Unable to defeat the addiction-withdrawal syndrome of Moriarty's youth potion,
Holmes is running out of the drug, and faces madness and a horrible death.
Unwilling to concede victory to the Professor, he leaves England
in search of the one person who might still best Holmes' archenemy -

"THE Woman."

 

---

 
Image Credit: Title picture Victorian Woman ~Sephrena.

The model(s) in this image is in / and are no way connected with this story nor supports nor conveys the issues and situations brought up within the story. The model(s) use is solely used for the representation of looks of the main character(s) of this particular story. ~Sephrena.

Free Antique Divider licensed for use from www.designsbyannmargaret.com ~Sephrena.

Legalities: Archiving and reposting of this story *unchanged* is permitted provided that: 1) You must have contacted the author, Tigger, and have asked permission first and received said permission to host this particular work. 2) No fee be charged, either directly or indirectly (this includes so-called "adult checks") or any form of barter or monetary transfers in order to access viewing this work *and* (3) PROVIDED that this disclaimer, all author notes, legalities and attribution to the original author are contained unchanged within the work. 4) The author of this work, Tigger, must be provided free account access at all times the work is hosted in order to modify or remove this work at his sole discretion.

The characters, situations, and places within this work are fictional. Any resemblance between actual people (living or dead), places, or situations is entirely coincidental.

The title picture is the work of its respective photographer. This work, everything other than the title picture, is the copyrighted material of the respective author. ~Tigger.

Caveate Emptor! This story is a work of fiction, intended for mature individuals who enjoy stories with transgender and erotic themes and who are legally permitted to read such stories under the laws of their location. If this does not describe you, then this story is not for you and you should check elsewhere.

In addition, this story drastically departs from what is commonly referred as "The Canon" among Sherlock Holmes enthusiasts. Should this offend you, please read no further. ~Tigger.

Characterizations: This story is based on situations and characterizations found in the Sherlock Holmes stories by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. However, the Irene Adler character is also based on the characterization presented in the Irene Adler novels by Carole Nelson Douglas.~Tigger.

Artwork: Original Artwork graciously donated by Brandy Dewinter.

Acknowledgements: A story of this magnitude (over 1 megabyte of text, 56 chapters in three parts) is not solely the effort of one person. My sincere thanks to:

Brandy Dewinter - Simply stated, without her help, support, guidance and every so often a well intentioned nag, this story would not have happened. I think that about 85% of the words are mine, and the rest are hers, but all of them (mine in particular) are better for her eagle-eye for detail, grammar, theme and plot.

DanielSan - who kept me (almost) honest insofar as my characterization of the main characters and who caught more than a few glaring typos and manglings of the English language (American or English).

Paul1954 - who read my words to ensure that, in my attempt to make my characters sound English-Victorian, I did not make too much a hash of it. I am sure that it was often a painful experience. ~Tigger.

---

 
 
Part II: Veni, Veni, Vici
 
 
Chapter 13. Katrina's Story
 
Later that morning, Irene was back in her library when Sherla entered the room followed by Katrina. Sherla was dressed in a relatively sober dark blue morning dress that was as simple as it was elegant. The only ornamentation on the dress were the tiny pearl buttons down the center of the bodice, and the white lace accents around the collar and the cuffs. It was strangely at odds with the rest of Sherla's toilette for the girl's hair was far less formal, hanging as it was down her back in a single wave of midnight silk. In addition, her cosmetics were somewhat more colorful than one might expect for a lady making a morning call on an acquaintance. *Katrina's work, obviously,* Irene noted, recognizing the styles, *The style looks stunning on Sherla, although she couldn't appear publicly arrayed like this. I wonder what that means.*

"Madame. . ." Katrina started slowly.

"Call her Tante!" Sherla interrupted forcefully, "when we are alone for she has given you that, and it is a great honor and a privilege."

Irene started to make a retort of her own when Katrina merely nodded. "Oui, Mademoiselle Sherla," she said with an unexpected meekness. "Tante Irene," she began again, "I have told Mam. . I mean, Sherla about parts of my life before I came here to you, but could not tell it all. Would you, please, tell her? She needs to know, I think, as much as I needed to know about the danger she posed. I tried, but I cannot seem to get it out."

*So that is the way of it, is it? Well, all I can think is 'Brava, Sherla, well done!' Now, perhaps we can bring this problem to a close. Why, something like this would be just the thing to get Sherla's hand back in, as it were.* "Very well, Katrina-dear," Irene smiled to her young maid. "You may go to the school room for your afternoon studies. I will call you if I need you."

"Merci, Mad. . " Katrina was stopped short by a sharp look from Sherla. She cleared her throat. "Merci, Tante Irene."

Irene watched the girl leave the library, shutting the door behind her. "I appreciate what you are trying to do, Sherla, but until we are absolutely sure of her safety, it might be best if she were to remain in the habit of calling me Madame. If you insist on her calling me 'Tante Irene', she might forget in public, which could be disastrous for her and for my husband and I." She stared at Sherla who finally nodded. "Excellent. Now, perhaps then you might explain your rather eclectic toilette?"

Sherla took a seat without being invited and pinned Irene with a meaning-filled glare. "I have a vile headache," she replied tartly, "As YOU wished I would." Irene could not help smiling and Sherla gave her a sniff - another mannerism learned from the minx, Katrina. "I could not stand having my hair pinned and pulled so Katrina left it down. The cosmetics are from my most recent lesson in the art, and I liked it."

"I see. You spoke while Katrina showed you how to use cosmetics?" Irene asked, thinking this was not the way of the very impatient Mr. Holmes.

"It calmed her to be doing something with her hands and to be concentrating on something else as she spoke. She shrugged at that. "And I needed the instruction."

*Of course you needed it,* Irene thought, *And if weeding the garden or gutting fish for lunch would have distracted Katrina, you would have needed instruction in that, as well. Who are you trying to deceive, Sherla? Me or Sherlock?* Irene cleared her throat and smiled gently. "Godfrey has a preparation he swears by in such circumstances. It tastes vile, but it might help."

"Thank you, but no. The worst is past, and most such preparations involve more alcohol which I do not think my system will tolerate. I need my wits unimpaired if I am to assist you in resolving Katrina's problem. She has explained to me that the role is a disguise, and that you are hiding her from certain unnamed members of the underworld because she helped you with a case. Please explain what happened."

*How very Sherlock her bearing is right now, in spite of that very feminine ensemble, * Irene mused. *'The facts, Madame, if you please. Simply the facts!' I wonder at the difference in technique. Is it because I am not distraught over this as Katrina obviously is, or is the reason for this forthright approach to my interrogation more to do with the fact that I am not your lover?* "Very well. The short of it is that Katrina was instrumental in helping Godfrey and I break up a prostitution and white slavery ring that was preying on young women of the theater in Paris."

"That much I have managed either to wring from or deduce from what Katrina has told me. Please tell me the facts of the case."

Irene began to reach for a cigarette and caught herself. She sighed. "A friend of ours found this very talented, if poorly taught young contralto training at a little known school in one of the seedier sections of Paris. He was about to offer her a contract to sing in the chorus of the Paris Grand Opera, when the girl disappeared. He tried to locate her, but the school was no help whatsoever. Moreover, they were oddly disinterested for an institution that supposedly trains young women for the operatic vocation. Having one of their students perform at the Grand Opera would reflect glory upon them for having trained the girl, and would greatly improve their consequence in the community."

"A rather odd reaction, indeed," Sherla replied contemplatively. "I should have been rather suspicious myself."

"As was our friend. He made some, unfortunately, rather not so discreet inquiries and was attacked and beaten on the street near his home one night soon thereafter. Again unfortunately, he did not make the connection between a beating where nothing was stolen and his search for the missing girl. He continued his inquiries and was again beaten, but this time he was told that if they had to come back a third time, he would be waking with the angels in heaven or the devil in hell.

"At this point you were called in?" Sherla surmised with a smile.

"Precisely. I made my investigations through the stage set while Godfrey disguised himself as a street cleaner and instituted a surveillance on the school. No one in the theater or opera set had ever even heard of this school. Fortunately, Godfrey had more success than I did. Over the course of three weeks, he became quite familiar with those who regularly came and went. Two things caught his notice, however. One was the fact that, as he put it, 'this very nasty looking piece of goods" came to the school one day, about two weeks after Godfrey had begun his watch. She arrived and left by a very expensive, if gaudy carriage, and the next day, two of the more attractive female students no longer attended the classes."

"The gendarmerie was never called in on these 'disappearances'?"

Shaking her head, Irene held up one hand and rubbed her forefinger against her thumb as if fanning a hand full of paper currency. "When we investigated, there were no records of those women at all. We suspect they were young women from the country or from the lower classes who had some singing talent, or thought they did, who would delight in the chance to learn to sing for their living."

"All beautiful?"

"Attractive enough, certainly," Irene agreed. "In any case we decided to follow our only clue - the possible connection between the woman and the disappearance of the two students. The next time she visited the school, Godfrey followed her."

"I hope he has improved at the art of such a covert activity since our mutual adventure in Monaco?" Sherla asked with a smile.

"Well, he wasn't attempting to surveille Mr. Sherlock Holmes of 221B Baker Street this time, but he has improved greatly as a sleuth in our years together," Irene said with great fondness in her voice. "He followed her to a large, walled estate outside Paris. That night, we made an attempt to enter the grounds but found the intervening space between the wall and the house guarded by large, vicious dogs. We barely escaped."

"Interesting, and begs the question - were the dogs to keep someone in or someone out?"

"Both, in my estimation. Godfrey and I were still trying to develop a method for gaining entry that would not involve hurting or otherwise incapacitating the dogs, when our we had our first bit of luck."

"You made your own luck with your most excellent detective work, Irene," Sherla said gravely. "That you were there was a result of that effort."

She waved away the praise and continued. "While we were there looking for weaknesses in their security, that hopelessly gaudy carriage departed the estate through the gates. We noted that the carriage had to stop on both sides of the gate, first to unlock and open it, and then to close and relock it. We thought that, perhaps, we could somehow secret ourselves beneath the frame of their equipage when it stopped to open the gates upon its return, but as it happened, that was unnecessary. Katrina had anticipated our solution for she dropped to the ground from the conveyance's undercarriage once it began moving again following locking the gates. She then rolled for the nearest cover like a little dervish, which happened to be the bushes where Godfrey and I had hidden ourselves."

"A very desperate act on her part - she might easily have fallen too soon or during a turn - been run over by the wheels or attacked by those dogs of yours."

"She had decided that would be preferable to existing in that vile house another instant. We, of course, spirited her away to our home where we got her entire story from her - has she told you that? How her inhuman bastard of a father had sold her to that woman when she'd been but barely sixteen? She is not like other women, Sherla, as you have no doubt surmised. She prefers the love of other women and she has a brain - neither of which were acceptable to her father."

"Is that not a little young, even in France, for a young woman to decide she prefers the touch of women over men?" Sherla asked in disbelief.

"Your all-too-English disdain of things French is showing, my dear. She was a bastard - born on the wrong side of the blanket to a French aristocrat whose antecedents, unfortunately, escaped the kiss of Madame la Guillotine. Her birth and her intelligence made her unsuited for sale in the more socially acceptable marriage mart. It did not, however, affect her value in other, less reputable arenas. Her father raped her when she was but fourteen years old, and continued to do so until he sold her. She turned to the only consolation available - her Mother's maid who introduced her to the ways of Sappho. It was a far gentler and pleasurable introduction than her father had given her."

"I see," Sherla said, her voice suddenly so cold and dangerous that Irene could barely restrain a shiver. "The gaudy woman is a brothel keeper, then?"

"That and worse, Sherla. She called herself Madame de Sade, and it fit her. The torments and horrors she inflicted on those girls to force them to do her bidding were horrible - beyond merely inhuman! The Marquis may have the reputation, my dear, but trust me that no male could ever torment, humiliate or hurt a female like another female. Katrina resisted, as much because it is not in her to tolerate submissively the touch and sexual use of men, as because she has the soul of a lion. Knowing Katrina's preferences, Madame de Sade's punishments were to deny her that, and to make her a torture slave in her dungeon. For enough francs, a man could do almost anything he wished down there. Records we recovered later indicated that as many as fifty young women died down there, their lives paid for in francs and sous. Katrina would have been next among their number had she not escaped when she did. Her name had already been entered in the ledger, along with the negotiated price for her death - ten thousand francs.

"I hope the woman died screaming in agony, locked away in her own damned hellhole," Sherla hissed in fury, the first emotion Irene had seen since the discussion began. "And that certainly explains your concern that Moriarty was involved in such activities.

"Not quite, as I will get to in a moment. As to Madame, I am afraid her death was not so poetically just. She was, however, executed by the French courts if that is any conciliation."

"The French would have granted her far too merciful a death because she was a woman, but at least she is dead. What happened?"

"Nothing very heroic, I am afraid. My husband and I contacted a very reliable and honest official we knew. He closed down the operation and arrested Madame de Sade and her minions. We tried to help the other girls, but for the most part, they disappeared before we could do very much. I worry about them when I permit myself to think of them."

"You saved Katrina," Sherla commented softly.

"Yes we did, and fell in love with her. I had actually discussed with Godfrey the possibility of adopting her when our friend warned us that the Madame did not work alone. Apparently, there was reference to a higher power in Madame's records, someone she had to report to and answer to in matters related to her various criminal operations. In return for a rather sizeable portion of her gross profits, this mysterious individual protected her, and provided her with . . . other services."

"By that I infer you mean such services as murder on demand?"

