Enter Professor Moriarty, returning once again from the dead,
with a uniquely Victorian vengeance to wreak upon his old arch-enemy
 |
A Study in Satin
Part 1: Semper Cogitus Chapters 1-10
Copyright © 2000, 2013 Tigger
All Rights Reserved. |
Image Credit: Title picture Sherlock Holmes & Watson "Mystery" ~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 I: Semper Cogitus
Chapter 1. The End
The cold London fog rolled in across the Thames, making the city's street lights halo eerily. Had there been anyone out and about that damp, chilly midnight hour, they would have seen only a single lighted window overlooking Baker Street.
That solitary light issued from the second floor study of the flat at 221B Baker Street - the rooms of the fabled Mr. Sherlock Holmes. For a single moment, a shadowy figure peered out into the night through the parted drapery - a figure bent by age and other . . . less-natural enfeebling agencies.
The years had not been kind to the great detective. His longtime friend and principal biographer, Dr. John Watson had been dead for nigh onto two years. Mycroft Holmes, the brilliant if eccentric older brother who had used his contacts as a senior official of His Majesty's Government to send Holmes so many challenging cases, had also passed away. Both losses had been devastating to the man in the gloomy rooms for their passing had left that powerful and restless intellect truly and completely alone save for memories - and vices.
Sherlock's brother had been, of late, the last influential person in all of England who had still believed in the great detective's powers and abilities. With Mycroft's death, Holmes no longer had any contacts who could or would advise other such men of consequence to bring their most baffling and sensitive problems to the rooms at 221B Baker Street. Those whose hands now controlled the reins of power within the British Empire could see no point in consulting with a relic of a bygone age - a man who, in their so-very-knowing estimation, could not possibly understand the wonders and problems of their modern world.
Their casual dismissal had left Holmes to struggle against the fiendish power he could not defeat - the utter and debilitating ennui that gnawed at his very soul when his powerful brain went unchallenged.
All of which made the loss of Watson even more serious. Watson had been the stone upon which the great detective had sharpened his thoughts, tested his hypotheses and tightened his arguments. In short, Dr. John H. Watson had provided Holmes the intelligent and appreciative audience his investigative method and his ego required.
More importantly, a living John Watson would have at least attempted to dissuade Holmes from resuming his use of the seven percent solution of cocaine as a salve for his boredom. Holmes had believed that he'd defeated the need for the drug during his years abroad after the incident at the Reichenbach Falls with Professor Moriarty, but over the past two years, he had discovered that he'd been wrong. Since Watson's death, and without challenges suited to his curiosity and intellect, Holmes' use of the drug had steadily increased. Whether that was due to the unrelenting ennui or to a real and growing addiction, Holmes did not know.
Nor, at this point in his life, did he very much care.
Every game, in Holmes' opinion, eventually came to a cusp, a critical moment in which a player's options became distinctly limited. After a great deal of contemplation and reflection, Holmes had concluded that his life had arrived at just such a crossroads.
Holmes had always assumed that when such an important milestone in his amazing life finally occurred, it would come heralded by major events and great happenings. A case worthy of his powers such as the one that had led to the confrontation with Professor Moriarty at the Falls or an investigation such as the one he'd conducted on the behest of the King of Bohemia when he had first met Irene Adler, THE woman. Such a major event in the life of the greatest detective of his era, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, should have been presaged by something equally momentous.
Only it had not. Rather, the event had been marked only by a series of relatively unimportant, disconnected events in the past sennight.
It had all begun not more than a week earlier, when a particularly maudlin mood had driven Holmes to take out his case file. After Watson's death, Holmes had assumed the responsibility of documenting his investigations, not because he was vain nor because he harbored any interest in personal fame, but because the world stood to benefit from accurately rendered accounts of his method in action. Holmes had been dismayed to realize that it had been more than a year since the aging detective had been called in to undertake a case worthy of his still prodigious powers. It had been mere coincidence that the date of the final entry in the file, the date that Holmes had declared that case closed, had been one year ago to the day he had decided to look over that file.
Mere coincidence.
Later during the same week, Holmes had needed to renew his supply of cocaine. The meager supply that Watson had kept in his small surgery had been quickly consumed once Holmes had resumed using the drug. This had forced Holmes to find another supplier, which had not been difficult - until this attempt. This time when Holmes had gone to his chemist, he'd been told that from then on he would need a prescription signed by a licensed doctor in order to obtain the drug. That problem had been solved by means of a judicious bit of forgery, but Holmes knew from personal experience that forgery was a crime with a very short life. Eventually, the doctor and the chemist would reconcile their records and Holmes' forgeries would be uncovered. Holmes might be able to delay that unfortunate occasion by frequenting a number of other doctors and chemists, but it was only a matter of time before that avenue of relief, however reprehensible Watson had found his use of it, would be closed to Holmes as well.
Holmes had therefore renewed his efforts to secure work from the various government agencies that had once clamored for his attentions. Those efforts, however, had been met only with ridicule and derision. In fact, one officious little dandy had actually had the unmitigated gall to order the office guards to "escort" Holmes from the building.
Holmes had been profoundly humiliated by that cavalier dismissal and treatment. The humiliation had quickly given way to a rage the likes of which the ordinarily cold and unemotional detective rarely experienced. Briefly, he had gone so far as to actually consider turning his talents against those pompous, strutting fools - to following his greatest foe onto the path of crime, or even conquest. Then let those smug idiots at Whitehall try ignoring him. . . let them DARE to ignore King Sherlock the First.
The images such confrontations conjured up had been momentarily entertaining for Holmes, but in the end, he had discarded both notions.
Not because he doubted the feasibility of either option. Holmes firmly believed that he would have succeeded at either venture, but his decision to forgo those paths had come from what was to him, an unexpected source. Holmes was neither a religious nor a superstitious man, but the thought of how Watson would have reacted to Holmes turning his skills and will against the Crown had, in the end, dissuaded him.
Odd that after all the years of amused yet mildly condescending tolerance toward his longtime companion, Holmes should find that he needed to feel worthy of Watson's good opinion. *The follies of age,* he thought not for the first time, *are at least as numerous of those of youth, and the worst folly of all must be conscience.*
In truth, Holmes did not need to work - at least not in a financial sense. Mycroft's estate along with Holmes' own investments provided him a more than comfortable income that would last far beyond his expected lifetime. No, work was something Holmes needed, or perhaps more accurately, something Holmes craved to fill his mind, not his purse.
*So, those appear to be my only viable and personally acceptable options,* Holmes mused,*I could continue to live as I am living at that precise moment. Physically comfortable and either bored to a state of utter insensibility, or assuming I am somehow able to continue to obtain the cocaine, drugged into a similar state, but not caring.* He could continue to be a forgotten creature in this modern world, or worse yet, a pitied one.
"*Neither* course of action is the least bit acceptable," Holmes snarled in the barest whisper. "There is yet a third choice. This abominable maze that has become my life's game still has a third path open to me, and I choose to follow it!"
Shoving the drapery closed, Holmes strode across his study to his scientific laboratory. The weak, blue flame of a carefully adjusted Bunsen burner flickered, throwing eerie shadows about the otherwise darkened room. The scientist in Holmes watched dispassionately as the heat of the dancing flame caused a clear liquid in a small glass beaker to boil gently, sending its vapors billowing up into a distilling unit.
The beaker had been full earlier this evening but now the fluid filled less than a tenth of its original volume. Holmes picked up the modestly sized amber-colored apothecary bottle and looked at the label. Before Holmes had upended the bottle's contents into his distilling apparatus, it had originally held a spare two ounces. An entire thirty-day's supply of the solution - at least that is what the prescription he'd been forced to present had indicated.
"A prescription," he snorted into the darkness. "They will be regulating alcohol next. Or trying to, the consummate fools."
Skillfully, Holmes used a pair of metal tongs to snatch the beaker off the flame and then poured its contents onto a small metal bottomed dish. He then set the dish upon an ice bath to cool the concentrated liquid. With practiced efficiency, Holmes filled his steel hypodermic from the dish, and then stalked off to his rooms. Briefly, he worried that the contents of the needle might not be sufficient to the task. Originally, Holmes had intended to concentrate the entire bottle of cocaine, but his calculations indicated that the resulting concentrate might be too thick to pass through his hypodermic needle. Still, what the needle's reservoir currently contained was nearly three weeks' dose and that should be more than adequate to Holmes' needs.
As he had always done when embarked on a project worthy of his mettle, Holmes had planned and prepared thoroughly for this evening's agenda. Mrs. Hudson's daughter was scheduled to come in for her twice weekly cleaning day after tomorrow. With luck, she'd think he'd passed away of natural causes, although the police would see things for what they were, but Holmes had no desire to traumatize Miss Hudson either.
Quickly, Holmes went about the nightly rituals a man developed over a lifetime. A quick wash, a soothing pipeful of his tobacconist's most excellent rough-cut blend while his Edison Phonograph played Johann Sebastian Bach's Concerto for Two Violins, and fifteen minutes reading the classics (Sophocles' Antigone in the original Greek) before reaching for his bedside gas lamp.
Except tonight, rather than reaching for the gas lamp, Holmes reached for the hypodermic needle. From his meticulous researches, Holmes had determined that the now-highly concentrated cocaine solution would immediately shock and then stop his heart in a not-easily-recognizable simulation of natural cardiac arrest. If he could just turn the lamp off and throw the needle out of his immediate vicinity before he succumbed, it was entirely possible that not even the police would uncover the truth. That was the only negative aspect of his plan - at least to Holmes' way of thinking - the possibility of having his name tarred forever with the stigma of insanity for having taken his own life. Being pitied for the supposed loss of his keen mind would be a bad enough legacy, but it would immeasurably worse to have those buffoons in the government feel vindicated in their arrogant assessment of the "mad" Sherlock Holmes.
"Then you had best complete the job properly, hadn't you?" Holmes chided himself rhetorically.
*Reduced to talking to myself,* he thought resignedly, *perhaps I am losing my mind, after all.* With a sigh, he plunged the needle home, steadily injecting the cool fluid into his arm. With a speed and strength born of ego, the Great Detective flung the needle out the conveniently open window and managed to dowse the lamp.
The soothing, euphoric haze of the drug came over him much more quickly than Holmes was used to, but that was only to be expected, he surmised. At last, the boredom receded as Holmes gave himself up to the contemplation of what was, for him, the only mystery he had been unable to investigate properly. At least, not if he'd wanted to live to tell the tale.
Well, he wasn't going to live, he smiled gently to himself, so now he was free to investigate what awaited men on the other side of death's veil. The thought brought a semblance of a happy grin to his lips and then his eyes drifted closed one last time.
Chapter 2. Life after Death?
"Mr. Holmes?" The piercing sound of a feminine voice calling out his name roused him, but he didn't want to wake up. "Mr. Holmes, are you all right?" the voice called out again, louder this time and with some discernable emotion backing it.
"Who. . ?" Holmes growled, burrowing down into his bed linens.
"'tis me, Mr. Holmes, Miss Hudson. I was just finishing up my cleanin' of your rooms, but you weren't up for me to change your beddin'." her voice made the last an accusation. "I have to be getting on to my own home, sir."
An incredible stench assailed Holmes' nose, forcing him awake, and with wakefulness, came recognition. The *last* thing he wanted was for Miss Hudson to realize what had happened. "No, that's quite all right, Miss Hudson. You just leave out the clean linens and I will see to the bedding myself when I get up."
