Sherlock Holmes, old, sick and at best tolerated by the leadership in London, has decided his reason for living has ended.
Enter Professor Moriarty, returning once again from the dead,
with a uniquely Victorian vengeance to wreak upon his old arch-enemy

 

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Image Credit: Title picture Victorian Woman ~Sephrena.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Artwork: Original Artwork graciously donated by Brandy Dewinter.

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

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

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

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

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Part I: Semper Cogitus
 
 
Chapter 11. Truly Right and Fitting
 
Sherlock Holmes felt utterly naked and exposed - a feeling, he acknowledged to himself, that was utterly ridiculous as he had rarely worn so many layers heavy clothing nor had so much of his skin covered at one in his life.

He was standing outside a small shop on the fringe of fashionable London - Madame Jeanne Marie's Quality Couture - dressed from the skin out in women's clothing. In the past when Holmes had found it necessary to pose as a woman, such as in the case Watson had glaringly titled the "Adventure of the Mazarin Stone", he'd always dispensed with the voluminous and exceedingly uncomfortable undergarments English Society mandated for women in favor of more comfortable attire. Unfortunately, Holmes was here to buy women's clothing which meant he would undergo that torturous and barbaric custom known as a fitting.

Holmes had chosen this shop for two reasons. First, it was a fair distance from Baker Street so it was unlikely anyone here would run into him in the near future. Second, he knew Madame Jeanne Marie from an old case that had never been told in one of Watson's anthologies. It had been a momentarily diverting case involving blackmail and royalty. One of the blackmailer's victims was the former Mistress of a Duke who had, in turn, asked Holmes to deal with the situation.

Jenny, or rather, Madame Jeanne Marie had been another of the blackmailer's intended victims. Furious, she'd immediately offered to cooperate with Holmes in setting a trap. The villain of that piece had been the Duke's younger brother, a complete wastrel who had needed funds to pay off gambling debts incurred to some very dangerous people.

In the course of that investigation, Holmes had been very impressed with Madame Jeanne Marie. She was a very intelligent woman who had, in her youth, invested her only marketable asset carefully and wisely. In an earlier time, the young, witty and gorgeous Jenny Deaver would have been described by London Society as being a member of the Demimonde, or perhaps less kindly as being some man's "bit o' muslin". The fact of the matter was that she, like the Duke's blackmailed friend, had been a professional mistress, a kept woman for whatever wealthy man was willing to house her, clothe her and provide her with "gifts" such as fine jewels in return for her intimate favors.

Unlike many of her peers who had lived lavishly for the moment and then became destitute when their looks began to fade, Jenny had ruthlessly hoarded her "gifts" and had then used that accumulated wealth to escape that lifestyle. One day, she'd simply disappeared from the London scene completely.

A year later, Madame Jeanne Marie had opened her dress shop. Since men rarely attended their ladies on their shopping trips, the chance of the Madame Jeanne Marie nee Jenny Deaver meeting a former protector in her new guise was highly unlikely. Her little shop prospered which was another reason she'd been targeted by the Duke's brother, and while it was not quite as lucrative as her former profession, the fact that she did not have to pander the egos of doddering old fools or submit sweetly to arrogant young rakehells more than compensated for the difference. She was well content with her new lot in life.

Madame Jeanne Marie was well known among the less affluent nobility for selling quality, fashionable dresses and gowns at a fair price. She was also known among the somewhat more affluent ladies of Society for buying dresses and gowns that these estimable women no longer wanted or that they could no longer corset themselves into. She would then turn around and sell such 'secondhand' finery to her customers at a fraction of what a Bond Street "modiste" would charge for comparable new garments. Many young debutantes, whose financial situation might otherwise have forced them to forego a London Season, made their entre into English Society's infamous Marriage Mart having first passed through the doors of Madame Jeanne Marie's shop.

That was the second reason Holmes had sought out this shop. Holmes needed stylish dresses that fit properly if his plan to gain access to his accounts at the Bank of England were to succeed. Those could be obtained here, and Madame had a staff of qualified seamstresses, most of whom were highly skilled with Mr. Singer's sewing machine, who could quickly alter a new day gown to fit Holmes properly.

Unfortunately, the part of Holmes that was still male was finding the concept of having a gaggle of chattering, giggling women with sharp pins swarming about him, sticking said pins into cloth that was very tight about his body, rather daunting. Holmes had never much cared for visiting his tailor, and *this* promised to be far worse than that mind-numbingly boring experience.

Holmes was trying to build up his courage when a bell ringing announced the opening of the shop door. "May I help you, Miss?" a pleasant voice with a slight French accent asked. Holmes closed his eyes and nodded. Silently, he reached into Mary Watson's black reticule he had borrowed from his old friend's rooms at Baker Street, and withdrew a note which he passed to Madame Jeanne Marie. She looked at the envelope and her eyes went momentarily wide.

"Well," the older woman said briskly and without a trace of a French accent, "Don't just stand there out in the cold, Miss. Come in, come in."

Holmes was motioned to a small table where tea and cakes were laid out. Madame indicated that he was to serve himself as she opened and read the letter. Holmes knew the contents since he had written it personally, careful to ensure that his handwriting looked as much like his old neat and precise script as he could manage with his new, smaller fingers.
 
 

Dear Madame, I hope this missive finds you well and prosperous. It pains me to bring this up but I find that I do not know where else to turn. Once long ago, you told me that if you could ever do me a service, I had but to ask. The young woman who brought this message to you is Miss Joan Hanks. She is a professional home nurse who has been assigned to my case by Dr. March. I am very much afraid that I am now bedridden and likely to remain that way. That said, I have certain duties, financial and otherwise, that I must attend to in short order. Miss Hanks has graciously offered to act as my agent in these matters. She is a very intelligent young woman, and would do admirably in this regard except for the matter of her manner of dress. You know, as do I, that many lesser souls unfairly judge others by such superficial methods as the quality and fit of their clothing. Enclosed in this envelope you will find forty pounds which I took from my household petty cash account. Please outfit Miss Hanks as you deem suitable for a young woman of business. If these funds are insufficient, I must tell you that Miss Hanks first mission is to visit the Bank of England on my behalf so let that guide your selections. I am, Yours Most Sincerely, S. Holmes. 221B Baker Street London

 
Madame looked up from the stationary, and there was a suspicious brightness about her eyes. She dabbed at them delicately with a lacy handkerchief and then coughed to clear her throat. "Should I infer, Miss Hanks, that based upon what Mr. Holmes has not said in this letter that his condition is very serious?"

Holmes nodded gravely. "Mr. Holmes directed me to answer any of your questions, otherwise I would be unable to answer such a personal question. Mr. Holmes condition is extremely serious, Ma'am. He will not be among us much longer."

"I see," Madame answered, the tears now flowing freely and cutting dark tracks through her face powder. "That is very sad for he was. . .*is* a remarkable man."

"He spoke very highly of you, Ma'am, and asked me to tell you that he was most sorry he is not allowed visitors for he would have enjoyed seeing you one more time."

"Really?" Madame asked. Miss Hanks nodded. "I wish I had known that. I . . .well, I would have tried just a bit harder to lure him into a bit of pleasure that time in . . " She stopped herself short, blushing. "Well, no need to go into that. Suffice to say he wasn't interested in me, nor I suspect, in any woman that way."

Holmes was momentarily stunned to find out that this woman had once tried to seduce him. Even now, in her late forties, she was still a very attractive woman. How could he, the great Sherlock Holmes, the finest observer of detail in the known world, have not realized that this experienced, sensual woman had wanted to make love with him? *Perhaps because you never thought about such matters of the flesh, Holmes?* he asked himself rhetorically, and then continued, *and more interestingly, why do I think I would notice and be rather responsive to the idea now? Most peculiar.*

In the meantime, Madame had shaken off her tears and had begun to assess the young woman across from her. *Well, she might be halfway attractive if she knew what she was doing, but she obviously doesn't. Bit of a little brown wren. Much too plain for any really colorful plumage, but that isn't what Holmes asked for in any case. "A young woman of business" he said. Well, we'll see what we can do to make her a bit more taking in her looks. She has nice eyes if you can just get past that nose. What about her figure?*

"Well, come along, girl," Madame ordered. "Let's measure you and see what you've got. Give me your bonnet and reticule and I will lock them up in my desk," she held out her hands to take the requested items and then turned her head toward a bead-curtained passage at the back of the shop, "MAISIE?!" she bellowed.

A small, cream complexioned redhead put her head through the hanging beads. "Oui, Madame?" she responded in a pathetic attempt at French.

"Oh, don't worry about those French airs, Maisie, this one is a friend. Get your measuring tape and pin cushion. I'm going to repay an old debt by helping Miss Hanks here with her wardrobe."

"Back in a jiff, Miss Jenny," the redhaired pixie said with a huge smile, and then disappeared back through the curtain.

"And bring my decanter of medicinal French brandy, too." Madame yelled after the girl. Then, with a smile that Holmes found very unnerving, she turned back to face her customer. "So," Madame Jeanne Marie said, "Let's see what I have in stock that will suit you, Miss Hanks. . . Oh, may I call you Joan? And please, do call me Jenny."

"I. . . I would be honored, Mada. . I mean, Jenny," a slightly bewildered Holmes replied. "Thank you."

"Oh, thank me in a couple of hours, Joanie," Jenny Deaver said with a mischievous grin, "If you still want to, that is.'
 

 
Holmes learned quite a few additional and surprising facts about his new self in the hours that followed. The first was that his new body had a very low tolerance for alcohol. He couldn't recall taking more than a sip or two from the rather generously filled snifter of very potent brandy Jenny had pressed on him, but by the beginning of the second hour, he'd definitely been feeling the effects of overindulgence.

Disguised as Joan, and fully rigged out by Jenny and Maisie, Holmes was amazed by what he saw in the mirror. He barely caught himself - for the tenth time - almost releasing a decidedly un-feminine expletive. Holmes was forced to conclude that this masquerade that had seemed so trivial when he had begun it, would require the most complete exercise of his impersonation skills.

Holmes peered pensively at his reflection. Perhaps the brandy had something to do with the problem in performing adequately while limiting the impersonation to an intellectual exercise. In any case, Holmes decided that for the duration of the fitting at least, *he* would need to accept the mental mind set of a feminine persona - one that *she* would have to study as thoroughly as any other skill required for a consulting detective.

The second thing Holmes had discovered, was that trying on clothes was fun. Jenny seemed to have an endless supply of such lovely dresses and gloves and bonnets and even shoes - and she insisted that Mr. Holmes' little nurse try them ALL on so that she and Maisie could pick what looked best on their new friend. Holmes changed outfits more times during her time at Jenny's than her old self would have done in a normal week. And after the first hour (and all those sips of Jenny's EXCELLENT French brandy) she'd loved EVERY minute of it.

Well, almost every minute of it. Madame. . .that is, Jenny, had been shocked to discover that her new very dear friend Miss Hanks was not properly laced into a corset under that drab, ugly dress she'd been wearing. No wonder the girl looked like she didn't have any figure to speak of. Jenny had taken care of that little problem immediately. In no time at all, she and Maisie had their friend Joan in a lovely white satin corset complete with a real whale bone busk, and had it laced down to an honest twenty two inches.

"But, Mada. . I mean, Jenny," Holmes had protested, "I can't be fitted like this. There's no one to lace me up at Mr. Holmes establishment."

"Now, don't worry about that, dear, we'll give you one of these corset levers," Jenny had responded holding up an odd contraption of two wooden handles connected by a stout hinge. "See these hooks in the front? That's how you undo the corset, leaving the lacings nice and tight. You just attach the levers to the front of the corset like this," she said demonstrating, "And pull the front together so you can undo the hooks, or connect them if you are putting it back on."

"But I don't think I should be laced quite this tightly, Jenny," Holmes protested, "Not for everyday wear." The last thing Holmes wanted was to have to wear this corset just to put on the new clothes she'd planned on using for her disguises.

"Nonsense, dearie," Maisie said blithely as she looked the now wasp-waisted Holmes up and down. "Why, look at what it does for your bosom." she stated as she reached over and started to plump up that part of Holmes' increasingly feminine physique.

Holmes was totally unprepared for having herself fondled in that manner and had squealed in shock - only to be scolded by Jenny. "Now, Joan, don't carry on so. Let Maisie see to that lovely bosom of yours. She's right, you know, a little pat here, and a little pull there gives you a lovely figure. Why, I would wager that you'll show some lovely cleavage in the right gown now.

That had been the point at which Jenny had begun plying her little subject with yet more brandy. The girl had real potential, she'd decided, now that they had her properly corseted. Jenny thought she might even be able to make the girl halfway attractive if they could just get past the little prude's inhibitions and dress her properly.

And, in large part thanks to the brandy she'd gotten into the girl, so she had. Four hours later, Jenny had the pleasantly inebriated Holmes preening in front of the three sided mirror in a ball gown made of green satin, with a rather daringly low cut decolletage. Maisie had even managed to get some expertly applied cosmetics on the girl's interestingly odd little face and to do something halfway attractive with that uncontrolled mop of black hair.

Madame Jeanne Marie cast a critical eye on Joan Hanks. Even with three snifters of medicinal French brandy in her, Jenny Deavers could still assess another woman's looks with cold precision. It was a skill well honed in her days as a professional mistress. You always had to know when your protector's interest had been piqued by another woman so that you could either counter what was catching his attention, or begin looking for a new situation.

The girl's nose was too long and prominent for real beauty, but Maisie's cosmetic artistry had almost hidden even that flaw. She'd made the girl's mouth seem a little fuller, and drawn attention to the girl's incredible dark eyes. There was something arresting about those eyes, Jenny mused as she swirled her fourth snifter of brandy, something that transfixed anyone caught in their gaze. Her smile helped, too, now that Joan had fallen deeply enough into her cups to smile. And of course, now that she had a real figure, well, the girl would do all right for herself. All she needed to do was find herself a nice young man, preferably one with a good financial position, and hit him square in his manhood with those eyes, that cleavage and that smile.

Holmes was, at that moment, smiling happily at the elegantly dressed young woman in the mirror. *My god, I am almost pretty,* she thought, again through the haze of brandy fumes. She lifted the skirts and did a slow pirouette while trying to keep her eyes on her reflection in the mirrors. Tipsy as she was, she would have fallen on her bottom had not Maisie and Jenny leaped forward to catch her. Holmes giggled as they helped her back to a stool.

"Now, Joan," Jenny said with a smile, "Maisie has finished altering the two day gowns and the traveling dress. You can wear the corset and the new under things home. The other dresses will be ready for the final fittings in a few days."

"How. . " Holmes unexpectedly belched in a most unladylike fashion and blushed prettily, "I beg your pardon," she apologized, and then blurted out, "How much will I owe you?"

"The money Mr. Holmes gave you will be just fine, dearie," Jenny reassured her. "Now, I want you to stop by the shop every day at lunch time so that Maisie and I can teach you how to do your face and hair properly."

That almost brought Holmes out of his alcohol-induced bliss, and for just a moment, he forgot his vow to remain mentally and physically in role as Joan. And yet, he couldn't very well commit to being here everyday, could he? He had things to do and places to be . "Ummm. . . Jenny, I don't know if I can get away everyday. Mr. Holmes might need me, or have errands for me," he hedged.

Jenny nodded sagely. "Just so, dear, you're right, of course. You just come here when you can, even if it isn't lunch time and we'll work with you. You have lovely eyes and we can teach you to do them up to best advantage. You won't be young forever, and you don't want to spend your whole life taking care of other women's families. You'll be wanting children of your own, after all."

Holmes felt his cheeks burn. "You don't have children," he accused petulantly.

"Because I couldn't," the older woman answered quietly. "I was pregnant once, but something went wrong. I lost the baby and nearly died."

A rush of a new and wholly unfamiliar emotion washed over Holmes. Once again, the femininity of the situation overwhelmed the masculine Holmes and she felt an undeniable need to comfort her new friend. "I am so sorry, Jenny," she said softly, as some force beyond her ken drove her over to embrace Jenny.

"It's in the past, dear," Jenny said as she returned the hug warmly and then smiled over at Maisie. "and I make up for it by taking care of my girls. Now, you need to get home to Mr. Holmes. You run and change into that blue day gown while I send a boy for a cab."

The ride home was filled with yet more revelations for the still-dreamy Holmes. She sat snuggled into the plush upholstery of the uptown cab Madame had ordered for her. As she was still well over the hatches from all the brandy, Holmes thought it vastly amusing to blow at a bonnet feather that kept drooping down to tickle her nose.

On a whim, Holmes slipped off one of her gloves and stroked sensuously along the fine material used in the making of her gown. The cab hit a bump, momentarily discommoding her, but she grinned happily and shimmied herself back into the comfortable cushions. As she did, she realized that the wonderful tactile experience extended to the scandalously soft, wonderfully smooth cloth of her new undergarments as well. Holmes sighed in pure sensual appreciation as the silk of her new chemise slid teasingly over her nipples, and then she realized that the terrible itching had all but disappeared only to be replaced by something infinitely more pleasurable.

"How positively delightful," she sighed before nodding off into a slightly drunken catnap - a happy and gentle smile shaping her colorful lips.

Holmes fell asleep shortly after arriving at the Baker Street lodgings. She did not even remember to remove her new corset.
 
 
Chapter 12: Man Enough to be a Woman
 
Holmes woke up choking. He couldn't take a deep breath. He spat fiercely to clear his mouth and then tried a slow, deliberate breath, but found he still couldn't get much air in.

*That infernal corset,* Holmes realized as he concentrated on getting air in and out. He felt himself growing lightheaded because he wasn't getting in enough oxygen. Deliberately, he unbuttoned the dress he had been too far inebriated to remove when he'd arrived home and then found Madame's corset tool. In moments, he could fully expand his lungs again.

Holmes then became aware of a positively vile taste pervading his mouth. *The brandy?* Holmes wondered as he went to the water closet to rinse his mouth. Holmes rinsed several times and found that the foul taste remained. Concerned, Holmes went to his mirror and opened his mouth. What he saw was as disgusting as the taste.

His teeth had become so yellowed that Holmes was certain there was a greenish hue to them, and a veritable spider's web of minute cracks embossed the surface of each tooth. Holmes touched one tooth with the tip of his finger and found it even more loose than it had been earlier. Stiffening the slender finger, Holmes pushed at the tooth and felt it shatter beneath his touch. He steeled himself for the agonizing pain he understood such destruction entailed, but none came.

Shocked, Holmes moved a lamp nearer the mirror and looked at the broken tooth more carefully. There, beneath what was left of the brittle green-yellow shell was a smaller, perfectly formed, white tooth. "Remarkable," Holmes breathed in wonder. Now caught up in the wonder of investigation and discovery, Holmes repeated the experiment on another tooth, and then another, and then yet another.

In each case, the yellow-green shell shattered to reveal a small, perfectly formed white tooth, much more in proportion, if a little undersized, to his current dimensions. Thoroughly engrossed now, Holmes took up the small, soft bristled brush he'd taken to using for purposes of oral hygiene and began to brush vigorously at his teeth, brushing away all of the encapsulating material. Amazingly, at no time was there the slightest hint of pain from this cleansing, and much to his relief, the action finally cleared the foul taste from his mouth as well.

Holmes spent several minutes examining his new dentition when he realized that, in his haste to clean his new teeth, he had missed something equally significant. Once, during a case, Holmes had been struck by one of the villains hard in the face and had lost one of his canines. Apparently, whatever else he could say against Moriarty's potion, its effects worked to correct health problems. He'd already noticed that numerous old scars were fading, but to have a tooth regenerate? *Remarkable,* Holmes thought again.

The fiery pleasure of discovery began to fade as Holmes went into the main rooms and up at the clock. *Nearly four a.m,* he thought with a sigh. *Within the next two hours, I will again suffer from the attack of Moriarty's drug.*

Sighing, Holmes settled in his favorite chair and began to ponder about what mechanism might have resulted in the transformation and regeneration of his teeth. "Most likely the same mechanism by which my bones are apparently shrinking. The excess calcium is somehow being removed and excreted from my body during those daily and violent trips to water closet. Only with my teeth, the calcium external to my gums could not be absorbed and somehow it became reactive and bonded with whatever that plaque-like material that seems to form on my teeth overnight. That further embrittled the old enamel. That doesn't explain how the teeth became smaller or how the canine regenerated, but I don't know if that will ever be understood fully."

Holmes tried to pursue the problem more deeply, but whether it was the residual effects of the brandy or lack of sleep, he found he couldn't concentrate. He'd have to worry about it in the morning.

"I suppose I will wait for the withdrawal attack and then go back to bed," he told himself before another thought struck him. "Why should I wait? I know the characteristics of the drug well enough by now and the symptoms will strike within the next forty five to ninety minutes in any event. Why should I wait when all I want is to go to sleep and forget this ever occurred?"

The thought became deed, and within five minutes, Holmes was back in his bed, soundly asleep.
 

