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

"THE Woman."

 

---

 
Image Credit: Title picture Victorian Woman ~Sephrena.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Artwork: Original Artwork graciously donated by Brandy Dewinter.

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Damnit, Katrina, be more careful!"

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

Another pin slid home, just a bit too deeply.

"Ouch. You did that on purpose!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sherla almost felt guilty for lying to the maid.

Almost.
 

 
 
Entry in the Journal of Miss Sherla Joan Holmes

Date: February 20, 1911

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

Time: 12:14 P.M.

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

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

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

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

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

February 21, 1911

Progress to Date:

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

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

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

She didn't look anything like that.

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

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

Sherla exploded, "IRENE!?!?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Your need for sexual release?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Thank heaven for that!" Irene swore.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But. . "

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"EMBROIDERY??!?"
 

 
 
 
Entry in the Journal of Miss Sherla Joan Holmes

Date: February 22, 1911

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

Time: 10:45 P.M.

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

End Journal Entry.
 

---

 
To Be Continued...

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."
 

---

 
To Be Continued...

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 13. Katrina's Story
 
Later that morning, Irene was back in her library when Sherla entered the room followed by Katrina. Sherla was dressed in a relatively sober dark blue morning dress that was as simple as it was elegant. The only ornamentation on the dress were the tiny pearl buttons down the center of the bodice, and the white lace accents around the collar and the cuffs. It was strangely at odds with the rest of Sherla's toilette for the girl's hair was far less formal, hanging as it was down her back in a single wave of midnight silk. In addition, her cosmetics were somewhat more colorful than one might expect for a lady making a morning call on an acquaintance. *Katrina's work, obviously,* Irene noted, recognizing the styles, *The style looks stunning on Sherla, although she couldn't appear publicly arrayed like this. I wonder what that means.*

"Madame. . ." Katrina started slowly.

"Call her Tante!" Sherla interrupted forcefully, "when we are alone for she has given you that, and it is a great honor and a privilege."

Irene started to make a retort of her own when Katrina merely nodded. "Oui, Mademoiselle Sherla," she said with an unexpected meekness. "Tante Irene," she began again, "I have told Mam. . I mean, Sherla about parts of my life before I came here to you, but could not tell it all. Would you, please, tell her? She needs to know, I think, as much as I needed to know about the danger she posed. I tried, but I cannot seem to get it out."

*So that is the way of it, is it? Well, all I can think is 'Brava, Sherla, well done!' Now, perhaps we can bring this problem to a close. Why, something like this would be just the thing to get Sherla's hand back in, as it were.* "Very well, Katrina-dear," Irene smiled to her young maid. "You may go to the school room for your afternoon studies. I will call you if I need you."

"Merci, Mad. . " Katrina was stopped short by a sharp look from Sherla. She cleared her throat. "Merci, Tante Irene."

Irene watched the girl leave the library, shutting the door behind her. "I appreciate what you are trying to do, Sherla, but until we are absolutely sure of her safety, it might be best if she were to remain in the habit of calling me Madame. If you insist on her calling me 'Tante Irene', she might forget in public, which could be disastrous for her and for my husband and I." She stared at Sherla who finally nodded. "Excellent. Now, perhaps then you might explain your rather eclectic toilette?"

Sherla took a seat without being invited and pinned Irene with a meaning-filled glare. "I have a vile headache," she replied tartly, "As YOU wished I would." Irene could not help smiling and Sherla gave her a sniff - another mannerism learned from the minx, Katrina. "I could not stand having my hair pinned and pulled so Katrina left it down. The cosmetics are from my most recent lesson in the art, and I liked it."

"I see. You spoke while Katrina showed you how to use cosmetics?" Irene asked, thinking this was not the way of the very impatient Mr. Holmes.

"It calmed her to be doing something with her hands and to be concentrating on something else as she spoke. She shrugged at that. "And I needed the instruction."

*Of course you needed it,* Irene thought, *And if weeding the garden or gutting fish for lunch would have distracted Katrina, you would have needed instruction in that, as well. Who are you trying to deceive, Sherla? Me or Sherlock?* Irene cleared her throat and smiled gently. "Godfrey has a preparation he swears by in such circumstances. It tastes vile, but it might help."

"Thank you, but no. The worst is past, and most such preparations involve more alcohol which I do not think my system will tolerate. I need my wits unimpaired if I am to assist you in resolving Katrina's problem. She has explained to me that the role is a disguise, and that you are hiding her from certain unnamed members of the underworld because she helped you with a case. Please explain what happened."

*How very Sherlock her bearing is right now, in spite of that very feminine ensemble, * Irene mused. *'The facts, Madame, if you please. Simply the facts!' I wonder at the difference in technique. Is it because I am not distraught over this as Katrina obviously is, or is the reason for this forthright approach to my interrogation more to do with the fact that I am not your lover?* "Very well. The short of it is that Katrina was instrumental in helping Godfrey and I break up a prostitution and white slavery ring that was preying on young women of the theater in Paris."

"That much I have managed either to wring from or deduce from what Katrina has told me. Please tell me the facts of the case."

Irene began to reach for a cigarette and caught herself. She sighed. "A friend of ours found this very talented, if poorly taught young contralto training at a little known school in one of the seedier sections of Paris. He was about to offer her a contract to sing in the chorus of the Paris Grand Opera, when the girl disappeared. He tried to locate her, but the school was no help whatsoever. Moreover, they were oddly disinterested for an institution that supposedly trains young women for the operatic vocation. Having one of their students perform at the Grand Opera would reflect glory upon them for having trained the girl, and would greatly improve their consequence in the community."

"A rather odd reaction, indeed," Sherla replied contemplatively. "I should have been rather suspicious myself."

"As was our friend. He made some, unfortunately, rather not so discreet inquiries and was attacked and beaten on the street near his home one night soon thereafter. Again unfortunately, he did not make the connection between a beating where nothing was stolen and his search for the missing girl. He continued his inquiries and was again beaten, but this time he was told that if they had to come back a third time, he would be waking with the angels in heaven or the devil in hell.

"At this point you were called in?" Sherla surmised with a smile.

"Precisely. I made my investigations through the stage set while Godfrey disguised himself as a street cleaner and instituted a surveillance on the school. No one in the theater or opera set had ever even heard of this school. Fortunately, Godfrey had more success than I did. Over the course of three weeks, he became quite familiar with those who regularly came and went. Two things caught his notice, however. One was the fact that, as he put it, 'this very nasty looking piece of goods" came to the school one day, about two weeks after Godfrey had begun his watch. She arrived and left by a very expensive, if gaudy carriage, and the next day, two of the more attractive female students no longer attended the classes."

"The gendarmerie was never called in on these 'disappearances'?"

Shaking her head, Irene held up one hand and rubbed her forefinger against her thumb as if fanning a hand full of paper currency. "When we investigated, there were no records of those women at all. We suspect they were young women from the country or from the lower classes who had some singing talent, or thought they did, who would delight in the chance to learn to sing for their living."

"All beautiful?"

"Attractive enough, certainly," Irene agreed. "In any case we decided to follow our only clue - the possible connection between the woman and the disappearance of the two students. The next time she visited the school, Godfrey followed her."

"I hope he has improved at the art of such a covert activity since our mutual adventure in Monaco?" Sherla asked with a smile.

"Well, he wasn't attempting to surveille Mr. Sherlock Holmes of 221B Baker Street this time, but he has improved greatly as a sleuth in our years together," Irene said with great fondness in her voice. "He followed her to a large, walled estate outside Paris. That night, we made an attempt to enter the grounds but found the intervening space between the wall and the house guarded by large, vicious dogs. We barely escaped."

"Interesting, and begs the question - were the dogs to keep someone in or someone out?"

"Both, in my estimation. Godfrey and I were still trying to develop a method for gaining entry that would not involve hurting or otherwise incapacitating the dogs, when our we had our first bit of luck."

"You made your own luck with your most excellent detective work, Irene," Sherla said gravely. "That you were there was a result of that effort."

She waved away the praise and continued. "While we were there looking for weaknesses in their security, that hopelessly gaudy carriage departed the estate through the gates. We noted that the carriage had to stop on both sides of the gate, first to unlock and open it, and then to close and relock it. We thought that, perhaps, we could somehow secret ourselves beneath the frame of their equipage when it stopped to open the gates upon its return, but as it happened, that was unnecessary. Katrina had anticipated our solution for she dropped to the ground from the conveyance's undercarriage once it began moving again following locking the gates. She then rolled for the nearest cover like a little dervish, which happened to be the bushes where Godfrey and I had hidden ourselves."

"A very desperate act on her part - she might easily have fallen too soon or during a turn - been run over by the wheels or attacked by those dogs of yours."

"She had decided that would be preferable to existing in that vile house another instant. We, of course, spirited her away to our home where we got her entire story from her - has she told you that? How her inhuman bastard of a father had sold her to that woman when she'd been but barely sixteen? She is not like other women, Sherla, as you have no doubt surmised. She prefers the love of other women and she has a brain - neither of which were acceptable to her father."

"Is that not a little young, even in France, for a young woman to decide she prefers the touch of women over men?" Sherla asked in disbelief.

"Your all-too-English disdain of things French is showing, my dear. She was a bastard - born on the wrong side of the blanket to a French aristocrat whose antecedents, unfortunately, escaped the kiss of Madame la Guillotine. Her birth and her intelligence made her unsuited for sale in the more socially acceptable marriage mart. It did not, however, affect her value in other, less reputable arenas. Her father raped her when she was but fourteen years old, and continued to do so until he sold her. She turned to the only consolation available - her Mother's maid who introduced her to the ways of Sappho. It was a far gentler and pleasurable introduction than her father had given her."

"I see," Sherla said, her voice suddenly so cold and dangerous that Irene could barely restrain a shiver. "The gaudy woman is a brothel keeper, then?"

"That and worse, Sherla. She called herself Madame de Sade, and it fit her. The torments and horrors she inflicted on those girls to force them to do her bidding were horrible - beyond merely inhuman! The Marquis may have the reputation, my dear, but trust me that no male could ever torment, humiliate or hurt a female like another female. Katrina resisted, as much because it is not in her to tolerate submissively the touch and sexual use of men, as because she has the soul of a lion. Knowing Katrina's preferences, Madame de Sade's punishments were to deny her that, and to make her a torture slave in her dungeon. For enough francs, a man could do almost anything he wished down there. Records we recovered later indicated that as many as fifty young women died down there, their lives paid for in francs and sous. Katrina would have been next among their number had she not escaped when she did. Her name had already been entered in the ledger, along with the negotiated price for her death - ten thousand francs.

"I hope the woman died screaming in agony, locked away in her own damned hellhole," Sherla hissed in fury, the first emotion Irene had seen since the discussion began. "And that certainly explains your concern that Moriarty was involved in such activities.

"Not quite, as I will get to in a moment. As to Madame, I am afraid her death was not so poetically just. She was, however, executed by the French courts if that is any conciliation."

"The French would have granted her far too merciful a death because she was a woman, but at least she is dead. What happened?"

"Nothing very heroic, I am afraid. My husband and I contacted a very reliable and honest official we knew. He closed down the operation and arrested Madame de Sade and her minions. We tried to help the other girls, but for the most part, they disappeared before we could do very much. I worry about them when I permit myself to think of them."

"You saved Katrina," Sherla commented softly.

"Yes we did, and fell in love with her. I had actually discussed with Godfrey the possibility of adopting her when our friend warned us that the Madame did not work alone. Apparently, there was reference to a higher power in Madame's records, someone she had to report to and answer to in matters related to her various criminal operations. In return for a rather sizeable portion of her gross profits, this mysterious individual protected her, and provided her with . . . other services."

"By that I infer you mean such services as murder on demand?"

Irene nodded. "Yes. There were numerous records of officials who became too interested in Madame's business being referred to this person, only to have them disappear forever in relatively short order."

"And you feared for Katrina should her name become public, as it would have to were you to adopt her? You were afraid this individual would try to avenge Madame, or at least, the income her demise cost him?"

"Exactly, my dear. So we took her in and made her, publicly at least, our maid. She is actually family and we are privately educating her so that when she is old enough, she might attend university and make a life for herself. Unfortunately, she has been bitten by my own investigations bug, and thinks to do what I do and have done. I will admit that she has shown a great flair for the work, but I fear that she thinks to rescue other young women such as herself. Given her personal preferences, she has not intent nor desire to wed, so at least she will not have a family to concern her."

"She has you and your husband," Sherla corrected, "and now she has me. But enough of that, some questions, if you will, please." Irene nodded and Sherla began. "Katrina's . . paternal parent, what happened to him?"

That brightened Irene, in a malevolent manner at least. "He is dead - one of the mysterious one's victims on behalf of Madame de Sade. Apparently, he thought to extort more money out of the Madame. He was found stripped, beaten and castrated outside of his country home, his severed male part stuffed into his mouth."

Sherla could not help shifting in her seat, and drawing her legs together as she considered that image. "Oh sit still," Irene admonished, her eyes twinkling, "At least now, you no longer need worry about such things, now do you?"

"As you say," Sherla replied, her voice still uneven, "However, I am more interested in this individual you hide from. There were no indications who he might be? I assume you have used your considerable skills to search him out."

