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 1. The Second End?
 
Sherla huddled deeper into the heavy woolen blanket the head driver had obtained for her when they'd last stopped for a change of horses. Cold and damp, she sat beneath what cover her carriage's drivers had been able to contrapt for her while they saw to the broken wheel that had caused yet another delay in her flight to Irene Adler. A chilly mist flitted on the blustery winds, soaking everything with a fine coating of moisture.

A shudder ran through her body, and her heart missed a beat. Was that just the cold, or was that the onset of the withdrawal again? *God, no, please,* she thought plaintively. Her planned one-day trip had been delayed twice by bad weather, each time forcing the driver to stop at some roadside way station or inn, and now they'd broken a wheel. *If I weren't a man. . errr. . woman of science, I'd almost believe that Moriarty's animate Destiny was against me. The question is, what do I do now? Once that wheel is replaced, I don't have time for another incident. Heavens, I don't have time for this one or the two before this one for that matter. What to do?*

Moments later, she was on her feet, moving toward the four men working to replace the broken wheel. *At least they had a spare wheel and the tools to change it with,* she thought. "Jean-Pierre?" she called out in French. "A word with you, if you please."

The burly driver assured himself that all was going properly and then turned toward 'la petite mademoiselle' as he and his three partners had named her. "Oui, mademoiselle?" he replied.

Sherla beckoned over to her makeshift tent and spoke softly. "Jean Pierre, I am ill. It is nothing that you can catch, but only Madame Adler can help me. I am running out of my medicine and may not have enough left if we have another delay."

"Does mademoiselle wish me to take her to le docteur?" Jean Pierre asked. He liked la petite. She had ordered him and his partners into the carriage when the weather had become suddenly very bad instead of denying them what warmth and comfort it provided. Not many aristo ladies would have done so, but she'd not even batted an eyelash when three roughly dressed men had clamored into the coach the moment she had made the offer. If she was ill, he would have to see to her as she had seen to him on this god-forsaken trip.

"Please," she entreated, "Do not stop at a doctor. Only Madame Adler has experience with such. . . " Sherla struggled to come up with something the coachman would believe. "A feminine problem," she finally managed.

Whatever she'd expected for Jean Pierre, the reaction he gave her was not it. "Mademoiselle is enceinte?" he asked in a growl.

"Pregnant??" Sherla all but squealed. "Non non, Jean Pierre, quite the opposite," she made up quickly. "Without the treatment that Madame Adler can provide, I may never have that joy. She is a very special type of women's healer."

"What do you wish of me, Mademoiselle?" he finally asked, gruff kindness in his voice.

"You must get me and my belongings to Madame. In truth, she may have moved since we last corresponded - she was a friend of my father's, you see - and if she has moved, you must try to find her and get me to her as quickly as you possibly can."

Jean Pierre stared at la petite for several moments before nodding. "It shall be as you wish, Mademoiselle," he said, and then walked off toward his men, bellowing at them (loosely and politely translated) to get that damned wheel back on and to be smart about it.

The actual words (however anatomically impossible for the men) brought an unlikely smile to the face to the waif-like figure huddled beneath the canvas tent. Then, Sherla turned to her portmanteau and removed her pen and journal. She sat down as far back into the tent, and thus as far from the swirling mists as she possibly could, and began to write.
 
 
Entry in the Journal of Miss Sherla Joan Holmes

Date: February 18, 1911

Time: Approximately 7:00 P.M.

Location: Somewhere on the North Road en route to Paris

Dear Madame Adler, I hope you have read the preceding pages - and in truth - I am counting heavily upon your having done so. You are a woman of great intellectual gifts and keen curiosity. I am gambling everything on that latter facet of your personality, for in truth, I may well have no other option left to me. Still, I anticipate that a puzzle such as I may present by arriving at your doorstep in the grips of withdrawal from Moriarty's damnable potion should be almost irresistible to one such as you. It would be to me, and we have much in common, you and I. Having said that, I expect that you have read this journal and are even now, shaking your head in disbelief that anyone would dare to perpetuate such a hoax upon you. I assure you that this is no hoax. As proof, let me ask you, who but your husband and your very prim parson's daughter companion would know of your life-long competitive relationship with Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Certainly, the Bohemian Affair never ended up in one of Watson's published stories since I promised His Majesty I would never permit the details to be divulged. I am Sherlock Holmes, and I need your help. If you are reading this, I am very likely close to insanity. When I arrive at your home, I hope to have one dose left of this potion that is at once the cause of my distress and the temporary palliative for it, but this trip has been so beset with misfortune that, even with but an hour's passage left to your last known address, I can no longer count on being able to speak with you. A freak snow and ice storm struck us south of Amiens forcing us to stop twice and costing me a full extra day. Now, I am sitting on the roadside beneath a canvas tent while my drivers struggle to replace a broken wheel in the icy mud while the wind and the rain howls about them. What I need from you, what I BEG of you, is that you take up my last case to stop Professor Moriarty. You've read this journal, I am sure, but let me assure you that he is far, far worse than I have painted him in these writings. Should he succeed in perfecting his potion, thereby adding untold years to his life, he will be fully capable of bringing unimaginable suffering to a countless numbers of people in the world. You, of all the men and women I have ever known, are the only one I believe has a chance of finding and stopping him. First, you have bested me twice that I know of, although now that I think of it, there were several other cases where things did not go as I had expected. If I survive with my wits intact, I would like to discuss those with you. The second reason is that he will, as I did, underestimate you. You are a woman and if there is a man on earth more arrogant than I was, or more assured of the intellectual superiority of the male gender than I was, it is Professor Moriarty. In fact, one of his reasons for doing this to me was his belief that even if I survived, a mere woman would pose no threat to him. God, but how I would like to make him regret those words! I know this is a great deal to ask, but you must believe me that the threat is grave and it is, after all, your world, too. Also, I do not leave you entirely unsupported. If you accept this mission, go to London and seek out the shop of "Madame Jeanne Marie." She is a modiste and a friend. Before I left London, I left all of my files on Moriarty and his various adventures with her. Also, there are two men who could be of immense value to you. They might have succeeded against Moriarty, but in my estimation you were the best choice. The first fellow is a detective inspector on the Brussels police force. A brilliant man with a keen eye for detail and the tenacity of a terrier on a case. My records on him are with the Moriarty files. The second person is somewhat odd, and I have only met him twice but on each occasion was impressed by what he didn't say as opposed to what he did say. Be warned that he has a talent for saying volumes of words that add up to nothing and that I believe he does it quite intentionally. He is the second son of the Duke of Denver and only an amateur at detection, but very intelligent and very good at putting together small details to solve large problems. My only information on Moriarty to date (and I must admit that most of it comes from Moriarty so that you may decide that it is quite suspect) are:         1. He did not stay any length of time in London. I would have known if he'd been there for any amount of time and I believe him when he said he had to get to the Continent quickly.         2. None of his London haunts showed any signs of use. This supports the premise that he arrived and left quickly, but is not proof as he is most careful and might have made entirely new arrangements — certainly so if he did indeed intend to stay long enough there was a risk I might cross his trail.         3. He is on the Continent - where, I do not know.         4. It is clear that Moriarty desires the rejuvenation potential of this potion for his own use and is trying to find a way to eliminate the other side effects. Whether he has or can obtain the expertise to do so is not as clear, though it may represent a fruitful line of inquiry. Therefore, my working hypothesis is that whatever he is doing on the Continent is directly related to the development of a treatment that will rejuvenate the subject (in this case, himself) while eliminating the gender changing and addictive side effects. Irene, if you can bring yourself to accept that I am who I say that I am then you must know that I do not lightly make statements or accusations beyond those supportable by direct evidence. Yet, I tell you bluntly that Moriarty is evil — evil in the same way as the Serpent that caused all the ills of the world. To the casual observer, he appears to be cultured, well-mannered, reasonable; yet within that foul mind there is not the slightest trace of morality. "Good" in his foul lexicon is defined by whatever furthers his goals; anything else is to removed from his path with total, unhesitating ruthlessness. Should he decide that you are a threat to his plans, he will kill you, without qualm, without mercy, with no emotion whatsoever, except that of satisfaction from having furthered his own plans. He is incapable of even recognizing his own evil for the concept of morals is totally foreign to his nature. If you elect to accept this mission, in my stead, do so in the knowledge that it is, without any doubt, a battle to the death. If you cannot find it in yourself to accept such an outcome, please try and contact other two I mentioned above and convince them to take on the mission. So that is what I need of you, Irene. It is what the world needs of you, even if I am gone. The package with your name on it is something I hope will help prove who I say I am, although the letter of introduction was written with the intent that I would still be sensible when I gave it to you. Oh, one last thing. A Doctor will be useless to me. I do not know what the scope of my insanity will be when I have no drug to blunt its impact, so be very careful, and if necessary, be prepared to use deadly force to protect yourself from me. Thank you for reading this. I hope you will accept this mission, but I will understand if you find that you cannot. I (truly) am Sincerely yours, Sherlock, now Sherla, Holmes.