 
The hearth clock was tolling nine o'clock when the now familiar, urgent need to relieve himself roused Holmes. That matter seen too, Holmes began his normal morning cleansing rituals.

Holmes couldn't resist taking another look and opened his mouth to the mirror.

And promptly did a double take. His teeth were now fully restored, perfectly formed and fitted to his mouth. Even the missing canine was fully grown.

*I must record this while it is still fresh in my mind,* Holmes nodded to himself as he replayed that thought back in his mind. *but first, sustenance. I am quite famished.* He then made his way to the kitchen to obtain his milk from the icebox before sitting down to write in his journal.
 
 
Entry in the Journal of Mr. Sherlock Holmes

Date: February 8, 1911.

Time: 10:32 A.M.

My Dear Watson, Another excessive delay in reporting, Watson, but it has been a most eventful period and I have learned a great deal - about myself if not about Moriarty. And the part about myself that I have learned about is the growing feminine aspect of my psyche. First, however, the measurements. Since the last report, I have lost another three pounds down to just under 124 pounds, and slightly less than three quarters of an inch in height and am down to five feet four and half inches tall. As for my waist, I have no idea. I forgot to remove the corset last night and I have discovered that there is apparently some residual effect from wearing it. My measurement today was nearly two inches less than yesterday down to nearly twenty four inches. As a result, putting the corset, that foul and abominable invention from the pits of the Hell, was much easier today than it was yesterday even with Jenny's device to help. What my waist would measure once my internal organs had the opportunity to return to their normal locations inside my body, I cannot say. As to my genitals, short of pressing a finger into the folds and finding that there really is not a fully developed vaginal opening, my pubic region is visually indistinguishable from that of a born woman. My scrotal sack now appears to be labia majora, and what is left of my male organ has withered into a small nubbin that will apparently soon be a clitoris - perhaps even by tomorrow. The most significant change is my teeth. Somehow, and by a mechanism that doesn't seem to bear much analysis, my old teeth have been replaced by a complete set of new teeth more in keeping with my current stature and size. This is another of the times, my dear Watson, that I truly wish you were here. At least I am not worrying about how to disguise myself as a toothless old crone. Now, on to the hard lessons I have learned in the past few days. I have discovered that strong spirits and my increasingly female body chemistry are a volatile combination. I visited an old friend yesterday, Watson. You will recall Madame Jeanne Marie from that unfortunate blackmail case? Well, I determined that she was still in business and concluded that she would be an ideal source for my feminine disguises. She evidently found my Joan Hanks persona to be somewhat, shall we say, inhibited and started dispensing a very fine, and I strongly suspect, illegally imported, French brandy to correct that deficiency. What is still amazing to me, Watson, is that with very little encouragement beyond the spirits, I managed to convince myself that it was in my best interests that I should learn to act as femininely as possible. It is becoming apparent that such a disguise is going to be my sole means of moving about with any degree of ease as my transformation continues. No, that is not quite true, Watson. I must be honest here if nowhere else. The honest truth of the matter is that I wasn't acting female, I WAS female. I was enjoying the frivolities and gaiety of dressing up in those outlandish dresses and women's undergarments. I positively reveled in the compliments, and was enchanted by the lessons on cosmetics and hair styling. I even consoled Jenny when she mentioned that she had lost a child during her only opportunity at pregnancy. My God, Watson, the only time I forgot and began thinking somewhat like a man again was when she told me I would want children of my own! Bloody hell, Watson, you know my views on parenting, and those highly negative views were formulated when all I thought I would have to do was sow the seed. I assure you that my issues are far less positive now that it appears that *I* would be the fertile field to be plowed and into which that seed would be sown. I am certain, Watson, that if there is a heaven and you are looking down at me from some cloud, that you are currently rolling about the skies in uncontrolled mirth. Well, let me give you something more to laugh at. I have decided, after much reflection and self analysis, that in vino veritas is applicable. For whatever reason, my thinking is that learning to be as feminine and womanly as possible is somehow necessary. I believe Moriarty when he says there is no known antidote to this gender change, Watson. Assuming, that after the drug runs out I somehow manage against all odds to survive the withdrawal, I will still be female. A female without an identity and without a place in this world of men. I will need to be able to function in that male-dominated world without drawing undue attention to myself - at least until I can locate and permanently neutralize Moriarty. Or to put it a different way, if I am to have any hope at all of success in my campaign against the Professor, I must be man enough to be a woman. Therefore, I have decided that I will accept Madame Jeanne Marie's kind invitation to attend her at lunch today and for the foreseeable future, and while I am there, I will be Joan - a woman - and I will learn to be a better woman each day. If that means learning to think of myself in the feminine tense, then, distasteful as that currently sounds, I must do so. I shall start slowly however, by assiduously working towards that mental shift when I am with Jenny and Maisie. Now, you must excuse me, I must go and dress for my lessons in womanliness. One distinct advantage is that the silk and satin undergarments do not irritate and abrade my skin as the coarser cottons used in my masculine under-things. Did you ever prescribe silk for skin rash, Watson?

End Journal Entry.
 
 

 
"All right, Joan, why did you loosen your stays when I taught you how to use the corset tool." Jenny Deavers chided as she helped Holmes out of her walking dress so that they could final fit one of the "woman of business" dresses Jenny had found for her. "Did you think I wouldn't notice?"

"But, Jenny," Holmes protested with a pained squeak as the corset suddenly began to tighten. "I didn't. Heavens, I fell asleep with it on last night thanks to you and Maisie conspiring to get me foxed on brandy."

"Ladies don't get foxed, dears, they get nicely tipsy, and don't fib to me, girl. These laces are loose." Jenny growled as she efficiently tightened all the laces. She was just finishing knotting off the corset laces when Maisie walked in with the dress.

"Goodness, Miss Jenny, but isn't taking her in a whole 'nother inch a little mean for someone who ain't. . .I mean, isn't used to stays?"

"Another inch?" Jenny asked confused.

"Yes'm," Maisie replied. "Why, yesterday, you could barely touch both sides of the corset by putting your hand up and down her spine. The sides are much closer together now."

Jenny took another look and then slowly nodded. "Give me your measure tape, Maisie," she ordered. Maisie complied and moments later, Jenny was reading the tape. "Twenty and three quarters?" she said in disbelief.

"Guess I'll have to alter this here dress again, Miss Jenny," Maisie offered.

"Well, let's get it on her and see what we are dealing with," Jenny ordered.

Ten minutes later, they knew precisely what they were facing but except for Holmes, they didn't understand any of it. Essentially every major measurement had changed, and become smaller except for the volume needed to contain Holmes' bosom. Her breasts had become obviously rounder and fuller since being corseted, even if the measure of her chest beneath her bosom was over an inch smaller.

"Maybe it's because I've never been corseted before," Holmes offered meekly, sensing the distress emanating from the other two women.

"P'raps," Maisie said not sounding quite convinced. "But that don't explain why your hem is too long now."

Finally, Jenny smiled. "Well, I must have measured her wrong yesterday, Maisie. You can fix that dress this afternoon and I'll have a boy deliver it to you at Mr. Holmes' rooms later today, Joan. Is that all right?"

"OH, yes, Jenny," Holmes replied. "I don't need it until tomorrow morning, but I will need it then. Mr. Holmes wants me to go to his solicitor's office for him at ten a.m., and I want to look very. . .very. . " she struggled for the correct word.

"Polished and in control, dear," Jenny offered.

"Exactly," Holmes beamed.

"Umm. . Miss Jenny?" Maisie interjected sheepishly, "There might be a problem getting this done this afternoon."

Jenny turned to her helper, a frown on her face. "Why, dear? It's just a hem adjustment."

"Miss Jenny, that's not lace on the hem of this dress. That is hand embroidered. I won't be able to do it with the machine. I'll have to do it by hand."

Jenny saw the problem. "And even then you'll have to sew around all the embroidery stitches or it won't hang correctly."

"You did say Miss Joan was to look special in it, Miss Jenny." the little seamstress offered. "I could work on it all night, but this isn't the kind of work to do when you're tired."

"No, of course it isn't, Maisie."

Maisie turned to Holmes. "If I start, Miss Joan, I can't stop until I am finished, and I can't promise to have it done in time for you to dress and get to that solicitor's office by ten."

"Now, what do I do?" Holmes asked, feeling defeated by the vagaries of women's wear. She couldn't postpone the trip to the solicitor another day because in all likelihood, she'd be shorter still after another dose of the potion. The bloody dress still wouldn't fit!

"Well, we do have another option, dear," Jenny offered with a wicked little smile. "Maisie? Go get those shoes with the Cuban heels, please? It is time our Miss Hanks learned the fine art of walking on her tip-toes, especially since she has such a well turned ankle to show off in any case."

Holmes looked baffled. "Heels, Miss Jenny?" she asked.

"Heels, dear. Trust me, you'll hate them until you see how lovely they look on you."

Holmes, however, wasn't quite so sure about that.
 

 
 
Excerpt from the Experimental Journal of Professor Moriarty

February 8, 1911

Dr. Fritz Haber is now fully briefed on the project and he understands the dangers of failure. I demonstrated the effects of one of my more esoteric poisons for him on a lab dog. I think seeing the animal literally vomit up its stomach and then bleed to death was quite effective. As for the good doctor himself, he now believes that he has been injected with the same compound and will die a similarly agonizing death unless I give him the daily antidote which I supposedly make for him one at a time. It is actually an ineffectual placebo since the injection he received was a harmless saline solution, but of course, he doesn't know that. I have promised him the antidote the day that he succeeds in his two tasks of making the drug into an effective gaseous weapon and of eliminating the gender change side effect so that I may use it on myself. Sadly, the day he succeeds will end in tragedy for the good Dr. Haber since the "antidote" I will administer will instead kill him. But I will be merciful and ensure that his will be a painless death. If he does in fact succeed.

End Journal Entry.
 
 
Chapter 13. A Woman of Business
 
Holmes examined his disguise in his mirror, and firmly resisted to urge to give that surging mane of his one more brushing. It would not do much good, in any case. Thankfully, when he'd gone into Watson's rooms in search of the other items this stratagem would require, he happened upon the personal grooming kit of Watson's wife, Mary. Now Holmes finally had a hairbrush suitable to his feminine needs. Certainly, the brush that had been sufficient for the aged and thinning scalp of the old Sherlock Holmes had proven completely inadequate to the task of taming the young and lush tresses of Miss Joan Hanks.

So intent was he on pinning the unruly mop up into something at least remotely resembling what Maisie and Jenny had taught him the day before, that Holmes never noticed the pink tongue peaking out between pert, pursed lips. An objective observer would have thought it cute, and in keeping with the look of a young miss not long out of the schoolroom, still learning the grooming tricks of a young woman.

The hair arranging, however, required his full attention. It was not until after several attempts, and multiple rebrushings to groom away the loose wisps that marked Holmes' many failures as a hair stylist, before dogged determination finally prevailed. Holmes had elected to dispense with the cosmetics Jenny and Maisie had pressed on their new friend, primarily because he considered it highly unlikely he would look like anything better than a circus clown. However, he also thought that a visiting nurse would not have the time to worry with such things and that he would be more in role, so to speak, clean faced.

He had been practicing in the broad-heeled, Cuban-styled shoes since rising that morning. While he hadn't killed himself by taking a header, it had been a very near thing on several occasions. The shoes' tall heels increased Holmes stature by almost an inch and a half, which was a good thing since that morning's dose of Moriarty's potion had reduced his height still further. As it was, Holmes' eye for detail told him that the new shoes raised the hemline of his "business dress" just slightly more than was considered "politely fashionable". *Well,* Holmes thought wryly, *I may be showing a shade too much ankle right now, but by tomorrow I won't have that problem with these shoes. May need even higher heels tomorrow. Won't that be simply wonderful?*

Carefully, he perched the small, round, box-like hat that Jenny had given to him on top of the mass of pinned up hair. Holmes thought the thing looked like a child's version of a top hat that someone had sat upon. Worse yet, he was certain the perfectly circular item had a front and a back with all the feathers and other frou frou stuck haphazardly about its brim, but he couldn't for the life of him figure out which was which. Given the way his life was going at that moment, Holmes was certain that he would manage to put it on precisely backwards. He was about to simply give up and wear it whichever way, when he recalled his somewhat inebriated ride home the previous night. Those damn feathers kept tickling his nose, so he positioned the hat so that the feathers were at their most annoying, and then pinned it in place.

Holmes twirled in front of the mirror to check his gown and was satisfied with how he looked. *Thank beneficent Providence that it was Jenny who selected this ensemble. I never did manage to put two pieces of clothing together so that Jenny felt they suited.* The dress itself was a dark wine color that Jenny insisted showed off Joan Hanks' dark hair and eyes to advantage. Gold embroidery highlighted his corseted waist and of course, his hemline.

His dressing complete, Holmes walked over to the chair upon which he had laid his matching cloak and slipped it over his shoulders and fastened it down the front. Finally, Holmes slipped on his gloves, picked up his reticule and made one last check to ensure that all the required items were inside.

Holmes moved toward the door, but stopped in front of his foyer mirror. With a last delicate gesture at a still-errant lock of hair, Sherlock Holmes cloaked himself in the persona of a young woman.

With a last, somewhat tremulous smile to her mirror, Joan Hanks swung about and out the door.
 

 
The hansom cab stopped at the establishment of Carroll and Nickelsby, Solicitors, at precisely one minute before ten. Joan almost forgot herself and would have bounded from the carriage had not the cabbie beat her to the door. With a blush at her near gaff, Joan let the man take her black-kid-gloved hand in his own and permitted herself to be assisted to the ground. It was just as well she had waited, Joan realized moments later. The heel of her left shoe caught on the threshold of the cab and would have gone head first into the muddy London street without the cabbie's quick rescue. Stuttering her gratitude, she paid him and then blushed yet again when he tipped his hat before ascending once again to his perch on the rear of the cab.

Joan quickly gathered her skirts to keep the finely embroidered hems out of the mud and entered the office. A young male clerk greeted her from an ominously large desk set precisely in the center of the reception area. "May I assist you, Miss?" he asked in what Joan thought was a rather condescending tone."

Her back went ramrod straight and her chin tilted up forcefully. "Yes, my good man," she said stiffly as she pulled off her gloves, "I am here on business on behalf of Mr. Sherlock Holmes and I have a ten o'clock appointment with Mr. Carroll. You *may* announce me *now*, please."

The voice of command, even when pitched in such light, feminine tones, brought an immediate response from the pompous young fool. "Immediately, ma'am," he said as he scurried off to one of the heavy oak doors behind his desk.

Moments later, he returned with a tall, older man in tow. "Hello, Miss Hanks, I am Jason Carroll," the older man said as he strode forward, his hand extended.

Instinctively, Joan extended her own hand to shake hands in greeting and so was greatly surprised when Carroll took her hand in his, bowed over it and kissed her fingers. She nearly snatched her hand back, and likely would have had she not been so shocked by the gesture.

Carroll smiled at the girl's disoriented look and said, "Won't you join me in my office, please, and we will see what Mr. Holmes would like me to do."

Still bemused, Joan followed almost meekly in the man's wake, and took the chair offered, but shook her head at the offer of tea. Much to her dismay, she had to stand and reseat herself when her gown billowed in front and bunched beneath her causing her momentarily to show an unsuitable flash of slender ankle and bit of calf.

The display was not lost on Joan's host. Realizing that she had made an immodest display caused Joan to be reminded of the soft and oh-so-feminine undergarments that continually caressed her body. Suddenly, very private parts of her anatomy all began to itch fiercely and she practically had to grip the chair arms to stop herself from scratching herself. Still, she felt her face flame under his obvious scrutiny. "How may I be of service, Miss Hanks?" Carroll asked once he'd seated himself behind his chair.

That, at least, was something Joan could deal with. "Of course," she hedged, opening her reticule and removing a large envelope and a card. She passed the card to Mr. Carroll. It was one of professional calling cards of Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective.

"Mr. Holmes directed me to give you that," she said, "and this envelope, sir."

When Carroll accepted the envelope, his fingers inadvertently collided with Joan, but her focus was now totally on the task at hand and did not notice it.

Carroll frowned as he opened and read the letter it contained. Since she'd written, Joan was already aware of what it directed the solicitor to undertake on Joan's behalf and found herself watching him as he scanned the letter. *Odd that a man of his consequence cannot seem to sit still,* she thought as Carroll shifted back and forth in his chair. *Hemorrhoids, perhaps?*
 

Dear Mr. Carroll, A recent bout of illness has confined me to my rooms, and restricts me from seeing to my day-to-day business affairs as I would prefer. Until such time as I have recovered sufficiently to resume my normal schedule, my visiting nurse, Miss Joan Hanks from whom you received this letter, will be acting in my stead. You are therefore requested to see to the following arrangements on my behalf. Please prepare for my signature a power of attorney granting Miss Hanks full access to my accounts and investments until such time as I revoke that document. Additionally, prepare any other such documentation you deem necessary for her to act as my agent while I am incapacitated. Since you are now already acquainted with Miss Hanks, I will leave it to you to make whatever introductions are necessary at the various banks and other institutions she will need access to in this office. Finally, since I am, as I stated above, restricted to my rooms, I would ask that you call on me in my lodgings at 221B Baker Street with the documents for my signature. If possible, please make a cash withdrawal for me in the sum of five hundred pounds as I have not been able to replenish my household accounts since being laid low by this infernal sickness and must needs see to settling said accounts. Thank you for your assistance. I am, Most Sincerely Sherlock Holmes

 
 
"You must be a most remarkable young woman, Miss Hanks," Carroll said as he raised his bespectacled eyes from the letter.

"I beg your pardon, sir?" Joan asked, somewhat startled by the comment.

"I have known Mr. Sherlock Holmes for almost fifteen years, Miss Hanks, and think I know him rather well. This is the first time I have ever seen him involve a woman in his life, let alone his business affairs. You must be rather . . ." he hesitated and smiled winningly, "special to have won the approval of so particular a fellow."

Joan flushed, and looked down at her hands folded about her reticule in her lap. "I hope Mr. Holmes has learned that I am trustworthy and honest, sir," she said quietly.

Still smiling, Carroll waved the paper toward her with one hand. "So, you are aware of the contents of this note?"

"Not the details, sir. Mr. Holmes said he needed you to call on him this afternoon so that he could deal with several issues that have gone wanting since he was afflicted by this illness. Will there be any problem with you accommodating Mr. Holmes' requests, Sir?" *And there had better not be any given the exorbitant fees you demand for your services, Carroll.*

"No, no, my dear. None at all. Will I have the pleasure of seeing you when I come to call, Miss Hanks?"

Joan stood. "No, Mr. Carroll. Mr. Holmes gave me specific instructions that I was not to be about when you called. He said he needed to discuss issues with you in private and that I was to see to my shopping and other necessities this afternoon after helping him prepare for your visit."

Carroll rose and came around the desk. He put his arm about Joan shoulder and gently directed her from his office. "Then I shall look forward to seeing you again some other time, Miss Hanks. I shall look forward to it," and his voice dropped into a very low register, "Very much indeed."

Something seemed to crawl up Joan spine and a frisson of what might have been panic curled her stomach. She quickly donned her gloves before the solicitor could again capture her hand, made her farewells, and all but fled the offices.
 

 
Three thirty P.M. again found Holmes staring into his mirror dealing with his hair. A rather hideous blend of wig powder and gray woodash had dulled his hair to a limp, washed out gray. With great care, Holmes stuffed the greater proportion of the dusty mass up into a stocking nightcap, allowing a few, well-grayed wisps to flutter about his face.

Ah, his face - Holmes was particularly proud of his face just then. Two hours with his stage cosmetics had succeeded in restoring a reasonable semblance of his former masculine and aged visage - at least one that appeared debilitated by illness. Using the thick, waxy substances, Holmes had succeeded is sculpting the familiar aquiline nose and the prominent brow ridges. He'd hollowed his cheeks and then added powder and other, less pleasant pigments to give his face a grayish, unhealthy cast.

Holmes donned a pair of thick house gloves and proceeded to the sitting room. He smiled at what he saw there. *Fortunate that remembering the cases where I had needed to impersonate a woman recalled to mind the Count Sylvius affair in the Case of Marazin Stone. Otherwise I would not have remembered this fine fellow,* he thought with satisfaction.

The figure in the chair had once been a decoy dummy Holmes had used to fool a jewel thief into confessing and revealing the location of a fabulous stolen diamond. Watson, the arch-packrat and collector that he was, had saved the thing in his little museum of Holmes Memorabilia. *And a good thing he did, too.*

Still smiling, Holmes opened the "chest" of the dummy and then slid his legs into those of his avatar. Holmes then seated himself and slid his arms into place before closing the front of his costume. Holmes had experimented earlier and had therefore thought to bolster himself by placing several thick books down where he sat so that the combination of Holmes and his dummy looked to be of nearly normal stature.

The disguise was completed by an artful positioning of the stocking cap over the back of the chair and then bundling a large, thick comforter about him. Holmes had thought to position this chair so that he could examine himself in the mirror once he'd completed his preparations. What he saw there pleased him.

