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

"THE Woman."

 

---

 
Image Credit: Title picture Victorian Woman ~Sephrena.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Artwork: Original Artwork graciously donated by Brandy Dewinter.

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

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

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

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

---

 
 
Part II: Veni, Veni, Vici
 
 
Chapter 5. Afterglow Aftermath
 
Despite her nigh-to-ravenous hunger, Sherla pulled up abruptly when she saw her reflection in a mirror as she finally made her way to breakfast.

Katrina had insisted on brushing out the tangled mass of midnight that now draped nearly to her waist. It had crackled like black lightning, sending visible sparks from the maid's talented fingers as she had patiently worked out the snarls from a very memorable if not very restful night. Pale pink roses floated at the neckline, wrists, and hem of the gray silk nightgown that surrounded Sherla's slender form like a fine cloud of smoke, hinting all too frequently at the shape underneath.

"I thought you were hungry," Katrina observed wryly, smiling despite her tone at the surprised pleasure the young woman found in her reflection.

Sherla jerked from her staring self-examination and blushed enough to show through the so-carefully-applied cosmetics that had, with her hair, turned the simple act of pulling on a peignoir and high-heeled slippers into a 45 minute ordeal. Time well spent, she realized, despite the disagreement of her growling stomach. When she finally arrived in Irene's sun-warmed Morning Room though, her appreciation of her own appearance had faded before the enticing aromas of fresh-brewed coffee and warm, buttery croissants.

"Slow down, Sherla, this is not a timed event," Irene laughed as the young girl started to tear apart a delicate pastry.

It was not the only time Sherla had to be reminded, either by herself or by Irene, to remember to eat and drink delicately as befit a gentlewoman of good breeding. But her sense of manners warred continually with the call of the rich coffee brewed in the dark French way and those lovely croissants. All too often, the food and drink won.

"Well, besides having the appetite and table manners of a dock worker, how do you feel this morning?"

Sherla set down her coffee cup, swallowed hard and closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened her eyes, there was a softly quizzical look in their dark depths. "It is very hard to describe," she said softly. "Different."

"That's an incredibly vivid and definitive statement," Irene chuckled, "Just what I need to know precisely what you mean. Come now, girl, you claim that you were, at one time in your life, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Surely you can give me a more complete picture than that."

"That is just the problem, Irene, nothing in my experience as Sherlock Holmes has prepared me for any of this. It is akin to a dog asking a fish to explain how breathing water is different than breathing air. And when I said 'different', I meant it was different than how it has been since I first realized what I had done to myself that night I attempted to end my life."

"Tell me how it is different in that context, then," Irene ordered, deciding to come to the issue of Sherla's attempted suicide later.

A rosy blush colored the girl's face and she looked away from Irene. "All of it?" she asked in an odd voice.

"Sherla, I spent the night watching over you as you dealt with the very basic physical needs of your very feminine body. I think I can handle most any revelation after that."

"True," the word sounded a bit forced to Irene, but she decided to let her visitor get this out on her own. "Well, first, my morning trip to the facilities was quite different than recent experience. Although urgent, it was nothing like what I have experienced in the past two weeks. Less. . . volume, and I was more in control even as I rushed off to the WC."

Irene nodded. "Might be related to the fact that this is the first day you have not taken that drug."

The embarrassment left Sherla's face instantly as she began to consider that idea. *Lord,* Irene thought, *the moment her mind became engaged her entire demeanor changed. Instantaneous and total change. And I have seen that response before.*

"Yes," Sherla said quietly, "I had hypothesized that the very violent eliminations were the means of removing the excess bodily materials left over from the reconstruction and resizing of my body and now without the drug. . . "

Caught up in the mental exercise, Sherla launched herself from the chair and nearly fell flat as she landed off balance on the relatively tall heeled slippers. She only barely saved herself from a painful spill by catching hold of her chair, and then she began to pace without giving the near disaster another thought.

"DAMN," she exclaimed, "I wish I had been able to keep my measurements up since I left Baker Street. If I am correct, my shrinkage will have stopped, or at least, significantly slowed now that I have ceased taking the drug."

"Young *LADIES*, Sherla, do not say 'damn'," Irene said severely before chuckling again. "You'll need to work on those little feminine strictures, dear, if you are to fit into the circles I suspect you will need to move about in the course of your investigations."

"Hmmmm," Sherla murmured in assent, "You are correct, of course, but I believe I shall need other roles to play as well. Young ladies of a certain station cannot go into all the places I may need to be able to enter in the course of this investigation."

"Recall, if you will, that I was an actress - an operatic actress to be sure, but an actress nonetheless. We will find suitable disguises for you, and I will, naturally, help you perfect the roles as needs be." Sherla nodded her agreement with that plan and Irene decided to press on. The girl had just given her an opening she'd been waiting for. "As to your measurements, that is no trouble. We will need a full set, in any case, for your new clothes. . . " a twinkle shown in Irene's gray-green eyes, "and your new corsets."

"Unfortunately, for the past four days or so, I only have had the most subjective indications of my body's changes," Sherla said disgustedly, then looked up sharply. "And who said anything about any new damned corsets?!"

"I did," Irene said with calm amusement, "As I am sure you well remember from yesterday. As to your measurements, we will make do, dear. Now, please, do continue telling me what feels different."

Not certain she was at all happy with that pronouncement, Sherla stared at Irene for several moments. Finally, she realized that Irene would not back down, returned to her seat and took a measured sip from her coffee while considering her next words. "I am . . . somehow more attuned to my body. Less than when I was in the throes of . . . well, like last night, but much more than I can ever recall feeling at anytime before." Idly, Sherla ran a finger down the sleeve of the gossamer-thin peignoir. "I can feel this move against me, and it almost sends chills through my entire body. It is as if all of my senses are somehow more acute. Food began tasting better to me while I was still with Jenny, but this coffee and these croissants are like ambrosia."

"Katrina is a remarkable cook, dear, but I take your point. You are far more sensually aware than you have ever been before."

"Yessss," Sherla said with a soft exhalation, her finger still teasing at the arm of her robe.

Irene took in the newly dreamy look in the girl's eyes, and the suddenly languid movements of her hand upon her body. "Sherla?" she asked, and then had to repeat herself more sharply, "SHERLA!" Irene smiled as the girl jumped and looked up at her, startled confusion in her eyes. "I think you need to go back to your room for a while, dear. I fear you have not finished dealing with the aftermath of your withdrawal from that drug. After you have . . .taken that matter properly in hand, we will see about getting a set of measurements for your records and deciding what to do next."

Poised to deny Irene's assertion of her needs, Sherla started to speak when her breath started becoming short in a now all-too- familiar pattern. Deliberately, she rose to her feet and walked from the room.

Unfortunately for Sherla's dignity, Irene was well able to hear the distinctive "click click click" of rapidly moving high heels on the marble floor as the girl ran to her room.
 

 
"OUCH, dam . .bless it, Katrina, that was ME you just stuck that pin into!" Sherla snapped from her perch atop the large ottoman that had been put to use as a fitting stand.

It was all too much, Sherla fumed. First that corset maker who had brought along this rather imposing lady with a German accent to help measure her for the new ones Irene had ordered. Irene had directed Sherla, the measuring woman and Katrina into Sherla's room. "Normally, dear," Irene said in a tone that Sherla was beginning to dread, "corsets are measured with a properly-fitted chemise and pantalons already in place. Unfortunately, we don't have a suitable chemise in a size that would fit your dainty self. Any that we could use would be too large and would bunch uncomfortably and ruin the measurement. Therefore, Fraulein Braun has agreed to take your measurements without that extra material getting in the way. Isn't that wonderful of her?"

And so Sherla was, for the most part, nude during her corset fitting, but there was nothing remotely wonderful about Fraulein Braun. Having that ham-handed German bitch touch her that way had been bad enough, but the damned woman had refused to listen to her at all. In fact, aided and abetted by Katrina, Fraulein Braun had always pulled the tape yet tighter each and every time Sherla had voiced any comment or complaint at all.

Now, she was being fitted by a modiste for two or three "ready to wear" dresses while her real fashions were being made by hand. Unfortunately, that required putting sharp implements, like pins, in the hands of Katrina who kept finding new and inventive ways to stick the blasted things into . . well. . . into Sherla.

If Sherla had been able to move enough to catch her reflection in the mirror, she'd have seen a most intriguing expression on Katrina's face. The dark-haired maid's eyes twinkled with a suspicious glint as she eased yet another pin into the already quite-snug dress.

"Damnit, Katrina, be more careful!"

"Oh, Mademoiselle, I am sooo sorry," Katrina answered, the contrition in her voice not reflected at all in her expression.

Another pin slid home, just a bit too deeply.

"Ouch. You did that on purpose!"