Irene shook her head. "Of course, but it is as if he simply ceased to exist about the time we took in Katrina. Some clues, surely. Initials in one place, a military title in another, and some combinations of all of them. None of it made any sense to our friend or to any of the officials."

Something changed in Sherla's demeanor. "How long has Katrina been with you?"

"Almost four years. She was barely seventeen when she escaped, and was not more than sixteen when that animal sold her to that vile woman."

"That might fit. The father was killed soon after the . . .sale, too, am I correct?" Irene nodded, her expression becoming pensive. "The title, Irene, and the initials. . .do you remember them?" Her voice was now low, very intense and just a little dangerous.

"Why yes, Sherla, the title was Colonel. As for the initials, sometimes it was simply "G". Other times it was AHG or AG. Once it was recorded as Colonel G. Why? Do you know something?"

"Four, almost five years ago, Sherlock Holmes undertook his last mission abroad on behalf of his brother Mycroft. It was a mission so secret that Watson was never told for fear he might forget its great sensitivity. I was sent to neutralize the last known associate of Professor Moriarty - a man who was to Paris and France, what Colonel Moran was to London and England - Moriarty's right hand man and hand picked successor to his role as Lord of the Underworld. This . . person had come to Mycroft's attention by his acquiring of various apparatus and laboratory equipment needed to breed bacteria. It had become clear from Mycroft's investigations that this person intended to develop the bacteria as weapons."

"And this person fits the initials I just gave you?" Irene asked impatiently.

"Colonel Auguste Henri Gilbert, late of the French Army," Sherla said solemnly. "He is dead, Irene, and has been since shortly after Katrina's father was killed. I, or rather Sherlock, engineered his demise in his own foul laboratory. His organization collapsed almost immediately, as had Moran's when Mr. Holmes returned to London to save Watson. There is no one left with the power or the will to come after you or Katrina."

"My lord in heaven," Irene breathed softly, "you mean she is safe at last? I can acknowledge her in society as she has always deserved?"

"She is safe, although whether she wants anything to do with Society is another question, and one which must await another day and time for its answer."

"She deserved so much better than we could give her and still keep her safe, Sherla."

"She seems rather happy with her lot from my observations. Given what she has gone through, it is miraculous that she is so. . open and happy. That speaks volumes about her, and even more about you and your husband. She could so very easily have become one of those lost souls who ultimately end their own lives."

"As you almost did, my dear?" Irene asked gently.

"I was alone when I should not have been, and therefore decided on a permanent solution to a problem I might have later, given time and the help of friends, seen as temporary. She had friends - she had and has you. Now I have you and I have her. I do not think such a false and faulted solution would ever occur to me again."

"Do you wish to be here when I tell her the good news?"

"I think such glad tidings are more appropriately done between. . .Mother and daughter, Irene. There will be other times for all of us to work through this for it is not really over - not for her and not for me." Sherla rose and walked over to the bell pull. "I will be in the music room if either of you need me."

Sherla left the room just as Katrina hurried up from where ever she had been studying. Sherla only smiled at her concerned friend, and waved her into the library.
 

 
The melodies of Liszt and Chopan were filling the music room when Irene and Katrina entered the room. Smiling in welcome, Sherla finished her piece and then turned to her audience. "All is well?" she asked quietly.

"You . . .I mean, Mr. Holmes truly did away with that evil man?" Katrina asked, her English becoming heavily accented in her emotional turmoil. Sherla nodded. "Mada. . I mean, Maman has given me this that I might give it to you," Katrina said as she pulled a long, black leather case from behind her back.

Sherla all but pounced on it, opening the case with pure glee on her lovely face. With reverent hands, she lifted the glossy violin from the red-felt lined interior of the case, and then reached for the bow. "May I try it?" She asked, almost hesitantly.

"Of course you may," Irene huffed. "I don't play the violin, and besides, I purchased it for you. My friend in Paris Orchestra says it is a superb instrument, if not a Stradivarius, but none of those were on the market just now.

Sherla quickly tested and tuned the instrument, and then putting it to her chin, drew the bow across the strings. She sighed in rapturous bliss. Without further ado, the other two women were treated to an impromptu concert, and if an occasional note was a bit off when Sherla neglected to compensate for her reduced finger reach, no one complained. Soon, Irene was accompanying Sherla on the piano.

The pair, with Katrina as their rapt audience, played on well into the afternoon until the sound of their music could no longer drown out the growling of the empty stomachs. Reluctantly, they called an end to their idyllic moment to feed another, more earthly hunger.
 

 
 
Entry in the Journal of Miss Sherla Joan Holmes

Date: February 25, 1911

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

Time: 6:33 P.M.

My Dear Doctor Watson: It has been a most edifying time since I last wrote within these pages. I have had many new experiences, some positive and others not so very positive, but all of them enlightening in their own way. The ball went well, I think. No, that is unfair for I am working too hard to be "holmes-ish" in this journal, as if by doing so I give lie to the fact that my life and my outlook are changing as much as have my physique. I must be honest in this journal otherwise I am lying to myself which is perhaps the greatest sin of all. The ball was lovely! Wonderful! A marvelous experience of sight, and sound, of scent and flavor. I had a most wonderful time dancing, and truth to tell, I now regret having argued with Irene about those other six dances - although I must admit that my new corset did have me breathing rather heavily after the more energetic dances. I do wonder, however, if women who were born females laugh behind their fans as I did at the antics of the young men at the ball - young peacocks strutting their plumage before an unattached peahen in hopes of earning a peck or two of her favors. I must tell you that I have been unable to decide which of two choices earns the prize as the absolute worst aspect of this high society rite of courtship. On one hand there is the positively awful poetry they seem to think they must create and then inflict upon any poor female with the sound of their voices. I refuse to dignify any of it by attempting to remember it so that I may write it down here. Heavens above, John, immortalizing such clap trap would be a crime against art. On the other hand, however, are the absolutely hilarious "compliments" these young chevaliers bestow upon my and other ladies' heads. Heavens, John, if I had not been wearing gloves, one of those high-born fools would have sung the praises of the shape of my hangnails, or pontificated on the mysteries of the sweat patterns on my palms. Amazing. Another thing I have learned again, and which I should not have had need to learn again, is that I now have absolutely NO head for spirits. I became quite the giddy fool on a relatively small portion of champagne and nearly made a worse fool of myself, much to Irene's dismay. Fortunately, THE Woman emerged victorious from the fray, and we managed our escape only slightly scathed. I have discovered, that while the worst of Moriarty's foul withdrawal is past, I am still highly susceptible to the sexual demons of the flesh. And of all things, John, with a MAN!! Oh yes, I know, I know. I am a woman and starting to think like one more and more, and yes, man and woman together is nature's way of it, but curse it all, John, part of me still thinks like a man. This very good looking (yes, I noticed) young man lured me out into the moonlight and kissed me. Yes, I was well and truly inebriated by that time, and he did surprise me, but once he had me lip-to-lip? I wanted to consume him whole, John. Or be consumed by him. I was not rational enough during our. . . exchange to know quite which. At some point, the combination of the alcohol and the kiss reignited a need in me that matched my withdrawal experiences. Irene claims that had she not arrived on the scene when she did, I would have been inviting the fellow to do far more than just kiss me. I cannot say, for I do not feel that way about him right now, sober and no longer needful of physical satiation, and while Irene might not tell me a truth if she thinks it best, I do not believe that *she* believes she is exaggerating the case. Oddly enough, John, an old case of Sherlock's came up tonight - one which you were never made privy to for reasons of security. Suffice it to say, Sherlock's activities on that particular instance have done both Irene and Katrina a singular service. That pleases me greatly. I seem to have finished my size reduction, John, as none of my measurements have changed over the past several days. Oh, except for my waist and it is not for the reason you think. I have convinced Irene, and almost convinced Katrina, that I do not WISH to have a sixteen inch waist measurement. While I do admit I look magnificent laced down to such small dimensions, it does not suit my needs to have my abdominal and lower back muscles weakened as they would be were I to continue such tight figure training. We have agreed that I shall keep a nominal 19 to 20 inch waist with a lacing down to 17 to 18 inches for special occasions. Now all I must do is convince Katrina that waking up in the morning is NOT a special occasion. Irene's fencing lessons with me will keep those muscles strong so that when I go to face Moriarty, I will have the necessary freedom of movement to do what must be done. Katrina's question was if she could resume "properly seeing to your middle once this foolishness is over." I think, my friend, that I shall have to work long and hard to find a reason she will find adequate NOT to lace as she becomes dreamy-eyed whenever she mentions the words "sixteen", "inches" and "waist" in a single sentence that refers to me. And I will have a very difficult time denying her that pleasure, because perhaps the most incredible experience of all is that I have, for the first time in either of my two lives, made love with another person. Katrina to be precise. I must tell you, that I do not recall as much of it as I would wish, but what I do remember is delightful beyond my poor ability with words to describe adequately. I now know, John, or at least have glimpsed, what you must have shared and then sadly lost with your Mary. Nothing Sherlock experienced in his life compares to what I felt last night. It is something akin to being blind from birth and waking up one morning with perfect vision. I know that this expression of physical love between two female creatures is a violation of the laws of man and church, John, but am I truly a woman? Certainly a great deal of me is, and becoming more so by the day, but I am still the sum total of what once was Sherlock Holmes, a man. Do I make love with my body or with my mind? A pretty puzzle, eh? I shall consider it, but I shall not deny myself the pleasure and the love I have found in Katrina's arms while I do so. The last thing I have learned is that there has been far, far, far too little love in my life. .. lives, and I never before knew how great that lack truly was. I shall not give it up now that I have discovered it. However, the most important thing I have to tell you is that Katrina and Irene gave me a new violin today, a truly beautiful instrument. We spent the better part of the afternoon in the music room making music together. I must say, John, that this was the most lovely afternoon I can ever remember. Certainly far better than any I endured as a child. Even the challenge of a stimulating investigation never soothed to my inner spirit as did those few hours spent making music and friendship. Good night, John. It is time for the evening meal.

End Journal Entry.
 
 
Chapter 14. Moriarty's Gambit
 
Moriarty sipped his morning coffee and barely stifled an undignified sigh of quiet satisfaction that had nothing to do with the current state of progress in the laboratory. It had everything to do with the scheme he had put into motion yesterday morning. *It is as if I were once again fully alive after years spent in a fugue. Exhilarating,* he mused, *MOST exhilarating.*

A servant came in to clear away the dishes as Moriarty rose and left the table. He walked to a nearby window and gazed out over the pristine purity of the snow covered grounds. There, he permitted himself a small chuckle. *How appropriate that the first major public act of my return to the Continent should be such a finely-designed crime, forged in the heavenly solitude of such a peaceful setting. This is my destiny, to control the lesser beings of the world from a setting of tranquility, as far above their petty struggles as my own intellect is above their near imbecilities.*

*Soon, very soon, assuming the trains are on schedule,* he exulted in excited anticipation. Moriarty's smile grew wider as the picture slowly formed and became vivid before his mind's eye. Dozens of people dead or dying painfully so that one man could disappear without his disappearance being noticed. *It has been far too long since I have wielded the heady power of life and death so fully, and yet, so delicately. Any ham-handed fool with a gun can end the lives of tens of people before he is finally stopped and killed himself,* Moriarty thought with happy self congratulation, *Just as any idiot can commit a kidnapping to no other purpose than mere and too often unrealized monetary gain, but only I could conceive of murder on such a scale as a diversion for a purposeful abduction, and make it all look accidental. And the first step in the scheme to flush the quarry was sweet, as well. The authorities on the Swiss side of the border will be far too busy with more pressing matters to assist the French in their investigations until it is far too late. The trail will be cold.*

Thoroughly pleased with himself, Moriarty left the window for his laboratory to check up on Professor Haber. As he walked, one last thought occurred to him. "Wouldn't this have driven Holmes mad?"
 

 
Sherla, Irene and Katrina, dressed in warm day gowns and floor length woolen cloaks, waited in the cold mist of their own breath at the door to the university guest house. Thankfully, this would be their fourth and final call of the day and their next stop would be Irene's cozy cottage. They had, over the course of their day, refined their plan to a elegantly and precisely choreographed dance. Irene would charm the scientist while Sherla would listen carefully, and ask any pointed questions once Irene had him at ease and unguarded. While they were so occupied, Katrina would subtly interrogate the staff below stairs in her role as maid-companion to Mademoiselle Sherla.

The door opened and a austerely dignified butler of mature years appeared from within. With grave courtesy, he accepted Irene's calling card, and bid then wait in the front parlor while he announced their arrival. Sherla had to consciously restrain herself from pacing as they awaited Dr. Buchner's arrival. This man was too well connected in the biological chemistry academic world of Europe not to have noticed if anything suddenly happened to any of his colleagues. They had learned a great deal of useful information from the other scientists, but none of what they had gleaned was conclusive. They had new avenues of inquiry, but those would require a great deal of time and effort to run to ground.

While she had no firm evidence upon which to base the conviction, Sherla was becoming ever more certain that time was a commodity that was becoming increasingly short in supply. Some instinct to which she did not wish to give credence was screaming that something was about to happen, and that there was little, if anything, she would be able to do about it. It was a most disconcerting sensation.

