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 III: Dum Vivimus Vivamus
 
 
Chapter 1. Travel to Tomorrow Through Yesterday
 
Irene's clear blue eyes wandered yet again from the spectacularly beautiful scenery back to the equally-beautiful young woman seated opposite her in the private first class compartment. Sherla Holmes deep blue traveling gown contrasted richly with the worn upholstery of her seat, a contrast brought into even sharper focus by the glossy black of her hair. Katrina had earlier braided that hair into a simply maintained silken coronet about her head.

Her attention was raptly fixed upon the old leather book she had removed from her travel bag shortly after their train had departed the previous station. Irene realized that she had seen that book before - it was one of the meticulously kept, handwritten journals that had been in the box of "bone fides" Sherla had carried with her to prove to Irene that she was, at the very least, related to the famous Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

Sherla shifted the book into one hand and held it at arm's length, her head cocked. She squirmed and began to bring her right ankle up to cross over her left thigh.

Irene coughed sharply, managing to break through Sherla's focus. A quizzical look crossed the lovely face as she brought her eyes up to meet Irene's. "Ladies do not cross their legs, dear, nor do they hold books in that manner." She mimed bringing the book to her lap and holding it sedately in both hands.

"Thank you," Sherla sighed. "Just when I permit myself to believe that I am beginning to manage adequately I unthinkingly regress back to some male behavior."

"No so very much of one, dear, *this* time. What are you reading with such single minded concentration?" she inquired, "If you do not mind my asking, that is."

Sherla handed the brown-papered book to her guardian. "It is the volume of John Watson's memoirs that deals with the first time I made this trip. Oddly enough, thanks to the damage done to the main tracks from Paris to Zurich, we are currently following much the same route as Watson and I had done during what he later titled, quite inaccurately I am pleased to say, 'The Final Adventure'."

"Deja vu?" Irene asked gently.

Considering that thought for several long moments, Sherla shook her head. "No, I don't think so. You see, I never took any notice of these incredible vistas and lovely landscapes the first time. In fact, I have gone back and read Sherlock's monograph on this "Final Problem" last night, and my writings address none of the details that add such richness to John's journal. The snow capped mountain-tops that seem to throw off rainbows in the weak spring sunlight, the majestic evergreens, the ice-decorated lakes and rivers - none of those wonders figure anywhere in Sherlock's writings - nor do they appear in my memories."

"And now?" Irene prompted.

"I am seeing things much as John described them in his diary. It is so. . . so very beautiful here."

"You were not taking very much of it in just now," the third person in the compartment interjected. The very slender young man next to Irene was trying to keep from squirming on the seat. "Curse these woolen trousers, Tante Irene, they *itch* abominably!"

A sparkling laugh lightened the room. "Wool does irritate, does it not, my sweet?" Sherla facetiously asked her companion. "Silk and satin are much nicer."

"So NOW you reveal your TRUE reason for your refusal to play the boy in this little drama," the mannishly dressed Katrina complained.

"As you will," Sherla smirked. "In answer to your first comment, however, I *have* been noticing the beauty up here, *Karl*. It is just that I have also noticed how much I missed of it the first time. What I have truly been reflecting upon is why my reactions this time should be so very different. The purpose of this trip is not much different than the last. Both involved life or death situations, and yet, this time, I am reacting much as my friend Watson did."

"So?" Katrina/Karl challenged.

Sherla hesitated before replying. When she finally did, her voice was barely audible above the rhythmic rumble of the train's wheels upon the track. "So, that leads to the inescapable conclusion that I have changed," Sherla swallowed, and tried again. "It means that I have changed drastically, in very fundamental ways."

"Oh, and you have just noticed this, ma jolie, petite mademoiselle?" Karl/Katrina rejoined pertly.

"Katrina!" Irene said sharply. "Mind yourself and stay in your role!" Turning to Sherla, Irene held out a hand for Sherla's. Taking the girl's hand in hers, she smiled. "I think, my dear, that no change could be more fundamental than the one you have undergone in becoming female."

"But these changes are NOT merely physical - they are to my perceptions, my reactions and feelings. .. . my. . my. . "

"Thinking?" Irene completed. When Sherla nodded, her breathing ragged, Irene shifted to sit beside the younger woman so she could hug her. "Being a woman, my dear is NOT merely physical - it is everything that we are. All of those things you just mentioned are as much part of being a woman as the more obvious, but perhaps less important physical changes, dear. As Sherlock - more basically, as a MALE Sherlock - you had a lifetime in which you were forced, by many unfortunate circumstances, to learn to isolate yourself from feelings, from sensing things, from anything that distracted your full concentration. Your feelings, your senses - all those changed when you became a woman - the tricks you learned as a maturing young man are no longer quite sufficient. And I think that is just as well, for those issues you are so worried about are among the very things that make being a woman so wonderful. Are you not happier now that you are Sherla than you were when you were Sherlock?"

Sherla was momentarily struck speechless by the very simple question, but then her eyes flew to Karl/Katrina and saw love warming those playful, dark eyes. And then she saw her lover surreptitiously try to scratch her thigh. "There are certainly. . .unanticipated advantages," she replied carefully.

Irene's merry laugh filled the compartment and she hugged Sherla tightly. "No more than I should have expected from you, darling- Sherla. Not that I believe for one instant that IS not a great deal more than that in your discoveries, but I suspect there is still enough of Sherlock about you to resist such an overarching admission." Irene returned to her own seat and handed back Watson's diary. "Perhaps you should write in your own journal, Sherla - if not about your deeper feelings, then about your reactions to this gorgeous scenery. Fill in the holes of that sadly one-sided monograph. Make it whole, and perhaps in so doing, you will find another piece of the puzzle that will help you become whole."
 

 
 
Entry in the Journal of Miss Sherla Joan Holmes

Date: March 9, 1911

Location: Train from Strassburg, Germany to Basel, Switzerland.

Time: 9:24 A.M.

My Dear Doctor Watson: Well, old friend, how strange a thing is chance. Professor Moriarty employed the destruction of the railroad tracks between Paris and Zurich to disguise his kidnapping of Professor Buchner. However, that single action has expanded outward, causing secondary effects due to the accommodations the train companies have been forced to undertake in response. First, although the now-necessary redirection of our passage through Germany adds less than one hundred kilometers to our trip, it adds at least one additional day to our travel time. We were required to change to a southbound train in Strassburg and as one could anticipate, our train from Paris was late while the Basel train from Strassburg left on time. Naturally, it left without us. We were then forced to wait until this morning to continue our expedition. Odd about Strassburg, John. Remember that public house at which we spent so many convivial hours on our fateful trip that ended at the Reichenbach Falls? I could see it from our rooms and yet, as Sherla, I am not permitted to so much as walk through its doors. It is now, as it was then, a males-only establishment. Ah, I suppose I should count that a blessing given my current inability to deal with alcohol. Remarkably, I find myself following the exact same route that you and I took twenty years ago. A great sense of deja vu all but overwhelms me at times, John. So much so, in fact, that today, I nearly called to you in our compartment. Were I not a woman of science and method, I would begin to believe that Destiny is bringing me back to this place in the same manner as before because the mission went unfinished the first time. We are finally en route to Basel after a short stop in Freiburg as I pen these words. I must tell you, John, THAT was a stop to be remembered. Irene and I had just returned to our first class compartment, having taken a short constitutional and having made a visit to the women's necessary facility in the train station. . .

 

 
Sherla checked that the compartment door was closed and turned an impish grin to Irene. "I thought we would need smelling salts for *Karl* when you sent him off on that errand after we arrived."

Irene's answering grin was equally mischievous. "Well, *he* has to learn to function on his own in such circumstances if your plan is to work. In the past, I have always been close by when it was necessary for her to do a "trouser role". This is a safe enough place for her to practice. The station is sufficiently crowded that she is unlikely to draw any undue notice and she will gain needed confidence in her ability to pass scrutiny."

"Oh, I agree with your stratagem, Irene, but I rather think Katrina will be looking to do you a mischief at the earliest opportunity."

"Oh, pooh," Irene replied with a flick of her elegantly gloved fingers, "She'll be fine and moreover, she will know it was for the best."