Irene nodded. "Yes. There were numerous records of officials who became too interested in Madame's business being referred to this person, only to have them disappear forever in relatively short order."

"And you feared for Katrina should her name become public, as it would have to were you to adopt her? You were afraid this individual would try to avenge Madame, or at least, the income her demise cost him?"

"Exactly, my dear. So we took her in and made her, publicly at least, our maid. She is actually family and we are privately educating her so that when she is old enough, she might attend university and make a life for herself. Unfortunately, she has been bitten by my own investigations bug, and thinks to do what I do and have done. I will admit that she has shown a great flair for the work, but I fear that she thinks to rescue other young women such as herself. Given her personal preferences, she has not intent nor desire to wed, so at least she will not have a family to concern her."

"She has you and your husband," Sherla corrected, "and now she has me. But enough of that, some questions, if you will, please." Irene nodded and Sherla began. "Katrina's . . paternal parent, what happened to him?"

That brightened Irene, in a malevolent manner at least. "He is dead - one of the mysterious one's victims on behalf of Madame de Sade. Apparently, he thought to extort more money out of the Madame. He was found stripped, beaten and castrated outside of his country home, his severed male part stuffed into his mouth."

Sherla could not help shifting in her seat, and drawing her legs together as she considered that image. "Oh sit still," Irene admonished, her eyes twinkling, "At least now, you no longer need worry about such things, now do you?"

"As you say," Sherla replied, her voice still uneven, "However, I am more interested in this individual you hide from. There were no indications who he might be? I assume you have used your considerable skills to search him out."

Irene shook her head. "Of course, but it is as if he simply ceased to exist about the time we took in Katrina. Some clues, surely. Initials in one place, a military title in another, and some combinations of all of them. None of it made any sense to our friend or to any of the officials."

Something changed in Sherla's demeanor. "How long has Katrina been with you?"

"Almost four years. She was barely seventeen when she escaped, and was not more than sixteen when that animal sold her to that vile woman."

"That might fit. The father was killed soon after the . . .sale, too, am I correct?" Irene nodded, her expression becoming pensive. "The title, Irene, and the initials. . .do you remember them?" Her voice was now low, very intense and just a little dangerous.

"Why yes, Sherla, the title was Colonel. As for the initials, sometimes it was simply "G". Other times it was AHG or AG. Once it was recorded as Colonel G. Why? Do you know something?"

"Four, almost five years ago, Sherlock Holmes undertook his last mission abroad on behalf of his brother Mycroft. It was a mission so secret that Watson was never told for fear he might forget its great sensitivity. I was sent to neutralize the last known associate of Professor Moriarty - a man who was to Paris and France, what Colonel Moran was to London and England - Moriarty's right hand man and hand picked successor to his role as Lord of the Underworld. This . . person had come to Mycroft's attention by his acquiring of various apparatus and laboratory equipment needed to breed bacteria. It had become clear from Mycroft's investigations that this person intended to develop the bacteria as weapons."

"And this person fits the initials I just gave you?" Irene asked impatiently.

"Colonel Auguste Henri Gilbert, late of the French Army," Sherla said solemnly. "He is dead, Irene, and has been since shortly after Katrina's father was killed. I, or rather Sherlock, engineered his demise in his own foul laboratory. His organization collapsed almost immediately, as had Moran's when Mr. Holmes returned to London to save Watson. There is no one left with the power or the will to come after you or Katrina."

"My lord in heaven," Irene breathed softly, "you mean she is safe at last? I can acknowledge her in society as she has always deserved?"

"She is safe, although whether she wants anything to do with Society is another question, and one which must await another day and time for its answer."

"She deserved so much better than we could give her and still keep her safe, Sherla."

"She seems rather happy with her lot from my observations. Given what she has gone through, it is miraculous that she is so. . open and happy. That speaks volumes about her, and even more about you and your husband. She could so very easily have become one of those lost souls who ultimately end their own lives."

"As you almost did, my dear?" Irene asked gently.

"I was alone when I should not have been, and therefore decided on a permanent solution to a problem I might have later, given time and the help of friends, seen as temporary. She had friends - she had and has you. Now I have you and I have her. I do not think such a false and faulted solution would ever occur to me again."

"Do you wish to be here when I tell her the good news?"

"I think such glad tidings are more appropriately done between. . .Mother and daughter, Irene. There will be other times for all of us to work through this for it is not really over - not for her and not for me." Sherla rose and walked over to the bell pull. "I will be in the music room if either of you need me."

Sherla left the room just as Katrina hurried up from where ever she had been studying. Sherla only smiled at her concerned friend, and waved her into the library.
 

 
The melodies of Liszt and Chopan were filling the music room when Irene and Katrina entered the room. Smiling in welcome, Sherla finished her piece and then turned to her audience. "All is well?" she asked quietly.

"You . . .I mean, Mr. Holmes truly did away with that evil man?" Katrina asked, her English becoming heavily accented in her emotional turmoil. Sherla nodded. "Mada. . I mean, Maman has given me this that I might give it to you," Katrina said as she pulled a long, black leather case from behind her back.

Sherla all but pounced on it, opening the case with pure glee on her lovely face. With reverent hands, she lifted the glossy violin from the red-felt lined interior of the case, and then reached for the bow. "May I try it?" She asked, almost hesitantly.

"Of course you may," Irene huffed. "I don't play the violin, and besides, I purchased it for you. My friend in Paris Orchestra says it is a superb instrument, if not a Stradivarius, but none of those were on the market just now.

Sherla quickly tested and tuned the instrument, and then putting it to her chin, drew the bow across the strings. She sighed in rapturous bliss. Without further ado, the other two women were treated to an impromptu concert, and if an occasional note was a bit off when Sherla neglected to compensate for her reduced finger reach, no one complained. Soon, Irene was accompanying Sherla on the piano.

The pair, with Katrina as their rapt audience, played on well into the afternoon until the sound of their music could no longer drown out the growling of the empty stomachs. Reluctantly, they called an end to their idyllic moment to feed another, more earthly hunger.
 

 
 
Entry in the Journal of Miss Sherla Joan Holmes

Date: February 25, 1911

Location: Irene Adler's Home outside of Paris France.

Time: 6:33 P.M.

My Dear Doctor Watson: It has been a most edifying time since I last wrote within these pages. I have had many new experiences, some positive and others not so very positive, but all of them enlightening in their own way. The ball went well, I think. No, that is unfair for I am working too hard to be "holmes-ish" in this journal, as if by doing so I give lie to the fact that my life and my outlook are changing as much as have my physique. I must be honest in this journal otherwise I am lying to myself which is perhaps the greatest sin of all. The ball was lovely! Wonderful! A marvelous experience of sight, and sound, of scent and flavor. I had a most wonderful time dancing, and truth to tell, I now regret having argued with Irene about those other six dances - although I must admit that my new corset did have me breathing rather heavily after the more energetic dances. I do wonder, however, if women who were born females laugh behind their fans as I did at the antics of the young men at the ball - young peacocks strutting their plumage before an unattached peahen in hopes of earning a peck or two of her favors. I must tell you that I have been unable to decide which of two choices earns the prize as the absolute worst aspect of this high society rite of courtship. On one hand there is the positively awful poetry they seem to think they must create and then inflict upon any poor female with the sound of their voices. I refuse to dignify any of it by attempting to remember it so that I may write it down here. Heavens above, John, immortalizing such clap trap would be a crime against art. On the other hand, however, are the absolutely hilarious "compliments" these young chevaliers bestow upon my and other ladies' heads. Heavens, John, if I had not been wearing gloves, one of those high-born fools would have sung the praises of the shape of my hangnails, or pontificated on the mysteries of the sweat patterns on my palms. Amazing. Another thing I have learned again, and which I should not have had need to learn again, is that I now have absolutely NO head for spirits. I became quite the giddy fool on a relatively small portion of champagne and nearly made a worse fool of myself, much to Irene's dismay. Fortunately, THE Woman emerged victorious from the fray, and we managed our escape only slightly scathed. I have discovered, that while the worst of Moriarty's foul withdrawal is past, I am still highly susceptible to the sexual demons of the flesh. And of all things, John, with a MAN!! Oh yes, I know, I know. I am a woman and starting to think like one more and more, and yes, man and woman together is nature's way of it, but curse it all, John, part of me still thinks like a man. This very good looking (yes, I noticed) young man lured me out into the moonlight and kissed me. Yes, I was well and truly inebriated by that time, and he did surprise me, but once he had me lip-to-lip? I wanted to consume him whole, John. Or be consumed by him. I was not rational enough during our. . . exchange to know quite which. At some point, the combination of the alcohol and the kiss reignited a need in me that matched my withdrawal experiences. Irene claims that had she not arrived on the scene when she did, I would have been inviting the fellow to do far more than just kiss me. I cannot say, for I do not feel that way about him right now, sober and no longer needful of physical satiation, and while Irene might not tell me a truth if she thinks it best, I do not believe that *she* believes she is exaggerating the case. Oddly enough, John, an old case of Sherlock's came up tonight - one which you were never made privy to for reasons of security. Suffice it to say, Sherlock's activities on that particular instance have done both Irene and Katrina a singular service. That pleases me greatly. I seem to have finished my size reduction, John, as none of my measurements have changed over the past several days. Oh, except for my waist and it is not for the reason you think. I have convinced Irene, and almost convinced Katrina, that I do not WISH to have a sixteen inch waist measurement. While I do admit I look magnificent laced down to such small dimensions, it does not suit my needs to have my abdominal and lower back muscles weakened as they would be were I to continue such tight figure training. We have agreed that I shall keep a nominal 19 to 20 inch waist with a lacing down to 17 to 18 inches for special occasions. Now all I must do is convince Katrina that waking up in the morning is NOT a special occasion. Irene's fencing lessons with me will keep those muscles strong so that when I go to face Moriarty, I will have the necessary freedom of movement to do what must be done. Katrina's question was if she could resume "properly seeing to your middle once this foolishness is over." I think, my friend, that I shall have to work long and hard to find a reason she will find adequate NOT to lace as she becomes dreamy-eyed whenever she mentions the words "sixteen", "inches" and "waist" in a single sentence that refers to me. And I will have a very difficult time denying her that pleasure, because perhaps the most incredible experience of all is that I have, for the first time in either of my two lives, made love with another person. Katrina to be precise. I must tell you, that I do not recall as much of it as I would wish, but what I do remember is delightful beyond my poor ability with words to describe adequately. I now know, John, or at least have glimpsed, what you must have shared and then sadly lost with your Mary. Nothing Sherlock experienced in his life compares to what I felt last night. It is something akin to being blind from birth and waking up one morning with perfect vision. I know that this expression of physical love between two female creatures is a violation of the laws of man and church, John, but am I truly a woman? Certainly a great deal of me is, and becoming more so by the day, but I am still the sum total of what once was Sherlock Holmes, a man. Do I make love with my body or with my mind? A pretty puzzle, eh? I shall consider it, but I shall not deny myself the pleasure and the love I have found in Katrina's arms while I do so. The last thing I have learned is that there has been far, far, far too little love in my life. .. lives, and I never before knew how great that lack truly was. I shall not give it up now that I have discovered it. However, the most important thing I have to tell you is that Katrina and Irene gave me a new violin today, a truly beautiful instrument. We spent the better part of the afternoon in the music room making music together. I must say, John, that this was the most lovely afternoon I can ever remember. Certainly far better than any I endured as a child. Even the challenge of a stimulating investigation never soothed to my inner spirit as did those few hours spent making music and friendship. Good night, John. It is time for the evening meal.

End Journal Entry.
 
 
Chapter 14. Moriarty's Gambit
 
Moriarty sipped his morning coffee and barely stifled an undignified sigh of quiet satisfaction that had nothing to do with the current state of progress in the laboratory. It had everything to do with the scheme he had put into motion yesterday morning. *It is as if I were once again fully alive after years spent in a fugue. Exhilarating,* he mused, *MOST exhilarating.*

A servant came in to clear away the dishes as Moriarty rose and left the table. He walked to a nearby window and gazed out over the pristine purity of the snow covered grounds. There, he permitted himself a small chuckle. *How appropriate that the first major public act of my return to the Continent should be such a finely-designed crime, forged in the heavenly solitude of such a peaceful setting. This is my destiny, to control the lesser beings of the world from a setting of tranquility, as far above their petty struggles as my own intellect is above their near imbecilities.*

*Soon, very soon, assuming the trains are on schedule,* he exulted in excited anticipation. Moriarty's smile grew wider as the picture slowly formed and became vivid before his mind's eye. Dozens of people dead or dying painfully so that one man could disappear without his disappearance being noticed. *It has been far too long since I have wielded the heady power of life and death so fully, and yet, so delicately. Any ham-handed fool with a gun can end the lives of tens of people before he is finally stopped and killed himself,* Moriarty thought with happy self congratulation, *Just as any idiot can commit a kidnapping to no other purpose than mere and too often unrealized monetary gain, but only I could conceive of murder on such a scale as a diversion for a purposeful abduction, and make it all look accidental. And the first step in the scheme to flush the quarry was sweet, as well. The authorities on the Swiss side of the border will be far too busy with more pressing matters to assist the French in their investigations until it is far too late. The trail will be cold.*

Thoroughly pleased with himself, Moriarty left the window for his laboratory to check up on Professor Haber. As he walked, one last thought occurred to him. "Wouldn't this have driven Holmes mad?"
 

