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 9. Stitching Together an Alliance
 
"OUCH!" Sherla exclaimed as she brought her pricked and bleeding finger to her mouth. "THIS is supposed to help me think?"

Irene looked up from her own sampler with a grin. "Well, it is certainly quieter than my piano."

"I apologize for using it without permission," Sherla started only to be hushed by a wave of Irene's needle-bearing hand.

"Nonsense. I am teasing. Use it as you will, provided you don't mind an audience. I just thought this might be easier to carry around with you, as I suspect, my girl, that you will be as much of the reflective turn of mind as your male personage was."

"At this moment, all I am thinking of is that I have managed to blood four of five fingers on one hand," Sherla retorted darkly.

"Well, in that you are limited by your teacher, I am afraid. If only my dear Nell were not abroad with her husband you would likely pick this up more quickly with a good deal less pain. Here, let me see your sampler," Irene ordered. Dutifully, Sherla handed the small scrap of fabric to Irene who looked at it closely before nodding. "Well, I will say one thing for your detail oriented perspective, Sherla, you are precise and accurate with your stitches. Mine are not nearly so fine as yours, but then, I am not so focused a personality as Sherlock Holmes." Irene saw no point in mentioning the tiny spots of drying blood that marred the formerly pristine white fabric. Sherla had certainly already noticed and would endeavor to improve the next time. That was a facet of her personality, too.

Sherla sighed at set aside her needle and thread. "Neither am I, it would appear."

"Another of those differences, my dear?" Irene asked gently.

"Apparently. Just this morning, I realized I have never asked you for your assistance in this matter - not formally, in any case - nor have I done much to pursue my own objectives vis a vis Professor Moriarty. That is unusual to the point of being unique for me."

"For Sherlock, perhaps, but Sherla has had a great deal on her plate that had to be dealt with before you could return your attention to our villainous professor. I, on the other hand, have been making some discreet inquiries and must admit to being rather. . .intrigued."

Sherla's eyes went hard as she looked at Irene. "What TYPE of inquiries and of WHOM?"

"About your professor and of some old, very knowledgeable acquaintances. Why are you suddenly so upset?"

"Because Moriarty kills first and asks questions afterwards. If he receives word that someone is making inquiries about him, his likely response would be to remove the questioner and anyone the questioner consulted. Do you have a safe place we can remove ourselves to in order to hide?"

Irene stared at Sherla for a moment and smiled. "Under most circumstances, Sherla, it is very difficult to recall who you were in your previous life. Sometimes, however, such as this moment, it is all but impossible to think of you as anyone other than the very indomitable Mr. Holmes. Relax, dear, please. The people I have communicated with talk only with me about such matters. I have long trusted them with my life, and more importantly, with the life of my husband. We are safe enough here."

That seemed to mollify Sherla, at least somewhat. She relaxed her stern visage into something approximating polite feminine interest and asked, "What did you learn?"

"Not a very great deal, I am afraid. The most consistent response is that he is dead, having met his end almost two decades ago somewhere in the Alps - Austria, was the consensus."

"It was Switzerland," Sherla corrected tersely, "At a place called Reichenbach Falls. You recall the period of time when I, or rather when Sherlock disappeared and was presumed dead?" Irene nodded. "Moriarty and I confronted each other there. I had just arranged the destruction of his gang and he trailed Watson and myself to a small city near those falls. We fought and he went over the cliff and into the basin far below the falls. I very nearly joined him in that fate. God only knows how he survived that plunge for I cannot see how it was possible. Unfortunately, that was not the end of the threat posed by the professor for he had several very dangerous henchmen who would have surely attempted to avenge his death.

"So you elected to "die" as well." Irene stated.

Sherla nodded quietly. "I deemed it the most prudent course of action until I was in a position to neutralize them. If I had not, Watson and I would have been in extreme danger, and quite likely would have perished. I did not want to deceive Watson in that fashion, but the man had no acting abilities whatsoever. He was as honest as they come." Sherla sighed. "I have missed that frank, supportive honesty more than I ever thought possible. Especially now."

"Such friends are beyond price to such as you and I. I feel quite the same about my own dear Nell. What finally brought you back? Since you went into hiding to protect Dr. Watson, that implies that a danger to him must have brought you back."

Sherla started at Irene's words, and marveled again at the woman's perception. "Watson managed to run afoul of Moriarty's most nefarious underling, Colonel Moran, whom I had always considered to be the second most dangerous man in London. By then, I was ready and was able to arrange Moran's capture. Deprived of Moriarty's genius and Moran's ruthlessness, the remainder of the professor's criminal empire collapsed soon thereafter."

"I see. That fits the information I developed. Beyond that, all I learned was that if there was any type of organized criminal activity going on in Europe while your professor was alive, he was either behind it or profiting from it. It seems he had a particular passion for white slavery - kidnapping young women and selling them to brothels or to certain foreign interests."

"Some parts of the world still have the means and the will to keep women in sexual bondage and whether they do so with bars of steel or curtains of silk, it is still bondage. Men, and some women, were willing to pay a great deal of money for lovely young girl slaves. Moriarty liked money because he could use it to buy power."

"The world is a difficult enough place for a woman, as you will surely find, my dear, without that type of loathsome vermin preying upon our gender. For that reason alone, I would be willing to assist you in this case, even if you had not brought so tempting a bonus with you."

"Bonus?" Sherla asked, just a tad uneasy seeing the grin playing about Irene's generous mouth.

"Well, of course, darling. You are only twenty one years old, at least by your legal passport. Women do not reach their majority until twenty five. Just think, I have the privilege and pleasure of being guardian to the great Sherlock Holmes.

At Sherla's look of abject horror, Irene burst out laughing. "Oh don't look like that. I won't get in your way unless you are about to commit a faux pas that will seriously endanger your identity or your mission. Think of me as. . .a necessary part of your disguise."

If Irene expected Sherla to demur or to take part in her jest, she was to be disappointed. "Irene, I mean to kill the man once and for all. Nothing else will answer for me. If he manages to perfect his potion and the world has to face another fifty or sixty years of Moriarty . . .well, the consequences will be horrific. He must be stopped - completely and forever."

Irene considered her charge for several long moments. Sherla sat calmly under the cool, direct gaze and did not so much as flinch. "Are you certain," she finally asked, "that this is for the good of the world and not merely for the revenge of Mr. Sherlock Holmes?"

The question hung on the air, going unanswered as both women contemplated its ramifications. "I cannot answer that," Sherla finally said. "Certainly, the world cannot, in its current volatile state, long survive Moriarty's machinations, but I will not attempt to lie to you and tell you I do not want him for myself. I have ALWAYS wanted him for myself, but now, more so than ever."

"Is being Sherla so very unsatisfactory?" Irene asked softly.

"Did you not just say that world is a very difficult place for a woman?" Sherla retorted before softening. "I don't know, Irene. When it first happened? It was horrible, and I feared for my most basic self. Now? As I said, I don't seem to be able to focus as well, but there are other compensations, such as arthritis-free joints, and youth."

"I see. I hope it becomes better for you, Sherla, as I have decided, despite all the times I railed against the unfairness of the world toward my. .. *our* gender, I would not be a man for anything."

"I hope to one day agree with you, Irene."

Irene brushed her hands as if clearing away the dust of their conversation. "So, if I am to assist you, what should we do first?"

"Thank you," Sherla breathed, "I wasn't sure you would help. Step one is to find him. We cannot stop him unless we know where he is."

"Europe is a large place. Any idea where to look?"

"Not really," Sherla admitted. "He was very careful not to give away any clues when he confronted me in my rooms."

"In your journal, you mentioned something about perfecting the potion," Irene prompted.

"Yes," Sherla agreed, forgetting herself and sprawling her legs out in front of her only to be silently reprimanded by Irene. With some alacrity, she pulled her legs back to her chair and sat erect as she considered the problem. "Moriarty is old - older perhaps than I. .. Holmes was, although," and here she recalled the humiliation of her fruitless attack, "although he was physically stronger and in better health. He would want those added years to carry out his foul plots. He has ever dreamed of world conquest and if through this potion he gains sufficient time, he already possesses the will, the genius and the utter ruthlessness to achieve that unworthy goal."

"Odd that he hadn't already perfected the drug," Irene observed. "If he is so brilliant, that is."

"Oh, he is brilliant, but the only things greater than his intelligence are his ego and his arrogance. He believes himself to be even more brilliant than he is."

Irene nodded, and wished for one of her Turkish cigarettes, but resisted because of Sherla's evident allergy. "That is very odd."

"How so?

"What would bring a man like that out of hiding before he'd finished his work? Surely he had all the advantages where he was. Safety, secrecy, a ready supply of the herbs he needed - why give all that up? If he truly believes that he is capable, why reveal himself before he has completed his task?"

"An excellent question," Sherla mused softly. "And specifically, why reveal himself to me? Why not wait until he had completed his researches and was therefore able to face me as a young man?"

"I can think of one possible reason," Irene offered. "For all his masculine arrogance, he is, by all accounts, nonetheless a scientist of great ability. I suspect that he has come up against a dead end and is looking for someone who might help him find other answers. If he is, as you say, convinced of his own brilliance, he is likely telling himself that this is a mere expedience and not a necessity, but that is the only reason I can see for him to come out of hiding and confront you."

"He is seeking other expert help? That seems logical. And yet, he came for me first. Again, I ask, why?"

"Because you . . .or rather, Mr. Sherlock Holmes was the only man of any influence who might recognize him or recognize signs of his renewed activities. None of today's police officials are likely to know anything about him."