An old man, dressed in a nightshirt and evening robe seated in a chair. Except for his face and the toes of two very disreputable house slippers, he was swathed head to foot by a heavy quilt-like comforter. Holmes would even have fooled himself.

At least for two, maybe three minutes, in any case.

The door bell chimed just as the clock struck four p.m.

"Come in," Holmes said in a querulous, old man's voice, "it's open."

The door opened to admit Jason Carroll, a hand size portfolio tucked under his arm. "Good day, Mr. Holmes. I hope you are feeling better."

"I'm feeling old, Carroll, and there is very little that can be done to make that better!" Holmes snapped in his best curmudgeonly fashion, all the while thinking about the awful irony of that statement. "Well, sit down, sit down. Let's get this over with before that damned girl gets back here to badger me back into bed."

Carroll opened his portfolio and removed a series of papers. "You mean Miss Hanks? She seemed like a very pleasant young woman. Rather . . . umm. . shall we say decorative, as well? A young woman like that could do a great deal to keep a man young, eh?"

The last comment was said with a "man to man" tone that brought Holmes up short. *What does THAT mean? And why does it put my back up?* "Hmmmph," Holmes snorted, "If you're in the petticoat line, I suppose. Do you have my papers, Mr. Carroll?"

Carroll stood and brought the papers over to Holmes. Using his portfolio as a writing board, he presented a pen to Holmes. "This first one is the requested Power of Attorney, Mr. Holmes," Carroll told him before presenting two other forms for his signature. "These authorize Miss Hanks to sign checks and account forms for your accounts at the Bank of England, and this form, is the withdrawal form for the five hundred pounds you requested."

"What?" Holmes growled testily, "Does that mean you didn't bring my money?"

"I couldn't take that much out of your accounts, sir, without your signature, so I took the money out of accounts held by my office which I will, in turn, replace with the money you just authorized to be withdrawn."

"I see. Very thoughtful of you." Holmes took a few moments to thoroughly examine the other man when something caught his trained eye's attention. *Odd about his mouth,* Holmes thought, *unusually full lips for a man of his coloration and background. Unusually dark ones for his skin tones as well. Not at all what my studies into anthropological body types would lead my to expect.*

"Thank you, Sir," Carroll said, interrupting Holmes' line of thought, "If you don't mind my asking, Mr. Holmes, does Miss Hanks get any evenings off?"

Holmes frowned. "Eh? No, of course not. She is on duty every night since that is when I have my hardest time."

"So she stays here, not at home?"

"She stays here, otherwise she lives with the other nurses at the local hospital, but she doesn't have any time for any dalliances, sir, as she will be accompanying me to my country estates as soon as Dr. March says I am again fit to travel."

"I see. Well, hopefully you will soon be back in the first bloom of health, sir," Carroll said with somewhat less bonhomie than he'd previously evidenced.

*So you can pay your addresses on Miss Joan Hanks without offending her employer who also happens to be your richest client, eh? So sad, you old fool, that Miss Hanks and Mr. Holmes are one and the same.* "Well, I am told that with a few weeks of clean, fresh air in the country, I will be as good as new. We may be back in the city in two or three months." *Which should give you more than enough time to forget Miss Hanks, providing I and therefore *she* can survive that long.*

"Yes, well, I am afraid I must be on my way, Mr. Holmes. Do have Miss Hanks call on my office tomorrow to sign the papers herself. I have also scheduled time in my day so that I may introduce her to your account manager at the Bank of England's London Office."

Holmes nodded and then lifted a gloved hand to Carroll in farewell. Carroll took the proffered hand with some reluctance, shook it once and then with a final farewell, took his leave.

Holmes watched the door close and heard the downstairs door open and close as well, then he began to laugh. "You were much more enthusiastic about taking that hand in yours this morning, you old goat."

With another, very unladylike bark of laughter, Holmes extricated himself from the body of his dummy and set about moving it to his bedroom. "Might be useful to have a conveniently sleeping Holmes available to deflect the next uninvited visitor who comes calling."
 

 
 
Entry in the Journal of Mr. Sherlock Holmes

Date: February 9, 1911.

Time: 7:41 P.M.

My Dear Watson, Well, thanks to your tendency to save anything and everything associated with any of my cases, I was able to replenish my ready funds reserve today. Physically, the changes in my body appear to be going apace. I am again shorter and lighter, by another quarter inch and another two and one half pounds respectively. My waist must be smaller because the corset doesn't feel as tight. Interestingly, my hips and chest are smaller now as well, but I am definitely becoming ever rounder in those areas of my body. Whether it is a result of the corset pushing softer flesh up or down or the result of Moriarty's potion making me ever more feminine in all physical respects, I am definitely developing a bosom and as Jenny pointed out, cleavage. One concern I have about the rate of these changes is that Jenny and/or Maisie will notice. They are, after all, dressmakers. I stopped at a shoemaker on the way home from the solicitor's today and purchased a new pair of high heeled shoes. Unfortunately, these are not the wide heeled "Cuban heels", but rather another, much more slender heeled style known as "Spanish heels" and these are almost four inches in height. Based on my current stature, I will likely need them by day after tomorrow at the latest. Unfortunately, I have concluded that I desperately need the lessons that Jenny imparts to me so I am going to continue seeing her. Besides, it is nice having a friend again, Watson. I do wish you were here, old fellow. Tomorrow, I must face Mr. Carroll again, hopefully for the last time. I have checked my society page file, and have discovered that Mr. Carroll has a well earned reputation as a womanizer. I must conclude that my attempt to dispense with cosmetics and to appear businesslike did not turn aside his interest. Most upsetting. I am very tired, Watson. I think I must get some rest. DAMME! Time is running out and all I seem to do is sleep, grow ever younger and ever smaller, and accomplish NOTHING toward the real task at hand - finding and stopping Moriarty. And I still have not thought of anyone to take up the battle against the Professor when this damnable potion finally runs out and I die from the withdrawal symptoms. But, as I said, I am very tired. Good night, Watson. Perhaps I will be seeing you for real soon.

End Journal Entry.
 
 
Chapter 14: A Damsel in Distress
 
Holmes sighed as he brushed out his hair in preparation for visiting the solicitor's office again. The withdrawal symptoms had been particularly harsh this morning, and moreover, seemed to be having heretofore unobserved residual effects. He felt . . edgy, and perhaps a little off-balance. His body felt wrong in a way that Holmes did not have words to describe. The culmination of all this was that Holmes was running late and making mistakes - two conditions that were all but guaranteed to place the very punctual, very fastidious Sherlock Holmes in a thoroughly black mood indeed.

Worse yet, Holmes was unable to set aside an increasingly prevalent feeling that something was wrong, or that something bad was about to occur. Staunchly, for perhaps the tenth time since he'd begun to prepare for this day's outings, Holmes mentally turned his back on the unwelcome premonition. For all he was almost completely female now, he was still a man of the modern times, a man of science, and premonitions, intuitions or unformed feelings had no place in his world.

Holmes pinned his hair up and donned his hat. At least those two tasks seemed to go more easily today than they had the day previous. He'd only made himself wince pulling at his hair with the brush twice today.

Holmes gave himself one last critical look at himself in the mirror. His increasingly experienced eye could see where the gown no longer fit as well as it had. He could see where the bodice and waist were no longer as snug as they had been when Jenny had fit him for the gown, and the hem was again in imminent danger of being muddied on the street. Briefly, Holmes had considered using his new Spanish heeled ankle boots, but his attempt to walk in them this morning had been unsuccessful in the extreme. The Cuban heels were still high enough - barely - and would have to be sufficient until he could get back from the Solicitor's and Jenny's whereupon he would practice in the new footwear.

Holmes reveries were shattered when he realized he was scratching rather insistently at the skin just above the top of that infernal corset. He thrust his offending hands to his sides, all the while mentally upbraiding himself about how such a misstep would be received in public.

He returned his attentions to the mirror and sighed at what he saw there. *I also still need at least one other gown, more likely two or three,* Holmes thought as he reached for his cloak and gloves. *This one is becoming filthy and the gray one I wore to Jenny's won't do until I have time to alter it again. Just another task that will consume time I should be expending in the search for Moriarty.*

Again the feeling of impending danger enveloped him, actually making the hair on the back of his neck prickle, only this time, the feeling was accompanied by a flash of memory. Carroll, asking all those relatively personal questions about Miss Hanks, so very off handedly, as if it really didn't matter. And yet, if it didn't matter, why ask at all? Carroll was a man of business, a man to whom time was a scarce and therefore vital commodity. Why would he expend such a valuable resource attempting to gain such information about Joan Hanks? Then another memory flashed into his mind - Carroll's little, supposedly inadvertent touches and brushes while he was supposedly assisting her. Again, why?

*And yet, I have no substantial, non-deductive evidence that this man intends to do me harm,* Holmes told himself firmly, *and yet, I can't shake the feeling I need to be prepared to deflect some form of violence.*

Setting aside his cloak and gloves, some instinct pushed Holmes to reach for an old friend - his lead shot loaded walking stick. *How many times in the past,* he mused, *Have I been forced to use this tool to stop a villain who was about to attack or injure Watson or myself?* Holmes reached over and hefted the heavy stick and sighed. It had never felt so heavy before. *But before, you were not a female, and you were several stones heavier as well. In any event, it will not serve my needs in this instance. Women, particularly young women, do not use walking sticks or canes.*

Holmes sighed as he stepped out of his dressing room and into the hall where his eyes fell upon his, or rather, Joan's small reticule. It was little more than a fabric covered, lidded wooden box supported by two heavy, fabric covered hand straps with which to hold it. Thoughtfully, he hefted the hand-purse. *Not quite heavy enough.* he thought before an inspiration hit him. Part of the five hundred pounds Carroll had delivered the day before had been in coin of the realm instead of banknotes. Holmes rushed to his sitting room and found the bag of coinage which he then transferred to the bottom of the reticule. He tested its weight and smiled. *It will wear on my hand carrying it after a while,* he thought, *but it is now well suited to be a replacement for my walking stick.*

Nodding his satisfaction, Holmes returned to the foyer, retrieved and donned his cloak and gloves, and then took one last look into the foyer mirror. As he had the day before, Holmes consciously took on the mental outlook and mannerisms that completed his disguise as Joan Hanks.

Then she turned and walked out the door.
 

 
Cognizant this day of both her high heeled shoes and her long skirts, Joan waited patiently for the driver to assist her exit from the cab. She paid him without comment and then again entered the offices of Nickleby and Carroll. She was greeted by the same clerk, but this time he quickly escorted her into Carroll's office.

"Ah, Miss Hanks," Carroll said rising from his desk and offering her his hand. When she pointedly did not respond, he smiled and offered her a seat. She was more than a little pleased when she managed not to billow her skirts this time. *Practice does make perfect,* she reminded herself. "Now," Carroll continued, "let's get these documents signed and then I will take you around to the Bank and introduce you to Mr. Holmes' account manager."

Carroll came around the desk with a sheaf of papers in his hand which he placed on his desk near Joan. He then offered her a pen and began to explain each document in detail. Since Joan, as Holmes, had already read and understood each document yesterday, her mind was not occupied when Carroll began his little game. Throughout the explanations and signing, Carroll would "accidently" brush against Joan's arm or glide a hand filled with paper along her bosom or nudge her thigh with his when he bent over to show her precisely where to sign.

Unfortunately, Joan did not know what to do about the bounder. She was so close, his very odd cologne was well nigh to overwhelming, but she couldn't think of any way to make the man back off. She needed his introduction to her account manager if she was to regain control of her funds, so she could not afford to anger the man by retaliating. *The bastard is taking advantage because he believes I do not have any one to turn to for assistance or protection,* she realized. *We'll see about that once our business is concluded!*

Unfortunately, Carroll's increasingly unwelcome touching and fondling continued throughout the morning as he escorted her to the Bank of England for a meeting with Mr. Alfred Stone who managed Mr. Sherlock Holmes' accounts with the Bank. Joan was surprised that there were several other documents that Mr. Stone required signed in addition to those Carroll had required. These she read with more care since this was the first time she'd seen them. That process took almost an hour, so it was after one o'clock with the pair returned to Carroll's offices. Part of the delay was due to Joan's need to beg the use of the lady's facility at the Bank. Evidently her bladder was shrinking just as quickly as the rest of her.

Joan noticed that the clerk was not at his usual station, but Carroll indicated that the man took his luncheon between one and two o'clock because the office tended to be busy during the more traditional luncheon hour of two to three o'clock.

Joan decided that the set down she had been planning for the damned rogue would wait for another day, and began to take her leave, only to be physically stopped short. Once again, Carroll took advantage by putting his arm about Joan's shoulders and half leading, half forcing her into his office.

Joan's immediate reaction was a sudden, seething rage that this fool had dared to manhandle him. . . *her* in that heinous manner. Caught up in a fury unlike anything in her past experience, Joan shook herself free of Carroll's arm and decided that this state of affairs was just fine with her. She had more than just a few tart words she wished to lay upon Mr. Jason Carroll and his office was as good a place as any and better than most. She was just beginning to marshal herself for the attack when she was rudely interrupted by the sound of a key rasping in a lock. Joan spun on her heels just in time to see a smiling Carroll slipping a key into his vest pocket.

"What the he. . " she started to scream but Carroll, moving with unexpected speed, was immediately on top of her, binding her arms to her sides in a fierce bear-hug and sealing her mouth off with his own. Joan was so surprised by the suddenness of his attack, that her mouth had been open when Carroll had forced himself upon her and his tongue into her mouth.

Joan struggled hard, but Carroll was a much larger man, and moreover, with her arms restrained had a significant advantage in leverage. For an instant, it was Moriarty toying with her all over again, but then, she felt his hand lifting her skirts and petticoats and forcing his leg between hers. Stark realization of what he intended hit Joan and her mind went momentarily blank.

A rudely intrusive finger probing none-too-gently about her genitals brought her wits back with a vengeance. Still unable to fight him off physically, she did the only thing she could think of - she bit down on his tongue as hard as she could.

A hot, almost sweet, coppery flavor assailed her senses as Carroll began hitting her, trying to make her break her hold on him. A particularly hard blow to her head rocked her and she fell away, rolling as she hit the floor. She came to rest near Carroll's desk.

"So you like to play rough, do you, Miss Hanks," Carroll asked with a positively demonic look on his face as he swiped blood from his mouth, "Well, so do I - particularly with virginal little teases like you!"

The solicitor began to move slowly towards the still recumbent Joan, his hands fisting and unfisting, with an almost insane smile on his face. Joan bided her time, waiting as he approached. From deep inside her fear-fogged mind, the part of her that was Sherlock Holmes examined her situation, predicted probabilities and plotted stratagems.

And Joan acted on them.

She waited, looking terrified, until Carroll was nearly on top of her, until he lifted his fist to strike down on her yet again, and then - only then - did she move. Her right hand flashed out, swinging her coin-loaded reticle with all her strength like a mace.

The sharp corners of the wooden purse caught Carroll midway between his ankles and his knees, squarely on both of his shins and snapping both carry straps. *Obviously not designed for such abuse,* some idle part of her mind commented.

The scream that issued from Carroll's throat as he fell was almost inhuman. He had not even finished when Joan snatched up the reticule in both hands and brought it up into her assailants solar plexus with all her strength. Carroll fell to the floor gagging and gasping for air that simply would not oblige him.

Joan began to shake as she struggled to her knees. She hand walked her way up his quivering legs and retrieved the key from Carroll's vest pocket. Her eyes fell on a strange stain about the cuff of his pants leg, and noticed that it seemed to be particularly redolent of that strange, half remembered cologne scent of his, but did not let herself dwell on that. She needed to make her escape before he recovered his wind. She reached down, gathering up her broken reticule, and then let herself out of the office. She was halfway to the main door of the office when a last a vestige of Holmes fought through the maelstrom of her wildly swirling emotions. Joan stopped, returned to the office door, and used Carroll's own key to lock the office before departing. She took the key with her.

Knowing she must look a sight, Joan fought against the uncontrolled shaking as she hailed a cab, and then directed the driver to the only people she knew in all the world that might care about what had happened to her. The cabbie saw the incipient terror in her eyes, and hastened to follow her orders.
 

 
Her clock chiming two o'clock roused Madame Jeanne Marie from her thoughts. Time for the midday meal break for many of the local businesses which meant the street would soon be full of busy clerks, typists and business people all rushing about for a bit of luncheon or to run an errand or two. Jenny had about given up on Joan who'd been showing up on her doorstep the past two days promptly at one o'clock. *Must be that nurse's training that makes a woman so cognizant of time,* she thought with a smile.

Jenny was just standing up when a hansom cab raced up to her shop and stopped suddenly at her doorstep. She watched in amazement as the driver hastily got down from his driving box in a futile attempt to help his passenger disembark his cab. A young woman in a very familiar brandywine colored day dress practically jumped from the high cab and promptly fell to her hands and knees in the muddy street. The cab tried to help her to her feet, but she seemed almost limp in his arms. That was when Jenny recognized Joan. "Maisie!" she yelled. "Get out here! Something has happened to Joan!"
 

 
Several somewhat-more-than-sips of Jenny's now-familiar medicinal French brandy later, Joan was finally beginning to calm down. Recognizing the signs - disarranged clothing including one missing glove, bruised mouth, hair and eyes wild with emotion - Jenny did not need to be told the cause of Joan's panic, but she also knew that the girl needed to talk it out. The brandy would help.

The emotional purge was well-lubricated by several refillings of Joan's brandy snifter. Jenny and Maisie simply listened while the held the shaking girl between them on one of the shop's sofas. "I. . . I don't even know why I came here," Joan said almost to herself as the emotion ebbed. "I don't understand what made me tell the driver to come here instead of to Baker Street."

"Pish and tosh," Jenny said with a glint of humor in her gentle eyes, "And what would Mr. Sherlock Holmes know about such things, I'd like to know? Probably just say something about deducing what had happened based on something no normal person would ever notice and that it was elementary. Which is nothing of any use at all just now. What you need is seeing to, and in times like this, women see to women - friends see to friends. Your heart knew that even if your head might have been all mixed up."

"I wasn't sure I had earned the privilege of calling us friends yet, but I am glad you were here for me. I do feel better now, thank you," Joan said very quietly.

Jenny nodded. "If we are not yet friends, we are friendly acquaintances Joan. And we are women. I am glad you came here so that we could be here for you. And now,," Jenny said, deciding it was time to get the girl focused on something positive again, but first they had to get a few things out. "Tell me, dear, do you always carry coins valued at nearly fifty pounds in your reticule?"

*As if I have ever carried a reticule before this week,* Joan thought barely suppressing a hysterical giggle. "No, Jenny. I did it because. . well, something Mr. Holmes said made me think of it."

"Holmes, again? I don't understand."

*Think fast, Joan Hanks!* "Well, Mr. Holmes had concluded that Mr. Carroll might have . . . inappropriate intentions toward me."

"Well, Holmes always did see things others missed, but did he ever stop to think that sending you to meet with that fool might have been dangerous? Goodness, girl, didn't YOU think it would be dangerous?"

*Nothing I couldn't easily control - or so I thought,* Joan thought. "Well, that was when he told me about that walking stick of his - the one he filled with lead?"

"I know about it. When I was involved with Mr. Holmes before, I even saw him use the bloody thing. Damn him, anyway! I am surprised the man didn't offer it to you," Jenny muttered as she took a large swallow of her own brandy. "Some men are just so intelligent they are stupid."

Joan wanted to jump to Mr. Holmes' - that is her own - defense, but resisted the urge. "I couldn't carry it - it was too heavy," Joan said with the first sign of animation since her arrival. "Besides, it didn't go with my dress."

Jenny acknowledged Joan's attempt at humor with a half smile. "So you decided to load your reticule instead?" Joan nodded. "Jenny, Mr. Holmes is a very impressive man, but he *is* MERELY a man. That cane, and that reticule which is essentially the same thing, are men's weapons. You are very fortunate you got to use it, but in most other situations like that, you'd probably have lost it before you got in a single swing with it."

"What should I have done, then? Carried Mr. Holmes' revolver in the reticule?"

Jenny threw up her hands in exaggerated disgust. "Didn't your mother teach you ANYTHING when you were a girl?? You shouldn't have gotten in the situation in the first place, dear," Jenny said with heavy emphasis. "As soon as all the papers were signed at the bank, you should have left then. Once you were back in his office and you knew you were alone, you should have tried to get out again. . ."

"But I did!" Joan protested. "And if the reticule wasn't the answer, what should I have done?"

"First, you shouldn't have lost your temper. You were in deep trouble and you wasted valuable time thinking about berating him instead of thinking about getting away from him. That's how he had the time to lock you in."

"So what should I have done? Especially since he immediately immobilized my arms and practically choked me with that excuse for a kiss."

"Biting him was good, but the move that would have freed you and given you time was to knee him."