 
Sherla, Irene and Katrina, dressed in warm day gowns and floor length woolen cloaks, waited in the cold mist of their own breath at the door to the university guest house. Thankfully, this would be their fourth and final call of the day and their next stop would be Irene's cozy cottage. They had, over the course of their day, refined their plan to a elegantly and precisely choreographed dance. Irene would charm the scientist while Sherla would listen carefully, and ask any pointed questions once Irene had him at ease and unguarded. While they were so occupied, Katrina would subtly interrogate the staff below stairs in her role as maid-companion to Mademoiselle Sherla.

The door opened and a austerely dignified butler of mature years appeared from within. With grave courtesy, he accepted Irene's calling card, and bid then wait in the front parlor while he announced their arrival. Sherla had to consciously restrain herself from pacing as they awaited Dr. Buchner's arrival. This man was too well connected in the biological chemistry academic world of Europe not to have noticed if anything suddenly happened to any of his colleagues. They had learned a great deal of useful information from the other scientists, but none of what they had gleaned was conclusive. They had new avenues of inquiry, but those would require a great deal of time and effort to run to ground.

While she had no firm evidence upon which to base the conviction, Sherla was becoming ever more certain that time was a commodity that was becoming increasingly short in supply. Some instinct to which she did not wish to give credence was screaming that something was about to happen, and that there was little, if anything, she would be able to do about it. It was a most disconcerting sensation.

"Ah, Madame Irene, Mademoiselle Sherla," Frau Buchner greeted them brightly as she hurried into the room. "I am so glad to see you both, but I am afraid that your visit is in vain, Mademoiselle," she said turning her full attention to Sherla. "My husband will not be able to discuss your researches as he is no longer here in Paris."

"Oh," Irene asked quickly to forestall Sherla who would have, Irene was sure, badgered the woman unmercifully in her disappointment. "And when will Monsieur le Docteur return?"

The plump blond gave a small smile of apology. "Not anytime soon, I am afraid, Madame Irene. Just yesterday morning, he was received direction from the head of his university that Eduard was needed in Zurich. He has been working with a colleague there on some very special research. They like to pretend that it is all so very great a secret, and so I suppose it was - from me - but their friends on the faculties of their respective universities apparently know what they are about.

"As to why my husband had to leave, evidently there was a serious accident involving the chemicals and other compounds he and his partner work with. The local officials wanted someone knowledgeable with the experiments as several persons, including my husband's partner, are gravely ill due to exposure to these chemicals. The other members of the faculty told the police about my husband's relationship with their fellow faculty member. He was called to come help them neutralize the chemicals before anyone else becomes ill. The chemicals must be very dangerous for my husband barely waited to pack his clothing and his research notes. He left by the late afternoon train yesterday. I do apologize, Madame, for I quite forgot his appointment with you. It was, I am afraid, a very confused situation as we tried to get him packed and on his way. He will meet me at home in Germany after he is finished in Switzerland."

Irene saw the strange look on Sherla's face and knew something was bothering the girl. "Perhaps, Madame, we might still have our visit later. My niece and I will be visiting Germany later in the spring. Perhaps, we might call upon you then?"

Frau Buchner looked uncertain. "My husband is particularly busy when he is home and in his laboratory. Perhaps you might contact us closer to the date of your visit? It might be simpler to arrange such a visit at that time."

"I understand perfectly, Madame. We will send you a note and endeavor to have our visit later. If we might have your card, please, so that I can write you?" Irene's voice was off-handedly reasonable.

"Certainly," Frau Buchner said with a relieved smile, and then hurried off to obtain one of her husband's calling cards.
 

 
"He's avoiding speaking with us," Sherla fumed as she seated herself in Irene's carriage. "He has decided that we are naught but silly females and therefore not worth the waste of his so- very valuable time. I'll wager he was somewhere in the house laughing at our effrontery for wishing to discuss his special area of expertise with him as if we might be colleagues."

Her frustrated anger earned her a merry laugh from Irene, "My dear Sherla, I would make a very large bet that the Professor is indeed gone away. No man who is not blind, deaf, and feeble-minded - OR who is not Mr. Sherlock Holmes - would turn down a chance to spend a bit of time with a young woman as lovely as you."

"That is true, Madame," said Katrina, then blushed as she realized that in fact ALL of it was true. But she continued, "Non, Ma'amselle Cherie. I spoke with the housekeeper and she is still very put out over the unexpected and sudden manner in which Monsieur le Docteur departed. Very disruptive to her well ordered house."

"Hmmmm, yes," Irene said quietly. "I do not think Madame la Docteur's Frau is a very skilled prevaricator. I think we can assume that Buchner did leave yesterday. Odd, though. My understanding is that this conference is a very important event for scientists such as Buchner and the others. The individual in Zurich must be very important indeed."

"Buchner is reputed to be a very organized and meticulous individual," Sherla mused aloud. "A wild departure such as this would not have gone well with him," Sherla turned to Katrina. "Any mention of him appearing to be angry or upset at this sudden, and by all accounts, unanticipated summons?"

"Non, Ma'amselle Cherie. Just that he was most anxious to be on his way."

Sherla stamped her foot against the carriage floor. "Blast! I was so certain that his intimate knowledge of the international chemistry world would prove to be decisive in shattering the veil of secrecy Moriarty has spun about his current activities. Now, our investigations will be quite tedious and lengthy researches of special chemicals and experimental apparatus that may or may not prove fruitful."

"I have contacts who are quite capable of following trails of such minutia, my dear. We can continue your education in the arts of being a modern social female," Irene said with a grin.

"Well, since I am already excelling at those lessons, Madame," Sherla replied, "I know precisely what I wish done as soon as we are safely within the cottage."

"Oh?" Irene asked lightly, "And what might that be, my dear?"

"I want these thrice cursed stays loosened!"

"Mais, non," Katrina interjected. "You are so lovely like that, Ma'amselle Cherie. And besides, you are only laced but a hair's breadth beneath nineteen of your English inches."

"We will check, Miss Sly Boots, when we arrive, AND we will use *my* measuring tape. I am not so certain I trust you where my middle is concerned."
 

 
 
Entry in the Journal of Miss Sherla Joan Holmes

Date: February 26, 1911

Location: Irene Adler's Home outside of Paris France.

Time: 5:34 P.M.

My Dear Doctor Watson: We met with three of the four scientists today. If I did not feel that our time to find and stop Moriarty grows dangerously shorter by the minute, I would have concluded that our excursion was highly successful. Given sufficient time, I am sure the clues provided by our unwitting informants will ultimately lead us to our quarry. Only I cannot shake this notion, this certitude that Moriarty is about to make some significant move. And we are ill prepared for to meet this thrust of his, John, whatever it is. On a more pleasant note, I am happy to report that I won a minor victory today, John. Katrina WAS using a somewhat shortened measure tape when lacing me down. The little minx. Her nineteen inches was nearly and inch and half less than that. Irene said she would speak to her. Hopefully, she will understand that I need I cannot afford to have any of my muscles intentionally weakened if I am to have any chance of success in my fast approaching face-to-face conflict with Professor Moriarty. Oh stuff! I nearly wrote "mano e mano", John. What is it now? "Femma e mano"? Lacks something of the dramatic, I think. Battle of the Sexes sounds too much like the title of one of those dreadful novels that Katrina is forever reading. And that is something else about being female that is taking a great deal of getting used to, John. Women are distinctly limited in their cursing, at least they are if they wish to remain "a socially acceptable female." I don't mind telling you, old friend, but I am beginning to think that "socially acceptable female" would make a perfectly worthy epithet all on its own merits. Might be rather satisfying to tell someone "May you devolve into a socially acceptable female." Oh well. As for Katrina, when she isn't attempting to cut me in half with a corset, she is actually a very good friend. More than a friend as she spent the night with me again last night, John. I can quite happily report that making love is even more exquisite when your senses are not dulled by drink. A discovery that has given me cause to reflect on my prior life. How many other such beautiful experiences have I denied myself, John? How many times, old friend, did I ignore your well- intentioned advice on matters of pleasures and joy in favor of intellectual purity? Had I met someone like Katrina in those days, someone who could and would teach me the joys I have since learned, would I have sought the mind-dulling kiss of hypodermic? I suppose we will never know, but given what I know now, I cannot see how even narrow-viewed and overly-focused Mr. Sherlock Holmes could be so dense. I know I told you that I have decided I want to live, old friend, and I must admit that such new experiences, many of them of the flesh, are a large part of my conversion to that desire. Once the issue of Moriarty is over and done with, I may consider becoming a rather dissolute lady of leisure. And would that be so bad? If I were to observe the person I have become objectively, I would look at these slender, soft hands and deduce that they had never felt a callus. I would note the cascading waves of sleek black hair that I just cannot seem to bear to braid and see the results of hours spent brushing it into shining perfection. I might well conclude that this body I now wear would seem to have been intended for the softer pastimes of a lady, not the coarse indignities of criminal investigation. In truth, John, I do not know if I am becoming vain or if I still cannot believe the evidence of my own eyes, but I cannot pass a mirror by without stopping to look at myself. Not only that, but what I see in those dark, silver-highlighted depths is always a surprise - particularly since Katrina has begun teaching me the finer nuances of women's cosmetics. Such a devious little creature, John. I think you would like her, as I now do myself. Well, perhaps not QUITE as I do right now. Have I just made a lewd jest? How interesting. Didn't know I had it in me, eh John? Back to my earlier point. Perhaps I have always been vain, but I have to admit that as Sherlock I took some solace in the belief that my admittedly-prominent nose was useful and aided me in discerning subtleties of scents at a crime scene. I now must confess that was the most foolish of vanities, because the pert button that now adorns Sherla's face is ever so much more sensitive than the so-much-larger one that had dominated Sherlock's appearance. What I know of optics implies that eyes must be of a certain size for clear vision, so it is no surprise that my eyes appear so large in my much smaller face. But they appear so expressive as well, despite the depth implied by their dark color. I fear that I will need to school those eyes most carefully or I shall never again be able to put forth a credible bluff. Irene has been working with me on developing that bit of feminine guile. Oh, there I go, giving away the jest. Of course I am not giving up detecting. T'would be easier to give up breathing, but I am going to enjoy being what I have become as well. Miss Sherla Holmes, Consulting Detective, is a far more joyful person than was Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective. Thank God. Forgive me that unladylike epithet, John. In any case, to continue my earlier discourse, I must conclude that I am indeed quite vain, for I find that I daily take greater pride in my feminine bounty. The tightness of my corset is foolish and a bother, but the swell of my bosom is quite noticeable on my small frame. I believe that I am more amply endowed than that minx Katrina, an effect made much more dramatic by the petite delicacy of my other features. All in all, I have come to realize that I am quite pretty, and surprisingly, I am quite pleased by that realization. I no longer consider the time spent enhancing my appearance to be time wasted. Indeed, since Katrina insists, even after being freed of her fear of Moriarty's long-dead henchman, on playing my maid, time spent in that endeavor is very pleasant indeed. Yes, old friend, I know what you are thinking, and you are correct. I am becoming a woman in all ways that matter. There are rewards in that, John, rewards that I would never have understood nor accepted in the old days at Baker Street. I only know that my having realized and accepted that very basic truth has everything to do with my daily increasing joy at having survived Moriarty's potion, and with my decision to continue living following his imminent demise. I find that contemplating such a life is a very pleasant thing, in and of itself. Good afternoon, old friend.

End Journal Entry.
 
 
Sherla set aside the diary and had just risen from her desk when her door burst open to reveal a surprisingly agitated Irene.

"What is it, Irene?" She asked moving over to take the older woman's hand.

Irene held out the newspaper she was holding in her hand. Sherla took it and immediately went pale. She scanned the article quickly, but the headline told the entire tale.

"TRAIN DISASTER IN SWITZERLAND. ALL PASSENGERS DEAD IN DERAILMENT AND FIRE!"

"The train Buchner was embarked upon?"

"He is mentioned in the article by name, but thus far the dead have, for the most part, gone unidentified. The paper hints that a fire spread very rapidly, consuming most of the train and those aboard. The article also mentions that there a many wolves in the area who are typically near starvation at this time of the year."

Sherla read the article more carefully and set it aside. "It may be precisely what they say it is, Irene, a tragic accident."

"But you don't think so any more than I do," Irene retorted.

"No, I don't think so, Irene, but I am without any evidence to support that conviction," Sherla admitted almost shyly, "But every fiber of my being is screaming that this is not a terrible accident caused by a mechanical failure at precisely the worst possible location."

"Then we must assume that this. . . travesty may be a terrible act of murder designed to look like a terrible accident. Why kill Professor Buchner?"

"A very good question, Irene, but one we don't dare concern ourselves with as yet. The article states that the dead are unidentified which means that the survivors may not be either, particularly if they are no longer in the vicinity of the train."

"You are saying that he may not be dead," Irene said slowly.

Sherla nodded. "*ONE* possible answer is that he is not dead. The press is not usually interested in pleasant news so they tell of the dead and not the living. He might be there waiting, or he might have wandered off. There is, however, a third option we must consider. I told you he was acknowledged as the best in Europe in a field in which Professor Moriarty has reason to be interested. However, Buchner's very visibility would seem to make him invulnerable to abduction." Sherla sat quietly on the stool in front of her vanity. Her fingers began stroking her midnight locks as her mind thought of the various possibilities. "Unless. . . . Irene, I need to see the scene."

Irene nodded. "That was my own reaction, and I may have an idea as to how we can achieve that end." At that, Sherla's head came up, her eyebrows cocked upward in query. "Frau Buchner. She might wish some feminine support when she goes to the scene herself. You saw where the article said that a train with wives and next of kin would be taken to the site tomorrow?"