Sherla gave a self-deprecating laugh. "More fool he, then," she sighed. "I had been well and truly put out to pasture. Do you know that Holmes had been barred from Whitehall as a public nuisance?" At Irene's shocked look, Sherla continued. "Probably because it did not suit them to let it be known. They might have truly needed me one day with this war looming, so they did not see fit to humiliate me publicly. But if you did not know, that explains why Moriarty likely did not know, either."

"True enough. What type of help would he seek and where would he seek it?"

"Well, if it were me, I would look for scientists on the forefront of current researches into the body human."

"Scientists," Irene said thoughtfully, "Who are at the forefront of their fields." Suddenly she practically levitated from her seat and was burrowing through a pile of papers on her desk, muttering to herself as Sherla watched on in amazement. "Let's see . . Society of Theater Patrons . . . Society for the Preservation of Parks Along the Seine . . . Society for Women's Suffrage - Ha! Like that has any chance in this paternalistic country! Ah, here it is, La Societie Scientifique. I get these invitations all the time, but this one may prove useful." she said offering an embossed invitation to Sherla, "Certainly, it ought to be a fair place to start our search."

Sherla took the card and read it.

Docteur et Madame de Maupessant request the pleasure of Madame Irene Adler Norton at their home for a Reception and Ball for La Societie Scientifique

 
At the bottom of the card, written in a fine, lady's hand, was a personal request to Irene from the lady of the house, asking if she might consent to sing a few short selections as she and her husband were so very fond of opera.

"This is for day after tomorrow," Sherla noted.

"I had not intended to go, as my husband is still abroad, but now I will RSVP my pleased intent to attend and my very great desire to perform for their guests. That will ensure us an invitation and an opportunity to meet the type of individual we will need."

"But those attending can not include the one that Moriarty was after. If he was to have been there, Moriarty would have taken him by now."

"True, Sherla, true, but each of those attending will know of others in his field, specifically someone who has mysteriously disappeared recently. Failing that, someone there might be at least able to help us develop a list of materials your Professor might require in this endeavor. Hopefully, something on that list will be sufficiently rare in some way that we can use that as our first clue."

Sherla smiled at that. "A very sound strategy, Madame," she said with exaggerated deference.

"So good of you to say so, my dear. Please remember that during the next forty eight hours when all our tempers become frayed."

"I am afraid I do not understand, Irene," Sherla said, her confusion clear upon her lovely face.

"Obviously. Sherla, this means you will be presented to Society in two days. We shall need a new dress for you, a special one as a debutante in anything less than a designer original will draw entirely too much attention. Let's see, what else? Dance lessons. . ."

"I am perfectly able to dance!" Sherla said indignantly, "I was trained as a youth!"

"Dancing the female role? In a heavy skirt billowed by petticoats and wearing heels? Moving backwards most of the time and letting your partner lead?" Irene asked challengingly. At Sherla's wide eyed denial, Irene nodded firmly. "I thought not. Oh, and we will need some basic lessons in flirting. Katrina will need to help you with that, as I will be busy. As to the concert, it would be best if you could accompany me since that would put both of us in the presence of our quarry and will give me an excuse to include you in the invitation to call upon him that I intend to wangle from him."

"Flirting?" Sherla asked, having missed the rest of Irene's planning.

"Flirting, my dear. It is what debutantes do, and if you did not do it well . . "

"It would draw too much attention," Sherla completed darkly.

"Just so," Irene enthused as she strode to a bell rope and gave it a lusty pull. "Come, my dear. Once we have Katrina apprized of our plans, we shall go to the music room and decide upon our selections. It is, unfortunately, too late to go to the dressmakers, but we can start with the music, dancing and flirting. That should see us through the evening and tomorrow morning until the Modiste opens."

Just then, Katrina hurried into the room. "Ah, Katrina, come with us to the music room. As an old acquaintance used to say, the game is afoot!"
 

 
 
Entry in the Journal of Miss Sherla Joan Holmes

Date: February 23, 1911

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

Time: 11:53 P.M.

My Dear Doctor Watson: I am exhausted. First, it was the embroidery lessons Irene has insisted upon. Needlework. My god, John, what is happening to me? Actually, I have a better feeling about that question than I did last night. Irene had a great deal to say to me yesterday in the music room that made sense. I don't know if she is correct or not, John, but I want her to be correct - especially now that she has agreed to help me in my coming battle against Moriarty. She is, as you always said, a truly exemplary woman. If I must be a woman, then I wish to be a woman of her stamp, mettle and abilities. I wish you could have seen her today, John. She drew me out as skillfully as I had ever done to any of my past informants, and then, when she saw a strategy that had a chance for success, she acted on it with great determination and enthusiasm. That is the other reason my fingers are in pain - four hours of rehearsal for her performance in two nights. I have cramps in my little fingers, John. Still, I stand by my earlier conviction that she could eventually defeat Moriarty. I would like to think that, with her help and guidance, I, too, can become a woman who is capable of bringing about his final demise. I hope so, John, for I could not wish for a better role model. I shall apply myself to that goal most assiduously, and if that means embroidery, dress-fittings, flirting and dancing, then so be it. Beyond that, I have several very positive reports to make this evening. First, I have only needed to cool my libido once in the past 18 hours - just before Katrina all but pulled me from my bed this morning. Better still, I do not feel any signs of that unquenchable urge at this point. I do, however, get this interesting little fillip of heat whenever that pretty little maid of Irene saunters by me. Not the same intensity, but of a similar nature in feeling. She seems to be around me quite a bit, too, so I have had ample opportunity to study the phenomena. It is not at all unpleasant. More importantly, my measurements seem to have steadied out at last. John - my clothes FIT for the THIRD consecutive day! I cannot begin to tell you how pleasant it is to not trip over my hem or how wonderful it is look at myself in the mirror and see a woman wearing a lovely gown and not a shapeless sack that drags upon the ground about my feet. Oh, I can still give you the precise numbers since I am certain that you would expect them, but they don't seem to matter as much to me anymore. My height is down less than half a centimeter since yesterday and my weight a bare two hundred grams (which I continue to believe may be attributed more to this infernal corset which that minx Katrina insists on tightening more each day! I may have to contrive yet another suitable, retaliatory strategy for that lass.) In any case, I believe that Moriarty's potion is finally cleansed from my system. Thank goodness! It at least means that this new gown I am to be fitted for tomorrow will have some probability of still fitting when the time comes to wear it to the ball.

End Journal Entry.
 
 
Chapter 10. A Day in the Life of a Would-be French Debutante
 
Feeling oddly bemused, Irene Adler sat regally in the comfortable (which meant that it had been designed for seating corseted women) chair provided for her by the Modiste. She reflected that she had been in this shop many times and had never experienced this peculiar feeling. She had even sat here, much as she was now, watching her beloved Nell being fitted for her wedding gown, and not felt as she did at this moment. Of course, Penelope had been her dear friend, confidante and willing, if somewhat prudish, co-conspirator - almost a sister in fact.

*Oh my goodness! Am I feeling maternal?!?!*

That was a very discomfiting thought, particularly since it meant Irene Adler was feeling maternal towards the young woman currently standing quietly as Madame la Modiste and her assistants pinned yards of creamy white silk to her body. *How can I feel motherly towards a person I have all but convinced myself is . . or was Mr. Sherlock Holmes?* she asked herself. *Heavens above, but he is years older than I!* she told herself sternly before looking up at the dark-eyed, dark haired *young* beauty who was, at that moment, trying ever so hard NOT to look enchanted with the process.

*Still,* she reminded herself, *that girl may have HIS experience as a man, but SHE is a babe in the woods as a woman. How very strange, but we have been building towards this since the 1880's, starting when I was but two and twenty. Sherla looks years younger than that age right now, particularly when she forgets to cloak herself in those tattered vestiges of male dignity.*

The modiste asked Sherla to twirl so that she could assess how the layered white skirts of silk would float above the dance floor. Irene smiled when the girl had to be asked to repeat the dance step since her first attempt did not in any way resemble the speed such a maneuver would achieve in the arms of a gentleman. When she tried this time, Sherla's skirts billowed to give a flirtatiously tantalizing, fleetingly brief glimpse of shapely, white-stockinged ankle. *Too much, perhaps? Certainly not if she'd been a girl all her life for that is precisely what the fashion calls for these days, but the mind inside that body still carries male beliefs from an earlier time.*

The Modiste glanced at Irene, expecting a look of approval or disapproval. She sighed, and then nodded. *If Sherlock makes a reappearance to complain over this tonight, I will simply tell him it is a required aspect of his disguise. That should shut him up long enough for Sherla to reassert herself.*

That line of thought brought Irene up short for a moment. She was about to consider it more fully when a disagreement broke out between her "ward" and the dressmaker. "But Mademoiselle, this is a gown pour la debutante. It must be white to show your innocence and youth, with only the smallest touches of color, and those no more than pastel highlights."

Sherla had that look Irene was coming to recognize as presaging a "Sherla isn't going to surrender one inch" encounter. "Oui, Madame, I understand it must be white, but I do not like how I look in those insipid pastels. They make me look like a child. I wish the accents to be bright, and I wish primary colors - in bright satins if you have something suitable."

The Modiste turned exasperated eyes to Irene. "Madame, the petite Mademoiselle does not understand these things. Please explain them to her," she beseeched, fully expecting Irene to tell the girl to behave so that the dress could proceed.

Irene wondered at what the girl was about. She'd not taken much interest in her dress to date, simply allowed Katrina or Irene to tell her what to where. "Show me what you propose, Madame. Put the highlight colors against my niece and explain."