End Journal Entry.
 
 
Sherla was just repacking her portmanteau when Jean Pierre came up to her. "Mademoiselle, the carriage is ready, but there is a problem."

"Yes," Sherla responded.

"Part of the carriage suspension was broken when the wheel came off. We have built a wooden brace to replace it, but the ride will be very rough. . . very harsh. Are you well enough to travel under such conditions, Mademoiselle? We could stop in Paris and get a different carriage, but probably not until morning."

Sherla shook her head. "It will have to do. It is vital that I reach Madame Adler tonight, Jean Pierre. Tomorrow will be too late."

"Very well, Mademoiselle. We will try to make the best time we can, but you must tell us if it becomes too rough for you."

"Merci, Jean Pierre. Now, let us be off."

"Oui, Mademoiselle."

Sherla gave a moment's consideration to using her last bit of the drug now. It was very close to the time when her last whole dose would be wearing off, but elected not to do so. *I need to have as much lucid time with Irene as possible. Perhaps now, after two weeks of dealing with this potion, I am sufficiently experienced with the attacks that I can tolerate them longer without resorting to what is left in the bottle. It is worth the attempt.*
 

 
Jean Pierre's warning proved to be an understatement. It took her full concentration to stay on the seat, though even that failed after a particularly gruesome bump and she found herself on the floor of the carriage. Since her portmanteau was tied to the floor by stout straps, she decided to stay down on the floor, dragging cushions from the seats down after her. *At least it won't be so far to fall.*

The intense discomfort resulting from all the shaking and rattling was most probably why she did not notice the onset of the withdrawal symptoms sooner. That, and the shivering cold from her wet clothing, but by the time she did recognize what was happening, those symptoms were well established and compounded by the chill she had taken from her earlier soaking.

Bone-deep chills now alternated with the more familiar burning heat while the chilly air made the perspiration feel clammy on her cheeks and forehead. Her breath came in spasmodic gasps and her heart raced madly.

Her skin became increasingly sensitive to the point where the wet broadcloth of her traveling clothes felt like an abrasive grinding on her body. The sensitivity was worst in those areas that had been most affected by the potion. Her nipples felt hugely-engorged with blood and burning with fire. The woman's flesh at the apex of her thighs also seemed swollen, and pulsed with a deep, consuming ache.

She felt the familiar tightening and relaxing of the large muscles of her lower abdomen and knew that the escalation would come soon. Struggling upright, she pulled herself hand-over-hand to the sliding panel to the driver's perch. She knocked and sighed when it slid open. The blast of cool air felt almost soothing. . .for a moment or two and then her internal fires turned away even that bit of relief.

"Oui, mademoiselle?" the brakeman called.

"How long to Madame Irene's?"

"Less than half an hour at this pace, mademoiselle."

"Can you not go any faster?" Sherla asked.

"It will be very rough, mademoiselle," the man said cautiously.

"Go faster, if you please," she rasped out as the cramping sensation in her stomach began to build. "I need to be there as quickly as possible."

"Oui, mademoiselle," the brakeman responded dubiously.

Sherla fell back to the floor as the carriage lurched in response to a loud crack of the driver's whip. Scrambling on her hands and knees, Sherla tried to reach her portmanteau. The sensations were stronger than she'd ever felt them. Just moving made her skin seem electrified. The burning heat inside made her gasping breath seem almost fiery and the muscular response was beginning to impede her movements. Vainly, Sherla tried pressing a fist into her lower stomach to relieve the muscle distress, but to no avail. The center busk and metal stays of her corset prevented her from concentrating pressure in any one area. It was akin to trying to put one's fist through a knight's armor. Ineffectual at best, and likely rather painful for the fist.