"Are you all right, then sir? I've never known you to be a lay-a-bed, sir," Miss Hudson's voice was less strident now, more uncertain. "Not in all the years I've known you."
"Just a bit of the ague, Miss Hudson. My doctor prescribed a concoction that made me sleep. I am better now, but you should keep your distance. I would not want you to become ill yourself and possibly pass the illness to your mother or sister."
"No indeed, Mr. Holmes," Miss Hudson quickly agreed. "I've left some soup simmerin' on your stove, sir. It should do you up right and tight if you've got the strength to go get it."
Holmes got another whiff of his soiled bed linens and nearly gagged. The thought of food only made the growing nausea worse. "That will be quite all right, Miss Hudson. I am feeling much more the thing. A hot bowl of soup will be exactly what I need once I have had a chance to bathe." *The bath, at least, is the truth of the matter,* he thought.
A thought occurred to Holmes and he called out, "Did you come a day early for some reason, Miss Hudson?"
"Early? Why, today's my regular day, Mr. Holmes," Miss Hudson replied before pausing, "Oh, I see. That potion your doctor gave you made you sleep longer than you thought, Mr. Holmes."
*I've been unconscious for more than thirty six hours?* Holmes asked himself. *That explains the condition of my bed, but I expected my rest to be far longer than that. What happened?*
Holmes reveries were interrupted by his housekeeper. "Well, since you're feelin' able, Mr. Holmes, I'll be on my way. Hope you feel better. Just leave the dirty linens in the hamper in the kitchen and I will see to them next time. Good day, Mr. Holmes. Don't worry about the stains. My mum has the same problem, her bein' of an age, y'know, and I know just how to get them white and sweet again."
Holmes growled a 'thank you' and a farewell and then listened carefully for her departure. Quickly, he got out of his bed, as much to escape the foul odors as to ensure the door was securely bolted. Whatever was happening, it was definitely NOT what Holmes expected, and until he understood what was happening, he wanted no more guests.
Unfortunately, no sooner was he out of bed, then the world began to spin giddily. Urgently, Holmes reached out toward his bedside table to steady himself, but it was too far away and too late.
Sherlock Holmes fell to the floor in a swoon.
When next Holmes awoke, this time from his impromptu bed on the floor, he stood more carefully. Whatever residual effect of the drug had overcome him on his first arousal would not surprise him again. What did surprise him, as he carefully stood, was the absence of pain. Arthritis had begun to attack the old man's joints in the last year. Mornings had always been the worse. Knees, hips and elbows that had been permitted to remain relatively stationary over the course of a long, damp London night tended to argue vigorously against being forced to move again.
*Perhaps there is a heaven, after all,* Holmes thought in wonder before two other circumstances seemed to refute that. The sewer-like stench of his own bodily wastes again assailed him bringing back the memories of his conversation with Miss Hudson.
Quickly, he turned to leave the room and its foul odors only to trip and fall two steps later.
On the hem of his nightshirt.
Slowly, but still without any pain, Holmes eased himself once again to his feet. He looked down at the hem of his robe and momentarily gawked. The nightshirt's hem, which had just that night before been well above Holmes' ankles, now pooled on the floor about his feet. "Definitely a mystery is afoot here," he said aloud before turning towards his laboratory. He nearly tripped again, but caught himself. Deftly, he gathered up a handful of the nightshirt up in one hand and pulled the garment off, tossing it to the floor by his bed. Grimly, Holmes took in the multiple stains marking the nightshirt that had not been there when he'd first donned it - how long ago had that been? By the look of the dawn and taking into consideration Miss Hudson's earlier revelations, Holmes concluded that he'd worn that garment for at least two days and three nights. *One mystery at a time,* he told himself as he donned his dressing robe before striding off again.
Holmes snatched up a pencil and a book as he moved past his desk towards a large empty wall on the far end of the lab. Holmes stood, back to the all and rested the book on his head. Holding the book in place, Holmes stepped out from under the book and used the pencil to mark the book's position on the wall. A ruler confirmed what the detective's trained senses had already discerned.
Sherlock Holmes had somehow shrunk almost three and a half inches since he'd gone to his bed three nights past. "Amazing," he half whispered to himself before rushing off to his dressing room again, this time nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste.
One look in his reflecting glass showed that he was much more than not dead. In addition to his decreased stature, Holmes saw that he looked visibly younger. His skin had not been so . . so smooth and supple in decades.
"Or is this how the afterlife occurs?" he asked himself. "If this is heaven, however, I would have preferred to keep my normal height. And I most *definitely* would have preferred not to have lost control of my bodily functions in so humiliating a manner."
Only a sudden, undeniably urgent call from Nature pulled him away from his glass, but once in the water closet, another shock greeted him. It was not just his body's height that had changed. He was. . . smaller - all over. In fact, he was a great deal smaller. Although not a vain man, at least where physical prowess and size were concerned, Holmes was still greatly taken aback when he opened his dressing gown to relieve his bladder.
His manhood had shrunk, too. Actually, it had *more* than merely shrunk in proportion this new stature, it had all but disappeared. Heavens above, but Holmes had seen infants with greater . . .masculine endowments than he now possessed.
After that momentary shock, Holmes forced his intellect to reassert itself. He needed to determine whether his mind might be similarly afflicted. Holmes tested himself by first by recalling the design and results of a recent chemical experiment he'd conducted and then by mentally constructing the classic proof of the Theorem of Pythagoras. Neither problem proved to be at all difficult, thus confirming that Holmes' mind, at least, remained . . . adult. That concern dealt with, Holmes was all the more determined to deal with this situation with his famous rationality and powers of deduction powers.
Returning to his looking glass, Holmes inventoried and cataloged his person, comparing it to the old body he remembered so well. Like his manly parts, the rest of his body had also become smaller, although by no means as much as had his genitals. His hands, which had always been long and fine fingered for a male, were now thinner, almost dainty, and tipped with surprisingly long nails. Slippers that had once fit him as perfectly as. . .well, as a well worn slipper, now foundered about a much smaller, more slender foot.
About the only thing besides his fingernails that was longer about him was his hair. He'd gone to bed a balding old man, but now two to three inches of thick, luxuriant almost-black hair covered his head, and framed a face that while it was still slender was also somehow less. . .saturnine. . somehow more. . .
"Juvenile is the word you are attempting to deny, Holmes," he said aloud, not at all surprised to hear a voice markedly different from his own issue forth from his mouth.
"No, that's not right either," Holmes realized, still speaking aloud, trying to understand the changes in his voice. "My face, even when I was much younger, never looked like *that*! In fact, this face looks like none of the men of my lineage, as recorded in the paintings in Mycroft's old house. Which means that whatever has occurred, it not merely a simple age reversal. My understanding of that monk Mendel's work on heredity is that such features are statistically very unlikely unless I am somehow no longer of the Holmes family line. Which I would have thought impossible were it not for the evidence of my own eyes."
The curiosity that was part and parcel of Sherlock Holmes came to the fore and focused his full attention on this new and fascinating problem. The detective studied his reflection as though it was the face of a stranger's face, using his powers of observation to assess age, ethnic background, fitness and physical attributes.
"Age, hmmm," he said as he began to assess the changes he saw in his mirror, " a bit of a conundrum, that. The size of the head relative to stature of the total body would seem to be consistent with adult proportions, yet there is no evidence of beard growth. Quite peculiar, that." Holmes ran those incredibly soft fingers over his cheeks. "Not even the slightest indication of stubble although it has been more than two days since I last shaved. That factor combined with the significant diminution of my masculine development would also indicate a pre-pubescent condition. Rather contradictory indications, all around."
Holmes turned his attention to his torso and bodily extremities, turning and twisting this way and that so he could examine himself from every possible angle. "Remarkably supple," he murmured to himself with a touch of pleasure, "Certainly more so than I can remember in many a year. On the other hand, muscular development is also slight. While such an apparent lack of muscle tissue is often a sign of a rapid growth spurt in the underlying skeletal structure, there is no evidence of the corresponding gauntness." Holmes gently pinched the flesh of his smooth thigh and watched the skin spring back when he released it. "In point of fact, it seems to be just the opposite as this body has a smoothing layer of fat - much more than I have ever possessed before, and certainly more than that aging relic that went to bed three nights past."
"The face retains a distinctly English appearance. Though the nose is much shorter than before, it is still quite narrow. The eyes are slanted upward slightly, not through the presence of an oriental epicanthic fold, but as though it were a more natural shape. This is accented by higher than normal cheekbones. It is almost as if . . . "
"Oh, dear God. I refuse to believe it!"
Shocked at the direction his inquiries seemed to point, Holmes pulled on a clean dressing gown over the offending body. Thus attired, Holmes made his way back to his laboratory where the apparatus he'd used to concentrate the fatal dose of cocaine still stood. Dazed, Holmes sank slowly onto his favorite chair.
"Is this what happens when you die?" he asked aloud. "You stay behind as something or someone other than who or what you were in your previous life? Are the Buddhists of India correct and this is some type of reincarnation? Is *this* what heaven entails?? Or perhaps more correctly, this is my first taste of hell?"
"Oh," a harsh voice said from the parlor, "I rather suspect that you will find hell quite pleasant by comparison - when you finally arrive there. But for the time being, you are, unfortunately for you, my dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes, quite alive upon this earthly pale."
Holmes spun out of his chair and saw a large figure coming through the door; the intruder's features lost in shadow due to the backlighting of the parlor windows.
"Who *are* you?!?"
Chapter 3. The Professor
"Surely I have not changed *that* much, Mr. Holmes. Certainly not as much as you have," he said with a smirk, "I am deeply hurt. After all, we have been the very *best* of enemies."
"Moriarty? Is that YOU?!?" the last word came out came out in a shrill tone that shocked Sherlock even as he heard it come from his mouth.
The large man gave an exaggerated bow. "At your service."
"But. . .but. . you're dead! I saw you die!"
Grinning, Moriarty made a show of patting his very solid and non-ghostly body. "I don't think so. I am quite alive, Holmes, but I am rather pleased to know that you thought me dead, and that my little entrance has upset you this way."
The man stepped further into the light, close enough to see and be seen clearly. Leaning toward the seated Holmes, his voice took on a sneering irony as he said, "After all, my dear 'Sherlock', it's only fair, don't you think? In our long association, I have so often thought you at last removed from this mortal coil thanks to one of my brilliant stratagems, only to have you time and again rise like Lazarus-from-the-grave to thwart me yet again. This time, however, it is I who have cheated the reaper just as this time it will be *I* who will win our final battle."
"What have you done to me, Moriarty?" Holmes growled.
"Not precisely what I thought I was doing, I can assure you. Even now," Moriarty mused almost to himself as he regarded his greatest enemy, "You quite surprise me. The physical effects have never been quite so radical nor so rapid during any of my experimental investigations."
"I'll not be some damnable guinea pig for you!" Holmes shouted as he leaped from his chair to attack the looming man.
Despite his resolve and the pent-up rage at the changes that had been inflicted upon him, the attack was ineffectual. In fact, it was worse than ineffectual. Although well on in years, Moriarty still had the advantages of size, strength and reach over the now much smaller Holmes - advantages he used to their fullest as he toyed with his arch enemy before brushing him aside. Impelled as he was by Moriarty's strength, Holmes' backside landed hard on the floor and he rolled into the adjoining room.