Surprised, the Modiste complied, laying two swatches of cloth across Sherla's neckline. They were a robin's egg blue and the most insipid pink Irene had ever seen. Against Sherla's vibrantly colored hair and her lovely complexion (although her color was a bit high from her temper with the dressmaker), both selections DID make the girl look childish. "I think a primary colored satin about the neckline and the flounce hems, Madame," Irene directed, with complimentary embroidery highlighting the rest of the gown."

"But, Madame," the Modiste begged, not believing that Irene would side with this . . . this infant against HER superior knowledge, "this would be so very out of fashion."

"My niece is a woman of her own mind, and besides," she added with a challenging smile, "Do you not set fashion in Paris and therefore in the world? I expect you to please my niece and myself AND then assure that what pleases us becomes all that is fashionable. Oui?"

Sighing gravely, Madame shrugged her slender shoulders in defeat. "Oui, Madame. I will do what can be done."

*Which will be far better than you expect because Sherla is so beautiful, you stupid female,* Irene thought as she nodded her assent. "Oh, and see about putting some of the highlighting color beneath the layering of the skirts as well. It will tease the eye as she dances the night away." Then Irene looked up at Sherla and was again surprised. *She shows no signs of gloating at her victory over the other woman, only quiet pleasure at the thought of how the dress will look on her. I wonder if she realizes how completely, girlishly feminine she looks just now? A far cry from the very irate man who began writing that journal of hers several weeks back.*

"That's IT!" Irene crowed aloud causing everyone in the fitting room to spin about to stare at her.

"Are you all right, Tante Irene?" Sherla asked, remembering to use the familial title they had agreed upon as part of their planning.

"Quite all right, dear," Irene said, a happy smile on her face. "I just solved a little problem that had been bothering me for a while, that is all. Do continue as you were, Madame. Sherla and I have much more to accomplish today."

Irene reached for the glass of mineral water she'd been provided and took a sip. *That is the key I was looking for the night I first read his. . .her journal. There is a . . . a transition recorded in that diary. An old, tired man who was ready. . even willing to die has, over the course of his trials, slowly been growing into a young woman, and it is far, far more than merely physically. I could see Sherlock Holmes arguing with a dressmaker about the color scheme of a dress if it had something to do with a case, as this one does, at least peripherally. However, he would have looked grimly satisfied at the end of the exchange, not happily pleased. Whether she wants to or not, and whether she will admit it or not, Sherla is enjoying this outing, in spite of herself. Or perhaps more correctly, in spite of *him*self.*

And then, another thought struck Irene. *And that is, in all probability, the explanation for her fits and starts. Physically, she is precisely what she appears - a lovely young girl on the edge of womanhood. She is learning to enjoy that and her newfound youth helps a great deal in that arena. Perhaps she justifies her reaction by thinking that being a young, healthy girl is better than being an old, sick man. Only whenever she remembers she is. . . or rather *used* to be Sherlock, she freezes and closes up. Attacks my poor piano with thundering renditions of Beethoven.*

*As far as I can tell, she is becoming more feminine by the day. Initially, my inclination was to encourage that development, to put her in situations that would enhance that femininity. Especially, I am forced to admit, once I concluded that she really was Holmes. I found it delightfully amusing to think of the oh-so-very Victorian misogynist, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, dealing with and struggling through the conventions and barriers our so- called enlightened society imposes upon intelligent human beings who happen to be female.*

Irene looked up to see Sherla examining herself in the Modiste's mirrors, her concentration focused on what the dressmaker was pointing out, and shook her head. *Now, I wonder if that is the best course of action - for she is determined to face this Moriarty, who is, insofar as all my inquiries can tell me, a hideous, vile and dangerous man. Which facet of this marvelously complex creature should be dominant when it comes time to face that monster? Sherla? Or would she be better off as Sherlock in Sherla's form?* Irene cast another look at Sherla and sighed quietly. *By all appearances, there may not be any real choice. So, if she is becoming more Sherla by the day, what do I do? I must admit that I *do* feel maternal toward this very original young woman with the brain of an old man. If I must send her into battle, and I accept that I must, how do I best help her prepare herself for the coming conflict?*

"Tante Irene!" Sherla's happy call interrupted Irene's musings and she looked up to see Sherla pirouetting in front of her. "Won't it be lovely? The only thing that would make it better is to make it less white, but I understand that we cannot."

*Is this response coming from Sherlock, pretending to be Sherla for the benefit of Madame la Modiste, or is this truly Sherla forgetting to be Sherlock?* "Indeed we cannot, Miss," Irene responded, forcing a smile. "Now, run along with Madame's maid and get changed. We truly do have a great deal more to do today, starting with the shoemaker and the milliner." she ordered as she thought, *And I have a great deal more to think about.*
 

 
 
Irene was no closer to finding any answers to her problems when she strolled toward her sitting room later that afternoon. They had returned to Irene's home in time for a late lunch, after which a very pleased looking Katrina had dragged a protesting yet laughing Sherla off for her first lessons in flirting.

"Oui, oui, Mam'selle Cherie, that is it!" an excited voice all but exulted, "Now, flare the fan in front of your face so only your eyes show. Non non! Smile when you do it so that the gentleman is able to see the smile without seeing your lips! Make him WANT to see your lips. Make him want to TASTE your lips. OUI! Excellent, Cherie!"

"But I do not want to smile at men, Katrina," a different voice almost whined. "And I certainly do NOT want them tasting my lips!"

"But of course you do, Cherie, it is how these things are done. If you do not do it, or do it properly, you will be noticed in a not so good way."

Irene walked in the door just in time to hear Sherla retort, "Between you and Irene, I am getting bloody damned tired of that particular argument. I wish the two of you would give up that little prod."

"Then you will have to give up your plans with regard to Professor Moriarty," Irene said sternly. "For you are a woman now, Sherla, and if you forget that fact, you will stand out among other women like a goat among sheep. Calling attention to yourself in such a manner will likely cost you your single greatest advantage in the coming struggle."

"Irene?!??" Sherla said, spinning on her feet.

"Yes, Sherla." Irene replied before turning to Katrina. "Has our little Miss been troublesome in learning her lessons, Katrina?"

Katrina's gypsy eyes sparkled. "On, Non, Madame. In fact, she has been very good. Why, her command of the fan is unbelievable. One might almost wonder at how a former man could have gained such skill, such delicacy, such sweet subtlety with so feminine a fashion accessory."

An impish smile lit Irene's still lovely face. "Well, Sherla? Did old Sherlock play the lady with a fan for some case that the good Dr. Watson never wrote about for publication?"

For a moment, Sherla looked stunned, then rebellious, and finally, mischievous. "Why no, Irene. Sherlock was too large a man to disguise himself as a flirt. Actually, I learned the fan when I trained in an Oriental wrestling and fighting style as a youth."

"Fighting with a fan?" Katrina snorted. "Hah, Mam'selle, you seek to hide the truth from us behind something so manly as wrestling and fighting. Poof, you DID play with fans."

"Oh really?" Sherla challenged as she flared the fan in front of the her face. "Imagine a fan, my dear Katrina, with each spoke replaced by a thin band of the finest steel, sharpened to a razor's edge." Suddenly, Sherla launched herself at Katrina, one hand leading, the hand with the fan at her hip. At the last moment, she executed a graceful pirouette that had the suddenly fully open fan just barely grazing the startled maid's throat. Too late, Katrina leapt backwards and fell indecorously on her bottom, but Sherla had already come erect facing her, the fan once again furled in her hand. Solemnly, she bowed. "If this," she said, her eyes twinkling as she flared the fan gracefully, "had been a fighting fan instead of a flirting fan, Katrina, you would now be bleeding all over Madame Irene's lovely Aubusson carpet."

Sherla offered a hand to the still wide-eyed maid and helped her back to her feet. "I would say, Katrina," Irene said, "That the evidence supports Sherla's case. However, Sherla," she continued turning to face her ward, "You have to realize that flirting *is* a woman's weapon, and one that has been used effectively since Eve. You mentioned learning a woman's weapons in your journal, my dear. This *is* one of the most powerful, especially against men. You should make every effort to master it."

The girl considered that, and then drew the fan back across her face, letting her eyelashes flutter shut daintily. "I shall do my very best, Tante Irene." she said softly.

"Well done, Sherla! And to you, as well, Katrina. I shall see you at tea time."

Irene sailed from the room, but not before she heard, "OWW! NON NON NON, Mam'selle Cherie, rap the importunate gentleman's knuckles LIGHTLY with the closed fan. You wish to discourage him, not break his fingers! At least, not for the first importunity. And Mam'selle, s'il vous plait, smile *sweetly* when you when you hit his knuckles? Not like the hungry lioness facing the cornered and crippled antelope?"

*Somehow,* Irene smiled to herself, *I suspect that 'Mam'selle Cherie' is going to have to be exceedingly diligent on such nuances before she is entirely proficient at the fine art of flirtation. At least she didn't use one of those Oriental wrestling moves Holmes was noted for. Perhaps it is time to introduce Sherla to the male of the species and see how she reacts.* ~----------------~

Sherla hurried to the large room that Katrina had told her served as the ballroom with Irene and her husband entertained. It was not really all that large, she noted as she stepped into the room. *Why, no more than ten couples could dance properly in this room, and then only if the ladies were unimpeded by any of the more complex gowns I saw at the Modiste's shop. Oh well, now where is Irene for these dancing lessons she promised. . . or was that threatened?*

"Ahh, Mademoiselle, Madame Irene said you would be here for your lessons. I am Monsieur de Mere, and I am to instruct you in the finer points of dance."