"But Mademoiselle, why would I *do* such a thing? It must have been because you moved."

"Me? Don't blame me for your clumsiness!" Sherla said, but she tried to stand even more rigidly.

Katrina let her alone for a long moment, then she began to brush a bit of frothy lace against the fine hairs below Sherla's pinned-up coiffure. In her other hand was yet another pin. After a few seconds of this teasing, Katrina was rewarded by a start from Sherla, but not in the direction she expected.

Sherla whirled around to see the grinning maid armed with lace and pin. "I *knew* you were doing it deliberately," she crowed.

"Oops," Katrina said, blushing, but still grinning.

"Just wait till I get my hands on you!" threatened Sherla. But as she moved to reach for the unrepentant maid, a pin that was already installed stuck her in a most . . . fundamental place. Sherla winced, triggering a snicker from Katrina.

"I'll get you yet," Sherla promised, but the smile on the maid's face was too cute for Sherla's many decades of embedded chivalry, and she broke off her threats with her own snicker.

"Girls," said the modiste as she returned with some additional material samples. "Quit wasting time. Now, Mademoiselle, let us see which of these reds works best against that lovely hair."

All Sherla could do was shake a threatening finger at the angelically innocent-appearing maid. That, and plot her revenge. Something she could do with Irene watching her. It would take some thinking, but Sherla was determined to repay the pretty little maid for her tricks. . . . with interest.

"Oh, drat, I forgot the dark cream lace," growled the modiste, leaving yet again.

"Why were you sticking me?" Sherla demanded to know as soon as she and Katrina were alone again.

The mischievous glint left Katrina's eyes as she saw, for the first time, that Sherla was upset and really did not understand or appreciate the game. "Mademoiselle," she offered in a gentler, more placating tone, "please calm down. I was only teasing you. Every girl is supposed to have stories about pins at fittings. Please relax and let us finish. We are almost done."

Sherla stared at Katrina for several moments and concluded that she was being honest. She looked almost surprised that Sherla would complain so about the pin pricks. "You know the truth about me?" Sherla asked in whispered English, "What I told Madame Adler?"

Katrina gave her an odd look, but finally nodded. "One of the other effects is that I seem to be. . . unusually sensitive. . .I feel things more strongly than I should."

"Ahhhhh. . ." Katrina breathed. "My apologies, Mademoiselle. I won't do it anymore and as I said, this is the last dress. Just a few more moments."

"All right," Sherla said, "But please hurry. I think I will need to be. . private again very soon."

Katrina's own eyes went wide, for she understood from Irene that the girl was to be allowed such privacy whenever she said she needed it. Quickly, she returned to her work and even hurried the modiste's otherwise deliberate pace.

Sherla almost felt guilty for lying to the maid.

Almost.
 

 
 
Entry in the Journal of Miss Sherla Joan Holmes

Date: February 20, 1911

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

Time: 12:14 P.M.

My Dear Doctor Watson: I have arrived at Irene Adler's house, and while she is still not convinced that I am Holmes, she is intrigued and apparently willing to concede that I might be my own daughter. I have just been measured by a modiste that Irene has called in and before that by the corsetierre. I cannot say I look forward to any further exploration into the joys of having my inner organs rearranged and deformed for the sake of fashion. That accounts for the greater part of my ambivalence towards this particular purchase; moreover the woman who measures for this merchant bears an uncanny resemblance to my governess. Fraulein Braun even sounds like the unspeakable bitch. And, she enjoys her work far too much for my tastes. I am not looking forward to a long association with this female and her employer. Perhaps after Moriarty has been dealt with, I shall go someplace where I can live in splendid isolation while I enjoy being young again, but where my being female will not impose such ridiculous physical and social strictures on me. Curse it all, Watson, merely because I am now female does not mean I have somehow become a mindless idiot at the same time! I do not need to be protected and I strongly object to being treated as if I have no brain in my head. Sorry, John, but I had to let that out before I had a seizure. Since France has adopted the metric system of measurement (something England should do but in all likelihood will not because it isn't 'English'), I have decided I will hereafter report my measurements using those so-very logical dimensions. In any case, I currently stand 155 centimeters tall (five feet one inch) , mass out at forty eight kilograms (a bit over 105.5 lbs) and have an uncorseted waist measurement of just under fifty centimeters (nineteen and five eighths inches), although I have reason to question that measurement. Katrina and the German female from the corsetierre pulled the measuring tape very tight on every blasted measurement, and I suspect their purpose is to ensure my new "properly fitted" corset will be tighter than *I* think necessary. Besides, having just taken that infernal "poorly fitted" corset off, my waist had no time to fill out into a more normal size. I am not certain if my next bit of news is on the bright or dark side, John. The withdrawal symptom I have been so afraid of is actually intense sexual arousal. Very intense. Relief from those symptoms can be had in any number of time-honored ways, but for the nonce, I have been "taking things in hand," if you will. Such manipulation effectively deals with the overt physical symptoms of the withdrawal, at least temporarily, which is what I have been doing for at least a quarter hour out of every two since rising this morning. Irene had Katrina attired me this morning without drawers so that I would "be less impeded when the need is upon you, dear." John, this is incredibly humiliating! I have absolutely no control over anything when the need is upon me. I cannot even think clearly until I have relieved myself. Just this morning, I was having a perfectly reasonable, rational discussion with Irene one moment and the next minute, I am practically a bitch in heat with no thought in my head except to relieve that burning, aching demand. I am practically a slave to my sexual needs. It is very lowering. On a separate but related issue, the feeling of the stiffly starched petticoats upon my bared and sensitive bottom and thighs is, all things considered, a decidedly odd and uncomfortable sensation. I find that I quite miss my drawers, particularly the ones made of silk. I find I have come to enjoy the sensation of that fabric gliding across my skin. Back the issue of my . . . physical needs, Irene does not view the experience in so negative a light. She advises me to simply enjoy the undoubted physical pleasure of the "therapy" and see what comes of it. She tells me that, in her experience, no one can be this excitable all the time. I can only hope she is correct in that assertion. Only. . . I am not at all certain about the enjoyment part. Enjoy it?? Perhaps I do at that. I will admit that buildup and culmination are overwhelming and that afterwards, once the climax has spent itself? The lethargy and relaxation is far more pleasant than I ever experienced in my life - even when I was regularly using the cocaine. Are other young women. . . or rather, young women who have been female from birth, told such things these days? Is that the old, stodgy Victorian *male* Sherlock asking? Perhaps. So, I am not going insane and apparently, I am not going to die from the withdrawal from my addiction to Moriarty's potion. That is to the good. On the opposite side of the ledger, however, is that these needs are irresistible. Lord, John, Irene had to remind me to go off and find privacy today. I was practically fondling myself in her Morning Room, for god's sake. Is this any better than being addicted? I don't know. I must think on it some more. After I deal with the latest onset of my needs.

End Journal Entry.
 
 
Chapter 6. The Thoughts of Professor Moriarty
 
*Another long and disappointing day,* Moriarty thought as he finished his last entry in his experimental record. In other days, he'd been able to work seventy-two or more consecutive hours in the lab, take a short one-hour nap and then return to the lab refreshed for another forty-eight hours. Age, however, had taken that from him. He now required six hours of sleep out of every twenty-four or his efficiency and his concentration suffered.

He heard the sound of a gun shot and smiled darkly. Another lesson for his unwilling accomplice. Then, his mind returned to the words he'd just written. Haber *had* to be wrong. There simply *had* to be a solution that would serve Moriarty's needs so that, in turn, the world would ultimately be made to serve his needs.

Grimly, Moriarty reopened the journal. There had to be an error of logic or experimental design in there, especially since Haber had become involved. And Moriarty would find it!

Frowning fiercely, the professor began to read.
 