"Knee him?" Joan asked with a squeaky break of shock in her voice. She was certain she hadn't understood Jenny. Surely, Jenny did not mean Joan should do something so cowardly as . .

"You have a knee, Joan, and he has a groin with that lovely and very vulnerable male organ that men are so damned proud of. Well, it may be their bloody pride and joy, but is also their greatest weakness. Men with their stupid "Marquis of Queensberry Rules" have made blows to that part of their anatomy something less than manly, something terribly dishonorable. Women cannot afford that artificiality when a man intends to rape her. Next time, hopefully you'll learn from this and there won't BE a next time, but if there is, position yourself carefully, and then plant your knee in his groin with every ounce of strength you can muster. Don't hold back anything because you may get only one opportunity, but you *will* get that one opportunity. If he's going to rape you, he has to get those tender little balls of his in range of your knee."

*She's correct, now that I think of it. Carroll is almost half again my weight, and he had me dead to rights before I could make a move against him. I caught him by surprise or the reticule would never have worked.*

"Do you understand, Joan," Jenny said with the impatience of someone who has been forced to repeat herself.

Joan smiled sheepishly. "Yes, I understand, Jenny."

"Good, then we need say no more on the subject. No real harm was done although if you are going to have to do business with him for Mr. Holmes, we will need to come up with a means of preventing this in the future. Perhaps have the accounts transferred to his partner?"

"Perhaps," Joan murmured as she thought about all that had happened. Suddenly, several things fell into place. "I simply don't understand why he would attack me in such a manner in any case. . . given his evident preferences. . .or what I deduce to be his preferences."

Jenny's eyes went hard and she demanded, "What do you mean, preferences."

"Mr. Carroll has a marked preference for male. . . . lovers," Joan declared with the same certainty that had revealed many a villain during the career of Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

"Male lovers? How can you conclude such a thing? Moreover, how would you, such a milk and honey country miss know of such deviancies?" Jenny interjected.

*In the mental satisfaction associated with deduction, I forgot who I was. . . or rather, who I appear to be which is not Sherlock Holmes,* Joan thought furiously, *Better think of some reasonable explanation for knowing what you know, Miss Joan Hanks,* then an inspiration struck, *Oh, yes, that should do nicely.*

"As to how I know of such things, I did my training at a hospital down on the lower East End. Several times we'd get patients. . .men whose. . .bottoms had been badly cut by a whip or a cane - sometimes with. . .hemorrhaging . . .ummm. . about the orifice from which they eliminate. ." Joan looked up and saw Jenny nodding slowly. "As to Mr. Carroll's involvement in such activities, that is ele. . .I mean, simple. Several facts point to Mr. Carroll's involvement in such activities. First, his trousers were stained with a bath oil whose scent I just recalled as being similar to that of the men who were injured. I originally thought he merely had atrocious taste in cologne, but then I saw the stain when were on the floor after I struck him with the reticule. The injured men who carried that scent always came from these . . .bathhouses."

"You might have mistaken the bath oil's scent, dear," Jenny cautioned.

"Unlikely," Joan said authoritatively, "It is QUITE unforgettable. However, the second fact is that he always sat down rather carefully, - as if he was trying to keep weight off his buttocks, and once seated, could not sit still in one place for any length of time. The final piece of the puzzle, though I didn't credit it properly at the time I first noticed it, is that his lips were oddly discolored and unusually full - almost swollen. What they were, in actuality, was bruised, much the same as those men at the hospital were."

"You do realize what you are implying, don't you," Jenny asked, her opinion of the girl's intelligence taking a marked step upward.

"That's why I said I didn't understand why he wanted to rape me. The evidence indicates that he prefers other men."

Jenny shook her head. "Not quite all, dear. Your assessment is mostly correct, but what he truly prefers is submission. . .*rough* submission to the will of other men who beat him and use him as a sexual plaything. I suspect that he preys on young women such as you in a sick attempt to convince himself he is still a true man. However, that does give me an idea of how we can ensure that Mr. Carroll turns over Mr. Holmes' business to his partner and that he will not attempt to do you any further harm as well. MAISIE!?!" she called out suddenly.

"Yes, Miss Jenny?" the little seamstress answered as she stuck her head through the beaded curtain to the workroom.

"Get Miss Joan's other dresses so we can final fit them to her. She needs something to wear home while we get this once cleaned. Also, is that black satin day dress we designed for that opera singer still available?"

"You mean the one that looks like it was painted onto the dress form? Yes Ma'am. She was so petite, no one else who might want it could fit in it. 'Specially in the bosom. She was a little thing, 'cept there."

"That one. I think it would fit Joan if we can tighten her corset another inch or two. Fetch it and my make up case, please."

Joan watched all this with some confusion. "What are you doing? Why a black satin day dress? Isn't that a little unusual."

"Very unusual, but perfect to our purposes. *You*, dear girl, are about to learn about fighting with a woman's weapons. Now, pick up your brandy and follow me."
 

 
"But, Jenny," Joan whined and hated herself for it, "You just said I got it right, for the fourth time!"

"It still took you too long. Clean it off your face and do it again. Once you can apply the cosmetics for that particular facial look in ten minutes or less, I will let you go home to rest. Now, use the cream and cleanse your face."

"But I can't go any faster, Jenny. I can barely breathe now that you and Maisie have tightened the corset again. And that damned thing itches infernally! It bids fair to drive me insane."

"Hush. If you'd just take the corset off at night, you wouldn't chafe your skin so badly. I'll give you a cream that will soothe the irritation."

"Well, every time I take it off, you accuse me of loosening it. Why can't you just alter the dress so that I don't need the corset to wear it!?!"

"Because even if we had the time to alter the dress to fit you that way, which we DON'T, the dress doesn't have sufficient spare material to let out the darts to fit you uncorseted, girl. Therefore, we needed to reduce your waist some more. And the corset can't loosen now because we've laced you to the point where the edges meet all up and down your back. That let me connect the hooks and eyes along the back so it can't loosen anymore. Besides, tightening up the corset like that lifted your bosom enough that you fill that bodice perfectly and show a delightful cleavage. It's perfect."

Joan sighed, but the unrelenting force of the corset stays stopped her in mid-breath. Frowning, she began to cream away the heavily applied, exotic make up from her face. "You're sure this will work?"

"Trust me, darling. I had more than one protector who played rough in hopes of making me angry enough to punish him like a naughty little boy. What you need to do is get his attention and then keep him off balance so that you can get that threat in."

"Well, that dress will do it, Jenny."

"A woman's weapons, darling."
 
 
Chapter 15: Counterstrike
 
Holmes grimaced as he stared at the face reflected in the silvered glass of the small makeup mirror he'd erected on his laboratory workbench. Not that he wanted it in here, in his special private place of contemplation and rational thought. He'd planned on setting it up in his dressing room, but as fate would have it only his laboratory had sufficient artificial light for this particular task. The irony of having this very feminine makeup mirror standing next to the now-idle concentrating and distilling apparatus was not lost on Holmes - a fact that only made what he had to do all the more difficult for the Great Detective.

Holmes had risen at three a.m. that morning, administering Moriarty's youth elixir a full two hours earlier than the withdrawal should have made that necessary. This would, hopefully, ensure that Holmes, or more accurately Joan, would not be dealing with any lingering aftereffects of the potion when it was time to face Carroll again. Unfortunately, that stratagem did not seem to have been very effective. Holmes did not feel well. His stomach had rebelled violently when he'd attempted to eat a modest breakfast and his mouth still tasted vile as a result. His lower back and abdominal muscles were cramping quite vigorously, and it was only by dint of his fabled and phenomenal will that he wasn't on his bed groaning and curled into the fetal position.

Still, for Sherlock Holmes, master detective and scientist, the worst aspect of this experience was his growing inability to control his emotions. One reason he was *still* in front of this thrice cursed mirror, *re*-doing his cosmetics was because he'd just been possessed of a rather amazing fit of crying - all because he'd smudged the enamel he'd been oh-so-very-carefully painting on to his finger nails. It had not even been all that significant an issue - correcting the smudged surface would have taken no more than a minute or two to clean the nail with the solvent before repainting it. Not significant at all, except that Holmes had first lost his temper and then his composure because of it, and had finished the debacle by bursting into tears. Tears which had, naturally, destroyed his already-made-up face.

Holmes swiped the lip rouge carefully about his full lips and set down the brush. *Done,* he thought with some relief. He turned his attention to his hair and was again relieved to see it had suffered no damage during his crying fit. *Thank Providence,* Holmes mused, for getting his hair into that ridiculously tight bun had taken four tries and had cost him uncounted hairs jerked from his scalp by their roots. Jenny had insisted that every hair had to be precisely in place for the full effect, and he'd almost given up on the whole thing after the third try. He would have given up, except the hat Jenny had provided would not fit on the wild mane his hair had become when let free of pinned constraint.

Rising from his stool, Holmes set aside the bed sheet he had used to protect the dress and strolled carefully back into his dressing room. Carefully, because he was now wearing the Spanish heeled boots. His stature this morning was such that the damned inconvenient skirts of this unpetticoated gown were too long for the Cubans. He'd nearly fallen face first into his mirror when the toe of the Cuban had caught on the hem of this infernal dress. Still, he had no other options if the plan were to work as he and Jenny had agreed it would, so he'd gotten out the shoe button hooks and had wrestled the much taller Spanish-style heeled boots onto his feet. He'd been walking in them ever since, removing them only when he recalled he'd forgotten to put on his stockings.

Holmes now regretted his forethought to purchase a pair of shoes that had been too tight and perhaps a half size too small when he'd selected these high heeled relics from Torquemada's Inquisition. Putting the shoes back on to feet that had already begun to swell was unpleasant in the extreme. *Would have been far easier to insert some tissue paper into the toes of a larger, more commodious pair, or to wear thick cotton ankle stockings beneath Jenny's black silk stockings. I can only hope I will still be able to walk when this day was done. By all that is holy,* Holmes growled as his left foot nearly slipped out from under him on the slick, hardwood floors, *the bindings inflicted on the feet of Chinese noblewomen could be no less tight and crippling than these damned shoes.*

He managed to make it to the dressing mirror without further incident and sighed as he took in the picture he saw within its depths.

The dress Jenny had pressed upon Joan covered every inch of him from wrist to shoulder and from throat to floor. The gown's design was utterly simple, and yet, utterly devastating - nothing but stark, unrelieved glossy black satin except for specially-chosen, highly-dramatic, blood-red accents that seized the eyes and forced them into sharp focus. One accent, a rose corsage, rode lightly on the gentle swell of his left breast, rising and falling with the softly exaggerated breaths forced by the tight corset. The second attention demand took the form of a large paste ruby sewn to the front of the gown's chin-high collar, emphasizing the elegance of Holmes' slender neck while enforcing a regal hauteur.

The virtually unrelieved black of the sleek gown would make even an ordinary complexion appear cold and colorless, but Jenny's special makeup application had taken that even further with deliberately pale tones everywhere except for the bright slash of matching red on his lips. Lips that seemed to grow more full every time Holmes examined himself in a mirror.

Looking at that image, there could be no doubt as to the gender of the person reflected. That was, Holmes mused, perhaps the most negative aspect of this whole enterprise, for there could no longer be any pretense. The person reflected in the mirror was not Sherlock Holmes. The person was female.

The figure, while not sufficiently voluptuous to have drawn the sculptor Rodan's interest and attention, was still very finely and femininely shaped. Slender, but with a well rounded bosom, an extremely tiny waist *Thanks to Jenny and her damnable corset!* and subtly curved hips and bottom. And the damned gown did not, in *any* way, attempt to disguise that fact. Rather, it shouted *FEMALE* to anyone who might be within range of its power.

But Holmes knew it was not just the dress. He would soon be having trouble NOT looking feminine and attractive. The dress merely emphasized what he'd been fighting to deny to himself since he'd first deduced this effect of the potion just before Moriarty had appeared on the scene. What the revelation of that truth, and more importantly, his sudden acceptance of it meant for him in the near and long term, Holmes did not know. Unfortunately, with the confrontation with Carroll looming, he did not have the time to spend analyzing those issues. He'd have to deal with all that entailed more completely once this day's adventure was over.

Returning his attention to his appearance, he sighed. "I look like a bizarre combination of one of Madame Hell's bawds and a paid governess arrayed like this," Holmes growled, a sound totally incongruous to his current visage. "Not only, that, but this gown is also very tight in very uncomfortable places," he complained as he resisted an urgent need to relieve an itch immediately beneath that blasted rose.

The clock tolled nine thirty, recalling Holmes to his schedule. He picked up the bit-of-nothing hat Jenny had provided and carefully placed it on his head. The hat was a half-bonnet, designed to conform tightly to the skull and just barely rest upon the top of the bun. That was why Holmes had been forced to stay at his hair until it was tamed. Also black, the hat sported pair of red silk roses that seemed to be pinned in his hair just above his right ear, and a fine black lace-mesh veil that just covered his eyes. Holmes positioned the hat and then pinned it on, and nearly stabbed his scalp doing so. "Curse these damned clothes to the farthest halls of HELL!" Holmes cursed. "How in God's name do women tolerate them? WHY *do* women tolerate the infernal things?"

No one answered, but Holmes felt a bit better for the cursing. *At least the hair was not disarrayed by the pin. . only my scalp - but I won't have to rip any more hair out recreating the bun.*

Satisfied that all was done as well as could be, Holmes strode to the foyer and picked up his cloak. Actually, it was more a cape than a cloak. From the outside, the cloak was the same unrelieved black satin as the dress, but the lining was bright red silk, of the same tone as the roses, ruby and lip rouge. Holmes slipped his arms through the slits provided for that purpose and buttoned the cloak before reaching for the gloves. Oddly enough, they were red, not black. "Contrast" was all Jenny would say when Joan had questioned her on this. Holmes slipped them on. They fit like. . . well, like gloves, which had been a point of concern for Jenny the previous day.

"Are you sure you'll be able to fasten them, dear?" she'd asked very solicitously, "Button hooks can be the very devil to manage one handed and those gloves are perhaps just a bit too small for you. That is too bad, because the color is simply perfect."

Joan, knowing she would likely be just that much smaller in the morning, had assured Jenny that all would be fine. And so it was, Holmes mused holding his fine fingered hands splayed in front of his face. The gloves DID fit perfectly and while he had had the tiniest bit of trouble fastening them, the result was clearly worth that effort. The soft, warm leather clung to his hands and fingers so lovingly that Holmes could even see the faint outline of his long, lacquered nails beneath the tips of the finely sewn gloves.

He looked around and found the small reticule Jenny had given her and the other longer, narrower case as well. Once he had those in hand, Holmes turned to the foyer mirror and frowned. Jenny had repeatedly impressed upon Joan the importance of a stern visage, and to that end, they had attempted to design a cosmetic look that was a bit older than Joan ordinarily appeared. Now, however, he felt that he looked neither old or stern enough for his mission. *How old, physiologically speaking, am I at this point?* he asked himself. *Mid twenties at the most - a very young looking mid twenties. How am I going to manage 'stern' with a face like this?!?! Even all these cosmetics can't disguise my apparent youth.*

Holmes thought about it for several moments and then recalled his earlier comment about a combination bawd and governess. He recalled his own governess - a German woman selected by his brutal father for her strict approach to child rearing and for her well known and, unfortunately, well earned reputation for refusing to coddle her charges in any way. Holmes closed his eyes and cast his mind back, forcing himself to remember her on one of her less pleasant days, and then tried to imitate that look.

Holmes opened his eyes and looked at his reflection. The face that looked back was harder - certainly a woman not to be taken lightly. *Still young,* he thought, trying to be objective, but pleased with the look nonetheless. *No longer quite so dewy-eyed or virginally vulnerable. It will have to do.* With that, Joan completed the donning this day's disguise with a haughty toss of her head.

Joan Hanks gave the mirror a positively chilling smile, then turned to the door and left the rooms; her only thoughts on obtaining her rightful justice from Mr. Jason Carroll, Esquire.
 

 
The specially hired four-in-hand carriage glided to a stop in front of the office door of Nickleby and Carroll. Immediately, two old fashioned footmen jumped down from their perch at the rear of the equipage, and moved to their assigned tasks. One placed steps and a small carpet in front of the passenger door while the other moved to take a firm hold on the bridle of each lead horse. Only when he and the driver had the still fresh horses steady, did the first footman open the door of the passenger compartment for the lady to disembark.

Joan Hanks stepped carefully from the carriage onto the first step, stopped and rose to her full height. With her head held regally erect, she gave her free hand to the footman and permitted him to hand her down the steps and onto the paved walk. Once there, her face fixed in a stern mask, she nodded her approval. "You may walk the horses to see that they cool down properly, but remain close by." she ordered quietly. "This will not take long, perhaps no more than ten, fifteen minutes at the most."

"Yes, ma'am. The driver will take them just off the street, and we will remain here. When you come out, we'll fetch him." the footman reported quickly.

Again the austere lady nodded her approval. "Very well. I shall expect to be on my way within sixty seconds of my readiness to depart. Each of you shall be rewarded if I am not kept waiting beyond that."

The footman made an abrupt bow. "Yes, ma'am," he said, bowing yet again.

Satisfied with this reaction, Joan permitted herself a momentary cold smile before turning to the door. *Well, I would say I must have the role down fairly well if that reaction is anything to judge by. If that footman had been anymore respectful of my August personage, he'd have injured himself with all that bowing and scraping. Now, for Mr. Jason Carroll!*

Joan entered the office and strode purposefully up the clerk who looked up at her wide-eyed. She settled Jenny's case and her reticule under one arm as she unbuttoned her right glove. Eyes snapping, Joan turned her full attention on the already overmatched clerk.

"Tell me, young man," Joan directed in quiet, chill tones, "Has Mr. Carroll arrived at the offices yet?" The clerk started to look away, in the direction of Carroll's office, but Joan brought her gloved right hand up under the young man's chin and jerked his head back around to face her. "LOOK at a lady when she deigns speak to you!" she ordered, "Now tell me, is he IN his OFFICE?!?"

"Ye. . ye. . . yes, ma'am," he finally managed to stutter. "If you wi. . will wait just a moment, I would be happy to announce you."

Joan rose back up. "No thank you. I shall announce myself." she replied as she dropped her reticule and a strange long, very slender carrying case on to his desk. "Watch those for me. I won't be but a moment."

The clerk watched in silent awe as the frighteningly beautiful lady in black unbuttoned her cape and strode to Mr. Carroll's office. When the door latch clicked, he drew his first deep breath since she'd stormed into his area. Then he took a closer look at the odd, now-empty case. On it, he saw an engraved metal plate. It said, "Tattersall's Leather Goods Ltd: Purveyors of Fine Saddlery and Tack. Madame Jeanne Marie D'evere."

And he couldn't help but wonder, what had fit inside that case's finely-worked, velvet-lined interior?
 

 
Carroll looked up from the paper he was reading with his morning tea, prepared to deal a thorough set-down to the clerk who had become, in Carroll's professional opinion, just a bit to slack on office protocol of late. "Now, Jenkins," he began to berate the clerk, only to stop short as he saw what, or rather who, had invaded his sanctum sanctorum uninvited.

For an instant, Carroll did not recognize the vision in black who was bearing down on him. A cape parted to reveal a crimson lining that only served to make her stark gown seem all the more ominous. "Miss Hanks?" he finally blurted out just as the woman reached his desk.

"Just so, whore-boy." Joan said airily. Her rich ruby lips smiled playfully, but the depths of her dark eyes seemed to be a window into a hell beyond darkness. "And I am worse than any nightmare *your* pitiful perversions could possibly conceive."

The vile name she called him shocked him out of his immobility, and he began to rise from his seat, outraged. "You can't . ."

Whatever Carroll had intended to say to Joan died instantly in his throat when Joan drew a wicked-looking riding crop from beneath her cloak and brought it forcefully down on his shoulder. The impact, though dulled by the padded shoulders of his suit coat, had the startled Carroll falling awkwardly back into his desk chair.

If anything, Joan's smile grew larger. "Stand if you will," she purred, twirling the crop in front of his face in a manner that drew his eyes like a bird fascinated by a snake. "But my next little tap," Carroll flinched as Joan playfully traced his face from cheek to chin with the slapper of the crop, "will leave your face marked in a way that will not be as easy to hide as those stripes on your so well-rounded bottom."

"I beg your pardon," Carroll choked out, feeling the crop's thick leather stinger tickling beneath his chin. Fearing this black-dressed bitch might decide to drive it into his soft throat, he sat very still indeed.

"And well you should, Mr. Carroll, but then, you do so like to beg, don't you?" Joan asked, mild interest coupled with an undercurrent of disdain in her voice. Her eyes, though, never wavered from their implacable stare. "I can arrange things so that you will do more begging than you could possibly desire."

Joan let the end of the crop dance lightly on his ear, moving it at the last moment when he tried to grab it. "Naughty, naughty," she said with a hint of a laugh that never touched her stormy eyes. "I only grant *true* men the opportunity to play with *my* toys, and then only with my permission and at my direction. You do not qualify for that privilege on *any* count, now do you?"