"Perhaps," Sherla replied slowly, her tone of voice and gamine grin casting doubt before becoming more serious. "I do wish she looked older. She will be noticed, if not the first time she goes to the station, then the second or the third."

Irene shrugged. "We tried to age her, if you will recall but she is simply too petite and fine boned to look any older than she does. You tried yourself, if you will recall, dear. As a boy, the way she looks is the best we can do. Twelve, perhaps thirteen. It will have to do. I will have her send Godfrey a telegram everyday from the train station. It will give "Karl" an excuse and reason to be at the train station. And if a young boy chooses to loiter about his task to watch the hustle and bustle there, no one will be very surprised."

"I don't want her hurt!" Sherla's voice was suddenly intense. She was about to say more when the door to their compartment was jerked open and a large, very red faced conductor filled the open door.

"Madame," he began in a heavily accented French. "Is this. . . this. . .hooligan your son?" From behind him, a bedraggled and very frightened Karl was jerked forward.

With a cry, Irene was on her feet, pulling the terrified young person into her arms and into the safety of the compartment. "Yes," she returned icily, "He is my son. What right have you to mistreat him in such a way." Queenly hauteur vibrated from her very being, and the conductor took a small step backward.

The large man doffed his cap in a suddenly remembered bit of courtesy. "Your son, Madame, was caught trying to sneak into the Ladies Necessary. He was obviously going to try to spy on the ladies inside."

"Oh really," Irene said quietly. "My son does not read German, Herr Conductor. Were there any women entering or leaving the necessary when he tried to go inside?"

"Well, no, Madame, but. . "

"I see. And of course, you asked him if he had made a mistake and he TOLD you he was trying to sneak into the ladies room? He MUST have told you this since you have so ROUGHLY handled my asthmatic son. Why, only such a confession would JUSTIFY the possibility of bringing on a debilitating attack."

"Well, no, Madame, but. . "

"NO!?!?" Irene's furious scream forced the conductor back yet another two steps. "Get out of my compartment, you pompous ass, before I decide to take this to the authorities!" Irene was all solicitude as she turned back to her "son". "Are you all right, sweetheart? Do you feel faint at all? Do you feel an attack coming on?"

"Karl" made a show of taking some long, relatively shallow breaths, careful to wheeze once or twice, particularly when the conductor went pale the first time. Finally, "he" shook his head. "No, Maman," he whispered, "Just a little short of breath from being dragged here."

"You are disMISSED!" Irene snarled at the conductor as she slammed and locked the compartment door. Then, she slid the door curtain shut.

The three of them sat very quietly until the train's lurch signaled their departure from Freisburg. Once the noise of the train was sufficiently loud, all three broke into slightly hysterical giggles. Irene recovered first. "That was too close, Katrina," she said sternly. "You must be more careful!"

"I had to use the facilities, and knew it was close to departure time," Katrina said, shamefaced. "One would think these clothes would be reminder enough for me."

Irene saw that the girl had been truly frightened by the experience, and decided to let it drop. She had figured without considering Sherla. "So, you wanted to peek, eh?" she said, and then slid her skirt slowly up to reveal a very shapely ankle. "All you had to do was ask, dear *Karl*," she purred before beginning to giggle again.

"Don't DO that," Katrina begged in a near grown.

"Do what? This?" Sherla asked laughingly as she further extended her leg for Katrina's viewing pleasure

"No," Katrina did groan this time and shifted about on her seat, "Don't laugh. I still need the necessary - BADLY!"
 

 

Fortunately, John, our first class car had a private convenience, complete with chamber pot so poor Katrina did not need to suffer TOO long. It was a valuable lesson, however, and something we will need to account for in our future planning. Irene and I have agreed that we will not proceed immediately to Meringen. It is barely 12 kilometers from Brienz to Meringen and we might be able to make a few quiet but useful inquiries in Brienz. Since I do not believe that Moriarty ever operated in Switzerland in the old days, I think it is most likely that he would have needed to import his people to the locality to carry out his nefarious plots. One must, therefore, suspect that at least one of those decidedly unworthy fellows would stand out obviously among the locals. THAT is the person we must find for THAT is the person who will ultimately lead us to Moriarty's lair. Having said that, I think it is clear that the further from Moriarty's actual base of operations we conduct these initial investigations, the safer we will remain. Should Brienz prove unfruitful, we will move toward Meringen and then towards Rosenlaui. Why Rosenlaui, you may well ask? Because Rosenlaui is where I believe I will ultimately find Moriarty. I cannot say why I believe that, except that the little mountain hamlet is small enough and far enough from more populated areas that Moriarty could set up his operations there more easily than he could even in Meringen. Which brings us to that special suitcase filled with the various items I spent our last two days in Paris acquiring. Katrina was quite scandalized by the items of apparel I procured and did not wish to help me by doing the necessary fitting and alterations for me. At least, she was scandalized at first; now I believe she is rather intrigued by how I look when wearing them. The weapons are, for the most part, fairly ordinary if functional. I regret that I have not means to induce Inspector LaStrade of Scotland Yard to lend me the use of Colonel Moran's air gun for this adventure. It would surely be ideally suited for use in this type of mission conducted in such rugged terrain. I am concerned that firing a high-caliber pistol or other firearm in these still snow-covered mountains might result in an avalanche. Alas, as you well know, LaStrade is not a very cooperative man, and I cannot imagine him sending that piece of memorabilia to a some young woman, even if she does claim to be the daughter of Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Perhaps the cantankerous old bounder might balk simply BECAUSE she claims that parentage, eh, John? In any event, another of our cases came to mind when I was searching for weapons and I have procured a device that I believe will make a more than adequate substitute for Moran's very unique air-rifle. I only hope I have sufficient stamina in the rarefied air of this extremely mountainous country to use my replacement effectively. We shall see, shall we not? With that, I have about run out of excuses for not addressing the issue that is truly at the heart of this journal entry. It is difficult to admit, after nearly seven decades, that I may have been wrong about so many things in life. Watching this magnificent land fly by outside our train windows, I find that I missed a great deal of what the world had to offer when I was Sherlock. And yet, had I been any person other than I was, would I have had the wherewithal to challenge Professor Moriarty in the first place? Unlikely. Rather, I should have been married off to some eminently suitable, thoroughly proper and mind-dullingly boring man; left to vegetate in the stultifying atmosphere of the lady's solar or parlor. Perhaps I would even have become one of those women who, when faced with the inescapable necessity of the marital embrace, close their eyes and think of England. Far better, I have come to realize, to have been Sherlock first, for those experiences have provided me a sound basis upon which to enjoy being Sherla; experiences that tell me I am more, and still can become far more than some whey-faced, wool-witted society lady cum brood-mare. And when I close my eyes during lovemaking, I can guarantee you that my thoughts, limited though they are at those precise and delicious moments, have NOTHING to do with England. Good-day, John.

End Journal Entry.
 

 
 
Chapter 2. Interlude: Remembering the Past; Planning the Future
 
 
Entry in the Journal of Miss Sherla Joan Holmes

Date: March 10, 1911

Location: The Basel Mountain Lodge Hotel, Basel, Switzerland.

Time: 7:13 A.M.

My Dear Doctor Watson: Even as I come to view my transformation as a bright new adventure, I am forcibly reminded that the every situation in this world does have it less attractive aspects. The cloud that supports the silver lining, if you will. I must tell you that I am rather offended by myself, but I am sitting here, listening to Katrina and Irene sleep, because of a nightmare. Can you credit this, old friend? I am unable to sleep because I am still badly unnerved by, of all things, a bad dream -an invention of my own subconscious mind. Well, I suppose that is one positive aspect of the incident. It took the creation of my own mind to cause me such distress. I am writing now in an attempt to exorcize this demon of my own making so that I may proceed with my plans. It began when we'd all retired for the night. As expected, we arrived in Basel too late to make connections with the train to Brienz, and so we bespoke a suite of rooms at the better of the two hostelries serving the railroad passengers. After a light dinner in the public room, we returned to our suite. I wanted to spend the night in Katrina's room, but since she is now "Karl", Irene said I was to remain with her in the other bed chamber. We did not want a hotel maid barging in on Irene's two "youngsters" and find them in bed together, or worse, engaged in lovemaking that might prove Karl to be Katrina. The beds were comfortable and warm, but I was most restless. I do not know why, but I was unable to settle my mind to sleep for several hours. Finally, well after one o'clock in the morning, Morpheus claimed me . . .