 
Excerpt from the Experimental Journal of Professor Moriarty

February 21, 1911

Progress to Date:

Thus far, all attempts to reproduce the Holmes effect by concentrating the potion have resulted in the death of the experimental subject. Either the creature simply does not wake up following administration, or dies of dehydration when its body increases elimination to remove the excess bodily mass. The other aspects of the project also continue to be a series of promising developments turning into dead ends. Three more of the good Dr. Haber's experiments have failed to unlink the rejuvenation effect from the other two undesirable effects. He has, however, developed a very interesting compound that shows promise as a highly addictive aphrodisiac. Such a compound might be very salable to wealthy old men attempting to regain their manly vigor or to beget a male heir, particularly once they have become addicted to the drug. Conclusion: While potentially useful, this is not the solution I seek. New Effort: Dr. Haber has developed a theory that, while it certainly explains the body of our experimental results, I do not care for in the slightest. In an attempt to better understand the rejuvenation effect, he has reviewed all of my previous experiments. From these results, he has theorized that the connections between the rejuvenation and gender change effects, and between the rejuvenation and the addiction effects, may well be inextricably linked. His conjecture is that the infelicitous sex change may actually be the main effect, and that the desired rejuvenation effect is secondary. Statement of Theory: Haber likens the age regression/sex change effect of the drug to a biochemical metamorphosis somewhat akin to that experienced during puberty, with an attendant physical transformation reminiscent of the transformations demonstrated by certain of the insect species so prevalent in the Amazon basin. Moreover, based on some of the clinical experiments I conducted while in South America, he believes that intensity of the withdrawal is strictly a function of the apparent age of the subject when treatment was halted. If the subject was still physiologically old, the withdrawal was all-consuming; even life threatening. However, if the subject had reverted in age to near that at which puberty typically occurs, the withdrawal symptoms appear to have been much reduced. Discussion of Historical Data: At this time, Dr. Haber's hypothesis seems consistent with all of existing data from both my and Dr. Haber's clinical experiments. In doses and treatment durations that left the subject still physiologically old and somewhat masculine, the withdrawal was manifested as an aphrodisiac of the most demeaning sort. Desire became all-consuming but performance became impossible. Chimpanzees from whom the drug was withheld at this stage actually damaged themselves in fruitless attempts to force satisfaction from a non-performing member. Even near the completion of the treatment cycle, when the subject was a young and very feminine adult, withdrawal caused a voracious sexual appetite that was more important than food or sleep. It was at this stage that males caged with the transformed females had sometimes been forced to kill the test subjects in self-defense. As the treatment regimen continued and the subject became both younger and more delicately feminine, the withdrawal effect gradually reduced leaving a powerful but controllable arousal if the subject reverted completely to an adolescent apparent age before administration of the drug was stopped. Thus, Dr. Haber has reached his conclusion that there is no potential for a partial treatment regimen resulting in reduced age without feminization. For completeness, I will summarize my experiences in South America as well as the results of the withdrawal effect experiments below. Background of South American Studies. During my self-imposed exile in South America where I was instigating a revolution in a particularly wealthy country, I began to hear rumors of a tribe of Amazonian natives who had overcome age itself. Further, the rumors were very clear that they had done so by means of some secret drug that they had discovered from the local pharmacopoeia. I elected to investigate personally, mounting an expedition that took me far into the interior of Brazil, to an almost hidden tributary of the mighty Amazon. There, I found a tribe that seemed to be comprised primarily of nubile young women, with a strangely reduced number of males, none very old. Through a translator, I found that they had indeed conquered age, but at the cost of their masculinity. Apparently, the rejuvenation drug had a side effect of feminization. I resolved to study the relevant herbs and see if these effects could be separated and so remained in the vicinity of this tribe for nearly three years. During that time, I conducted a wide variety of experiments to determine the full effects of the potion and to attempt to eliminate the sex change effect of the drug. Studying the methods used by the natives when one of the their elders began to fail due to age, I determined approximate dose- rates and administration schedules as a function of body mass. Nothing I did appeared to disconnect the linkage between rejuvenation and the sex change. Furthermore, I discovered that the drug was addictive and that it had a significant withdrawal problem in my test animals. I was unable to determine precisely why this withdrawal did not appear to distress the natives as it did my test monkeys. For a time, I even surmised that a form of natural selection has occurred among the members of that tribe and they have evolved into a group of humans who can accept the drug without falling victim to its after effects, but later experiments indicated that this was not the case. Note: On the off chance that all humans shared the natives' immunity to the withdrawal effects, I ran a quick study using the members of my exploration party early on during my sojourn in the Amazon Rain Forest. All were terribly afflicted by this effect, and had to be destroyed. It saved me the difficulty of killing them later as I did not want any word of this discovery to be confirmed in the outside world. Duration of Withdrawal Symptoms: Elderly monkeys were used as test subjects. At least three uniquely identifiable stages of transformation were observed during these tests. Each of the following subjects were put on a treatment regimen of the herbal preparation consistent with their body weight. At the appropriate stage of regression and gender transition, the treatment was stopped and the subject was physically restrained to preclude self injury at least during the first observation period. The first case study was nearly-masculine at the cessation of treatment. The subject had received only that amount of the drug needed to addict it, and to make the first, barely observable physiological changes in stature and mass. To the uninformed observer, the creature would have been taken for fully male, if somewhat small in both bodily size and in the size of its masculine endowments. Reaching this stage took approximately half of the potion used by the third and final subject. Unfortunately, this subject was insufficiently restrained, actually fracturing several major bones - some compound and causing blood loss leading to death - in its frantic attempt to attain a satisfaction that would not have been available even if he had been free to reach his own genitalia. This final convulsive state occurred four days after the drug was withdrawn, indicating though not proving that at the nearly-masculine stage withdrawal symptoms remain compelling for an extended period. Treatment of the second subject ceased when its genitalia and gonads were visually (and functionally as evidenced by entry into estrus in subsequent days) female. However, the subject's body still remained significantly masculine in bone structure and muscularity. This stage occurred relatively quickly after the first stage, and required approximately three quarters of the total quantity administered to the third subject below. This subject seemed to experience a tapering off of the withdrawal arousal after three days as evidenced by reduced howling within the restraints and a willingness to eat and drink when fed. At this point, the partially-feminized creature was released from restraint in the belief that this stage might prove to be the first point of potential survival. However, all waking moments were spent in frantic self-stimulation, even while simultaneously eating or drinking. Only exhaustion broke this pattern. The behavior continued for three additional days after the subject was released from the restraints. While there was a gradual diminution of the compelling need for self-stimulation, it was apparent that this would always be the major focus in the remaining life of the subject. Eventually, this subject injured itself during one of its still very regular bouts of self abuse and had to be put down. The third subject was at the stage of fully-feminized but fairly young adult. Note: Once stage two was achieved, further administration of the drug served to make the subject smaller, more feminine in appearance, and physiologically younger relative to the species age of puberty. Withholding the drug initially resulted in frantic struggles against the restraints that lasted for several hours that were then followed by exhausted sleep. Restraints were removed at that point. When the subject awoke, there was a period of continuous self-stimulation for slightly more than twelve hours, followed by gradually increasing intervals between episodes until a stable condition was achieved. At this juncture, subject three seemed to be a completely natural female of the species, although certainly more than normally prone to arousal. This was, however controllable where it had not been for the other subjects. This might be considered as the earliest point of successful withdrawal in that the subject appeared to be able to resume normal or nearly normal life activities. In point of fact, this new female was highly sought after by the males as she was extremely easy to arouse and nearly always receptive. Once her initial all-consuming withdrawal was controlled via the use of restraints, she became the essence of femininity - including the characteristic of being easily distracted by her own physical needs. This also appears to be the subject that most closely replicates the experience of the natives. Several other such series of experiments were conducted during that time in South America. The three stages appear to be consistent with all subjects tested. If drug therapy were reintroduced, provided the animal had not damaged itself during the withdrawal period, that subject would proceed through the remaining stage(s) as before. I did experiment to see if there was a stage between two and three; in other words, a condition in which the creature is appears fully female and remains insatiable. Results of those experiments were inconclusive, primarily because the insatiable animals tended to fatally injure themselves, or to be killed by companions who could no longer satisfy their demands. After spending three years working alone in the jungle using primitive facilities without making any progress, I decided I must leave South America. I determined that, if I were to achieve my ultimate goal of restoring my youth without suffering the gender changing or addiction/withdrawal effects, I would need the most modern laboratory facilities in addition to highly trained and knowledgeable support laboratory support. That decision required that I return to Europe where I would again be forced to deal with the threat posed by the damnable Mr. Sherlock Holmes who had not yet had the decency to die. Knowing Holmes all too well, I knew without question that should I be recognized anywhere in Europe, word would get to Holmes, and he would attempt to interfere. Happily, this time I had a plan for my very dear enemy that has worked rather splendidly. Speculation: One must wonder which stage represents the condition achieved by Sherlock Holmes when his meager supply of the drug was exhausted. By body mass, the amount of the drug I "prescribed" for his use should have been barely sufficient to carry him to stage two. Furthermore, Dr. Haber and I have conducted our own experiments that show little change in final effect despite the distillation process he used, although increasing the drug's concentration does make the initial changes, especially up to Stage One, more rapid. When we met in his rooms at Baker Street, I observed him to be in a nearly-masculine condition, perhaps late Stage One or the early onset of Stage Two. If he had attempted to cease using the potion at that point he would have faced the most demeaning withdrawal condition of unsatisfiable arousal. While it is very pleasant to think of my old foe in this condition, it is unlikely that he would forgo the use of the remainder of his supply of the drug in favor of remaining in that state. The only possibility that might result in this happy end is if the withdrawal overcame him when he was out of his apartments and unable to reach more of the potion. I consider this unlikely as I would not expect him to leave his rooms at all until he had experienced at least one withdrawal event. As I stated above, my best estimate of the effect that might be achieved with the supply of the drug that remained to him when we parted would be that of a Stage Two, hormonally and genitally female, middle-aged human. This might be even more richly effective as an end condition. He, or rather, she would be consumed by a continuing, insatiable need for stimulation and sexual release, yet, given what looks Holmes had when he started, she would be rather unattractive and would certainly not be able to find suitable "assistants" without the application of significant funds for their hire. The thought of the once-great Sherlock Holmes paying for others to service him sexually is almost too sweet to contemplate. It is for that very reason that I ordered the chemist to give him the quantity of the potion I chose. I can well understand Holmes' decision to suicide. However, I must remember not to assume as fact what is in truth only speculation. I am confident that even were I faced with such a condition, my own mental discipline would allow me to function effectively despite the distractions. And while I consider it unlikely that Holmes has that same capacity, consideration must be given even for the unlikely. I remain confident that Holmes did indeed die in the conflagration reported in the paper, but I will give special orders to be watchful for an unattractive middle-aged woman or slender man who might approach these facilities. Indeed, I almost wish that this were the case, as that would afford me the opportunity to see the great Sherlock Holmes reduced to groveling need for stimulation of his, that is, her feminine intimacy. However, as I stated earlier, I believe that is unlikely in the extreme. Holmes was the only man on earth to approach my genius and mental discipline, but he still fell far short of my greatness - as is evidenced by this my final victory. No, I think it will be more profitable to consider the larger scene within which this potion will play. Implications: Dr. Haber's believes that it may not be possible to decouple the gender change from the desired rejuvenation. That is, as yet, unproven. However, his analysis does strongly indicate that under the current circumstances the addiction/withdrawal effect IS unavoidable if a full and viable rejuvenation is to occur at all. Haber also believes, based on the data he has seen from my experiments in South America, that the younger the subject is at the cessation of treatment, the more likely the ensuing withdrawal will approximate that experienced by Subject Three. He offers that as an explanation as to why the formerly male women of the tribe I discovered appeared "immune" to the drug's withdrawal syndrome. My recollection is that an elder male treated always regressed to a near-adolescent physiological age. At the time, I believed that was done in order to make the elder as young as possible without making his . . . her brain too juvenile to retain the individual's lifetime of amassed wisdom. Haber's alternative hypothesis is that regressing the elder to nearly the age of puberty is why they have so little problem during withdrawal. If, as he conjectures, the rejuvenation is inextricably tied to some new form of "reverse puberty", and if the ability of the subject to cope with the withdrawal effect is directly tied to how close the subject is, physiologically, to the age of normal puberty when the drug therapy is stopped, then this entire program is at a dead end. At least, it is a dead end insofar as my own aspirations and ambitions for myself are concerned. I absolutely refuse to permit my superior intellect to be eroded and destroyed by the vagaries, fits and ill humors of the naturally inferior body of the female of the species. Even the thought of living another fifty or sixty years as a mere woman, with the memory of my lost superiority to constantly torment me is beyond ludicrous. I would rather die, which is precisely what I suspect Sherlock Holmes finally did when he, or rather she logically considered his own fate. The other implication of Haber's theory is that the utility of this preparation as a weapon must be more carefully considered as well. On the battlefield, where the majority of the fighters are barely out of their teens (and therefore relatively close, physiologically to the onset of adolescence) the utility of such a system on a wholesale basis might prove tactically weak. The fighters might retain sufficient strength and intellect to pose a considerable threat. Indeed, it is not inconceivable that they might pose an even greater threat, enraged at their fate, but still sane and out to avenge themselves on the cause of their transformation. I am not certain I believe the legend of the Amazon Warriors, but among the lower animals, the female of the species can be very dangerous, particularly when enraged. This bears further thought. Nonetheless, if the weapon were used strategically, against older individuals, such as field grade and general officers, or even against senior government officials, in such cases, the effect of the withdrawal might be a very potent weapon. "Encouraging" these individuals to comply or face the withdrawal unaided or better, to ultimately transform such powerful "men" into a passion driven strumpets are but two stratagems that come to mind. More thought is required. This concept does, however, have the further advantage that the drug could be used in its current form without the need to develop a gaseous version. Certainly, a simply method of administration such as an inhaled or orally ingested version would be advantageous, particularly in the initial addictive attack, but it is not absolutely mandatory as it would be if the weapon was to be used over an entire battlefield. Conclusions and Plans for Future Effort: The possibility that a rejuvenative drug free of gender changing and addictive effects is not feasible is not a pleasing thesis, nor is it one I am going to accept without a great deal more research. As Haber himself pointed out, his specialty is electrochemistry and weapons research, and these issues are biochemical. While I am well-versed in bio-chemistry, as I am in all areas of modern scientific inquiry, there are intrinsically less-capable men who nonetheless have significant expertise within their limited scope. For the time being, until my own studies encompass their specialized knowledge, they may be of assistance. Dr. Haber has stated that he believes that we should extend our experiments to include naturally female subjects as well as the males. He makes the point that the female reaction might give us some clues on how to "reverse-in-process" the male to female gender transition. I never considered this line of inquiry because rejuvenating women was not, at any time, a priority of mine so I did not think to pursue that line of investigation. In fact, I do not know if the natives ever used the drug on female (natural or transformed) members when they aged. My experiments proved that if the treatment were suspended at any time, reintroduction of the drug on a subject recommenced the transition noted above. Haber's proposal bears further thought, and while I have agreed to consider this possibility, I am rather concerned that these additional clinical experiments will expend my limited supply of the special herbs without positive result. That particular logistical problem will, of course, be resolved once my regular supply system is fully established. However, I am loathe to initiate such an herb-demanding effort until I have proper knowledge of the effects of the drug as it may be necessary to use some aspect of the potion as a control on suppliers or customs agents. On a more positive note, my minions have located a very eminent biochemist nearby in Germany who could fill this need admirably. Unfortunately, he is currently out of country and is not due to return for at least two weeks. I have dispatched two men to watch him, and intend that he 'disappear' en route home to Germany. I believe I will discuss Dr. Haber's concept of testing natural females with him, once he is 'settled in' and fully understands his role and the consequences of failure. I must admit to the need to exercise considerable restraint upon my inclination to take the man immediately. Delays, delays, always delays. It is fortunate that I am still in vigorous good health for my age so I have time to pursue these investigations with a degree of caution. In the meantime, Haber will be encouraged to continue his own efforts on my behalf. That should not be difficult - it might even prove diverting. It seems that the chimp who was attacked by his transformed companion after his failure to perform to her needs, was injured. His genitals have become painfully swollen and I suspect are damaged beyond repair. I shall permit Dr. Haber to see to putting the animal down. It should recall to his mind how the beast came to be in such a condition. A most efficacious method of ensuring Dr. Haber's continued best efforts.