Inordinately pleased with his ability to dominate Holmes in such a satisfyingly physical manner, the still-laughing Moriarty followed intent on continuing the game, but stopped short the moment he realized where Holmes had led him. Professional curiosity replaced sadistic intent as the man Holmes had so often called "one of the greatest scientific minds in history" began to study the laboratory of Mr. Sherlock Holmes.
"Rather primitive, Holmes," Moriarty finally said with a superior look and a dismissive gesture of his hand. "I had expected much more of you given your continual harping on your scientific methods of investigation and deduction."
Still burning with shame at his loss of physical ability and over the amused ease with which Moriarty had manhandled him, Holmes glared at the criminal mastermind, "What you see here has served my needs quite admirably as YOU should well attest given our long. . . association, Moriarty."
Moriarty continued to explore, almost as if he were a visitor at a colleague's facility. "I suppose," he murmured when his eye fell on a large, amber bottle. "Hello, what is this?" he asked as he picked up the bottle.
Knowing eyes flickered to Holmes as Moriarty read the label, and then took in the apparatus on the table on which he'd found the bottle. "Ah, so that answers the question as to why your change was so unexpectedly rapid, my dear Holmes," Moriarty began to guffaw - a most inelegant and ungentlemanly sound - before turning humor-filled eyes back to his long-time adversary. "Although I would have expected such an overdose to kill you, *this* is just so deliciously ironic. Fate has played many a colossal jest on me where you are concerned, Holmes, but this one goes far beyond my wildest imaginings."
"Perhaps, Professor, you might let me in on your 'jest'." Holmes said in as low a voice as his new vocal cords could manage. The best he could do, however, fell well short of sounding menacing.
Moriarty gave one last bark of laughter before regaining control and turning his mouth up into an odd, almost affable smile crossing his visage. "You know, Sherlock, I have recently been forced to the conclusion that Nature herself has for some reason decreed that I would not be allowed to kill you. Fate has always conspired against me whenever you involved yourself in my business, and I could seemingly do nothing about it. My plans were inevitably foiled from the moment you arrived upon the scene, though the means you used showed no particular genius - certainly nothing to match my own. After a great deal of thought, I concluded that I must find for you a fate worse than death, and so I have. I substituted your "7% solution" with another concoction of my own making."
A tremor of unholy mirth erupted from Moriarty. With obvious effort, he composed himself enough to continue, "And NOW," he continued still chuckling, "I find that, had I instead done nothing at all, you would have killed yourself for me. Oh, this is simply too rich."
Holmes scrambled to his feet and rounded on Moriarty. "What foul potion have you used on me, Moriarty?"
"Foul? Why, Holmes, how can you be so ungrateful when I have done you such a monumental favor! Look at yourself, man. I have provided you with a veritable fountain of youth."
Reflexively, Holmes' fingers flew to his now-smooth face. "Youth? The effect of your potion is not simple youth! You are even older than I, Moriarty. If you had somehow discovered such an elixir vitae, you would surely have used it on yourself and faced me as a young man at the height of your powers, or waited for me to die of natural causes."
Moriarty grinned, and then became overtly pensive. "Well, there is a great deal of truth in that, although I doubt I could have long resisted the gnawing temptation to taunt you with my strong, youthful body. However, I am forced to admit that there are a few. . . side effects that I have not, as yet, been able to eliminate from that potion. Not to worry, my dear Sherlock, I do have hopes of resolving them in the near future."
"Side effects? *What* side effects?"
"The most obvious one will soon become quite apparent, my dear Holmes, but as I must be leaving in short order for the continent I will, sadly, not be here to savor your torment. In any case, the drug you so blithely injected into your body will, over time, systematically and completely change your most basic and essential self in ways not even you could begin to imagine. I had hoped that the changes would have come up on you more subtly, causing you what I dreamed would be a great deal of distress as you realized what was inevitably, inexorably happening to you."
"Time has not improved you, Moriarty, you are still an unprincipled fiend."
"Why, thank you for the compliment, Sherlock," Moriarty replied evenly. "However to continue, if I may? By concentrating the drug as you did, you made its effects immediate and I suspect quite obvious. As I mentioned, I find it rather disappointing that you have denied me that little pleasure, but perhaps seeing you like this makes it worthwhile after all. That was quite a display earlier, Holmes - one I shall dine on with relish for years to come. The greatly intellectual and coldly rational Mr. Sherlock Holmes behaving like a hopelessly emotional and scatter-witted female, shrieking, spitting and clawing - quite ineffectually, I might add - was vastly entertaining."
Holmes felt the rage once again building but managed to restrain himself with pure force of will. "And the other, less obvious effects?"
"Ah, my dear *Miss* Holmes, from your utter lack of reaction am I to conclude that you had perhaps already reached that conclusion yourself? Yes, I can see that you had. What a pity as I was so looking forward to your look of horror when I revealed your fate to you." Moriarty made an insincere clucking sound before continuing. "My congratulations, dear *lady*. Not that the insight will do you any good."
The truth of Moriarty's claim, buttressed by Holmes own deductions from the earlier self-examination, became too much even for the vaunted self control of the world's greatest detective. Burning tears forced their way from *her* eyes as she clenched now-lengthened fingernails painfully into tender palms. In a voice that Holmes now realized was not truly strange, merely a woman's low alto, she managed to choke out, "You said there were other side effects.")
Moriarty shrugged carelessly. "They will become obvious as you continue to take the drug. I will tell you that all of the effects are permanent and cumulative. The more you take, the younger and more female you will become."
"Then I will simply stop taking it," Holmes retorted, giving up and dashing away at the tears now streaming down her cheeks, "It is not as if I have any great amount of the drug left."
"Sherlock, Sherlock, please don't cry anymore, little girl," Moriarty chided mockingly, "but, surely you don't believe it would be so simple as that? The drug is highly and irreversibly addictive. It induces a unreasoning, undeniable need, an unquenchable thirst if you will, for ever more of the potion. The hunger spawned by opium and its various derivatives are mild by comparison. You would have been addicted right now had you taken but the normal dosage, but since you have obviously taken several days' dosage in one night, you are now utterly and irretrievably in the drug's thrall. It would be very amusing to watch you suffer through the withdrawal symptoms I have documented in my researches, but as I said, I have pressing business on the continent which will keep me from watching you directly."
Moriarty turned toward the door leading to the street. "Moriarty, you said withdrawal symptoms. What kind of withdrawal symptoms?"
That terrible smile darkened the old professor's features again. "Oh, those are to be your surprise, so I shan't tell you any more about them. However, I will tell you that my experimental animals often went quite mad during withdrawal particularly when I denied them relief. Only a few were fortunate enough to die quickly. And don't bother wasting your few remaining hours of sanity trying to reproduce the elixir. I concocted it of herbs I discovered during my forced sojourn in the jungles of the Amazon. You won't find their like anywhere in this hemisphere and you don't have time to obtain them from their source. So, I will bid you good day, *Miss* Holmes. We won't meet again. Do try to survive as long as you can possibly manage, won't you?. I would truly hate for your suffering to end too quickly."
With that, Moriarty quietly shut the door, and disappeared into the bustle of London.
Chapter 4. The Hunt Begins
For uncounted minutes, Sherlock Holmes simply stood there, alone with his tears, clad in his too-long dressing gown and gripped by the rage that he'd failed to completely suppress when Moriarty had been present. *I am NOT - I WILL NOT be - merely an emotionally overwrought, irrational female,* he assured himself.
"But aren't you behaving in just such a manner now?" he asked himself aloud in that husky yet not-very-masculine voice. "Are you not giving your emotions free rein and thus clouding your perceptions and mental processes? Get a grip on yourself, man!" he ordered. "I. . .AM. . . HOLMES! I am objective! I am in CONTROL!"
It required a monumental effort, but Holmes ultimately succeeded in regaining at least some semblance of his famous control. Objectivity, on the other hand, proved to be, by far, the more difficult attribute, as this attack had been visited upon Holmes' very self image and most basic identity. Even the great Holmes, champion of rationality and cold logic, found it difficult to be objective about something so personal, something so intrinsic.
Depression yet loomed at the still-ragged edges of his control. He felt a burning need to rail against this foul machination of Fate and to demand to know why something so abominable had been visited upon him, but Holmes resisted that unworthy and useless display. However, even as he won out against that urge, a significant question occurred to him.
"Why now?" Holmes asked, voicing that question aloud, "Why did Moriarty launch this assault now? Clearly, by his own testimony, he has been experimenting with this compound for some time. Surely, he has had ample opportunity in recent years to attack me in this manner. So the key question becomes why move now? Not sooner, not later, but now?" And just as immediately, an answer occurred to Holmes. "Because some other factor, critical to his scheme, must have changed. He has an idea that may help him solve whatever problems he has with the drug and he is taking steps to keep me from becoming involved. But WHAT is he doing, curse the fates?!? How can I stop him if I cannot deduce WHAT he is planning? Facts, man, you need FACTS!"
An almost forgotten habit had the great detective pausing, waiting for another voice to answer his, but none did. Watson was still gone, and Holmes felt more alone than he'd ever felt before. Grimly, Holmes set aside those thoughts, those feelings, and began to reconstruct the events of the past three days. Somewhere, there simply had to be some clue or bit of evidence that he could use against Moriarty.
Lost in thought, Holmes paced aimlessly about his study until he found himself near his favorite chair and sat down. Suddenly, he found himself flailing deep within the chair's embrace, his feet no longer able to remain in contact with the floor. The unexpected, forceful reminder of his reduced stature momentarily startled Holmes out of his reveries, but only momentarily. Instead, the experience served to harden his determination to pursue this case to a final, undisputed conclusion.
The disciplined habits of a lifetime returned to the fore, focusing his powers of concentration and finally quelling the emotional maelstrom of the past hour. Sherlock Holmes was soon completely engrossed in reviewing and analyzing his memories. Without conscious thought, he reached for his famous pipe and the Persian slipper that Holmes used in lieu of a tobacco pouch.
And promptly began to choke. Then he sneezed hugely. Tears began to flood his eyes uncontrollably before he realized what was wrong - an aroma that had once appealed to him was now too harsh - too strong for his now-youthful, newly-sensitized nasal tissues.
Eyes streaming, Holmes was forced to rush to an open window and take several deep, cleansing breaths of the cool morning air before he could again breathe normally. Frowning, he carefully took up and examined his pipe. The stench that emanated from the tar-encrusted bowl nearly made him nauseous. Disgusted, he tossed the pipe and Persian slipper into the far corner of the room. "Even my pipe," he growled, "the fiend denies me even that simple pleasure of my lost manhood. Yet another motivation to find Moriarty and conclude our business once and for all."
Holmes spent the next hour thinking, more than once catching himself again reaching for now missing pipe. While several avenues of inquiry appeared open to him at that point in time, the most significant immediate problem he faced was the imminent onset of Moriarty's promised withdrawal syndrome.
There would, beyond any doubt, be such a withdrawal. Moriarty had been too amused by the picture of Holmes suffering through the condition for it to be a decoy. More importantly, Moriarty had to be involved with some very large scheme - one so large in scope that he had been willing to risk exposing his continued existence to Holmes. Moriarty had to know that, even in this. . . incomplete form, a fully rational, unencumbered Sherlock Holmes would prove to be a major threat to any scheme Moriarty might have planned and, more importantly, to the villain's own freedom and safety. Achieving his ends would therefore require that Moriarty put in motion some mechanism that would prevent Holmes from intervening in the evil Professor's manipulations and games. Ergo, Holmes concluded, the withdrawal syndrome had to be real.
