from the middle shelf, then extracted a small, brightly wrapped and beribboned gift from the cranny thus revealed before replacing the tomes. Skye’s eyes widened in surprised amusement as his secondary hiding place was exposed, then her gaze softened as she saw the flush of excitement in his cheeks.

Skye accepted the gift, turning her full attention to it so Holmes would see how much she appreciated the gesture. She slipped the ribbon from the small box—it was about two inches on a side, and cubical in shape, she observed—then unwrapped the paper.

Inside the gift wrap was a small white box. And inside the white box was a smaller velvet box, patently a jewelry box. Skye blinked; she had not expected anything as extravagant as this appeared.

But when she opened the lid, she was dumbfounded. The diamond was substantial at nearly two carats, brilliant-cut, set in a simple ring of white gold. Her jaw went slack, much to Holmes’ gratification, and she swallowed hard before lifting her gaze to meet his eyes.

And found herself utterly thunderstruck. For Holmes no longer stood above her: He knelt before her, on one knee in the classic pose, silver-grey eyes shining.

Wide-eyed with shock, Skye whispered, “Sherlock? Does this mean…? I mean, are you doing…what it…looks like?”

“Does anything else occur to mind?” The silver eyes twinkled, and the corners of his lips crinkled momentarily. He removed the jewelry box from her enervated fingers and extracted the ring.

Skye gulped, still unsure, and afraid to believe it was happening. So she decided on one more verifying question.

“I believe that is generally the usual response,” he nodded calmly, but Skye could see the vaguest hint of uncertain disquiet in the silver eyes.

Holmes watched her face light up with happiness. Hiding his relief, he slid the ring onto the third finger of her left hand; it fit perfectly.

“I had thought of several possibilities for a date,” he murmured. “It all depends upon how long you wish to wait.”

“What did you have in mind?” Skye wondered, staring at the ring on her finger with patent, disbelieving delight.

“We could wait until the anniversary of my arrival in this continuum, next March,” he suggested, keeping her hand in his and pulling her from the chair as he made his way to the sofa. “Or, since we betrothed ourselves upon the occasion of your birthday, we could wed upon mine, in January.” He sat in the corner of the sofa and tugged her down beside him. “Or…we could get married upon December 23rd, thereby having something of a Christmas wedding, while not interfering with that holiday overmuch.”

Skye listened, startled by the thought her beloved detective had put into the matter, especially given the evidence of sentimental reasoning behind it. But it suddenly occurred to her that any of those dates would also be easily remembered for their associations, and she hid an affectionate smile. I wonder if I’ll ever find out which is the real reason, sentimentality or an easily recalled anniversary, she thought with amusement. Not that it matters. She considered the suggested dates, then tentatively offered, “I like the idea of a Christmas wedding, and it’s soon.”

“Not that we are in any particular rush, but that was my favoured date, as well. I should like, if you’ve no objections, to have a simple, quiet ceremony here at home.”

“Oh, exactly. You and me and the minister, and I guess we’ll need a couple of people as witnesses, to make it legal. But that’s about it.”

“Yeah, if she can make it back from California for it. My matron of honor. Have you thought about a best man?”

“The two I would have chosen are not available.” Holmes drew a deep breath and averted his face. “Perhaps Williams—Billy—would do me the honour.”

“I’m sure Billy would be delighted to stand in for Watson and Mycroft.” Skye slid her arm through his.

“We will speak with them tonight, in private.” Holmes nodded. “The matter is settled, then.”

“Oh?” Holmes wondered, shooting her a sharp, inquisitive look; Skye noted the uncertainty was back. “What is there yet to be determined?”

Skye allowed her serious expression to degenerate into a mischievous smirk. “It has to be sealed with a kiss.”

“Ah,” Holmes said blandly. But his eyes glimmered cheerfully as he obligingly leaned over her.

The guests arrived an hour later, right after sundown, showing up virtually en masse. But to Skye’s surprise, they didn’t come inside. She stared at Holmes, then peeped out the window by the front door.