"You believe we can manage to be with her on that train?"

"Watch and learn, infant." Irene said, a dark, determined smile crossing her face. "I will tell Katrina to pack our warmest clothes. Winter in the Alps will be far colder than here in Paris."
 
 
Chapter 15. Back on the Trail
 
Sherla was still shaking her head, this time in disbelief, three hours later when the three women boarded the special train assigned to convey relatives of the dead to the site. Frau Buchner had shown nothing but tearful gratitude for what Sherla had been certain should have been perceived as unwelcome busybody behavior. Certainly, no one in Sherla OR Sherlock's prior experience would have so readily welcomed the support of near strangers at a time such as this.

Unable to resist any longer, Sherla had pulled Irene aside once they had arrived at the train station, and asked why the woman was so willing to permit Irene to take charge as she had.

"I told you earlier, my dear, that she was not a woman of independent mind. Her husband is her whole world because he tells her what to do and when to do it. I merely stepped into that role and she was pleased to permit me for it relieved her of the responsibility."

"But you are a stranger to her. Doesn't she feel that might be dangerous? You could be a thief or worse. I do not understand her thinking in this at all," an increasingly frustrated Sherla had asked.

"There is a fundamental difference between men and women, Sherla, that your past experiences would not have revealed to you. Perhaps I have some insight into that since I am a woman who has been forced to function in a man's world - sometimes on their terms. Men are problem solvers. Their self-image, and ultimately their pride, derives from their ability to overcome the obstacles of life from their own resources and abilities. To seek or even accept aid implies a failure to solve their own problems themselves."

"Women, on the other hand, do not face this same imperative. Whether this is merely cultural or inherent in our biology I do not know. It may be a holdover from the times when men went out to hunt and women stayed together in the village. But women can give and receive aid with no loss of pride, and so we do."

Irene smiled, took Sherla's arm in hers, and led her back toward the spot where Katrina and Frau Buchner waited for the boarding call. Then she put her mouth to Sherla's ear. "Did you not come to me, dear?" She whispered, "and did I not offer my help before I knew or believed the truth about you?"

That conversation and what it implied about the feminine sex had bothered Sherla ever since they had boarded the train and taken their compartments. It bespoke a spirit of giving and of nobility that would have shamed most men. It was a perplexing problem, and one she would have to work on for some time to come.

Sighing, she reached into the small bag she had carried on to the train with her, and pulled out her embroidery sampler. Perhaps this time, she wouldn't grace the white linen with nearly so much of her blood.
 

 
They stopped at a village a few miles short of the site of the derailment, for nightfall came quickly in the mountains, and the guards did not want to be there in the open when darkness and the wolves arrived. Several women had argued with this decision, wanting to press on and save what might be left of their husbands. Sherla resisted the urge to tell the women to face reality for it was clear to her that anyone who might have survived the accident had been forced to face a day and two nights in the wilderness. There would be no survivors.

At least, none who had survived on their own.

Dinner that evening was simple, hearty, country fare. Potatoes and other root cellar vegetables in a cheese sauce, served with lamb. It was quite tasty, but very few of the women had any appetite as they all thought about the grizzly task that lay before them the following day.

Except Sherla, who initially ate with great relish until Irene kicked her beneath the table. A quick shake of her head and a pointed look at the other women told Sherla she needed to behave more circumspectly, which was sad. The casserole WAS delicious and Sherla had been starved after the long day and trip on the train.

"Eat like a lady in public, Sherla," Irene hissed into her companion's ear, "Or I shall not permit Katrina to loosen your stays until bedtime until we return home!"

That thought effectively spoiled Sherla's appetite for the remainder of the meal.

Things improved little when it came time to retire for the night. The quaint country inn was ill suited to such a crowd for it was normally only a refreshment stop and did not under ordinary circumstances take in so many overnight guests. Filled quite literally to its aged rafters, the inn housed the many women as best as could be done given the circumstances. Irene, Frau Buchner, Sherla and Katrina would be sharing a small, one bed- room - Irene and the Frau sharing the bed, Sherla and Katrina bundling on the floor.

"It's like a house-party," Irene had said when Sherla had grumbled about sleeping on the floor like a child. "Consider it one of the lessons you should have learned as a young girl, dear."

Sherla thought about responding vulgarly, but the arrival of Frau Buchner precluded that. *At least I am still sleeping with Katrina,* she thought by way of making do with what she had.

Except that it did not turn out quite the way she envisioned when they were finally all snuggled down into the heavy sleeping quilts the inn provided against the cold.

"Mais non, Ma'amselle Cherie," Katrina had hissed when Sherla had teasingly run a single sharp nail down her lover's ribs. "We must not! Madame la Docteur's wife is up there with Madame Irene and she will hear us."

Aroused as she always was when her body was in close contact with Katrina, Sherla hissed back, "So? Then we will be quiet."

"You?! Quiet?" Katrina hissed sarcastically. "Hah! You squeal, most sweetly to be sure, but like the baby pig when you reach your satisfaction. Non, we cannot chance it. You must make the trip to the train wreck tomorrow, and may not be able to if Madame La Docteur's wife is upset with you or believes you to be immoral. Now, roll over and go to sleep!"

"But. . ." Sherla was feeling the need. She did roll over, but almost immediately began slowly stroking herself below the covers, trying to "solve" her problem quietly.

Katrina felt the subtle movement of arm and hip, correctly guessing its cause. Leaning close, Katrina brought her hand down sharply on Sherla's shapely bottom, and sternly whispered in her lover's ear, "Cherie, you cannot do this. I already told you that you make too much noise when you reach the goal toward which you strive, no matter how quiet you are right now."

But the demand of her body was already too intense, too strong, and was made stronger still by the heat on her spanked buttock. Sherla could not stop. "But I must! Oh, Katrina, I burn!"

"Non, you must not," Katrina hissed, snaking her hands around Sherla to capture the girl's hands and hold them still.

Katrina missed, and Sherla whirled out of her grasp within the covers, turning to face her lover and smother her face in kisses no less desperate for their eerie silence. "Oooo, but Katrina, I need you. I'll even let you spank me again, if that is what it takes for you to help me." Sherla whispered when her mouth wasn't otherwise occupied with Katrina's lips.

Katrina reached again for Sherla's hands, this time successfully, and forced both wrists behind the petite mademoiselle's back. That goal accomplished, she sought to still Sherla's shuddering body by laying upon her lover, but to no avail. Sherla, delighted with the press of Katrina's lovely feminine body upon her own, squirmed ever more vigorously under the maid's weight, blindly seeking the stimulation her body demanded.

Perhaps it was the sense of having her hands bound behind her - and what did that say about those ideas that Irene had once so blithely hinted at? - but in a few minutes it was obvious from her panting breaths that Sherla would make noise, regardless of the price to be paid later.

Katrina did what she could, capturing Sherla's mouth in her own and swallowing the sound that emerged. A few muffled cries escaped, more like the distant whimper of a kitten than the howls that so often accompanied Sherla's successes, but it could not be helped.

Eventually Sherla relaxed, limp and again breathing more naturally. When she was sure there would not be a repeat encounter, Katrina relaxed as well, letting go of the arms of her lover and friend.

"What was that?" Frau Buchner's drowsy voice called from the darkness above them.

Katrina closed her eyes in resignation, but Sherla's wits saved them. "Your pardon, Frau Buchner. I am afraid I had a bad dream and Katrina had to wake me."

"Oui, Madame," Katrina put in, "She was struggling ever so hard and I am afraid I had to become rather forceful with her."

"I knew bringing impressionable young women along on such a sad affair would be a mistake." the older woman half spoke, half muttered.

"I shall be all right now, Frau Buchner. Please forgive me for waking you."

Frau Buchner mumbled something vaguely affirmative and rolled over in the bed. Both girls listened silently in the dark, wondering if they had compromised their standing with Frau Buchner, but all they heard was a purring snore that indicated she had obliviously fallen back to sleep.

"Now be quiet!" Katrina hissed.

"Yes, my love," Sherla purred in her ear, then let just a hint of giggle into her soft tones as she said, "Next time, I get to hold your arms, even if I have to find some rope to do it," she promised before adding, "Do YOU like getting spanked, Katrina- dear?"

"Perhaps," Katrina said as she rolled over, "And then again, perhaps not. We will have to see, won't we? That is, if you are able to carry out your so very brave boast, *little* one."

Sherla's mouth went wide, and then curled into a feline smile of her own. They would see, and very soon. VERY soon.

In the morning, Irene smirked at the still cautious pair after Frau Buchner had left the three of them alone. "You never told me you were bothered with nightmares, Sherla. From the sounds you made, that . . . dream must have been rather. . . intense." Then she walked off after Frau Buchner, leaving the two girls speechless in her wake.
 

 
The scene of the train wreck should not have belonged to the earth, but rather to some especially deep, uncharted region of hell. Very little remained of what had been a well appointed and luxurious conveyance: some metal frames, a few cast iron heat stoves lying precariously on their sides, shards of broken window glass that had fallen to the ground and shattered, and the heavy iron wheels that had once carried the massive train cars. Everything not made of metal . . . or bone, had been consumed in the hellish fires that had followed the derailment. Some sets of the wheels had actually ridden up onto the wheels of the car ahead of them, an indication, Sherla thought, of just how quickly and suddenly the train had been forced to a stop.

The locomotive itself was completely off the tracks and was laying on its side, its long dimension nearly perpendicular to the tracks as the momentum of the cars behind it had pushed its back end forward before stopping. The huge water tank had been breeched by the by the explosion of the boiler. Melted snow and the remnants of locomotive's water supply had pooled to form a small ice-lake about its burnt and scorched metal body.

Sherla had taken this all in, along with the appalling stench of other things burnt - metal, wood, fabric, but most horrifically, human flesh. The fire must have been hellishly hot for the snow and ice had melted for as much as ten feet on either side of the track.

Then she saw her first . . . remains. Actually, what she saw first was but a skull - a child in so far as she could tell for the blackened shell of bone was very small. Then Sherla saw another charred skeleton, lying over the torso of the first. A flash of gold caught Sherla's eye, and she realized it was all that remained of some piece of jewelry. Moving closer, she saw the dim sparkle of precious gems peaking out from the misshapen clump of gold. It had once been an expensive item, Sherla mused, a brooch, perhaps, and that meant that this was a Mother and a child, and that the Mother had tried to save her child with her own body.

Tears suddenly burned at Sherla's eyes and she spun away from the frightful scene, her hands clutching fiercely at the unusually large reticule she'd brought with her from the inn.

A firm yet gentle hand gripped her shoulder, making her jump and spin, ready to protect herself. "Easy, Sherla," Irene said softly.

"Oh, god, Irene," Sherla hissed out on a half sob as she fell into the startled older woman's arms. Then she saw what Sherla had seen, and understood.

She held the girl for several minutes, letting her weep. When she felt the tide beginning to wane, she took Sherla by the shoulders and held her away so that their eyes could meet. "What you just saw is a terrible thing, my love, but it is far more than merely terrible if someone did this intentionally. That is what we feared and what we have come here to ascertain. I have seen and spoken with the man in charge of the investigation and he has already decided that this was all simply a tragic accident. His mind is made up and he is merely going through the motions of an investigation. You are the only hope that child and his mother have for justice. YOU must find the truth. I will help, of course, but I have never dealt with anything of this scale before. I am afraid I am not even certain where to begin."

For more long seconds, Sherla could only stare blankly at Irene, and then her face cleared, the tears dried and her visage hardened. "Irene?" Sherla said in a cold, hard voice. "I need to know what the inspectors have found. I have to know what they base their conclusion on."

Irene considered that, looked at Sherla, and seemed to consider yet again. "There might be a way, but it all depends on you charming the man in charge."

"Me??!?" Sherla all but squeaked.

"Remember what I told you about Doctor Buchner. You are a young, beautiful woman, my dear. You must charm him, make him want to bask in the glow of your girlish admiration for his brilliance as an investigator."

"And how do I do that?" Sherla hissed back at her pseudo- guardian.

A wicked grin lit Irene's lovely face. "Recall your lessons in flirting, my dear? Coo at him, flatter him, ask him questions with wide amazed eyes, compare him with awe in your voice to that Englishman you've read about in the daily newspapers - what was his name? Oh yes - Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Think sweet and fluffy, Sherla-love."

"And you think that will work??"

"When a beautiful girl like you tells a man he is Saint George, he is going to look first for his armor and then seek out a suitable dragon to slay for her. Trust me."

"Why can't you do it?"

"Because I am not the most beautiful woman here, sweet, and because I have already established myself as that most frightening of creatures to French men such as him - the intelligent woman."

"Oh, so I am to be not very intelligent?" Sherla demanded with some ire.

"If you wish your information, my sweet. Do you?" Sherla had to think about that for a moment, but the answer was clear. She nodded. "Very well. Put a sugar-sweet smile on those luscious lips and vacuous look on that beautiful face. I will be with you, but you must be the one to flatter him shamelessly until he reveals the information you wish to know."

Sherla did her best, trying to mimic the smile Katrina used when she was trying to get around Sherla in some manner, and followed Irene toward the head of the inspection team.

He was a short man, beginning to go to fat, and perhaps in his middle forties. The brim of his hat was beginning to fray and his mustache still bore evidence of the soup he'd eaten for lunch. As Sherla and Irene approached the small camp area the inspectors had set up as an on-scene headquarters, he was talking at one of his subordinates when he saw the two women approaching.