That conclusion both greatly complicated and simplified Holmes' plans. Strategically, his time was doubly limited by Moriarty's cursed brew. Even assuming he had enough of the potion to last indefinitely, eventually he'd become so young (and so female) that even his great mind would fall prey to the twin demons of youth and irrationality, whereupon he would no longer be capable of successfully dueling with the great Professor Moriarty. All that aside, if Holmes were to even attempt the battle, he would need some means to blunt the effects of the syndrome and at this juncture, Moriarty's potion was the only agent to Holmes' knowledge that would accomplish this goal.
Holmes checked his bottle of the drug only to find a half to three quarters of an ounce remaining from his concentration experiment. "How much time does this buy me," Holmes murmured thoughtfully. At his typical rate of consumption, Holmes used approximately two cubic centimeters of the drug at a time. "I detest making assumptions, but I have no other avenue open to me," he said. "So, assuming that the ordinarily meticulous Moriarty wanted the new drug to be taken in approximately equivalent dosages as the cocaine it masqueraded as, that scant half to three quarters of an ounce should provide about anywhere from seven to ten withdrawal-delaying doses of the drug."
*How much time does this afford me?* Holmes wondered again as he swirled the contents of the dark, amber bottle. "Probably not much," he breathed, still not used to the musical tones that issued from his mouth. "Normally, I would take no more than a single dose a day. That would mean this," he held the bottle back up to the light, "Might be expected to last a week, perhaps ten days at the most. Depending on the addictive strength of this compound, however, it might also be considerably less."
Holmes slammed his fine-boned fist against the desk. He needed more time! A week simply was not sufficient time to locate, not to mention, stop Moriarty before the effects of the withdrawal killed Holmes. He needed to acquire more of the drug. If he could just balance the withdrawal against the rate of age regression, he might be able to buy enough time to find Moriarty.
But where would he find more of the drug? He didn't have enough time or drug to analyze the compound, and even assuming he could determine its constituents, it very likely required exotic, unobtainable materials.
Idly, Holmes looked down at the bottle clutched in his hand until his subconscious scanning of the label impinged on his racing mind. "A-HA! That's IT!" he cheered, setting the bottle aside. He'd return to the chemist shop post haste and force the proprietor to admit to being in league with Moriarty and to give Holmes more of the drug. At least then he'd have a fighting chance of stopping Moriarty one last time.
Resolutely, Holmes turned to his dressing room. He must have something in his disguise case that would let him move about the city. The chemist shop opened at ten a.m. and Holmes wanted to be the first person in the door.
Chapter 5. A Very Dead End
Holmes' first challenge was clothing himself. Nothing in his austere personal wardrobe remotely fit him anymore. Although his loss of stature was not so much as to preclude him passing as an adult (albeit a very young adult), the reduction was sufficient to draw undesired attention to him were he to appear so attired in public. The cut of the arms of his coats and the legs of his trousers were obviously too long for his new frame. His waistcoat was now unfashionably loose about his torso and fell several inches below his waist. His day-wear hats, he discovered, looked patently ridiculous on his markedly smaller head.
*What does that indicate about the measure of my brain?!?* he wondered in horror as he stared at the reflection of his famous deerstalker riding low on his forehead, nearly covering his eyes.
Yet another effort of will set that fear aside and Holmes focused on the problem at hand. "What I need is a messenger," Holmes mused. "Unfortunate that I have not kept contact with my Baker Street Irregulars . . . WAIT! Bloody Hell, that's IT!"
Animated by the inspiration, Holmes was shortly examining himself in his mirror. A pair of old work trousers had been shortened and strategically holed using a rough hand and a pair of scissors. A piece of manila hemp replaced the necessary belt and held the pants in place. His disguise drawer had given up a rough seaman's shirt and a leather vest that hung on him, but served his needs well enough. A ratty, oversized knit beret hung over his eyes effectively masking his features. For shoes he wore a pair of decrepit work boots that threatened to slip off his feet. Coal black from the now cool fireplace dirtied his features and made him look even more the street orphan that he wished to portray.
It would work, he thought with a touch of satisfaction, this time, in any case. He would need better in the future, however. He'd have to visit a few of his disguise apartments and collect the raw materials - including his sewing kit. If he had any hope of presenting and adult appearance, he'd need to alter his clothing. That would be time consuming, but he'd need at least one suitable set of attire before he could call upon the pawn and second hand shops to complete his wardrobe. The proprietors of those establishments would likely consider a lad such as Holmes now saw in his glass to be a thief and would show him the door rather quickly and rather forcefully.
Another thought struck Holmes. He frowned as he tried to find a suitable argument against that particular course of action, but found none. He'd go to his special apartments and collect his few feminine disguises, too. And he would go to the pawns and second-hand shops for women as well.
"DAMN your black soul to HELL, Moriarty," Holmes snarled, and then strode to the servants' quarters and the back door of the Baker Street apartment. Moments later, he returned to his study. Holmes found what he wanted and quietly slipped into the grimy back alley.
The trip to the chemist took somewhat longer than Holmes had anticipated primarily because he chose to remain in the shadows of London's many back streets and alleyways. This disguise would be noticeably out of place on the busy lanes of a well-to-do neighborhood. That could draw unnecessary and potentially heated attention. The very last thing Holmes needed was a confrontation with some outraged middle class merchant or worse, one of Scotland Yard's finest. The thought of attempting to explain himself to some contemporary edition of Inspector LaStrade made him shudder.
Holmes arrived at the chemist just as Big Ben was tolling the hour. He stayed in the shadows of a building across the way, waiting for the blinds to open, the "closed" sign to be taken down and the proprietor to unlock the front door.
Thirty minutes later he was still waiting. A frisson of anxiety curled in Holmes' chest as he considered the possibilities. Quickly, he made his way to the back of the small storefront shop and located its delivery entrance. Holmes carefully tested the latch and found the door unlocked. Silently, Holmes pushed the door open and slipped inside.
He didn't notice a fine gossamer thread breaking as the door finished its opening swing.
The back of the shop was deserted, but a dim, thin arc of light directed Holmes to the connecting door into the public areas of the establishment. Holmes abandoned stealth and moved into the main shop where he found precisely what his instincts had anticipated.
The body of the chemist lay in a heap behind the service counter, an oval of well coagulated, rusty red blood about him. He'd obviously been dead for some time. *Moriarty must have visited him immediately after leaving my lodgings. And while *I* was wallowing in emotion, Professor Moriarty was dealing with this man,* Holmes thought. "DAMN me for a FOOL!"
A closer examination of the body revealed a cheap, brown envelope pinned to the man's watch fob. Careful not to step into the sticky blood, Holmes reached over and retrieved the envelope. Holmes opened it and was not surprised to find it addressed to him.
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Rage burned at the back of Holmes' tightly shut eyelids, but all to soon his fury gave way to a rush of despair. He'd lost. Even if the chemist actually had the herbs, Holmes did not know what those were or where they were kept. Nor did he know how to prepare the infusion. All he had between him and Moriarty's promised torment was three days supply.
Perhaps he should just give up now. Hadn't he already intended - ATTEMPTED - to end his life? Why not simply do the deed and be done with it?
"Because Moriarty is alive," Holmes growled, "And so long as there is breath in his body and mine, and so long as I have the slightest grip on my mental faculties, I will oppose Moriarty in every way, in any way available to me." Holmes carefully smoothed the now-crumpled piece of foolscap paper in his hand and quickly reread the letter. "Moriarty has the right of it in at least one area. I am still Holmes and he is still Moriarty. There will yet be a reckoning. Somehow, there will be a final reckoning between us."
Holmes made a quick survey of the room, looking for any clues. A sulphurous black smudge on a nearby wall pointed to the likely position of the murderer when the fatal shot was fired. Muddy boot prints indicated that the killer's point of entry was also from the rear of the building. Holmes examined those prints and was surprised to find they did not match with the fashionable footwear favored by Professor Moriarty. The prints were larger, and their wear pattern was uneven. The left foot print was fully formed whereas the right seemed somewhat elongated in the toe. Another anomaly was that the right heel did not fully contact the floor except for the prints closest to the powder mark, facing the counter where the chemist met his end. All of which seeded to indicate a murderer with a distinctly uneven gait - like a limp. But Moriarty, bent with age though he'd obviously been, had not limped.
Holmes stood idly considering those facts when his eyes strayed to the apothecary's wall of bottles behind the counter. Suddenly, his mind slipped back to the last day he'd seen the chemist alive. Holmes famous eidetic memory vividly reconstructed the picture of the shop owner reaching up to . . "That very bottle!" Holmes cheered.
Scrambling up onto the counter, Holmes reached up and pulled down a large, nearly empty amber bottle. The handwritten label read "Mr. Holmes Cocaine Solution" The preparation date was a mere two days before Holmes had arrived for his final, supposedly fatal package.
Holmes removed the stopper and sniffed delicately at the open bottle. The slightly acrid scent of cocaine was not evident. In fact, what little odor that was in evidence was very subtle, almost undetectable and unlike anything in Holmes' long years of investigative experience. "Herbs," Holmes muttered, "Moriarty said it was brewed from herbs."
Carefully, Holmes re-stoppered the bottle and slipped down from the counter. *Amazing,* he thought, *to be so nimble again. If I successfully discover a means to blunt the final agonies of this withdrawal, this youthful suppleness may provide me some small, as yet undetermined advantages. However, I have not lost all my masculine strength yet, either. One cannot expect a female to be this strong or supple.*
Holmes pulled the door behind him as he left, remembering that while closed, the door had not been locked when he entered. However, there was no way he could have realized it had previously been closed with delicate precision. The pressure he used to ensure the door was seated properly was enough to crush a tiny ball of acid lodged in the doorframe.
That acid, though minuscule in itself, started a chain of events that had most dramatic results. A deafening explosion shattered the pre-noon bustle of the block as the front of the chemist shop went up in a huge fireball that rapidly enveloped the two stores immediately on either side.
The concussion's impact threw the unprepared Holmes to the ground where only blind fate had prevented him from landing on and shattering the precious apothecary bottle.
"And so the game is once more afoot," Holmes said as he watched the flames spread up and down the square. Dispassionately, he watched as men and women who'd been caught in the blast rolled upon the muddy street to quench flames that licked at their clothing. Other bodies simply lay where they'd fallen, their motionless grim testimony to the fury of the initial explosion. Holmes felt something burn at his eye, and he raised his free hand to bat away the tears that began to flow. "He must be stopped," Holmes whispered in an oddly ragged voice, "and in all of his infernal career, only I have ever succeeded in that endeavor. So be it."
Holmes resolutely turned his back on the now fully developed conflagration. There was nothing more he could accomplish here, but there was a great deal he could accomplish elsewhere. These men and women would have justice, he swore to himself, even if they never knew the how or why of it. In the confusion and tumult of the out of control blaze, no one noticed one ill-clothed boy disappearing into the shadows.
Holmes was nearly to the back door of his Baker Street rooms when a large hand locked onto his thin shoulder. "'ere now, and where do ye think yer goin', me fine lad?"
