A Study in Satin - Part 3 - Chapters 1 - 4

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Tigger

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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."

A Study in Satin
Part III: Dum Vivimus Vivamus

Chapters 1-4

by Tigger

Chapters 1 & 2 of Part 3 were previously posted out of order. This has been corrected with the finishing
of Part 2 of the series and now the addition of Chapters of 3 & 4 of Part 3 to keep the posting organization
of this series in line with the previous postings. All mistakes made were mine. ~ Sephrena

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 III: Dum Vivimus Vivamus

Chapter 1. Travel to Tomorrow Through Yesterday

Irene's clear blue eyes wandered yet again from the spectacularly beautiful scenery back to the equally-beautiful young woman seated opposite her in the private first class compartment. Sherla Holmes deep blue traveling gown contrasted richly with the worn upholstery of her seat, a contrast brought into even sharper focus by the glossy black of her hair. Katrina had earlier braided that hair into a simply maintained silken coronet about her head.

Her attention was raptly fixed upon the old leather book she had removed from her travel bag shortly after their train had departed the previous station. Irene realized that she had seen that book before - it was one of the meticulously kept, handwritten journals that had been in the box of "bone fides" Sherla had carried with her to prove to Irene that she was, at the very least, related to the famous Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

Sherla shifted the book into one hand and held it at arm's length, her head cocked. She squirmed and began to bring her right ankle up to cross over her left thigh.

Irene coughed sharply, managing to break through Sherla's focus. A quizzical look crossed the lovely face as she brought her eyes up to meet Irene's. "Ladies do not cross their legs, dear, nor do they hold books in that manner." She mimed bringing the book to her lap and holding it sedately in both hands.

"Thank you," Sherla sighed. "Just when I permit myself to believe that I am beginning to manage adequately I unthinkingly regress back to some male behavior."

"No so very much of one, dear, *this* time. What are you reading with such single minded concentration?" she inquired, "If you do not mind my asking, that is."

Sherla handed the brown-papered book to her guardian. "It is the volume of John Watson's memoirs that deals with the first time I made this trip. Oddly enough, thanks to the damage done to the main tracks from Paris to Zurich, we are currently following much the same route as Watson and I had done during what he later titled, quite inaccurately I am pleased to say, 'The Final Adventure'."

"Deja vu?" Irene asked gently.

Considering that thought for several long moments, Sherla shook her head. "No, I don't think so. You see, I never took any notice of these incredible vistas and lovely landscapes the first time. In fact, I have gone back and read Sherlock's monograph on this "Final Problem" last night, and my writings address none of the details that add such richness to John's journal. The snow capped mountain-tops that seem to throw off rainbows in the weak spring sunlight, the majestic evergreens, the ice-decorated lakes and rivers - none of those wonders figure anywhere in Sherlock's writings - nor do they appear in my memories."

"And now?" Irene prompted.

"I am seeing things much as John described them in his diary. It is so. . . so very beautiful here."

"You were not taking very much of it in just now," the third person in the compartment interjected. The very slender young man next to Irene was trying to keep from squirming on the seat. "Curse these woolen trousers, Tante Irene, they *itch* abominably!"

A sparkling laugh lightened the room. "Wool does irritate, does it not, my sweet?" Sherla facetiously asked her companion. "Silk and satin are much nicer."

"So NOW you reveal your TRUE reason for your refusal to play the boy in this little drama," the mannishly dressed Katrina complained.

"As you will," Sherla smirked. "In answer to your first comment, however, I *have* been noticing the beauty up here, *Karl*. It is just that I have also noticed how much I missed of it the first time. What I have truly been reflecting upon is why my reactions this time should be so very different. The purpose of this trip is not much different than the last. Both involved life or death situations, and yet, this time, I am reacting much as my friend Watson did."

"So?" Katrina/Karl challenged.

Sherla hesitated before replying. When she finally did, her voice was barely audible above the rhythmic rumble of the train's wheels upon the track. "So, that leads to the inescapable conclusion that I have changed," Sherla swallowed, and tried again. "It means that I have changed drastically, in very fundamental ways."

"Oh, and you have just noticed this, ma jolie, petite mademoiselle?" Karl/Katrina rejoined pertly.

"Katrina!" Irene said sharply. "Mind yourself and stay in your role!" Turning to Sherla, Irene held out a hand for Sherla's. Taking the girl's hand in hers, she smiled. "I think, my dear, that no change could be more fundamental than the one you have undergone in becoming female."