"Monsieur," Irene said graciously, allow me to introduce my niece, Joan. She has been begging me to introduce you since I told her we had spoken."

Sherla offered her hand, anticipating him shaking it and was momentarily surprised with the inspector bowed over her hand to kiss it. A sharp look from Irene had her back in character before he had straightened. "Oooo, Monsieur le Directore, you are so gallant. I am in awe of what you are doing. What have you discovered, sir. . that is, if you can explain it to someone such as I." She said, fluttering her voice and her lashes. *Katrina said that you cannot over do this type of thing with a man. I only pray she is right.*

"I am only a lowly chief inspector, Mademoiselle, But of course I would be very pleased to show you the fruits of our investigation. However, a great deal of what we have uncovered is very technical. You must not be disappointed if you do not comprehend every small detail."

Sherla gave a delighted noise to mask the growl in her mind at his paternalistic condescension. Taking the arm the Frenchman offered, she hung upon it shamelessly as he led her to the remnants of what had once been a luxury sleeper car. *At least it is not the one with the mother and child,* Sherla thought with relief. *I don't know if I could have looked upon that scene without bursting into tears again.* Then, she sternly put that image out of her mind and concentrated on the chief inspector.

They stopped near the approximate center of the car, where he pointed to a steel heating stove resting precariously on a bit of flooring. The floor was badly charred on both sides of stove which had its feeder door hanging on only one hinge and a long crack from the fire box to the flue. "As you can see, Mademoiselle Joan, this stove was damaged when the train crashed which is what caused the fire. The red hot coals escaped and set all of the cloth and wood afire, which spread so quickly, none of the sleeping passengers could escape."

"Oh, that is so sad, Monsieur le Directore, but so very clever of you see that so clearly," Sherla cooed as she hugged his arm with what she hoped was a frightened shiver when something caught her eye. "Oh look at the glass on the ground. The windows?"

"Oui, Mademoiselle. Very good. Very observant. We shall make a detective of you yet. The glass could not burn so it fell to the ground and broke when the frames were consumed by the hungry flames."

"It breaks so many different ways," she said in a wondering voiced as she toed some thin, sharp shards near some broader, larger pieces."

"Oui. It depends on how it falls, I suspect," the inspector said with pompous indifference. "Is that all Mademoiselle wanted to see?"

Sherla made a pout. "Could you please show me what caused the train to leave the tracks like this?"

"All right, but then, sadly, I must return to my men."

He lead her to the head of the train. Along the way, Sherla pointed out an area on the car that would have been beneath the front exit. "How odd to see something so white when everything else is burnt black," she said. Irene's back went instantly stiff, telling Sherla she was on dangerous ground.

Fortunately, the inspector did not rise to her faux pas. "We noticed that, too, Mademoiselle. Apparently the burning wood was blown away by the wind or some such thing before the fire could blacken those spots. There are a few others just like it on other cars."

Sherla only swallowed hard against an urge to ask more pointed questions and allowed the man to lead her to the locomotive. He showed her the badly bend and broken tracks with a flourish. "And so, when the rails buckled, the locomotive left the tracks."

Bending over to look at the jagged edge of the tracks, Sherla exclaimed, "The broken ends are so very shiny, Monsieur le Directore."

Growing more disinterested by the moment, the inspector scarcely spared a glance at the damaged track. "Iron does that when it bends and breaks, Mademoiselle. It is a common enough effect. Now, if you ladies will excuse me," he said, lifting his hat to them before heading back to the warmth of his camp.

Sherla barely acknowledged the man's departure, her eyes fixed on the polished silver sheen on the broken track. "Sherla?" Irene whispered when the inspector was out of earshot.

"Damn that thrice-cursed fool, Irene," Sherla hissed, tears running down her face. "He has clear evidence of murder on an inhuman scale and he won't see it, even when I tried to show him where to look. Moriarty sabotaged the tracks, then deliberately trapped every single passenger on that train by setting intense fires at every exit and shot those who tried to leave through the windows. That fiend canNOT be allowed to EVER do something like this again. He must NOT be permitted to live!"

"You're sure?" Irene asked?

Nodding, Sherla took out her handkerchief and wiped it vigorously across the damaged track. "I need your handkerchief, Irene, for another sample, but in answer to your question, yes, I am certain." She rose back to her feet, her face once again composed. "Perhaps it is just as well that buffoon of an inspector is an incompetent fool. As the head of this investigation, he'd be the one assigned to go after the murderer. That would only get more innocents killed for he would be laughably outmatched by Professor Moriarty."

"Then there is no question in your mind?" Irene asked. "That all of . . . this. ." and Irene's gaze took in the entire train, "is your Moriarty's work?"

"No question whatsoever," was the uncompromising answer. "I must go and examine the scene of the crime more carefully and collect evidence, but there is no doubt at all that this was a murder and that Moriarty is behind it."

She turned away from Irene and began to stride down the train only to be brought up short as Irene grasped at Sherla's elbow. Her face a furious mask, Sherla spun to face Irene. "Don't forget you are Sherla and not Sherlock. Be careful of your behavior!" Irene hissed.

Nodding, Sherla turned again, but this time, her head was down, and every once in a while, her shoulders heaved as if she were weeping again. She spent the rest of their stay wandering about the remains of the once-great train. Seemingly aimlessly, she would stop to weep harder, several times falling to her knees, her handkerchief in her hand before pushing herself up from the ground to continue her wanderings. The last time she stayed down until several of the workers rushed to her aid, and helped her to her shaking feet. Gently, they assisted her up onto one of the cars so that she could sit for a few moments. No one noticed her reach into her reticule to remove a pair of opera glasses.
 
 
Chapter 16. Point-Counterpoint/Disaster-Opportunity
 
 
Entry in the Journal of Miss Sherla Joan Holmes

Date: February 28, 1911

Location: The Mountain Grotto Inn near the French/Swiss Border.

Time: 9:58 P.M.

My Dear Doctor Watson: We visited the site of the train disaster today. No other word comes immediately to mind, old friend, but I must admit that 'disaster' falls a good deal short of what occurred out there. That sad description of what we saw out there in the Alpine wilderness would have fallen short of the mark if what had occurred had been was nothing more than random chance - a losing throw of the dice by a bored god of some ancient pantheon. BUT, it wasn't random chance at the heart of this unspeakable crime and tragedy, Watson. I needed to see what the investigation team sent in by the French government had discovered. Irene declared that the most efficient method to achieve that end required that I must play the silly ingenue with the inspector in charge of the investigation. Either I was not as overtly blatant as I thought or the chief inspector was far more gullible than I would have dreamed possible. Flattery, I suppose, will get one almost anywhere or anything. Especially if the flatterer is a beautiful young woman (and somehow, I am beginning to accept that is what and who I am - fascinating) and the flatteree is an older fellow well-past his days of attractiveness to most such women. He was more than happy to show off his solution to the puzzle of this train-wreck's cause. Perhaps this arrogant of me, old friend. . .no, it IS arrogant, but some things are unlikely to ever change. In any case, Sherlock would never have permitted a woman to control him in the manner I toyed with that buffoon. *I* will never permit anyone to control ME in such a manner. I know that in my prior life, I spoke of the limitations of the feminine sex at some length, but now I find that I am discovering that the male gender is quite as limited. Where Sherlock found women illogical and prone to allowing their emotions cloud their reason, I now see most men using such a small fraction of their brain that it is no surprise they are dominated by other portions of their anatomy. Perhaps it was not women when I was a male, nor men now that I am a woman. Perhaps, the correct answer is that male or female, woman or man, Mister or Miss, I am still Holmes. And that would-be hero of a chief inspector was not. John, the shallowness of his investigation still appalls me. I must conclude that the efforts of Inspector Laviare (late of the Paris Police) to publish my monographs as instructional and procedural materials for the French police have met with failure. No one using MY methods could have missed the obvious clues that fool ignored even when I prompted him to look at them. As I just finished explaining to Irene, this was murder on an almost unimaginable scale. I have evidence that will prove that assertion, but that closed minded, arrogant fool who was put in charge of what I may only loosely call "the investigation" would never recognize much less accept that proof. Still, against my better judgment of his intelligence, I attempted to point out the critical clues to him. Sadly, he was and remains too fixated on his simplistic and erroneous conclusions to accept anything I discovered, most particularly since I am merely "une petite, belle juene fille". It would be too far beyond his sadly limited mind to perceive this catastrophe for what it truly was - as the mass murder. Naturally then, it must follow therefore, that it would HAVE to be beyond my poor female faculties to have seen, let alone put together into a solution to this monstrous crime. Of course, that means little, since even if the imbecile HAD believed me, bringing the true criminal to justice would require infinitely more than his poor skills to accomplish. Only one man kills like that, John - on such a scale, without regard to children and other innocents or with such techniques. I have absolutely no doubt that this heinous act was planned by Moriarty and executed by his minions. How do I know this was a murder and not the accident the chief inspector wants to believe that it was? Several factors, old friend. A white, flaky patch was found adhering to the metal framing beneath several of the destroyed cars. In particular, I noted that this was at the extreme ends of the cars, directly beneath the doors. It is not a normal wood ash nor was it a patch of mostly intact paint, but it was seemingly burnt into the heavy iron framing. . I suspect, no, I am convinced that these patches are composed of an oxide of magnesium. In order to be certain, I will of course, chemically analyze the samples I obtained at the scene once we return to Paris. I infer that, by some means not clear from the evidence of the remains, magnesium laced explosives went off or were set off beneath the front and rear entrances to each car when the train derailed. The nearly instantaneous, incredibly hot fires that ensued blocked the normal escape routes from the cars. Additionally, any wood and fabric that came in immediate contact with the fiery metal would have, for all intents and purposes, exploded into flame themselves so the fire would have spread into the cars from the two extreme ends toward the center. This theory is borne out, in fact, by the one car the inspector elected to show me. It had a small bit of wood, perhaps two or three planks worth, survive - almost in the center of the car. The char pattern on the forward and after edges of that planking strongly indicates that fire had burnt from both ends of the car. Even assuming that most of the unsuspecting passengers were not stunned or severely injured from the shock of the derailment, they would have had no chance to escape the flames via the front or rear exits. The head investigator's concept that the conflagration started when the locomotive's firebox was sundered is simply ridiculous. Even if one accepts his other contention that the various stoves and fires used for warmth in the winter mountains, the fire spread far too quickly for that to have been the cause. There would have been survivors in that scenario, John, and in point of sad fact, there were none. How do I know that? I looked for tracks. I used Irene's opera glasses in lieu of a seaman's glass and searched the horizon. No snow has fallen since the night of the murder, or else there would have been snow in the vicinity of the cars, or atop the ice lake the engine's water tank created. There were no tracks in the distance, John - none. We found no survivors on our trip to the scene, nor will there be any on the other side of the break in the tracks. The newspaper article's reference to wolves will turn out to be a journalist trying to sell more papers to a blood thirsty populace. The derailment was also not left to chance. The tracks were broken and the metal at the break was rather shiny. Our esteemed investigator believes that this shininess was due to the breaking of the metal train rails. Only it is not. There is a metallic sheen on both sides of the track break that looks nothing like a good clean steel break. It looks like mercury. I deduce that someone spread a mercury-based compound onto the tracks before the train ever arrived. Chemists have long known that certain mercuric compounds attack the granular structure of many metals causing them to become weak and brittle. This one, obviously, was designed to attack the iron and steel used in railroad construction. I obtained a sample of that compound as well, rubbed into another of my handkerchiefs when I supposedly tripped over the mutilated track and fell. When the profoundly heavy locomotive ran over those chemically-embrittled rails, the track buckled under the concentrated mass, then broke and bent, causing the locomotive and then the traincars to derail violently. Why? I can only speculate for there is insufficient evidence to prove my contention. I believe that Buchner was the target. I suspect that two, perhaps three of Moriarty's henchmen were aboard the train. As the train approached its destiny, they moved Buchner to a forward facing door, bracing him and themselves against the impact. As soon as the train stopped, they escaped the train and detonated the magnesium devices. As to where they went, again I can only make an informed supposition. I believe they most likely had a small engine or train awaiting them on the other side of the rail break. There was a blind curve ahead where they could have secreted their transportation until the moment it was needed. I believe that it is also likely that Moriarty's men dealt with any survivors and fed them back into the flames. While with the inspector, I found shards of glass that had broken differently than the other windows. I had one of my "weeping attacks" there, and attempted to piece together the glass. It was not difficult and it became clear that the window had been broken by means other than falling to the ground. The reconstructed glass had a small hole in it - obviously put there before it shattered - approximately the size of a standard rifle bullet. Since this train was both a luxury train and since it was to go into the mountains during late winter, I think it unlikely that any paying customer would have tolerated a hole such at that. No, John, that bullet probably stopped some poor victim from attempting escape from a fiery death via the window. There is no question in my mind who is behind this crime against humanity. It has to be Moriarty. No one else in the world has the knowledge and the utter lack of conscience to kill in such a manner. I was, it would seem, correct in my premonitions and in my assessment of Buchner. I simply did not act on those feelings for they were not derived from logical analysis and deduction. I know what you are thinking, old friend. I should report all of this to the proper authorities, including the fact that their inspector an incompetent fool. Give them the evidence and let them track down Moriarty. I did not and will not do this for three reasons. First, I don't believe the French authorities are capable of dealing with Moriarty. They were unable to do so all those years before and I have seen nothing to indicate that they have improved to the point where they could outwit the great Napoleon of Crime. No, if I did that, he would without doubt escape. My second reason is that when that buffoon brags of his "successfully concluded investigation" to the press, Moriarty will believe that he has succeeded in carrying out a perfect mass murder and kidnapping. I do not wish him any more on guard than he already may be. Finally, John, I did not report my findings to the French authorities for the most personal of reasons. In perfect honesty, old friend, I do not want ANYONE other than myself to be the person who ends Moriarty's vile career. I did not think, John, that this case could become more personal. What he did to me was intended to be a vicious, mind destroying attack on all I, as Sherlock, held dear. Regardless of the fact that it may become the finest gift anyone has ever given me, Moriarty's intentions were vile in the extreme. How could anything be more personal than an attack intended to destroy the mind of a victim? But he has made it more personal. That child and Mother has touched me deeply, old friend, and in ways that no other crime ever has. I have seen death before - violent, malevolent and perverse death - and faced it with rational calm and quiet detachment. But there is nothing calm or detached about the way I react to the mere memory of that child and Mother, or to the recognition of her selfless but hopeless battle to save her child's life at the cost of her own. I will likely never know their names, John, and I will likely never know their faces, but one thing I swear. Professor Moriarty will pay for their needless and needlessly painful deaths. By all that is holy and good, Professor Moriarty will pay - IN FULL MEASURE! I swear it! I pray that their torment of those needless, horrible deaths will be visited on that foul fiend every minute of every day of his eternal sojourn in the darkest pit of Hell. He has made his first overt move, which means he has at last come out of hiding. So long as he remained hidden, remained perfectly covert, my chances of locating him were, at best, small. However, now he has broken cover and in doing so, he MUST have left a trail. He must feel relatively secure to have taken that step, likely thinking that without Sherlock Holmes to hound his every move, he would be safe in doing so. Well, now he will reckon with Sherla Holmes taking up the scent, and he has filled me with a fuller, far more burning determination to bring my quarry to ground than Sherlock could have known. It will prove to be a fatal error on his part as I finally begin to understand the concept "deadlier than the male".