The powerful hand spun his thin frame and Holmes found himself facing a huge, filthy man clad in the rough clothes of a London dockworker. His face had seen rough handling - several scars and missing teeth attested to years of hard living and fighting. A nearly overwhelming stench of human waste, bad rum and cooked onions emanated from man, nearly causing Holmes to wretch. "Oi think Oi asked ye a question, runt."
Swallowing hard and trying to look frightened. "I'm runnin' errands for the housekeeper here," he gasped out. "She sent me to the doctor's for some potion for her master." He held up the bottle, but then became afraid the bounder might think it something that might fetch him a copper or two. "She tells me tis a frightful wicked physic, as the old man she works for can't seem to do it fer 'imself natural anymore."
"Well, ye listen ter me, youngin', and ye might manage ter grow into a man someday. I'm here for a fine young gennulman."
"Ye wants to talk ter this gennulman, sa'ar?" Holmes asked, very deferentially.
"No, runt, Oi want's ter grab 'im. Mother Hell over on the docks will pay five guineas in silver for such a fine, tender little pullet for her whorehouse as some of her customers like it that way, ya see? Oi been told there'd be jest such a one for the 'avin' at this 'ere place if'n Oi was to wait real patient-like - nice an' skinny, with pretty skin and hair."
"I ain't seen the like of that, sa'ar." Holmes quavered.
"Well, ye'll keep yer eyes open and yer mouth shut, lessen ye wants me to close both for yer real permanent like. Ya got that, boy?" Holmes swallowed hard to keep from vomiting in the man's pockmarked face and managed to nod his acquiescence. "Good. Oi'll be around, laddie. Yer see anythin', ye'll be tellin' Old Ned, and Oi might just give ye a coin for it. 'Course, ye don't tell me, and Oi find out?" He shoved Holmes to the ground and turned back to leave the alley. "But then, ye'll be tellin' me so there's no need to go into that."
Holmes watched the man walk away. Only later, back in the relative safety of his room, did the great detective recall that his assailant had walked with a pronounced limp that forced him to drag his right foot.
Chapter 6. Experiments In Time
Shivering uncontrollably, Holmes repeatedly thrust the heavy black iron poker into the dancing flames, attempting to coax more heat from the burning coals. He was so bloody cold. He felt as if his internal organs had been somehow transmuted into ice. Nothing he'd done since his headlong flight into the house following his unexpected confrontation with the villain calling himself "Old Ned" had in any way relieved the fierce bone chilling cold.
"Is this yet another of those side effects of Moriarty's damnable brew?" Holmes asked himself through chattering teeth when another more ominous thought occurred to him. "Or is this the onset of withdrawal?"
Holmes wrapped a blanket about his body and moved over to his worktable where the two apothecary bottles stood side by side. Taking a deep breath in an effort to control his still shivering hands, Holmes carefully removed the stoppers from each bottle. He waved a hand over the top of one bottle towards his nose. Delicately, he sniffed at each bottle, but was unable to discern any significant scent. Emboldened by that, Holmes brought each bottle to his nose and carefully inhaled. There was just a hint of scent from the original bottle, and a stronger scent from the new one. *I think these are the same concoctions,* Holmes thought, *But I cannot be certain of that. The scent is simply too subtle.*
Holmes re-stoppered both bottles, and set them in the center of the large table for safety. He began to pace the room, considering his options. Slowly, a plan started to take shape in his mind. Holmes retreated to his bed chamber and returned with his medical kit from which he removed two hypodermic needles. These were thoroughly sanitized using the latest methods of sterilization approved by the British Journal of Medicine. Once the needles had cooled, Holmes meticulously filled each needle, one from each of the two amber bottles, and the set the needle in front of the bottle from which it had been filled.
His preparations complete, Holmes picked up his experimental journal, a pen and ink, and then strode back to his favorite chair. Holmes reconsidered his planned course of action as he settled himself in the chair's comfortable depths. *If I am to live with this withdrawal curse, I must first understand it in the fullness of its effects," he said aloud, "The only way to do so is to permit its onset and then study it for as long as I can endure it. Only then will I administer the potion from the new bottle. If that eases the symptoms, then I can be relatively assured that it is the same as the potion the chemist dispensed for me earlier in the week. If it does not ease the symptoms, I will use the other needle and the time it gains to decide upon my course of action.*
That certainly appeared to be the best option available to Holmes for, at the very least, it would provide him with a more complete understanding of his current circumstance. Holmes tried one last time to think of some way by which his plan might be improved, but could not. All that could be done was being done, so Holmes stretched and settled himself to wait.
Holmes hated waiting. In his line of work, patience was necessary, even vital to the execution of a successful investigation, but waiting implied idleness which was something Holmes' great mind could ill abide. In the old days, it had been the genial Dr. John Watson with his usually incorrect suppositions and hypotheses about the case at hand, or his endless, overly simplistic questions for his historical compilations, who had distracted Holmes during such periods of enforced inactivity. In more recent times, such inactivity had driven Holmes back to the cocaine habit that had ultimately resulted in this current sad state of affairs.
*Bloody hell*, he thought sadly, *but I do miss Watson. Quite painfully, if I am being completely honest about the whole damned situation.*
Only then did Holmes realize that the cold and the shivering had passed.
Entry in the Journal of Mr. Sherlock Holmes
Date: February 2, 1911
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End Journal Entry.
It was the heat that awakened him. Feverish, burning heat that flared first in the pit of his stomach and rolled like the inexorable tide throughout the rest of his body to his extremities. Grimly, Holmes fought his way out from the cloying grasp of the blanket he'd wrapped about himself earlier. A glance at the clock above the hearth told him it was early morning, perhaps just before dawn.
Holmes marshaled his formidable will, and set himself about the task of documenting his symptoms. His hand shaking, Holmes took up his pen, and began to write.
Entry in the Journal of Mr. Sherlock Holmes
Date: February 3, 1911.
Time: 4:23 A.M.
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End Journal Entry.
Holmes' pen trailed off down the page as he turned nearly-palsied hands to the first needle. Injecting himself, he sat back to await the effects of the drug, wondering if he would have to use the original solution, or whether the quantity he had obtained from the dead chemist was equally effective.
Entry in the Journal of Mr. Sherlock Holmes
Date: February 3, 1911.
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End Journal Entry.
Interlude: On the English Channel
The sun exploded from the cold gray dawn sea; its spectacular colors painting the sky to the port side of the small sailing craft in bright golds and reds. Except for the sailors on watch, only one other was awake to appreciate the sun's glory. A creature of the dark, Moriarty was often still awake when Nature put on her daily light show. *A most auspicious start to the day,* he thought with quiet satisfaction.
Moriarty looked about him and was pleased by what he saw. The sea was calm, for the Channel, with freshening winds that indicated that pleasant situation would not last long. They would arrive in Calais in short order. *Soon,* he thought, *Soon my plans will come to fruition and Europe will be mine.*
The only negative aspect of his adventure so far had to do with, as seemed only natural to Moriarty, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. A missive from his man of affairs had been delivered to the professor just before sailing. The letter had described how the brutish oaf, Old Ned, had apparently recruited some young guttersnipe to help watch for Holmes. The guttersnipe was, in all likelihood, Holmes himself disguised as a boy instead of a young man as the professor had anticipated when he'd set that trap for his old enemy.
Moriarty had not honestly believed that the foolish oaf had any chance of capturing even a greatly diminished Holmes, but the thug would pose a visible and viable threat that Holmes would be forced to contend with before he could take any other more direct action against Moriarty. That in itself would be useful, and besides, the blundering fool might get incredibly lucky. The thought of Holmes forced to live out the remainder of his days as a white-slave prostitute was simply too delicious for words.
Moriarty truly wished he could have taken the time to watch and fully savor the imminent self destruction of Holmes, but time was something he needed to carefully hoard, at least until his youth potion was perfected. Until then, his own age was a factor to be considered. Surely Fate would not grant him so great a victory over his arch nemesis only to have him die of old age just as his final triumph was at hand.
*No,* Moriarty reassured himself, *Fate MUST have far greater plans for me, otherwise why would I have been gifted with this great intellect and the will to use it fully?*
No other answer fit the data. Moriarty was great, would be greater still, because Fate had so decreed it. He would perfect his drug for both its potentialities, extending his own life in the process so that he could use the other potential of the drug to secure his rightful place as ruler of mankind.
Perhaps when he'd finally succeeded he'd go back to London and see if Holmes still lived. If so, the stubborn fool might still afford him some small amusement. And there was always the Mother Hell option, too, once he had tired of tormenting the little slut.
Chapter 7. Planning, Preparations and Provisions
The clock tolling eight o'clock roused Holmes from his sleep - that and an urgent need for the facilities. Moments later, Holmes was giving heartfelt thanks for the wonders of indoor plumbing and Mr. Crapper's commode. He would never have made it to the old outdoor facility without again seriously embarrassing himself.
Holmes cleaned himself up and realized that he was positively ravenous. *Not surprising, Holmes,* he told himself, *Given that the last time you sustained yourself was nearly five days in the past.* Soon, Holmes was back in his favorite chair, heartily consuming a simple breakfast of bread, cheese and tea. Unfortunately, the soup Miss Hudson had prepared for him during her last visit had long ago petrified in the bottom of the pot.
The bread was actually somewhat stale, and he'd been forced to trim mold from the chunk of country cheese Miss Hudson had left for him, but Holmes found himself hard pressed to recall a more satisfying meal. It simply tasted wonderful. *Another side effect of the drug? Increased sensitivity of the senses? Might that explain my violent reaction to the scent of tobacco and tobacco residue in my pipe?* It was a strong possibility, Holmes decided.
As he ate, Holmes mentally reviewed his current situation. All too soon, he would need to pursue his investigations in locales where his street urchin persona would be decidedly unwelcome. Unfortunately, the bulk of his disguise attire was not stored at Baker Street. Holmes would have to visit a number of the other establishments he maintained about London as repositories for the various costumes and other masquerade tools he had used as a matter of course in many of his more sensitive investigations.
That posed an immediate dilemma for the master detective. On the one hand, the risk of being overcome by the vile withdrawal symptoms whilst out in the city presented a danger that he dared not underestimate. Yet, the other hand was the remorseless march of time - clearly his most limiting resource. Holmes knew that he could ill afford to simply sit about waiting for the next attack.
His hunger sated, Holmes set aside his tray and went over to stand in front of his mirror. He ran his hands over his face and then down his torso, carefully assessing the person he saw looking back at him from the silvered glass. His initial inclination was to take up his journal and carefully measure his entire body, but he resisted that impulse. *There will be time enough for that later,* he assured himself, *but the first priority is to assure my freedom of movement in the face of Moriarty's henchman.*
Holmes returned his full attention to the reflection in his looking glass. The street urchin disguise would still serve, he decided after a long moment, although to his experienced eye, his visage appeared slightly more feminine than he had the day previous.
*Thank God the changes are sufficiently subtle that I still may pass for a callow youth. The cap to hide my eyes, a bit of lampblack applied judiciously to simulate dirt, and these scruffy though masculine clothes and I should still appear sufficiently boyish to pass what little scrutiny I cannot otherwise avoid.*
*If the clothes are loose enough,* he thought as he slid his hands down his torso again and shook his head in disgust. His waist was definitely smaller than it had been the day before - he was sure of that - while his hips seemed unchanged if he read the fit of his trousers about his lower abdomen correctly. The loose fit of the shirt and vest would disguise that today, but if only one very recent application of the drug changed his physique this significantly, it was only a matter of time - and very little time at that - before the Baker Street Irregular would find himself in serious danger of becoming one of Mother Hell's unwilling employees. Clearly, other options were required and not solely to provide Holmes access to places his current disguise could not.