Instinctively, Sherla measured the man. He was of moderate height and weight, certainly shorter and lighter then Sherlock had been. Still, he was taller than Sherla was, even in the high heeled dancing slippers Katrina had just buckled onto her feet. His suit was of only modest quality as were the shoes. His neckcloth was tied in one of the currently avante-guarde, excessively intricate arrangements about poorly starched collars. His hair was of moderate length and blacker than her own midnight-dark tresses while his eyes were obscured by the gray lenses of his spectacles. Most strangely, he was wearing gloves.

"Is something wrong with your hands, Monsieur?" Sherla asked as she moved into the room followed by Katrina. The house is quite warm."

"Ah, non, thank you for asking, Mademoiselle," The man said with an obsequious bow, "But most young ladies prefer that I wear gloves since the gentlemen they dance with at the balls wear them. It makes the lessons more. . . realistic, oui?" He asked as he moved over to the phonograph machine. He gave the device several vigorous cranks and then set the cylinder to spinning.

*There is something odd about this. I know Irene said she had to run an errand, but still. . *

"Come, come, Mademoiselle, we shall begin with the waltz," the dance master directed, his arms held wide for her to walk into, "All the young ladies wish to waltz, n'est-ce pas?"

Not entirely certain that SHE wanted to learn the waltz, Sherla had to be given a gentle push by Katrina before she began to move slowly toward the disconcerting man. As she approached, her eye caught sight of a glint of highlight that clashed with the man's hair. *A hairpiece? Is this man a vain type who has begun to lose his hair?* She had not even begun to work that out when a by-now familiar scent tickled at her nose.

Sherla stopped short and stared at "Monsieur de Mere". "Irene?!?" she said with audible certainty.

"Oh pooh," Katrina said behind her, disappointment evident in her tone.

"Well, I told you the idea was not likely to work, Katrina. After all, this snip of a girl is. . .was. . ., damn, I really must decide how to think of that . . .*was* Mr. Sherlock Holmes. We were unlikely to fool her, no matter how good my skills at disguise are."

"You fooled me once, Irene, up until the moment you greeted me that night at Baker Street."

"Ah, but it was a dark, foggy London night, Sherla," Irene said as she doffed the wig to reveal her own auburn-hightlighted chestnut tresses, and pulled off the gloves that had been necessary to hide her finely boned, beautifully manicured hands. "Just as well, I suppose, I was sweltering in this wig and gloves. Now, shall we dance, Mademoiselle?" Irene offered, making her leg to Sherla.

Sherla grinned impishly, and sank into the deep curtsy Katrina had taught her during the flirting lesson. *It is so marvelous to be young and flexible again,* she thought happily as she rose gracefully and took Irene's hand.

"Now remember Sherla," Irene said sternly, "*I* lead, not you!"

Nodding, Sherla giggled, "And why is it, Madame," the girl asked impishly as she began following Irene's lead, "That I believe that you say those exact words to your husband when you dance with him?"
 

 
 
Irene summoned Sherla back to the ballroom just before she had planned to retire for the evening. Sherla was somewhat surprised to see Irene back in trousers - very tight trousers - a white open necked button down shirt with tight cuffs and billowing sleeves and well shined over the calf boots. "No questions, girl," Irene had ordered. Go into that room, and dress in the clothing I have laid out for you. Then meet me here."

Several minutes later - it was a time-consuming task to remove her women's clothing, and loosen the stays of her corset just enough to permit Sherla to breathe fully without losing the stiffness about the waist that might very well be unavoidable if she ended up needing these skills with little notice - Sherla returned to the ball room attired much as Irene was save that her boots were not so well shined. "CATCH" she heard, and barely had time to react as a flash of silver streaked towards her. Some instinct took over and Sherla snatched the flying object from the air just before it sailed past her. Her hand tightened about the hilt just as she realized what it was. "A foil?"

"Just so," a grinning Irene said as she held out a fencing mask to Sherla. "You have done so well at being a lady today, I thought you deserved a reward. Besides, you need to learn how to move aggressively in that body as well as femininely if you are to achieve your goal. Fencing will help that. Furthermore, Mr. Sherlock Holmes was accounted as being quite adequate with such a weapon, and I long for some decent competition. My poor husband tries, but he worries overmuch about my safety and therefore fails to press his advantages with sufficient vigor to challenge me properly."

Sherla tested the weapon's balance, and then checked the safety button on the tip. The foil was light, but then, a rapier or saber would have been too much for her greatly reduced arm and wrist strength.

The two women slipped on their masks and took their positions opposite each other, their free hands at their hip, their sword blades just touching.

"En garde!" Irene ordered.

Their first passes were slow, at most half speed, intended for them to get the feel of the foils and to assess each other's skill rather than for true competition. The intensity gradually increased as the blades flashed and the discordant sound of steel sliding against steel filled the air. Sherla held her own through the first few passes mostly as a result of old remembered skills and tricks, but it became clear that Irene was an expert fencer, and that she was carefully controlling their contest to test, but not break Sherla.

As the match wore on, Sherla's arm and wrist began to tire, and her previously sharp thrusts were dulled and her parries came slower. She considered mounting a final flurry, but decided against it. Irene could have won the match at any time. She obviously had a superb partner somewhere if her husband was reluctant to endanger her. *If her husband is at all up to her mettle,* Sherla thought grimly, her arm afire and her lungs begging for air. "I YIELD!" she shouted as she jumped back from the fray, her sword still at the ready.

"Well done!" Irene cheered as she tossed her own mask to the quietly watching Katrina. "VERY well done!"

"Oh, certainly," Sherla retorted in some disgust. "I can barely lift my arm, let alone this foil. You could have carved me like a Christmas goose at any point in our match, and you say I did well?"

"Of course you did, goose," Irene said fondly. "You are not yet at your peak. Whatever that foul brew did to make you what you have become, it took a terrible toll on your resources. If you are to face this Moriarty of yours, you will need to develop strength and stamina to match your beauty and your brain, dear girl. You did well tonight. If your arm is up to it, we will do this every night before our evening baths. I will also look into whether there are facilities for women to exercise at l'Ecole Normale Supeerieure des Jeunes Filles. It is a marvelous school, started in the 1880's in Paris for the education of young women. You swim, as I recall? Excellent for building strength and stamina in a woman."

Sherla smiled tiredly, and nodded. Then she took on a pensive air. "It is odd, you know."

"What is?" Irene asked as she supervised Katrina putting away the foils and masks before rejoining her ward.

"These clothes," Sherla answered, drawing her hand down her body. "They feel so . . . so strange, and yet, I have been wearing garb such as this more than six decades. It is the dress and the gown that ought to feel odd."

"Perhaps, ma petite," Katrina said, that impish twinkle back in her eye, "It is as I said earlier. You were meant to be a woman instead of that cold stick of a man."

Irene braced herself to deflect a blistering retort aimed at her impudent little maid.

Even she was greatly surprised when none ensued.
 

 
 
Entry in the Journal of Miss Sherla Joan Holmes

Date: February 25, 1911

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

Time: 12:27 A.M.

My Dear Doctor Watson: I am so very tired, John, but it is a good sort of tired. It has been a lovely day - better than any I can remember since. . . well, since you were taken from me, old friend. I think that is a large part of this sudden contentment - I have friendship in my life again. Heavens, even that sly-boots Katrina was friendly today. She calls me "Mam'selle Cherie" instead of Mademoiselle Sherla. I rather like it. The lone black spot, I am afraid, is that my arm is quite sore and no amount of soaking in that hedonistic bathtub of Irene's did anything to loosen the knotted muscles. And I thought ladies were not supposed to have such things. Irene tried to trick me with a disguise today. It is good to know that the old skills of observation and deduction have not gone the way of my formerly masculine state. So it would appear that Irene's contention that I am not truly diminished by my femininity is proven. It is comforting to know that. One issue occurs to me, John, as I read this journal. I do not think it wise to appear in public as Sherla Holmes. The name is too close and if "S. Holmes" reaches Moriarty's ears before I am ready for it to do so, the consequences will be grave indeed. I will discuss it with Irene tomorrow. . . today, actually. Perhaps it is time for Joan to make a temporary return. Good night, old friend.

End Journal Entry.
 
 
Chapter 11. A Lady's Debut
 
Irene awoke suddenly, and for a moment was unsure why. She was not normally a light sleeper, but something distinctly out of the ordinary had attracted her attention. The first rays of a sunrise bright with promise were slipping through her barely open draperies as she slid from her lonely bed and padded down the hallway to Sherla's room. *Why I should think it has anything to do with Sherla, I don't know, unless it is because everything unusual seems to emanate from that young woman these days.*

Sherla's door was open and her room was empty. *She's just gotten an early start to the day,* Irene told herself firmly, but she was unable to shake the feeling that she ought to confirm that. *After all, the girl has had a hellacious few weeks, and this is not consistent with her recent behavior.*

After donning her slippers and an emerald-green silk wrapper, Irene quickly searched the main living areas only to find no sign of Sherla. She was about to go rouse Katrina to aid in the search when, on a whim, Irene went to the back of the house and found the outside door unlocked. Quietly, she slipped out into the crisp dawn air. The creaky iron gate that lead to Irene's formal garden was open. *Since my rooms are directly overlooking the garden, that gate squeaking as it opened is likely what roused me.*

She found Sherla in the middle of the garden, still dressed in her white silk nightdress and blue chenille robe, kneeling upon a picnic blanket she'd evidently found in the kitchen. The girl was sitting back on her calves, her hands resting upon her thighs. Her head was back, facing into the red/yellow sun as it rose above the trees. A playful breeze teased at her hair, making night-black waves billow softly about her face. Her eyes were closed and a faint smile curled her lips.