End Journal Entry.
 
 
Chapter 7. Facing the Facts
 
Irene looked up from her reading and did a pleased double take as Sherla came hurrying back into her library. *The dark red of the burgundy gown suits her coloring, especially with that incredible black hair,* Irene thought again, *And that delicate gold embroidery about the bodice highlights her bosom beautifully. I must remember to congratulate Katrina on her efforts as a lady's maid. As for Sherla, except for her behavior and the manner in which her mind works, one would never suppose or believe she was anything but another beautiful young woman ready to make her first curtsy in Society.*

Irene waited for Sherla to reseat herself so that they could continue. They had been planning an outing for the girl when her need came up on her once again, necessitating her rapid departure. *Strange, though,* Irene had mused, *I would have expected the girl to have that 'just-loved' look of sexual satiation on her face.*

She didn't look anything like that.

"DAMN ME, Irene," the ebon-haired Fury snapped as she slammed both hands down on the other woman's desk. "I cannot take much more of this. I have been consumed by my, uh, needs for the better part of two days and nights, now," she said. Then she gave a particularly foul curse before continuing, "And I cannot fight Moriarty if I perpetually have one hand stuck inside my drawers like some perverse female caricature of Napoleon!"

"I believe he kept his hand higher than that," Irene replied as she fought to keep her face straight. "And I thought I had told Katrina to dispense with your drawers for the time being."

Sherla exploded, "IRENE!?!?"

"SILENCE!" Irene snapped before Sherla could begin anew. "I have told you before that young ladies do not use such language or such a tone of voice. Take care that I do not resort to the classic remedy for such behavior and wash your mouth out with strong soap."

The tone more than the message brought Sherla up short and she stared at Irene's suddenly implacable face for almost a minute. Irene was a tall, well-built woman who seemed to exude an aura of strength and power. *She might well be able to carry out that threat,* Sherla thought furiously, *And besides, that sly boots Katrina would be only too happy to assist her in such an endeavor.* Sighing her capitulation, Sherla flounced over to a nearby chair and flopped down into it quite indecorously.