“Sherlock,” she whispered, mystified, “everybody’s standing around outside. It’s nastybad cold out there; what are they doing?!”

“Well, let us bundle up in our coats and hats and find out,” Holmes suggested ingenuously, fetching Skye’s coat from the mudroom and handing it to her as he donned his own. They put on gloves and mufflers and cowboy hats before Holmes shepherded Skye out the door into the snowy yard.

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY!” the chorus was loud and enthusiastic. Skye started in surprise, then gave her mate a sheepish, knowing grin. He returned it mischievously as the others began singing the classic song. Nate Hughes handed Holmes the lit torch he held, and Holmes put it to the dry wood in the driveway turnaround. It blazed up cheerfully, and everyone gathered around its warmth and light.

Nathan and Caitlin Hughes had flown in from California, staying in a hotel in Woodland Park for the night. General William F. Morris and his wife Julia drove up from Colorado Springs. Colonel Henry “Hank” Jones, head of Schriever Air Force Base Military Police, and FBI Agent Adrian Smith were in attendance. Will “Billy” Williams had brought Tina Tyler, both of Great Britain’s MI5 organization, and both stationed in Colorado Springs.

Now that Holmes and Chadwick were on the scene, General Morris and Colonel Jones broke out the fireworks, and the two men—and Holmes—proceeded to set up several bottle rockets while Williams and Tyler chanted the Guy Fawkes Night rhyme. Skye stood back and stared in enchanted amazement at the celebrants.

Both Caitlin and Nate Hughes came by and hugged her, as did Mrs. Morris. This was the cue for the others to take turns greeting Skye while bottle rockets, Roman candles, fountains, and firecrackers lit up the snow-covered front yard with multicolored sparkles and glitters. The effect was, the birthday honoree decided, not unlike an aurora in reverse. Skye grinned, utterly delighted; she remembered Holmes had once made a remark about a bonfire for her birthday, and a proper Guy Fawkes Night celebration, but she’d had no idea it would be like this.

While Skye watched the men set off bottle rockets and firecrackers—and got in on the act herself—Caitlin disappeared into the house with a grocery bag, emerging soon with piping hot cups of cocoa. She passed around the tray containing the drinks and everyone helped themselves, keeping warm around the bonfire until the substantial collection of fireworks was depleted. This took easily the better part of an hour, and was capped off by the launching of no less than five large “mortar” chrysanthemum displays, lighting up the surrounding countryside. Faint whoops, whistles, and cheers echoed from rocks near and far, as distant neighbors applauded the finale of the show.

By that time, the dry, hot-burning wood of the bonfire was burning down as well. Holmes, Jones, and Smith banked snow around the embers to prevent their escape and allow for slow extinguishing as the snow melted. A grinning, happy Skye led the celebrants into the house.

Everyone congregated in the kitchen around the food, chatting and laughing; even Holmes was uncharacteristically talkative in the large group. In addition to the crudités, cold cuts, finger sandwiches, and shortbread Skye had prepared, Caitlin and her husband brought a double chocolate cake, the Morrises brought barbecued meatballs, Williams and Tyler brought a mammoth cheese tray, and Jones and Smith brought a wide selection of chips and dips. Everyone made much of Holmes’ spiced wine punch, finding it wonderfully warming after being outside in the cold.

“No,” Holmes demurred but offered no further information. His effusiveness evaporated, replaced by his normal taciturn reserve. Skye noticed and stepped in.

“It was his mom’s recipe,” Skye explained with a smile. She laid a light hand on Holmes’ arm, subtly reminding him he was not alone.

Everyone nodded, understanding the detective’s sudden reticence. Leaving her right hand comfortingly on Holmes’ arm, Skye picked up her mug to sip her mulled wine, and Jones lunged forward.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, waitaminit here. Wait just a doggone minute,” he said, catching her hand and taking the mug out of it. “What is THIS?” He splayed out her fingers, letting the overhead lights catch the glittering bauble on her left hand. “This looks suspiciously like an engagement ring!”