 
 

 
. . . . From his rocky perch, he watched as Watson and the constables walked away at last. Soon, he would be able to able to covertly negotiate his way carefully down from his hidden ledge back to the path. A brisk two-hour walk across the mountains would see him safely away from Meringen and whatever henchmen Moriarty might have brought with him on this foul mission. It would still be necessary to hide until the still- dangerous remnants of Moriarty's gang could be neutralized, particularly Moran and Gilbert, but time would be his ally once they believed he had died along with their happily-departed leader.

Slowly, Holmes allowed his breathing, so long all but suspended, to return to normal. Rising to his knees, he put his head over the ledge to reconnoiter his path to the ground, when a huge rock missed exposed target by bare tenths of an inch. Instincts that had preserved his life through a thousand near fatal incidents saved him yet again as another heavy rock crashed off the ledge very close to where he had lain an instant earlier. *Up there . . . on the ledge . . . the silhouette of a man against the sun.* The arms raised another rock above the head, shading the glare and revealing a strangely shaped head and oddly stooped and rounded shoulders. An icy chill ran down Holmes spine as his mind screamed, *It CAN'T be! Moriarty is DEAD!*

Holmes tried to move, but just as he reached his handhold, a small rock caught him full in the chest, knocking the breath from his body. His hands clutched at the moss-slick rock, and somehow managed to find purchase. With great care, he moved one foot down to find another foothold. A spray of small stones heralded another attack. Holmes looked up and what he saw froze his soul. A final rock glanced off his hand. Holmes felt his grip fail and then give way as the world slowly began to slip away, and the rushing rapids at the foot of the falls rushed up to catch him - his eyes fixed on the now feminine figure above him on the cliff . . .

"NOOoooooooooooOOOOOOOOOO"

"Sherla! Wake up!" A sharp voice stung her ears and a sharper blow struck his. . . her face. "SHERLA!"

"Wha. . where. . " Sherla's eyes came open, but could not reconcile what she saw with what her mind expected. Then a shadowed figure lit a bedside lamp and Sherla recognized, "Irene?"

A comforting hand settled on Sherla's perspiring forehead. "Yes, dear. You were having a bad dream. . .a real curtain-call of a nightmare from the force of your thrashing and the sound of your screams. Heavens, child, but you are still shaking. Come, get up and sit in the chair by the fire while I get you a drink of water."

The door burst open to admit a wild-eyed Katrina, a small revolver held in her hand. "What happened?" she shouted. "I heard a scream!"

"Sherla has had a nightmare," Irene said as she handed her ward a filled glass.

Katrina hurried to her lover and went down on one knee before Sherla. "Are you all right? It must have been a horrible dream for I have never heard you scream like that."

Sherla took a deep drink from the water, holding the glass in two unsteady hands. "It was. . . it was so real and yet it wasn't. The ending was . . . wrong. . . It didn't really happen that way," she said, almost to herself.

Irene came over and took the chair next to Sherla's, and reached across to help her steady the glass. "Perhaps if you told us about the dream, and about what really happened, it might help."

After a few moments consideration, Sherla nodded. "It was about the first time. . . the first time I came to Meringen. . .and to the Falls of Reichenbach. I had arranged the destruction of his organization in England - Scotland Yard was to have taken him along with his entire gang. Moriarty knew that only my testimony would put him in prison, and had sworn to prevent, by any means possible, that outcome. So it was necessary to remove to the Continent for my own safety until Moriarty was safely in custody. Except that they missed getting Moriarty and one other gang member. The law successfully destroyed his London organization, but he escaped, and followed Watson and me to the Continent. It was in Meringen that I received word of Moriarty's escape, and knew that it would come down to he and I.

"Watson and I stayed at a hotel down in Meringen, and undertook at day's hike to the small village of Rosenlaui. We had stopped to look upon the Falls when a stripling male caught up with us carrying a message for Watson. It indicated he was needed for an Englishwoman who was dreadfully ill, but would permit no Swiss physician to attend her. I urged him off, stating that I would continue on to our original destination and would meet him later back at the hotel."

"It was a ploy?" Irene asked. "Your foe had caught up with you and used that note as a means to separate you from your friend?"

"And so I had surmised myself. Not wanting Watson to be in the way, I sent him off. Moriarty arrived but moments later. We talked, rather amicably for two men who would shortly be at each other's throats, and I wrote what I thought would be a last note to Watson, setting it on a nearby boulder beneath my cigarette case."

"Then you fought, and the world believed that you both were killed falling into the rocky chasm of the falls."

Sherla nodded again. "Only I did not fall, thanks to my skill in certain Oriental fighting and wrestling techniques. Moriarty did, and until he gloatingly appeared in my rooms not two months ago, I had believed that he had been killed on the rocks for I saw him hit one before being carried away beneath the rushing waters. I can only deduce now that it was but a glancing blow of no real significance."

"But why did you let the world believe you were dead if you had beaten the criminal?" Katrina asked, her face alight with curiosity and excitement.

"Because Moriarty was not the only one who had escaped the police. His primary assistant, a former army officer by the name of Colonel Sebastian Moran, was still at large and would make my life not worth living if I returned to London. I decided to simulate my own death until such time as I could neutralize the threat that he, and Colonel Gilbert on the Continent, posed for Watson and myself. I hid on the ledge and allowed the police to reach the conclusion the evidence indicated. It seemed that everything was going perfectly, that is, until it came time for me to make my way back down the slippery rock cliff from my ledge to the path. Moriarty had not been alone. Moran had been with him. He was above me, higher up on the cliffs, and threw large rocks down at me in an attempt to sweep me from what poor hand and foot holds I could find, and thus hurl me down to share his master's watery grave at the foot of Reichenbach Falls."

"But you did escape," Katrina breathed, a look of worshipful awe in her lovely eyes.

"Barely. Not knowing if Moran had anyone else with him, I raced across the mountains to safety, whereupon I contacted my brother Mycroft who provided me with funds. It was not a bad three years, waiting for Moran to become vulnerable, for I met many great people and learned many things. Even did some trail- blazing as a Scandinavian explorer."

"But finally you returned," Irene stated.

"Yes, there was a murder that, based on the descriptions of it in the press, I knew had to have been committed by Moran. I returned to England and let myself be seen, setting myself out as a stalking horse to draw from hiding my deadly prey. Moran took the bait and was eventually hanged for the murder that brought me back to England."

"You said that the dream was not the same," Irene said "What happened in the dream that was different that what actually took place."

Sherla drained her glass before answering. "In the dream, I got two glimpses of the person throwing the stones and it wasn't Moran."

"Who was it?" Irene asked.

"Moriarty," Sherla said, her breathing shaky, "The figure on the cliff changed into Moriarty even though I "knew" he was dead. He threw the rock hit me - the first one that struck, anyway. Somehow, in the dream, I managed to hold on. Then, I looked up again, just as another rock struck home and I fell. And I saw. . I saw. . "

Katrina started to move to Sherla's side, but Irene stopped her. "Get it out, Sherla," she ordered firmly.

"I threw the rock. . I mean. .it was Sherla who threw the rock that killed ME. . .I mean, that killed Sherlock. Then you hit me and woke me just as I was about to hit the raging waters. It was. . . It seemed. . .so real. I could feel myself falling - could feel the impact of the stone on my chest - could feel my hands and feet slipping from the wet rock hand-holds. I could SEE myself."

Sherla found that she was shaking again, and Irene reached over to pull Sherla into her arms. "There, now," Irene said gently. "The dream is over, you are all right, and what you dreamt never happened. Relax, now."

"This is so. . .so damnably lowering," Sherla rasped out in disgust, her voice breaking. "I am frightened by something that never happened. How could *I* even dream something like that?"