"THAT will not do either, my fine young miss," Irene snapped, black fire flashing at Sherla from her eyes. "Stand up, come back over here and then walk over and seat yourself like a lady!"

"How can I attempt to be a lady, Irene, when my body seems determined to be a slut!"

"One . . more . . . foul . . word!" Irene growled, "And you will find out that I am more than capable of disciplining that mouth of yours, and moreover, Katrina would enjoy helping me see to it. Now, do as I directed."

For a moment, Sherla was tempted to test Irene, and then decided against it. She did, after all, still have those chains and cuffs and evidently enjoyed using them. With slow grace, she rose from her seat and returned to the doorway from where she made a much more ladylike entrance to her chair. Carefully, she arranged her skirts and seated herself.

"Brava," Irene applauded, her wicked smile back in place. "As we have discussed, my dear Sherla, it is necessary for you to learn to do these things when you are in your role as a young lady of society. Better that you should be disciplined here with me in the privacy of my home than be shamed, or worse, ostracized in public."

"Yes, of course," Sherla said, more in control now, "It is just that I do not see any chance of me going out in your society. Unless they have convenient bedrooms where I may go to. . . relieve myself."

"As to that, my dear, I would bid you take a look at this," Irene said offering a sheet of paper to Sherla. "You've been too, shall we say, involved in the details of your therapy to keep track, but I wanted to see what was happening to you."

Bemused by the woman's words, Sherla looked at the paper and tried to decipher them. *Times,* she mused, *followed by a number. Apparently collected over the past two days. The most recent entry just fifteen minutes ago followed by a '10'. . AH HA!. This is . . .* "You've been keeping a record of when and how long I go off to . . .address my needs?"

"Exactly," Irene said smugly. "And so, Miss Holmes, what do you see in the data?"

Sherla took another, longer look at the sheet, and then it finally became clear. "The intervals between my . . .departures seem to be growing longer, and once I leave, I am not gone as long," she offered.

"Excellent, Sherla. Precisely so. Your time between sessions has more than doubled since yesterday morning and the duration of your sessions is down as well, though not as much. These things do take *some* time if one is to do them properly, as I am sure you are learning. However, I believe that in another day or so, you will be well able to control your urges."

"Then I am not going to spend the rest of my life like some feminine incarnation of a mythological satyr?"

"I believe the feminine equivalent is called a nymph, dear, but no, I think you will soon be rid of this irresistible urge, or at least, able to control it under most circumstances," Irene answered, but then her tone changed and became reflective, "Although I think it highly unlikely you will ever be one of those pasty-faced, milque-toast-minded, 'close your eyes and think of England' misses when it comes to passions of the flesh. One positive aspect to this otherwise unfortunate situation is that you've learned that passion properly dealt with feels wonderful. I don't think you will be able to deny yourself such pleasures in the future, and further, you will, I suspect, become a rather demanding lover." A hint of merriment and conspiracy twinkled in Irene's suddenly very green eyes as she dropped her voice to a whisper. "I should not care to be the man who fails to satisfy you while selfishly seeing to his own pleasures without regard to your own."

Feeling the heat rise in her face, Sherla turned away *The woman has the most remarkable propensity for making me blush like a school child.* "As if," Sherla managed a creditable imitation of a Katrina sniff of distaste, "I am ever likely to allow a man to become intimate with me that way, Irene, I *am* a man. . . .I mean, I was a ma. . . . .I mean. . "

Musical laughter bubbled up out of Irene and then she stopped, seeing the distress on Sherla's face. "I know you were, dear," she replied more gently, "but you are not a man now, and one of the marvelous things a woman can do is make love with a man. At least, it is marvelous to make love with a man who is knowledgeable in and dedicated to the arts of pleasing a woman. If you are to be a woman, and it appears that you are, I would hope that you would not deny yourself that pleasure simply because you used to be male."

Sherla could find no answer to that, so Irene returned to their prior discussion. "As I read that sheet, I would say that in one or two days, you will, in all probability, have your needs under sufficient control that you will be able to go about in public as easily any other highly passionate woman. Like myself, for instance," she added as she grinned impishly. "I think that whatever causes this hugely amplified arousal in you is slowly wearing off, or is being cleansed from your body."

"Is that why you've all but been pouring liquids down my throat?" Sherla asked suspiciously.

"Just so, Irene replied. "Herbs are often water soluble which is why they are used to make tea, so it seemed prudent to use large quantities of water to wash your system clean of any residue if that was what was causing your burning sexual arousal. It seems to have worked."

"I see," Sherla said, rising from her seat. "If you will excuse me for a bit."

Irene's face fell. "Not another session in your room? You just returned and should be satisfied for several hours now."

A gamine grin lit the young face. "Oh no, Irene. I just felt the need for some water is all. See you at dinner."

It was not until much later that each woman realized that Irene had said and MEANT that she now believed that Sherla and Sherlock were one and the same person.
 

 
Actually, the two women were back together at tea time. "This is neither a French nor a commonly American tradition, Sherla," Irene had said as she accepted, finally, the cup of coffee Sherla offered her, "but as you are English, you should know how to properly hostess an afternoon tea. The English are second to none in their pursuit of and snobbery about this peculiar little institution."

"Oh, I have attended a Japanese Tea Ceremony, Irene," Sherla said with a smile, "And that is an occasion akin to a high service in a Christian Church. But then, this would not count since you have insisted on coffee instead of tea."

"Just another American vulgarity my good friend Penelope was unable to wean me away from. I find tea a rather tasteless and insipid brew, and since it is my house and so long as the proprieties of the ceremony are observed, who cares if I drink tea or coffee or hot toddies?"

Sherla nodded her understanding while reaching over to ring the small service bell that had arrived on the tea tray. Keeping track of the time mentally, she watched the door that permitted access into Irene's salon. A shadow fell across the small rug immediately outside the door and precisely two seconds later, a rather displeased Katrina appeared in the doorway. "Oui, Mademoiselle?" she asked, her tone just as aggravated as her frown.

"Some honey, please, Katrina. I should like some honey for these lovely scones you provided and for this very rich coffee."

The look of blank amazement followed by what had to be a very sharp, barely-swallowed back retort pleased Sherla. "Oui, Madame," she said with the air of someone who is bestowing a great favor on a very annoying child, and left in swirl of black silk skirt and white petticoat, her heels clacking loudly.

"That is the third time you've rung for her in the last ten minutes," Irene said, her tone making it a question.

Sherla managed a creditable imitation of Katrina's flirty shrug. "I have never hostessed a tea. . . or perhaps more correctly, a coffee, before. I will do better next time."

"Oh, will you?" Irene asked, amusement lighting her eyes.

"Of course," Sherla answered with complete and unconscious confidence. "There is no question. Now, I have a female question to ask you."

Irene's brows lifted suggestively. "A female question suitable to this oh-most-solemn of British ceremonies? I did not think that could be possible."

For a moment, Sherla did not understand Irene's reference. When she did, she blushed furiously, and shook her head vigorously. "No, no, nothing like that. More of a woman-to-woman type thing. Katrina informed me during the fitting with Madame La Modiste that having pins stuck into one's. . .ummm. . person is almost a rite of passage for a woman of society - so that they can brag about the horrors of it as a man might brag of battles fought or his first wo. .. ummm. . .his . ." Sherla stumbled.

"His first woman, Sherlock?" Irene finished for Sherla, and then let the silence hang just long enough to let the girl know she needed to be more careful. "In answer to your question, I suppose it might be if one has nothing better to brag about. One's first m. . .well, we won't go into that here, but now I am curious. . "

Irene was interrupted by the return of Katrina who stormed into the room, all but slammed a silver serving bowl filled with golden honey down and then stormed back out of the room without so much as a word.

"I would say you have disturbed her routine," Irene said with a grin. "Katrina has the lovely Gallic temper that makes French women justly famous in the world. Now, as I was saying, you have piqued my curiosity. When did Katrina make this . . .revelation about the Secret Society of the Pinned Posterior?"

Sherla reached for the honey server and dipped out a large spoonful. "Oh, after I complained about it to her during the fitting," she said airily as she stirred with her spoon.

"I see," Irene said in a tone that indicated to Sherla that she probably did. "Well, I did tell you that Katrina is a minx. She is forever teasing and playing her little tricks."

"So I have learned," Sherla said with a small, kittenish smile. "And can she take what she so blithely serves up to others?"

Irene chuckled. "She takes it from me," she said with utter confidence. "Other than that, I am not sure. Ummm, Sherla, why are you adding honey to the cream?"

"Honey to the cream?" Sherla repeated. "Oh my goodness! I was not paying proper attention. We shall need more cream!" And with that, reached over to sound the bell again.