Trying to make as little noise as possible, Irene sat down, but the breeze rustled the hem of her robe and alerted Sherla. "Good morning," Sherla said with a smile.

"Good morning to you, as well, my dear, but surely you recognize that it is barely past night."

"I could not sleep," Sherla said enigmatically.

"So I gathered. I have seen that position before," Irene continued, "another of your Oriental arts?"

"For the most part. I needed to think and did not want to rouse you by playing the piano. This is a lovely, peaceful place you've built here, Irene," Sherla sighed softly.

"Actually, it is my husband who is the gardener, although his initial motivation was to provide me a quiet place to sit and think."

"It's wonderful," Sherla assured her friend, "And the lovely fresh smell of a world at dawn after a rain seems to cleanse the very soul."

"Does it cleanse your soul, Sherla?" Irene asked gently, "Perhaps more importantly, what heavy thoughts chased you from your bed at such a disgustingly early hour?"

A small, self-deprecating smile softened Sherla's lovely face. "Tonight, tomorrow, next week, next month, next year and the rest of my life," she replied, careful to tick each reply off on the fingers of her right hand.

"That is quite a lot to ask of one chilly February morning, isn't it?"

"Perhaps, but every journey, large or small, starts with a single step, and the solution to every problem, large or small, starts with a single thought. The effort is not wasted even if I don't find my solutions today," and then Sherla's grin became mischievous, "As you well know, Madame Irene Adler."

"Just so," Irene replied with a royal nod of her nightcap-covered head. "Well, tonight and tomorrow sound rather immediate. Have you come to any conclusion about them, if I may be so bold as to ask?"

Sherla shifted about, and sat upon the blanket, pulling knees to her bosom so that she could rest her chin upon them. "That I will smile, flirt, play the piano and dance as well as my very limited instruction in all but one of those arts will permit, that I will watch you very carefully and learn all that I can about being womanly from a Mistress of the Art, and that I will try to stay out of dark corners and away from large men."

Irene hooted with glee. "Worthy goals all, but tell me, dear what you mean by "all but one". Surely you don't mean that you do not know how to smile?"

"Not like you and Katrina wish me to smile. I tend to look like. . .how did Katrina put it? Oh yes, I smile like a hungry lioness looking at a cornered and crippled antelope." The last words were imbued with a haughty pretentiousness that made both women chuckle. "Seriously though, even Doctor Watson lamented my lack of familiarity with simple good humor. 'Twas not, I am afraid, a prominent aspect of my personality."

"Well, tomorrow will take care of itself as we will likely need to sleep the day away after one of these all night society balls," Irene teased lightly before becoming serious. "You said your life, Sherla. What conclusions have you reached about that?"

She shrugged delicately. "Only that, unless Moriarty has developed an antidote and I know that if he has it is only by merest chance, that I can expect to remain a woman for the rest of my life."

"Why does "can expect" not sound a final as I might have thought it to be? You are unusually precise with your words and you did not say that you would remain a woman for the rest of your life."

"Oh, just legends and rumors," Sherla said looking back at the sunrise. "There are stories of magic and wonder that I, as a man. . .or rather that when I was a man, never gave much credence."

"Such as?" Irene asked.

"Oh, the mythologies of India are filled with stories of men becoming young women and the reverse. Or there is this very prevalent legend about a medallion, called the Medallion of Zolo, or something like that. I originally came across it in some of my early studies of ancient alchemical manuscripts in their original Greek. Subsequently, I have run across references to it in the oddest places, with stories associated to those sightings that are odder still."

"Another Philosopher's Stone? Able to turn base metal into gold?"

"Not quite," Sherla laughed. "As I understand it, this Medallion has the power to change someone into the image of whoever last wore a set of clothing. I imagine I have a few pieces of attire that date back to my younger days at Baker Street."

"So, if you succeed in your quest to stop Moriarty, is that your next inquiry? Find this magical talisman and restore yourself to your full masculine powers?"

Irene's last words were delivered with such tart sarcasm that Sherla stared at her for a moment before answering. Then she chuckled quietly. "No, I don't think so, Irene. Besides, it is entirely possible that it may be worth my life to stop Moriarty. However, if I do survive our final encounter, I won't waste my life seeking something that likely does not really exist. I may be a female now, Irene, and I may, much to my surprise, find I enjoy a great many aspects of this new life, but I am still a ma. . .errr woman of science. I shan't wile away my years haring off after some magical Holy Grail like a feminine Sir Galahad. Besides, if it does work, it could be dangerous. Imagine owning it and using it, but losing it at precisely the wrong moment? It might be worse than what Moriarty has done to me, and I would have done it to myself. Oh, ignominy." She said with dramatic effect.

Irene laughed and offered Sherla a hand as she stood. "Come along and go back to bed, girl. That is one major solution to your 'tonight' problem, and part of our 'tomorrow' problem. You need to SLEEP!"
 

 
 
The room went utterly still as Sherla stroked the opening chords that were Irene's lead in to her first selection, a piece by Schumann. Playing very softly, Sherla let the unexpected power and beauty of Irene's voice show to its best advantage. As it had this morning when they'd first begun rehearsing, Irene's beautiful voice made Sherla sigh in wonder. One of Sherlock's few regrets had been that he had never heard a young Irene Adler sing when she was the Diva at the National Opera House at Warsaw or later when she had filled that position at Prague. She still had a magnificent voice.

Following the short recital, Irene and Sherla were constantly sought out and congratulated by the many guests. Sherla, simply smiled and demurred that Irene was the one worthy of praise. "I merely played quietly so that you could hear her." she said time and again.

However, the throng who sought them out gave Sherla an opportunity to study Irene-the-sleuth at work. Watching her pursuing information was something that Sherlock had always wished to observe, but had never managed. *She teases confidences from these men with remarkable ease, and she seems to do so with the tricks Katrina has been trying to teach me. A special smile for that one, a teasing tap on the hand of this one. Always a gracious and happy greeting and some type of body contact, if only to hug a man's arm to her body. One old fellow nearly spilled his schnapps down Irene's rather daringly cut neckline.

"Oh, and Doctor, may I please introduce my niece, Mademoiselle Joan Watson. While I am an American, Joan's family supported the wrong side in our little Revolution and returned to England when American Independence of the Crown was achieved."

"Enchante, Mademoiselle," the gruff gentleman with the broad mustache and sideburns said with a thick Germanic accent. "And my I present my beloved wife, Frau Buchner?"

"I am honored, Madame," Sherla dutifully responded as she dropped into an appropriately deep curtsy. *Thank heavens there is only one royal duke in attendance tonight in whose august presence I must execute that extreme curtsy and bow,* Sherla thought as came back erect, *between these inhuman shoes and how tightly that little bitch Katrina laced me, I wasn't at all certain I would make it back to my feet!*

"Such a lovely gown, my dear," Frau Buchner said with a smile. "I love the pretty layering of your skirts that hide such interesting flashes of color. A remarkably pretty gown on a very lovely young woman."

Sherla bowed her head in acknowledgment and again caught herself just before she shook her head. *Those blasted earrings again,* she thought. Who'd have thought that those small little waterfalls of fine seed pearls, made to match the four stranded collar at her throat, would prove so distracting. Hanging over two inches from her earlobes, they fluttered and danced with the slightest movement of Sherla's head.

A waiter walked by carrying a tray of champagne. At Irene's summons, he stopped and proffered the drinks. Irene and Sherla both took one before turning back to the Buchners.

"My niece studies biochemistry back in London, Doctor," Irene said causing Sherla's ears to prick up. So far that night, Sherla had "always been an avid botanist" when introduced to a leading authority on plants and herbs, had "always been a keen assistant in her father's medical research laboratory in Edinburgh" when she'd met a research physician, and had "carefully reproduced and extended the classic experiments of the monk Mendel" when she had spoken with a young genetic scientist. Evidently, this Doctor Buchner was someone else Irene thought might be able to help them. *Where have I encountered that name before? Oh, yes! Now I recall him.*

"She has?" Buchner eyed her suspiciously. "You have? A pretty young lady such as yourself? In a laboratory doing experiments?"

"Oh, oui, Monsieur le Docteur," Sherla said modestly, "I have recently been looking into how certain gases affect fermentation. Our English beer-makers are very concerned about how they might make greater quantities of their product while eliminating pre- sale spoilage."

"My own work deals with such processes, Fraulein," the German professor replied.

"Perhaps Sherla and I might call on you, Professor, so that she might benefit from your experience before embarking on this effort?" Irene interjected.

It was clear to Sherla that Buchner wanted to say 'no', but better, more determined men than he had melted in the heat of Irene Adler's regard. "Hmmmhphh. . .yes. . . Very well. Shall we say, day after tomorrow? - three o'clock?. Half an hour?" The relatively clipped tones the man used left little doubt he was not pleased to have been so maneuvered, but Irene promptly accepted and then made their excuses.

They made their way to the lady's convenience where Sherla gave fervent thanks that a pair of maids had been stationed to help relieve the ornately dressed ladies of their encumbering garments so that the ladies might relieve themselves. Fifteen minutes later, the pair was alone in a quiet sitting room. "Perfect, Sherla, I had hoped he'd be here, but was not sure."

"Who, Irene? Buchner?"

"Yes, he is the only biochemist listed in the in the pre- conference bulletin. At least now, we will be able to speak with someone who might know someone in that field."

Sherla gave an unladylike snort. "I am surprised he's here, too. He's the best man in his field. Why do you think that I used that fermentation example? I have read his work in the journals in England. He won the 1907 Nobel Prize for Chemistry."