"Ah, Madame Irene, Mademoiselle Sherla," Frau Buchner greeted them brightly as she hurried into the room. "I am so glad to see you both, but I am afraid that your visit is in vain, Mademoiselle," she said turning her full attention to Sherla. "My husband will not be able to discuss your researches as he is no longer here in Paris."

"Oh," Irene asked quickly to forestall Sherla who would have, Irene was sure, badgered the woman unmercifully in her disappointment. "And when will Monsieur le Docteur return?"

The plump blond gave a small smile of apology. "Not anytime soon, I am afraid, Madame Irene. Just yesterday morning, he was received direction from the head of his university that Eduard was needed in Zurich. He has been working with a colleague there on some very special research. They like to pretend that it is all so very great a secret, and so I suppose it was - from me - but their friends on the faculties of their respective universities apparently know what they are about.

"As to why my husband had to leave, evidently there was a serious accident involving the chemicals and other compounds he and his partner work with. The local officials wanted someone knowledgeable with the experiments as several persons, including my husband's partner, are gravely ill due to exposure to these chemicals. The other members of the faculty told the police about my husband's relationship with their fellow faculty member. He was called to come help them neutralize the chemicals before anyone else becomes ill. The chemicals must be very dangerous for my husband barely waited to pack his clothing and his research notes. He left by the late afternoon train yesterday. I do apologize, Madame, for I quite forgot his appointment with you. It was, I am afraid, a very confused situation as we tried to get him packed and on his way. He will meet me at home in Germany after he is finished in Switzerland."

Irene saw the strange look on Sherla's face and knew something was bothering the girl. "Perhaps, Madame, we might still have our visit later. My niece and I will be visiting Germany later in the spring. Perhaps, we might call upon you then?"

Frau Buchner looked uncertain. "My husband is particularly busy when he is home and in his laboratory. Perhaps you might contact us closer to the date of your visit? It might be simpler to arrange such a visit at that time."

"I understand perfectly, Madame. We will send you a note and endeavor to have our visit later. If we might have your card, please, so that I can write you?" Irene's voice was off-handedly reasonable.

"Certainly," Frau Buchner said with a relieved smile, and then hurried off to obtain one of her husband's calling cards.
 

 
"He's avoiding speaking with us," Sherla fumed as she seated herself in Irene's carriage. "He has decided that we are naught but silly females and therefore not worth the waste of his so- very valuable time. I'll wager he was somewhere in the house laughing at our effrontery for wishing to discuss his special area of expertise with him as if we might be colleagues."

Her frustrated anger earned her a merry laugh from Irene, "My dear Sherla, I would make a very large bet that the Professor is indeed gone away. No man who is not blind, deaf, and feeble-minded - OR who is not Mr. Sherlock Holmes - would turn down a chance to spend a bit of time with a young woman as lovely as you."

"That is true, Madame," said Katrina, then blushed as she realized that in fact ALL of it was true. But she continued, "Non, Ma'amselle Cherie. I spoke with the housekeeper and she is still very put out over the unexpected and sudden manner in which Monsieur le Docteur departed. Very disruptive to her well ordered house."

"Hmmmm, yes," Irene said quietly. "I do not think Madame la Docteur's Frau is a very skilled prevaricator. I think we can assume that Buchner did leave yesterday. Odd, though. My understanding is that this conference is a very important event for scientists such as Buchner and the others. The individual in Zurich must be very important indeed."

"Buchner is reputed to be a very organized and meticulous individual," Sherla mused aloud. "A wild departure such as this would not have gone well with him," Sherla turned to Katrina. "Any mention of him appearing to be angry or upset at this sudden, and by all accounts, unanticipated summons?"

"Non, Ma'amselle Cherie. Just that he was most anxious to be on his way."

Sherla stamped her foot against the carriage floor. "Blast! I was so certain that his intimate knowledge of the international chemistry world would prove to be decisive in shattering the veil of secrecy Moriarty has spun about his current activities. Now, our investigations will be quite tedious and lengthy researches of special chemicals and experimental apparatus that may or may not prove fruitful."

"I have contacts who are quite capable of following trails of such minutia, my dear. We can continue your education in the arts of being a modern social female," Irene said with a grin.

"Well, since I am already excelling at those lessons, Madame," Sherla replied, "I know precisely what I wish done as soon as we are safely within the cottage."

"Oh?" Irene asked lightly, "And what might that be, my dear?"

"I want these thrice cursed stays loosened!"

"Mais, non," Katrina interjected. "You are so lovely like that, Ma'amselle Cherie. And besides, you are only laced but a hair's breadth beneath nineteen of your English inches."

"We will check, Miss Sly Boots, when we arrive, AND we will use *my* measuring tape. I am not so certain I trust you where my middle is concerned."
 

 
 
Entry in the Journal of Miss Sherla Joan Holmes

Date: February 26, 1911

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

Time: 5:34 P.M.

My Dear Doctor Watson: We met with three of the four scientists today. If I did not feel that our time to find and stop Moriarty grows dangerously shorter by the minute, I would have concluded that our excursion was highly successful. Given sufficient time, I am sure the clues provided by our unwitting informants will ultimately lead us to our quarry. Only I cannot shake this notion, this certitude that Moriarty is about to make some significant move. And we are ill prepared for to meet this thrust of his, John, whatever it is. On a more pleasant note, I am happy to report that I won a minor victory today, John. Katrina WAS using a somewhat shortened measure tape when lacing me down. The little minx. Her nineteen inches was nearly and inch and half less than that. Irene said she would speak to her. Hopefully, she will understand that I need I cannot afford to have any of my muscles intentionally weakened if I am to have any chance of success in my fast approaching face-to-face conflict with Professor Moriarty. Oh stuff! I nearly wrote "mano e mano", John. What is it now? "Femma e mano"? Lacks something of the dramatic, I think. Battle of the Sexes sounds too much like the title of one of those dreadful novels that Katrina is forever reading. And that is something else about being female that is taking a great deal of getting used to, John. Women are distinctly limited in their cursing, at least they are if they wish to remain "a socially acceptable female." I don't mind telling you, old friend, but I am beginning to think that "socially acceptable female" would make a perfectly worthy epithet all on its own merits. Might be rather satisfying to tell someone "May you devolve into a socially acceptable female." Oh well. As for Katrina, when she isn't attempting to cut me in half with a corset, she is actually a very good friend. More than a friend as she spent the night with me again last night, John. I can quite happily report that making love is even more exquisite when your senses are not dulled by drink. A discovery that has given me cause to reflect on my prior life. How many other such beautiful experiences have I denied myself, John? How many times, old friend, did I ignore your well- intentioned advice on matters of pleasures and joy in favor of intellectual purity? Had I met someone like Katrina in those days, someone who could and would teach me the joys I have since learned, would I have sought the mind-dulling kiss of hypodermic? I suppose we will never know, but given what I know now, I cannot see how even narrow-viewed and overly-focused Mr. Sherlock Holmes could be so dense. I know I told you that I have decided I want to live, old friend, and I must admit that such new experiences, many of them of the flesh, are a large part of my conversion to that desire. Once the issue of Moriarty is over and done with, I may consider becoming a rather dissolute lady of leisure. And would that be so bad? If I were to observe the person I have become objectively, I would look at these slender, soft hands and deduce that they had never felt a callus. I would note the cascading waves of sleek black hair that I just cannot seem to bear to braid and see the results of hours spent brushing it into shining perfection. I might well conclude that this body I now wear would seem to have been intended for the softer pastimes of a lady, not the coarse indignities of criminal investigation. In truth, John, I do not know if I am becoming vain or if I still cannot believe the evidence of my own eyes, but I cannot pass a mirror by without stopping to look at myself. Not only that, but what I see in those dark, silver-highlighted depths is always a surprise - particularly since Katrina has begun teaching me the finer nuances of women's cosmetics. Such a devious little creature, John. I think you would like her, as I now do myself. Well, perhaps not QUITE as I do right now. Have I just made a lewd jest? How interesting. Didn't know I had it in me, eh John? Back to my earlier point. Perhaps I have always been vain, but I have to admit that as Sherlock I took some solace in the belief that my admittedly-prominent nose was useful and aided me in discerning subtleties of scents at a crime scene. I now must confess that was the most foolish of vanities, because the pert button that now adorns Sherla's face is ever so much more sensitive than the so-much-larger one that had dominated Sherlock's appearance. What I know of optics implies that eyes must be of a certain size for clear vision, so it is no surprise that my eyes appear so large in my much smaller face. But they appear so expressive as well, despite the depth implied by their dark color. I fear that I will need to school those eyes most carefully or I shall never again be able to put forth a credible bluff. Irene has been working with me on developing that bit of feminine guile. Oh, there I go, giving away the jest. Of course I am not giving up detecting. T'would be easier to give up breathing, but I am going to enjoy being what I have become as well. Miss Sherla Holmes, Consulting Detective, is a far more joyful person than was Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective. Thank God. Forgive me that unladylike epithet, John. In any case, to continue my earlier discourse, I must conclude that I am indeed quite vain, for I find that I daily take greater pride in my feminine bounty. The tightness of my corset is foolish and a bother, but the swell of my bosom is quite noticeable on my small frame. I believe that I am more amply endowed than that minx Katrina, an effect made much more dramatic by the petite delicacy of my other features. All in all, I have come to realize that I am quite pretty, and surprisingly, I am quite pleased by that realization. I no longer consider the time spent enhancing my appearance to be time wasted. Indeed, since Katrina insists, even after being freed of her fear of Moriarty's long-dead henchman, on playing my maid, time spent in that endeavor is very pleasant indeed. Yes, old friend, I know what you are thinking, and you are correct. I am becoming a woman in all ways that matter. There are rewards in that, John, rewards that I would never have understood nor accepted in the old days at Baker Street. I only know that my having realized and accepted that very basic truth has everything to do with my daily increasing joy at having survived Moriarty's potion, and with my decision to continue living following his imminent demise. I find that contemplating such a life is a very pleasant thing, in and of itself. Good afternoon, old friend.

End Journal Entry.
 
 
Sherla set aside the diary and had just risen from her desk when her door burst open to reveal a surprisingly agitated Irene.

"What is it, Irene?" She asked moving over to take the older woman's hand.

Irene held out the newspaper she was holding in her hand. Sherla took it and immediately went pale. She scanned the article quickly, but the headline told the entire tale.

"TRAIN DISASTER IN SWITZERLAND. ALL PASSENGERS DEAD IN DERAILMENT AND FIRE!"

"The train Buchner was embarked upon?"

"He is mentioned in the article by name, but thus far the dead have, for the most part, gone unidentified. The paper hints that a fire spread very rapidly, consuming most of the train and those aboard. The article also mentions that there a many wolves in the area who are typically near starvation at this time of the year."

Sherla read the article more carefully and set it aside. "It may be precisely what they say it is, Irene, a tragic accident."

"But you don't think so any more than I do," Irene retorted.

"No, I don't think so, Irene, but I am without any evidence to support that conviction," Sherla admitted almost shyly, "But every fiber of my being is screaming that this is not a terrible accident caused by a mechanical failure at precisely the worst possible location."

"Then we must assume that this. . . travesty may be a terrible act of murder designed to look like a terrible accident. Why kill Professor Buchner?"

"A very good question, Irene, but one we don't dare concern ourselves with as yet. The article states that the dead are unidentified which means that the survivors may not be either, particularly if they are no longer in the vicinity of the train."

"You are saying that he may not be dead," Irene said slowly.

Sherla nodded. "*ONE* possible answer is that he is not dead. The press is not usually interested in pleasant news so they tell of the dead and not the living. He might be there waiting, or he might have wandered off. There is, however, a third option we must consider. I told you he was acknowledged as the best in Europe in a field in which Professor Moriarty has reason to be interested. However, Buchner's very visibility would seem to make him invulnerable to abduction." Sherla sat quietly on the stool in front of her vanity. Her fingers began stroking her midnight locks as her mind thought of the various possibilities. "Unless. . . . Irene, I need to see the scene."

Irene nodded. "That was my own reaction, and I may have an idea as to how we can achieve that end." At that, Sherla's head came up, her eyebrows cocked upward in query. "Frau Buchner. She might wish some feminine support when she goes to the scene herself. You saw where the article said that a train with wives and next of kin would be taken to the site tomorrow?"

"You believe we can manage to be with her on that train?"

"Watch and learn, infant." Irene said, a dark, determined smile crossing her face. "I will tell Katrina to pack our warmest clothes. Winter in the Alps will be far colder than here in Paris."
 
 
Chapter 15. Back on the Trail
 
Sherla was still shaking her head, this time in disbelief, three hours later when the three women boarded the special train assigned to convey relatives of the dead to the site. Frau Buchner had shown nothing but tearful gratitude for what Sherla had been certain should have been perceived as unwelcome busybody behavior. Certainly, no one in Sherla OR Sherlock's prior experience would have so readily welcomed the support of near strangers at a time such as this.

Unable to resist any longer, Sherla had pulled Irene aside once they had arrived at the train station, and asked why the woman was so willing to permit Irene to take charge as she had.

"I told you earlier, my dear, that she was not a woman of independent mind. Her husband is her whole world because he tells her what to do and when to do it. I merely stepped into that role and she was pleased to permit me for it relieved her of the responsibility."

"But you are a stranger to her. Doesn't she feel that might be dangerous? You could be a thief or worse. I do not understand her thinking in this at all," an increasingly frustrated Sherla had asked.