"Perhaps, darling, you should simply take it as a warning. You will again face this monster, and there seems to be a strange symmetry about this approaching conflict. I am not saying this dream is a premonition, but perhaps you should ensure that you do not take any part of this endeavor at all casually."

"I have not been, but I think I will redouble my efforts to be prepared, Irene," Sherla hugged the comforting body that was holding her own and sighed. "The part that still has me shaking is the image of Sherla looking down at me as I fell."

"Not all that difficult to understand, dear. Sherla lives and Sherlock - at least the male Sherlock - does not. That fact also devolves from that confrontation at the Falls. I should think that interpretation obvious."

"But he. . .I mean, I am still alive! I resisted the urge to end my life, and I have come to accept Sherla as my future, haven't I?"

"Have you, Sherla? Only you can answer that question. I think you have made amazing progress, given who you were and where you started. Perhaps, deep in your subconscious, some small part of you feels that Sherlock stands between you and your future happiness as Sherla."

Sherla thought about that and shrugged, her eyes tightly closed. "I have never given much credence to the theories of Freud and his colleagues, but perhaps I should reconsider that once we are finished with what we must do in Switzerland. Thank you, Irene, for being her for me. Emotion is a dual-edged sword, and one Sherlock never had to deal with."

"You are most welcome, dear. Now come back to bed. Tomorrow. . no, it is already today, isn't it? Today will be a long day."

"Could Katrina stay with me. . just for the rest of the night?" Sherla asked, knowing she was still shaky.

Irene gave both young women a stern look. "Oh, very well, but we are going to SLEEP, are we not?"

"Yes, Tante Irene," the two chorused in perfect synchronicity.
 

 

Well, John, I managed to sleep a few more hours, cuddled as I was between those two women I have come to love. Yes, I said 'love'. One of those silver linings I mentioned earlier. I am going to spend my remaining hours before we arrive in Brienz reviewing my plans and precautions. As I have mentioned before in this journal, I have a great deal to live for and I wish to enjoy all that this new life can afford me. I, and those whom I have come to love, MUST survive this encounter, as much as Moriarty must finally meet his fate. If this was a warning, then I shall use it to best effect.

End Journal Entry.
 
 

 

Excerpt from the Experimental Journal of Professor Moriarty March 11, 1911 Progress to Date: Professor Buchner now has been, how shall I put this delicately? . . fully integrated into our little research project. Over the past few days he has watched in rather appalled fascination as a phase two chimpanzee repeatedly attacked "her" brother in an attempt to force sexual congress. Sadly, both are now dead. The feminized animal suffered a fatal bite to her throat as she attempted to rape her partner. The male died shortly thereafter, his testicles crushed in the female's death throes. The expression on Dr. Buchner's face as he watched both animals die was most gratifying. I do not believe I shall have to motivate him further. Dr. Buchner has reviewed Professor Haber's and my experimental journals, and has conducted some basic tests on the herbal preparation. He has proposed two courses of inquiry that he feels may increase our knowledge of the biological mechanisms involved with three key effects of the herbs. His first proposal distresses me for it will take a significant period of time to show results. He wants to take an elderly subject all the way back to puberty, and then continue the administration of the drug beyond that point in time. In truth, I have conducted this experiment while in South America. The subject always ceased to regress at some point, whereupon the drug, for reasons I was never able to determine, became toxic. Something to do with the transformed physiology perhaps. Buchner is more concerned with tracking various biochemical indices during the transition, and comparing those indices to comparably aged animals of both genders. What he hopes to learn from this experiment is not clear, but as he points out, the changes involved are complex and fundamental, and something might arise from this basic research that will help us. The problem, from my perspective, is that he wishes to make this transition slowly, allowing sufficient time to assure biochemical stabilization after each administration of the drug. He estimates that the total regression will require something on the order of six weeks. His second, and to my mind, more interesting line of inquiry is to look more closely and see if a female to male transition might be developed. He postulates, based on both my and Haber's work, that the rejuvenation effect is inextricably linked to the gender change effect. However, he points out that my entire efforts to date have been to *prevent* the gender change. However, he thinks it may be possible to regress age while female, say to the point where the drug withdrawal is survivable, and then reverse the gender change without reversing the rejuvenation. I challenged the Doctor with the issue that, should such a reversal be possible, would not the natives I encountered in South America have done this? His response was that perhaps the reversal was beyond their ken, lacking as they were in advantages of modern science. Another possibility is that they are simply too backward to recognize, as have Europeans and most other civilized societies, the inherent inferiority of the female of the species. Which is, of course, a hard truth and one I had always puzzled about while conducting my researches in the Amazon. How could a tribe that was more than seventy five percent young, nubile and attractive females, been left unconquered by their more masculine and warlike neighbors? Surely, I had always thought, they would be too weak to protect themselves. Surprisingly, Buchner had a rather insightful response to that question when I mentioned it during our interview. Dr. Buchner surmises that there were, in fact, hostile tribes in the past who attempted to enslave the formerly-male women. However, they would have soon fallen victim to the rejuvenation potion themselves. As I recall, the women of the tribe were all extremely skilled with a from of blowgun. Quite possibly, they used this to administer the drug to their opponents whereupon they had the distasteful choice of an agonizing and humiliating death, or begging entry to the tribe and becoming women. In any case, the women's tribe would have become taboo among the other tribes for what clear thinking warrior would wish to die such a death, or worse, become a woman? Buchner proposes to work with test animals - female test animals - at a wide spectrum of maturity levels. He believes that with certain fermentation processes, he can reverse the gender change effect. The issue will be to determine what is the best age for this reverse transition to be attempted. Unfortunately, this brings up a significant, but easily remedied problem. I am out of chimpanzees, and I never had any females in any case. I have a good many of the smaller African monkeys, but they are not very highly developed in my opinion. I am not willing to endanger my own life on a process that has only been tested on these monkeys. I have dispatched my supply man to order more chimpanzees, and to include a equal number of females in this purchase. Buchner will proceed with his testing using the greens, and by the time he has a workable treatment, the more advanced primates should be here. Once the process is proven on animals who were female-by-birth, we shall regress and transform a male animal, and see if we can then safely reverse the gender change. The final test will, of course, be on human subjects. How many will be used in that process will depend upon the state of my reserves of South American herbs, but I will conduct at least two such tests. The first subject will be chosen from my loyal minions, just to ensure that the entire transition - elderly male to pubescent female and finally to pubescent male - is survivable. An excellent way to repay such excellent service - if it works. And if it does not? Then they will have performed an even more excellent service for me. In any event, conscripting one of the locals to fill this requirement might call undue attention to this area before I am ready to deal with such minor annoyances. Assuming that experiment is successful, the second test will be conducted using Dr. Haber as the subject. Naturally, someone possessing a high level intellect must be subjected to the process before my own matchless brain is put at risk. In truth, I should rather die than live less than I am - less than I should be. Of course, once these experiments are complete, and I am once again young and at the height of my powers, every other person associated with this project will die. Oh, I shall reward them handsomely for their efforts - their deaths will be quick and painless - perhaps even pleasurable - but only I will know the secret of eternal youth and life. Only Moriarty will possess that knowledge and the nigh-to- infinite power that knowledge portends. Only Moriarty will rule!

End Journal Entry.
 
 
Chapter 3. Opening Gambits
 
Sherla got up from her chair and strode over to the window where she stood staring outside, a look of clear disgust on her lovely face. The snow had begun falling just before they had arrived in Brienz and had continued falling steadily for the past five hours. Already nearly half a meter of new snow had accumulated and the storm showed no signs of abating anytime in the near future.

Irene was quite comfortably situated on lovely settee near a lovely warm fire with a book to occupy her mind and a cup of rich Swiss chocolate to hand. She looked up from her reading to watch with tolerant amusement as Sherla flounced back to her own seat, the frilly layers of her dress billowing in her wake. "You know that the innkeeper told us that the storm will likely continue until sometime tomorrow."

"Yes!" the girl exploded as she bolted from her chair once again, this time to begin pacing. "And then it will likely be DAYS before we can move about with any ease at all. We have an investigation to carry through!"