End Journal Entry.
 
 

 
Setting the newspaper aside, Professor Moriarty was in a most jovial mood. The plan had worked to perfection, as well it should have since it was his conception. He had, of course, had plans go awry in the past, but then the fault had always lie in the execution of the plan and not in the plan itself. *As should be expected,* Moriarty thought, *with Holmes at last departed from this mortal veil.*

Still pleased with himself, Moriarty retrieved the paper and read aloud the casualty list, savoring each name, until he reached "Professor Eduard Buchner, Professor of Chemistry at University of Breslau. 1907 Nobel Chemistry Prize winner for his work on the organic chemistry processes involving fermentation and yeasts." That one he read twice before bursting into amused laughter.

He tossed the paper aside and walked over to the one way mirror that looked out upon his laboratory. The so-very-eminent, and thought-to-be-deceased Professor Eduard Buchner was engaged in a very intense discourse with Professor Fritz Haber that was punctuated by many gesticulations and hand-pointings.

"I shall need to arrange a suitable demonstration for the newest member of my little family," Moriarty mused. "Another chimpanzee, I think, at least at first. And then, if Herr Dr. Buchner proves to be the solution to my little problem, then I will no longer need the services of our good Professor Haber. Seeing Haber waste away into a ravenously insatiable female slut, his mind no longer capable of any thought save how to obtain her next sexual release, should prove most instructive and motivational for my remaining academic. The ancient Chinese often executed those who invaded the sanctity of the imperial bedchamber by having the villain sexually teased and tormented by the lesser concubines until he expired from a heart attack. Perhaps I shall do this with Dr. Haber once he is in withdrawal. How long will it take for someone to die of unrequited lust? That might be a useful thing to know when I rule Europe and wish to encourage my subjects in their efforts to serve and please me."

There would be a transitional period, Moriarty knew, while Haber briefed the new man on the ongoing work and results to date. Buchner had the reputation of quickly grasping principles of new research and of seeing ways of applying those principles to new problems. Moriarty hoped that he had seen principles that might now be of use in Moriarty's research; principles that could now solve the problem that so far stymied Haber - developing a rejuvenating drug that was free of both the addictive and the gender-changing side effects of the current potion.

Of course, there was that second project - the development of a weapon that would be useful against massed armies in the field, or as an instrument of terror against cities or countries that foolishly resisted Moriarty's rule. So, on second thought, perhaps there was sufficient reason to keep Haber around the lab and . . . unimpaired, at least for a while. It was a task for which this man who could have become infamous as the father of gas warfare was uniquely qualified.

Moriarty went back to his office and sat down to think. There had been two or three carefully calculated risks in the plan to kidnap Buchner. The most significant of those had been the issue of possible survivors who might have seen his henchmen making off with Buchner. That necessitated the death of the entire complement of passengers riding the train. Fire was a most effective tool for that end.

However, the locomotive would not burn. The engineer and brakeman were, fortunately, quite naturally and unexceptionally killed in the derailment - head injuries when they were thrown from the locomotive - but the passengers posed a problem. They had to die - all of them - no escapees could be permitted. The fire took solved most of that problem, while a handpicked group of sharpshooters took down anyone who might have escaped by other means.

Moriarty allowed himself a few pleasant moments to picture the scene as the fire took the train to Hell. He heard the terror filled screams, saw the faces pressed against the windows that were not designed to open. He tried to imagine the play of emotions across the face of any passenger who managed to force open one of the train car windows. Exultation as the window finally gave. Disbelief and then renewed horror at the moment they saw one of his rifleman take aim. Shock, then pain and finally the blank stare of death as a bullet ended their flight to safety. It was sad that the available moving picture technology was still so unwieldy and bulky. Moriarty would have enjoyed having a pictorial record of this epic triumph.

The train cars not only made excellent funeral pyres but also melted away the bullets from the remains of those who died before the hungry flames took them. "By my calculations, the temperature inside the coaches should have been sufficient to ignite the flesh of the passengers so that their own bodies would contribute to the flames. In the end, nothing would be left but a few charred bones, not terribly distinguishable from any wood that was not completely consumed, eliminating any chance of anyone identifying - or recognizing the anomaly of being unable to identify - Professor Buchner's remains."

The other risks, such as the means for starting the fires or derailing the train, were much less likely to cause question than the fire itself. Few men would have recognized the effects of the pyrotechnic bombs Moriarty had directed his subordinates to secret in the undercarriages of the various train cars, and no one save himself. . . well, no one LIVING save himself, would have noted any mercuric residue on the broken rails. Yes, he had gambled, but he had won! None of the newspapers had even the tiniest glimmer of a mention of possible sabotage of the train. The police might be more effective than they had been in his younger days, but Moriarty did not think they were so effective as to hide that type of news from all European newspapers.

The plan had worked. . . PERFECTLY.

The smile returned but for a moment before Moriarty steeled his face into a stern visage. It was time, he thought, to present the good Dr. Buchner with the facts of his new life. Then he'd have Haber arrange the demonstration for his new colleague.

Buoyed by his success, Moriarty strode to the door to meet with the two professors of chemistry.
 
 
Chapter 17. The Search for Moriarty
 
The four women spent the next few days at the small inn while the authorities attempted to identify the human remains of the tragedy. Unfortunately, there were significantly fewer "remains" than there were passengers. "As Moriarty planned, Irene," Sherla had said when Irene had told her of that outcome. "The combination of a magnesium-based chemical accelerant, old wood and a great deal of paint made for an extremely hot, long burning fire. It truly was a funeral pyre."

When it became clear that none of the remains could be identified as Dr. Buchner, his wife decided she would go back home to Germany instead of back to Paris. "I need to see my family, Madame Irene," she had cried quietly as she told Irene of her decision.

"We understand perfectly. If you would like, I could arrange to have your things in Paris forwarded to your home."

"You would not mind?" Frau Buchner had been almost pathetically grateful.

"With that dragon of a housekeeper? It will be simplicity itself. You need only provide me with a letter directing your temporary staff to follow my instructions. You will be all right on your own?"

"Yes, thank you. I am past the initial shock of it all. Now I wish to be home. I have made arrangements to leave tomorrow morning."

"Excellent. Katrina, Joan and I will be off to home as well. You will hear from me shortly with the details of your personal things."
 

 
The trip back to Paris was passed in relative silence, each woman lost in thought. Irene, shifting uncomfortably in a corset she had let that smirking Katrina tighten just a bit too much that morning, tried to find a comfortable position on the rear-facing seat of their first class compartment. Perhaps it was that backward-looking orientation, but she found her mind traveling back over her life . . .

She had been thirty when she had wed her beloved Godfrey. Up until that magical epiphany, she had all but given up on finding someone who could live with her admittedly unique personality - someone she would want to live with her. Frau Buchner's loss had touched Irene deeply, and she wished Godfrey was home waiting for her so she could show him how much she loved, and yes, needed him. She cursed, fluently and in four languages, the business that kept him an ocean away from her.

Sherla seemed not to notice any problems with her own corset. She sat against the window, staring out at the gray landscape as though the horizon stretched a thousand miles into the distance instead of the scant hundred yards the misty day allowed. Her own thoughts fixated on the woman and child she'd seen on the remnants of the train. Where the old Sherlock had prided himself on never becoming emotionally involved with the players in his various investigations, Sherla realized she was strongly identifying with the woman who had died protecting her child. Could she, Sherla, ever feel that sense of self-sacrifice for another human being?

A tiny voice deep in her heart whispered "Yes."

That change in perception, that, dare she even think it, that almost maternal certainty that she WOULD sacrifice herself in a similar situation, bespoke a transition far deeper and more total than the more obvious physical changes she had undergone this past month. She was now a Woman. She could now conceive, carry and give birth to new life - a son, a daughter.

Motherhood was such an alien concept. During his life, Sherlock had conducted not-infrequent liaisons with women, primarily to relieve those unfortunately demanding physical needs before they impacted his intellectual powers, but he had always taken great care to ensure the woman would not become pregnant. Now, she was the one who could become pregnant, and although it seemed inconceivable to the part of her that still was Sherlock, it was no longer physically impossible. Moreover, thanks to Moriarty's potion, she was rather easily aroused, as her times with Katrina had proven.

Would she be as easily aroused by a man? As much as she would prefer to state, quite emphatically, that the answer was a resounding "NO!", that was emotion speaking, not rational analysis. The truth was that Sherla already KNEW she could be aroused by a man. If nothing else, that kiss beneath star-lit skies at the Paris ball had clearly proven her susceptibility to the male of the species. One too many kisses like that and her next rational thought could well be about her impending motherhood. It was a rather lowering possibility.

Katrina spent the trip pondering two equally disturbing consequences of the past few days. Memories of Sherla at the disaster site still thrilled the little maid. If any doubt had lingered in Katrina's mind as to the truth of Sherla's claim to having been the famous English detective, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, her performance of the past few days had proven her case beyond question. Sherla had not only played the starry-eyed innocent, awed by the inspector, to perfection, she had also, in mere minutes, uncovered evidence that the foolish man's team of "trained" experts had not seen or had simply ignored.

Ever since Sherla had dispensed with the threat that had kept Katrina in hiding as a maid, the young French girl had spent a great deal of her free time thinking about what she was going to do with the remainder of her life. Could her new life's challenge be to learn the methods of the great Sherlock Holmes and become a detective? Would Sherla even consent to teach her? There certainly could be no better teacher in the ways of deduction and observation.

And yet, perhaps Sherla was angry with her for spanking her to be quiet - for what Katrina had been intended as a light-hearted bit of loving fun. Oh, Katrina so hoped that she had not ruined her relationship with Sherla, for as much as the thought of becoming a detective appealed to her, Katrina recognized within herself a much more pressing need - a much more personal and basic need. She was very much afraid that Ma'amselle Cherie had stolen Katrina's heart. What would she do if Sherla did not care to offer her own in return??!?
 

 
All three women were exhausted when the hired landau deposited them and their minimal luggage at Irene's doorstep. After a quick meal, they retired to their rooms and slept the clock round.

After lunch the next day, Irene went seeking Sherla. She found her in the library, as she had expected she would given Katrina's tight lipped description of Sherla's mode of dress.

Irene came to the open library door and stopped in her tracks. Wide-eyed, she could only stare at the scene being played out by her young ward/old rival in the center of her library. She *was* dressed rather outlandishly in trousers and some type of sleeveless bodice that appeared to be made of yard upon yard of linen wrapped tightly about her torso effectively compressing her lovely breasts. Her hair was tightly braided and wrapped around her head. Perspiration glistened on her exposed skin and soaked her makeshift costume.

Sherla had moved the wooden step Irene used to reach books on the top shelves to the center of the library and she was vigorously stepping up and down from the step at a very rapid pace. In her right hand, she held an old cavalry saber that had been a wall decoration, her left hand wielded a knife. As she stepped up and down, she swung and thrust the two weapons vigorously.

Irene moved silently into the room, all the while continuing to watch Sherla. The girl was concentrating on her breathing, taking in one deep breath on every second ascension, and exhaling on the next two. It occurred to Irene that Sherla's movements with the two weapons were not mere exercises for it became clear that she was actually fencing with some foe she saw only in her mind's eye. Quietly, so as to not disturb Sherla's focus, Irene moved over to the sideboard and poured herself a snifter of cognac before seating herself at her desk.

The display continued at the same pace for another ten minutes before Sherla began to gradually slow her movements before finally stopping altogether after five more minutes. She simply stood there in the center of the library, her hands on her hips, inhaling deeply to clear her oxygen starved lungs.

"Well, that was impressive. Did your opponent survive?" Irene asked as she filled a glass with water and walked over to offer it to Sherla.