"There is a fundamental difference between men and women, Sherla, that your past experiences would not have revealed to you. Perhaps I have some insight into that since I am a woman who has been forced to function in a man's world - sometimes on their terms. Men are problem solvers. Their self-image, and ultimately their pride, derives from their ability to overcome the obstacles of life from their own resources and abilities. To seek or even accept aid implies a failure to solve their own problems themselves."

"Women, on the other hand, do not face this same imperative. Whether this is merely cultural or inherent in our biology I do not know. It may be a holdover from the times when men went out to hunt and women stayed together in the village. But women can give and receive aid with no loss of pride, and so we do."

Irene smiled, took Sherla's arm in hers, and led her back toward the spot where Katrina and Frau Buchner waited for the boarding call. Then she put her mouth to Sherla's ear. "Did you not come to me, dear?" She whispered, "and did I not offer my help before I knew or believed the truth about you?"

That conversation and what it implied about the feminine sex had bothered Sherla ever since they had boarded the train and taken their compartments. It bespoke a spirit of giving and of nobility that would have shamed most men. It was a perplexing problem, and one she would have to work on for some time to come.

Sighing, she reached into the small bag she had carried on to the train with her, and pulled out her embroidery sampler. Perhaps this time, she wouldn't grace the white linen with nearly so much of her blood.
 

 
They stopped at a village a few miles short of the site of the derailment, for nightfall came quickly in the mountains, and the guards did not want to be there in the open when darkness and the wolves arrived. Several women had argued with this decision, wanting to press on and save what might be left of their husbands. Sherla resisted the urge to tell the women to face reality for it was clear to her that anyone who might have survived the accident had been forced to face a day and two nights in the wilderness. There would be no survivors.

At least, none who had survived on their own.

Dinner that evening was simple, hearty, country fare. Potatoes and other root cellar vegetables in a cheese sauce, served with lamb. It was quite tasty, but very few of the women had any appetite as they all thought about the grizzly task that lay before them the following day.

Except Sherla, who initially ate with great relish until Irene kicked her beneath the table. A quick shake of her head and a pointed look at the other women told Sherla she needed to behave more circumspectly, which was sad. The casserole WAS delicious and Sherla had been starved after the long day and trip on the train.

"Eat like a lady in public, Sherla," Irene hissed into her companion's ear, "Or I shall not permit Katrina to loosen your stays until bedtime until we return home!"

That thought effectively spoiled Sherla's appetite for the remainder of the meal.

Things improved little when it came time to retire for the night. The quaint country inn was ill suited to such a crowd for it was normally only a refreshment stop and did not under ordinary circumstances take in so many overnight guests. Filled quite literally to its aged rafters, the inn housed the many women as best as could be done given the circumstances. Irene, Frau Buchner, Sherla and Katrina would be sharing a small, one bed- room - Irene and the Frau sharing the bed, Sherla and Katrina bundling on the floor.

"It's like a house-party," Irene had said when Sherla had grumbled about sleeping on the floor like a child. "Consider it one of the lessons you should have learned as a young girl, dear."

Sherla thought about responding vulgarly, but the arrival of Frau Buchner precluded that. *At least I am still sleeping with Katrina,* she thought by way of making do with what she had.

Except that it did not turn out quite the way she envisioned when they were finally all snuggled down into the heavy sleeping quilts the inn provided against the cold.

"Mais non, Ma'amselle Cherie," Katrina had hissed when Sherla had teasingly run a single sharp nail down her lover's ribs. "We must not! Madame la Docteur's wife is up there with Madame Irene and she will hear us."

Aroused as she always was when her body was in close contact with Katrina, Sherla hissed back, "So? Then we will be quiet."

"You?! Quiet?" Katrina hissed sarcastically. "Hah! You squeal, most sweetly to be sure, but like the baby pig when you reach your satisfaction. Non, we cannot chance it. You must make the trip to the train wreck tomorrow, and may not be able to if Madame La Docteur's wife is upset with you or believes you to be immoral. Now, roll over and go to sleep!"

"But. . ." Sherla was feeling the need. She did roll over, but almost immediately began slowly stroking herself below the covers, trying to "solve" her problem quietly.

Katrina felt the subtle movement of arm and hip, correctly guessing its cause. Leaning close, Katrina brought her hand down sharply on Sherla's shapely bottom, and sternly whispered in her lover's ear, "Cherie, you cannot do this. I already told you that you make too much noise when you reach the goal toward which you strive, no matter how quiet you are right now."

But the demand of her body was already too intense, too strong, and was made stronger still by the heat on her spanked buttock. Sherla could not stop. "But I must! Oh, Katrina, I burn!"

"Non, you must not," Katrina hissed, snaking her hands around Sherla to capture the girl's hands and hold them still.

Katrina missed, and Sherla whirled out of her grasp within the covers, turning to face her lover and smother her face in kisses no less desperate for their eerie silence. "Oooo, but Katrina, I need you. I'll even let you spank me again, if that is what it takes for you to help me." Sherla whispered when her mouth wasn't otherwise occupied with Katrina's lips.

Katrina reached again for Sherla's hands, this time successfully, and forced both wrists behind the petite mademoiselle's back. That goal accomplished, she sought to still Sherla's shuddering body by laying upon her lover, but to no avail. Sherla, delighted with the press of Katrina's lovely feminine body upon her own, squirmed ever more vigorously under the maid's weight, blindly seeking the stimulation her body demanded.

Perhaps it was the sense of having her hands bound behind her - and what did that say about those ideas that Irene had once so blithely hinted at? - but in a few minutes it was obvious from her panting breaths that Sherla would make noise, regardless of the price to be paid later.

Katrina did what she could, capturing Sherla's mouth in her own and swallowing the sound that emerged. A few muffled cries escaped, more like the distant whimper of a kitten than the howls that so often accompanied Sherla's successes, but it could not be helped.

Eventually Sherla relaxed, limp and again breathing more naturally. When she was sure there would not be a repeat encounter, Katrina relaxed as well, letting go of the arms of her lover and friend.

"What was that?" Frau Buchner's drowsy voice called from the darkness above them.

Katrina closed her eyes in resignation, but Sherla's wits saved them. "Your pardon, Frau Buchner. I am afraid I had a bad dream and Katrina had to wake me."

"Oui, Madame," Katrina put in, "She was struggling ever so hard and I am afraid I had to become rather forceful with her."

"I knew bringing impressionable young women along on such a sad affair would be a mistake." the older woman half spoke, half muttered.

"I shall be all right now, Frau Buchner. Please forgive me for waking you."

Frau Buchner mumbled something vaguely affirmative and rolled over in the bed. Both girls listened silently in the dark, wondering if they had compromised their standing with Frau Buchner, but all they heard was a purring snore that indicated she had obliviously fallen back to sleep.

"Now be quiet!" Katrina hissed.

"Yes, my love," Sherla purred in her ear, then let just a hint of giggle into her soft tones as she said, "Next time, I get to hold your arms, even if I have to find some rope to do it," she promised before adding, "Do YOU like getting spanked, Katrina- dear?"

"Perhaps," Katrina said as she rolled over, "And then again, perhaps not. We will have to see, won't we? That is, if you are able to carry out your so very brave boast, *little* one."

Sherla's mouth went wide, and then curled into a feline smile of her own. They would see, and very soon. VERY soon.

In the morning, Irene smirked at the still cautious pair after Frau Buchner had left the three of them alone. "You never told me you were bothered with nightmares, Sherla. From the sounds you made, that . . . dream must have been rather. . . intense." Then she walked off after Frau Buchner, leaving the two girls speechless in her wake.
 

 
The scene of the train wreck should not have belonged to the earth, but rather to some especially deep, uncharted region of hell. Very little remained of what had been a well appointed and luxurious conveyance: some metal frames, a few cast iron heat stoves lying precariously on their sides, shards of broken window glass that had fallen to the ground and shattered, and the heavy iron wheels that had once carried the massive train cars. Everything not made of metal . . . or bone, had been consumed in the hellish fires that had followed the derailment. Some sets of the wheels had actually ridden up onto the wheels of the car ahead of them, an indication, Sherla thought, of just how quickly and suddenly the train had been forced to a stop.

The locomotive itself was completely off the tracks and was laying on its side, its long dimension nearly perpendicular to the tracks as the momentum of the cars behind it had pushed its back end forward before stopping. The huge water tank had been breeched by the by the explosion of the boiler. Melted snow and the remnants of locomotive's water supply had pooled to form a small ice-lake about its burnt and scorched metal body.

Sherla had taken this all in, along with the appalling stench of other things burnt - metal, wood, fabric, but most horrifically, human flesh. The fire must have been hellishly hot for the snow and ice had melted for as much as ten feet on either side of the track.

Then she saw her first . . . remains. Actually, what she saw first was but a skull - a child in so far as she could tell for the blackened shell of bone was very small. Then Sherla saw another charred skeleton, lying over the torso of the first. A flash of gold caught Sherla's eye, and she realized it was all that remained of some piece of jewelry. Moving closer, she saw the dim sparkle of precious gems peaking out from the misshapen clump of gold. It had once been an expensive item, Sherla mused, a brooch, perhaps, and that meant that this was a Mother and a child, and that the Mother had tried to save her child with her own body.

Tears suddenly burned at Sherla's eyes and she spun away from the frightful scene, her hands clutching fiercely at the unusually large reticule she'd brought with her from the inn.

A firm yet gentle hand gripped her shoulder, making her jump and spin, ready to protect herself. "Easy, Sherla," Irene said softly.

"Oh, god, Irene," Sherla hissed out on a half sob as she fell into the startled older woman's arms. Then she saw what Sherla had seen, and understood.

She held the girl for several minutes, letting her weep. When she felt the tide beginning to wane, she took Sherla by the shoulders and held her away so that their eyes could meet. "What you just saw is a terrible thing, my love, but it is far more than merely terrible if someone did this intentionally. That is what we feared and what we have come here to ascertain. I have seen and spoken with the man in charge of the investigation and he has already decided that this was all simply a tragic accident. His mind is made up and he is merely going through the motions of an investigation. You are the only hope that child and his mother have for justice. YOU must find the truth. I will help, of course, but I have never dealt with anything of this scale before. I am afraid I am not even certain where to begin."

For more long seconds, Sherla could only stare blankly at Irene, and then her face cleared, the tears dried and her visage hardened. "Irene?" Sherla said in a cold, hard voice. "I need to know what the inspectors have found. I have to know what they base their conclusion on."

Irene considered that, looked at Sherla, and seemed to consider yet again. "There might be a way, but it all depends on you charming the man in charge."

"Me??!?" Sherla all but squeaked.

"Remember what I told you about Doctor Buchner. You are a young, beautiful woman, my dear. You must charm him, make him want to bask in the glow of your girlish admiration for his brilliance as an investigator."

"And how do I do that?" Sherla hissed back at her pseudo- guardian.

A wicked grin lit Irene's lovely face. "Recall your lessons in flirting, my dear? Coo at him, flatter him, ask him questions with wide amazed eyes, compare him with awe in your voice to that Englishman you've read about in the daily newspapers - what was his name? Oh yes - Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Think sweet and fluffy, Sherla-love."

"And you think that will work??"

"When a beautiful girl like you tells a man he is Saint George, he is going to look first for his armor and then seek out a suitable dragon to slay for her. Trust me."

"Why can't you do it?"

"Because I am not the most beautiful woman here, sweet, and because I have already established myself as that most frightening of creatures to French men such as him - the intelligent woman."

"Oh, so I am to be not very intelligent?" Sherla demanded with some ire.

"If you wish your information, my sweet. Do you?" Sherla had to think about that for a moment, but the answer was clear. She nodded. "Very well. Put a sugar-sweet smile on those luscious lips and vacuous look on that beautiful face. I will be with you, but you must be the one to flatter him shamelessly until he reveals the information you wish to know."

Sherla did her best, trying to mimic the smile Katrina used when she was trying to get around Sherla in some manner, and followed Irene toward the head of the inspection team.

He was a short man, beginning to go to fat, and perhaps in his middle forties. The brim of his hat was beginning to fray and his mustache still bore evidence of the soup he'd eaten for lunch. As Sherla and Irene approached the small camp area the inspectors had set up as an on-scene headquarters, he was talking at one of his subordinates when he saw the two women approaching.

"Monsieur," Irene said graciously, allow me to introduce my niece, Joan. She has been begging me to introduce you since I told her we had spoken."

Sherla offered her hand, anticipating him shaking it and was momentarily surprised with the inspector bowed over her hand to kiss it. A sharp look from Irene had her back in character before he had straightened. "Oooo, Monsieur le Directore, you are so gallant. I am in awe of what you are doing. What have you discovered, sir. . that is, if you can explain it to someone such as I." She said, fluttering her voice and her lashes. *Katrina said that you cannot over do this type of thing with a man. I only pray she is right.*

"I am only a lowly chief inspector, Mademoiselle, But of course I would be very pleased to show you the fruits of our investigation. However, a great deal of what we have uncovered is very technical. You must not be disappointed if you do not comprehend every small detail."

Sherla gave a delighted noise to mask the growl in her mind at his paternalistic condescension. Taking the arm the Frenchman offered, she hung upon it shamelessly as he led her to the remnants of what had once been a luxury sleeper car. *At least it is not the one with the mother and child,* Sherla thought with relief. *I don't know if I could have looked upon that scene without bursting into tears again.* Then, she sternly put that image out of her mind and concentrated on the chief inspector.