"You have no right to say things like that about me!" he growled as he reached for the shoulder and tried to rub away the sting of her blow.

Joan laughed, a true laugh this time, as she watched him try to tend his hurt shoulder, but only for a single moment.

The easy smile that had been playing across her full red lips vanished into a cruel sneer that made it appear that the blood color was more than merely cosmetic enhancement. "Would you instead prefer that I say that you are a foul rapist?" she asked.

Joan leaned over his desk, the crop in her hand pushing into his sternum hard enough to cause an arch up that pressed against his chin. "Enough of this, little whore-slut. I know that you prefer men. I know that you think you enjoy being abused, and that you think you can hide your desires. But you are wrong. Just as your so-obviously bruised lips and the way you cannot sit comfortably on your fat arse reveal your secrets to a knowledgeable observer, so also are you mistaken as to the nature and horror of *true* abuse. Trust me, you would *not* find the experience with *me* in *any* way enjoyable. If you doubt me and intend to test my resolve, then consider carefully the needs of your heirs and ensure that your affairs are in order."

"You would not kill me," Carroll said, trying to recover his bluster. "For god's sake, you are only a woman!"

Just as quickly as the sneer had appeared on her face, a taunting smile now replaced it. Once again Joan twirled the crop in her hands, the contrast of the whip's black leather and her red gloves seeming to imply that the tool had often been touched by the brighter color. After a long pause, where once again her eyes revealed a formless glimpse into something beyond fear. "Ah, and so I am a woman," she agreed easily, "Therefore, when. . .or rather if I do decide to see to your death, it will not be something that will be done quickly, nor gently."

She slipped the crop under her arm and snapped the blood-red glove from her right hand with an audible pop that caused her victim to nearly jump in alarm. The sickeningly sweet, utterly terrifying smile was firmly in place as Joan reached out to where Carroll sat in his chair. At first, she simply caressed his cheek softly, pleased to see his rigid posture and to feel his attempt to slide as far from her touch as he could manage. Then, without warning, her nails arched into claws and one - the one she to which she had previously glued a tiny sharpened wire - scratched his cheek just deeply enough to leave a line of the same red her gloves had promised. Carroll reached for his cheek, then drew down a hand smeared with the evidence of her touch. He stared at it, not noticing until it was too late the movement of the crop. It slashed down upon his open palm, causing him to cry out in shocked anguish.

When he looked up from his temporarily useless hand, the playful smile still beamed from Joan's face. The crop was back under her arm, and she was tugging the tight red glove back on to her hand with sharp, quick movements.

"This is what I require you to do," she said with quiet authority and confidence. "Unless you want to experience far worse in the future. First, you will transfer all of Mr. Holmes' accounts and business interests to your partner, Mr. Nickleby."

Too thoroughly browbeaten to argue any further, Carroll simply acquiesced. "And the second thing?"

"Cease preying on supposedly defenseless young women. You do not want them in any case, and trust me, Mr. Holmes has highly skilled people watching you. The next time you fail to treat any young woman, particularly one who comes to you for help, with absolute respect will herald the revelation of your little pleasures with other men to your colleagues and clients"

"But damn you, you have no proof! You WOULD have no proof! You cannot prove any of this! I cannot believe any of this is happening to me!" he wailed, now nearly in tears.

"Believe it or not, Mr. Carroll, at your own peril," Joan said quietly, the smile gone for the moment. "I am fully aware - *fully* aware," she said with heavy emphasis, "of the activities in certain male-only bathhouses on London's east side and could easily hire a consulting detective to obtain all the proof I would need," Joan's smile blossomed anew, cruel and full, "but we both know that proof would not truly be needed, would it? A few whispers here, and a hint or two dropped in the right, or in your view, the wrong ears, and soon all London will be whispering about you. "Terrible about that solicitor fellow -what's his name? Oh yes, Carroll - the one who likes other men, canes across his arse and being sodomized." By the time the gossips were done with you, you'd be completely without clients within the week."

Joan began to fastened up her cloak, hiding all color but her seemingly-bloody hands and lips. Carroll watched her avidly, all the while praying that she was, at last, leaving. His prayers were to go unanswered though, when instead of moving to the door, she stepped around the desk to stand very near to Carroll. Without warning, the crop speared down to press painfully at the front of his trousers, literally pinning him to his seat.

She leaned down and whispered in his ear, as though softly sharing the sweetest promise, "Mr. Holmes has the contacts throughout London. I work for Mr. Holmes and Mr. Holmes is very, very unhappy that *I* am unhappy. If you don't believe me, go ahead and molest another woman you think lacks the protection of a family." Joan then kissed Carroll's cheek, leaving a vermillion imprint that seemed to taste of the blood still welling slowly from his scratch, "but only after, as I said earlier, you put your affairs in order."

The crop floated back up under her arm as she moved to the door with languid grace, pausing just before she opened it to look back with a mocking smile that . . . almost . . . drew his glance from the pits of darkness that smoldered in her eyes. With a disdainful sniff she turned to the door and left without another sign that she knew he existed.

Nor did she deign to acknowledge the existence of the still-intimidated clerk as she snatched up the crop's case and her reticule as she sailed through the outer office. Moments later, she was walking up the steps leading into her carriage. She gave directions to Jenny's shop, and then settled herself into the plush, leather-upholstered seat.

Only then, with the danger finally past and her opponent utterly defeated and routed from the field, did the shaking begin.
 
 
Chapter 16. Variations on Reflective Themes
 
Entry in the Journal of Mr. Sherlock Holmes

Date: February 11, 1911.

Time: 10:48 P.M.

My Dear Watson, I am beyond physical exhaustion and should be asleep getting badly needed rest instead of writing this, but I find that I cannot. Part of that is I feel absolutely wretched and suspect that, for some unknown reason, the onset of the withdrawal symptoms will begin much earlier tonight, but that is not the only basis to my restlessness. I am in turmoil, Watson; a veritable maelstrom of conflicting issues that I have not yet resolved to my mind. It is my hope that writing in my journal may help resolve the conflicts. And it may also divert my mind from the other, more physical problems. Since I have not accurately recorded my measurements recently, that is the first issue I must address tonight. It is not a comfortable recitation, I assure you. This data was collected rather later in the day than my usual measurement schedule, and additionally, I took the drug almost three hours earlier this morning than I have done in past days, so there is some time variation in these measurements. My height is down to five feet, three and five eighth inches while my weight is barely one hundred twenty pounds. Heavens above, Watson, that is almost three and a quarter stone less than I weighed when this started. I had more weight to me when I first began shaving! Just writing those numbers is somehow daunting. I suspect a disciple of Dr. Freud would accuse me of avoiding those issues by not making and properly recording these precise measurements every day at the appointed time. At this point in my transformation, Watson, I do not know if I could honestly or logically refute that charge. As to the current true dimension of my waist measurement, I have no earthly idea. The corset has rearranged my 'figure' as Jenny is wont to call it, so that my waist is much smaller than would be predicted by a volumetric cube law. (Which is unlikely to be accurate, in any case - my shape is changing as much or more than my stature which invalidates a key assumption of such a mathematical approximation) Right now, the corset is laced to its minimum circumference of twenty inches, and it does not feel nearly as constricting as it ought. What my waist would measure if I did not wear the corset for a length of time and allowed my internal organs to redistribute themselves in a more normal configuration, I do not know. As quickly as I seem to shrinking, that would most likely not be a useful experiment. Too many uncontrolled variables for me to hazard even a tentative hypothesis. However, that is not the only change in my 'figure', Watson, that seems to result from this instrument of the devil! When wearing the corset, I seem to have a thirty six inch bosom and hips to go along with my twenty inch waist. More on that later, Watson. Allow me to finish the other observations, first. I have a vagina, Watson, fully formed and penetrable. I can insert a finger into myself (a most remarkable sensation, that, quite indescribable) - not very far, because I soon encounter a flexible membrane that I must conclude is a hymen. My God, Watson - I am a damned virgin! Can you believe that? At my age, I am a virgin. Well, that is one 'pearl beyond price' that shall never be harvested. I can, will and do unequivocally guarantee that! And yet, speaking so cavalierly about the concept of my age begs the question 'what is my age?' My mind remembers living for all or part of seven decades, but this body? My best estimate, based on subjective observations, both of my person and of how people interact with me as Joan Hanks, is that from a purely physiological perspective, my body is somewhere in the twenties. Mid to late twenties, I would guess - say twenty seven for an operating hypothesis. Isn't it strange, Watson, that I should have two such fundamental aspects of my personal identity - gender AND age - called into question? Well, enough of that maundering. It is done and I shall have to live about it. Part of that was my, or rather, Joan's confrontation at the solicitor's this morn. Jenny's plan for dealing with Mr. Carroll worked perfectly. Once he has transferred my business interests to his partner, I will contract with one of the investigative agencies in town to keep an eye on Mr. Carroll's behavior. A most remarkable adventure, Watson. It is truly a shame you are not here to record it (with all of your typically melodramatic embellishments I am sure) in your own inimitable manner. Mr. Carroll was at Joan's mercy from the moment he saw me, her, in his doorway. There is truly great power in a woman's wiles and ways, Watson. While I have always known or at least suspected that fact intellectually, this is the first time I have appreciated and internalized that very significant truth Most edifying. . . . and most vital. Why vital? I should think that obvious, Watson. Just review in your mind the physical statistics I listed earlier tonight. I am short, slender, fine boned to the point of extreme delicacy, and light of weight. I am, to put a point on it, a physical weakling. I will never again be capable of walking into a room filled with men and intimidating them into complying with and participating in one of my little post-investigative dramas. The aspects of my person that enabled such confident behavior on my part - my sharp voice, stern features and of course, my relatively imposing physical size, are lost to me forever. Watson - I am a woman. What an absolutely amazing thing to say, and moreover, to understand after decades of being male. I am a woman. God knows, Carroll *could* have raped me. I don't know if I might have conceived as a result, but everything else appears to be in working order. I, Sherlock Holmes, am a woman, and I will, in all likelihood, be one for the rest of my natural life however long that will be. Based on my assessment of my physiological age and assuming I find a way to overcome this damnable addiction, that life could be more decades than I have already lived as a male. Amazing. Having accepted that fact, Watson, the true importance of today's exercises with our naughty Mr. Carroll becomes clearly obvious. I am a woman, and while that deprives me of certain weapons that were part and parcel of my life as a man, I must now consider that there are new weapons that I may now employ. MUST employ for, as I said earlier, the old ways are lost to me forever, and I still intend to find and stop Moriarty - once and for always. So, I am a woman. What does that mean? Two responses to that question come immediately to mind. If I am to be a woman, then I will, by God, be the best damned woman in the whole of the British Empire! I absolutely refuse to allow my mind to be dulled by this effervescent cauldron of bubbling emotion that seems to be forever simmering within me, ready to boil over at a moment's notice. As it did this morning after I'd made my exit from Nickleby and Carroll. Deucedly stupid time to get the nervous shakes, but it happened. A great many emotions prey upon me now, Watson, but so long as they do not hamper me at the cusp of the moment, I can live with that. Surely my brain is capable of dealing with this challenge, Watson. If anything, my mind and wits must be all that much sharper - all that much stronger - to compensate for those skills, strengths and other attributes that I have lost. And so it shall be! The second conclusion that I have reached is that I must learn the weapons of woman and become highly proficient in their employment. Gowns, lingerie, shoes, cosmetics, hair styles - THOSE are a woman's battle armor, Watson, and I must be properly outfitted for every encounter. On the positive side, I seem to be (and becoming ever more) suited to the employment of these armaments. I am forced to conclude that I am becoming not only fully female, but a very attractive female. Truly, Watson. I am being absolutely truthful about this. My hair is a richly colored and highlighted sable that grows longer and fuller with each passing day. I have already described my figure, Watson. Well, I now move like a woman with a woman's grace. My hips seem compelled to swing gently from side to side even when I concentrate on moving my feet directly ahead - particularly in those infernal high heeled shoes! However, even barefoot, it is quite beyond me to move in a straight, direct line any more. My face is becoming quite arresting, as well. It took all of Jenny's not-inconsiderable skill to age my face and make it look anything but young, fresh and in her words, quite lovely. My eyes are still quite dark, but the shape has changed becoming upturned and rather exotic. There is very little of the Holmes-nose left, old friend, and in its place is a fine, slender appendage that slopes gracefully to a mouth that needs little in the way of cosmetic artistry to appear full and lush. I believe the current term for such lips is "bee stung." Moreover, every part of me, from my face to my hands and my limbs, have become much more delicate with each passing day and each dose of Moriarty's potion. If I had to describe myself, Watson, I would say I look a great deal like Sir Walter Scott's Rebecca from his book "Ivanhoe" - a story that not even I could avoid reading in my school days. But those are too often a woman's defensive tools, Watson. I must also discover and develop within myself the offensive powers wielded by woman, for I do not believe that a wooden-cored leather riding crop will be suited to every, or even to most adversarial encounters. I must learn the full nature of these powers as well as how to employ them most productively, Watson, for I mean to take the offensive in this war as soon as possible. For that, I am afraid I will require instruction, but from whom? Jenny? I don't see how, for she is already confused by my still shrinking body. She is an intelligent woman, and what she will make of this, or what she will do once she reaches a decision, is beyond my still-male thinking processes to assess. Unfortunately, she is the only person I know of whom I trust in this regard. A knotty problem indeed. Of course, all of the above depends on whether I will live to employ these new weapons against Moriarty. My already meager supply of the potion dwindles by the day. Although I know that eventually, I would become too young to pose any threat to Moriarty (the idea of a five year old girl attempting to confront the greatest criminal mind of our time is so farcical as to be laughable if it were only a joke), but I still wish I had more of it. As it is, I suspect my usage rate is about to increase because the discomfort I mentioned at the outset of this entry is nigh onto unendurable. I am afraid, Watson, that I must leave you in order to administer a dose of the treatment for the symptoms have suddenly become quite intense. Assuming it works as always, I will be asleep within minutes. Good night, Watson. Thank you for being here when I need you, but then, you always have been, haven't you?

End Journal Entry.
 
 

 
Moriarty sat in his hidden chamber, sipping the herbal brew he'd discovered in conjunction with his investigations on perfecting his Fountain of Youth. While it was not an age regression drug, it had nigh miraculous effects on the pain of his arthritic joints. Were he to sell the formula to a company such a Bayer in Germany, he'd be wealthy beyond most men's dreams. There were only two problems with that concept, the professor mused as he forced down another sip of the noxious effusion.

The most significant problem was that *he* was in no way 'most men' - *he* was Moriarty and his dreams went far, FAR beyond the accumulation of mere wealth. While money was power, it had its limits, and what Moriarty thirsted for was power without any such barriers to its use. Moriarty wanted whole countries - the entire world - to live and exist only at his continued sufferance. There wasn't sufficient wealth on the planet to purchase that type of power. He needed another way to attain the power for which he lusted.

And in the meantime, it amused him to know he had discovered this treatment for arthritis pain that was benefitting no one else but Moriarty. That was power of a sort, as well.

The professor turned his attention back to the large one-way mirror that looked into the state-of-the-art laboratory he'd provided for Dr. Haber's efforts on his behalf. The professor was unusually diligent today. *Only to be expected,* Moriarty thought with a dark smile.

Progress on the twin projects had not been going as well as Moriarty had anticipated. Each seeming breakthrough had ultimately proven to be a dead end - literally. So far, any avenue of investigation that had shown promise of correcting either the addictive or gender changing property of the formulation had resulted in a deadly toxin. That might ultimately prove useful - Moriarty had no difficulty with discovering new, more effective methods of murder - but it did not bring a solution to Moriarty's immediate problem any closer.

The contact (non-injected) formulation for gaseous weapons was not progressing either. For the most part, that was a conscious decision on the part of both Haber and Moriarty to concentrate on the non-addictive, non-gender reversing formulation as their top priority. Once Moriarty was young and strong again, then they'd develop his gender-changing terror weapon.

And use it to gain the power he truly desired.

As to Dr. Haber's current assiduous flurry of industry, that could be laid at Moriarty's door. He had grown concerned that, perhaps, the good Dr. Haber might be dragging his experimental feet in some futile hope that he might avoid his destiny of assisting the Great Professor Moriarty achieve immortality.

The solution was pure Moriarty. Haber's food at the noon meal had been liberally seasoned with a drug that simulated the early symptoms the laboratory dog had suffered when Haber had first arrived at the Riechenbach facility. The doctor had passed out certain that he was dying. When he'd regained consciousness that morning, Moriarty had been there holding an empty hypodermic needle.

"Unless, my dear Haber," Moriarty had said grimly, "I see progress in your assigned tasks, the next time I will not administer the antidote. I will, however, administer another potion which will ensure you are fully alert for the grand moment of your death. Do I make myself clear, Haber?"

Fritz Haber had all but blathered assuring Moriarty that he understood and would comply. Moriarty rose from his chair, satisfied that Haber had indeed been sincere in his assurances.

As he walked from the room, Moriarty's mind drifted to another man he had recently tricked through the use of a potion. "Are you going insane yet, old foe?" he asked into the dark night air as he walked toward his personal living quarters. "Have you learned yet that there is no escape when your prison and your jailer are one and the same? When they are, in fact, you yourself?"

A soft chuckle, self-satisfied and mirth-filled, rolled over the otherwise tranquil lands, and the cold alpine winds themselves seemed to shiver in response.
 
 
Chapter 17. Revelations
 
Jenny Deavers stepped down from the cab without waiting for the cab driver to offer to assist her. Once on the street, she looked up at the small building immediately in front of her. The windows of the second floor rooms were shaded and dark - much like her roiling emotions.

She'd been thinking about this fateful meeting ever since yesterday when *that* girl had left the shop. For the third day running, Maisie's hemlines had been too long and also for the third day, they had needed to tighten the laces on the corset. Maisie was the best, most conscientious seamstress she'd ever employed. She *might* have made an error measuring the hem once, perhaps even twice although Jenny could scarcely credit that possibility. Three times? No way on God's green earth!

Goodness, as for that damned corset, they should have replaced the appliance the day before because they'd been able to draw the two sides together. Yesterday, the girl could have stood another half inch or more and hardly noticed it. Corset-training simply did not work that way! And then there were those incredible heels she had worn trying to pretend she was the same height - she'd never gotten those things at Madame Jeanne Marie's shop. Not a bit of it! Why, Jenny hadn't seen shoes like *that* since. . . . well, since she'd been in a much different line of work for that one gentleman that had inspired Joan's and her plan for that bastard solicitor. . . well, that was a completely different time and place - and a very different Jenny.

Something was very, very wrong, and Jenny feared she knew what that something was. Whoever this "Joan Hanks" truly was, Jenny was convinced she was taking advantage of Mr. Holmes. Well, Jenny Deavers *owed* Mr. Sherlock Holmes a great deal, and Jenny Deavers ALWAYS paid her debts. There was NO WAY she would permit some thieving little bitch take unfair advantage of him - particularly if he was truly ill and unable to care for his own needs. So she would, by God!
 

 
At that precise moment, *Miss* Holmes was indecorously sprawled on the sitting room settee, huddled into the soft folds of the comforter she'd stolen from her bed. She was not particularly concerned that she was not presenting, as she had promised she would make every effort to do, a demure and ladylike front. she felt bloody damned awful and nothing she had thus far done had relieved the symptoms he'd been suffering from since the wee hours of the morning.

The symptoms were all there as they had been from that first night. Over-sensitivity, over-emotionalism and a harsh cramping tightness in her lower abdomen. Only those were far more prominent this time than they had been at any other withdrawal onset - and the other symptoms were there, as well, if somewhat less intense, or even somehow different. The burning heat was now a fever alternating with chills. She still had bouts of dog-like (or was that bitch-like?) panting but this time, that symptom always seemed to portend a violent bout of nausea. That *was* notably different from anything she had been forced to deal with thus far.

She had already administered two doses of the precious drug trying to dispel these withdrawal symptoms. One when she had awakened at just past two A.M. in the morning and another when her need to relieve herself had roused her a little more than three hours later, only to find the symptoms recurring before she had managed to leave the water closet. Now she was awake again, suffering again, and not at all certain that she should use the drug again. It was the same, and yet it was different. Grimly, Joan tried to analyze the situation and determine a course of action.

Her concentration was broken by the jarring report of her doorbell. Joan determined to ignore it, but whoever was outside simply would not take the hint and continued pealing the bell. When Joan's overly acute senses and pounding head could not take anymore she roused herself from her nest and went to the door. A check through the peephole revealed her visitor was "Jenny?"

Joan opened the door and an angry-visaged Jenny swept into the room. She came to a stop inside the foyer and rounded on Joan. "All right, Missie, where is your sister?" she demanded furiously.

Caught completely off guard by that attack of this avenging Valkyrie, Joan momentarily goggled at the other woman before managing a weak, "My sister? What sister, Madame?"