Her eyes not betraying any surprise or emotion, Sherla took the proffered glass and drank deeply before answering. "Of course not. Can't you see him there? Bleeding all over your Aubusson carpet?"

Irene chuckled at that before becoming serious. "What was that all about?"

"Becoming physically prepared," Sherla answered. "After what I saw in Switzerland, I know that I must face Moriarty. The last time I did that he played with me the way a cat does a mouse. He overpowered me so I must become as strong and fit as possible before he and I meet for the final time."

"Darling," Irene said hesitantly, "Regardless of how much of this you do, how hard you work, you will still be a very petite woman when you finish. There is a limit to how strong you can make that body, no matter how much time you spend conditioning yourself."

Nodding, Sherla gave Irene a half smile. "I am not going to challenge him to a physical contest again, Irene. But however I elect to deal with Professor Moriarty, I will require the stamina to see it through." Sherla gave a quick but awkward fencer's salute with the heavy saber, "And besides, using this strengthens my wrist for our next bout with the foils. Tonight?"

"Of course," Irene said before moving back to her desk and the packet she'd been carrying. "You know that Katrina is very worried about you. You quite scandalized her when you insisted on wearing that mummy's wrapping and refused her entreaties to put on your stays."

"Scandalized? Not hardly. She's just upset because she is determined to train my waist down to something less than sixteen inches and will try anything to keep me in those damnable corsets every minute of every day. She'd have me bathe in the things if she could find one that would survive being immersed in hot water. This morning she actually hinted that perhaps I did not need to bathe quite so often."

"She is French, dear. She is also worried that she has angered you in some way."

Sherla's dark eyes snapped to Irene's. "Angered me? How ever did she get that idea?"

"Well, I am not certain I have all the particulars, but I believe it has something to do with the night you had those. . ummm. . bad dreams?"

A vivid blush flamed across Sherla's creamy complexion and she took another swallow of her water. "Yes?" she finally asked in what she hoped was a non-committal tone.

"Well, as I understand, she had to . . . well, swat you to. . errr. . wake you? And since you have not shared any more bad dreams with her since that night, she is afraid that the spanking offended you."

"I see," Sherla said, almost to herself.

"Did it?" Irene asked gently, "Offend you?"

Sherla went very still. She had thought about that night many times over the past few days, but never had she felt offended by the experience. What she had felt, she was not certain she wanted to admit even to herself, but she knew that "offended" was not how she felt. "No, she didn't. Actually, I was afraid that we would get caught by Frau Buchner and that she might decide to make us leave before I had learned all there was to be learned up there. So I very carefully avoided doing or thinking anything that might have resulted in. .. . bad dreams."

"Katrina is very fond of you, Sherla," Irene finally said. "Much more than fond. If you cannot . . . "

"I am more than fond of her, as well, Irene," Sherla cut her off as the older woman tried to raise the issue diplomatically. "More than I have ever felt for another person, including John Watson for I never wanted to make lo. . .have bad dreams with Watson. What should I do? I do not have a great deal of experience with . . . such relationships."

"Katrina tells me you offered to spank her the next time?"

*In truth, I told her I would restrain her, but I won't tell Irene that.* "Close enough."

"Then do so, playfully, and make sure she knows she is forgiven."

"But she has done nothing to be forgiven for," Sherla protested.

"Spoken like a man, Sherla. She FEELS she needs forgiveness, and if you two have some delightful bad dreams as a result, it will be all the better. One thing Sherlock probably never had the pleasure of was making up in bed. Trust me, sometimes I create a reason to fight with my husband just so that we can repair our differences in the matrimonial boudoir."

"I see, and you believe that Katrina would enjoy this type of romp?"

"Provided you are gentle, yes, the little minx will thoroughly enjoy herself."

"Thank you, Irene, for your help. I find that she is very important to me," Irene bowed her head regally in response. "Was that the only reason you sought me out? I sense that I have the need for another of those baths that so distress Katrina."

"Oh, yes," Irene said quickly. "I have received some reports from the agents I hired to look into those other avenues of inquiry and I wished to go over their findings with you. I also have a train map of Switzerland showing all the usable laid track," she said as she opened up the map. "That particular line has, unfortunately, many little spur lines off the main route between the accident and Zurich. We will have a difficult time finding whatever transport Moriarty's henchmen used."

"We should never expect anything involved with stopping Moriarty to be simple, Irene. He is, in his own evil way, as brilliant as my brother Mycroft was. His weakness is that he believes that brilliance makes him infallible."

"Yes, I understand," Irene said with a sigh, "but for such a small country, Switzerland truly has an excellent rail system. Lord, but there are just so many of those little villages that can be reached by branches off the main track to Zurich. Heimberg, Interlaken, Brienz, , Meiringen, Heavens, even Bern is on the route. . . "

"WHAT DID YOU SAY?" Sherla shouted as she whirled on the stunned Irene.

"Just. . just that there were so many little villages where they could have taken Buchner. Why?"

"No. . you said. . you said Meiringen, did you not?" Sherla's voice was intense, her eyes fierce.

"Why, yes, I did. But why is that so important?"

But Sherla acted as if she had not heard the question, turning away and walking to the window, her eyes distant. "He wouldn't, would he?" She asked, mostly to herself. "I never considered that, and yet, his old haunts were the first places I looked in London."

Irene moved over to stand behind the rigidly erect Sherla. She reached out to squeeze her tight shoulders, as much reminding the girl she was not alone as offering comfort. "What is it, Sherla? What is Meiringen?"

"A short walk from a place I hoped never to see again, Irene. A place where I thought I had killed Moriarty; a place where he thought to kill me," Sherla's voice was soft, almost ethereal as she answered. "My god, Irene, I think he's gone back to Reichenbach Falls."
 

 
Irene found Sherla in the music room, playing some somber piece on her violin. "I've never heard that before," she said as she took her seat at the piano.

"I just created it," Sherla said with a half smile as she put down the violin. "I have to go to Reichenbach Falls," she said baldly.

Irene met the challenge in Sherla's voice with a smile of her own. "I know. So, when do we leave?"

Black eyes went wide, "I never said I expected you to accompany me." Sherla said, her voice cracking with unexpected emotion.

"No," Irene said evenly, "I know you didn't say it, and I strongly suspect you never gave it any consideration."

"Actually, I did, but I have already asked too much of you. There is every possibility that this could end in more than just Moriarty's death. I. . . I have care too much about you to put your life in mortal danger on this mission. No, it is better that I go alone."

"IF you try to go without us," Irene retorted, waggling an admonitory finger at the younger woman, "Then we will be on the next train after you."

"WE?!? No, not Katrina, Irene. She cannot be endangered like this. It would kill me if she was hurt or worse over this."

A sardonic smile crossed Irene's lovely features. "I am glad you have realized that she is that important to you. Perhaps you are not so much the thick headed Sherlock as I had once thought anymore."

"It has not been an easy thing to confront, but it is no less factual and unassailable. I do not have any great deal of personal experience with the emotion, but I suspect that I am in love with the minx."

"She will follow us, too, dear. She will be safer for the benefit of your experience with this criminal and his methods than trying to investigate on her own. She is very intelligent and has learned much from me, but my inquiries rarely involve criminals. . .at least, violent criminals. She will, I am afraid, make herself too obvious."

"And get her lovely person killed," Sherla said with disgust. "Very well. I would like to be on our way as soon as we can make arrangements and some suitable plans."

"I have already sent a message to my man of affairs, Sherla. I asked him to arrange passage suitable for a family of three - well-to-do but not wealthy. I suspect we will be able to leave in two, three days at the most, and Sherla?"

*Why am I surprised at her perceptions? This is THE Woman, and while her methods may differ from mine, the results of her inquiries easily equal my own accomplishments.* "Yes, Irene?"

"I think one of us should go disguised as a male, for the freedom of movement that will afford."

"You?"

"No, not me. I am not as young as I once was and lack the stamina and quickness that might be required. Actually, my dear, I was thinking of you."

"Me?"

"You, Sherla. After all, you have a great deal of experience in the role."

Sherla considered that and then shook her head. "No, I will not do that, for two reasons. First, I am not suited to the role. I will, at best, look like a very effeminate adolescent male and that will draw idle attention to us."

"Trust me, darling, you won't. I know you are a master of disguise, but I have years of theatrical experience and have on occasion passed quite adequately as a male."

"As I have cause to know, but that leaves the second reason, which is less reasoned, but far more important to me. When I defeat Moriarty, I want it to be as a woman. He did this to me - in part for revenge - but mainly as a means to neutralize me as a threat to him. A mere woman could never hope to defeat the great Moriarty. Well, I wish the last thought he has to be that a woman DID defeat him and that he himself created her."

"That is a rather emotional reason, dear," Irene teased, "Not that I don't understand and agree with it, but what would the Great English Detective say about it?"

"He would say that it was still the correct stratagem, though admittedly for a different reason. Moriarty will be on the lookout for an English man, or perhaps an English boy. Katrina, with her Gallic features, will clearly not be a feminized Sherlock Holmes in disguise."

Irene nodded her understanding, "Truly excellent logic, my dear, and very difficult to argue against."

"Quite true, but in a larger sense, that does not matter. I am Sherla, not Sherlock. All that Sherlock was, I am. But I am also different, and perhaps in that difference I am also more than he was. I know I must face Moriarty as Sherla, finding my solutions as the woman I am, not as the man I am no longer."

*I think you are in the right of that, my dear,* Irene thought with a smile. "So, who tells Katrina that she is to be your younger brother for this adventure, you or I?"

A wicked, mischievous smile bloomed on Sherla's lovely face at that idea. "Oh, I think I will reserve that pleasure for myself, Irene. AFTER, I have had our . . .what did you call it? Making up session?"

Irene laughed merrily, and asked, "Have a plan, do you?"

"Yes, I do, as a matter of fact. Would you mind assisting me in getting ready? I am afraid that I cannot dress properly for this without assistance and I would not want Katrina to be. . .forewarned?"

"Oh, I would be honored to assist, if you promise to tell me every delightfully wicked detail afterwards."

"I shall," Sherla agreed easily, "Unless I make Katrina tell you all about it as part of her penance."

Sherla rose and offered her hand help Irene to stand. "PENANCE??" Irene asked still chuckling.

"Well, you did say she felt guilty? Trust me, that is NOT what she will feel when I have finished with her this afternoon." Both women wore sinfully delighted grins as they walked arm in arm to the music room door.
 
 
Chapter 18. Last Moments Before the Storm
 
Katrina hurried to Sherla's room as Irene had bid her. This was the first time Ma'amselle Cherie had summoned her since their return from the train site, and Katrina so hoped that it might herald an devoutly desired ending to their recent estrangement. A huge grin lighting her gamine face, she knocked on the closed door to Sherla's bed chamber.

"Enter!"

The terse nature of the reply gave Katrina a moment's pause. Perhaps La Petite was still displeased with her, but if that was so, why else would Sherla have called for her? To change her outfit perhaps? It was time to dress for afternoon tea, she mused, and Mademoiselle had not called her to help with her corset since ordering her to remove it and dress her in those, and here Katrina cringed slightly, trousers.

More carefully than she might have just a moment earlier, Katrina opened the door and entered. She was surprised to find the heavy brocaded curtains tightly closed, and the room dark except for the eerie red-embered light of the dying fire. Blinking against the darkness, she began scanning the shadows for some sign of her mistress. All she could see was a pool of even deeper obscurity in the room's only armchair, backlit by the flickering glow of the embers of the fire.

Katrina approached the chair, circling around it in an attempt to get a clearer view into the shadow. "Mademoiselle?" she asked hesitantly.

"Yes, Katrina," Sherla replied, and then the room's main ceiling light switched on, illuminating the chamber with its incandescent radiance.

Her first clear look at Sherla had Katrina's mouth falling open in disbelief and then . . . lust. Never had she seen La Petite Mademoiselle arrayed so. . so. . .sternly. . .and yet. . so beautifully. Still staring, Katrina swallowed hard, trying futilely to moisten the suddenly arid regions of her mouth.

Katrina's stomach began a mad dance of anticipation, arousal and just a soupcon of fear as Sherla rose from her throne. With slow grace, Sherla closed the distance between them. *She must be wearing very high heeled shoes for she is now taller than me,* Katrina thought in awe, *and that gown is. . is . .magnifique!*

Katrina didn't know it, but Sherla had chosen her outfit because of the very profound effect a similar costume had had on the solicitor Carroll. The blood red and midnight black combined to uncover heretofore deeply buried feelings and needs in the Tuscan maid as well, things that were at once the stuff of nightmares and - when displayed so beautifully on Sherla - the stuff of darkest fantasies.

The gown was crafted of glistening black satin, and covered Sherla from throat to floor, from shoulder to wrist except fora bold, heart shaped decolletage that displayed Sherla's high rounded breasts.

The silky black waves of Sherla's hair seemed even deeper, even darker than her dress, showing clearly against the material as they fell wild and free to the center of her back. The dark framing of dress and hair brought her face into dramatic focus - a face made starkly beautiful with unusually vivid cosmetics. Sherla's huge eyes were enlarged even further by a dark kohl outline while her eyelids were shaded in blends of rich blues and mossy greens. Her sensuous mouth was a lurid slash of red that made Katrina lick her lips, all the while wishing she was licking Sherla's instead.