They stopped near the approximate center of the car, where he pointed to a steel heating stove resting precariously on a bit of flooring. The floor was badly charred on both sides of stove which had its feeder door hanging on only one hinge and a long crack from the fire box to the flue. "As you can see, Mademoiselle Joan, this stove was damaged when the train crashed which is what caused the fire. The red hot coals escaped and set all of the cloth and wood afire, which spread so quickly, none of the sleeping passengers could escape."

"Oh, that is so sad, Monsieur le Directore, but so very clever of you see that so clearly," Sherla cooed as she hugged his arm with what she hoped was a frightened shiver when something caught her eye. "Oh look at the glass on the ground. The windows?"

"Oui, Mademoiselle. Very good. Very observant. We shall make a detective of you yet. The glass could not burn so it fell to the ground and broke when the frames were consumed by the hungry flames."

"It breaks so many different ways," she said in a wondering voiced as she toed some thin, sharp shards near some broader, larger pieces."

"Oui. It depends on how it falls, I suspect," the inspector said with pompous indifference. "Is that all Mademoiselle wanted to see?"

Sherla made a pout. "Could you please show me what caused the train to leave the tracks like this?"

"All right, but then, sadly, I must return to my men."

He lead her to the head of the train. Along the way, Sherla pointed out an area on the car that would have been beneath the front exit. "How odd to see something so white when everything else is burnt black," she said. Irene's back went instantly stiff, telling Sherla she was on dangerous ground.

Fortunately, the inspector did not rise to her faux pas. "We noticed that, too, Mademoiselle. Apparently the burning wood was blown away by the wind or some such thing before the fire could blacken those spots. There are a few others just like it on other cars."

Sherla only swallowed hard against an urge to ask more pointed questions and allowed the man to lead her to the locomotive. He showed her the badly bend and broken tracks with a flourish. "And so, when the rails buckled, the locomotive left the tracks."

Bending over to look at the jagged edge of the tracks, Sherla exclaimed, "The broken ends are so very shiny, Monsieur le Directore."

Growing more disinterested by the moment, the inspector scarcely spared a glance at the damaged track. "Iron does that when it bends and breaks, Mademoiselle. It is a common enough effect. Now, if you ladies will excuse me," he said, lifting his hat to them before heading back to the warmth of his camp.

Sherla barely acknowledged the man's departure, her eyes fixed on the polished silver sheen on the broken track. "Sherla?" Irene whispered when the inspector was out of earshot.

"Damn that thrice-cursed fool, Irene," Sherla hissed, tears running down her face. "He has clear evidence of murder on an inhuman scale and he won't see it, even when I tried to show him where to look. Moriarty sabotaged the tracks, then deliberately trapped every single passenger on that train by setting intense fires at every exit and shot those who tried to leave through the windows. That fiend canNOT be allowed to EVER do something like this again. He must NOT be permitted to live!"

"You're sure?" Irene asked?

Nodding, Sherla took out her handkerchief and wiped it vigorously across the damaged track. "I need your handkerchief, Irene, for another sample, but in answer to your question, yes, I am certain." She rose back to her feet, her face once again composed. "Perhaps it is just as well that buffoon of an inspector is an incompetent fool. As the head of this investigation, he'd be the one assigned to go after the murderer. That would only get more innocents killed for he would be laughably outmatched by Professor Moriarty."

"Then there is no question in your mind?" Irene asked. "That all of . . . this. ." and Irene's gaze took in the entire train, "is your Moriarty's work?"

"No question whatsoever," was the uncompromising answer. "I must go and examine the scene of the crime more carefully and collect evidence, but there is no doubt at all that this was a murder and that Moriarty is behind it."

She turned away from Irene and began to stride down the train only to be brought up short as Irene grasped at Sherla's elbow. Her face a furious mask, Sherla spun to face Irene. "Don't forget you are Sherla and not Sherlock. Be careful of your behavior!" Irene hissed.

Nodding, Sherla turned again, but this time, her head was down, and every once in a while, her shoulders heaved as if she were weeping again. She spent the rest of their stay wandering about the remains of the once-great train. Seemingly aimlessly, she would stop to weep harder, several times falling to her knees, her handkerchief in her hand before pushing herself up from the ground to continue her wanderings. The last time she stayed down until several of the workers rushed to her aid, and helped her to her shaking feet. Gently, they assisted her up onto one of the cars so that she could sit for a few moments. No one noticed her reach into her reticule to remove a pair of opera glasses.
 
 
Chapter 16. Point-Counterpoint/Disaster-Opportunity
 
 
Entry in the Journal of Miss Sherla Joan Holmes

Date: February 28, 1911

Location: The Mountain Grotto Inn near the French/Swiss Border.

Time: 9:58 P.M.

My Dear Doctor Watson: We visited the site of the train disaster today. No other word comes immediately to mind, old friend, but I must admit that 'disaster' falls a good deal short of what occurred out there. That sad description of what we saw out there in the Alpine wilderness would have fallen short of the mark if what had occurred had been was nothing more than random chance - a losing throw of the dice by a bored god of some ancient pantheon. BUT, it wasn't random chance at the heart of this unspeakable crime and tragedy, Watson. I needed to see what the investigation team sent in by the French government had discovered. Irene declared that the most efficient method to achieve that end required that I must play the silly ingenue with the inspector in charge of the investigation. Either I was not as overtly blatant as I thought or the chief inspector was far more gullible than I would have dreamed possible. Flattery, I suppose, will get one almost anywhere or anything. Especially if the flatterer is a beautiful young woman (and somehow, I am beginning to accept that is what and who I am - fascinating) and the flatteree is an older fellow well-past his days of attractiveness to most such women. He was more than happy to show off his solution to the puzzle of this train-wreck's cause. Perhaps this arrogant of me, old friend. . .no, it IS arrogant, but some things are unlikely to ever change. In any case, Sherlock would never have permitted a woman to control him in the manner I toyed with that buffoon. *I* will never permit anyone to control ME in such a manner. I know that in my prior life, I spoke of the limitations of the feminine sex at some length, but now I find that I am discovering that the male gender is quite as limited. Where Sherlock found women illogical and prone to allowing their emotions cloud their reason, I now see most men using such a small fraction of their brain that it is no surprise they are dominated by other portions of their anatomy. Perhaps it was not women when I was a male, nor men now that I am a woman. Perhaps, the correct answer is that male or female, woman or man, Mister or Miss, I am still Holmes. And that would-be hero of a chief inspector was not. John, the shallowness of his investigation still appalls me. I must conclude that the efforts of Inspector Laviare (late of the Paris Police) to publish my monographs as instructional and procedural materials for the French police have met with failure. No one using MY methods could have missed the obvious clues that fool ignored even when I prompted him to look at them. As I just finished explaining to Irene, this was murder on an almost unimaginable scale. I have evidence that will prove that assertion, but that closed minded, arrogant fool who was put in charge of what I may only loosely call "the investigation" would never recognize much less accept that proof. Still, against my better judgment of his intelligence, I attempted to point out the critical clues to him. Sadly, he was and remains too fixated on his simplistic and erroneous conclusions to accept anything I discovered, most particularly since I am merely "une petite, belle juene fille". It would be too far beyond his sadly limited mind to perceive this catastrophe for what it truly was - as the mass murder. Naturally then, it must follow therefore, that it would HAVE to be beyond my poor female faculties to have seen, let alone put together into a solution to this monstrous crime. Of course, that means little, since even if the imbecile HAD believed me, bringing the true criminal to justice would require infinitely more than his poor skills to accomplish. Only one man kills like that, John - on such a scale, without regard to children and other innocents or with such techniques. I have absolutely no doubt that this heinous act was planned by Moriarty and executed by his minions. How do I know this was a murder and not the accident the chief inspector wants to believe that it was? Several factors, old friend. A white, flaky patch was found adhering to the metal framing beneath several of the destroyed cars. In particular, I noted that this was at the extreme ends of the cars, directly beneath the doors. It is not a normal wood ash nor was it a patch of mostly intact paint, but it was seemingly burnt into the heavy iron framing. . I suspect, no, I am convinced that these patches are composed of an oxide of magnesium. In order to be certain, I will of course, chemically analyze the samples I obtained at the scene once we return to Paris. I infer that, by some means not clear from the evidence of the remains, magnesium laced explosives went off or were set off beneath the front and rear entrances to each car when the train derailed. The nearly instantaneous, incredibly hot fires that ensued blocked the normal escape routes from the cars. Additionally, any wood and fabric that came in immediate contact with the fiery metal would have, for all intents and purposes, exploded into flame themselves so the fire would have spread into the cars from the two extreme ends toward the center. This theory is borne out, in fact, by the one car the inspector elected to show me. It had a small bit of wood, perhaps two or three planks worth, survive - almost in the center of the car. The char pattern on the forward and after edges of that planking strongly indicates that fire had burnt from both ends of the car. Even assuming that most of the unsuspecting passengers were not stunned or severely injured from the shock of the derailment, they would have had no chance to escape the flames via the front or rear exits. The head investigator's concept that the conflagration started when the locomotive's firebox was sundered is simply ridiculous. Even if one accepts his other contention that the various stoves and fires used for warmth in the winter mountains, the fire spread far too quickly for that to have been the cause. There would have been survivors in that scenario, John, and in point of sad fact, there were none. How do I know that? I looked for tracks. I used Irene's opera glasses in lieu of a seaman's glass and searched the horizon. No snow has fallen since the night of the murder, or else there would have been snow in the vicinity of the cars, or atop the ice lake the engine's water tank created. There were no tracks in the distance, John - none. We found no survivors on our trip to the scene, nor will there be any on the other side of the break in the tracks. The newspaper article's reference to wolves will turn out to be a journalist trying to sell more papers to a blood thirsty populace. The derailment was also not left to chance. The tracks were broken and the metal at the break was rather shiny. Our esteemed investigator believes that this shininess was due to the breaking of the metal train rails. Only it is not. There is a metallic sheen on both sides of the track break that looks nothing like a good clean steel break. It looks like mercury. I deduce that someone spread a mercury-based compound onto the tracks before the train ever arrived. Chemists have long known that certain mercuric compounds attack the granular structure of many metals causing them to become weak and brittle. This one, obviously, was designed to attack the iron and steel used in railroad construction. I obtained a sample of that compound as well, rubbed into another of my handkerchiefs when I supposedly tripped over the mutilated track and fell. When the profoundly heavy locomotive ran over those chemically-embrittled rails, the track buckled under the concentrated mass, then broke and bent, causing the locomotive and then the traincars to derail violently. Why? I can only speculate for there is insufficient evidence to prove my contention. I believe that Buchner was the target. I suspect that two, perhaps three of Moriarty's henchmen were aboard the train. As the train approached its destiny, they moved Buchner to a forward facing door, bracing him and themselves against the impact. As soon as the train stopped, they escaped the train and detonated the magnesium devices. As to where they went, again I can only make an informed supposition. I believe they most likely had a small engine or train awaiting them on the other side of the rail break. There was a blind curve ahead where they could have secreted their transportation until the moment it was needed. I believe that it is also likely that Moriarty's men dealt with any survivors and fed them back into the flames. While with the inspector, I found shards of glass that had broken differently than the other windows. I had one of my "weeping attacks" there, and attempted to piece together the glass. It was not difficult and it became clear that the window had been broken by means other than falling to the ground. The reconstructed glass had a small hole in it - obviously put there before it shattered - approximately the size of a standard rifle bullet. Since this train was both a luxury train and since it was to go into the mountains during late winter, I think it unlikely that any paying customer would have tolerated a hole such at that. No, John, that bullet probably stopped some poor victim from attempting escape from a fiery death via the window. There is no question in my mind who is behind this crime against humanity. It has to be Moriarty. No one else in the world has the knowledge and the utter lack of conscience to kill in such a manner. I was, it would seem, correct in my premonitions and in my assessment of Buchner. I simply did not act on those feelings for they were not derived from logical analysis and deduction. I know what you are thinking, old friend. I should report all of this to the proper authorities, including the fact that their inspector an incompetent fool. Give them the evidence and let them track down Moriarty. I did not and will not do this for three reasons. First, I don't believe the French authorities are capable of dealing with Moriarty. They were unable to do so all those years before and I have seen nothing to indicate that they have improved to the point where they could outwit the great Napoleon of Crime. No, if I did that, he would without doubt escape. My second reason is that when that buffoon brags of his "successfully concluded investigation" to the press, Moriarty will believe that he has succeeded in carrying out a perfect mass murder and kidnapping. I do not wish him any more on guard than he already may be. Finally, John, I did not report my findings to the French authorities for the most personal of reasons. In perfect honesty, old friend, I do not want ANYONE other than myself to be the person who ends Moriarty's vile career. I did not think, John, that this case could become more personal. What he did to me was intended to be a vicious, mind destroying attack on all I, as Sherlock, held dear. Regardless of the fact that it may become the finest gift anyone has ever given me, Moriarty's intentions were vile in the extreme. How could anything be more personal than an attack intended to destroy the mind of a victim? But he has made it more personal. That child and Mother has touched me deeply, old friend, and in ways that no other crime ever has. I have seen death before - violent, malevolent and perverse death - and faced it with rational calm and quiet detachment. But there is nothing calm or detached about the way I react to the mere memory of that child and Mother, or to the recognition of her selfless but hopeless battle to save her child's life at the cost of her own. I will likely never know their names, John, and I will likely never know their faces, but one thing I swear. Professor Moriarty will pay for their needless and needlessly painful deaths. By all that is holy and good, Professor Moriarty will pay - IN FULL MEASURE! I swear it! I pray that their torment of those needless, horrible deaths will be visited on that foul fiend every minute of every day of his eternal sojourn in the darkest pit of Hell. He has made his first overt move, which means he has at last come out of hiding. So long as he remained hidden, remained perfectly covert, my chances of locating him were, at best, small. However, now he has broken cover and in doing so, he MUST have left a trail. He must feel relatively secure to have taken that step, likely thinking that without Sherlock Holmes to hound his every move, he would be safe in doing so. Well, now he will reckon with Sherla Holmes taking up the scent, and he has filled me with a fuller, far more burning determination to bring my quarry to ground than Sherlock could have known. It will prove to be a fatal error on his part as I finally begin to understand the concept "deadlier than the male".