"Oh, just stop the playacting, Missie, because I know everything."

"You . . you do?" Joan stuttered in disbelief.

Jenny sighed and gave the girl a sardonic smile. "I am a dressmaker, you silly girl, and have been for a good many years. Only rarely before have my customers grown smaller in the waist, but *never* have any of them grown shorter. Something that *you* have supposedly accomplished every day you've visited my shop for fittings. For god's sake, girl, why are you and your sisters taking advantage of Mr. Holmes when she has given Joan fair employment?"

"But I am Joan," Joan tried one more time, "and I don't have any sisters."

Jenny only shook her head. "Stuff and nonsense, Missie! Look at yourself in the mirror, girl. You are much prettier than Joan. Not only do you lack her unfortunate nose, the rest of your face - your eyes, lips and cheekbones - is much more attractive than hers. For another thing, you are a good two, perhaps even three inches shorter than the woman who came to my shop a week ago and your figure, with the exception of that lovely bosom, is much more petite than Joan's. Good lord, Missie, even your hair is longer, fuller and more richly colored than hers. The pair of you are simply too different in appearance for you to hope to carry off this charade."

*Well, I knew she was intelligent,* Joan thought ruefully, *And as I deduced in my journal last night, in her business, she needs to be able to assess the female form quickly and accurately. I never should have gone back there yesterday, but it was in all likelihood already too late. She had to be suspicious before that if she is this upset and certain now. Now what do I do?*

Unfortunately, Joan never had time to reach a solution before her stomach rebelled against the bit of milk he'd just forced down into it. Frantically, she put her hand to her mouth and ran to the water closet.

Bemused, Jenny Deavers followed in Joan's wake, but at a more sedate pace. She had just turned the corner in the hall when a horror-filled feminine shriek bid fair to deafen her. "Oh God, I am bleeding! Down THERE??!? That means. . . God DAMN you, Moriarty, to the darkest pits beyond HELL!"

Jenny was inside the water closet in an instant and saw the terrified girl, holding up her skirts and petticoats to reveal a pair of drawers stained a bright, wet red. Relief and then disgust flooded Jenny. "Oh, have done with it, girl," she ordered. "By the size of your bosom, I would say you are well old enough for this not to be your first flux."

Somehow, the words penetrated Joan's emotion-ridden mind, and she looked at her in confusion. "Flux?" she somehow got out.

Jenny shook her head. The girl simply did not know when to give up a bad game. "Your monthly flow, as you very well know, you little schemer. Your little act is not accomplishing anything so just stop this foolishness now."

But Joan never heard Jenny. All she could think of was that the transformation had actually reached the point where she was subject to a woman's lunar cycle. "My god, it's really happened. I am menstruating. Now, what do I do??!?" Joan almost shrieked in her complete dismay.

*She certainly sounds as confused as she is trying to appear,* Jenny thought, *Well, I won't get anything more out of her until she's dealt with this so I might as well move her along.* "Oh, come along," she huffed. "Let's get you cleaned up and then I am going to see Mr. Holmes and get to the bottom of this."

Fifteen minutes later, Joan was back on the settee, cleaned up thanks to a rather ruthlessly applied scrubbing from Jenny, with a cup of weak tea in her hand, some dry toast on a plate in her lap, and a hot water bottle on her still cramping abdomen. And she did not even like to think about the wad of clean rags Jenny had oh-so-very-carefully showed her how to position between her legs.

"All right, young lady," a stern faced Jenny said as she swept back into the sitting room, "where is Mr. Sherlock Holmes? The figure on that bed is nothing more than a very clever wax dummy image like those at Madame Tousseau's museum. Tell me quickly, girl, for I am about one minute away from calling in Scotland Yard and sending you and your thieving sisters to the dock.

Joan sighed, and gave in. She trusted Jenny - always had for some reason she never quite understood - but she had not wanted to confide in her because there had seemed to be no point. After all, how could Jenny. . .ANYONE. . . possibly believe her? And beyond that, she did not want to make Jenny known as her accomplice to any of Moriarty's still unidentified henchmen. There was certainly no way Joan could possibly protect her friend if those villains decided Jenny would make a suitable hostage against her. But now, there appeared to be no other course, at least none that presented itself to her in her current mentally reduced condition of feminine overload.

"I will tell you everything, Jenny, although there is every reason to expect that you will not believe me." Jenny stood there, waiting without comment. "Please, sit down, and pour yourself some of this lovely weak tea. This will take a while."

Jenny sat quite primly, Joan noticed, in one of the straight-backed chairs he'd always kept for female clients. "Do you trust Sherlock Holmes, Jenny?" she asked gently.

"What kind of question is that," Jenny retorted, her color rising furiously.

"A very simple question, Jenny," Joan replied, "for example, do you trust that Holmes would keep a confidence for you, once you asked him to guard your secret?"

A sharp nod of her head gave emphasis to Jenny's immediate reply. "Mr. Holmes is the soul of discretion. His word is worth more than gold."

"Very well. Then let me tell you how you and I actually first met. Then you may ask me any questions you like and I will answer them honestly and completely."

"But we never met until just a few days ago," Jenny retorted firmly. "No, that is not correct. The person I met then had to be your older sister, Joan. You and I met only yesterday!"

"Not so, Jenny," Joan said, "let me tell you a story - a story that only you and one other person should know . . "

"In 1891, you, along with the former mistress of the Duke of Connamoragh, were victims in a blackmail scheme hatched by the Duke's younger brother. The youthful fool had been gambling in the wrong gaming hells and unless he somehow managed to pay his rather large debts very quickly, his life was in grave danger. Instead of going to his brother for assistance and a well deserved tongue lashing, he used certain information gleaned from his brother's diaries to locate and blackmail women who had at one time been mistresses to his brother and his brother's friends, but who had since become respectable members of Society in one fashion or another."

"How do you *know* that?" Jenny asked, her face no longer stern.

"Let me finish," Joan asked. "You were afraid for two reasons, Jenny. First, if it became known what you had done before becoming Madame Jeanne Marie, you would likely have lost a significant portion of your more class-conscious high society clientele. The second reason was you did not want the name of your last protector made public knowledge because you feared for his marriage to an American Heiress if that became common knowledge. Since the Duke and his brother have both passed on, only you and one other person know the name of that gentleman."

Jenny looked at the young girl laying upon the settee. "And you want me to believe that *you* know that name? Not bloody likely, Missie. Mr. Sherlock Holmes would die before betraying such a promise."

Joan drew herself up into a very erect posture, her face very solemn, "And so *I* would," she said quietly and very distinctly, "though in many respects, one might say that 'dying' is precisely what *I* have done."

Jenny's eyes drew sharply together as she looked at the disheveled girl before her. Something in that voice - despite the high register, and something in those eyes - *something* made that outrageous claim she had just heard seem imbued with the very integrity that had so defined Sherlock Holmes.

And then Joan, again employing that same precise, clipped manner of speech, told Jenny the name of the popular and well known English Lord whose marriage would have ended had the facts of his youthful infatuation and liaison with a young Jenny Deavers become public knowledge.

Shocked beyond words, Jenny gasped, for once cursing the usually-comforting constriction of her own corset, and said, "YOU are Sherlock Holmes?"

"At your service, Madame," the girl replied, the formal words so at odds with her appearance. And yet . . .

"You ARE Sherlock Holmes," Jenny declared, as much to herself as to the woman who she had just been convinced was in fact the great Sherlock Holmes. "But. . but. . ."

"Jenny, ask me any question you wish about that case. Let me prove to you that I am in possession of information that only Holmes could possibly know."

For almost a minute, Jenny stared at the young girl who claimed to be Mr. Sherlock Holmes. *Well, we'll just see about that!* she thought grimly, and began firing off questions only to have them answered in their turn - concisely, precisely and without hesitation. "And where did Mr. Holmes and I make love to celebrate his victory," she finally asked.

That brought forth a burst of laughter from the girl - quite unfeminine laughter, and at the same time, hauntingly familiar laughter. "That's not a fair question, Jenny, since just a few days ago you told me the answer to that question. We never made love, Jenny," Joan said in a more gentle tone. "In all truth, I was so absorbed in the case and the thrill of the chase, I never noticed that you had evidently made the attempt to offer me the great gift and pleasures of your bed. I apologize for that, for I now see that my indifference hurt you and I never intended that."

Jenny's mouth opened and closed twice before she finally managed to find her tongue. "I almost believed you until that last line, girl. Mr. Holmes apologizing?"

"I am a rather different Mr. Holmes, would you not say, Jenny? While the gentler human feelings are often still quite alien to my nature, I have, in recent times, become on a somewhat more familiar basis with them. Thus, I know that, without meaning to have done, I hurt you."

"You certainly don't talk like a young lady just out of the school room," Jenny said wonderingly, "but if you are really Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and I find that I truly believe that you are, what happened to you?"

Joan quickly recounted Moriarty's scheme, leaving out the part about his intention to take his own life, and the events up to that very day.

"Well," Jenny said with just a hint of smile, "That certainly explains you damning this Moriarty fellow to the. . .how did you put it? To the darkest pits beyond hell when you found out you were suffering from your flux."

"Damn you, Jenny, don't you dare smile at me like that. This is definitely NOT funny!" Joan said with exaggerated bluster, "And suffering is precisely accurate, Jenny. Not only that, but I evidently expended two of my precious doses of the drug to no real purpose. That will cost me at least a day of searching time - once I am physically able to take up the search again."

"Well, I hear tell the first flux is always the hardest, even on girls who have been taught what to expect by their Mums. Must be really hard on a fellow who thought he'd slip through life without ever tasting that little gift of Nature's."

"Just so," Joan replied dryly, earning a not-very-sympathetic laugh from Jenny.

The older woman's smile became thoroughly wicked as she considered the possibilities. "Ah, Holmes, if only you knew how many times I had wished this exact condition on one of my former protectors. The arrogant, strutting little peacocks, calling *me* unclean when they'd leave me disappointed after arriving at my door unannounced and wanting a bit of sport during my time of the month. It was as if they were convinced I did it on purpose," Jenny snarled and then smiled, a very female, very devious little smile. "So, Holmes, that potion really does what you say it does? Each time you get a little younger, a little smaller and a little more feminine?"

"Yes, although since this is, in fact, a woman's cyclic response to the moon I am suffering through at the moment, I am hard pressed to come up with any changes that would be more feminine than this." It was said with a weak smile that surprised Joan.

"Pregnancy is said to be the most feminine of conditions," Jenny offered ever-so-sweetly.

"Which, praise the merciful providence, requires the physical intervention of another person - an intervention which I can assure you will not take place."

Jenny shrugged before smiling again. "So, about that formula, Holmes. Know how to get more of it? I really do think I have a use for some of it."

Joan managed a laugh, hoping she'd meant that as a joke. Still, she wasn't truly certain because she simply kept smiling that very unnerving smile. "Sadly, Jenny, I do not have the recipe nor the ingredients - only that one small bottle that has barely a week's worth of the drug left. And since I cannot reproduce the formula for you, I wouldn't recommend you go hunting for your former protectors with a hypodermic needle in your reticule."

"Too bad," Jenny grinned in gentle commiseration. "I guess that is true enough, Mr. Holmes. . . Lord, but you being so small and pretty laying there, calling you Mr. Holmes feels. . .well, cursed strange."

"Joan is fine for now, if you prefer that form of address, Jenny. Actually, I made a promise to myself to become as womanly and feminine as possible in the future - especially when I am with you. My thinking being that you and Maisie could, unwittingly, help me perfect my disguise."

"I don't think this is the disguise anymore, Joan, not if the changes are really as permanent as you say."

"Much the same conclusion I arrived at last night myself, Jenny. However, it is not as if I am going to have to live with it much longer in any case. As I said earlier, I wasted a dose of my paltry hoard of the drug today because I thought this 'flux' was another flare up of the withdrawal symptoms," Joan said resignedly before something peaked her interest. "I must say, Jenny, that you were easier to convince than I would have been in your place."

"Nonsense, dearie. As I said, Mr. Holmes' word was always good as gold. Only two ways you could have known the story and the name you just told me. Either because Mr. Holmes told you the story or because you are, as unbelievable as that sounded, Mr. Holmes. The thing is, Joan, I simply found it more unbelievable that Mr. Holmes would have dishonored a promise like that."

A tear formed and ran down Joan' cheek. *The effects of an over actively female constitution,* she scoffed mentally as she batted the tear away. "You humble me, Jenny," she said quietly.

"So, what happens now, Joan?"

"Time is running out for me and I have found nothing here in England to further my investigations. At some point, I will have to give up on my inquiries here and go to the Continent," Joan laid her head back. "Somehow, I need to get papers - and a passport. And I just don't have much time left."

"Papers aren't difficult," Jenny said firmly.

Joan eyes shot open and she looked at Jenny sharply. "I beg your pardon?"

"Now, now, we'll have none of that, if you please, Missie!" Jenny scolded with a mischievous smile. "What about your promise to be womanly in my presence? In any case, what I said was that obtaining papers is not difficult. I have some friends in the Home Office. Actually, I have some friends whose husbands are in the Home Office. Who do you want to be?"

The quiet confidence in her voice convinced Joan who remembered how many women owed the kindly shop owner who had made them beautiful when they ventured into the Marriage Mart. "Well, I have a plan, such as it is, that might permit me to reclaim my home and property if I survive this experience." Joan said hesitantly.

"You mean there is a chance you might survive? I thought you said the withdrawal was ultimately fatal."

"Moriarty is trying to perfect the drug and eliminate the side effects and the addiction problems. There is a chance that, if I can find him, I might be able to survive."

Jenny heard the barest hint of hope in the softly feminine voice. "All right, Joan. Tell me what to do."

Joan nodded and managed a smile for her friend. "My final will and testament has not changed since Watson died, Jenny. He was my primary heir. His wife died, leaving him only a brother. Suppose that brother had a heretofore unknown daughter."

"By the name of Joan, Joan-dear?" Jenny said with a smile.

"Just so, Jenny."

"Well, that might work, if Watson did not have any other relatives, Joan, either real ones or believable frauds."

"None at all," Joan replied with certainty, "I have checked through my own sources."

"Come now, dear, you are a man. . .err . . woman of the world. The Holmes estate, thanks to your brother Mycroft, is substantial and many a fortune hunter will be looking for ways to get his or her hands on it before the government can become involved and tie everything up for years."

"So?" Joan asked, "there really isn't much I can do about that, is there?"

"It seems to me that the state would be your executor, then, would they not?" Jenny asked?

Joan puzzled over that for a moment. "As I understand English law, Jenny. Why do you ask?"

"If you, as Mr. Sherlock Holmes, were to write a letter to Watson, or in his death, your legal executor, acknowledging paternity of your unacknowledged girl child, a Miss Sherla Joan Holmes, and directing him to ensure that she is granted her just birthright? If there were such a document, would they not comply with your wishes?"

Joan snapped upright, sitting up and staring at the grinning Jenny. "Explain yourself," she ordered, just barely remembering to speak with Joan's soft, feminine lilt."An unacknowledged girl child, Jenny? Confound it, Madame, what are you talking about?"

"Bear with me, Joan, and please *do* remember to behave like a lady and not some crude male. Would the government be required to comply with the wishes in such a letter?"

Something in the nature of a hidden codicil to my final will?" Joan mused. "That would need to be witnessed and sealed, in much the same way as the will to work."

Jenny's lovely face fell. "Oh, that is too bad."

"Ah, but that's not the real problem, you see, for the solicitor who wrote my will and the witnesses thereto, my brother Mycroft and Dr. Watson, are all deceased. As to the existence of such a signed and witnessed document, I am, or rather, I was, a rather skillful forger when the situation demanded it in the past."

"But can you do it now, Joan?"

"Well enough, I suppose. My eye is still good enough to tell if it s a good forgery. I suspect that I can manage quite handily. Mother unknown?"

Jenny's eyes twinkled merrily as she smiled at Joan. "Well, let's just think about that, Miss Sherla Joan Holmes, shall we? Would not the existence of a maternal parent who could provide corroborating evidence be useful as well?"

"This is becoming too bizarre, Jenny. Just what are you proposing?"

"Well, Sherlock Holmes and I were together, dear, twenty years ago. You could almost pass for twenty years old now, and presuming you continue to take that drug, you will do so easily in the very near term. We will say that Holmes and I had an affair, and I, Madame Jeanne Marie became enceinte."

"That won't pass muster, Jenny. The only man with a more misogynistic reputation than Sherlock Holmes was my brother Mycroft."

"Foolish boy. . . I mean, girl, of course it will be believed. Misogynist or not, that was the height of the Victorian era - a period of English history known for public morals and private debauchery. Of course Society will believe you are his daughter because that is what Society will want to believe, regardless of the facts. Especially if I say you are my daughter by Holmes. Then, when they search your papers for your will, if they also find records such as a ledger of you making child support payments to me or paying tuition to some Swiss boarding school, or a copy of a birth certificate with your and my names on it. . . oh blast!" Jenny broke off.

"What's the matter," Joan asked, greatly amused by Jenny's enthusiasm.

"The papers will be brand new. They won't look twenty years old. And besides, that bastard Carroll would have had a copy in the records turned over to him by your old solicitor, wouldn't he?"

Miss Holmes chuckled deep within her throat. "Not necessarily, if it was a secret codicil of a very special nature -which this one would have been. As to the aging of the documents, let me worry about that. There are chemical processes available to me that will age those papers so that not even another expert will be able to discern any difference between them and actual documents of that time frame. It does seem odd, however, that I, that is, *Sherla*, would turn up suddenly without anyone knowing about me through my father or through you," she noted.

"Nonsense, dear, that is how many children born on the wrong side of the blanket are dealt with in Society. After all, the great Sherlock Holmes had no interest in raising children, and my reputation would have been utterly ruined by having and then raising some man's love child. We'll say you were raised from infancy by a nanny and a governess in the country - some nice remote place like the far reaches of Cornwall - and then you were sent to a foreign boarding school on the Continent when you were old enough. Of course, as your Mother, when I heard that Mr. Holmes, *your* father, had died, I, of course, summoned his daughter to come and collect her inheritance. We could even say that is why you went to his apartments, disguised as Joan, so you could take care of him in his last hours."

"And you believe we could pull that off?" Joan asked warily.

"With the right papers?" Jenny reposited, "yes, I do." She stood and walked over to Holmes and cupped the younger woman's chin in her hand. Jenny turned Holmes' face to the right, then to the left and then looked directly into her eyes. "You even have the look of a younger Holmes," she mused aloud, "If one looks hard enough for him in your visage. Although, the resemblance does seem to be less each day, doesn't it? You are really becoming quite lovely."

Miss Holmes jerked her head back and glared at Jenny. "Thank you ever so much."

"Oh, don't go on like that. If you are going to be a woman, and you evidently are, my dear, it is far better to be an attractive woman than an ugly one. You gain much more power that way, trust me."

Sherla snorted, then realized how unladylike that sounded and managed a little sniff. *Well, I had already concluded much the same things in my journal last night. Still, it won't serve to let her get too much of an upper hand in this partnership. "We'll see. As to this little disguise, haven't you forgotten one thing? Won't this little scheme unmask you as an immoral woman to Society? Won't that endanger your business?"

"It might," Jenny agreed, "but then again, it might not. It really doesn't signify at this point in my life as I don't need to work any longer, Sherla. I have more than enough blunt put aside with Mr. Nickleby to last many more years than I have left on this earth. Besides, being the Mother of Sherlock Holmes' daughter just might make me the toast of the town."

"You're quite sure you are not only willing to do this," Miss Holmes asked softly, "but want to do it?"

Jenny nodded, a suspicious sheen in her eyes. "I told you, didn't I, that I always wanted to be a Mother?"

"Yes, but I am a little beyond the age of needing one, Jenny," the newly named Sherla smiled.

"There you are wrong, dear. You are like a baby you know so little about being a woman. You need Mothering now more than you ever needed it as a young lad."

"Well, that would not be difficult since my mother was a weakling who had been beaten into submission by my bastard of a father."

The tears did flow from Jenny's eyes now. "Then you definitely need a little mothering, dear. Both of you do.

"If you say so, Mother - Jenny."

"I say so, Sherla. Now, let me get something to write with and you can tell me what papers and other credentials you are going to need me to obtain for you."
 
 
Chapter 18. Decision Points
 
Eventually, Jenny decided she would spend the night at the Baker Street rooms. "A girl's first flow is always a challenge, Sherla, and more than just a little frightening. Most girls have their Mum to help them through it."

An small grin flitted across the other woman's face. "I thought we decided you *were* my Mum, Jenny."

Jenny went very still. "I believe we have already had this discussion," she said very softly, almost fearfully."

"Oh, Jenny, I am sorry," Sherla said quickly, before she had a chance to be surprised at how much Jenny's sad reaction bothered her "I didn't mean to hurt you! I was just trying to let you know that I like the idea as well. If you don't want to be called Mother or Mum, then I won't."