After several failed attempts, Sherla managed to open the case. Her shivering fingers simply lacked the dexterity to handle the straps efficiently, but finally she had it open. Quickly, she dug through the carefully packed case looking for her medical kit. *Got it,* she thought with something akin to triumph.

That it wasn't a triumph did not matter to Sherla anymore. All that mattered was that the contents of that case would make it all stop, would again allow her to regain control of her own body.

The small leather case was nearly out of the portmanteau when a horrific spasm gripped Sherla's entire body. Suddenly rigid fingers let the medical case drop back into the open portmanteau. Sherla's mouth opened to scream but nothing came out - her lungs seemed paralyzed along with the rest of her body. The fire changed and suddenly burned even hotter.

For just a half heartbeat, the spasm subsided and Sherla relaxed. With timing she would surely have attributed to maleficent Destiny, the carriage took advantage of her unbraced condition to throw her headfirst into the door. The crack of impact was lost among the clatter of the wheels, and, unnoticed by the drivers, she fell to the floor unconscious.
 
 
Chapter 2. Enter THE Woman
 
Irene Adler looked up from her two-day old London Times when her house-servant, Katrina, entered her sitting room. "Yes, Katrina?" she asked with a gentle smile. Her voice still retained the rich, full tones that had once made her a major operatic star throughout Europe.

At something over fifty years old, Irene Adler was nonetheless a spectacular woman. Her curvaceous yet slender figure induced men half her age to fawn over her whenever she deigned to attend some ball or soiree. A few silvery highlights now gleamed in hair that had once been purest auburn, but they made the total picture all the more elegant. Women twenty years her junior envied skin that was still smoothly supple. Her eyes were a challenge for they seemed to change color with her mood - green when excited, amber most often and utterly black when enraged. Katrina had only met the black-eyed mistress once and did not care to ever repeat that experience.

"A carriage has arrived, Madame. The driver says he has a lady who needs to see you, but that she is very ill. He seems to think that she needs your help. I told her you were not a physician, but he insisted his 'la petite' said you were the only person who could help her."

"How very remarkable. Let us see what we can see, shall we?"

Katrina looked very uncomfortable. "Madame? The Monsieur is away in America and we are alone. This driver, Madame, he is very large and. . "

Irene understood. "And you are worried that it might be a ruse?" The maid nodded. "Very well, then we shall go prepared." Irene walked to a desk and opening a drawer, withdrew a small revolver. She checked that the weapon was loaded, and then, to Katrina's amazement, the gun seemed to disappear into her hand. "Let us go see what this is all about."

The picture that greeted them was one of a very large man, just as the maid had described, but his hands were too full to present any danger to Irene and Katrina. In his arms was a well dressed, very slender and lovely young girl of perhaps no more than twenty years. *I can see why he called her 'petite',* Irene mused, *she can't be much more than five feet tall.* Her wet hair was dark, but would probably look black as midnight even when dry.

She was also clinging to the man as if her life depended on it and shuddering visibly. Her face was flushed and her breathing was obviously labored.

Irene had never seen the girl before in her life, but she was obviously in need of help. "Bring her inside and settle her near the fire for the moment," Irene ordered. "Katrina, prepare the guest room and lay a fire in there. Vite, vite! Call me when you are ready for her." She then turned back to the driver. "You will wait to help us get her into bed?" It was not really a question.

"Oui, Madame. Should I bring in her luggage while we wait?"

Irene almost said no, but then thought that there might be something to identify the girl in her things and nodded her head.

A short time later, the girl was bundled into bed and attired in one of Irene's rarely used flannel night gowns while Irene's guest's reticule, paper parcel and now-opened portmanteau rested on the floor in Irene's parlor. Katrina had been set to keeping a cool compress on the girl's forehead while Irene dealt the coachman.

"What are you owed?" she asked him after she'd returned from getting her new guest settled.

"Your pardon, Madame, but la petite. . I mean, the mademoiselle paid us in advance with a bonus for non-stop service from Calais to here. We would have been here yesterday if not for the terrible weather."

"I see, and you know nothing of her, then?"

"Only that her name is Mademoiselle Holmes," he began, not noticing how Irene's finely shaped brows rose at that name, "that she is from London and that she said it was vitally important that she see you. On the road, she said she was ill and that no docteur could help her, only you."

"I see," Irene said, not really seeing at all. "Very well, I will do what I can for her. You may leave for your own home, sir. You have my thanks."

"Merci, Madame. La petite was a very good customer and we hope she regains her health."

"What I can do, my friend, I will."
 

 
The coachman and his party departed, leaving Irene with the puzzle of a "Miss Holmes from London." *I KNOW the man never married. A love child? Not bloodly likely. A man needs to feel passion to father a child out of wedlock. Passion for something other than the more intellectual pursuits, in any case.*

No answers presented themselves so she went over to the small pile of personal items. The only thing of interest in the reticule was a passport in the name of "Miss Daphne Barnstable" and yet, the driver had said "Miss Holmes", had he not?

Irene's eyes started when she looked into the portmanteau and saw a medical case. She reached for it and was about to open it when her own name emblazoned on the paper parcel caught her eye.

"Madame?!" Katrina's worried voice called from the door. The little one is become delirious. She keeps calling for her drug. She says she must have it so she can talk to you. Over and over again."

"Drug?" Irene asked, and then opened the medical case. Inside was a hypodermic needle, a small bottle of alcohol, cotton swabs and a brown apothecary bottle. She took the apothecary bottle and read aloud. "S. Holmes. 2 cubic centimeters daily." She held the bottle up to the light. "Barely half that there, I would say. I wonder what this is?"

She opened the bottle and sniffed at it delicately, catching an almost flowery scent. "Some type of herbal preparation." Irene set everything down on the table and quickly searched the case for any other signs of medication. There was nothing else.

With a knowledgeable hand, Irene cleaned the needle and carefully drew the remaining liquid from the amber bottle into the needle.

"As I thought, barely half the prescribed dosage. Hope this works long enough for us to find an apothecary that can resupply this. It certainly makes my thought she might be his daughter seem laughable. He would never permit his daughter to go aboard so inadequately provided."

Irene strode into the bedroom. "Hold her right arm, Katrina," she ordered, and then injected the drug.

As close to instantaneously as made no real difference, the girl seemed to collapse. Her delirium, shivering and panting stopped, and her body went limp. Irene snatched up a wrist, fearing that the girl had expired only to heave a sigh of relief as a slow, but strong pulse was clearly evident. "Amazing," she breathed softly. "Katrina, sit with her and call me immediately if she awakens. I must see what I can learn of her."