End Journal Entry.
 
 

 
Setting the newspaper aside, Professor Moriarty was in a most jovial mood. The plan had worked to perfection, as well it should have since it was his conception. He had, of course, had plans go awry in the past, but then the fault had always lie in the execution of the plan and not in the plan itself. *As should be expected,* Moriarty thought, *with Holmes at last departed from this mortal veil.*

Still pleased with himself, Moriarty retrieved the paper and read aloud the casualty list, savoring each name, until he reached "Professor Eduard Buchner, Professor of Chemistry at University of Breslau. 1907 Nobel Chemistry Prize winner for his work on the organic chemistry processes involving fermentation and yeasts." That one he read twice before bursting into amused laughter.

He tossed the paper aside and walked over to the one way mirror that looked out upon his laboratory. The so-very-eminent, and thought-to-be-deceased Professor Eduard Buchner was engaged in a very intense discourse with Professor Fritz Haber that was punctuated by many gesticulations and hand-pointings.

"I shall need to arrange a suitable demonstration for the newest member of my little family," Moriarty mused. "Another chimpanzee, I think, at least at first. And then, if Herr Dr. Buchner proves to be the solution to my little problem, then I will no longer need the services of our good Professor Haber. Seeing Haber waste away into a ravenously insatiable female slut, his mind no longer capable of any thought save how to obtain her next sexual release, should prove most instructive and motivational for my remaining academic. The ancient Chinese often executed those who invaded the sanctity of the imperial bedchamber by having the villain sexually teased and tormented by the lesser concubines until he expired from a heart attack. Perhaps I shall do this with Dr. Haber once he is in withdrawal. How long will it take for someone to die of unrequited lust? That might be a useful thing to know when I rule Europe and wish to encourage my subjects in their efforts to serve and please me."

There would be a transitional period, Moriarty knew, while Haber briefed the new man on the ongoing work and results to date. Buchner had the reputation of quickly grasping principles of new research and of seeing ways of applying those principles to new problems. Moriarty hoped that he had seen principles that might now be of use in Moriarty's research; principles that could now solve the problem that so far stymied Haber - developing a rejuvenating drug that was free of both the addictive and the gender-changing side effects of the current potion.

Of course, there was that second project - the development of a weapon that would be useful against massed armies in the field, or as an instrument of terror against cities or countries that foolishly resisted Moriarty's rule. So, on second thought, perhaps there was sufficient reason to keep Haber around the lab and . . . unimpaired, at least for a while. It was a task for which this man who could have become infamous as the father of gas warfare was uniquely qualified.

Moriarty went back to his office and sat down to think. There had been two or three carefully calculated risks in the plan to kidnap Buchner. The most significant of those had been the issue of possible survivors who might have seen his henchmen making off with Buchner. That necessitated the death of the entire complement of passengers riding the train. Fire was a most effective tool for that end.

However, the locomotive would not burn. The engineer and brakeman were, fortunately, quite naturally and unexceptionally killed in the derailment - head injuries when they were thrown from the locomotive - but the passengers posed a problem. They had to die - all of them - no escapees could be permitted. The fire took solved most of that problem, while a handpicked group of sharpshooters took down anyone who might have escaped by other means.

Moriarty allowed himself a few pleasant moments to picture the scene as the fire took the train to Hell. He heard the terror filled screams, saw the faces pressed against the windows that were not designed to open. He tried to imagine the play of emotions across the face of any passenger who managed to force open one of the train car windows. Exultation as the window finally gave. Disbelief and then renewed horror at the moment they saw one of his rifleman take aim. Shock, then pain and finally the blank stare of death as a bullet ended their flight to safety. It was sad that the available moving picture technology was still so unwieldy and bulky. Moriarty would have enjoyed having a pictorial record of this epic triumph.

The train cars not only made excellent funeral pyres but also melted away the bullets from the remains of those who died before the hungry flames took them. "By my calculations, the temperature inside the coaches should have been sufficient to ignite the flesh of the passengers so that their own bodies would contribute to the flames. In the end, nothing would be left but a few charred bones, not terribly distinguishable from any wood that was not completely consumed, eliminating any chance of anyone identifying - or recognizing the anomaly of being unable to identify - Professor Buchner's remains."

The other risks, such as the means for starting the fires or derailing the train, were much less likely to cause question than the fire itself. Few men would have recognized the effects of the pyrotechnic bombs Moriarty had directed his subordinates to secret in the undercarriages of the various train cars, and no one save himself. . . well, no one LIVING save himself, would have noted any mercuric residue on the broken rails. Yes, he had gambled, but he had won! None of the newspapers had even the tiniest glimmer of a mention of possible sabotage of the train. The police might be more effective than they had been in his younger days, but Moriarty did not think they were so effective as to hide that type of news from all European newspapers.

The plan had worked. . . PERFECTLY.

The smile returned but for a moment before Moriarty steeled his face into a stern visage. It was time, he thought, to present the good Dr. Buchner with the facts of his new life. Then he'd have Haber arrange the demonstration for his new colleague.

Buoyed by his success, Moriarty strode to the door to meet with the two professors of chemistry.
 
 
Chapter 17. The Search for Moriarty
 
The four women spent the next few days at the small inn while the authorities attempted to identify the human remains of the tragedy. Unfortunately, there were significantly fewer "remains" than there were passengers. "As Moriarty planned, Irene," Sherla had said when Irene had told her of that outcome. "The combination of a magnesium-based chemical accelerant, old wood and a great deal of paint made for an extremely hot, long burning fire. It truly was a funeral pyre."

When it became clear that none of the remains could be identified as Dr. Buchner, his wife decided she would go back home to Germany instead of back to Paris. "I need to see my family, Madame Irene," she had cried quietly as she told Irene of her decision.

"We understand perfectly. If you would like, I could arrange to have your things in Paris forwarded to your home."

"You would not mind?" Frau Buchner had been almost pathetically grateful.

"With that dragon of a housekeeper? It will be simplicity itself. You need only provide me with a letter directing your temporary staff to follow my instructions. You will be all right on your own?"

"Yes, thank you. I am past the initial shock of it all. Now I wish to be home. I have made arrangements to leave tomorrow morning."

"Excellent. Katrina, Joan and I will be off to home as well. You will hear from me shortly with the details of your personal things."
 

 
The trip back to Paris was passed in relative silence, each woman lost in thought. Irene, shifting uncomfortably in a corset she had let that smirking Katrina tighten just a bit too much that morning, tried to find a comfortable position on the rear-facing seat of their first class compartment. Perhaps it was that backward-looking orientation, but she found her mind traveling back over her life . . .

She had been thirty when she had wed her beloved Godfrey. Up until that magical epiphany, she had all but given up on finding someone who could live with her admittedly unique personality - someone she would want to live with her. Frau Buchner's loss had touched Irene deeply, and she wished Godfrey was home waiting for her so she could show him how much she loved, and yes, needed him. She cursed, fluently and in four languages, the business that kept him an ocean away from her.

Sherla seemed not to notice any problems with her own corset. She sat against the window, staring out at the gray landscape as though the horizon stretched a thousand miles into the distance instead of the scant hundred yards the misty day allowed. Her own thoughts fixated on the woman and child she'd seen on the remnants of the train. Where the old Sherlock had prided himself on never becoming emotionally involved with the players in his various investigations, Sherla realized she was strongly identifying with the woman who had died protecting her child. Could she, Sherla, ever feel that sense of self-sacrifice for another human being?

A tiny voice deep in her heart whispered "Yes."

That change in perception, that, dare she even think it, that almost maternal certainty that she WOULD sacrifice herself in a similar situation, bespoke a transition far deeper and more total than the more obvious physical changes she had undergone this past month. She was now a Woman. She could now conceive, carry and give birth to new life - a son, a daughter.

Motherhood was such an alien concept. During his life, Sherlock had conducted not-infrequent liaisons with women, primarily to relieve those unfortunately demanding physical needs before they impacted his intellectual powers, but he had always taken great care to ensure the woman would not become pregnant. Now, she was the one who could become pregnant, and although it seemed inconceivable to the part of her that still was Sherlock, it was no longer physically impossible. Moreover, thanks to Moriarty's potion, she was rather easily aroused, as her times with Katrina had proven.

Would she be as easily aroused by a man? As much as she would prefer to state, quite emphatically, that the answer was a resounding "NO!", that was emotion speaking, not rational analysis. The truth was that Sherla already KNEW she could be aroused by a man. If nothing else, that kiss beneath star-lit skies at the Paris ball had clearly proven her susceptibility to the male of the species. One too many kisses like that and her next rational thought could well be about her impending motherhood. It was a rather lowering possibility.

Katrina spent the trip pondering two equally disturbing consequences of the past few days. Memories of Sherla at the disaster site still thrilled the little maid. If any doubt had lingered in Katrina's mind as to the truth of Sherla's claim to having been the famous English detective, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, her performance of the past few days had proven her case beyond question. Sherla had not only played the starry-eyed innocent, awed by the inspector, to perfection, she had also, in mere minutes, uncovered evidence that the foolish man's team of "trained" experts had not seen or had simply ignored.

Ever since Sherla had dispensed with the threat that had kept Katrina in hiding as a maid, the young French girl had spent a great deal of her free time thinking about what she was going to do with the remainder of her life. Could her new life's challenge be to learn the methods of the great Sherlock Holmes and become a detective? Would Sherla even consent to teach her? There certainly could be no better teacher in the ways of deduction and observation.

And yet, perhaps Sherla was angry with her for spanking her to be quiet - for what Katrina had been intended as a light-hearted bit of loving fun. Oh, Katrina so hoped that she had not ruined her relationship with Sherla, for as much as the thought of becoming a detective appealed to her, Katrina recognized within herself a much more pressing need - a much more personal and basic need. She was very much afraid that Ma'amselle Cherie had stolen Katrina's heart. What would she do if Sherla did not care to offer her own in return??!?
 

 
All three women were exhausted when the hired landau deposited them and their minimal luggage at Irene's doorstep. After a quick meal, they retired to their rooms and slept the clock round.

After lunch the next day, Irene went seeking Sherla. She found her in the library, as she had expected she would given Katrina's tight lipped description of Sherla's mode of dress.

Irene came to the open library door and stopped in her tracks. Wide-eyed, she could only stare at the scene being played out by her young ward/old rival in the center of her library. She *was* dressed rather outlandishly in trousers and some type of sleeveless bodice that appeared to be made of yard upon yard of linen wrapped tightly about her torso effectively compressing her lovely breasts. Her hair was tightly braided and wrapped around her head. Perspiration glistened on her exposed skin and soaked her makeshift costume.

Sherla had moved the wooden step Irene used to reach books on the top shelves to the center of the library and she was vigorously stepping up and down from the step at a very rapid pace. In her right hand, she held an old cavalry saber that had been a wall decoration, her left hand wielded a knife. As she stepped up and down, she swung and thrust the two weapons vigorously.

Irene moved silently into the room, all the while continuing to watch Sherla. The girl was concentrating on her breathing, taking in one deep breath on every second ascension, and exhaling on the next two. It occurred to Irene that Sherla's movements with the two weapons were not mere exercises for it became clear that she was actually fencing with some foe she saw only in her mind's eye. Quietly, so as to not disturb Sherla's focus, Irene moved over to the sideboard and poured herself a snifter of cognac before seating herself at her desk.

The display continued at the same pace for another ten minutes before Sherla began to gradually slow her movements before finally stopping altogether after five more minutes. She simply stood there in the center of the library, her hands on her hips, inhaling deeply to clear her oxygen starved lungs.

"Well, that was impressive. Did your opponent survive?" Irene asked as she filled a glass with water and walked over to offer it to Sherla.

Her eyes not betraying any surprise or emotion, Sherla took the proffered glass and drank deeply before answering. "Of course not. Can't you see him there? Bleeding all over your Aubusson carpet?"

Irene chuckled at that before becoming serious. "What was that all about?"

"Becoming physically prepared," Sherla answered. "After what I saw in Switzerland, I know that I must face Moriarty. The last time I did that he played with me the way a cat does a mouse. He overpowered me so I must become as strong and fit as possible before he and I meet for the final time."