"Well done, Sherla!" Irene crowed. "Our most important task in coming here tonight is complete!"

Wishing she had sufficient air to sigh, Sherla still managed a hopeful smile. "Does that mean we can go home now?" she asked wistfully.

The look Irene gave her ward would have been pitying had there not been a devilish twinkle in those amber eyes. "Mais non, ma petite debutante," she purred. "You have not danced yet, although you have made your formal curtsy to le Grande Duke."

"But I don't wish to dance, Irene," Sherla whined and did not much care if she had.

"Ah, but you must, my dear, or it will be noticed. You are far too lovely not to be missed, particularly given the rather homely nature of most of this year's crop of debutantes."

"I truly am coming to HATE that argument," Sherla growled. "Two dances."

"There is a formal card of twelve dances and you shall dance them all." Irene said with total conviction.

"Four!" Sherla replied.

"You must dance ten or it will be noticed, my dear," Irene said, trying her best argument again.

"Six, Irene, and no more. Give me anymore trouble and I will trip on that fine Persian carpet as we make our way to the ballroom and twist my ankle - SEVERELY!"

"Oh come now, Sherla, at least eight. Surely even a former *man* can cope with a mere eight dances," Irene challenged.

"I will give you seven, Irene, and I will even stay through the final dance on the card which is the waltz, but I will sit out every other dance. Take it or leave it, woman!"

Irene pouted, which affected neither Sherla nor the remnants of Sherlock one whit, and then relented. "Seven it is," she said with good grace before taking her "niece's" elbow to lead her back to the ballroom.

As the passed through the door, Irene put her mouth to Sherla's ear, "You gave in too easily, dear," she whispered, "I would have been happy with six." And then she handed Sherla over to her first partner, the tall young genetic scientist. Irene smiled as she saw the light of fury burn to life in her young friend's eyes.
 

 
 
By the end of the tenth dance, the combination of exercise, insufficient air and champagne was beginning to tell on Sherla. She was feeling rather muzzy-minded if the truth were to be told, and it wasn't really all that unpleasant a sensation. The dancing had thus far been great fun, particularly the Country Dance with all the hopping and skipping, and she'd only been obliged to take the lead during one dance - the Minuet - in order to try to protect her poor toes from the clod Irene had foisted onto her for that set.

And every time she had come off the dance floor to catch her breath, there had been some hopeful young swain offering her a glass of cold champagne in return for the pleasure of her company. Unfortunately for those hopeful young men, Sherla was becoming heartily tired of having her eyes compared to "dark, bottomless pools of liquid onyx" or having her hair described as "her shimmering crown of raven glory," or other such twaddle. In fact, she planned on "accidentally" tripping over his or her feet (she wasn't particular by this point) so that she could use the heel of her stiletto-like shoe to spear the next fool who dared to intimate that her lips were like "fresh, ripe strawberries moist with the kiss of morning's dew."

A woman could only be expected to tolerate so much!

At least the gentleman partnering her in this dance was a pleasant enough sort, and rather handsome if she was becoming any judge of a man's looks. He was some distant descendent of that Lafayette fellow who had joined with the colonial revolutionaries in America and given their cause significance. Well, at least this one had not encouraged loyal subjects of the Crown to revolt against His Majesty's government.

The music began to build toward its concluding crescendo when Sherla's partner began dancing them determinedly toward the garden doors. "Monsieur," Sherla said, noticing as she spoke the slight slur in her own voice, "What are you doing?"

A devil's smile looked down at her as the tall young nobleman led her out onto the candle lit terrace. "You were looking flushed, Mademoiselle," he said solicitously, "and I thought perhaps a cool, bracing breath of fresh air might revive you."

"Oh," Sherla said, pleased with his consideration, "that *does* sound lovely."

She permitted him to lead her onto the garden grounds, her step becoming more unsteady as the alcohol she'd already consumed continued to dull her wits.

Suddenly, her escort redirected her behind a stately oak and pulled her into his arms. Sherla opened her mouth to berate him for his rough handling when his mouth descended upon to her own.

For an instant, Sherla's wine-befuddled brain urged her to resist, to employ any of the dozens of disabling and painful tricks Sherlock had learned in a lifetime of dealing with the underworld. Then his tongue entered her mouth and began to tease at her own while his hands began a subtly exciting massage up and down her back, and she was lost.

Familiar heat flared in Sherla's belly and her breath came in panting, pleasure-filled moans that were cut off by the masculine lips that were sealed to her own. His hands felt so . . . so marvelous on her body, and she tried to press herself even closer to him. Something about his kiss, his body grinding against hers both fed and assuaged the flames that bid fair to consume her.

"SHER. . I mean. . JOAN!" a voice called from the terrace. "JOAN WATSON??"

"DAMN!" Lafayette's descendent cursed, but he was already pushing Sherla away and checking both their appearances. He took her arm and had just begun to lead Sherla back toward the terrace when a very upset Irene materialized in front of them.

"And where have you been, Monsieur?" she demanded, all maternal disdain and feminine hauteur.

"Mademoiselle was feeling unwell, Madame," he almost stuttered, "It is such a sad crush in there, and I thought some fresh air might do her some good."

"I see," Irene said in a low voice, and Sherla had no doubt that the sharp-eyed mistress of investigations did see - far too clearly. "Well, thank you for your so very . . . *kind* solicitude, Monsieur, toward my poor niece. I will see to her now." The young man was hesitant to depart, but Irene stared him down. "You may *leave*, sir!" she ordered sharply.

Defeated, Lafayette's descendent retreated as his honored ancestor never did, leaving Irene able to finally turn her full attentions to the obviously agitated Sherla. *She's flushed and her breathing is very rapid if shallow. My heavens, what if she is experiencing a relapse of that uncontrollable physical arousal? She CAN'T relieve herself here, and I, God forgive me, have made it all but impossible for her to leave until after the waltz.* "Are you all right, Sherla," Irene asked urgently, her voice soft, but intense. *Please be all right,* she begged in her mind.

"Thank you, Irene," Sherla said slowly and distinctly, as if each breath and word was an effort, "but I have it under control," Irene, on the other hand, heard Sherla's breath still pulsing, making her assertion of control more than a little difficult to believe. Irene started to say something, but just then Sherla did seem to regain control of herself.

"You are scheduled to dance the final waltz with the Duke," Irene told Sherla as she led her back to the ballroom. "You have to dance with him or else we will be the talk of Paris by morning. Once you've made your post-dance curtsy, we can go home. . . and you can . . . deal with this problem."

Drawing as deep a breath as her stays would permit, Sherla exhaled, attempting to clear some of the heat from her body, and then nodded. Her face grew more composed and her breathing returned to normal with each soft inhalation. Only a slow rocking on her heels hinted at the waves of need that still burned hot within her.

"I just hope that *he* steps on my toes," Sherla murmured to herself as she moved toward the waiting Duke, and made her curtsy. "I may need the distraction."
 
 
Chapter 12. Dancing in the Dark
 
For Irene, the waiting while Sherla danced the last waltz with the Duke seemed interminably long, but finally it ended and she was able to draw breath again. *Even in her cups and aroused half out of her mind, she was still able to dance,* Irene thought relieved. *Of course, it is fortunate that the man must lead in a waltz, because I think that Sherla was barely hanging on through the steps of that last movement.*

Irene's surmise was proven true when the Duke escorted an obviously winded Sherla back to her guardian. "She is unused to going about in Society, your Grace," Irene gushed when the Duke arrived at her side, "as her parents lack the means in London which is why they sent her to me for this Season. I am afraid, however, that in my enthusiasms I have overextended her tonight."

"Well, she is a lovely young woman, Madame," the Duke said as he bowed over Irene's hand, "and we look forward to her presence at other entertainments throughout the season."

Somehow, Irene managed to keep Sherla from falling on her face during their final curtsy, but it was a very near thing. TOO near a thing, and worse, she could see that Sherla's growing arousal was beginning to overwhelm her better sense. Irene was forced to take a firm grip on each of the girl's arms to stop her hands from drifting toward bodily locations inappropriate to any public place, let alone a high society ball.

"Joan, fetch your wrap," Irene said brusquely.

"Hmmm?" Sherla replied.

"Fetch your wrap, we need to go," Irene repeated. "We need to get you home and to bed."

"Bedddd," sighed Sherla happily, the prospect inviting in ways that had little if anything to do with sleep.

With great effort to avoid any more 'good byes', Irene was able to speed the girl from the scene of the ball without any further or more socially damaging incidents. Fortunately, she had already called for their carriage and soon had Sherla bundled into the landau's comfortable interior. She immediately struck the roof with her fist to direct the coachman to leave.

"Just how much champagne did you drink, girl?" Irene demanded once they were safely underway.

Sherla gave her guardian a bleary smile. "Only a couple of sips between each dance, Irene, NEVER a full glass. I know better than to get into my cups when under ::hic:: cover on an investigation," she said with slurred confidence. "I never drank more than half a glass."

Irene closed her eyes and prayed for control. "Sherla, you sat out six dances, and you had two glasses of wine before the dances began," she said with an edge to her almost calm voice.

"It ::hic:: was only champagne, Irene."

"Which you drank too much of, my girl. Nearly five full glasses by my best estimation."

"So what?" Sherla demanded almost belligerently, "Could drink TWICE that much and not become inebr . .inebri. . ummm. drunk."

Disgusted, Irene threw her hands up in defeat. "HOLMES could drink that much, my fine young girl, and he had a much larger body and a far greater tolerance than you do. Didn't you stop to think that your capacity for spirits is at BEST half what it once was? Why, if I had not arrived when I did, you would have been looking for the nearest conveniently flat surface where you could lift your skirts for that young fool."