"But these changes are NOT merely physical - they are to my perceptions, my reactions and feelings. .. . my. . my. . "

"Thinking?" Irene completed. When Sherla nodded, her breathing ragged, Irene shifted to sit beside the younger woman so she could hug her. "Being a woman, my dear is NOT merely physical - it is everything that we are. All of those things you just mentioned are as much part of being a woman as the more obvious, but perhaps less important physical changes, dear. As Sherlock - more basically, as a MALE Sherlock - you had a lifetime in which you were forced, by many unfortunate circumstances, to learn to isolate yourself from feelings, from sensing things, from anything that distracted your full concentration. Your feelings, your senses - all those changed when you became a woman - the tricks you learned as a maturing young man are no longer quite sufficient. And I think that is just as well, for those issues you are so worried about are among the very things that make being a woman so wonderful. Are you not happier now that you are Sherla than you were when you were Sherlock?"

Sherla was momentarily struck speechless by the very simple question, but then her eyes flew to Karl/Katrina and saw love warming those playful, dark eyes. And then she saw her lover surreptitiously try to scratch her thigh. "There are certainly. . .unanticipated advantages," she replied carefully.

Irene's merry laugh filled the compartment and she hugged Sherla tightly. "No more than I should have expected from you, darling- Sherla. Not that I believe for one instant that IS not a great deal more than that in your discoveries, but I suspect there is still enough of Sherlock about you to resist such an overarching admission." Irene returned to her own seat and handed back Watson's diary. "Perhaps you should write in your own journal, Sherla - if not about your deeper feelings, then about your reactions to this gorgeous scenery. Fill in the holes of that sadly one-sided monograph. Make it whole, and perhaps in so doing, you will find another piece of the puzzle that will help you become whole."

Entry in the Journal of Miss Sherla Joan Holmes

Date: March 9, 1911

Location: Train from Strassburg, Germany to Basel, Switzerland.

Time: 9:24 A.M.

My Dear Doctor Watson:
Well, old friend, how strange a thing is chance. Professor Moriarty employed the destruction of the railroad tracks between Paris and Zurich to disguise his kidnapping of Professor Buchner. However, that single action has expanded outward, causing secondary effects due to the accommodations the train companies have been forced to undertake in response.

First, although the now-necessary redirection of our passage through Germany adds less than one hundred kilometers to our trip, it adds at least one additional day to our travel time. We were required to change to a southbound train in Strassburg and as one could anticipate, our train from Paris was late while the Basel train from Strassburg left on time. Naturally, it left without us. We were then forced to wait until this morning to continue our expedition.

Odd about Strassburg, John. Remember that public house at which we spent so many convivial hours on our fateful trip that ended at the Reichenbach Falls? I could see it from our rooms and yet, as Sherla, I am not permitted to so much as walk through its doors. It is now, as it was then, a males-only establishment. Ah, I suppose I should count that a blessing given my current inability to deal with alcohol.

Remarkably, I find myself following the exact same route that you and I took twenty years ago. A great sense of deja vu all but overwhelms me at times, John. So much so, in fact, that today, I nearly called to you in our compartment. Were I not a woman of science and method, I would begin to believe that Destiny is bringing me back to this place in the same manner as before because the mission went unfinished the first time.

We are finally en route to Basel after a short stop in Freiburg as I pen these words. I must tell you, John, THAT was a stop to be remembered. Irene and I had just returned to our first class compartment, having taken a short constitutional and having made a visit to the women's necessary facility in the train station. . .

Sherla checked that the compartment door was closed and turned an impish grin to Irene. "I thought we would need smelling salts for *Karl* when you sent him off on that errand after we arrived."

Irene's answering grin was equally mischievous. "Well, *he* has to learn to function on his own in such circumstances if your plan is to work. In the past, I have always been close by when it was necessary for her to do a "trouser role". This is a safe enough place for her to practice. The station is sufficiently crowded that she is unlikely to draw any undue notice and she will gain needed confidence in her ability to pass scrutiny."

"Oh, I agree with your stratagem, Irene, but I rather think Katrina will be looking to do you a mischief at the earliest opportunity."

"Oh, pooh," Irene replied with a flick of her elegantly gloved fingers, "She'll be fine and moreover, she will know it was for the best."

"Perhaps," Sherla replied slowly, her tone of voice and gamine grin casting doubt before becoming more serious. "I do wish she looked older. She will be noticed, if not the first time she goes to the station, then the second or the third."