In short order, Irene had unpacked the girl's things and laid them on the large dining room table. Her clothes were of good quality and quite fashionable. . . .considering she had just come from England. She evidently kept a journal using a very expensive pen. And Irene's initial assessment of how well she was provided for had to be revised when she'd found the case's hidden bottom filled with almost one thousand pounds-sterling in gold coins. There was also that very fascinating parcel with her name on it and two passports. The one she'd found earlier in the reticule, and one that had also been in the portmanteau's false bottom.

Made out in the name "Sherla Joan Holmes." *Twenty one years old?* Irene mused. *Looks younger than that - barely out of the schoolroom. Not that it matters all that much until I know more about her. Might as well start with the package that appears to be intended for you, Irene,* she thought, and then went off to find her scissors and letter opener.
 

 
The girl really WAS the daughter of Mr. Sherlock Holmes. At least, if Irene was to believe the letter of introduction, and she had no reason not to believe it.

No reason, that is, other than the fact that Irene Adler prided herself in knowing whatever it was she wanted to know, and she had always wanted to know EVERYTHING about Mr. Sherlock Holmes. It was inconceivable to her that Holmes could have fathered a daughter and Irene not have known of the birth. And yet, when she had gathered up every sample of Mr. Holmes' handwriting she possessed, she had been forced to conclude that this letter of introduction had been written by Holmes. It was so imperfect it had to be perfect. There was sufficient variation among all the samples for Irene to conclude that the latest sample had not been the product of a forger trying to match Holmes' handwriting perfectly.

Still amazed, she reread the letter again.
 
 

221B Baker Street London I do not know when you shall read this missive, but permit me to assume the most opportune of times and greet you as you once greeted me: "Good Evening, Miss Irene Adler:" I have sent my daughter, Miss Sherla Joan Holmes, to you. You may have already read of a successful attempt on my life. If so, my need for your assistance on my daughter's behalf is all the greater. I will not lie to you and tell you that there is no risk involved in granting this boon. As noted above, there is a violent game afoot, but I hope, I pray that you will see fit to give her what assistance you are able. I have included with this letter several mementos from our earlier associations in the hopes that they will convince you that this letter originates from me, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective, and more importantly, that what Sherla tells you is true and genuine. She will tell you what she needs. I have thought long and hard on this subject and have concluded that you are the only woman, no, the only PERSON in the world who can help her at this point in her life. I can only trust in your fond memory that you will find it within you to make the attempt. Thank you. I am, Most Sincerely Yours, Sherlock Holmes

 
 
*What a remarkable document,* Irene thought for what must have been the tenth time. *Unfortunately, it does not tell me what I need to know, and with the girl unconscious, she is unable to tell me what I need to know , either. She is going to need more of that herbal preparation if I am any judge of things and she will need it quickly. Unfortunately, there simply are not that many English apothecaries in Paris and even fewer that carry true English pharmacopoeia and herbal remedies. The sooner I know what is required the sooner I can find a chemist who can provide it for me.*

With a shake of her head, Irene reached for the locked journal. *I have no choice but to look inside. Hopefully there will be some mention of this preparation,* then Irene chuckled ruefully. *As if you wouldn't find some other apparently plausible excuse to peek in this book if the prescription one wasn't so handy,* she chided herself before heading back to her sitting room in search of her lock picks.
 

 
Three hours later, Irene set the journal aside. She'd read it through three times, and had read the final entry several times more than that. It was, as one of the entries had admitted, cursed preposterous. Irene was a woman who had done and seen many strange and inexplicable things, but this?

*And yet, there is something odd about the entries. Something I cannot quite put my finger on. Not what he or she says, but more about . . *

Irene was reaching for the journal yet again when Katrina found her. "Madame? The little one is awake. She had an urgent need to relieve herself, but she said she desperately needed to speak with you when she'd finished."

"Not as desperately as I wish speech with her, dear. Go and prepare a light breakfast for us, please? Coffee for me and I suspect tea for her, and some fresh bread and butter. Oh yes, and whatever fresh fruit we have on hand. We will take the tray in the guest room, I think."

"Oui, madame," Katrina answered with a quick curtsy.

Sherla stepped from the facility to find Irene Alder seated on the bed Sherla had been sleeping in. Beside Irene was the journal, a package Sherla recognized as coming from the parcel and an opened envelope, also she concluded, from the parcel. The maid entered with a tea tray that she settled in front of Irene.

"Come, sit down and have some breakfast while we talk," Irene ordered, "I am sure you must be famished."

"Thank you, Madame Adler. It is very important that I talk with you."

"So I gathered from your final entry in this," Irene replied holding up the journal. "I am sad to say that you proved accurate in your assessment of my lamentable curiosity. I would apologize, but I was trying to find some reference to that potion you had in your portmanteau."

"If you've read the journal, then you know that there is no way to replenish my supply of that drug, Madame."

"Oh, I have read it, Miss Holmes, rather avidly and several times, I assure you. A most remarkable document, Miss Holmes, if that is who you really are," Irene said as she tossed the journal to Sherla.

"But I must admit that I find this," she continued as she held up a yellowed document, "equally remarkable.". It was a photograph of a woman dressed in an operatic costume. A glittering cascade of diamond-like jewels graced her throat and bosom. The picture had been taken after a particularly successful performance at one of the great opera halls of Europe, and the woman in the picture was a much younger Irene Adler. "I left this picture for the king as a replacement for the one he truly wanted when Mr. Sherlock Holmes nearly ran me to ground. Nearly twenty years ago."

"Dr. Watson kept it in his little museum of souvenirs from many of my cases. Not that I should ever have willingly parted with it in any case."

"To accept that explanation, young woman, I would have to accept that you are somehow Mr. Sherlock Holmes changed into a female. I assure you that it I find it far easier to accept that you are some type of adventuress playing out some strange game that I do not yet understand," Irene retorted. "The Times reported Mr. Holmes' death two days ago. You might have been responsible for his murder or know who is responsible. You might have broken into his home and stolen what you have brought here to me to prove you are who you say you are. You might have labored hard and long to make that journal. If so, you or one of your compatriots is an excellent forger for I have checked my own samples of Mr. Holmes handwriting and you are "i" and "t" perfect in your rendition of his rather unique hand."