Holmes sighed. If he but had the right materials at hand, then he could work on his alternative disguises while he waited for the onset of the withdrawal symptoms. That, at least, would be an effective dual use of his severely limited time.
Holmes strode from his dressing room, intent on checking the alleyway for signs of the man who'd accosted him the night before. The way appeared clear, but Holmes decided to take no chances. He walked into the bedroom which had been Dr. Watson's for the last years of his life, and found what he needed. Carefully, he checked the revolver over, ensuring it was clean and that the action worked smoothly. Then he loaded the weapon, carefully aligned the hammer with the single unloaded chamber, then gingerly slid the weapon beneath his makeshift rope belt.
Only to have the gun's butt dig painfully into the tender flesh just beneath his ribs. "Bloody hell," Holmes cursed as he realized what was causing the problem, "I don't have time to deal with this properly just now!" The barrel of the gun was being forced outward by the swell of his pelvis, levering the gun's handle painfully into his side. *At least that confirms my supposition that my hip-to-waist silhouette has become decidedly more feminine since yesterday. Calculating precisely how much more feminine is something that must wait until I have spare time to take a proper set of initial control measurements.*
The scientist in Holmes looked longingly at his laboratory, his curiosity about this aspect of his transformation piqued, but the detective in him firmly rejected the notion. *I will definitely need quantitative data on this so that I can predict how quickly I am changing and how long before attempting masculine disguise will be pointless AND dangerous.* Holmes thought as he extracted the pistol from the rope belt and slipped it into one of his deep pockets. *However, there will be time in hand for those inquiries after I've retrieved what I need from my various hideaways.*
Holmes made one final check of the alley from the upstairs windows, then left the house and quickly melted into the back-street-shadows of London.
Using a hansom cab to expedite his travels was out of the question for a destitute street orphan such as the master of disguise was portraying. Thus relegated to moving about only on foot, Holmes required several hours to complete his errands.
After some thought, Holmes decided to retrieve whatever emergency funds he had cached at each of the flats he visited. *This will not meet all my needs,* he thought grimly as he counted out the thirty odd pounds in coins and banknotes of various denominations, *especially given my other obligations and commitments. I am going to need access to more of my funds. Somehow, I must develop a stratagem that will provide me access to my accounts at the Bank of England.*
As a hedge against another encounter with Old Ned, Holmes decided to carry only a few of the least valued coins in one of his pockets as a diversionary tactic, while keeping the bulk of his funds hidden in his heavy boots. Holmes' plan was simple. Old Ned would take sadistic pleasure at stealing the few paltry coppers from the supposedly 'helpless' orphan, believing that sum to be the whole of the boy's money. All Holmes would have to do would be to slink off, looking afraid and crying, and Ned would be never be the wiser.
Surprisingly, Holmes managed to complete his journey without any contact with Old Ned. However, the return trip was not completely uneventful, punctuated as it was by several near spills. Part of that was due to Holmes' lack of familiarity with his recently-changed body. His brain remembered his "old" body, and tried to move his current one as it had the old. That did not always work since his center of gravity and center of balance had changed significantly in a very short period of time.
The far greater problem, however, was the increasing tendency of his hips to over-rotate as he walked, causing the track of his feet to converge as though he were walking on a circus tightrope. More than once, the combination of this unusually narrow support base and London's rough, uneven cobblestone streets sent Holmes tumbling to the pavement.
Entry in the Journal of Mr. Sherlock Holmes
Date: February 3, 1911.
Time: 4:37 P.M.
|
End Journal Entry.
Holmes laid down his pen and reread the journal entry. Even now, after all the time he'd had to adjust to what was happening, to what had been done to him, it read like one of George Wells' fantastic, pseudo-scientific works of fiction that Watson so enjoyed reading. Except not even H.G. Wells could have conceived of such an idea. No, only one man had the imagination, the knowledge and the will to have conceived something like this. The question was how did one go about stopping such an individual?
At that moment, even the great Sherlock Holmes had to admit that he had no idea. Sighing, Holmes pushed aside his journal and reached for the pile of clothes laid out on his table. Perhaps he'd think of something while he resized these garments.
Chapter 8. Miss Hudson Calls
The hearth clock was tolling one o'clock when Holmes finally set down the last piece of altered clothing. Grimacing, he flexed his aching fingers and tried to relax the tight, cramping muscles of his sewing arm. He'd been wielding that damned sewing needle for the better part of the night, but now at last, he was done. He had what he needed for at least the next phase of his scheme. With a sigh, he gathered up his work and trudged into the bedroom only to be brought up short by the foul stench that filled the room.
"Curse me for a fool," he swore, "I completely forgot to change the linen and it has been fermenting almost six days." Holmes carefully hung his new clothes up in his armoire and set about changing the linens and airing the room. He would need the room at least habitable when Miss Hudson arrived. Holmes deposited the soiled and reeking bed linens in the laundry hamper in the servants' rooms and then went back to his study. He'd slept well enough there the previous night and would, no doubt, do so again especially if he wished to draw a breath without gagging.
Fatigue laid Holmes low and kept him asleep even as the first fiery tongues of fever again began to rage. It was the uncomfortably warm sensation, coupled with the ragged, panting breaths that finally roused him. By then, the other symptoms were also painfully in evidence - the nearly uncontrollable shivering, the hypersensitivity and the involuntary flexing of his back and abdominal muscles.
It was worse this time, Holmes thought as he fought against the acute discomfort and tried to keep track of the time for his journal entries. This time, he knew what to expect, and that anticipation somehow heightened the experience. That, and the memory of how quickly that single injection had assuaged the hellish torture.
Finally, he could stand it no longer and grimly made his way back to his workbench where the second hypodermic still lay fully charged. Holmes bit his lip as he tried to quell the spasmodic tremors long enough to safely drive the needle and its torment-relieving contents home.
He missed on his first attempt, and his second. Fortunately, his third time was the charm, and he managed to sink the point into the meaty part of his upper arm. As it had the previous night, the drug took effect almost immediately. Carefully, Holmes withdrew the needle, and began to relax.
Holmes glanced back up at the clock. 6:36. The drug had held off the withdrawal a little more than twenty four hours. He'd have to remember to enter that data in his journal, he thought wearily, but later. He'd do that later.
Miss Maude Hudson was hurrying up the steps to Mr. Sherlock Holmes' second floor rooms as she heard his mantle clock chime ten o'clock. Mortified at her tardiness, Miss Hudson fumbled with her key as she stood at the door. She was so flustered at her highly unusual lateness that she dropped the key and hand to scramble after it on her hands and knees. By the time she managed to enter the apartment it was two minutes after ten.
She made a quick survey of the front rooms and saw no sign of Mr. Holmes. Was he still sick, she thought guiltily? She'd meant to come back on one of her off days just to check up on him, especially seeing as how sick he'd been that last day, but then her Mum had come down with one of her attacks of the lung fever and it had been all Maude could do to tend to her own.
Maude was terribly worried about her Mother's declining health. The doctor had told her that she needed to get Mum out of the city and into the cleaner air of the English country, but Maude couldn't see how she could accomplish that. What would they do for money, she'd like to know? It wasn't as if they had much, and what little they did have came from Maude cleaning other people's houses, or taking in laundry and mending and the like. It was the only work she and her sister knew how to do. How much of that type of work would there be in a poor country village - that's what Maude Hudson'd like to know. "Doctors!" she exclaimed with mild disgust.
And it wasn't as if she'd be allowed to abandon Mum's "darlin' Mr. Holmes," either. If Maude had heard it once, she'd heard it a thousand times about how Mr. Sherlock Holmes had taken her Mother in as his housekeeper after her Father had died. Maude believed her Mother might expire at the very thought of leaving Mr. Holmes with no one to see to his needs properly.
Miss Hudson gathered up the dirty dishes Mr. Holmes had left in the main sitting room, and carted them off to kitchen. She found the fouled linens and had immediately dunked the lot of them in a strong soap and hot water solution. The strong odor of human waste quickly had her deciding to take care of the other rooms and letting most of the stink soak out those sheets.
Miss Hudson was marching purposely toward the water closet, mop and bucket at the ready when a soft "Pardon me, Ma'am, but are you Miss Hudson?" stopped her in her tracks.
Maude spun towards the unfamiliar voice, her trusty mop at the ready. She was totally unprepared for the sight that greeted her in the doorway to Mr. Holmes' sleeping chambers.
A remarkably . . .ummm. . plain young woman with more than a fair share of nose and somewhat heavy features was standing there looking up at Maude, a somewhat quizzical look on her face. She was perhaps an inch or two shorter than Maude's own height, and was dressed in a serviceable gown of gray cotton broadcloth with a large, floor length apron covering her from the shoulders down. A white cap covered her hair, although a short, stray dark curl had escaped just above her right eye. That errant curl belied the initial estimate of this intruder's age based on her angular features - an estimate Miss Hudson revised downward yet a second time when she assessed the fine skin texture revealed between the gown's high collar and the white cap. *A very odd looking sort of female,* Miss Hudson thought unkindly.
"Excuse me, please," the girl said again, "But are you Miss Maude Hudson?"
*Well, someone taught this one proper manners, whoever she is,* Maude thought. *Talks like some of the fancy, she does. Wonder where she was in service before this?* "I am," Miss Hudson said staunchly. "And just who might you be, Missie? If you don't mind me askin', that is."
"Oh no," the woman replied with just a hint of a smile. "I am Visiting Nurse Joan Hanks, Miss Hudson. I am here to care for Mr. Holmes."
A shot of fear sliced through Miss Hudson. She needed this position! "What's wrong with him?" she asked quickly, craning her neck in an attempt to see around the girl and into the bed chamber, "He'll be all right, won't he?"
The girl made a shushing noise of her finger to her lips, quietly closed the bed chamber door, and then motioned Miss Hudson into the front sitting room.
"Mister Holmes should not be disturbed. We're trying to keep him as comfortable as we can while we. . . wait."
"Wait for WHAT?!?!" Miss Hudson demanded.
Miss Hanks lowered her eyes and shook her head. "He's very ill, Miss Hudson. After you left from your last visit, Mr. Holmes became worse. He managed to summon Dr. March, an old friend and colleague of Dr. Watson's. After examining Mr. Holmes, he summoned me to . . ," Miss Hanks voice broke and then recovered, "to ease his time as much as is possible."
"Then. . . . then. . he's going to . . ?" Miss Hudson tried to ask the question, but was cut off by a gentle hand on her own. All Miss Hanks did was nod, and Miss Hudson began to weep.
Miss Hanks offered the older woman a handkerchief and then rose from her seat. She walked over to the hearth where she picked up a small packet and then returned to sit beside the silently sobbing Miss Hudson. Miss Hanks let Maude cry through the initial shock of the revelation.
"Miss Hudson? When Mr. Holmes realized that he'd soon be. .. be leaving, he put together the contents of this envelope. He had originally hoped to present it to you in person, but sadly, that simply isn't possible." Miss Hanks passed the packet to Miss Hudson and motioned for her to open it.
The envelope contained a piece of official-looking parchment, three train tickets and a thick stack of banknotes. Stunned, Miss Hudson could only stare at the contents, look up wide eyed at the nurse, and then back down at the money and papers in her hand. Finally, she managed a weak, "What is this?"