"He was nice," Sherla purred, "Liked him. Liked kissing him. He was related to your Mr. Washington's friend, Lafayette."

"I could see how much you liked it, infant, although I suspect his antecedents had little to do with your pleasure." Irene sighed. "Well, at least tomorrow should be educational for you," she finished with a hopeful note.

"To::hic::morrow?" Sherla almost parroted, "Why tomorrow? OH, you're hoping I will have a hangover,::hic:: aren't you?" Sherla stared at her mentor with wide, owl-like eyes. "Well, prepare to be disappointed. *I* never have hangovers."

"I hope you are wrong, little one," Irene said with fond exasperation, "for you have truly earned and deserve the Mother of all 'mornings after' for THIS night's work."

Sherla said nothing, but contented herself by smiling at Irene before leaning back to find the most comfortable location in the upholstered back corner of their conveyance. All too soon, in Irene's estimation, Sherla's hands began to drift once more, this time below her cloak to slowly stroke her bosom.

Suddenly, the coach lurched side-to-side, eliciting a surprised yet pleased "OOH!" from Sherla. Eyes wide, she seemed to wait for several moments, as if hoping the landau would repeat that felicitous movement. When it didn't, Sherla again took matters into her own . . . hands, and began swaying side-to-side of her own volition.

*I should tell her to stop,* Irene thought wearily, *but she is unlikely to hear me. Besides, if this onset of withdrawal sexual excitement is at all comparable to her earlier attacks, she has little if any control over her actions as it is. Best to simply get her back to the cottage and into the privacy of her room as quickly as possible.*
 

 
 
With Irene's permission, Katrina was already above stairs when the carriage neared the cottage. She had fallen half asleep in the sitting room as she waited for the return of her Mistress and their new girl from the ball, thinking about the problems this strange person would have to face in her new life. Privately, Katrina expected that Madame Irene would have the devil's own time getting that one out onto the dance floor. Too stiff-necked by half. The girl needed to shed some of that stuffy English male dignity, and little Mademoiselle Katrina was just the lady to help with that task. Hadn't Ma'amselle Cherie already done that delightful little prank with the honey and cream? It was worthy of a true girl, and she, Katrina, had never seen it coming, had never expected such a joke by a former man.

Of course, she now OWED the girl payback in kind. Katrina had been fond of that silk chemise that had been ruined by the sticky mess. It would take some effort to top that one, though. That truly was a masterpiece and the girl's first try, too.

An unfamiliar and very giddy giggle brought Katrina out of her light doze. Quickly getting to her feet, she smoothed out any wrinkles in her skirts as best she could, and then hurried to the foyer to greet the returning party.

And stopped dead in surprise.

Sherla, her hands doing something very strange beneath her cloak, was swaying awkwardly back and forth as Irene tried gamely to keep the girl on her feet. And that insane giggling was coming from Sherla?? "Madame," Katrina squeaked as she hurried over to help Irene with her burden. "What has happened to la petite Ma'amselle Cherie?"

"Too much champagne and moonlight, Katrina. None of us, least of all Sherla, stopped to consider that *MR* Holmes' ability to consume alcohol might be significantly different than *MISS* Holmes' capacity for such things. The so-very-noble young men at the ball plied her with the bubbles whenever she wasn't dancing."

"Ah, I see," Katrina replied, relaxing. "Oh, Madame?"

"Yes, Katrina?" Irene grunted as she tried to move Sherla's relaxed body toward the girl's bed chamber.

"You said champagne AND moonlight? What moonlight?"

"The next to the last gentleman, and I use the term loosely, she danced with managed to get her out into the garden to take some fresh air. "La petite mademoiselle was looking flushed and it was such a sad crush inside"." Irene quoted in a voice dripping with exaggerated and patently false concern.

"And he what? Had his way with her?" Rage was already building in Katrina's breast at that foul thought.

"No, nothing so damaging. She simply managed to be kissed nearly senseless by her handsome young man."

"Mademoiselle?!?" Katrina's voice squealed in shock, "The girl who used to be an old man permits the dashing young chevalier to kiss her? And LIKES it??!? You are certain of this, Madame?"

"Witnessed it with my own eyes, Katrina, at least the last of it. Fortunately, I came out before it got much beyond a kiss, and I must tell you that our girl does show remarkable promise as a kisser, but I am afraid it would have gone much further and quickly. I think she is experiencing at least a mild relapse of her . . .affliction."

"Ah. . .Ma'amselle Cherie is. . . needy, again, Madame?" *That explains where la petite's hands are and what those clever little fingers are up to beneath that lovely cloak.*

"Just so, Katrina, so I think it would be best if we were to undress her and then provide her the privacy necessary to deal with that problem." Irene gave a fierce yawn. "The sooner the better, too, as I am for my own bed. It has been an exhausting day and THIS one had me awake with the sun this . . .or rather, YESTERDAY morning."

"Help me get her into her room, Madame. I will prepare her for bed. She will not be the first Mistress I have assisted in such a condition."

"I have NEVER . . . " Irene started to protest only to be cut off by Katrina.

"No, my beloved Madame, YOU never, but sadly, you were not my first employer and other women are not so. . . caring as you."

The two women finished installing Sherla in her room in silence. Irene started to leave but stopped. "Katrina, if there is anything I can do, even if you merely wish to talk. . . about things, I have come to care deeply about you. Don't let something fester when I have the resources and the means to help you."

Katrina looked at the older woman, and then smiled broadly. She hurried over to Irene and, going up on tiptoe, kissed the older woman on the cheek. "I know, Madame. It is all right. Now, you must be off to your bed. I will first loosen Mademoiselle Sherla's stays so she can breathe more easily, then come assist you before returning to la petite ma'amselle."
 

 
 
"Come now, Ma'amselle Cherie," Katrina cooed to Sherla when she returned, "Let Tante Katrina ease you out of these heavy clothes."

A muffled sound that might have been 'no' floated up from beneath the coverlette Sherla had pulled over her head. The slender form beneath the tented blanket was moving slowly but sensuously in time to odd, purring little sounds. Katrina only smiled, and began to slide the heavy cover up toward the pillowed head so that she could start the undressing.

Instead of cooperating, however, a giggling Sherla erupted from her hiding place and began to tussle with Katrina. She resisted Katrina's best efforts to disrobe her, and it became clear to the little maid that the intoxicated Sherla was feeling very playful as well as aroused. She decided to use that to her benefit for she was tired as well, and had better things to do than wrestle with this foolish girl. "Non, Non, Ma'amselle, not in the so lovely gown. Madame Irene payed many francs to Madame la Modiste and we should treat it with care. If you wish to play, you must first take off the gown."

"Oh, very well," Sherla said, her lips drawn up into an exaggerated pout, but she stopped her play and lifted her arms to permit Katrina to remove the gown.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Katrina took the gown to the wardrobe and hung it up. She'd have to steam it later to remove the worst of the creases, but it appeared that la petite mademoiselle was neat in her habits, at least. Katrina could find no stains that would cost her hours of effort in the laundry.

Smiling, she turned back to her charge, and then moved over by the bed. "Come, ma petite chou," she encouraged. "Let us deal with your lovely lingerie next since it must also be treated carefully. Then, we shall dress you into your pretty nightgown and put you to bed."

Sherla made it into, or at least on to the bed, much sooner than Katrina had anticipated. So did Katrina, although it was not into or on to Katrina's own bed for Sherla dove at the little maid and carried her headlong into Sherla's mussed bedding. Caught totally by surprise, Katrina did not react until the surprisingly agile and strong Sherla had her prey flat on her back and was straddling Katrina's body with her own.

Each of Sherla's hands held one of Katrina's wrists pinned to the mattress, the smaller girl using weight and leverage to hold the maid down. Disbelieving, Katrina looked up at Sherla and felt her breath catch at what she saw.

Her hair had come loose from the complex array of curls and twists and fell from her head like a black silk waterfall. Sherla's eyes sparkled gleefully with mischief, and something just a little darker. Red lips were parted in a half smile so that the inquisitive tip of Sherla's pink tongue could slip through to moisten them. Katrina's eyes dipped lower to the white silk chemise that barely peaked above the top of the corset and could see the dark, pointed circles where Sherla's nipples had become hard and prominent.

Now, it was Katrina's pulse that began to race, and her mouth that suddenly felt dry as dust. For Katrina had a secret, one she had never dared dream would ever see to the light of day, or the dark of night. Katrina lusted in her heart for Ma'amselle Cherie. She had since the first time she'd seen the lovely young woman, all cold and pale in the coachman's arms. Her interest had only grown stronger with each revelation about the girl's past and about her future, for Madame Irene had felt obligated to warn Katrina of the possible danger Sherla might bring into their lives. So she knew all about Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and while she hadn't understood how it was possible for an old man to become this glorious woman, La Petite Mademoiselle had simply been too ignorant of womanly things to have grown up a girl. Morever, Katrina's hunger had grown with each cautious step the girl had taken towards becoming a woman.

A girl who had been a man and was now a beautiful woman. It fair made Katrina's blood boil just thinking about the possibilities and here, atop her, was the reality.

*Mais non, I must not permit this! She is drunk, intoxicated. She would never do this otherwise and she will regret it tomorrow, and I should hate that more than anything,* Katrina told herself sternly, only to have that secret part of her whisper back, *Mais oui, Katrina, for she has always been a man until a month ago, and what would please the man she once was be a woman, would it not? How could she hate such a gift?*

Katrina was still locked in her internal war of conscience when Sherla leaned down and planted the softest, most tentative, most incredibly sweet kiss Katrina had ever experienced on her lips. Primal instinct defeated the nay-sayer inside her soul, and Katrina pursed her lips and returned the innocently close-mouthed kiss.