*Ah, so at last we see the mercurial and justly famous Holmes temperament. I wonder if she realizes that she shows only excess energy at her confinement, and not the ennui that led her male self to attempt to end his life?* Irene mused when another thought occurred to her. *And perhaps he did succeed. It's true that my meetings with Sherlock were only passing at best, but I have studied the man as I have studied no other save my husband. While I see no diminution in the powers she possessed as the world's greatest investigative detective, there is so much more to her - to *Sherla* - than I ever dreamed there could be to a man whom even his best friend could not make seem warm when he wrote of their mutual adventures.*

"How can you just SIT there, Irene?" Sherla demanded as she literally stomped over to confront the older woman. "Moriarty is out there, I can FEEL him, dammit! Every minute we delay is another minute he has to succeed at his damnable scheme, and the very LAST thing we want to deal with in this confounded tangle is a Moriarty, young and renewed, at the height of his considerable powers! We have to DO something!!"

A chuckle Irene could not repress further infuriated Sherla who spun on her heel to storm out of the sitting room of their suite. "STOP RIGHT THERE!" Irene ordered, and was pleased when the girl did stop, if not quite managing to get her to turn back to face her. "If you continue to stride about in that very unseemly fashion, I shall be forced to order Katrina to start tightening your stays again. You will call undue attention to yourself and by connection, to all of us. We cannot have that, my dear," she warned darkly. "Katrina, as we proved in Freisburg, is not yet ready for such pointed scrutiny."

"Well, she should learn to stay out of Lady's Waterclosets when she's dressed as a male," Sherla snapped.

Irene eyed watched Sherla for a few more moments, thinking that if the girl were any more tightly wound, the very air about her would likely begin to vibrate. *Perhaps I SHOULD order her laced more tightly, if only to give her something more controllable than a late winter blizzard in the Alps about which to complain,* Irene thought but then mentally shook her head. *No, as appealing as that might be, particularly to Katrina, that solution is for the moment out of the question. Sherla's reasons for not being tightly corseted still obtain. She needs to maintain her strength and ease of movement until this battle is over. Damn the girl! If she will not give over, she will force me to take an action that might ultimately prove detrimental to our cause?*

Irene was wracking her brain, trying to find some least harmful manner in which she might have to press the girl when suddenly, Sherla seemed to deflate. Shoulders drooping, the lovely young woman turned back to face Irene. "But Irene, the snow. . " she complained with just a touch of whine in her voice.

Sighing, Irene set aside her book, rose from her seat and walked over to take the distraught young woman in her arms. "This is Switzerland, sweet, the high Alps, and it is barely more than a week into March. It is winter here still." She said soothingly.

Sherla dropped her head onto the taller Irene's shoulder. Then she too sighed. "Oh, I know," she growled, "Goodness, somewhere I recall researching the area, probably for the first trip up here, and finding out that May snows are not uncommon in these climes. But I feel we are so close to our goal and adversary - so very, very close, and yet. . . ."

"So far?" Irene offered, her tongue pressed firmly in her cheek. "I know, love, but we must play the hand we are played. On the positive side, the Swiss are used to this and will have dealt with the aftereffects of this storm far more quickly than could be managed in either Paris or London. Besides, don't sleds leave tracks? I suspect Professor Moriarty might be even easier to find under such circumstances."

"Once we find one of his henchman to follow," Sherla said quietly.

"Which we will do, dear." A knock on the door distracted them both. "Enter," Irene called.

The innkeeper and a young maid entered followed by two porters, each burdened by several cases and a trunk. "Madame, we could not manage to get all of your luggage into the small sleigh, but we did bring the bags you said were most important. The rest are secured at the train station pending the end of the storm. Fraulein Schapp will unpack for you and your daughter. Where would you like this?" he asked holding up a violin case.

Sherla all but pounced on the leather case. "I will take it, Mein Herr," she said in impeccable German. "I need some diversion."

"Excellent," Irene said with a smile. *And just in time!* "Oh, and Herr Innkeeper, would you perhaps have a chess set we could use? My daughter and I would enjoy a game or two to while away the snowy arms."

"It shall be up as soon as the porters have finished helping Fraulein Schapp. Will there be anything else, Madame?"

"Another pot of your most excellent chocolate and some sweet biscuits, I think. We shall make a party of being snowed in."

The dapper innkeeper snapped off a formal bow, his heels clicking ostentatiously, and then left without another word.

With some relief, Irene heard the soft melodies of a Strauss waltz fill the room. For the moment, Sherla's active mind and intense nature were being soothed by music's magic charms.
 

 
After dinner, the trio intrepidly ventured out to look upon the wintry scene. Well bundled against the cold snow and colder winds, they made their way toward the small stable the innkeeper maintained for his guests' animals as well as his own. The path they followed had been just recently cleared, but was already beginning to refill with the falling and blowing snow.

"It seems to be letting up somewhat, don't you think, Irene?" Sherla asked hopefully once they were inside the pleasantly warm stables. Idly, she stroked the white-blazed head of a particularly curious chestnut mare as she looked at Irene for encouragement.

"Compared to what?" Katrina snorted as she shook the snow from her hat and shoulders. "If anything, I think it is falling harder, although with that wind it is difficult to tell with any certainty."

Irene smiled, glad that her lips had not truly frozen as she had momentarily feared. "I think that Karl is correct, Sherla, but on the other hand, it has been my experience that such storms to seem to crest like waves before they begin to ease. We must be patient."

"Oh, very well," Sherla said. Then she made a visible shaking movement of her thickly coated form and turned to face her allies. "I think it might be a good idea to discuss our plans a bit further." "What's to discuss?" Katrina asked impishly. "You've been haranguing me about what to look for at those warehouses and train stations since you first put me in these very unbecoming and very uncomfortable clothes."

"I know, I know," Sherla said with a forced little laugh. "But I also have something for you. Give me your right hand," she ordered firmly.

Sherla peeled back the sleeve of 'Karl's' greatcoat after Katrina extended her arm. From her reticule, Sherla removed a stout piece of leather, perhaps six inches long and two inches wide. This she strapped to Katrina's wrist. The she again dipped into her reticule and produced a small derringer pistol. She opened the weapon to ensure it was unloaded, and then connected it to a strange little lattice metal mechanism which she then attached to the leather wristband on the inside of Katrina's wrist. Holding Katrina's forearm in one hand, Sherla pressed the weapon back toward the wristband, the lattice mechanism folding into a small, tight package at the back of the pistol's handgrip.

Sherla replaced the sleeves and then stood back. "Now, make a fist and quickly flick your right hand outward at the wrist." Katrina did as she was bidden, and with a quiet snapping sound, the pistol popped from her sleeve. It would have been right at hand had the stunned Katrina thought to bring her hand back to catch the weapon.

"What is it?" Katrina asked, unable to take her eyes off the small weapon.

"A special concealed weapon, designed to come immediately to hand when you need it. Just move your hand back to normal position and open your fist, and you are armed and dangerous. Here, you reposition the weapon like this," and Sherla guided Katrina's free hand as she pressed the pistol back beneath her sleeves.

"It is a two shot derringer, but its range is severely limited. If you must use it, it might be best if you were as close to touching your target with the weapon as possible. Please practice with the actuation device until you are facile with it, Katrina, then come to me for a final assessment of your abilities with the weapon. I will give you ammunition which fit in those little loops about the leather band for it once you are proficient with the deployment and retrieval of that nasty little weapon."

"But why do I need such a thing?" Katrina asked, even as she could not stop playing with the new device. "Because the places we are asking you to surveille are dangerous in the best of times, and since we are here for Moriarty, we can scarcely call this the best of times. Secondly, because the type of minion Moriarty is likely to employ consists of dangerous men who would not scruple killing a young man. . . or a young woman. Unfortunately, that may be our only means to locating Moriarty, although I have hopes for a scheme I have developed with Irene as the key player in my little drama.

"Moi?" Irene asked, a mischievous twinkle in her amber eyes.

"Oui, Madame," Sherla said with a mock curtsy. "I think that you shall visit what estate agencies are to be found in this small city."