Jenny closed her eyes tightly, and then took a deep, slightly shuddering breath to calm herself. "I'd like it a great deal, Sherla," she said, her voice breaking audibly once, "I'm just not sure if it would be a very good idea. Given your current status and plans, that is," Jenny added hurriedly.

Something inside Sherla felt and responded to the wistful hunger in Jenny's soul. "Well, I think that I am more than capable of handling such things," she said with an intentional arrogance that had Jenny gaping at her. "My suggestion is that I can call you Mother or Mum in private until I am in possession of papers identifying me as the daughter of Miss Jennifer Deavers by Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

That had both pleased and concerned Jenny. She truly yearned to mother this girl with the brain of an old man, and yet, part of her worried that Sherla, still posing as Joan, might err in the presence of other people. Sighing softly, she said as much.

"I have been disguising myself in one way or another, since I first escaped from my harpy of a governess - when I was not yet out of the nursery, Mum. I have always prided myself on my ability to stay in role. Many's the time that ability has saved my life. I won't make that type of error."

"If you're sure then, yes, having you call me Mum would make me very happy." And so it had been agreed. Jenny was as good as her word, staying home with Sherla throughout that traumatic and messy first experience with a woman's cycle. Even the Holmes' mind was not inured to the humiliation of having its body's hygienic needs explained and then demonstrated upon its person. Sherla had blushed from hairline to toes, but Jenny had been gently firm, and they had managed to get through the day in a good humor.

That evening, over the first decent dinner Sherla had eaten since the night Sherlock Holmes had concentrated a solution of what he'd thought to be cocaine, the two woman chatted about the next step in Miss Holmes plans.

A small flicker of emotion had flared in Jenny's dark eyes. "What about your . . . what did you call it? Your mission? Won't that be dangerous?"

Sherla frowned as she considered the implications of that and finally nodded. "You are correct, of course. I don't want you to become of a target for Moriarty's men. In fact, when I arrange for the surveillance on Carroll, I will also arrange for discreet security for you. As for me? That mission is something I must do if I at all can. In the past, I was the only one who was able to stop Moriarty, and by his own words, he believed I was the only one who might possibly stop him this time, as well. It would be false modesty on my part not to agree with him."

Jenny became very still and then continued, "It is not just you and me, Sherla, involved in this situation. Should I send Maisie away? You have decided this course for yourself, and I have lived a full life, but she is just beginning to live. I do not want her harmed in any way."

"I don't think that is a problem, Mother," Sherla said quietly. "I will see to both your safeties before I depart for the Continent. In truth, I believe the greatest danger we will face is during the period before I leave London, or in other words, during the days when the world still believes Sherlock Holmes to be alive."

"You have decided how you are going to arrange the death?"

"Some details remain to be worked out yet. It has to look like an accident, but at the same time, the incident must also be something that Moriarty can interpret as a suicide disguised to look like an accident."

"You'll need a body, won't you? One that looks like you enough to fool the police? How will you do that?"

"Haven't decided yet, Jenny. Suicide at sea, perhaps? Or in a fiery conflagration. For enough money, it is fairly common for medical students to purchase cadavers unclaimed by any family members for surgical and anatomical studies. One of those would do nicely if it comes to that. That might be more acceptable for Moriarty. I could arrange an explosion that would cause the fire. The body would be all but cremated if I do it correctly. If I do it in a fairly rural area, the local constabulary will have neither the tools nor the interest to explore the case further. In fact, the most difficult part of the scheme may be getting Holmes' name in the paper."

"I see," Jenny said very quietly.

"I could simply disappear - Sherlock Holmes has done that in the past - and leave a suicide note. Eventually, given my . .. or rather, his age, they'd have to accept that and probate the will, but it might take a while. I don't trust Carroll not to try and. . . benefit unduly from my supposed demise."

"When?" was all Jenny could ask.

"Soon," Sherla said quietly. "I am running out of the drug and therefore out of time. I have to go to the Continent as soon as possible. I prepared the way for Holmes to go to the country when Carroll called on me here. The accident should occur en route."

"How will Holmes be seen leaving Baker Street?"

"I have an idea on that score, too, Jenny, but it may involve some risk to you. And I still need the identification papers."

*She calls me Mother or Mum when we are just chatting,* Jenny thought with fond amusement, *but when she is worried about my well being or concerned for me, she calls me Jenny. A holdover from Holmes-the-man? Should I call her on it? No, better to just let her be as natural as possible.*

"All right then," Jenny said. "Tonight I shall send personal notes to certain women who owe me favors asking if I might call upon them tomorrow. That will start the process of your new papers as Sherla Joan Holmes."

"How long?" Sherla asked.

"Not long," Jenny said assuredly. "I have done similar things before to get one or two of my girls into or out of England. Day after tomorrow - the day after that at the very latest."

"I have some things I wish to check on tomorrow around Whitehall. I think the day dress still fits well enough, doesn't it?"

Jenny grinned. "I will adjust some of the seams and raise the hem so that you can go back to the Cuban heels tonight, dear. You have grown sufficiently short that I can turn the embroidery completely under the hem this time."

Miss Holmes sighed gratefully. "Well, that was a wonderful dinner, Mum, but I have this strong urgent compulsion to offer you port and cigars."

"I wouldn't do that, if I were you, Sherla," Jenny said with an impish grin, "although I will admit that during my younger, wilder days, I rather delighted upon intruding upon that male bastion and demanding my own glass and smoke. Of course, that only made me more of an original and more highly in demand. Very desirable in my former profession."

"I unconsciously tried to smoke my pipe that first night and found that Sherla is incapable of ingesting tobacco in any form. My formerly beloved shag rough-cut very nearly caused me to become violently ill and I did not even fill, let alone light the cursed pipe. And then *you* taught me about my recently acquired, very low tolerance for alcohol. You got me quite foxed that first day, Mother."

"Did you good!" Jenny affirmed. "Now, why don't you get ready for bed and I will see to cleaning up from dinner. I am sure you are fatigued. I know that I am and I only watched as you went through your first Penance of Eve."

Sherla rose from her chair and then, very deliberately, pressed a kiss to Jenny's cheek. "You did much more than simply watch, Mum. I like to think I would have survived on my own, but you made it much less difficult for me. Thank you."

"You're very welcome, dear," Jenny said just above a whisper before firming her voice. "Now, to bed with you and don't forget to cleanse yourself as I taught you. Call if you need help with the padding."

Another fiery flush blazed across Sherla's face. "Thank you, but I believe that won't be necessary. Good night, Mother."

"Good night, dear," Jenny said, turning her head toward the remnants of their meal in order to hide the small grin that she could not seem to stop.
 

 
A stumbling sound awoke Jenny from a sound sleep. She was momentarily disoriented, and then recalled she was sleeping in Watson's room at Baker Street. A glance at the moonlit clock told her it was almost four o'clock in the morning. *What could that be?* she wondered before the answer came to her. *Sherla? Having trouble with her flux?*

Jenny drew on a robe and hurried out of the room. She discovered she was better than half right - it was Sherla and she was in trouble, but it had nothing to do with her menstruation - at least not directly. Sherla was struggling to fill a hypodermic needle from a small amber bottle, but with very little success.

For a few moments, Jenny simply observed, unsure what to do. Clearly, the withdrawal Sherla had told Jenny about had struck and struck hard. Sherla's breaths were coming in rapid, shallow pants, leaving her lips too dry for her tongue to moisten. She was seated at her desk, her bosom straining against her nightgown as she wedged her breasts onto the table top in an evidently vain attempt to help control the shaking of the hypodermic long enough for her to fill it.

*Those symptoms she told me about, and by the look of her, they are very harsh today. Why can't she sit still?* Jenny asked herself. *She is shifting about in that chair as if her bottom hurts. Why didn't she tell me about that symptom? Likely she has always been too busy trying to treat herself with the drug to notice something that doesn't directly affect her ability to inject herself. Well, she can't hold her hands steady either. She needs help.*

Her decision made, Jenny stepped into the room and gently put her hands over Sherla's. "I'll do this," she said softly. "You just tell me how."

Slowly, Sherla relaxed her knuckle-whitening grip on the bottle and the needle. Her voice shook with the force of her effort to control herself as she slowly and deliberately explained how to fill the needle and administer the potion - which Jenny did with remarkable aplomb.

As always, the effects of the drug were immediate; the fiery heat in her abdomen swiftly subsided, the cramping eased, and the almost painful sensitivity of her skin dulled. "Thank you," Sherla said in a rasping whisper.

"What happened?" Jenny demanded.

"I tried to extend my time between doses," Sherla replied. "I have so little of it left and I wasted a dose yesterday. I started shaking at about three o'clock. I was determined to overcome this. . . this abomination by sheer force of will, but finally just couldn't take it any more. I almost didn't get the dose this time. Thank you again, Mum."

"So, now we can go back to bed?"

"I will certainly have to," Sherla said with a hint of a smile. She quickly explained the immediate effects of the drug even as she made her way back to bed.

*Sounds like I need to use the water closet for myself now, and make certain I am not in her way when she awakens,* Jenny thought with a smile.
 

 
Miss Sherla Holmes felt much better the next morning when she came into the small dining room, following the scent of Jenny's superb breakfast. As they ate, they discussed their plans for the day. Sherla was going to go farther afield and check out other known Moriarty hiding places for clues. Jenny, who had already received positive responses to her notes by return messenger, would make her calls before opening the shop. There, she would also collect several other outfits that would (or that would almost) fit the increasingly diminutive Sherla.

The result of three doses in two days had been a measurable acceleration in Sherla's rate of reduction in both size and age. She was almost an inch shorter than before her menses began - nearly down to five feet, two and three quarters inches, and between the drugs and the elimination of fluid during her monthly, down to nearly 115 pounds in weight. Jenny had been disgusted with the corset since she hardly had to use any force at all to close it up during lacing. "You get a new one of these, my girl, today!" She had said, the words a promise and not a threat.

When they left the room at Baker Street, they did so by separate cab. They did not want to have to explain things to Maisie.
 
 
Entry in the Journal of Miss Sherla Joan Holmes

Date: February 13, 1911.

Time: 6:02 P.M.

My Dear Doctor Watson: A most interesting two days, John, but I must tell you that except for Jenny, I could have done quite well, thank you so very much, without the experience. Did you, in your professional capacity ever deal with a hysterical woman in the grip of her monthly? I know that you had Mary, but she was a fine example of Sturdy English Womanhood and I cannot imagine her doing anything such at that. I tell you, John, that had it not been for Jenny, I would have done something akin to that. Not to put too fine a point on it, John, Menses is Messy! It is also damned uncomfortable. If it were not for the alternatives, only one of which is becoming a man again and therefore the least likely, I should just as soon never go through that again. However, as the most likely alternative is death, I *think* I can tolerate menstruation . . . for a while, anyway. I am reaching the end of my rope, John. I have, at most, a week of the drug left - more likely six days, but I am experimenting with reducing the dose by two tenths of a cubic centimeter to see if that reduces the time between onsets of the withdrawal effect. Jenny sent a message earlier that I will have my papers tomorrow, so I am planning to leave for the south of England the very next day. En route, Holmes will "die". I believe I have that scheme all worked out. A medical student whose tuition is now paid for the remainder of his studies will meet us at a small rest stop I know of along the road to Dover. I have everything else I need. As for the financial issues, I drew another two thousand pounds from my accounts and arranged so that the consulting detective, the protection agency and the medical student will be paid even should Mr. Holmes die. They will be able to draw on the accounts based on the contract I signed using Mr. Holmes power of attorney. As to my investigations, those came up empty, much as I expected. All the known lairs of Moriarty were either deserted, destroyed or were being occupied for some other, more legal capacity. I was rather taken with the extreme irony of one such case, John. One of Moriarty's hideouts is now a factory that manufactures ladies foundations and other undergarments. Given my own situation, that seems somehow rather appropriate, don't you think? I imagine that Jenny will get a chuckle or two out of this. I won't go into the measurements tonight, John, except to say that they are still changing. I won't speculate what will happen to my waist, hips and bosom once Jenny arrives home with the new corset she's threatened to lock upon me, but my height and weight continue to drop - almost a full inch in stature and nearly five pounds in weight. I can give full blame for the loss of inches to taking three doses of the drug in less than two days, but the weight drop had several contributing factors. We will see where that ends up once my bodily humors are more normal again. Well, I suppose that is all for now. I must dress for the marvelous dinner that I am certain Mother Jenny will insist I eat. It is quite a pleasant change to have an appetite again, John, and to be able to enjoy the flavor of food as well. There are, I have discovered to my surprise, benefits to this transformation, and I believe that I am man enough. . .make that woman enough, to acknowledge those positive aspects. However few they may be. Astounding, isn't it? Or is that perhaps more correctly confounding? Earlier tonight, as I reread my last entry in this record, I discovered that one interpretation of what I have written there is that I have made a perfectly well thought out and rational decision to accept becoming a woman. Odd isn't it? Especially when I recall that I have always considered women to be naturally faulty in their thinking and irrational on top of that. Well, perhaps I am the vanguard of a new woman. Well, now I must be off. Oh, pardon me, John, you want to know about the change in address within this entry? Well, as the entry now states, this is the journal of 'Miss Sherla Joan Holmes.' As such, calling you simply 'Watson' is somewhat inappropriate coming from a woman of my apparent age and upbringing, and yet, calling you 'Doctor Watson' seems too formal in the extreme, except on formal occasions such as the opening of the entry. Still, I must start thinking like such a woman, particularly socially. Therefore, I will open the journal to 'Doctor Watson' and make my discussions, en famille, with John. Eh what? Hmmm. . .back to my age. . . perhaps I shall make you my honorary Uncle John, instead. I think I will discuss this with Jenny. Well, that is TRULY all for now, Uncle John. A bien tot. I will talk to you again soon.

End Journal Entry.
 
 
Chapter 19. Escape!
 
The hansom cab clattered to a halt in front of 221B Baker Street just as the sun was sinking beneath the horizon. Jenny Deavers paid the driver and hurried inside to escape the chilly, damp February night. Things had not gone as well as they might have done this day, and she felt the need to be with Sherla to support her just then.

As she removed her muffler and bonnet in the downstairs foyer, Jenny heard a soft, sad, but almost-sweet sound issuing from the upper rooms. She stopped to listen for a moment, trying to put a name to source of that sound. She was halfway up the stairs when a particularly sour note intruded on the otherwise haunting tones. A stern "Damn!" followed that note, whereupon the music, for that is what Jenny realized it was, resumed.

Violin music, but not any composition Jenny recognized, and she considered herself something of an afficionado of such things. It was a taste she'd developed as a gentleman's mistress. Going to the symphony had been one of her great pleasures in those days gone by, and music continued to be something she greatly enjoyed now that she was a modiste.

Jenny let herself into the Holmes establishment and immediately saw the source of the music. There, seated in the large comfortable chair, feet pulled up in front of her, was Sherla playing on an obviously fine and expensive violin. Her eyes were closed and there was as soft, utterly sensual smile playing on her full, angel-bowed lips. Jenny could almost forgive the girl her grossly unfeminine posture for the lovely sounds she was making with that beautiful instrument.

Another sour note broke the spell and was followed by another "Damn!" Sherla opened her eyes and stared at her left hand poised over the throat of the instrument. The look would have frozen water and Jenny wondered how those fingers would DARE misbehave in such a manner ever again.

"Ahem!" Jenny called out.

Sherla's head came up in surprise. "Jen. . I mean, Mother!" she said with a smile of welcome, "I did not hear you enter."

"Obviously, or you would be seated like a lady in that chair instead of looking like one of the apes on display down at the Tower of London."

Sherla managed a creditable blush, but hurriedly put her feet down on the floor, stood up to shake out her skirts, and then reseated herself with the grace and care Jenny had taught her that morning. "I've been practicing," Sherla said with a gamine grin that surprised Jenny almost as much as the music.

"Not enough if that is how I find you when I get home," she said trying to be stern, but in the end, her curiosity got the better of her. "How long have you played? What was that beautiful, haunting melody? Where did you get the violin - it is beautiful."

"It is a Stradivarius," Sherla replied as she rubbed her tender fingertips together. *Hmmm, I seem to have lost my playing calluses as well.* "It belongs to me. . .I mean, it belonged to Mr. Sherlock Holmes. I have played since childhood. The melody, that I was not playing very well thanks to fingers that are smaller than I am used to playing music with, is not really from any known work. I was simply playing to try and help me think."

"I see," Jenny said quietly, "About what?"

"Options," Sherla replied, "and how few of them I have. I looked up the paper-aging process in my chemical monographs today, Mother. It takes a minimum of twenty four hours. I cannot leave until all the documents are completed and where they belong. That delays my start for the Continent another day. Time is running out for me and Moriarty will win, damn his black soul."

"There is no hope for more of the drug, or better yet, an antidote?" Jenny asked

Miss Sherla Holmes shook her head. "None. I have no idea what the ingredients are, and therefore, no way of attempting to concoct an antidote. By the time we can leave here, day after tomorrow, I will be down to approximately four doses, perhaps five if I can stretch the drug a bit, but no more."

"So what were you thinking of so musically, dear?" Jenny asked gently.

"I've been racking my brains, ever since I returned to Baker Street from my oh-so-fruitless trip to old Moriarty sites, to come up with the name of a man, *any* man to whom I could give the onerous task of stopping that Napoleon of Crime.

"And you can think of none?"

"Nary a one, Mother. I have heard some very positive reports about one or two fellows, but I have never met them to assess their mettle to my own satisfaction. And while I have met several very good, honest policemen in my years of consultation, I have never met one with the brilliance to stand a chance even against an age-diminished Moriarty. Not that I can safely assume that he is or will be all that diminished.

Jenny sat quietly for a long time, saying nothing, her eyes focused on something far away. Finally, she spoke. "And I don't suppose, that in all of your years, you ever met a woman who might have such capabilities?" Jenny shook her head angrily. "Of course you haven't. Not only does Society frown upon intelligent, powerful women, other than Queen Victoria, of course, but you as Holmes would not have recognized such attributes in a mere woman."

Taken aback by Jenny's outburst, Sherla sat back in the deep cushioned chair. "I recognized them in you, Jenny," she eventually said, then her own eyes became unfocused. "Come to think of it, there was another - Irene Adler."

"Who?" Jenny's head perked up.

"An opera singer with a talent for investigations. At least twice that I know of, she bested me in a battle of wits."

"She was a criminal?" Jenny was clearly appalled that a woman, an EVIL woman, might have defeated Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

A chuckle relieved her fears. "Nothing like that. In both cases, it was only honorable that she overcome, and well done of her to have done so. Still, she did best me. . . I wonder. . "

The violin came back to her chin and soon, the eerie, sweet music again filled the rooms. Jenny was content to listen, and watch her friend submerge herself in the joy of playing the violin. This went on for nearly a half hour when, quite suddenly, the music changed to something that sounded very much like an Irish jig.

"By Jove, Mother, you are in the right of it. I must go to Paris, find Irene, and task her to the stopping of Moriarty. By Heavens, it is perfect. If he uses the same potion on her, he will only be creating his own worst enemy. Irene is magnificent as a woman, but were she to be changed into a man - a YOUNG man - she would be practically be equal to me at my best!"

Still not certain she trusted a woman who had found it necessary to "best" Mr. Sherlock Holmes (and not really entirely convinced this opera singer actually could have done so), Jenny's response was obviously lukewarm.

Sherla heard the uncertainty, and quickly gave Jenny the particulars on the Bohemian King case during which, Holmes had met Irene Adler.

"And she dresses in men's clothing?" she asked incredulously. When Sherla nodded in the affirmative. "Lord, that is something I always wanted to do, but never quite had the courage to try in my youth."

"Odd you should mention that, Jenny. Day after tomorrow, I have a task for you as part of my plan to escape.

"Oh really? Aren't you going to tell me what that task is?" Jenny asked, only to smile when she got the expected negative response from her foster daughter. "Oh very well, then, be that way. Then you might as well deal with these," she added, tossing a small bundle to Sherla. "Those are the papers you asked me to procure for you from my friends and contacts."

Sherla quickly scanned through the various documents, a smile forming that quickly grew radiant. "Well done, Mother. Thank you. I will start aging these while you prepare dinner.
 

 
The morning after next, Sherla exited the Baker Street lodgings dressed in her "Nurse Hanks" uniform and was met by a pale, thin young man in an ill fitting uniform of London cab driver. Miss Holmes smiled at the nervous man and inspected the landau carriage he had driven to her home. After a few moments, she nodded. *It will do adequately enough,* she thought. Actually, she had wanted a four horse team, but the need for secrecy had forced her to use the young medical student as her driver. Controlling a "four-in-hand" was simply beyond his skill as a driver.

For all his inadequacy as a driver, using him in that role did provide additional protection for the mission's secrecy. The would-be doctor had a great deal riding on the successful outcome of this mission. Jenny now had written authority to withdraw the Holmes Estate's financial support that would put the young man through medical school in some degree of comfort. If he talked imprudently about this little adventure, his dreams of a medical career might as well go up the nearest chimney as smoke.