A smile softened the features of the nurse, making her almost pretty. "Mr. Holmes said it was your pension, Miss Hudson. The paper is the deed to a solid, well maintained cottage in the Scottish Lowlands. Mr. Holmes said that he'd chosen it because the air would be good for your Mother. The tickets are passage for you and your family to journey there. The rest of it is 250 pounds which should take care of you, your mother and your sister quite comfortably for the rest of your lives."
"So much money. . ." Miss Hudson said dazed.
"Mr. Holmes said that he would have seen to this sooner, but he was a selfish man and did not want the bother of trying to find another housekeeper who was half as effective as you and your Mother. Now, he wishes to know that you and your family are well taken care of before. . " Miss Hanks voice fell away.
"Before?" Miss Hudson prompted.
"We both know what before means, Miss Hudson." Miss Hanks said gravely. Then she rose, taking Miss Hudson with her. "Now, Mr. Holmes would like you to go home and see to the preparations to leave for your new home. I will be here with Mr. Holmes and will see to what little cleaning and cooking he will be needing from now on."
"Could. . .could I just see him one last time? To thank him, you see?"
Miss Hanks smiled sadly, but shook her head. "Mr. Holmes is not awake right now, and it would be a shame to disturb what little sleep he can get nowadays. I'm sure you understand."
"Oh, no, I wouldn't do that. Do you think I might return at a later time?"
"I couldn't say, really. It would be hard to predict when he might be able to receive visitors. He's not . . . entirely himself, either. I'm afraid he might not appreciate the visit."
"Oh, dear. How sad. How very, very sad. He always took such pride in his mind."
"Just so, Ma'am, just so."
"Well, if that's what you and the doctor think best," she said finally as she picked up her cloak and bonnet. "You're young for this kind of work, aren't you, Miss Hanks?" Miss Hudson asked as she unbuttoned her bodice and carefully hid the precious envelope in her impressive bosom.
"I have more experience than you might think. I have worked with a respected colleague of Dr. Watson for many years."
Miss Hudson re-buttoned her dress, started to put on her cloak, only to abruptly stop short of that. She turned a concerned eye on the young nurse. "You're sure you won't be needing any help? I noticed that you didn't clean up those sheets he soiled the day I was here."
There was a touch of censure in Miss Hudson's voice and Miss Hanks flushed at the rebuke. "Dr. March called me in yesterday, Ma'am. Mr. Holmes was in tolerable bad shape, and I had to clean him and see to his needs first. It was very late when the Doctor said all was done and he told me I was to get some rest as I would be needing it today," she hung her head. "I'm ashamed to say I forgot them this morning, Miss Hudson."
The girl's obvious remorse touched Miss Hudson's heart. "Well, it being the case that you was following the Doctor's orders, I can understand how seeing to Mr. Holmes personal needs would be more important than those sheets." Miss Hudson nodded and finished donning her cloak. "Take care of him, Miss. He's a very good man for all his odd ways. My Mum and me. . . well, we'll miss him something fierce."
Miss Hanks watched Miss Hudson leave, closing and locking the door behind her. For several long moments, she simply stood there, her eyes unfocused, and perhaps, just a little over bright.
Then, she reached up and slipped off the white cap. "And he . . . or rather, *I* shall miss the two of you as well, Miss Hudson," Sherlock Holmes said quietly to the locked door, "something fierce."
Entry in the Journal of Mr. Sherlock Holmes
Date: February 4, 1911. Time: 5:11 P.M.
|
End Journal Entry.
Chapter 9. Moriarty's Lairs
A freshening dawn breeze had blown in from the sea, clearing away the morning fog and for the moment, cleansing the normally ever-present coal-smoke haze from London's skies. Holmes was again out and about in his Baker Street Irregular disguise. His objectives for this day's venture were three-fold. First, Holmes wanted to examine two of Moriarty's old haunts that were within reasonable walking distance from Baker Street. Perhaps Moriarty had elected to use one of his old headquarters while in London. Holmes thought that unlikely - Moriarty knew those would be the first places that Holmes would look for clues - but it would not have been the first time that someone as clever as the Professor had tried hiding something in the most obvious place. Holmes did not dare overlook such a possibility.
His second objective was to reconnoiter the streets about his Baker Street lodgings and, if possible, locate Old Ned and any other watchers Moriarty might have left behind in the area. Eventually, Holmes knew, he would have to deal with Old Ned, especially if he harbored any hopes of disguising himself as an adult male. Besides, it was always better to know the terrain and the full scope of the forces one was dealing with before undertaking such a campaign.
Finally, Holmes needed provisions. The kitchen cupboards at Baker Street were bare, and he no longer had the services of Miss Hudson to replenish his supplies. Holmes was positively ravenous.
The night before had gone much the same as had the previous two nights. The withdrawal attack had struck just before dawn, approximately twenty-five and one half hours after the previous attack. Holmes had administered the drug and fallen almost immediately back to sleep only to reawaken a bare three hours later with the urgent need to relieve himself. Once that necessity had been dealt with, the hunger had made itself known. Holmes had devoured the last crust of bread and bit of cheese, but that meager offering had scarcely made a dent in his appetite.
Holmes thought that the problem might be related to some specific nutritional need that was exacerbated by the radical changes Moriarty's potion induced in his body. Unfortunately, modern nutritional research was not a subject Sherlock Holmes had ever considered of any practical use to a consulting detective, so he had never bothered to clutter his mind with the results of such research. However, he knew that the young, particularly the very young, drank quantities of milk - even as infants suckling at their mother's breast - and he deduced that milk might be a solution to his current needs. Certainly the cheese had seemed particularly satisfying the previous morning, so perhaps milk and milk products provided something his new and uniquely changing physiology required. He would visit the dairyman just before returning to his rooms.
Holmes arrived at his first destination shortly before nine A.M., but found nothing - *literally* nothing. The warehouse that had once served as Moriarty's hideaway had been razed to the ground. He moved about the outer edge of the rubble pile, but found no sign of any recent human presence, let alone any type of hidden access or underground habitation.
*Still,* Holmes mused as he picked his way around the fallen structure, *I am not the only master of disguise in this little melodrama. Moriarty is well able to camouflage a subterranean hideaway somewhere in this apparent destruction.*
Holmes began to move within what had once have been the walls of the warehouse, attempting to discover a hidden access or door. He kicked at one sheet of galvanized tin roofing, dislodging it and then screamed in horror as a veritable explosion of *huge* rats erupted from beneath the panel. Holmes' screams went up in both volume and pitch as several of the beasts scurried about and between Holmes' legs, their coarse fur brushing roughly against skin left bared where the cut-leg trousers ended. Jarred by the contact, Holmes ineffectually batted at the mindless hoard, trying to divert their furry bodies away from him.
The final straw fell when one particularly terrified creature literally scaled up Holmes' shrieking body and then launched itself from his shoulder, its long, whip-like tail lashing at Holmes throat as it flew away. That was more than the self-image that Holmes had been maintaining through pure force of will could cope with. The masculine Holmes, the Freudian 'id' that had, to that point in time dominated the personality of the conflicted body, vanished beneath an onrushing avalanche of unadulterated panic.
A now-wholly feminine Holmes screamed in terror and fled from the room, intent only on escape. She may have stepped on one or more of the damnable animals, but she didn't care nor did she slow her headlong charge. Moments later, all signs of the repellent animals had disappeared, leaving only their memory and the sour taste of fear in their wake.
Still shaking and frantically waving ineffectual arms at threats no longer present, Holmes finally slowed when she had made her escape from the rubble pile that had once been a building. With the recognition that her escape had been achieved, the panic receded and Holmes, now different in a fundamental but invisible way, collapsed to his knees on a clear patch of grass, his breathing hoarse in his abused throat.
Never in his entire life had Holmes been in the grip of such a paralyzing emotion. He'd felt fear before - only a fool would have not been afraid during the struggle with Moriarty at the Reichenbach Falls - and Sherlock Holmes was not a fool. Certainly, there had been situations in the past when he'd been caught unawares by some unexpected and unwelcome surprise, but never had Holmes felt anything remotely like what he had just experienced nor reacted as he had in the past ten minutes. "Bloody hell, but I am still trembling," he said with disgust.
That recognition seemed to break through the emotional grip Holmes was under. Gradually, his breathing slowed, his pulse ceased racing, and the roiling of his stomach eased. "All this?" he asked himself as his control reasserted itself, "because of a few rats? I am nearly incapacitated because of those vermin? NEVER!" he roared, ignoring the high toned shrillness of that oath. "I am HOLMES and I will not surrender to mindless EMOTION!"
His voice echoed off the old rundown buildings that surrounded the warehouse site, but Holmes did not notice. His mind had turned to other things. *The rats are significant,* he thought quickly. *Moriarty is nothing if not fastidious. The rats might well have been here, but if he'd used this site, he'd have poisoned them. The living rats would have consumed their dead brethren and been poisoned themselves, and yet, I saw no signs of dead rats in my admittedly short examination of the site. Still. . . *
Holmes made a more careful reconnaissance of the perimeter than he had originally, but saw no sign of dead vermin, not even bones. Holmes decided to go on to the other hideaway and see if there were any clues to be had there.
As he slipped back into the shadows, Holmes attempted to analyze the experience with the rats, but was interrupted by a loud, rude rumbling from his stomach. *Perhaps it is lack of nourishment,* he thought. *Watson was forever pontificating on the physical and emotional problems that result from malnutrition. And it has been well over a day since I had any substantial food. Why, combined with the stress this forced reconstruction of my entire body has placed on my reserves, it only stands to reason that I would not be fully under control when dealing with additional stress. Such as all those rats.*
Holmes permitted himself a pleased smile at the logic of his explanation, and ignored the slight shudder that snaked down his spine even the thought of the word "rat". With an abrupt turn, Holmes decided to delay his inspection of Moriarty's other hideaway, and went off in search of the nearest dairyman.
The quart of milk and large chunk of cheese had only cost Holmes a few coins, and looking back on it, the proprietor of the dairy store had not seemed surprised by the purchase. *Perhaps more than a few street children feed themselves this way with what money they can beg borrow or steal. He doesn't care where they obtained the money so long as he is paid. I wonder how my lads of the Baker Street Irregulars coped when I was supposedly dead? Better than this, I hope,* Holmes thought as he carried his purchases out of the shop.
Holmes found a bench where he could rest while he consumed his meal. Hopefully, he was right about the milk. Later, Holmes would be profoundly embarrassed as he recalled the utter greed with which he inhaled his food. Milk spilled from the corners his mouth as he tried to literally pour it down faster than his still raw throat could accommodate. *Well, at least the behavior is, in all likelihood, more in character than my usual impeccable table manners,* Holmes mused as he took a huge bite from his wedge of mild, golden cheese.
All too soon, the cheese and milk had disappeared, and Holmes was still hungry. For a few moments, he thought about going back and getting more, but decided against it. That might well make the storekeeper suspicious, and besides, Holmes thought it might be a good idea to make sure that he kept what he'd just consumed inside him. The last thing he needed to do is overeat and become violently ill. Later, when he had finished his tasks for the day, he could find another dairyman and buy enough milk and cheese for his dinner and breakfast. Thankfully, the iceman was still keeping the icebox at 221B Baker Street stocked. Holmes would be able to store the milk overnight safely.