"Darling," Irene said hesitantly, "Regardless of how much of this you do, how hard you work, you will still be a very petite woman when you finish. There is a limit to how strong you can make that body, no matter how much time you spend conditioning yourself."

Nodding, Sherla gave Irene a half smile. "I am not going to challenge him to a physical contest again, Irene. But however I elect to deal with Professor Moriarty, I will require the stamina to see it through." Sherla gave a quick but awkward fencer's salute with the heavy saber, "And besides, using this strengthens my wrist for our next bout with the foils. Tonight?"

"Of course," Irene said before moving back to her desk and the packet she'd been carrying. "You know that Katrina is very worried about you. You quite scandalized her when you insisted on wearing that mummy's wrapping and refused her entreaties to put on your stays."

"Scandalized? Not hardly. She's just upset because she is determined to train my waist down to something less than sixteen inches and will try anything to keep me in those damnable corsets every minute of every day. She'd have me bathe in the things if she could find one that would survive being immersed in hot water. This morning she actually hinted that perhaps I did not need to bathe quite so often."

"She is French, dear. She is also worried that she has angered you in some way."

Sherla's dark eyes snapped to Irene's. "Angered me? How ever did she get that idea?"

"Well, I am not certain I have all the particulars, but I believe it has something to do with the night you had those. . ummm. . bad dreams?"

A vivid blush flamed across Sherla's creamy complexion and she took another swallow of her water. "Yes?" she finally asked in what she hoped was a non-committal tone.

"Well, as I understand, she had to . . . well, swat you to. . errr. . wake you? And since you have not shared any more bad dreams with her since that night, she is afraid that the spanking offended you."

"I see," Sherla said, almost to herself.

"Did it?" Irene asked gently, "Offend you?"

Sherla went very still. She had thought about that night many times over the past few days, but never had she felt offended by the experience. What she had felt, she was not certain she wanted to admit even to herself, but she knew that "offended" was not how she felt. "No, she didn't. Actually, I was afraid that we would get caught by Frau Buchner and that she might decide to make us leave before I had learned all there was to be learned up there. So I very carefully avoided doing or thinking anything that might have resulted in. .. . bad dreams."

"Katrina is very fond of you, Sherla," Irene finally said. "Much more than fond. If you cannot . . . "

"I am more than fond of her, as well, Irene," Sherla cut her off as the older woman tried to raise the issue diplomatically. "More than I have ever felt for another person, including John Watson for I never wanted to make lo. . .have bad dreams with Watson. What should I do? I do not have a great deal of experience with . . . such relationships."

"Katrina tells me you offered to spank her the next time?"

*In truth, I told her I would restrain her, but I won't tell Irene that.* "Close enough."

"Then do so, playfully, and make sure she knows she is forgiven."

"But she has done nothing to be forgiven for," Sherla protested.

"Spoken like a man, Sherla. She FEELS she needs forgiveness, and if you two have some delightful bad dreams as a result, it will be all the better. One thing Sherlock probably never had the pleasure of was making up in bed. Trust me, sometimes I create a reason to fight with my husband just so that we can repair our differences in the matrimonial boudoir."

"I see, and you believe that Katrina would enjoy this type of romp?"

"Provided you are gentle, yes, the little minx will thoroughly enjoy herself."

"Thank you, Irene, for your help. I find that she is very important to me," Irene bowed her head regally in response. "Was that the only reason you sought me out? I sense that I have the need for another of those baths that so distress Katrina."

"Oh, yes," Irene said quickly. "I have received some reports from the agents I hired to look into those other avenues of inquiry and I wished to go over their findings with you. I also have a train map of Switzerland showing all the usable laid track," she said as she opened up the map. "That particular line has, unfortunately, many little spur lines off the main route between the accident and Zurich. We will have a difficult time finding whatever transport Moriarty's henchmen used."

"We should never expect anything involved with stopping Moriarty to be simple, Irene. He is, in his own evil way, as brilliant as my brother Mycroft was. His weakness is that he believes that brilliance makes him infallible."

"Yes, I understand," Irene said with a sigh, "but for such a small country, Switzerland truly has an excellent rail system. Lord, but there are just so many of those little villages that can be reached by branches off the main track to Zurich. Heimberg, Interlaken, Brienz, , Meiringen, Heavens, even Bern is on the route. . . "

"WHAT DID YOU SAY?" Sherla shouted as she whirled on the stunned Irene.

"Just. . just that there were so many little villages where they could have taken Buchner. Why?"

"No. . you said. . you said Meiringen, did you not?" Sherla's voice was intense, her eyes fierce.

"Why, yes, I did. But why is that so important?"

But Sherla acted as if she had not heard the question, turning away and walking to the window, her eyes distant. "He wouldn't, would he?" She asked, mostly to herself. "I never considered that, and yet, his old haunts were the first places I looked in London."

Irene moved over to stand behind the rigidly erect Sherla. She reached out to squeeze her tight shoulders, as much reminding the girl she was not alone as offering comfort. "What is it, Sherla? What is Meiringen?"

"A short walk from a place I hoped never to see again, Irene. A place where I thought I had killed Moriarty; a place where he thought to kill me," Sherla's voice was soft, almost ethereal as she answered. "My god, Irene, I think he's gone back to Reichenbach Falls."
 

 
Irene found Sherla in the music room, playing some somber piece on her violin. "I've never heard that before," she said as she took her seat at the piano.

"I just created it," Sherla said with a half smile as she put down the violin. "I have to go to Reichenbach Falls," she said baldly.

Irene met the challenge in Sherla's voice with a smile of her own. "I know. So, when do we leave?"

Black eyes went wide, "I never said I expected you to accompany me." Sherla said, her voice cracking with unexpected emotion.

"No," Irene said evenly, "I know you didn't say it, and I strongly suspect you never gave it any consideration."

"Actually, I did, but I have already asked too much of you. There is every possibility that this could end in more than just Moriarty's death. I. . . I have care too much about you to put your life in mortal danger on this mission. No, it is better that I go alone."

"IF you try to go without us," Irene retorted, waggling an admonitory finger at the younger woman, "Then we will be on the next train after you."

"WE?!? No, not Katrina, Irene. She cannot be endangered like this. It would kill me if she was hurt or worse over this."

A sardonic smile crossed Irene's lovely features. "I am glad you have realized that she is that important to you. Perhaps you are not so much the thick headed Sherlock as I had once thought anymore."

"It has not been an easy thing to confront, but it is no less factual and unassailable. I do not have any great deal of personal experience with the emotion, but I suspect that I am in love with the minx."

"She will follow us, too, dear. She will be safer for the benefit of your experience with this criminal and his methods than trying to investigate on her own. She is very intelligent and has learned much from me, but my inquiries rarely involve criminals. . .at least, violent criminals. She will, I am afraid, make herself too obvious."

"And get her lovely person killed," Sherla said with disgust. "Very well. I would like to be on our way as soon as we can make arrangements and some suitable plans."

"I have already sent a message to my man of affairs, Sherla. I asked him to arrange passage suitable for a family of three - well-to-do but not wealthy. I suspect we will be able to leave in two, three days at the most, and Sherla?"

*Why am I surprised at her perceptions? This is THE Woman, and while her methods may differ from mine, the results of her inquiries easily equal my own accomplishments.* "Yes, Irene?"

"I think one of us should go disguised as a male, for the freedom of movement that will afford."

"You?"

"No, not me. I am not as young as I once was and lack the stamina and quickness that might be required. Actually, my dear, I was thinking of you."

"Me?"

"You, Sherla. After all, you have a great deal of experience in the role."

Sherla considered that and then shook her head. "No, I will not do that, for two reasons. First, I am not suited to the role. I will, at best, look like a very effeminate adolescent male and that will draw idle attention to us."

"Trust me, darling, you won't. I know you are a master of disguise, but I have years of theatrical experience and have on occasion passed quite adequately as a male."

"As I have cause to know, but that leaves the second reason, which is less reasoned, but far more important to me. When I defeat Moriarty, I want it to be as a woman. He did this to me - in part for revenge - but mainly as a means to neutralize me as a threat to him. A mere woman could never hope to defeat the great Moriarty. Well, I wish the last thought he has to be that a woman DID defeat him and that he himself created her."

"That is a rather emotional reason, dear," Irene teased, "Not that I don't understand and agree with it, but what would the Great English Detective say about it?"

"He would say that it was still the correct stratagem, though admittedly for a different reason. Moriarty will be on the lookout for an English man, or perhaps an English boy. Katrina, with her Gallic features, will clearly not be a feminized Sherlock Holmes in disguise."

Irene nodded her understanding, "Truly excellent logic, my dear, and very difficult to argue against."

"Quite true, but in a larger sense, that does not matter. I am Sherla, not Sherlock. All that Sherlock was, I am. But I am also different, and perhaps in that difference I am also more than he was. I know I must face Moriarty as Sherla, finding my solutions as the woman I am, not as the man I am no longer."

*I think you are in the right of that, my dear,* Irene thought with a smile. "So, who tells Katrina that she is to be your younger brother for this adventure, you or I?"

A wicked, mischievous smile bloomed on Sherla's lovely face at that idea. "Oh, I think I will reserve that pleasure for myself, Irene. AFTER, I have had our . . .what did you call it? Making up session?"

Irene laughed merrily, and asked, "Have a plan, do you?"

"Yes, I do, as a matter of fact. Would you mind assisting me in getting ready? I am afraid that I cannot dress properly for this without assistance and I would not want Katrina to be. . .forewarned?"

"Oh, I would be honored to assist, if you promise to tell me every delightfully wicked detail afterwards."

"I shall," Sherla agreed easily, "Unless I make Katrina tell you all about it as part of her penance."

Sherla rose and offered her hand help Irene to stand. "PENANCE??" Irene asked still chuckling.

"Well, you did say she felt guilty? Trust me, that is NOT what she will feel when I have finished with her this afternoon." Both women wore sinfully delighted grins as they walked arm in arm to the music room door.
 
 
Chapter 18. Last Moments Before the Storm
 
Katrina hurried to Sherla's room as Irene had bid her. This was the first time Ma'amselle Cherie had summoned her since their return from the train site, and Katrina so hoped that it might herald an devoutly desired ending to their recent estrangement. A huge grin lighting her gamine face, she knocked on the closed door to Sherla's bed chamber.

"Enter!"

The terse nature of the reply gave Katrina a moment's pause. Perhaps La Petite was still displeased with her, but if that was so, why else would Sherla have called for her? To change her outfit perhaps? It was time to dress for afternoon tea, she mused, and Mademoiselle had not called her to help with her corset since ordering her to remove it and dress her in those, and here Katrina cringed slightly, trousers.

More carefully than she might have just a moment earlier, Katrina opened the door and entered. She was surprised to find the heavy brocaded curtains tightly closed, and the room dark except for the eerie red-embered light of the dying fire. Blinking against the darkness, she began scanning the shadows for some sign of her mistress. All she could see was a pool of even deeper obscurity in the room's only armchair, backlit by the flickering glow of the embers of the fire.

Katrina approached the chair, circling around it in an attempt to get a clearer view into the shadow. "Mademoiselle?" she asked hesitantly.

"Yes, Katrina," Sherla replied, and then the room's main ceiling light switched on, illuminating the chamber with its incandescent radiance.

Her first clear look at Sherla had Katrina's mouth falling open in disbelief and then . . . lust. Never had she seen La Petite Mademoiselle arrayed so. . so. . .sternly. . .and yet. . so beautifully. Still staring, Katrina swallowed hard, trying futilely to moisten the suddenly arid regions of her mouth.

Katrina's stomach began a mad dance of anticipation, arousal and just a soupcon of fear as Sherla rose from her throne. With slow grace, Sherla closed the distance between them. *She must be wearing very high heeled shoes for she is now taller than me,* Katrina thought in awe, *and that gown is. . is . .magnifique!*

Katrina didn't know it, but Sherla had chosen her outfit because of the very profound effect a similar costume had had on the solicitor Carroll. The blood red and midnight black combined to uncover heretofore deeply buried feelings and needs in the Tuscan maid as well, things that were at once the stuff of nightmares and - when displayed so beautifully on Sherla - the stuff of darkest fantasies.

The gown was crafted of glistening black satin, and covered Sherla from throat to floor, from shoulder to wrist except fora bold, heart shaped decolletage that displayed Sherla's high rounded breasts.

The silky black waves of Sherla's hair seemed even deeper, even darker than her dress, showing clearly against the material as they fell wild and free to the center of her back. The dark framing of dress and hair brought her face into dramatic focus - a face made starkly beautiful with unusually vivid cosmetics. Sherla's huge eyes were enlarged even further by a dark kohl outline while her eyelids were shaded in blends of rich blues and mossy greens. Her sensuous mouth was a lurid slash of red that made Katrina lick her lips, all the while wishing she was licking Sherla's instead.

Sherla had accented the stark simplicity of the gown with bright reds that matched her lips for color and depth. A golden comb sparkling with bright red stones held back her hair and revealed red-flashed earrings. A ruby cameo mounted on a high-throated red satin collar was at the same time delicately feminine and stiffly formal. A red belt, also of shining satin and nearly tall enough to function as a corset in its own right, highlighted Sherla's incredibly tiny waist. Matching red gloves hovered near that waist, moving with deceiving languor that nonetheless drew Katrina's eyes to her lover's delicate hands . . . and to the object they were stroking.