Sherla had accented the stark simplicity of the gown with bright reds that matched her lips for color and depth. A golden comb sparkling with bright red stones held back her hair and revealed red-flashed earrings. A ruby cameo mounted on a high-throated red satin collar was at the same time delicately feminine and stiffly formal. A red belt, also of shining satin and nearly tall enough to function as a corset in its own right, highlighted Sherla's incredibly tiny waist. Matching red gloves hovered near that waist, moving with deceiving languor that nonetheless drew Katrina's eyes to her lover's delicate hands . . . and to the object they were stroking.

Sherla gently slapped the black crop's snappy, stinging tongue of leather into one gloved palm. "Irene tells me," Sherla said in a soft, husky voice, "that you think you feel that you require my forgiveness for that first night at the inn."

Katrina almost broke at the memory, and felt a moist heat begin to burn behind her eyelids. "I am so sorry about the spanking, Ma'amselle Cherie. I was only playing," she almost sobbed, "I did not mean to upset you so."

Sherla moved around to stand behind the little maid, pleased that the painfully tight, incredibly tall heels she had borrowed from Irene gave her the advantage of height over her lover. "Oh, and what did you mean to do," she husked into Katrina's ear as she gently fingered a stray brunette lock from the girl's ear.

"Some. . .some girls get. . . aroused," Katrina almost stuttered in her excitement, "More aroused when their bottoms are warmed. I . . I was teasing you and did not mean to hurt or anger you. Honestly, Ma'amselle."

"Well, in that case, I think perhaps I will forgive you," Sherla stepped back to keep Katrina from leaping into her arms. "After I have reciprocated and seen if you are one of those who become, how did you say it? Ah yes, more aroused, eh?"

"Ma'amselle wishes to . . to spank me? Now?" Katrina squeaked half in alarm, half in arousal. Still, she was not completely sure she trusted Sherla that far. After all, she had been a man less than a month ago, and who would be the one spanking her? Ma'amselle? Or Mr. Sherlock Holmes wearing Ma'amselle's form?

"Yes, I do." Sherla emphasized that statement with a sharp lash the crop across Katrina's hip. As Sherla had intended, the little maid's heavy gown and petticoats blunted the blow, but, the crack of the slap still had Katrina jumping back. "But only if you are willing. Are you going to let me have my turn, my sweet?" Sherla cooed seductively beneath her breath.

Oddly enough, the fact that the first lash had not really hurt comforted Katrina, and made her think that perhaps La Petite knew what she was about after all. "Oui, Mademoiselle. I submit myself to your justice."

"Very well. Stip out of your clothes now, wench!" Sherla snapped. "Leave your stockings, shoes and corset and then go over to stand next to the lacing stand."

Katrina could not recall the last time she had undressed so quickly and so carelessly, but minutes later, she was standing in front of the heavy apparatus designed to afford ladies the tightest corseting possible. Sherla prompted her to raise her hands to the hanging bar above her head. Before Katrina quite knew what was happening, Sherla had buckled two of Irene's soft leather love cuffs about her friend's wrists, effectively binding them above her head until Sherla decided to free her.

A wicked grin on her face, Sherla moved behind the stand and began slowly turning the hand crank affixed to the back of the apparatus. Katrina gave a surprised shriek as her hands began moving inexorably upward, ever upward, until only by severely arching her tiny feet could she support her weight on the very tips of her dainty toes. Then Sherla turned the girl so that she was facing the large easy chair before cuffing Katrina's feet to the base of the appliance. She considered her quarry one last time, and backed off the crank a turn, easing some of the tension from her lover's shoulders and arms. The foot cuffs had forced Katrina's legs apart, causing her to lose her already precarious footing, and truly hurting the girl was the last thing Sherla intended.

Reseating herself, Sherla allowed herself a barely audible sigh of pleasure. "Ah, Katrina-darling, but you are a gorgeous little minx. I am going to enjoy this little game EVER so much. The only question is," and here Sherla's voice dropped into a deliciously evil tone, "Will YOU enjoy it as well."

The fire of Sherla's frankly appreciative gaze kindled matching blazes inside Katrina. Her tiny dark nipples hardened and crinkled, standing out impudently from her almost almond-hued breasts while her woman's flesh parted and grew hot, moist and so wonderfully sensitive. "If I am gorgeous, Mademoiselle," she breathed, "you are beyond incredible."

Sherla stood and moved back to her captive. Slowly she circled Katrina, every once and a while letting the tip of the crop graze across a soft expanse of bared bottom, or letting her lips and tongue taste a particularly tempting bit of flesh. Then, she moved in front of Katrina, her crop drawing circles on the front of Katrina's corselette. "And what is this?" Sherla demanded. "Surely with your own fascination with lacing me, you would wear something more . . . shall we say stringent than that bit of children's wear? That piece of cloth is not even worthy of the name lingerie," she finished with some disgust.

"A maid must dress herself, Mademoiselle. I cannot lace myself as I do you and no one helps a maid dress."

"Then permit me to be the first to congratulate on your great good fortune, my sweet. Since you are no longer a lowly maid, but a member of Madame's family, we will start lacing you properly starting today," Sherla said as she pulled out one of her own new corsets. "In fact, from this day forward I will PERSONALLY see to your corsetry right after you have seen to mine. Now this," she said holding up her selection, "should fit you perfectly."

Katrina almost groaned for she recognized the garment immediately. That was the corset she had bribed the corsetierre's assistant to make just a bit (*only a few centimeters,* she reminded herself, *Certainly five counts as being a few.*) smaller than Madame Irene had deemed their ultimate goal for Mademoiselle Sherla.

Moments later, Katrina's own corset was on the floor at her feet, replaced by the new white-laced, steel-boned confection and a gleeful Sherla was working at the laces. "Now, I have never done this before, sweet, lacing up a lovely young woman's corset, but I can assure you that I have paid very strict attention every single time you have done it for, or is that more correctly, TO me?"

"Ma'AMSELLE. . .that is TOO tight!" Katrina had begged when Sherla had barely begun the second set of lace-tightening.

"Oh really? But, Katrina, the edges of the corset are so very far apart. You are sure it is too tight? Well, let's see. Where did I put that tape measure? Ahh. Here it is."

Katrina's eyes went wide when she saw the measure Sherla held, for it was the altered one she had used in her attempt to convince her lover that Sherla was not being laced too tightly. "See," Sherla piped as she held the measure up for Katrina to see, "A mere 19 inches. Surely you can go another one or two?"

"Non, Ma'amselle," Katrina begged, knowing that 19 inches on that tape was in truth closer to seventeen, "Please no more."

"Oh very well, then I suppose I shall entertain myself in other ways." Katrina watched helplessly as Sherla slowly inched the bright red glove from her right hand. She held the glove up to Katrina's mouth and ordered, "Hold this for me, dear."

Katrina took the glove between her teeth, trying to keep her tongue away from the leather so as not to damage it. Smiling widely, Sherla gently circled and teased her captive's nipples with her finely pointed nails, sending bolts of sensual fire through Katrina's helpless body. When one impudent bud was sufficiently prominent, Sherla bent over and took the tender tip between her own teeth and bit down gently. "MmmmmmmmmMMMMMMM," Katrina squealed around the glove as Sherla rolled the sensitive bit of flesh with her teeth.

A teasing finger tickled at the font of Katrina's womanhood and came back moist and fragrant. Katrina watched in helpless arousal as Sherla licked and savored the flavored finger with exaggerated relish. "Are you excited, my sweet?" Sherla whispered in Katrina's ear just before taking a sharp bite on her lobe.

"Oh, god yes, Sherla," Katrina answered, letting the glove fall from her mouth, "Please love me before I die!"

"But what about your spanking?"

"Love me, spank me, whatever, but please DO something!"

A soft, pleased chuckle answered her. "I thought you would never ask, my love." The next thing Katrina felt was Sherla's mouth ravaging her own - seeking, tasting, possessing. She did groan when those lovely lips left her mouth to trail liquid fire down her breasts. One last nibble on one of her nipples and then that incredible tongue of Sherla's was on Katrina's woman's flesh. Voraciously, Sherla fell upon her lover, all but consuming her soul as she took the little maid's body and made it hers.

That first crashing climax was still echoing in Katrina's mind as it gradually began to function again - several hours later. That incredibly fiery orgasm was the last thing she could remember clearly from the previous evening's activities. As her world expanded from the delicious memories written so indelibly in her heart and soul, she became aware that she was entwined about her beloved's body, still wearing that uncompromising corset, but happy to be in Sherla's arms once again. Maybe next time she'd actually get spanked. She'd have to make sure of it.
 

 
Following breakfast, Irene directed the two girls into her study, where she laid out the plans for their trip to Switzerland. "The track that was destroyed will be disrupting normal travel to Zurich for several more weeks as the weather makes such repairs difficult at best. Therefore, we will be traveling via Germany and entering Switzerland from the north. It will add a day or so to our travel time, but it will also give Katrina, or rather, Karl, additional time to become more comfortable with her role. I have used her in trousered disguises before, but never for so long a period before."

"I am still uncertain, Madame. . I mean, Tante Irene, and Ma'amselle Cherie, precisely why I need to go disguised as a stripling boy."

"Because," Irene said smiling, "We might need someone with more freedom of movement than would be socially appropriate for Society gentlewomen once we arrive there. We cannot anticipate where the trail will lead or what type of false trails have been laid. We will need you to go to those places were two respectable ladies could not go without a great deal of notoriety resulting."

"But Ma'amselle Cherie has far more experience is such roles than I. Would it not be wiser for HER to disguise herself in the rough, uncomfortable clothes of the rowdy boy?"

Sherla chucked at that. "Trust me, dear, I have what I consider to be very good reasons to go as myself."

Irene started at that. *Does she realize what she just said? She has just identified herself casually as Sherla. How much you have grown, little one, in such a short time.*

"Besides," Sherla continued, her naughty grin back in place, "If it is comfort you are concerned with, recall that boys are not corseted. Your own figure training will, of necessity, be delayed now until we complete this mission and I can safely order you back into your dainties."

The other girl blushed vividly, the red all the more brilliant for her normally light almond complexion, but nodded her compliance. *And what was that all about,* Irene thought watching her adopted niece give in submissively to her ward. *I would say that, however Sherla exacted her retribution last night, Katrina did not find it too onerous.*

"Very well," Irene spoke up, regaining control of the exchange. She then lifted a paper from her desk and handed it to Sherla. "That is a compilation I made last night while you two were. . .otherwise occupied."

Katrina's blush returned with a vengeance, but Sherla barely heard Irene as her total focus locked on the paper in her hands. "Where did you get this information?" She demanded of Irene, her eyes hard.

"From the inquiry agents I had looking into the clues we obtained from the scientists. Why?"

"Have your man of affairs contact these men or their employers. Order them into hiding until they hear from us. Moriarty will likely have left behind an agent who will pass along to him that someone is asking dangerous questions."

"Then you agree that information is decisive?"

A small grin curved Sherla's full lips. "It certainly relieves my worries at making such a move based only on my intuition that Moriarty has returned to Reichenbach Falls. The fact that all of this very specialized equipment and material has been sent to Brienz in the recent past indicates that someone is setting up a very well equipped biological-chemistry laboratory in that vicinity."

"What is this Brienz?" Katrina asked.

"An Alpine village, not very far from where I expect we will find Professor James Moriarty. When do we leave, Tante Irene?" Sherla asked getting into her own role.

"We leave day after tomorrow on the train to Munich. And we will need to pack carefully to ensure we have everything we are likely to need. That part of Switzerland is relatively isolated."
 

 

 

 
 
Entry in the Journal of Miss Sherla Joan Holmes

Date: March 7, 1911

Location: Irene Adler's Home outside of Paris France.

Time: 2:21 P.M.

My Dear Doctor Watson: I apologize for not writing sooner, but there has been a great deal to do and far more to think about in the past week. The clues have begun to fit together, old friend, and we begin to perceive the form of the puzzle if not the ultimate solution. Tomorrow we leave for Switzerland . . . for Meiringen. Now there's a place I never thought to visit again, but all the information we have been able to glean point to that as Moriarty's hideaway in this adventure. If I were a believer in destiny rather than fate, I would say that this was a sign that Moriarty and possibly my destinies are to end on that rocky mountainside amidst the cascading waters of the falls. I hope not, John, for I have found a great deal to live for in the past days. A very great deal. This case is drawing to its climax, as I am sure you could tell. Moriarty has become increasingly overt in his actions. He must have known that, if I had survived his foul plot, his procurement of large quantities of relatively unique equipment and materials would have drawn my attention. That is one reason Irene and I will not be going directly to Brienz as I suspect that there are watchers there. Or at least, caution dictates that I must suspect that there are watchers there. One important question has not been resolved yet, John. If Moriarty has spent years in South America, and only recently returned to Europe, how much of an organization can he truly have behind him? His old organizations collapsed with the deaths of Moran and Gilbert. Certainly, he could and has hired thugs to do his bidding, but thus far, I have only encountered or seen evidence of the mercenary type. Certainly no one the quality of a Moran or that fellow we encountered during the case of the Redheaded League. If I could be more certain of what we were up against, I could chance taking a more direct course of action. However, I will not endanger Katrina or Irene by doing so. So, I am again ready to embark upon what may well be the last chapter of my life's adventures, John, but I am by no means as sanguine on the subject as I was that last time at Reichenbach Falls. However, Moriarty must be stopped. A rejuvenated James Moriarty at the height of his powers is more than our world can survive. If the price of stopping him is my life, so be it. I wish you were here to write that chapter for me, old friend.

End Journal Entry.
 

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End of Part 2 - A Study in Satin

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To Be Continued in "A Study in Satin Part 3 - Dum Vivimus Vivimus!"