Sherla started to respond, but some instinct stayed her. Irene was presenting her case, building up the suspense while laying out the evidence. As Sherlock, Sherla had often used just such a strategy to tease the truth out of a villain. She decided to see where Irene's arguments led her.

"So who are you?" Irene continued. "I could almost believe that you are his daughter. There is something about the eyes and ears that remind me of him, although your nose is far more attractively sized and shaped." Sherla instinctively wrinkled that appendage, causing Irene to momentarily smile. "You'd be what? Twenty? Twenty-one years old by the look of you? That would mean your mother is that modiste - the one who was once a member of the demimonde."

"HOW DID YOU KNOW THAT?!?" Sherla blurted out, too surprised by the woman's conclusion to keep to her decision to say nothing.

Irene merely shrugged. "I made it a point to keep track of Holmes. I knew of that case and knew that he'd spent a great deal of time with the woman. . .what was her name? She used a French identity. . .Marie Jeanne?" Then a light went on. "And that is the woman your journal told me to seek out if I take up this harebrained quest of yours."

"Madame Jeanne Marie," Sherla corrected quietly, "but her name is Jennifer, or Jenny Deavers.

"It all fits. So, why are you here trying to convince me that you are your father, girl?"

"Because I am. . .or rather was, Mr. Sherlock Holmes and for all the reasons I mentioned in that journal, I need you to carry on this fight."

"I am still unconvinced that you are Mr. Sherlock Holmes, girl," Irene said quietly.

Sherla sighed. *I will have to try. This worked with Jenny - eventually. Unfortunately, I may not have the time to finish with that partial dose I got.* "Very well, this will take some time, and I had rather hoped not to expend in this fashion, but until you are convinced, we can go no further."

"All right. Convince me."

"You and Mr. Holmes, or rather, you and I came in contact in several cases. Two of them were never published by my friend, Dr. John Watson as I wished to protect your anonymity and thus not call the attention of the Bohemian King down upon you. I will now relate the particulars of those two cases. If I am an imposter, how would I know the details I am about to relate? And if I am only Holmes' daughter, why would I try to convince you otherwise? You would help me in any case."

"You are very certain of that," Irene murmured.

"You are Irene Adler, and you were and are the only person, man or woman, to best me twice, but you always did so fairly and honestly."

Irene suddenly grinned. "It was more than twice, but pray continue. I find I am almost willing to be convinced. It should be vastly entertaining in any case."
 
 
Chapter 3. Withdrawal Without End
 
"And then, after our little confrontation over tea, I left you and your companion and returned to England." Sherla concluded her recitation of two of the cases in which Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Miss Irene Adler had crossed paths.

Irene took a sip of her now-cold coffee. They'd sat here in the bedroom talking non-stop for almost six hours and the once hot beverages and bread had long since cooled to room temperature.

Keeping her face expressionless, Irene regarded the lovely young woman seated opposite her. The flannel nightgown draped too long on her petite frame, but still enough was revealed to make any claim of erstwhile masculinity seem absurd. Nonetheless, Irene was surprised to find herself beginning to believe at least part of the girl's story. The Bohemian affair was one thing. That damned weak-spined monarch had been involved in much of the affair, including the finale outside Mr. Holmes' Baker Street rooms. But the second affair had taken place after Irene's supposed death on a train in the Alps. To the best of her knowledge, only a very few people knew more than a few bits and pieces of that case; her husband, her companion and best friend, two young people who had been living in America for the past two decades and Holmes.

*Of course, the answer that she is his daughter might still apply. He could have told her all about that case, and she obviously takes after him in intellect if not looks - lucky girl - but that still begs the greater question. Why try to convince me she's Holmes? Holmes' letter was correct, as was her journal entry - I would have taken the girl in if only to solve the puzzle she poses for me.*

Then, another thought came to Irene. *Is this one of Holmes' famous stratagems? One designed to ensure my curiosity is well and truly piqued so that I will aid her? If so, it fails the simplicity test rather badly. And it is all predicated on me believing that she is at least Holmes' daughter. Surely, he could have designed a far simpler means of engaging my interest.*

Irene considered that again, and then said as much to Sherla who shrugged. "I am afraid, Miss Adler, that I have been dealing with such a great deal of new and difficult things over the past fortnight, that I was forced to go with the very simplest of stratagems."

"Simplest? How in heaven's name could this," and her extravagant gesture took in the entire room, but began and ended on Sherla herself, "EVER be considered simple?"

"When it is the solemn, God's own truth, ma'am," Sherla said softly yet firmly.

*Well, she doesn't blink at that statement,* Irene thought. *Heaven only knows how anyone could make such an impossible story sound feasible, but she has. Girl ought to be out trodding the boards as an actress.* "I see," said Irene. "So, if I am to understand what comes next, you will suffer another relapse of those appalling shakes and fever you had last night, but without the drug that relieves your distress?"

"While at the same time taking nearly a chronological year from my age each time. Yes, that is true."

"I see. So this Moriarty fellow said that this time the final, unrelieved effects will be fatal?"

Sherla began to answer the question automatically, but then stopped herself. Irene watched with quiet fascination as the girl's face became serenely blank as something triggered deep in her mind. *Now *THAT* is a look I have seen before,* Irene told herself. *Once on Holmes but most often in my own mirror when some little fact or idea connects to some other, seemingly incompatible one. I wonder what she will say next?*

"Actually," Sherla finally said, her voice very thoughtful, "What he said was that his lab animals went quite mad and that only of few of them had the good fortune to die quickly."

"Now that is a very interesting statement," Irene said. "The obvious interpretation is one thing, but a careful analysis of the words might lead to another interpretation. That might be an accident or it might be very clever wording."

Sherla only nodded before continuing. "In a letter he left for me at one of his old hiding places, he told me that he had no need to kill me twice, that I was already a dead man."

"Well, you certainly are not a man, if you ever truly were, young lady. Still, another fascinating bit of wordplay that could mean many things. All we really know is that his lab animals went insane and that an unknown percentage of them died early in the process. I would say, Miss . . . oh bother, I am going to call you Miss Holmes just to have something to call you by - I would say that you are not a lower animal. You are obviously intelligent and determined. I would think that you could survive this withdrawal given sufficient purpose. Is another chance at your Professor Moriarty sufficient purpose for you?"

"Please, Ma'am, call me Sherla."

"Then you may, for the time being, call me Irene. Now, answer my question."