Irene watched Sherla's face slip into a by-now familiar mask of total concentration. For an instant, she thought about intervening, but decided against it. If she was going to help Sherla, and she had all but decided that she would do so, Katrina and Sherla would need to reach a meeting of the minds between themselves for themselves.

Sherla's internal clock counted down the seconds. At the precise moment, she snatched up the cream pitcher and leapt to her feet. "Oh, Katrina is probably busy. I know where the cream is stored."

Sherla reached the doorway just as the expected shadow fell across the rug. Taking a careful last step, she contrived to "trip" on that rug just as Katrina's shapely form appeared in the door. Her free hand shot out, apparently trying to catch herself on Katrina's shoulder, while the hand holding the pitcher had another target.

Irene watched as Sherla's hand unerringly emptied the cold, sticky contents over the rounded expanse of cleavage shown off so perfectly by Katrina's d‚colletage. *She even managed to get most of it to flow underneath the blouse instead of onto the outside of the blouse,* Irene thought admiringly as she watched a "very distraught" Sherla attempt to "help" Katrina by patting the sticky mess further into the girl's uniform, all the while thanking Katrina profusely for "saving her". She soon had the satin and silk of Katrina's bodice thoroughly saturated and practically glued to the little maid's bosom.

"Katrina," Irene said authoritatively. "Go clean yourself up and change your uniform. Sherla, come back and finish your tea. It is getting cold and if you are going to be that clumsy, you shall go without cream for your coffee."

Katrina sent Sherla a fulminating look before acknowledging Irene's order and rushing off. Sherla came back to the table, attempting with all her acting ability to appear suitably penitent.

"Not bad, by the way," Irene said after Sherla had reseated herself, "for a first try."

Sherla knew the game was up, but decided to attempt to brazen it out, if only for the practice. "I beg your pardon?" She asked, as innocently as possible.

"Your little revenge on Katrina. Next time, don't alert bystanders by asking questions about how your victim might respond to a bit of her own medicine. Oh yes, and be more careful with your facial expressions just before you strike. You became quite "Sherlock-looking" right after you rang the bell. Counting the seconds, were you?"

Sherla sighed and then nodded. "I don't think she meant to hurt me with the pins," she said softly, "But I now feel such things so acutely. Actually, one of the sticks still bothers me a bit, particularly when I sit."

"And if she escalates the contest?" Irene asked. "She is not one to take such a thing lying down. She is very intelligent and will soon decide that it was intentional, particularly after those earlier repetitive bell calls. I suspect, my dear, that your next fitting or hair brushing might be a bit uncomfortable."

Sherla nodded, "But I am ready for that, Irene," she said with a serene smile. Irene gave a little movement of her hands indicating that Sherla should expound on that. "Well, I will simply ask her, in the hearing of the modiste or yourself perhaps, what she uses for that lovely complexion of hers, and mention that I have heard that a mixture of milk, or better yet, of cream and honey is said to be wonderful for the skin."

"Particularly about the bosom?" Irene asked, choking back a laugh.

"Well, only if it is you who is present and not the modiste."

"Now THAT is a well done plan. VERY devious and VERY feminine. Do try to have me present when you implement that stratagem, please. I should very much like to see if you are the second person who can make our Katrina blush."

"You being the first?" Sherla asked, not really needing an answer.
 
 
Chapter 8. Music Hath Charms
 
Her mind awhirl with questions yet unanswered, Sherla aimlessly roamed the country house. Earlier, after her highly successful tea party, she had thought to explore the little garden behind the house, but the day had been so dreary, she'd quickly retreated back to the house. That had given her yet another question to ponder for her reaction to the weather was so unlike her. . . or more correctly, so unlike Sherlock. *In the past, I have gloried in the gray and fog of cloudy London, but now, I yearn for light and sun. Who *am* I? WHAT am I?*

She needed to think, and she needed . . . *something*, but WHAT? Sherlock would have reached for his pipe, but that option was out of the question for Sherla. The night before, Irene had taken an after dinner cigarette and Sherla had nearly lost her dinner. Even smoke that another had already inhaled did her in, so tobacco in any form was no longer an option as an aid to clear thought.

A heavy wooden door in the back of the house caught her eye and she went to it. Testing it, Sherla found the room unlocked and opened the door. Even on such a gray, rainy day, the room made the most of the available natural light. *It must be wonderful on a sunny day,* she thought with a smile and then she saw the room's raison d'etre.

Happier than she'd been mere moments before, Sherla hurried off and found a large candelabra. Returning, her smile grew even larger as the rack of candles cast a lovely golden glow on a huge concert grande piano. Sherla moved to it and sensually ran the fingers of her free hand along the shining instrument. *Old,* she thought, enchanted with the silky feel of the wood, *but lovingly and beautifully maintained. An antique?* she asked herself before answering her own question. *Of course it is. She is an artiste, a soprano who once filled concert halls throughout Europe.*

Without another thought, Sherla sat down upon the cushioned bench and then stood back up. Arranging her dark burgundy skirts more carefully, she sat back down and raised the wooden cover that protected the keys. Composing herself, Sherla took a breath and sang a single note and then pressed a key. The tones matched perfectly. *Well, since Irene no doubt keeps this beautiful instrument well tuned, I still must possess perfect pitch.*

Smiling at that discovery, Sherla positioned her hands on the warm ivory keys and was suddenly glad she had insisted on snug cuffs on her dresses instead of the loose sleeves preferred by Irene. The gold-bright embroidery flashed in the sunlight as her hands began to glide across the keyboard. Remembering all too well her recent problems with the Stradivarius, Sherla began to finger the keys without actually depressing them. Slowly, the music filled her mind as lessons of long ago came back to her. Then, her fingers became used to the positioning of the keys relative to her smaller hands. *Of course, the last time I was forced to play such an instrument by my governess, when my hands were smaller still.*

At some point, the music filling her soul was matched in the physical world. The instrument had a lovely tone, full and rich, and it thrilled Sherla. With a deftness that surprised even her, Sherla slipped into the opening bars of Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata. From that, she played several favorite piano concerti, including one she, or rather Sherlock, had written though never published.

As it always had done in the past, the wonder of music soothed her soul while its power burned the tension and darkness from her mind.
 

 
Something at the barest edges of her senses alerted Irene, and for a moment, she couldn't determine what it was. Setting aside her book and spectacles, she closed her eyes and let her other senses range, trying to find whatever had called her from her reading. For a moment, there was nothing, and then, she sensed whatever it was again. She almost missed it. The barest hint of a sound, more a touch of vibration that whispered on the threshold of her hearing.

Her attention focused, Irene began to discriminate this disturbance more clearly and realized she was not hearing it so much as she was feeling it through the resonance of the sturdy cottage walls that seemed to be vibrating in sympathy. And whatever it was had a familiar rhythm - a heavy, four beat grouping - three shorts followed by a much longer fourth.

*My word, that's Beethoven's Fifth!*

Quietly, she rose from her desk and made her way to the back of the house. The strength of the vibrations grew as she drew closer to the heavy door. One of the first things Irene's husband had done after purchasing this house had been to set up a music room for his beloved wife. Immediately after that, he had ordered the room made as sound-proof as possible since the urge to sing or play could come up on Irene at the strangest hours of the day or night.

She cracked open the door and was greeted by the glorious sound of a concert grande piano being played at its full range and power. That such musical energy seemed to originate from the small woman seated at the piano's keyboard should not have been too surprising. After all, she was Holmes, and any other "surprise" had to pale in comparison to that revelation.

Irene closed the door and moved to sit upon a small stool she used when she was practicing her voice lessons. Sherla would have seen her there had the girl been playing with her eyes open. A frown of intense concentration suffused the girl's lovely face as she put hand, arm and even shoulder into the effort of bringing forth sound from the antique instrument.

As transfixed by the music as the girl playing it, Irene simply listened and observed without announcing her presence. *She is playing one of the most challenging pieces of music the world has ever known - from memory - and is doing it nearly note perfect. And she is loving it.*

The rendition ended suddenly, but before Irene could take a breath to speak, Sherla changed to a different song - a much lighter tune and one that Irene found oddly familiar. She was about to break into the girl's concentration when Sherla began to sing;

"Beautiful dreamer, wake unto me, Starlight and dewdrops are waiting for thee; Sounds of the rude world heard in the day, Lull'd by the moonlight have all pass'd away! Beautiful dreamer, queen of my song, List while I woo thee with soft melody; Gone are the cares of life's busy throng, Beautiful dreamer, awake unto me! Beautiful dreamer awake unto me!

Beautiful dreamer, out on the sea Mermaids are chaunting the wild lorelie; Over the streamlet vapors are borne, Waiting to fade at the bright coming morn. Beautiful dreamer, beam on my heart, E'en as the morn on the streamlet and sea; Then will all clouds of sorrow depart, Beautiful dreamer, awake unto me! Beautiful dreamer, awake unto me!"