"Estate agencies? Are we looking for a domicile, my dear?"

"A very specific domicile, I think," Sherla agreed. "Something near Rosenlaui, I think, but not too close, with plenty of land on all sides of the main house and support buildings."

"Looking for privacy, am I," Irene said with a husky laugh. "A lover's paradise, perhaps?"

"You must use your own best judgment which I am sure you will when discussing such delicate matters, but the house must have a view and over look the surrounding country for as far as the eye can see."

"On a high point?" Irene asked before answering her own question, "Yes, that makes sense. All right, dear. I understand. Just as soon as we can move about I shall undertake this investigation for you."

"I don't understand," Katrina complained. "I thought we were only staying long enough to find and stop this Moriarty fellow. Why should we need to bespeak more permanent lodgings? Not that this place is not beautiful, but it is horribly cold, and if we were to stay, I should be stuck in these abominable male clothing."

Sherla and Irene both smiled at Katrina's outrage. "Non, ma belle," Sherla soothed, "We are not searching for a house for us, but rather, for the one that Moriarty has taken."

A firmness came into Katrina's eyes and she became thoughtful. "Explain, please," she ordered, her voice just short of imperious.

"What I have described," Sherla told her lover, taking one of Katrina's shivering hands in her still-gloved ones, "is the type of establishment I believe Moriarty would look for. Rosenlaui because, well, because I think that is where he fled. Private because he won't want unexpected visitors and the Swiss are very hospitable people. Same with a great deal of land about him. Combine that with a main complex built on a high point to command the immediate area, it would be difficult to mount any type of armed attack against him and have it succeed without significant loss of life and the likely escape of our prey."

"Marvelous," Katrina clapped her hands in pleasure. "I am going to learn SO much from you, petite." Then a very crafty grin crossed her smooth features. "And what is the plan for you, little one?"

"For me?" Sherla said with some surprise, "Why, I expect to assist Irene in her researches."

"Oh, I think that will work, at least some of the time," Irene put in, "but I think Katrina asks a more fundamental question. Yes, I think I know what our little Miss Sherla, or as she is now known, Miss Cheryl Huxley, shall do and how she shall present herself."

If Sherla had learned nothing about this magnificent woman in her short tenure in Irene's home, it was to be very cautious when that tone entered Irene's voice. "Yes? And just what is that role, if I may be so bold as to ask?"

"You, my dear, shall be our flirt!"

"FLIRT?!? ME?!??!"

*Lord, the look on her face is priceless! I don't know whether she is shocked or terrified. . . likely both.* "Well, it certainly won't be *Karl*, and I, though I must admit I am a fine figure of a woman for my age, am just a bit past the age of the true femme fatale. By process of elimination, my dear, that leaves you. Sweet 16, just out of the school room, and an incorrigible flirt."

"But. . but. . . "

"Sherla. . ." Irene strung the syllables out, her mein stern.

"Who says we need someone to be a flirt? Who would she. . I mean. .who would *I* flirt with?"

"Why, I don't know," Irene said, a half smile on her lips. "Perhaps the man you believe Karl will find at the train station. Perhaps someone else will show up and we will need you to employ your womanly weapons to advance our cause. Besides, having you act a bit like a slut might provide us with some other advantages."

Sherla's brows went up and then her brow furrowed. "What kind of advantages? I confess I cannot think of a single one!"

"Oh, that is because you have been thinking like a male when you stopped to consider what your role would be in this little adventure. And while I agree you are going to be required to move about rather freely in the prosecution of this investigation, you MUST remember that you are a female in a small, relatively conservative country, darling. Only females with a certain . . .shall we say . . .loose moral fiber walk about in the dark or go out and about alone? A man could. . .Sherlock could. . A woman, which is who you as Miss Cheryl Huxley are, cannot."

"What? So I dress and behave like some lady of the evening in order to get freedom of movement? I have been in this land before, Irene, and my freedom would last only so long as I kept out of the way of the police. Which would likely not be for very long."

"Silly!" Irene laughed with real mirth. "Not a whore. . .just a . . .young lady with too much spirit and too much independence. We could even play that up as part of the reason why we came to this out of the way part of the world. . .why I want the type of place you just described. We can hint that it is an effort to get you away from the young society bloods until you mature enough to know better. It gives us a cover story, and an excuse for me to run around town looking for you while you move around on your own investigations."

It was clear from the look on Sherla's face that while she understood the possibilities, she did not like the idea of being or even pretending to be intimate with a man. "Perhaps," she said, still noncommittal.

"Oh, don't worry, Ma'amselle Cherie," Katrina piped in. "You flirt very well for a beginner, and when you have to get too close to a man, your pesky little brother will be close by to . . ah. . . foil your lecherous plans."

Sherla gave 'Karl' a telling look, and then grinned. "I suppose it is the beginning of a plan, however," and here she pinned Irene with a hard glare, "the plan will be far more complete and foolproof when and IF we ever implement the "get too close to a man" part of your stratagem."

"True enough," Irene agreed meekly enough, knowing that she had won. "And tomorrow when the rest of our luggage arrives, we will check to see how your new wardrobe fits."

"What. . . NEW. . wardrobe?" Sherla demanded cautiously.

"Oh, you will love it. I thought of this little stratagem while before we left, and visited my modiste. She made heroic efforts to complete my. . .somewhat fast daughter an appropriate wardrobe."

"Oh, sounds lovely!" Katrina enthused. "I cannot wait to see them."

"I think I could and quite happily," Sherla said with much less anticipation, "But I will concede Irene's greater knowledge of the womanly weapons' potentialities. Well, I am for bed, I think. Lady and *gentleman*, shall we brave the storm that stands between us and our warm, comfortable beds? Hopefully, tomorrow will be a busy day."
 
 
Chapter 4. Karl at Large
 
Fortunately for Sherla's sanity, the snow ended early the next morning. "Only a scant yard's worth of snow, not even a whole meter," she murmured just loud enough that Irene was able to overhear. "Surely it shouldn't take them long to clear the roads and trails." Irene had to hurry from the room to keep from laughing aloud.

But there was precious little motion outside the frosted window of their suite that morning, and not much more in the hotel's common dining room when they made their midday meal. It had become quite apparent that the quick clearing hoped for by Sherla would not be forthcoming anytime soon. "But Maman, this place is so isolated," Sherla complained as she fumed about not be able to move about and prosecute her inquiries. "How will we ever find anyone to talk with, to ask . . ."

A sudden cue from Irene caught her eye. "There are plenty of people to ask such things, my dear," Irene said easily, "Such as our most gracious host. Good afternoon, Herr Schmidt," Irene said with a smile for the approaching innkeeper. "A most delightful luncheon."

"Thank you, Frau Huxley," the jovial man responded using the false name Irene had selected for their disguise. "I will tell my wife you enjoyed her cooking. And you, Fraulein Cheryl, did you not enjoy your luncheon?" He gave her such an exaggeratedly concerned look that Sherla laughed in spite of her frustration.

"It was delightful, Mein Herr, and well you know it," she said, batting her eyes flirtatiously.

"So why aren't you happy at my lovely hotel, Fraulein, eh?"

Irene gave Sherla a sharp kick beneath the table and a quick stern look to remind her of her role. "It is just that we have been snowed in since we arrived, and lovely as your hotel surely is," she hesitated and the thought of what Irene expected her to say brought a rosy blush to her cheeks, "It's just that. . that there are so few b. . . I mean, people my own age here. . . to talk to, that is."

"She means BOYS, Mother," Katrina/Karl sing-songed in her best pestering-little-brother voice.

"Shut UP, brat!" Sherla snarled, glaring at her "little brother."

"Karl" stuck out his tongue in response.

"Thank god there are so few boys about," Irene said sotto voce, much the obvious amusement of the innkeeper. "Children, behave yourselves! Cheryl, we do not tell people to "Shut up" - where do you pick up these awful phrases? And Karl, don't stick out your tongue. It's vulgar."

"Yes, Mother!" they chorused while still glaring at one another.

Visibly composing herself, Sherla turned her attention back to the paternally grinning host. "So, Mein Herr, when do you think we shall be able to go out and move about your beautiful city?"