"That was nice, but it really wasn't a kiss. Noooooot quite." Sherla said in the childlike tones of the happily intoxicated. "I know that because I was *truly* kissed tonight," she declared, her mouth a bare inch from Katrina's own, "and it was very nice. He did it *verrrry* well," she whispered, slurring the word 'very'. "Do you?" She asked perkily.

"Do I. . .do I WHAT, Mademoiselle?" Katrina asked, not wanting to misinterpret.

"Silly Katrina. Do . . you. . .kiss. .very well, too?" Sherla asked, her voice burbling with a suppressed giggle.

*Merde,* Katrina sighed, *I am lost.* "Why don't you come down here closer and find out, cherie?"

Sherla seemed to give that grave consideration. "I don't know," she finally said. "I might slip my grip on your wrists if you kiss really well, and then you could get away from me. I don't WANT you to get away from me," she assured Katrina gravely. "I like having you here like this. It FEELS good." Sherla gave emphasis to that final statement by giving a little hip wiggle about Katrina's own straddled hips so that the maid *knew* precisely where it felt so very good.

Now, Katrina truly was lost - lost in the sensation and closeness of this remarkable girl. "I promise, my sweet, I won't leave until you tell me I may."

"Word of honor?" Sherla demanded, sounding rather masculine in her insistence, Katrina thought.

"Word of honor," Katrina assured her soon-to-be lover.

Reassured, Sherla let go of Katrina's hands, and lowered herself so that they could hold each other as they kissed. With caution and care, the two women moved their lips together, and instantly ceased to care about anything else.

Much later, Sherla whispered happily, "You kiss MUCH better than he did, Katrina."

A soft, very aroused feminine chuckle answered her. "Let's finish disrobing, Ma'amselle Cherie, and I will show you precisely how well I can kiss."

"Why does taking off clothes have anything to do with kissing?" Sherla wanted to know, "Our lips aren't covered."

Katrina laughed again. "Let us get undressed, my dear, and you will be surprised and pleased at what we uncover."
 

 
 
As it had the morning before, something awoke Irene from a sound sleep. "Not again," she complained, even as she rose from her warm bed. Silently, she padded over to her door and cracked it open. In the half light of dawn, she saw a figure slipping out of Sherla's room. For a moment, Irene thought it was Sherla making another foray into the gardens, but then she observed two very significant problems with that theory.

The figure quietly walking down the stairs was not Sherla, but Katrina, and secondly, Katrina was nude.

Irene stood there, motionless for several minutes, trying to decide what to do, and in the end decided to do nothing immediately. *I will wait and see how Sherla reacts to this before I make any decisions. She is the unknown factor in this puzzle. I know Katrina, and in truth, had expected something like this to occur, though perhaps not quite so soon. Sherla, however, is not the well bred, lovely young miss barely out of the school room that she gives every appearance of being. However, nor is she the sixty some year old man she once was. I must wait, and react to her feelings and responses in this case. Otherwise, I could do irreparable harm to my relationship with Katrina or Sherla or both.*

Fatigue called Irene back to her bed, and she answered. She would need the rest, she told herself, for she would have to be at her very sharpest when this small crisis reached its cusp.
 

 
 
Her body languid with sleepy satiation, Sherla rolled away from the edge of her bed, one arm outstretched and seeking. She came fully awake when her search found nothing but empty bed. She started to sit up and leave the bed when she came down on something hard beneath the covers. Cautiously, she reached between the sheets. Her hands found and closed upon a long, cylindrical object of strange texture.

Cold chills ran up and down Sherla's back as she withdrew and recognized the object, for with that recognition came the memories.

The object itself was truly an exemplary piece of craftsmanship. Having once been greatly attached to a real example of the item the instrument in her hand was modeled upon, Sherla could only gaze at it in wonder and in horror. It was carved from ivory and was perhaps eight inches long from tip to base, and one to one and a half inches in diameter. An ornate hilt, like that of a ceremonial dagger, was attached to the. . .appropriate end of the object. The artisan who had carved it had meticulously mimicked veins and other textures of the original model into the smooth surface of the ivory.

*I believe the French would call this a godemiche,* Sherla thought as she tried to remain controlled. *Very strange name for an phallic symbol. Hmmm. . .what is that brown, almost rusty stain along the trunk, near the head?*

Sherla rose from her bed to take the implement to the window where she could examine it in better light. An ache, deep inside her woman's flesh brought her up short, and told her all she needed to know about the source of the stain. *One must suppose,* she thought, exerting all her will to remain calm and objective, *that this means I am no longer physically a virgin.*

Her calm facade crumbled the very next instant. "OH MY LORD!" she wailed, "Whatever will Katrina and Irene think of me now? I have abused a member of her household with my lusts."

Clutching the phallus in her hand, Sherla threw herself back into the bed, and began to weep. She had most likely just lost the only friends she had left in the world.
 

 
 
Much later, a very subdued Sherla made her way downstairs. She had not wanted to summon Katrina, so she had simply pulled on a nightgown, (she'd been even more horrified when she'd realized she'd spent the night completely nude) her thick velvet robe and her slippers before venturing out to find Irene.

Irene was waiting for Sherla in her library. Whatever the outcome of the confrontation, Irene had determined in her own mind that privacy was the best course, at least in the very beginning. Sherla entered the room, and without invitation or direction, shut and locked the door.

*So, she has reached the same conclusions as I. Not surprising, I suppose. When she was Sherlock, were we not ever opposite sides of the same coin? Hmmmm. . . she has tried to hide it with cosmetics, but she has been crying and her skills are not yet sufficient to the task of hiding a long bout of tears. What does that mean, I wonder? She refuses to meet my eyes, as well.*

"Yes, Sherla?" Irene asked gesturing the girl into a chair. "What can I do for you?"

Sherla folded her hands tightly in her lap, her eyes fixed on the floor between the two women. Finally, she sighed. "I have come to tell you that last night. . . ." a choked sob broke her voice, but she took a deep breath and battled through it, "Last night, I . . .forced myself upon a member of your household. I. . .I threw Katrina to my bed using one of the Oriental techniques I told you about. . .and . . .and had my way with her."

Irene considered that for a very long moment. *So, she takes the blame upon herself, and in so doing, implies that Katrina was both blameless and the injured party. Remarkable person, this Mr-Miss Sherlock-Sherla Holmes. Truth is all and Justice its servant.* "You were in the grips of a relapse of the withdrawal effect, my dear," Irene said gently. "Not as serious as the past ones, but combined with too much wine. . .well, it was a volatile combination."

Sherla's eyes finally met Irene's, and for a moment, the older woman thought she saw hope, only to have that emotion disappear an instant later. "That is no excuse for . . forcing myself upon another person, Madame Adler. If you wish, I shall leave your home today, but I would like to try and apologize to Katrina first."

Standing, Irene walked over to the bell-pull and summoned Katrina, then she unlocked the door before resuming her seat. "Sherla, there is something you should know about Katrina, but I must have her permission first."

The little maid sailed into the room moments later, her smiling face like the sun, particularly when she saw Sherla. "Ma'amselle Cherie, you should have called me to help you dress," she scolded fondly.

Expecting recriminations and imprecations, Sherla was greatly taken aback by Katrina's sunny mood and genuine pleasure at seeing her. Katrina saw this and became worried. *She did not like it,* she thought as her lovely mood evaporated, *and she has come to Madame to complain. Well, you knew this was possible, even likely, but she seemed to enjoy our time so very much.*

"Katrina," Irene said, drawing her maid's attention, "Sherla has just come to me."

"It is all my fault, Madame," Katrina cut her off. "La Petite was, well, somewhat indisposed and I took unfair advantage of her reduced condition. I will pack immedia. . "

"You will do NOTHING except LISTEN," Irene shouted, thoroughly exasperated. "Mademoiselle Sherla has just told me that she forcibly threw you to her bed and took shameful advantage of you. Therefore, she has offered to leave, but wanted to apologize first. What happened, Katrina? Didn't she do it well?"

Surprise, then humor lit Katrina's face. "Mais Non, Madame, Ma'amselle Cherie is very gifted, especially for a complete beginner. It was very, very nice indeed." Now, the maid looked utterly sensual.

"But. . but . ." Sherla stuttered.

"But nothing," Irene finished. "I did not tell you the story of how Katrina came to be in my employ because some small minded people think less of her for something that was not her fault. However, one result of that experience is that our Katrina is a lover of other women. If she shared your bed last night, it was because she wanted to share your bed. Now, did she take unfair advantage of you, Sherla?"

Sherla's mouth opened and closed several times before she could form any words. "No, Irene, it was nothing like that. It was. . . well, lovely. Nothing in my whole life's experience compares with the wonders Katrina introduced to me last night."

"Very well, then," Irene stood and walked to the library door. "I am going for a stroll in the park. You two come to some type of mutual accommodation. Katrina, you already know most of Sherla's story, it would be fair if you shared yours with her. I shall return in an hour and will want my breakfast, so be quick about it!"

"Oui, Madame," Katrina said demurely. "I shall tell her while we prepare your most favorite breakfast for you. Merci, Tante Irene."

Irene nodded and left. Sherla stared at her lover of the night before. "Tante? You called her aunt? She is your aunt and you work as her maid?"

"For the same reason you call her 'tante', goose," Katrina said fondly. "Now, come join me in the kitchen. I shall explain everything to you while I teach you to make fruit compote and crepes."
 

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To Be Continued...