Sherla stopped singing, but continued playing. She finally ended her impromptu concert with her own work, a soaring crescendo of sound that filled the small room and relieved the last of her distress. Spent, she held her fingers transfixed upon the key, her eyes closed as the final chords slowly died away.

Irene finally found her voice. "You can sing," she said quietly, "and play the piano."

A discordant sound blurted from the piano as Sherla jumped at that unexpected observation. "Irene?"

"I heard you playing. Not even my husband's efforts at isolating this room is up to the task of silencing Beethoven. Odd selection, my dear, Beethoven and Stephen Foster?"

Sherla gave an exaggerated little shrug. *How very like Katrina your mannerisms are becoming, my dear,* Irene thought, hiding a smile.

"I like his music if not all of his themes," Sherla replied, "That song is relaxing and I thought that it might help soothe me."

Then, Irene was on her feet, pulling Sherla into her arms. "That was LOVELY, my dear, just LOVELY!" she enthused. "I never knew Sherlock could play the piano."

"I can, but. . I mean, he could, but rarely did, preferring the violin. The Baker Street neighbors were sufficiently distressed about the violin, I do not think even Mrs. Hudson's good graces could have handled a piano. There were also. . . unpleasant memories," Sherla replied, her voice muffled by Irene's lovely and ample bosom.

"Well, you played divinely! You *must* use my music room whenever you feel the need. Perhaps we could do a duet, or you could accompany me during my singing exercises. I do still try to keep my voice in proper form, but without my husband, it has been difficult. Katrina, for all her other accomplishments, is not a musician."

Irene released the embrace and gave the girl a quizzical look. "So, Miss Sherla Holmes, somehow I feel this was more than just a relaxing afternoon's entertainment for you. What brought you here?"

Sherla sat back down at the piano resumed her light playing. "I had a great deal on my mind and needed to think. My hands kept distracting me," she said with just a hint of a sheepish smile.

"Your. . . .your hands?" Irene asked.

A soft bark of laughter greeted Irene's incredulous look. "I know, it sounds strange, but the fact is that when a problem was particularly on my mind, I, that is, Sherlock, used to smoke. Even measured the difficulty of a problem by the number of pipefuls of tobacco consumed while he. . I thought about its solution. And this," she said with a sigh and a staccato cord, "would be at least a five or six pipe problem."

"So you came down here to . . .to keep your hands busy so you could think?" Irene asked.

"Yes."

Irene reached over and took Sherla's dainty hand in her own. "Perhaps I might help you think? I do have a fairly good brain you know."

That earned another laugh from Sherla, but she made no move to retrieve the hand Irene still held. "You have a magnificent brain, Madam," Sherla retorted. "Why, had you not married your Godfrey, Sherlock had at one time given a good deal of consideration to making you an offer of marriage for the purpose of begetting children upon you before either of you became too old. He felt it a crime that our two brains might forever be lost to the world and thought that an admirable solution; the best of Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler carried on in our offspring."

"Hardly a romantic basis for a marriage, Sherla," Irene chided with a grin.

"No, it wasn't, but then, Sherlock ruthlessly exiled any such romantical notions from his life. Still, you fascinated him . . me a great deal. Watson always referred to you as "THE Woman." Claimed he got it from me. Likely he did. You are truly unique in my experience."

"Well," Irene said with a cough intended to clear surprise and other emotions from her throat, "You were unique in my experience before your arrival on my doorstep in skirts, Sherlock/Sherla. You are even more so, now. Here you are, telling me of your utter lack of romance, and you just finished singing, quite beautifully by the way, one of the most romantic ballads ever written in my country. Isn't that a contradiction in terms?"

"Exactly what I came down here to consider, Irene," Sherla said firmly as she kicked off her high heeled slippers, rose from the piano and began to pace. "I might have played that song in the past, but I would never have felt it before. Many things are different now - things that are intrinsic to *me*, Sherlock or Sherla Holmes - things that I had not expected to be different."

"Such as?" Irene prompted when Sherla became silent.

"That is almost as difficult to explain as telling you what is different now," Sherla replied. "Pleasures are the most significant change."

"Your need for sexual release?"

"No, that I almost understand, or at least, can attribute to the effects of Moriarty's potion. These issues have to do with things that would never have pleasured Holmes the man."

"Would never have pleasured, or would never have been *permitted* to pleasure him?" Irene asked carefully.

Sherla's restless pacing halted abruptly and she rounded on Irene. "Explain!" she snapped.

A sardonic smile crossed Irene's lips. This was more the Holmes of her memory - restless, impatient, demanding - she'd have to work on that for Sherla's sake.

But not tonight. "Obviously, my dear Holmes, did you not say how you exiled romantic notions? Surely, you did that with other, shall we say, distractions as well? Such as pleasures?"

The lovely features lost all expression for just an instant and then something akin to curiosity shown from the large dark eyes. Sherla reached out and pulled the piano bench over to where she could face Irene directly. She barely remembered to seat herself gracefully, but Irene understood and knew this was not the time for such a correction. "I take your meaning, but why now? I am regaining control of my, what is it that Freud-fellow called it? Oh yes. I am regaining control of my libido so why are these 'distractions' as you called them bothering me now?"

"I can think of many reasons, dear, not all of which may be to your liking. One possible reason is that you are, as you yourself pointed out to me, simply more sensitive and sensual now than you were as Sherlock. You *feel* more strongly now and therefore what you feel is more difficult to ignore than it was during your earlier life. Given the other issues you've had on your mind, it would seem not unreasonable that you could not maintain the relatively narrow mind set necessary to ignore such things. By the way," Irene asked, trying to divert Sherla, "What types of pleasures are we discussing?"

A dismissive hand waved about. "A great many of them, I fear," Sherla sighed. "From the way food tastes," she began hesitantly.

"That may just be the difference between French cuisine and English boiling everything limp and tasteless," Irene inserted with some disgust.

"Just so," Sherla laughed, "but it includes having Katrina brush out my hair, now that she's gotten all the tangles out of it, or the feeling of silk on my bare skin, or the perfume of your roses in the garden or the warmth of a bath with your special scented oils in the water. That combination of heat and scent is particularly tempting and unforgettable."

"Certainly Sherlock appreciated such things," Irene insisted, "At least some of them, in any case."

"Oh, I, that is, *he* would have noticed them. Untidy hair would have worried possible clients. As for silk? It was merely cloth, and if it was clean and presentable, why care? Roses? Sherlock would sooner have noted problems with the bloom's color or with shape of its petals, or perhaps would have pointed out what insects were infesting it, but remark upon or allow himself to enjoy the flower's perfume? And we will not even discuss the bath."

"But you, that is, Sherlock enjoyed music," Irene countered.

"No one, not even Sherlock Holmes, can achieve perfect rational isolation, and music was the chink in my armor."

"Thank heaven for that!" Irene swore.

"True enough," Sherla said with a small smile, "For I begin to realize just how desolate my life would have been without the music as a balm-to-the-soul. But pray tell, Irene, you said that you had reasons that I might not care for?"

"Well, dear, you are a woman now and you were a man then. Could these not simply be a manifestation of that change? Women enjoy such things. You are a woman. Why should you not enjoy the things that women enjoy?"

Silence followed that question for a very long time. Irene waited, allowing the girl to deal with that immense concept. Finally, she stirred. "I think, Irene, that is what I fear most - that I will enjoy them and lose contact with something that was a critical aspect of me. I am truly afraid that in becoming a woman, something intrinsic to me, something important will be lost because I am no longer a man."

Irene saw Sherla's eyes grow bright and shiny, and knew she was barely containing tears, and because she knew this was Holmes, she resisted the urge to go and comfort her. "You are afraid your brain will be diminished." It was a statement, not a question.

"God, yes," Sherla said, her eyes haunted and tear-filled. "I can deal with almost anything but that."

"Then you are behaving like a fool!" Irene said sternly.

Sherla's head came up, her eyes suddenly blazing with fury. "I *BEG* your pardon?" she said hoarsely.

"As well you should, girl. Your mind is in perfect order. Look at what you've had to deal with and how far you've come. You managed to come to me, didn't you? Was that not a most excellent plan? And this afternoon, did you have any trouble deducing the meaning and implications of my little records? Or planning your little retaliation against Katrina? The answer to both questions is no, you did not. All right, you are dealing with more distractions than you are used to, but do you mean to claim that the great brain of Mr. Sherlock Holmes was somehow unreachably superior to mine? I have dealt with the joys, the pleasures, travails and the distractions of the feminine condition for more than five decades and you have just told me what you think of MY brain."