"Well, Fraulein Cheryl, if you were to brave the foul winds and cold, you might be able to move about a little after luncheon. Most of the merchants have cleared paths to their doors and to the path of their neighbors. Although, I do not know if your lovely skirts will fit yet, as the paths are sadly very narrow. The wind blows still and fills in the paths as quickly as they can be cleared."

"But what about the roads?" Sherla had pressed.

"I am afraid, Mademoiselle, that the roads will not be cleared for perhaps one or two days after the winds ease."

"One or two DAYS?!?" Sherla nearly shrieked.

"After the winds ease," the innkeeper had replied, a bit of a smile on his face.

"But, but. . . That's,"

"As must be, dear," Irene said firmly, putting a cautioning hand on Sherla's wrist. "What can be done will be done as soon as it can be done."

"But, Mother," Sherla protested, remembering at the last second to let a petulant whine into her voice. "If I don't get out of this . . .," and with a pause she looked up and smiled fetchingly at her host, then continued, "very nice hotel, what will I DO?"

Irene's glare owed more to her skill from years on the stage than any real anger, but it looked quite impressive nonetheless. "Cheryl, if you cannot find something that will occupy your mind and your hands, then I'm sure I can find something for you to do. Or perhaps Herr Schmidt would appreciate some help in his kitchens, if you have so much energy to spare."

Herr Schmidt interrupted whatever response Sherla might have made with a rich, booming laugh. "Thank you very much, Frau Huxley, but I would not dream of taking advantage of the Fraulein that way. Besides, if she were in the kitchen, then so would be all the stable boys, and then where would I be?"

Leaving that question hanging in the air, surrounded by yet another booming laugh, the hotel owner wandered on to visit other of his snowbound guests. One single glance back, rewarded with a most fetching pout on Sherla's full lips, and his round belly shook with poorly suppressed mirth.

Once they were alone in the room, Irene turned a hard eye on Sherla. "You have to get control of your frustration, Sherla. It calls attention to you and that is the last thing we need. Where is this famous rational control you used to pride yourself about?"

Sherla started to make a sharp retort, and then reconsidered. "You are in the right of it, Maman," she said, just a bit shamefaced. "I shall do better. I just wish we could be done with this entire affair. I want him stopped, once and for all."

"Which you cannot accomplish in this mood. We will find him. Our plan is sound."

"I just wish we could do something," Sherla sighed.

"And so we can, since there are paths dug out of the snow," Irene said, her eyes twinkling.

"But how? A flirt such as I would not dream of soiling her lovely skirts on those snowy streets without proper, cleared paths."

"Nor would a woman of mature years such as I, my dear, but a rough and tumble young lad such as Karl must be simply *itching* to get outside into the snow."

Katrina's eyes went wide in surprise. "ME? Out. . THERE?!?" At Irene's complacent nod, Karl/Katrina shook her head. "I itch, all right, Maman, but it is because of these wooly trousers. Why ever would I want to go out in that wind and snow when there is a warm fire in our room and hot chocolate for the asking?"

"Why, to deliver a telegram for my husband to the train station. It should be fairly empty of people today and you could make a quick examination of the premises."

"But Irene," Sherla put in, "You are here as Madame Huxley. To whom will they deliver the telegram? The last thing we need is a love note returned as undeliverable."

"One of the individuals who has assisted me in the past has been forewarned to expect such messages from Madame Irene Huxley," Irene said with a slight grin, "and he will then forward them, unopened, to my darling husband. So, we can use our Karl for this little reconnaissance without worry about the delivery end of our little stratagem."

"A most excellent notion," Sherla enthused.

"It is NOT!" Katrina refuted, but she could tell she'd already lost the battle.

"Let's go upstairs right now and get you bundled up," Sherla said excitedly, "And remember to walk like a boy swinging your shoulders and not those lovely hips. You have to THINK *boyish*."

"I'll give you boyish," Katrina snarled in her ear.

"Well, yes, you did that quite well actually, the night of the ball," Sherla said with a smirk. But her own memories brought a blush to her cheeks that was not at all play-acting.

Katrina's mouth dropped open, but she realized she would be hard-pressed to find a suitable rejoinder to her so-beautiful lover. Especially since that comment had forcibly wrenched her own thoughts into an entirely different channel. By the time she realized how she had been manipulated, Sherla was already holding out her coat and muffler.

"I'll get you for this, ma petite," Katrina promised, but the promise in her eyes showed an entirely different punishment than she might have considered just a few moments before.

"Promise?" Sherla whispered back.

Irene decided she had better intercede or the trip with the telegram would be quite delayed. "Both of you, behave, or I will be the one making promises."

"Why Irene, I thought you'd never offer," Sherla said, her throaty contralto holding no hint of childishness.

It was a good thing they were in their room, because Katrina's giggle held no hint of masculinity. Or was it Irene's own laugh that resounded down the hall?

Cringing ostentatiously in apparent fear, Katrina's good humor lasted while they bundled her up, if not much longer. She sighed in defeat and allowed the two women to escort her to the front door of the hotel.
 

 
The wind blew fiercely, catching up the fallen snow and lashing the flakes about like so many icy blades. Katrina cursed under her breath as a particularly cutting blast sliced in between her chin and the woolen muffler. Grimly, she put her head down and pressed on into the wind, her only thought to get to the train station and out of the brutal winds.

"It will be a simple trip, Katrina," she fumed remembering Sherla's smiling encouragement. "You'll be there in no time at all, Katrina. Don't you remember how quickly we got here from the train station, Katrina? Of course, we were in a horse-drawn sleigh and the storm had barely started. NEXT time, SHE can be the boy. After all, doesn't she have more practice at it?" Another gust of wind lashed at her, chilling her to the bone. "And with her figure, she's better padded and insulated against this cold than I am. A whole life as a woman and she gets a better figure than I have in less than two months."

Katrina stepped into the recessed entrance of one shop in search of momentary relief from the ferocious weather while she checked her location. She thought back to just a half hour ago, trying to remember the directions the innkeeper had given "Karl" when told the boy was going to the station. Peering through the glare of the afternoon sun reflecting off the snow, she found the confectioner's shop that the innkeeper had given her as a landmark. Katrina pulled her chin down deeper into the woolen muffler and wrapped the greatcoat tighter around her before stepping back into the cleared path - nearly knocking over another brave soul fighting his way through the howling winds.

*That was close. I'd have probably ended up in one of those snow drifts and not been found again until spring.* Then another thought struck her. *Suppose he'd heard me complaining? That would have been very difficult to explain and would likely have ruined Tante Irene's and Sherla's entire plan. Time to keep your mouth shut, Katrina.*

*Stupid male clothing,* Katrina fumed silently as the cold wind buffeted her. *Women can simply put on another petticoat or two or three. Can a man put on more trousers? Not bloody likely. If I really were a man, I'd be freezing that defining part of me off out here. At least the shoulder padding Sherla put on me to make me look more masculine is helping against the wind and that awful sticking plaster she put across my bottom to make me remember not to swing my hips is gone.*

Katrina shuddered when she recalled the last time the three inch wide, eighteen inch long piece of sticky cloth had been ripped from her bottom. *Next time,* Katrina promised herself again, *That little witch gets to freeze. I will be the girl and SHE can be the boy. Just wait until I get my hands on her. . .if they're thawed enough to get a grip on her."

She was still planning her dire revenge when the sign for the Brezel train station suddenly appeared in the blowing snow. Moving as quickly as her freezing trousers would permit, Katrina raced for the door. With a huge sigh of relief, she slipped inside. The sudden change in temperature made her momentarily lightheaded and she barely kept herself from falling by leaning against the nearest wall.

Fortunately, the place was nearly deserted, so her lapse went unobserved. "Act boyish, she says," Katrina muttered and then began stalking toward the iron-grilled pay window.

A man of slender build and thinning hair got up from a desk and came over to the window at her approach. "Trains won't be running for another two or three days according to the latest telegrams from up the line. If you are here to buy tickets, you have made the trip in vain, boy."