"Everything is in readiness? All three special cargos are here?" Sherla finally asked.

"Yes, Ma'am," the young would-be doctor replied. "Two in the back and the other thing in the main compartment. Good thing it's chilly, though, Ma'am."

"True," Sherla might have said more, but just then the Baker Street door opened again to allow a very old, bent man to make his painful way up to the landau. Sherla, as nurse, hurried to assist her patient into the carriage. "Let us be on our way," she ordered as she herself ascended into the cab, "I wish to be at the way-station by noon."
 

 
They arrived at the way station about a half hour past noon, but fortunately still before the normal mid-day meal hour. The driver drove the landau over to a space behind the outdoor facilities, and hopped down to help his passengers disembark. Sherla had chosen this place because she remembered how well sheltered the outdoor privies were from prying eyes by their own construction and by the nearby woods on the side opposite the main inn.

The suddenly spritely old man hurried into the mens' room while Sherla went into the ladies' convenience. They met outside but a few moments later. "All clear," they both said simultaneously. Quickly, the three opened the after baggage compartment. Working together, they strained to remove two long, narrow and relatively heavy bags from within the baggage compartment whereupon the two "men" carried one bag into each of the two restrooms while Sherla kept watch.

Each bag was then perched upon one of the seats provided inside the outdoor facilities. Then Sherla opened her portmanteau and removed a large paper-wrapped package with a clock device affixed to the top of it. The box was set immediately in front of the larger of the two bags in the men's side of the privies. In the meantime, the driver and the "old man" carried in the "third package", a costume-dummy dressed in women's clothing. Quickly, the "old man" stripped off the clothing and the makeup to reveal Jenny.

Sherla helped Jenny don the dummy's more normal feminine attire. "You are sure everything will burn," Jenny asked one last time.

"Yes, the explosive includes substantial portions of white phosphorous and magnesium. The explosion will become incendiary almost immediately, and there is nothing known to science, short of allowing it to burn itself out, that can extinguish that type of fire. The dummy was specifically constructed of particularly flammable materials and these old buildings are redolent with highly combustible hydrocarbon compounds. This place, and everything in it will be reduced to ashes within minutes. Now, you and the driver must go to the inn and demand meals for four. I will give you two minutes to get inside the inn, and then I will set the timer for two minutes and go hide in the woods as we planned."

"As YOU planned, Miss," Jenny said caustically. "I still believe I should accompany you - young ladies, such as you are *now*, are expected to travel with companions to protect their virtue."

"And female though I am *now*," Sherla retorted with a gentle smile, *I am not traveling as a Lady, Jenny, but as an underpaid companion on my way to France to meet with an English lady living abroad who wishes to hire me. Such women as I will purport to be *do* travel alone. In fact, it might raise suspicion if I were *not* traveling alone." Sherla saw her arguments were having as little effect on Jenny as the last time they had this . . . "discussion". "Mother," she finally said in a very quiet voice. "This could be dangerous. I cannot do what I MUST do if I am worried about you. Please," she finally added.

Jenny stared at her for a long moment, and then swept the girl into a fierce hug. "You damn well come home safely, girl!" she ordered intensely. "I don't want to lose the daughter I have always yearned for just days after I finally meet her."

"God speed, Mother," Sherla said.

"God speed to you as well, daughter," Jenny said before she stepped out of the room.

Sherla heard the springs of the landau creak, and the horses' shod feet clank against the stone drive. She mentally counted off one hundred twenty seconds while she made one last check to ensure no one was approaching the privies, and then set the timer on her explosive device. She snatched up her portmanteau, and hurried into the woods, away from the Inn. *Thankfully, there isn't any snow and this stone will not give the local police any footprint clues.*

One hundred twenty seconds later, the outdoor privy building exploded in a blaze of white light, red flames and black smoke. As Sherla had predicted, in less than five minutes, the walls of the building collapsed under the hellish heat. By the time anyone from the inn arrived on the scene, there was little left but ashes.

However, a high pitched feminine squeal told Sherla, that perhaps something recognizable might have survived from the two cadavers the medical student had procured and helped them plant on the scene. *Good bye, Mr. Sherlock Holmes and unknown nurse,* she thought grimly. *Rest in peace.*

Without a backward glance, Miss Sherla Holmes turned away and started walking parallel to the road towards Dover. She'd flag down the next packet along the way. With any luck, she'd be in Dover by nightfall.
 
 

London Times Morning Edition February 16, 1911 Mr. Sherlock Holmes of 221B Baker Street, well known consulting detective of yesteryear, was evidently murdered yesterday at a small traveler's way station south of London on the Dover Road. According to Chief Inspector Harley Quinn of Scotland Yard, an explosive device of great power was placed in the men's outbuilding necessary while Mr. Holmes was inside. According to Inspector Quinn, the device was purpose designed to act quickly under such conditions. "The explosion is the most likely cause of death, but we won't ever likely know," the Chief told this correspondent, "The fire was so hot, there is precious little left of him for the coroner to examine. Even his bones began to burn." There were no eye-witnesses, but the driver, a Mr. David Thomas, and a fellow passenger, a Miss Jenny Deavers, said that Mr. Holmes did not appear to be well at the time of the incident. In fact, Mr. Thomas had been forced to help Mr. Holmes' nurse to carry him into the men's facility. "He was like dead weight," Mr. Thomas said, "Never said a word to me after I helped him inside, either." In addition to Mr. Holmes, an as-yet unidentified young woman - small in stature according to what little the coroner has been able to deduce from the few bones left undamaged, died in the same explosion and fire. She was trapped in the women's necessary with the explosive device went off. Chief Inspector Quinn speculates that this may have been the Nurse. No name is available at this time. Mr. Holmes is not known to be survived by any living relatives. His home at Baker Street has been sealed by officials pending a review of his records and effects before the reading of his will.

 
 
Moriarty smiled as he reread for perhaps the tenth time the article from the Times, as well as obituaries from several other prominent papers. So, Holmes had finally decided to take the easy way out. Too bad in a way, Moriarty mused, for it would have been quite delightful, once his drug was perfected, to have a female Holmes at his youthful mercy. What a triumph it would have been, to force her to accept him as a woman accepts a superior man.

Well, he had anticipated this. Holmes, like Moriarty himself, was a creature of pure intellect. Eventually, the creeping consumption of femininity had eaten away at that magnificent mind, slowly destroying its power and reason. Naturally, Holmes must have reached the point where he could no longer tolerate such a diminution of powers, and had elected to end it all. Much as he had planned to do before Moriarty had inadvertently interfered. A chuckle broke the silence. That merely delayed the death, and it meant Holmes had been forced to deal with his loss while trying to come up with a means to carry to fight to Moriarty.

So, in the end, the great Sherlock Holmes had failed, and the Professor had won. He looked down and read the article once again. *I wonder how Holmes managed to get the male body to burn? The driver's comment about dead weight is a dead give away. Holmes must have set the explosive device himself, and then went to the women's facility to make it look like an accident,* Then, another thought struck Moriarty. *It would appear that it is just as well that I resisted the temptation to leave any clues or false trails to tease Miss Holmes. Waste of time I did not and still do not have. Most particularly if doing so would not have added substantially to Miss Holmes' feelings of ill use and torment.*

Moriarty raised his glass in toast. "To Holmes, my old enemy. Even in your madness and in the method of your death, you were brilliant. You were almost a matchless foe, but I am Moriarty. Ultimately, it had to end this way." He finished his drink and threw the glass into the fireplace. "Good Riddance, Mr. Sherlock Holmes."
 
 
Chapter 20: Adrift on a Sea of Memories
 
Sherla stood upon the open weather deck of the small sailing ferry that was making its way through the English Channel. She was grateful for the small favor of clear if chilly weather for she had not purchased a first class ticket that would have granted her access to the interior compartments of the small vessel. That would have been inconsistent with her role as an impoverished, traveling gentlewoman, and she preferred to deviate from that guise as little as possible until she could lose herself in the French interior.

As fortune would have it, this small but fast ship was actually the best imaginable solution to Sherla's current problems. The graceful little sloop permitted her to follow her original plan of staying in character until she'd arrived in France without sacrificing the speed she urgently required.

Sherla had already been forced to take some liberties with her carefully thought out strategy after arriving in Dover the previous night. She'd hoped to be able to sail for France immediately upon her arrival in the city, but none of the sailing schedules were compatible with her drug administration schedule. That had necessitated taking a private (and rather costly) room at the White Cliff Inn.

Her planned course of action to maintain as low a profile as possible during the English leg of her voyage had been, at least temporarily, abandoned. The unrelenting demand of her body for Moriarty's drug and the equally vital need for privacy when she dealt with the potion's aftereffects had ultimately taken precedence. If bespeaking the room had called her to the attention of some Moriarty underling, then so be it. She would deal with that when the consequences arose as best she could.

Staying the night in that room had, however, cost Sherla twelve critical hours she did not have to spare. That morning over breakfast, she had decided it was time to abandon her disguise completely and to make a decisive move. Sherla had looked into chartering a boat, but as it turned out, none of the available vessels would have gotten her to France any sooner than this ferry.

Alone in her thoughts, Sherla made her way around towards the bow of the ferry. Most of the other second and third class customers were crowded in behind the deckhouse, trying to stay out of the wind and thus stay as warm as possible. Miss Holmes decided that she required privacy more than comfort at that moment.

Happily, she found a small bench set behind the forecastle which blunted the wind well enough for her purposes. Carefully, she set down the her small reticule in which she carried the second set of papers Jenny had provided for her. These identified her as a Miss Daphne Barnstable of Sussex and had been procured against the fear that some easily bribed customs official might find the name "Miss S. Holmes" just a mite too memorable. Additionally, she laid down a small, brown paper-wrapped parcel that contained a letter of introduction from Mr. Sherlock Holmes as well as certain memorabilia that Sherla fervently hoped would help establish her true identity with the indomitable Irene Adler.

From her portmanteau, Sherla removed her journal and, after checking for prying eyes, Mr. Sherlock Holmes' prized reservoir fountain pen. She had, of necessity, left the violin in Jenny's keeping, but the pen had seemed too important to leave behind. It had been a birthday gift from Watson. With a soft sigh for that memory, Sherla opened the journal and began to write.
 
 
Date: February 16, 1911

Entry in the Journal of Miss Sherla Joan Holmes

Location: Aboard the English Channel Ferry-Sloop, Dover Princess.

Time: Approximately 11:00 A.M.

My Dear Doctor Watson: Since it would be out of character to carry a watch in my current disguise, an approximate time is the best I am able to do in this entry. Most annoying because I reach for the thing more times than I care to admit, John. That is unfortunate, because I have discovered by recent experience that women who often pat themselves beneath their bosoms tend to draw undue and unwanted attention to themselves. Thus far, the only person who has asked me about this was the innkeeper's wife last evening who was concerned that her very unremarkable beef pudding might have caused me gastronomic distress. I allowed her to think what she would, but retired to my room immediately thereafter. By the same token, I cannot give you any valid measurements since I have not had access to scales or measure tapes since I left Baker Street yesterday. However, my new corset is not impeding my breathing, and I assure you that most certainly *did* restrict my inhalations yesterday when Jenny laced me into this whale-boned version of the Iron Lady. My skirts would be dragging if not for the higher heeled shoes I put on this morning at the White Cliff. So I must assume that the drug is working as it has to date. On a related note, my experimental reduction in the volume of the drug I take each time has been unsuccessful. I had hoped that this strategy might have the benefit of extending my very limited stores of Moriarty's drug, but thus far, the ten percent reduction in volume administered has resulted in a nearly equivalent reduction in the time between withdrawal symptom onset. So I am not gaining anything in so far as my time until drug exhaustion occurs, and have lost the very convenient schedule I was following prior to my attempt at adjusting the dose. As is obvious, I have made it to the Channel, John, and will soon land in France. At that point, I shall, as I planned, cast off this pretense of poverty and hire the fastest available coach carriage. By my calculations, it is just over 160 miles from my point of debarkation to the village outside of Paris where I hope Irene still resides. Ordinarily, a fast coach can cover one hundred miles a day, but I intend to pay a premium price for non-stop service. With any luck, I shall arrive at Irene's front door within twenty four hours, or one dose, of making landfall in France. Once I am certain I am on my way, I will administer a twenty four hour dose of the drug to ensure that I have no problems doing so later on the road. I will simply have to ensure that the coach is sufficiently comfortable for the inevitable sleep and has a tightly covered chamber pot. That is a compromise, as I would prefer not to take the drug until absolutely necessary. There is so very little of the potion remaining, and therefore, so very little time left before I face that final withdrawal without any agent to relieve or blunt its effects. I think I have perhaps four days worth, but more likely three days supply with some dregs. However, that is not the only reason that I have made the decision to acquire such a conveyance and to press for non-stop service. In truth, I am gambling a very great deal that I know Irene Adler's current address. She may have moved in recent times and in those final days before my attempt upon my own life, I would not have known of it. The implication of this is that I may have to search for her once I arrive at my destination which will quite obviously require some time - a commodity that only the most rapid and direct transport to her last known address might afford me. I can only hope that such a change of tactics, along with the report of my and "Joan's" deaths will deflect any pursuit. That was the primary motivation behind the admittedly complex precautions I took when staging my "death". Ordinarily, I have a marked preference for simpler stratagems as there are less opportunities to run afoul of some unexpected problem, but in this case, I felt the complexity was warranted. The justification for the dressing dummy that was already in the landau when it arrived at Baker's Street is an example of what I had in mind. I was concerned that some unusually observant person might have noted our arrival at the way station's outbuilding privy and also note the number of people inside the carriage. Admittedly, such an individual is extremely rare in my experience, but if there was ever an opportunity for such an individual to completely disrupt the best laid plans, that was such a one. You know, John, that sounds like a rather profound statement of natural law - "Whatever might go wrong in all likelihood will go wrong at precisely the least opportune time." Perhaps if I do live and have the time, I shall investigate a logical proof of that statement. Holmes' Law. I think I rather like it. Whatever. As I started to discuss, had there been but three people aboard, and one of those the driver, Jenny's presence at an otherwise underpopulated inn might have drawn undue interest. So the dress dummy became the third person inside the landau. It was made of very old wood and cloth, John. Goodness, you could have used it for tinder. Thus, Jenny was able to change out of her male garb and safely appear as a distraught female passenger when the privy exploded while she ordered dinner from the innkeeper's wife. It is also why I elected to walk further south before hailing a passing coach to Dover. Apparently that particular tactic succeeded for the newspapers gave no indication that the authorities are looking for a woman suspect in the murder. Given modern tastes for melodrama, I am certain that, had there was the most minimal possibility that a "member of the gentler, fairer sex" was suspected of doing in the famous Mr. Sherlock Holmes, that supposition would have made the front page of the Times, at the very least. We are scheduled to make port sometime after two this afternoon. As I said earlier, I hope to be able to hire the carriage immediately and travel straight through. If not, I will do all that I can before. . . well, before the end. We've been through this before, haven't we, John? I recall well our last walk along that mountain trail to Reichenbach Falls just before that confrontation with Moriarty that left both he and I dead to the world for so many years. And while we have been through such hours of finality before, old friend, I find it feels far different now than it did those many years ago. I was at peace with myself and my life back then, John, but now, I feel rather melancholy. I was prepared to die to stop the great evil that was Professor Moriarty. I am prepared to do so now, but I know that I will very likely be denied that opportunity this time. I do not fear death, but I hate leaving such a malevolent force as James Moriarty loose upon an unsuspecting world - particularly during such a period of such international turmoil. A mind such as his might well determine that a world conflict - one that pits all the major powers of the world against one another in horrible, senseless bloodshed - could be quite to his liking and ultimate benefit. And I will not be here to stop him. For reasons beyond my power to change, I will be unable to face him and stop him personally. Well, I have accepted that because I must accept that. Intellectually, I know there is no shame in this failure for I will be denied the opportunity through no fault of my own. But it burns at me, John. God in heaven, how it burns. It is quite apparent that he has won this final battle between the two of us, old friend. The three or four days of sanity I my remaining supply of his foul drug provide me are insufficient to ferret out where on this vast continent he has gone to ground. However, I *refuse* to surrender to him, John! If I cannot be the direct agent of his final demise, then by all I hold holy, I will engineer his destruction indirectly. That is why I have invested all the time that appears to remain to me to find someone to carry on the fight that I will soon be incapable of prosecuting myself. Even there, I must admit to some significant misgivings. Am I correct to entrust this undertaking to Irene Adler instead of that little Belgian fellow in Brussels? That she has the intellectual powers needed by this quest is not in doubt, but she is still a *woman*, John. I can practically hear you telling me that I am a woman now, and that Irene is more than simply "a" woman, that she is "the" woman. True enough. And she has bested me, or rather, she has bested Mr. Sherlock Holmes twice that I am aware of, and no one else, not even Moriarty can truthfully make such a claim. Besides, the die is cast, John. I am close enough to Paris to have sufficient time to find her if she has moved, if just barely. The other fellow is too often undercover or god-knows-where on special assignment. I have a much better chance of passing on my task to Irene. And of course, I can always tell her about Atlas. . or whatever the little Belgian's name is when I see her and entrust Moriarty to her. That is, if I can convince the lady that I am. . .I WAS Mr. Sherlock Holmes. I must admit, John, that I am not entirely certain that my little package will accomplish that bit of persuasion. If a big, strapping young lad calling himself Ira Adler had ever shown up at Baker Street, I would have been more than a trifle difficult to convince that he was the lovely Irene changed into a man. The entire premise is simply so cursed preposterous and yet, I now know from my own experience that it is possible. I suppose that I will have to ad lib as the scene plays itself out. Ought to be quite a performance, especially if I somehow manage to succeed. Once again, I find myself wishing you were here, old friend. I never told you during out time together how grateful I was, and am, for your friendship and companionship. How much I missed you during those years after the Reichenbach Falls or during the years of your marriage to your Mary. How much I have missed you since your untimely death. I can state in perfect honesty, John, that I never envied you her love in the old days, John, but now, I think I do. Would that I might have lived my own life differently. I have learned, in the past few, very intensely lived days, that there is a difference between being alone and being lonely that I never truly appreciated before. Or perhaps more correctly, never permitted myself to appreciate. I certainly never understood the distinction until now. Thanks to the impact of Jenny and Maisie on my life, I now understand the difference VERY clearly. I am lonely, old friend. And I miss you terribly. The air here on the sea is very sweet and clean, John. I think I shall put this tome aside for a time and enjoy the simple act of breathing. There is little else I can do before we arrive at the French Port, not that I don't wish it otherwise. I don't know if or when I will be able to write in this journal again, John. Once I reach the mainland and begin my headlong dash toward Irene, I doubt even the most expensive, finely sprung carriage will permit my hand to be sufficiently steady to write at all legibly in this book. God's blessings, old friend. I remain, Most sincerely yours, Sherla (nee Sherlock) Holmes

End Journal Entry.
 
 

 
 
Excerpt from the Experimental Journal of Professor Moriarty

February 16, 1911

With the apparent elimination of Mr. Holmes, some of the pressure to arrive at a solution to the weapons problem has been relieved. I have, therefore, directed Dr. Haber to concentrate his efforts on the addiction/gender changing effects of the preparation. I was again forced to give the good doctor a modicum of encouragement as he was, in my estimation, sleeping entirely too many hours of the day. Three days ago, I administered the current preparation in concentrated form to one of two chimpanzees I had acquired as test subjects. Dr. Haber was quite horrified when I showed him the reports I had received on Mr. Holmes from my agent before I disappeared and the newspaper clippings about his unfortunate death. He was even more horrified when I forced the now female animal into withdrawal by withholding the drug. Seeing the subject's former companion forced to kill the now-female animal in self defense was rather illustrative, I think, of what he might expect if I should, for some as yet unspecified reason, be forced to administer a similar injection to him during one of his entirely too frequent sleep periods. Some interesting developments have since occurred. Haber has managed to eliminate the addiction from one preparation, but at the cost of the rejuvenative effect. Essentially, the subject still becomes female, but no younger. It may have a future use. Another formulation caused no rejuvenation or gender change, but was highly addictive. The possibilities of this preparation as a revenue source are being considered. Several other attempts were not addictive, but no longer had either the rejuvenative or gender changing effects. Thus far, our research indicates that the rejuvenation effect is very tightly linked with the two unacceptable side effects. Most unfortunately so, since at my age I have very little time to find solutions to these problems. Thus, I have directed my underlings to begin the search for another chemistry genius. Two heads are supposedly better than one, and I am beginning to fear that Dr. Haber's weapon's oriented mind, while brilliant and *very* highly motivated, is not suited to the more immediate, less martial demands of this aspect of the project.

End Journal Entry.
 
 

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End of Part 1 - A Study in Satin

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To Be Continued in "A Study in Satin Part 2 - Veni, Veni, Vici"