"But. . "

"But NOTHING, girl! You are brilliant. By all that's holy, you've just played a piano arrangement of Beethoven's Fifth Symphony from memory! Think about what you can do and have done before you worry about what you may not do or do as well. You will be a formidable woman, Sherla Joan Holmes, as formidable as I am myself. Perhaps more so for you truly possess a depth of understanding concerning the actions and mind of the male of the species that is far deeper than I could ever hope to attain. The world will try, in all its male-ego-dominated stupidity to place limits upon you and upon what you can achieve in your new life as a woman merely because you ARE a woman! Don't you DARE accept their foolish boundaries, and for heaven's sake, DON'T impose such limitations on yourself! You are a WOMAN, not an imbecile."

Now the tears began to flow down Sherla's cheeks, "You mean that, don't you?" She asked, her voice quavering, and when Irene nodded firmly, hugged her arms about herself tightly. "I was so desperately worried that I would not have a second chance, that I would be in some way inadequate to the task of Moriarty. But, God above, Irene, LOOK at me! I am crying, for goodness sake. How in the name of heaven can I hope to best Moriarty if I cannot control my own tears? My emotions?"

"By using those very emotions, of course, my dear Sherla," Irene responded in a matter-of-fact, no nonsense tone. "Women have been using tears in lieu of fists since before recorded time, and with great effectiveness. You are no longer Sherlock, and in the transition you have lost some physical abilities you once had. But you have also lost what I considered to be a very limiting narrowness of outlook in key areas of the human condition. Sherla, your mind is not diminished, and you will continue to find new abilities that will be no less effective than those you think you have lost if you will but look! I believe that in your journal, you referred to them as 'a woman's tools' and 'a woman's weapons'."

Irene stood, and again pulled the girl into her arms. Slowly, Sherla unwound her arms from about her own body and put them around Irene. "How can you not best him, Sherla? For all his knowledge and his cunning, he is but a mere man. You will become a singularly superior woman who has once BEEN a man. You have all the knowledge of the male and all the powers of a woman. He will have no chance against you. Once you learn to think more like a woman, that is."

Pulling back from the embrace so that she could smile up at the taller woman, Sherla asked "So that is an advantage you are going to teach me? The ability to think like a woman?"

"You are already learning that, my dear, all by yourself. However, Katrina and I will both help you with that journey,, right after I teach you a way to think that does not involve shaking my house so violently that I feel it all the way to my library." Irene replied.

"I know you smoke, Irene, but I cannot anymore. Just a whiff of tobacco smoke makes me almost violently ill."

"And so you shan't smoke, for that reason as much as it is not something well-born ladies of Society are permitted to do. No, I had something else in mind to fill those idle hands of yours, my dear," Irene said with a devilish smile as she took Sherla's arm into her own. "Now, come and let Katrina help you dress for dinner."

"And what, pray tell is it that you have in mind for me, Irene?" Sherla asked as she started to follow Irene's lead toward the music room door.

"Embroidery." Irene said simply. "Perhaps you will enjoy it as much as music, and it is much quieter and far easier to carry than my piano."

"EMBROIDERY??!?"
 

 
 
 
Entry in the Journal of Miss Sherla Joan Holmes

Date: February 22, 1911

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

Time: 10:45 P.M.

My Dear Doctor Watson: Oh, God, John, I am NOT going to die - at least not from the effects of Moriarty's potion. I really am going to LIVE! Moriarty has NOT destroyed me. Thanks be to God in heaven, I am going to live. I am so relieved, John, and not, I am surprised to admit, simply because it means I will have another opportunity to free the world of Moriarty's machinations. In truth, old friend, I find that I no longer wish to die. That amazes me as well. I am female now - subject to the vile whimsy of the lunar calendar and to the needs and demands of a physical and emotional make up that is completely alien to my former life and beliefs - and yet, I do not wish to die. The man who attempted to take his own life, a bare four weeks ago, would have found this new existence and its many distractions unendurable, and but for the threat posed by Moriarty, would likely have ended this life before it could even begin. I would say, old friend, that this is one of those exceptions that prove the rule. For had it not been for the colossal conceit and arrogance of Mr. Sherlock Holmes, along with his unswerving belief that only HE could find and stop Moriarty, I would not have lived long enough to reach this wondrous conclusion that I wish to LIVE. Thus, in my case and in this instance, pride did not goeth before the fall. I find, John, that despite all that has happened, or because of it, I have come to recognize the reason for living is . . . to have a reason for living; to have a purpose and a goal in life. With no cases before him, and no challenges worthy of what he considered his mind to be, Sherlock faced unending pointlessness. Now, I have both a short-term goal, to defeat Moriarty, and the more challenging longer-term goal of building a life that fulfills these marvelous senses that my new body possesses, that stimulates my still-voracious intellect, and that reclaims the reputation that had once belonged to Sherlock. All this I can accomplish, John, with Irene's help of course, but there is a new lifetime of opportunity before me, and I cherish this gift from Moriarty that was intended to be such a curse. It will definitely be a challenge, though it would seem that the incomparable Irene was correct: the fits of extreme sexual hunger are definitely becoming less frequent. Only two such events since the midday meal. Now I am ready for bed, and feeling just a little. . . . well, lusty. That feeling is nothing like the intensity of three nights ago, but I suspect I shall need some relief before I will be able to sleep. I have no comparable experiences in my previous life to judge this by, John. Even as a boy, I was more likely to have a nocturnal emission than deal personally with such exigencies in the light of day. Of course, that woman my father hired had a great deal to do with that given her harsh opinions on the subject of masculinity and even harsher punishments. I still recall the time she caned me on a no-longer-existent portion of my anatomy for 'playing with your nasty person.' I rather think that my childhood and adolescent experiences under the harsh rule of that cursed female is, in large part, what put me off the feminine sex during my adult life. Irene's tolerant and accepting reaction to my burgeoning sexual need, on the other hand, has a great deal to do with why I am still somewhat sane right now. While the fits have died away, the almost overwhelming acuity of my senses has not. Silk across my skin, a breath of breeze across my bosom, hot bubbly water on my body are all very intense and pleasant experiences. I discovered this morning, for example, that I love having my hair brushed. Most amazing. I almost shiver in delight just thinking and writing about those feelings. On the other hand, John, for all I relish these new feelings, I am still worried. What are the implications of this broader range of sensual inputs in regards to my observational and deductive skills? When all I was required to deal with was hard fact and thorough observation, I was a potent force in the world of me. I was an opponent to concern even someone such as Professor Moriarty. These new heightened sensations are very distracting at times, very pleasantly so, but distracting none the less This concerns the part of me that is still, and mayhap will always be Sherlock. Will I be still be an opponent worthy of Moriarty without that singleness of purpose, that clarity of vision? I do not know. I only know I must try. On another issue, I still seem to be growing somewhat smaller, although not nearly as much nor quickly as earlier. Irene suspects that there is some residual amount of the potion inside my body, still working its evil deed. My height is down to 154 centimeters (60 and five eighths inches) while my weight is down to 47.5 kilograms (104.5 lbs). Much slower rate on both, I think - about half a pound a day and a quarter inch a day in height. Of course, Irene's insistence on tight stays has had a rather negative effect upon my appetite so I may be losing weight naturally as well as due to any residual effects of the drug. My waist is down half a centimeter from the day before yesterday, again with Katrina pulling the tape very tight. She gleefully informed me that I should be able to lace myself down to a "magnifique forty centimeters" which I calculate to be something less than 16 inches. My god, John, I think I must have been born with a larger waist than that! When I was Sherlock, I could span sixteen inches with my hands, for goodness sake. The girl is a fiend. I am wondering if she is Moriarty's niece or some other such relation. Sixteen inches? I believe, old friend, that I am going to use metric measures from now on. In regards to a corset, forty sounds much less daunting than sixteen, even when I know rationally that they are the same size. I have rediscovered music in Irene's practice room, and it was wonderful! Leaving the Stradivarius behind was one of the most singly difficult aspects of this quest, John. I felt then, and do feel still, that it is too valuable an instrument to drag about Europe as I pursue Moriarty. More importantly, the mere possibility of it falling into his foul hands should I be unequal to the task of stopping him is too horrible to consider. The thought of that wonderful instrument in his possession would be a desecration of the divine gift of music. At least, Irene's grand piano is unlikely to suffer such a fate. Tomorrow, I think I will ask Irene whether she truly meant it when she referred to me as having been the male Sherlock. It slipped out during a heated discussion about my lack of a genteel and ladylike tongue so we were otherwise distracted from that revelation. Tomorrow, when we are both less excited, I think, I shall raise the issue at breakfast. After that, she plans on a short outing to the shops for fittings and for accessories. It seems that my good sturdy English attire, designed with London chill and fog in mind, will badly shame her as my sponsor in sunny Paris.

End Journal Entry.
 

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To Be Continued...