"Thank you, sir, but I am here for my Maman who wishes to send a message to my Papa and let him know we have arrived safely," Katrina replied, reaching into the pockets of her great coat to remove a somewhat crumpled envelope which she pushed beneath the metal bars. "My Maman would like that sent to Paris as soon as possible, sir."

The station master opened the envelope, read it and nodded. "I can send this now, young man. ." he looked up, expectantly.

"Karl, sir, Karl Huxley."

"I am Herr Loche, Karl. If you want to go warm yourself by the stove over there, I will call you when I have a receipt from the receiving office."

"Danke, Herr Loche. It was very cold outside and I have never seen weather like this before."

"Well, it is a very cold wind. You get warm and I will see to this."

*Praise the Lord if the other station does not answer for at least an hour or so. It will take that long for me to get warm.*
 

 
It did not take nearly that long, but then, it did not take nearly that long for Katrina to thaw, either. Soon, she was warm enough to shed her coat and nose about the small station house. Clearly, there was not enough room for much in the way of cargo or other materials to be stored in the building, which indicated that a separate storage facility was required. She'd have to find that place, but not today. The only place she was going after that message was receipted was back to the hotel. Yes, she was headed back to the hotel and hot chocolate, to the warm fires and even warmer arms of her loving Ma'amselle Cherie..

And best of all, she would be going downwind the whole way, too. That ought to cut her travel time in that hellish cold in half.

"Young Herr Huxley?" the station master called.

"Yes sir?"

"I have the receipt for your mother's message. It will be delivered to your father's home within the hour. Here is your Mother's copy." Herr Loche said, holding out a sealed envelope. "Her change is in the envelope as well."

Katrina took the envelope, executed a small bow as Sherla had taught her, and donned her coat, hat and muffler. She waved a farewell to Herr Loche and went outside.

Her first thought was that it had gotten warmer during her time inside the station. Then, she realized that the winds had died down. "Thank heaven," she breathed as she turned towards the hotel.

She hadn't gone more than a few meters when something hard struck her in the back of her head. Seeing stars, Katrina spun on her heel to see what had happened only to catch a face another missile flush in her chest.

A boy, who'd been hiding behind a small mountain of piled snow, came out to face her, laughing. "Got you good!" he crowed as he reached into the snow to form another snowy missile. He threw this one and Katrina managed to dodge it, but did not retaliate. "Hey," he called, "What's the matter? Don't you know how to play snowballs?"

"Snowballs?" Katrina shouted back. "What's that?"

"We make balls out of the snow, like this," he called back as he demonstrated, "And then we throw them at each other, like THIS!" he shouted as he let fly the ball he'd just formed.

That ball caught Katrina just beneath her muffler, sending cold snow down beneath the collar of her coat. "Let me see if I have this right," she retorted forming her own ball and letting it fly in a weak little loft that her intended target could easily have dodged, were it not already so far wide of her mark.

"HAH! You throw like a girl. Didn't your Papa ever teach you how to throw?"

*Uh oh,* Katrina thought, *Can't be caught out this quickly over something like this!* "Ummm, no. My Papa is always away on business and I've never learned this game. It doesn't snow like this at home."

The boy came closer. "That's sad. Hey, I can show you how to throw. It really is easy. My name's Erich, by the way, Erich Loche."

"Oh? Your Papa is the station master? My Name is Ka . . umm Karl. Karl Huxley," she answered, momentarily stuttering over the new, still unfamiliar name.

"You're shivering," Erich charged. "Guess you aren't used to this type of weather. Tell you what. You go home and get warmed up. Tomorrow, I will come and teach you to throw, all right?"

"All . . all right," Katrina shivered out, exaggerating the breaks in her voice. "I am staying at the hotel up the road until my Maman can find us a place to live up here."

"Great. I will see you tomorrow after breakfast, Karl. Tell you what. I will walk you back. I bet you don't know the short cut back to the hotel. I'll have you there in half the time."
 

 
"Excellent work, Katrina," Sherla cheered. "Your new friend will be an excellent resource for us and a better cover for you. Now you have a reason to spend time in the vicinity of the train station without anyone being the wiser of your true intent."

Katrina was not so certain, but knew better than to voice her worries to the very pleased Sherla. "Tante Irene," she began, "I don't know if I can carry off this masquerade so close to a real adolescent boy. He has already decided that I throw like a girl. Suppose there are other boy-type activities that I do like a girl? How soon before he decides that I must BE a girl?"

"Oh, Katrina, . " Sherla began to protest, only to be cut off by Irene.

"Sherla!" Irene snapped before turning a gentler mein to the daughter of her heart. "Dear, you are right to be concerned, but Sherla is also correct in her assessment of the opportunity this acquaintance provides. You must try, at least, to befriend this boy."

"And if he discovers I am really a woman?"

Irene shrugged. "Hopefully he will not, but if he does, you still will have had the opportunity to find out things we need to know in the meantime. We will then use our planned story to explain why you are dressed and asked to behave like a boy. Most men will believe it. All right?"

Katrina wanted to say no, but then she glanced at the entreaty in Sherla's eyes and knew she could not deny her lover this. Sighing deeply, she nodded her acquiescence.

"But, my love," Sherla added, "We will have to start using the sticking plaster for you have been walking with a hip swing again."

"I have not!" Katrina retorted, dreading that awful tightness that made even the most restrictive corset seem comfortable by comparison.

"Of course you have," Sherla said confidently. "Look at that bit of packed snow that you tracked in, formed between the heel of your boot and the outer sole. It is thicker where the outer edge of the sole meets the heel than on the inner edge. Obviously, you are leading with your toe and instep on each stride. You have been touching toe first like a woman instead of heel first like a boy. I would wager any amount that if we were to go outside and check your tracks in the snow, you have been putting one foot in front of the other, too, also indicative of a hip-swing."

"We will see about THAT," Katrina said, her temper showing as she pulled on her coat and stormed out the door of their suite.

"Brilliant deduction, my dear Sherla," Irene said, her golden eyes twinkling in mischief. A spate of foul language announced Katrina's return to the suite's outer room. "Well, at least she is learning to curse like a boy, and I cannot even discipline her for it since she is working SO hard to stay in role."

"You were correct, ma petite," Katrina said as she let herself back into the sitting room. Her tone of voice provided almost enough warning for the Great Detective.

Almost.

"And this is what Erich showed me," Katrina said, tossing a softly-compacted ball of snow at Sherla's unfairly-dry hair. Unfortunately, her aim was not much better with Sherla than with Erich. Or perhaps it was because Sherla was rising and turning toward Katrina as she entered the room, but the snowball struck a few inches lower than the trousered member of their group had intended. And squarely into the so-very-feminine decolletage of Sherla's evening dress.

"Oops," gasped Katrina. The gasp was matched by Irene, who had risen quickly herself in a not-entirely-successful attempt to avoid the scattering snow.

Sherla, on the other hand, emitted a squeal far to outraged to be considered a gasp as she tried to scoop the freezing white snow from her cleavage.

"I'm sorry, Sherla," Katrina tried to explain, backpedaling away from the so-petite, yet so-fiery brunette.

"Hoohaahahah," Irene burst out, unable to control herself any longer. Her rich, uninhibited laughter pulled Sherla up short, looking from her intended target to the total lack of sympathy from her supposed benefactor.

"Irene, this is not funny," she snapped, as she fired off the remnants of Katrina's snowball at the older woman who showed considerable agility in dodging Sherla's not-girlishly-hurled missile.

"Oh, I don't know. I think it's wonderfully hilarious," Irene managed to get out, before being overcome with laughter again.

"I, . . ," but before Sherla could say anymore, her own laughter spilled out, destroying any potential for further intimidation of Katrina.

Smiling hugely, Sherla went over to hug her lover. "You truly are doing fine, sweetheart. You just need a little help smoothing out the rough edges of your characterization. Perhaps we can find something less. . . tacky than the bottom plaster to help you to remember to swing something other than those gorgeous hips."

"Oh, you," Katrina said, her mood improving. "You know I will wear it if you think it best."

"Wonderful!" Sherla said as she embraced Katrina tighter. "Just remember, darling. Think boyish!"
 

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To Be Continued...