Sherla gently slapped the black crop's snappy, stinging tongue of leather into one gloved palm. "Irene tells me," Sherla said in a soft, husky voice, "that you think you feel that you require my forgiveness for that first night at the inn."

Katrina almost broke at the memory, and felt a moist heat begin to burn behind her eyelids. "I am so sorry about the spanking, Ma'amselle Cherie. I was only playing," she almost sobbed, "I did not mean to upset you so."

Sherla moved around to stand behind the little maid, pleased that the painfully tight, incredibly tall heels she had borrowed from Irene gave her the advantage of height over her lover. "Oh, and what did you mean to do," she husked into Katrina's ear as she gently fingered a stray brunette lock from the girl's ear.

"Some. . .some girls get. . . aroused," Katrina almost stuttered in her excitement, "More aroused when their bottoms are warmed. I . . I was teasing you and did not mean to hurt or anger you. Honestly, Ma'amselle."

"Well, in that case, I think perhaps I will forgive you," Sherla stepped back to keep Katrina from leaping into her arms. "After I have reciprocated and seen if you are one of those who become, how did you say it? Ah yes, more aroused, eh?"

"Ma'amselle wishes to . . to spank me? Now?" Katrina squeaked half in alarm, half in arousal. Still, she was not completely sure she trusted Sherla that far. After all, she had been a man less than a month ago, and who would be the one spanking her? Ma'amselle? Or Mr. Sherlock Holmes wearing Ma'amselle's form?

"Yes, I do." Sherla emphasized that statement with a sharp lash the crop across Katrina's hip. As Sherla had intended, the little maid's heavy gown and petticoats blunted the blow, but, the crack of the slap still had Katrina jumping back. "But only if you are willing. Are you going to let me have my turn, my sweet?" Sherla cooed seductively beneath her breath.

Oddly enough, the fact that the first lash had not really hurt comforted Katrina, and made her think that perhaps La Petite knew what she was about after all. "Oui, Mademoiselle. I submit myself to your justice."

"Very well. Stip out of your clothes now, wench!" Sherla snapped. "Leave your stockings, shoes and corset and then go over to stand next to the lacing stand."

Katrina could not recall the last time she had undressed so quickly and so carelessly, but minutes later, she was standing in front of the heavy apparatus designed to afford ladies the tightest corseting possible. Sherla prompted her to raise her hands to the hanging bar above her head. Before Katrina quite knew what was happening, Sherla had buckled two of Irene's soft leather love cuffs about her friend's wrists, effectively binding them above her head until Sherla decided to free her.

A wicked grin on her face, Sherla moved behind the stand and began slowly turning the hand crank affixed to the back of the apparatus. Katrina gave a surprised shriek as her hands began moving inexorably upward, ever upward, until only by severely arching her tiny feet could she support her weight on the very tips of her dainty toes. Then Sherla turned the girl so that she was facing the large easy chair before cuffing Katrina's feet to the base of the appliance. She considered her quarry one last time, and backed off the crank a turn, easing some of the tension from her lover's shoulders and arms. The foot cuffs had forced Katrina's legs apart, causing her to lose her already precarious footing, and truly hurting the girl was the last thing Sherla intended.

Reseating herself, Sherla allowed herself a barely audible sigh of pleasure. "Ah, Katrina-darling, but you are a gorgeous little minx. I am going to enjoy this little game EVER so much. The only question is," and here Sherla's voice dropped into a deliciously evil tone, "Will YOU enjoy it as well."

The fire of Sherla's frankly appreciative gaze kindled matching blazes inside Katrina. Her tiny dark nipples hardened and crinkled, standing out impudently from her almost almond-hued breasts while her woman's flesh parted and grew hot, moist and so wonderfully sensitive. "If I am gorgeous, Mademoiselle," she breathed, "you are beyond incredible."

Sherla stood and moved back to her captive. Slowly she circled Katrina, every once and a while letting the tip of the crop graze across a soft expanse of bared bottom, or letting her lips and tongue taste a particularly tempting bit of flesh. Then, she moved in front of Katrina, her crop drawing circles on the front of Katrina's corselette. "And what is this?" Sherla demanded. "Surely with your own fascination with lacing me, you would wear something more . . . shall we say stringent than that bit of children's wear? That piece of cloth is not even worthy of the name lingerie," she finished with some disgust.

"A maid must dress herself, Mademoiselle. I cannot lace myself as I do you and no one helps a maid dress."

"Then permit me to be the first to congratulate on your great good fortune, my sweet. Since you are no longer a lowly maid, but a member of Madame's family, we will start lacing you properly starting today," Sherla said as she pulled out one of her own new corsets. "In fact, from this day forward I will PERSONALLY see to your corsetry right after you have seen to mine. Now this," she said holding up her selection, "should fit you perfectly."

Katrina almost groaned for she recognized the garment immediately. That was the corset she had bribed the corsetierre's assistant to make just a bit (*only a few centimeters,* she reminded herself, *Certainly five counts as being a few.*) smaller than Madame Irene had deemed their ultimate goal for Mademoiselle Sherla.

Moments later, Katrina's own corset was on the floor at her feet, replaced by the new white-laced, steel-boned confection and a gleeful Sherla was working at the laces. "Now, I have never done this before, sweet, lacing up a lovely young woman's corset, but I can assure you that I have paid very strict attention every single time you have done it for, or is that more correctly, TO me?"

"Ma'AMSELLE. . .that is TOO tight!" Katrina had begged when Sherla had barely begun the second set of lace-tightening.

"Oh really? But, Katrina, the edges of the corset are so very far apart. You are sure it is too tight? Well, let's see. Where did I put that tape measure? Ahh. Here it is."

Katrina's eyes went wide when she saw the measure Sherla held, for it was the altered one she had used in her attempt to convince her lover that Sherla was not being laced too tightly. "See," Sherla piped as she held the measure up for Katrina to see, "A mere 19 inches. Surely you can go another one or two?"

"Non, Ma'amselle," Katrina begged, knowing that 19 inches on that tape was in truth closer to seventeen, "Please no more."

"Oh very well, then I suppose I shall entertain myself in other ways." Katrina watched helplessly as Sherla slowly inched the bright red glove from her right hand. She held the glove up to Katrina's mouth and ordered, "Hold this for me, dear."

Katrina took the glove between her teeth, trying to keep her tongue away from the leather so as not to damage it. Smiling widely, Sherla gently circled and teased her captive's nipples with her finely pointed nails, sending bolts of sensual fire through Katrina's helpless body. When one impudent bud was sufficiently prominent, Sherla bent over and took the tender tip between her own teeth and bit down gently. "MmmmmmmmmMMMMMMM," Katrina squealed around the glove as Sherla rolled the sensitive bit of flesh with her teeth.

A teasing finger tickled at the font of Katrina's womanhood and came back moist and fragrant. Katrina watched in helpless arousal as Sherla licked and savored the flavored finger with exaggerated relish. "Are you excited, my sweet?" Sherla whispered in Katrina's ear just before taking a sharp bite on her lobe.

"Oh, god yes, Sherla," Katrina answered, letting the glove fall from her mouth, "Please love me before I die!"

"But what about your spanking?"

"Love me, spank me, whatever, but please DO something!"

A soft, pleased chuckle answered her. "I thought you would never ask, my love." The next thing Katrina felt was Sherla's mouth ravaging her own - seeking, tasting, possessing. She did groan when those lovely lips left her mouth to trail liquid fire down her breasts. One last nibble on one of her nipples and then that incredible tongue of Sherla's was on Katrina's woman's flesh. Voraciously, Sherla fell upon her lover, all but consuming her soul as she took the little maid's body and made it hers.

That first crashing climax was still echoing in Katrina's mind as it gradually began to function again - several hours later. That incredibly fiery orgasm was the last thing she could remember clearly from the previous evening's activities. As her world expanded from the delicious memories written so indelibly in her heart and soul, she became aware that she was entwined about her beloved's body, still wearing that uncompromising corset, but happy to be in Sherla's arms once again. Maybe next time she'd actually get spanked. She'd have to make sure of it.
 

 
Following breakfast, Irene directed the two girls into her study, where she laid out the plans for their trip to Switzerland. "The track that was destroyed will be disrupting normal travel to Zurich for several more weeks as the weather makes such repairs difficult at best. Therefore, we will be traveling via Germany and entering Switzerland from the north. It will add a day or so to our travel time, but it will also give Katrina, or rather, Karl, additional time to become more comfortable with her role. I have used her in trousered disguises before, but never for so long a period before."

"I am still uncertain, Madame. . I mean, Tante Irene, and Ma'amselle Cherie, precisely why I need to go disguised as a stripling boy."

"Because," Irene said smiling, "We might need someone with more freedom of movement than would be socially appropriate for Society gentlewomen once we arrive there. We cannot anticipate where the trail will lead or what type of false trails have been laid. We will need you to go to those places were two respectable ladies could not go without a great deal of notoriety resulting."

"But Ma'amselle Cherie has far more experience is such roles than I. Would it not be wiser for HER to disguise herself in the rough, uncomfortable clothes of the rowdy boy?"

Sherla chucked at that. "Trust me, dear, I have what I consider to be very good reasons to go as myself."

Irene started at that. *Does she realize what she just said? She has just identified herself casually as Sherla. How much you have grown, little one, in such a short time.*

"Besides," Sherla continued, her naughty grin back in place, "If it is comfort you are concerned with, recall that boys are not corseted. Your own figure training will, of necessity, be delayed now until we complete this mission and I can safely order you back into your dainties."

The other girl blushed vividly, the red all the more brilliant for her normally light almond complexion, but nodded her compliance. *And what was that all about,* Irene thought watching her adopted niece give in submissively to her ward. *I would say that, however Sherla exacted her retribution last night, Katrina did not find it too onerous.*

"Very well," Irene spoke up, regaining control of the exchange. She then lifted a paper from her desk and handed it to Sherla. "That is a compilation I made last night while you two were. . .otherwise occupied."

Katrina's blush returned with a vengeance, but Sherla barely heard Irene as her total focus locked on the paper in her hands. "Where did you get this information?" She demanded of Irene, her eyes hard.

"From the inquiry agents I had looking into the clues we obtained from the scientists. Why?"

"Have your man of affairs contact these men or their employers. Order them into hiding until they hear from us. Moriarty will likely have left behind an agent who will pass along to him that someone is asking dangerous questions."

"Then you agree that information is decisive?"

A small grin curved Sherla's full lips. "It certainly relieves my worries at making such a move based only on my intuition that Moriarty has returned to Reichenbach Falls. The fact that all of this very specialized equipment and material has been sent to Brienz in the recent past indicates that someone is setting up a very well equipped biological-chemistry laboratory in that vicinity."

"What is this Brienz?" Katrina asked.

"An Alpine village, not very far from where I expect we will find Professor James Moriarty. When do we leave, Tante Irene?" Sherla asked getting into her own role.

"We leave day after tomorrow on the train to Munich. And we will need to pack carefully to ensure we have everything we are likely to need. That part of Switzerland is relatively isolated."
 

 

 

 
 
Entry in the Journal of Miss Sherla Joan Holmes

Date: March 7, 1911

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

Time: 2:21 P.M.

My Dear Doctor Watson: I apologize for not writing sooner, but there has been a great deal to do and far more to think about in the past week. The clues have begun to fit together, old friend, and we begin to perceive the form of the puzzle if not the ultimate solution. Tomorrow we leave for Switzerland . . . for Meiringen. Now there's a place I never thought to visit again, but all the information we have been able to glean point to that as Moriarty's hideaway in this adventure. If I were a believer in destiny rather than fate, I would say that this was a sign that Moriarty and possibly my destinies are to end on that rocky mountainside amidst the cascading waters of the falls. I hope not, John, for I have found a great deal to live for in the past days. A very great deal. This case is drawing to its climax, as I am sure you could tell. Moriarty has become increasingly overt in his actions. He must have known that, if I had survived his foul plot, his procurement of large quantities of relatively unique equipment and materials would have drawn my attention. That is one reason Irene and I will not be going directly to Brienz as I suspect that there are watchers there. Or at least, caution dictates that I must suspect that there are watchers there. One important question has not been resolved yet, John. If Moriarty has spent years in South America, and only recently returned to Europe, how much of an organization can he truly have behind him? His old organizations collapsed with the deaths of Moran and Gilbert. Certainly, he could and has hired thugs to do his bidding, but thus far, I have only encountered or seen evidence of the mercenary type. Certainly no one the quality of a Moran or that fellow we encountered during the case of the Redheaded League. If I could be more certain of what we were up against, I could chance taking a more direct course of action. However, I will not endanger Katrina or Irene by doing so. So, I am again ready to embark upon what may well be the last chapter of my life's adventures, John, but I am by no means as sanguine on the subject as I was that last time at Reichenbach Falls. However, Moriarty must be stopped. A rejuvenated James Moriarty at the height of his powers is more than our world can survive. If the price of stopping him is my life, so be it. I wish you were here to write that chapter for me, old friend.

End Journal Entry.
 

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End of Part 2 - A Study in Satin

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To Be Continued in "A Study in Satin Part 3 - Dum Vivimus Vivimus!"