"It wasn't enough before, Miss. . I mean, Irene. I always broke down and used the drug."

"But you do not have the drug anymore, so you need something else. Is your hatred for this man you call 'evil incarnate' sufficient? To at least try? I would prefer not to be told to shoot you in the head like a horse with a broken leg."

That brought forth a soft chuckle from Sherla. *At least she doesn't giggle,* Irene thought with some satisfaction. "I would prefer you not to do that as well. Actually, I don't know that I hate him, Irene. Hatred is an emotion, and I have always distrusted and attempted to control my emotions. I feel duty bound to stop him before he has the opportunity to cause great harm and destruction to civilization."

"Are you willing to try, Sherla?" Irene asked. "If you are concerned, we can restrain you to the bed so that you cannot harm us or yourself in your madness. Perhaps you will burn it out of your system."

"For an opportunity to deal with Moriarty once and for all? I'd give myself over to Torquemada himself, Irene. But I do have one stipulation."

"What is it?" Irene asked softly.

"I want you armed. I know. . . or rather, I used to know a number of ways to escape bindings. If I am mad and I do escape, I want you to be able to defend yourself."

Irene thought about that and nodded. Smiling, she lifted her right hand, palm inward and pointing towards Sherla. Irene snapped her fingers, jerking the hand downward. When she brought it back up, the tiny .25 caliber revolver was in her hand. Sherla smiled at the older woman. "So that is why you wear such unfashionably loose sleeves. A wrist holster, perhaps?"

"Very good!" Irene congratulated. I used to keep a derringer in a hidden pocket of my muff, but this little beauty is just as deadly and has five shots to my derringer's two. If it will make you feel better, Sherla, I will have this will me when we work to see you through your ordeal."

"It would, thank you," Sherla said fervently.

"Very well, then. Shall we see about something more substantial? I am fair starved. KATRINA?" Irene suddenly called.

"Oui, Madame?" the little maid's response was so fast that there was little doubt where she'd been.

Irene winked at Sherla. "We need a nice hot luncheon, please. Some broiled fish, perhaps, with steamed vegetables." Katrina made a quick curtsy and then hurried off to the kitchen. "Don't worry about Katrina, my dear. She is nosy, but she keeps my secrets. I have found her most useful in some of my more. . .sensitive domestic inquiries."

"She is very pretty," Sherla ventured.

"And she knows it, too, the saucy little minx, but very intelligent, also. A beautiful, confident and intelligent woman is a very dangerous creature, Miss Holmes. You might do well to remember that should you have occasion to face down your "father's" archenemy again. Now, come, let's get you cleaned up for lunch. I've let you lay-a-bed quite long enough!"
 

 
Sherla wanted to groan with frustration. The lightly broiled fish and colorful medley of steamed vegetables had tasted wonderful - from what little she'd been able to eat. Irene had laced her back into the corset while helping her dress, and she seemed to of the same mind on the art of corsetry as Jenny - the tighter the better.

Except on her own person, Sherla had noticed and had been quick to mention. "Ordinarily, I wear my corset when in public. I was planning a day at home and saw no need to wear one. However, when I *do* wear one, I wear it far tighter than you can wear that thing," she had said with disdain. "Damned English insist on torturing their women and calling it fashion. If you are to be here any length of time, Sherla, we will must needs have you fitted for proper foundation garments. You will be amazed at how much more slender, yet comfortable a properly fitted corset can be."

"COMFORTABLE?!?" Sherla had squeaked.

"By comparison in any case," Irene had conceded. "A well-sized corset could lace you down to the same waist measurement as the one you are currently wearing, and cause you less discomfort than if we loosened this devil's garment by two inches or more."

"In that case, why not wait until I can be properly fitted? Why can I not dress as you are doing the meantime?"

*I*," Irene had answered with a haughty aristocratic air that would have suited a grand duchess, "am no longer a debutante and ingenue who must fit into the current fashion of the day that seems designed in the belief that a woman should be cut in the middle to make two parts. You, young miss, if we continue this adventure, will be placed in such a role."

"ME?!?!" Sherla squeaked, barely able to get in enough air to support that much sound.

"You," Irene had replied with a wicked grin. "You will need to be able to move freely. . . or at least, as freely as women can in this society. That corset will do to keep your waist in training until such time as we have procured better for you."

Sherla had eyed Irene's figure and found it not at all full, and sniffed. "Then perhaps one of the disguises I must perfect first is my elderly woman guise," she said with careful emphasis. "If it works so well for you, that is."

"Oh, that was well done, Sherla!" Irene had enthused, "Just the perfect touch of cattiness to make it sting. Which makes me think that you have always been a woman, . . " and her words drifted off.

"Or what, Irene," Sherla asked cautiously.

"Or that you should have been one," Irene had said with a chuckle. "Now, come and eat."

Despite the banter between the two, the specter of Sherla's coming ordeal was never far from either woman's thoughts. Several times Irene found herself censoring some comment about the future or revising a thought that might indicate Sherla would not be with her after the coming night. Sherla, with the perception that had seen her through many a difficult investigation, caught each hesitancy, each break in the conversation.

"You don't have to cosset me, Irene," she finally said. "I have accepted my fate. I had accepted it when I made the decision to come to you instead of trying to find Moriarty."

Irene searched the lovely young face, looking for some sign of doubt or fear, but found only serenity and a calm determination. *How can one so young speak of her own death with such equanimity?* she asked herself, not for the first time. *The only answers that present themselves are that she is insane, that she is acting and knows she won't die, or that she is exactly who and what she says she is. I don't think she is insane, and for the life of me, I cannot imagine a reason for this charade if that is truly what this is. That leaves the third possibility. My word, but, I think I almost believe her, and that means she is going to die in my house tonight after going mad first. If that does happen - if this young woman IS Holmes and she dies such a horrid death tonight, then no power on earth will protect this Moriarty fiend from me.*

"That must have been a difficult decision for you, Sherla," Irene said softly.

Sherla shrugged. "You've seen the beginnings of the madness. I would be less than useless against him in that condition even if I do survive with my intellect destroyed. He has beaten me," the words were so simply said that Irene had to resist going over to comfort the girl, "But as long as I can turn the case over to someone like you or the Belgian, he has not yet won the war."

"So like the runner at Marathon, you come to me?" Irene asked.

"As I said earlier, you are the best choice. You've bested me so you are capable of besting him."