“Um, that’s because it is,” she murmured, and the room erupted in happy congratulations.

“So when’s the big day?” General Morris boomed. “Julia and I will expect invitations!”

This was followed by a general chorus of “Yeah!” and “You betcha!” Holmes moved closer to Skye but did not touch her, subtly urging; and she shook her head, raising her hands.

“Hold on, guys,” Skye calmed the enthusiastic group. “It isn’t gonna be like that. Sherlock and I…this isn’t any big deal. It’s just…formalizing things. It won’t be fancy, and it sure won’t be a big church thing. Y’all oughta know we wouldn’t go in for that sort of stuff anyway. It’s going to be a quiet ceremony with the minister and a couple of witnesses.”

“We wanted to see you two finally tie the knot, Doctor,” Morris offered explanation gruffly. “Especially those of us who were there in the beginning.”

Skye was at a loss, not having realized their friends would make such a to-do over the matter. She glanced up at Holmes, and her eyes told him, I don’t know what to say.

Holmes straightened and remarked smoothly, “And that is greatly appreciated, General. Now, the den is much roomier, and warmer as well, for the fire is burning nicely. Shall we prepare plates and retire there? If need be, Skye and I can bring the food in on trays.”

Their guests understood the subject was closed, and the very private couple would handle things in their own very private way—as usual, General Morris noted discreetly to Colonel Jones.

The evening was congenial, with friendly talk around the fireplace. Skye watched as Holmes made a deliberate effort to shake himself from his reticence and to put forth as much of his charm as possible, which was considerable. The resulting twinkle in his eyes told Skye he was enjoying himself once more, and she shot a happy smile across the room at him. He returned it without seeming to, meeting her eyes while allowing his own to crinkle.

Skye cut her eyes at Caitlin, then pointed her chin toward the kitchen. Holmes nodded imperceptibly, then shot his eyes toward Williams. Skye smiled, and laid a light hand on Caitlin’s shoulder, coaxing her into the kitchen to ask her to stand beside her at the wedding.

Holmes waited, playing the enthusiastic host, until the two women came back from the kitchen a few minutes later. Caitlin’s eyes sparkled wetly, and she furtively dashed away a tear while grinning from ear to ear. Holmes shot an inquisitive glance at Skye, who winked at him. He raised an eyebrow and the corner of his lips curled upward. Then it was Skye’s turn to play solo host to the gathering as Holmes surreptitiously drew Williams down the north hallway and into the study.

Roughly a quarter-hour later the two men were back in the den. Williams beamed with pride, and Holmes shot a duly smug glance at Skye, who grinned.

The party went late. Caitlin Hughes, Skye’s best friend, had brought a small gift, a lovely pair of handmade silver and turquoise earrings; but Skye had let it be known that she did not want gifts, and her guests abided by her wishes. Not until every drop of the wine punch was consumed and little was left of the food save crumbs, did the celebrants head home.

When the last guest had departed, Skye floated happily through the house, doing the bare minimum of tidying required before retiring for the evening. Holmes banked the fire in the fireplace, then joined her in the kitchen as she put away the perishable remains of the food.

“Leave the rest for the morning,” he told her. “It is late, and we have had an unusually busy day.”

“Then come,” Holmes said, catching her hand and leading her to the sofa, turning off the lights as he went.

November 5

This night’s entry has nothing to do with dreams. Well, that is not strictly true, I suppose. Rather, I should say, this journal entry has nothing to do with nightmares. I’ve not dealt with that little complication in half a fortnight; I have my hopes the matter is finished.

No, instead I am pleased to say that quite another, and far more agreeable, matter is over and done. Skye’s birthday has been cheerfully celebrated, and my expatriate companions and I have celebrated Guy Fawkes’ abortive rebellion, as well. Matters went nicely; Mother’s hot punch receipt was duly appreciated and Skye is happy.