The factory still stood, but was also abandoned. Holmes picked the ancient padlock easily enough and was soon inside the dark, dusty, web-bestrewn building. The main room was eerily empty, and what little light filtered through the dirty and discolored windows did little more than throw deeper shadows. Holmes remembered this building all too well, and swiftly made his way to where the secret entrance to Moriarty's private lair had been hidden by tool shelves and worktables.
A stray shaft of light illuminated the floor in front of the work table. Holmes went to one knee for a closer look. The thick dirt had been recently disturbed. Two sets of footprints marred the otherwise evenly dusted floorboards - one approaching the work table, one departing. By the degree to which the dust had reclaimed the footprints, making their outlines soft and diffuse rather than sharply outlined, Holmes deduced that whoever had made the prints had done so several days in the past - perhaps as much as a week.
The prints were distinct, however, and showed no signs of a limp which indicated that these prints had not been made by Old Ned. The shoes did not show any signs of unusual or uneven wear either.
Holmes located the hidden mechanism that controlled the door and activated it. The work table and the wall it was attached to swung outward with a loud creaking of poorly lubricated hinges. He crept into the small alcove, following the prints. They stopped at the next door, and then seemed to turn around, going no further. Holmes examined the door and saw that it would swing outward, into the little alcove. However, no dust had been disturbed indicating that the door had not been opened at the same time these prints had been made. Frustrated, Holmes began looking for the latch to open the door anyway.
Then he saw it.
A brown envelope had been pinned to the door - a brown envelope with writing upon it. Holmes moved closer to door and peered at the writing, and was stunned to read his name on the envelope. Holmes took down the packet and went back into the main factory space where he found a relatively well lighted area. His curiosity thoroughly aroused, Holmes opened the envelope, extracted a piece of foolscap from it and began to read.
|
Holmes crumpled the paper in his hand and cursed softly. Moriarty had anticipated him and had left this calling card to taunt him. Holmes was inclined to believe the letter as the other evidence supported Moriarty's claim that he had not, in fact, done more than plant that damnable note. Moriarty was unlikely to have turned his scientific mind to something so mundane as spreading dust evenly. Ergo, the footprints proved that Moriarty, or one of his henchmen who did not limp, had only been here once to plant the note.
The sound of the great tower clock tolling twelve noon in the distance broke Holmes concentration. He folded the note and put it into one of his pockets before slipping back out the way he'd arrived. He still had to find Old Ned.
Holmes crept cautiously into a dark alleyway a few blocks east of Baker Street. A very young lad had happily taken a tuppence from Holmes in exchange for the information that the "big old codger wet's got the funny limp" was often seen in this vicinity. Hopefully, the villain's bolt hole was nearby and Holmes would be able to locate it. Sooner or later, there was going to have to be a reckoning between the two of them, and Holmes knew he'd need every advantage he could find.
In the far back of the blind alley, Holmes found a door recessed into the soot-covered brickwork. He was trying to decide whether to proceed when the door slammed open and a huge, hairy paw reached out from the inside and grabbed him before dragging him inside bodily.
Holmes barely had time to realize he was inside the building when he went flying into the nearby wall, landing hard and falling to the filthy floor. A huge shadow loomed above him. "So ye was lookin' fer Old Ned, was ye, boy? Well, little Tom knows to stay bought when 'e's been paid fer 'cause 'e knows Oi'd 'ave to 'urt 'im if'n 'e didn't. You ain't so smart, are ye, boy?"
Holmes had to think fast. "But. . .Oi was tryin' to find ye, sa'ar," he lied, "on account of Oi gots somethin' to tell ye. . .about that gennulman ye was lookin' fer."
Old Ned reached down, grabbed Holmes by the throat and jerked him bodily to his feet. He lifted Holmes up to eye level, his fetid, rotten breath making Holmes stomach turn. "Oi don'ts believe yer. Oi think maybe ye've sold Old Ned out, and that makes Old Ned right mad. Oi thinks ye needs to learn what 'appens to a bit o' nothin' like you what decides to cheat Old Ned."
Old Ned's free hand came down in a thunderous slap that sent Holmes flying across the room. Holmes rolled to his feet, his head reeling from the blow only to see the villain closing on him with a vicious looking knife in his right hand. "Oi thinks ye needs to bleed a bit, boy. Maybe Oi'll take an ear so's ye'll know just 'ow easy it'd be fer me to cut yer throat next time."
Holmes rolled to one side, just barely avoiding Ned's grasping hand. When he came out of the roll, Watson's service revolver was in his hand. Ned's eyes went wide, and then he charged at Holmes, the knife raised for an obvious killing stroke.
The first shot took Ned squarely in the chest. Holmes emptied the revolver into the man's body even as he fell, the last bullet disintegrated the back of Ned's balding skull.
For the second time that morning, Holmes was overwhelmed by unfamiliar emotions that he could not even stand. There was just so much blood - everywhere! On the wall, on the floor, on Ned. . . on Holmes.
Holmes stifled the urge to scream as he tried to wipe Old Ned's blood from his vest and instead ended up with it covering his hands. Still on his knees, Holmes ripped the vest from his body and tossed it aside. The sickly sweet scent of hot blood mixed with the sharp taint of burnt gunpowder and cordite made Holmes feel lightheaded and nauseous. For a brief moment, he feared he might faint or vomit, but in the end did neither. Holmes managed to quell the upheaval in his stomach and to remain conscious by sheer force of will. Finally, he struggled to his feet and staggered toward the door and escape. At the last instant, he stopped, remembering to retrieve his vest and Watson's revolver before finally slipping out the door and into the alley.
Holmes made his way directly back to Baker Street, forgetting to stop and purchase foodstuffs. He simply wasn't hungry anymore.
Interlude: Calais to Paris Train
Moriarty brooded in his private compartment as the train hurtled through the night. Thoughtfully, he looked down at the missive that had reached him just before he had boarded the train earlier in the evening.
So, Holmes had decided to take direct action. Moriarty had anticipated this, if not quite so soon. According to Moriarty's informant, someone, most likely Holmes, had retrieved the letter he'd hidden in the secret passage at the old factory. Moriarty smiled as he considered the consternation that note would cause his old enemy. The smile was not a pleasant sight.
The other item discussed in the letter was the sudden, unexplained disappearance of Old Ned. He had not reported to Moriarty's informant in over twelve hours which, given the fact that the old fool was only paid when he reported, indicated that Ned was likely no longer among the living. Again, Moriarty had expected Holmes to deal with Ned, but this soon?
Holmes was a strategist by nature - a thinker - and he would not have had time to have determined Ned's habits and patterns in order to exploit Ned's many weaknesses. Nor would Holmes have had time to locate a suitably advantageous site for this final confrontation. Such impulsive, immediate action was not like the Holmes Moriarty had come to know and hate. This was out of character.
Moriarty put his head back against the seat and closed his eyes in relaxed concentration. Yes, these behaviors were definitely out of character. Had the youth potion changed something intrinsic to Holmes' mind along with transforming his body? Something Moriarty personally needed to be concerned about, especially since he fully intended to use the drug on himself once he'd been able to perfect it by eliminating the gender changing side effect. This other possible side effect had not been noted during his earlier researches using the lower animals. Moriarty wanted to be young, but he wanted to be a young Moriarty at the height of his powers. The last thing he wanted was to become some youthful, yet irrational fool.
Or perhaps this sudden unpredictability or impulsiveness was not intrinsic to the age regression aspect of the drug, but rather was a feminine-based characteristic that even the great mind of Sherlock Holmes could not control. Moriarty would need more data. It was too bad that his informant would no longer know where to send his reports. He'd been unwilling to take the chance that Holmes might locate his main informant and force information concerning Moriarty's whereabouts from the man, so the itinerary he'd provided to his man had been a fabrication.
That was, in part, why Moriarty had gone to Calais instead of directly to his final destination. There were many ways to hide his trail in France, and he'd had too many misadventures with Holmes to believe the detective would not discover where Moriarty had departed from and where he'd been bound when he'd left England. Holmes still might track him down, but it would take far more time with Calais as the starting point on the Continent. And while time was limited for Moriarty, it was far more so for Holmes.
Moriarty set the note aside and sighed. It was done. As for the concern about the mental changes wrought by the drug, Moriarty could deal with that problem without watching Miss Sherlock Holmes. He would simply have to be careful with his final testing once the drug no longer changed males into females. He, unlike Holmes, at least had enough time to be cautious.
Chapter 10. Recapitulation of a Day Gone Bad
Entry in the Journal of Mr. Sherlock Holmes
Date: February 6, 1911.
Time: 6:16 P.M.
|
End Journal Entry.
Moriarty looked up at the imposing building and gave a weary smile. The trip had been long and very hard on the old man. From Paris he had taken a westbound train instead of an eastbound conveyance, and had changed trains several times before dawn. Finally, he had boarded a train bound for Germany via southern France. Even at the height of his powers, Holmes would have been hard pressed to follow that trail with any degree of speed, and his new gender should already have seriously diminished those powers. Once in Germany, Moriarty had switched to a carriage which had brought him here to Karlsruhe.
One of his informants at the Institute had reported that the Professor's soon-to-be guest had scheduled a fairly long holiday beginning at the end of classes tomorrow. That had been a primary reason for Moriarty making his move at this time. The great Professor Haber would disappear, and no one would think to look for him for several weeks at the earliest. By then, Professor Haber would be safely tucked away in Moriarty's specially prepared hideaway in the Swiss Alps.
Moriarty smiled that mirthless smile and turned to walk back to his hotel. He was tired and would need his rest. Tomorrow would be a momentous day, and everything had to go as planned. Which it would, since Mr. Sherlock Holmes, by now truly Miss Sherlock Holmes, was no longer a potential problem in his plans.
To Be Continued...
Comments
Excelent
Very well writen and intriguing. Only objection to note is that my experience indicates that women's strong reactions to grisly scenes or filthy animals are, to some extent a mith. Fact more than proved by the large number of very effective female nurses.
A Study in Satin
I have always enjoyed this story. Good to see it again. With Images no less.
I even, recently, found my Original Printed version from 2000. (I went a little overboard with the Coat-Of-Arms water mark.)
Which reminds me, I need to raid http://www.gutenberg.org/wiki/Main_Page for the Sherlock Holmes stories. Been a while :)
Good work Tigger.
II don't know how
I managed to miss this one before now. Showing Holmes as a mostly broken man in the beginning was interesting if disturbing since I've been reading Doyle's stories about him for years. But understandable given the circumstances.
Now Holmes is fighting pure emotion along with the physical changes Moriarty imposed on him.
Very good and I look forward to reading more of this one.
Maggie
Menu problem?
So, when I read chapter 1, I tried to go to chapter 2 but it is not there. Hmmm, where is it?
Gwendolyn
Please!
I want to see more of Miss Sherlock Holmes! I want her to beat Moriaty in his own game.
Oh the fun of it! My imagination is going wild! Second part please!
This is very well done so far!
I just discovered this story and have enjoyed this first part immensely. Read it in one sitting and now I wish I didn't have places to go today because I'd love to just sit here and continue. You've done a remarkable job capturing the proper tone of Sherlock Holmes.
JenniL
Having Just Watched...
Having just watched Mr Holmes with Ian McKellen as Sherlock Holmes. Reading this story, it was easy to put Ian McKellen's voice to tiggers words in my head making it so much more than just a story.
Well done, Tigger,
Sophie