Silence ensued after that and the two women sat sipping their wine. Finally, Irene had to ask. "Do you know when to expect the withdrawal to begin."

"Soon, I think. A full dose was good for about a day, and reducing the volume administered seemed to reduce the time between attacks proportionately. Ten to fourteen hours from the time you injected me, I should think."

"That is very soon," Irene said."Sherla, my statement earlier about restraining you to the bed?" Sherla nodded her recollection. "I think we should consider that option carefully. If you were bound to the bed so that you could do no harm to yourself, you might be better able to withstand the symptoms until they burn themselves out. It may well be that the madness actually induces the subject to suicide. Who knows, perhaps the madness, in and of itself, is only temporary, but no one knows that one way or the other because the suicide is permanent."

"I had not considered that possibility," Sherla said softly. "I had only thought of the restraints as a means to protect you while I fought against the madness. You would still be armed, so that if I broke free, I would do you no injury?" Irene nodded solemnly. "It is worth a try, I suppose. I truly despise simply surrendering this way. Very well, let us see to the necessary preparations, for I think the need for them will be soon.
 
 
Chapter 4. The Feminine Crucible
 
Surprisingly, Sherla was not all that uncomfortable - with the exception of not being able to bring her hand down below her waist to scratch that infernal itch that always foreshadowed the onset of withdrawal. She was lying on her back in the center of the large four-poster canopy bed in Irene Adler's guest room. The unrelenting pull of the bonds at her wrists and ankles formed Sherla's body into a perfect "X", each limb reaching out to the corners of the head and foot boards.

Actually, she wasn't truly "bound"; it would be more accurate to say that she was "restrained." Sherla had expected to be bound with stout ropes - something that had worried her since Sherlock Holmes had learned a good deal about escaping rope bondage in his days. Instead, Irene, assisted by a smirking Katrina, had affixed heavy-link chains to each of the bedposts. Each chain had a thick, wide leather strap locked to it which was then buckled tightly to one of Sherla's ankles or wrists. Oddly, the straps were lined with something velvety that cushioned their grip and prevented chafing, while not sacrificing security. She would not escape these restraints, a fact for which she was very grateful. Still, Sherla thought, their ready availability in this house was rather peculiar. She could not imagine why a gentlewoman would have such things and said as much to Irene.

"Come now, girl," she'd chided sardonically, "if you are truly Sherlock Holmes, an *English*man* no less, you have heard of love games that use such implements. Why, many call such games, when combined with a birch, whip or cane, 'English Style.'"

For an instant, Sherla wondered at what the woman was talking about and then her eyes went wide! "You mean. . YOU? And you let someone do this to YOU??!?"

Irene laughed - a naughty little laugh that did strange things to Sherla's insides - before answering. "Who says I let anyone do this to me, little girl? Those chains and straps would hold my darling husband quite adequately, and so they have, I assure you," then she laughed again. "But to answer your question more honestly, yes, I do enjoy - every once in a great while - lying as you are now and letting my darling have his wicked way with me. The release after a long period of teasing and denial is too incredible to be described."

A pink blush ran from Sherla's bared bosom to her hairline, the sudden heat reminding her that Irene had insisted that she removed everything except her pantaloons before laying down upon the bed. "Irene? It is certainly warm enough in here since you had Katrina lay the fire and set it to blazing, but why must I lie here like some perversion of a Botticelli nude?"

"So that when your attack comes, there will be nothing about you that you could use to foul or restrict your breathing. We want you to survive this night, and I am trying to anticipate means by which, during your madness, you might attempt to kill yourself. That is why I am going to spend the night with you, and if necessary, Katrina will relieve me in the morning - so that we might stop you from doing something I have not anticipated."

"I see," Sherla murmured, and then settled herself as comfortably as she could to wait.
 

 
The waiting soon came to an end as Sherla became aware of a sudden buildup of heat in the pit of her stomach, brought on by the gentle whisper of air across her painfully-swollen nipples. A shudder snaked through her. Instantly, Irene was at her side. "It grows stronger, then?" she asked softly. You do look rather more flushed and I can see you are perspiring rather heavily."

"Beginning? Ha! And how very unladylike of you to notice," Sherla snapped as another wave of heat pulsed through her body.

"My. Dear. Child. You are not merely perspiring, you are sweating. And what ever gave you the idea that I am a Lady, especially in the bedroom?"

"I had. . .noticed," Sherla managed to get out before one of the muscle spasms in her lower abdomen caught her by surprise. "Irene? You do have you gun ready, do you not?"

"Yes, but I do not intend to use it on you," Irene told her in a now quietly determined tone. "When you think to give in to the madness, think on that first, little girl. I will NOT put you out of your misery. Now that I have you here like this, the easy way out will be denied you. You have no choice but to fight your way through this. I will do all that I can to help, but I will not kill you."

Anger flared inside Sherla who realized for the very first time that she had actually been counting on Irene to destroy her life before Moriarty's foul potion destroyed her mind — by far the more important issue. "DAMN you, Irene! I trusted you! You have no idea what this is like!"

The symptoms were suddenly back in full force. Evidently the smaller dose of the drug had not banked the awful fires as much as the regular dose had in the past. Irene saw the fear in the girl's eyes and nodded. "No, I don't know what it is like. Why don't you tell me?"

"You've read my journal," Sherla gasped, her breathing ragged as she strained against the chain and strap restraints.

"So I have, but telling me about it now may help now. Think, Sherla. Use your mind or lose your mind - that is your choice."

Eyes round at that thought, Sherla nodded and then began to speak. "It's bloody awful," she said, fighting to keep a quaver from her voice. "I feel like I am running a horrible fever - as if my internal organs were roasting in their own juices. I can't seem to take in a full breath as I pant it out the last before the next one is taken. My skin. . OH GOD . .my skin - it itches and burns and crawls all at once. Just the air on it makes it feel . . strange. .. like a shock. And my muscles feel like a cramp just before it cramps."

Irene looked at Sherla. "Well, you are perspiring very hard so it seems hard to believe you have a fever." A warm hand came down on Sherla's forehead. "You're actually quite cool if more than just a bit moist."

"I do not FEEL cool!" Sherla rasped, struggling ever harder against her bonds.

"And your skin is sensitive, you say?" Irene asked, noting the turgid heat of two particularly-sensitive bits of Sherla's skin.. Before Sherla could formulate a suitably damning replay, Irene ran one finely manicured nail gently down the length of Sherla's right arm - just barely grazing the goose-pimpled flesh.