Much to my satisfaction, my gift to Skye was very well received. It had occurred to me that she would not necessarily welcome the thought of a formal marriage. She is indeed “old fashioned,” and yet sufficiently iconoclastic that I confess I had my doubts. I know in her own mind and heart she already considers us duly wed by Providence—considered it from the first, in fact—hence was not overmuch concerned about outside opinions. I myself am suitably bohemian in habit and outlook to have accepted the matter as it stood; yet I felt there was something not quite right in refusing to at least offer my name to The Woman. Evidently she liked the idea, although I have no expectations she will actually take my name.

And so we shall be wed the day before Christmas Eve, and will spend the holidays together as formally sanctioned husband and wife. The thought is admittedly strange to me, who once eschewed all such considerations. But it is also welcome; Skye is a part of my life now, as irrevocably an associate of my inner circle as ever Watson was, as much a family member as Mycroft. And the good Caitlin and faithful Billy of this continuum will stand for us when the time arrives.

Speaking of Williams, tonight he discussed some interesting events occurring in England. I do not fully understand the terminology, I fear. I shall undoubtedly have to discuss this “U.F.O.” business with Skye. But I cannot think it a good thing that Royal Air Force bases are being “buzzed” by such objects. Then again, I have it to understand that the objects are often hoaxes, or cases of mistaken identity, so in all likelihood there is nothing to it. Still, I informed him, after the first of the year, I should be available to look into the matter if need be. If nothing else, I shall expose the hoax for what it is—with Skye’s eager assistance, I have no doubt. It is precisely the sort of case to which she would be drawn as moth to flame, allowing scope for her scientific knowledge as well as her deductive bent.

Ah, I suppose I shall have to cease writing for now. For some reason, Skye seems to desire the attention of her affianced; I cannot imagine why. Something about an alarm clock ringing…

Holmes awoke with a start, agitated. He glanced at Skye, noted she appeared asleep, then slid out of bed and moved to the east window, staring into the darkness with steel-grey, troubled eyes. Behind him, worried blue eyes snapped open, instantly awake. Moments later a gentle hand laid itself on his naked back.

“Put on your dressing gown before you freeze,” Skye’s soft voice urged him. “Another Watson dream?”

“Mm,” was the closest to an acknowledgement Skye could get from him. She fetched his dressing gown from the bedpost and gave it to him, and silently he wrapped it about himself.

Holmes paused for a moment, considering her question. A single shake of the dark head gave his answer.

He sighed, trying to remain patient with her questioning; he understood she was attempting to help. “Possibly,” he admitted at last.

“Then get your journal and write. Now. Write down all your thoughts about the dream, whether they seem related or not. Let it ramble. If you do it now, while the dream is fresh in your memory, we might get some clues from your subconscious as to what’s going on.”

Holmes scowled, then drew a deep breath, realizing she was likely right. “Very well,” he murmured, biting back any sharpness in his tone.

He moved to the bed and pulled the journal from its hiding place under the contents of the nightstand drawer. Holmes piled all the pillows within reach against the headboard, sat down and leaned back against them, drawing up his knees to provide a writing surface, as Skye crawled in beside him. He flipped to the first clean page and began to write.

“Sherlock? Would you mind if I…?” She waggled a hesitant finger at the leather-bound diary.

Holmes glanced up from the page and saw troubled blue eyes gazing back at him. Immediately he took her meaning. He hesitated, his innate reticence asserting itself. But he had asked her to marry him that very day, and Holmes was wise enough to understand that secretiveness made a poor foundation for such a relationship. Besides, if I cannot trust her, I cannot trust myself, he noted. By way of answer, he twisted in bed and dropped his left shoulder, enabling her to read what he was writing.

November 6

3:14 A.M.

I have had another of the damnable dreams. Once more, a desperate Watson is roaming the streets of London searching frantically for me, yet he cannot see me, or even hear me, when once he finally finds me. It is as if…there is an invisible wall between us, or I am a ghost. And I know this will happen, from the first moment I hear him call my name. He is utterly and incontrovertibly beyond my reach, and I, his. And I know something dreadful is about to happen, for by the time he comes upon me, he is near panic, shouting—nay, screaming—my name, and I am filled with a sense of dire foreboding. Yet the dream always ends before I find out what that something may be.

It is hard enough having lost him to the vagaries of spacetime, without having to endure these repeated reminders of that loss. To abruptly and irrevocably find oneself in a world—nay, an entire universe—that is not one’s own, where my very existence is viewed as the figment of another man’s vivid imagination. Where nothing is familiar and friends and family are left behind, never to be seen or heard from again—this is the stuff of nightmare. If I did not have Skye beside me, I am not certain I should be able to abide it. Indeed, were it not for the anchour who even now curls against me, I might well have gone mad long since, or, in extremis, requested to be returned to Reichenbach to let Moriarty finish me. For, in my world, it seems I was fated to die at the falls. And indeed would have done, had not that same anchour lying beside me yanked me through a rift between worlds, into her own. That concept in itself is almost enough to require an anchour.

I do have such an anchour, however. And therefore I have set out to create for myself a new life. A life where I may put aside the pain, smooth over the transition of the abrupt change, and move on.

But no! I must perforce be reminded of that change, night after night, instead of being allowed to settle into this new life. This new life, I might add, in which I have discovered satisfaction and—dare I say it? Yea, the Vernet within dares—joy, the likes of which never existed for me in my own continuum. Yet where is that joy now? This dream holds only apprehension, dismay, and despair.

And therein lies another grievance I have against these dreams. Of all nights for them to return, why should it be tonight, after Skye has done me the honour of granting her hand in marriage? I readily admit I am not the world’s most romantic man, nor particularly wish to be; still, one would expect…other dreams…to occupy my sleeping mind on this particular night. Thoughts of future happiness, of marital bliss, would be the source of dreams for most men tonight. Indeed, despite the fact I am emphatically not “most men,” still, my affianced has reawakened a dream I thought long dead.

For I did not always eschew the softer emotions. Though it was occasionally speculated by the less reputable members of the press that my childhood was something other than ideal, even possibly abusive, in truth Mycroft and I had warm, caring parents. It was not until I began my work that I found it necessary to wall off that part of my being, quite simply in order to deal with the horrors to be found in my chosen profession. And of course I did not wish sentimentality to unduly influence my reasoning processes, as not uncommonly men’s lives rest in my ability to reach the proper outcome of a case. But Skye has proven an amazingly strong anchour, not only in my transitioning to this continuum, but in my learning to permit access to some of those sentiments once more.

She has also restored my faith in the feminine sex, a faith lost about the same time I began my life’s work. No more of that need be said here.

Ah! The dangers of allowing one’s fiancée to read over one’s shoulder! Skye insists quite vehemently that I should record that former loss of my faith in women, as if it might have some bearing upon the subject under consideration. Well, whether or no, I suppose my betrothed has the right to know, and as I intend to lock this tome safely away after tonight, none other but her eyes shall ever see this confessional.

It was while I was at university that I met her. Her name was Lily Cranwell, and she was a bonny little thing. Slender and petite, with nut-brown hair and green eyes, quick-witted and possessed of what was, for the time, a fairly considerable intellect in a woman. We had several classes together, and I used to encounter her in the quad, as well. There were few women at university in those days, so she was rather popular. Still, when she asked to study with me, it was an eye-opener. I was young, scarcely of age, and I dared in my naiveté to think we might strike up a more familiar relationship. It was not long, perhaps a few fortnights, before I commenced to fancy we had succeeded, for she began seeking me out, even—by the middle of the Michaelmas term—insisting I walk her to classes. Little did I know.

For in those days, I dwelt in rooms at university, and per assignment shared them with Roger Summersby, the track and field man. A fine chap was Summersby, tall, strong, handsome, and an altogether fair and just fellow. He had no idea of my interest in Lily Cranwell—she saw to that! Nor had I any idea of her interest in him, let alone the fact that she had struck up a close acquaintanceship with me merely to obtain an entrée into his circle. And she was successful in the attempt, it seems. The two began to meet behind my back, not that Summersby knew. It was the first time I had let my guard down around another, more the fool, me; I trusted her, using my powers of observation only for her amusement when she was near, and so was ignorant of her deception.