Sherla's body went rigidly taut, her mouth was open for a scream she couldn't quite manage before finally relaxing.

"What. . .. did . . you. . . do?" Sherla finally managed to pant out.

A hint of a smile curled to one side of Irene's mouth as she detected a fragrance that revealed the true nature of Sherla's distress. "Oh, not much. . . not as much as *this*!" She said as she took Sherla's nipple between her thumb and forefinger and pinched gently with her nails.

A shocked squeal issued from Sherla as her body went rigid for at most a heartbeat and then began to spasmodically arch and fall against the chains. This continued for several seconds before she finally fell to bed, her body limp. "I thought so," Irene said with smug satisfaction.

There was a pause of more than a minute before Sherla could muster the breath to speak. "You. . . thought. . .WHAT?" she demanded.

"You aren't going mad, girl. You are just very, very aroused."

"Aroused?"

"Sexually aroused," Irene finished. "You looked much like my husband looks when I have been teasing him by denying him his manly release, and your descriptions just now reminded me of how I felt when I permitted him to have his way with me in this same manner." Irene paused and saw the utter disbelief in her guest's eyes. "Don't believe me? All right, tell me what it felt like when I tweaked your nipple."

The question brought Sherla up short, but something had definitely changed. She wasn't nearly as . . . uncontrolled as she had been moments ago. "It felt like. . like something shot from your fingers into me that made every muscle in my body spasm. It was as if my mind short circuited and the world went bright white. I don't remember much after that until I fell back to the bed."

"And how do you feel now?"

Sherla considered that for a long moment. "More relaxed, I think."

"An apt enough description of a feminine climax, albeit a fairly intense one. Welcome to the world of passionate womanhood, girl."

A frown crossed Sherla's sweat-beaded forehead. "But no one reacts like that to passion," she asserted. "Certainly not women."

Irene laughed. "Sherlock, and that is who I am addressing at this moment, you must not have been a very good lover in your trousered days. Let me assure you that women who have the good fortune to meet a man who knows how to love a woman properly react very much like that to passion."

"Now what?" Sherla asked, not certain she wanted to accept that explanation.

"I think we will wait a while to see if that is all it takes to throw off this madness of yours, Sherla."

A sudden twinge in her lower abdomen alerted Sherla. "I. . I think that is a sound stratagem, Irene, because I think it is coming back on me, even as we speak."

Irene nodded and watched as Sherla's nipples began to pucker and elongate, and her skin began to dimple with the return of the goose pimples. Soon, the fiery flush was back in evidence and Sherla was panting heavily as she tried to breathe. "Same as before?" Irene asked gently.

"Yes. . . if . . . not . . .worse!" Sherla managed.

Nodding, Irene unlaced the front of Sherla's pantaloons, and then, grabbing the two sides of the garment, tore then down the center seam leaving Sherla nude from her knees to her head. "Well, if you think that *I* am going to deal with this all night, you are terribly mistaken." she said with a laugh. "You are left handed, are you not?"

Sherla nodded and then was stunned when Irene reached up and unfastened the cuff on her left wrist. With a firm yet gentle grip, she pulled the freed hand down towards Sherla's loins. "Now, as gently as you can, stroke yourself. . . just one finger as a starter."

Sherla tried to jerk her hand away, but Irene's grip was firm and she couldn't move her hand away. "Try it, just once, all right?" Irene asked in a very soft voice.

Nodding, Sherla carefully extended her index finger until she felt her nail touch the skin. Closing her eyes, she tightened her finger muscles to stroke.

"OH MY GOOOOOOOOOoooooooooooD!" she screamed as the spasms returned, only far stronger.
 

 
After two hours, Irene felt safe in leaving the girl to get something to amuse herself with. Watching Sherla, while initially entertaining, soon became rather exhausting. *Girl certainly has stamina.* She returned moments later with the journal in her hands. Something about the book was bothering Irene, and it appeared she would have several hours to ponder that puzzle. Sherla had only shown limited signs of slowing down.
 

 
After another two hours, the storm finally passed and Sherla fell deeply asleep, her arousal apparently satisfied for the nonce at least . *I really am getting too old for keeping such late hours,* Irene thought as she settled herself onto the small cot she'd helped Katrina set up earlier and tried to go to sleep. She was tired, but worse than that, now that Sherla had calmed down, Irene found her own body growing needy. *Damn you, Godfrey, why can't you be here when I NEED you!* she thought, even though she knew it was patently unfair on her part. Still, she wanted her husband and she wanted him NOW! The fact that he was on the other side of the ocean and she was here did little to relieve her annoyance at that particular moment.

*If you want to get any rest at all tonight,* she thought resigned, *and by all accounts, you are going to need it tomorrow, then you must needs practice what you have so blithely preached.* Sighing, Irene twisted herself into a suitable position and set about taking her own feminine arousal in hand.
 

 
Several things conspired to rouse Sherla from her heavy slumber. The first was a lock of hair that repeatedly found its way to her nose. The second was a mischievous lance of sunlight that unerringly focused on Sherla's long-lashed eyes. The third was nature's call. However, the final straw was a return of the burning sexual need of the night before.

Sherla woke fully as her first orgasm took her, and she screamed her surprise. A muffled groan from somewhere near the foot of her bed came in counterpoint.

A disgruntled looking Irene rose from her small cot to stare down at the still restrained Sherla. "Again?" she complained. "Lord girl, take care you don't grow calluses on your womanhood."

Sherla started to apologize but stopped. Now that her most pressing need had been satisfied, other needs became preeminent and she was still restrained to the bed by one hand and her feet. "Help me, Irene, I need to use the facilities," she said in a tight voice as she struggled with the strap on her right hand."

Understanding, Irene made quick work of the ankle bindings and then watched amused as a nearly-nude Sherla hurried stiff-legged to the water closet. "Good thing I managed to convince my darling husband to invest in indoor plumbing," she said to an empty room.

In short order, a sheepish looking Sherla came back into the room. "Your maid saw me and was rather shocked at my dishabille," Sherla managed.

"Shocked? HAH. Not likely," Irene snorted, "But we will discuss my maid more fully later. How do you feel?"

Sherla considered that for a moment and was about to speak when her stomach rendered a most unladylike growl. "Ummm, I believe that about says it all."

"Very well, let us get you dressed and we will see what Katrina has contrived for us to break our fast."
 

---

 
To Be Continued...