Until the evening when I came by her last class of the day to walk her to her boarding house and inadvertently overheard her talking to two female companions about the upcoming graduation ball before I myself came around the corner and within their sight. It seems they were discussing her likely escort to the affair, and the two top contenders, in her friends’ minds, were Summersby and myself. In point of fact I had, indeed, been considering eschewing my normal avoidance of such events, and asking her to attend with me. That is, until Lily gave a scornful laugh at the mention of my name and let slip her secret—along with several pointed and uncomplimentary remarks regarding my person, appearance, and character. Her lady friends found it all most amusing, judging by their response.

Dear Lily did not get an escort home that day; her friend Holmes unaccountably failed to arrive. Instead I betook myself to my rooms and managed somehow to find a way to delicately broach the subject to Summersby, who, decent chap that he was, was incensed at discovering her machinations. He promptly asked another young lady to the ball; as per usual, I did not attend. Summersby informed me later that “our Lily,” as he took to calling her in a somewhat less than respectful tone, arrived at the ball unhappily without escort. I learned a valuable lesson: never to take anyone at face value but always to let those powers of observation and deduction with which I was gifted filter my bosom companions. But, I fancy, Lily learned a lesson, as well—after that, her little “friends” were no kinder in their remarks toward her than she had been of me.

Soon after, I found myself with work aplenty as a consulting detective, which is when I decided to move away from university and take up rooms in Baker Street with Watson. To compound my adverse reaction to the female sex, several of my very first cases dismally failed to cast their leading ladies in a flattering light. The fact that the women were also inconstant of mind did not lend credence to their gender’s cause. I found I could appreciate a woman’s beauty without feeling it necessary to place faith in her, a sort of detached aesthetic. This has remained consistent throughout my career—until I met Skye. I had perforce to place my faith in her when I came to this continuum, and found her utterly trustworthy, in addition to having an unparalleled intellect. Her visual appeal is without question. In this universe, she is my Mrs. Hudson, my brother Mycroft, my dear friend Watson, and even, to some extent, myself. I can no longer imagine my world without her.

Which brings us full circle back to today’s significance and why this blasted dream should have recurred at so inauspicious a time.

Holmes paused to flex his hand and massage out a cramp. Skye took his hand in hers, removing the cartridge fountain pen from stiff fingers and taking over the massage, while scanning down the lengthy journal entry he’d just completed.

“Sherlock, read back over what you’ve written. Then I want to ask you a question.”

“Skye, before I do, do you understand, since that day, I have never mentioned the incident?” He flushed. “Nor even thought about it in many years?”

“Lily Cranwell was a fool,” Skye said bluntly. “There’s another word I’d use, except it would be insulting to dogs. But I’m glad, because if she’d had one eye and half-sense, I wouldn’t have you.”

Holmes’ gaze shot upward, and he stared at her for a moment, registering the blaze of anger in the sapphire eyes, before reacting.

“Ha!” he exclaimed, then shook his head. “Seldom am I surprised by much, but you have a positive talent for it, my dear.” Long thin fingers wrapped gently around her hand, squeezing briefly before releasing. “Now, let me read through it, then you may ask your question.”

Skye silenced, and watched Holmes’ face as he read back through his own words. She noted when his brows drew together, and again when his forehead creased; moments later, his eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

At last he raised his eyes to hers, and she saw the glimmer of approaching comprehension in them.

“Are you SURE it’s really Watson in your dream, Sherlock?” Skye looked up into his eyes with concern.

The grey eyes dilated in sudden, shocked recognition, and Holmes paled until his face was nearly white. Skye caught his hand, alarmed. Finally he answered her.

“No, Skye, it is not. At the end, when he lifts his face to look at me—good Lord, Skye. It is you.”

Chapter 1—Detective Diaries