Irene shrugged. "We tried to age her, if you will recall but she is simply too petite and fine boned to look any older than she does. You tried yourself, if you will recall, dear. As a boy, the way she looks is the best we can do. Twelve, perhaps thirteen. It will have to do. I will have her send Godfrey a telegram everyday from the train station. It will give "Karl" an excuse and reason to be at the train station. And if a young boy chooses to loiter about his task to watch the hustle and bustle there, no one will be very surprised."

"I don't want her hurt!" Sherla's voice was suddenly intense. She was about to say more when the door to their compartment was jerked open and a large, very red faced conductor filled the open door.

"Madame," he began in a heavily accented French. "Is this. . . this. . .hooligan your son?" From behind him, a bedraggled and very frightened Karl was jerked forward.

With a cry, Irene was on her feet, pulling the terrified young person into her arms and into the safety of the compartment. "Yes," she returned icily, "He is my son. What right have you to mistreat him in such a way." Queenly hauteur vibrated from her very being, and the conductor took a small step backward.

The large man doffed his cap in a suddenly remembered bit of courtesy. "Your son, Madame, was caught trying to sneak into the Ladies Necessary. He was obviously going to try to spy on the ladies inside."

"Oh really," Irene said quietly. "My son does not read German, Herr Conductor. Were there any women entering or leaving the necessary when he tried to go inside?"

"Well, no, Madame, but. . "

"I see. And of course, you asked him if he had made a mistake and he TOLD you he was trying to sneak into the ladies room? He MUST have told you this since you have so ROUGHLY handled my asthmatic son. Why, only such a confession would JUSTIFY the possibility of bringing on a debilitating attack."

"Well, no, Madame, but. . "

"NO!?!?" Irene's furious scream forced the conductor back yet another two steps. "Get out of my compartment, you pompous ass, before I decide to take this to the authorities!" Irene was all solicitude as she turned back to her "son". "Are you all right, sweetheart? Do you feel faint at all? Do you feel an attack coming on?"

"Karl" made a show of taking some long, relatively shallow breaths, careful to wheeze once or twice, particularly when the conductor went pale the first time. Finally, "he" shook his head. "No, Maman," he whispered, "Just a little short of breath from being dragged here."

"You are disMISSED!" Irene snarled at the conductor as she slammed and locked the compartment door. Then, she slid the door curtain shut.

The three of them sat very quietly until the train's lurch signaled their departure from Freisburg. Once the noise of the train was sufficiently loud, all three broke into slightly hysterical giggles. Irene recovered first. "That was too close, Katrina," she said sternly. "You must be more careful!"

"I had to use the facilities, and knew it was close to departure time," Katrina said, shamefaced. "One would think these clothes would be reminder enough for me."

Irene saw that the girl had been truly frightened by the experience, and decided to let it drop. She had figured without considering Sherla. "So, you wanted to peek, eh?" she said, and then slid her skirt slowly up to reveal a very shapely ankle. "All you had to do was ask, dear *Karl*," she purred before beginning to giggle again.

"Don't DO that," Katrina begged in a near grown.

"Do what? This?" Sherla asked laughingly as she further extended her leg for Katrina's viewing pleasure

"No," Katrina did groan this time and shifted about on her seat, "Don't laugh. I still need the necessary - BADLY!"

Fortunately, John, our first class car had a private convenience, complete with chamber pot so poor Katrina did not need to suffer TOO long. It was a valuable lesson, however, and something we will need to account for in our future planning.

Irene and I have agreed that we will not proceed immediately to Meringen. It is barely 12 kilometers from Brienz to Meringen and we might be able to make a few quiet but useful inquiries in Brienz. Since I do not believe that Moriarty ever operated in Switzerland in the old days, I think it is most likely that he would have needed to import his people to the locality to carry out his nefarious plots. One must, therefore, suspect that at least one of those decidedly unworthy fellows would stand out obviously among the locals. THAT is the person we must find for THAT is the person who will ultimately lead us to Moriarty's lair.

Having said that, I think it is clear that the further from Moriarty's actual base of operations we conduct these initial investigations, the safer we will remain. Should Brienz prove unfruitful, we will move toward Meringen and then towards Rosenlaui. Why Rosenlaui, you may well ask? Because Rosenlaui is where I believe I will ultimately find Moriarty. I cannot say why I believe that, except that the little mountain hamlet is small enough and far enough from more populated areas that Moriarty could set up his operations there more easily than he could even in Meringen.

Which brings us to that special suitcase filled with the various items I spent our last two days in Paris acquiring. Katrina was quite scandalized by the items of apparel I procured and did not wish to help me by doing the necessary fitting and alterations for me. At least, she was scandalized at first; now I believe she is rather intrigued by how I look when wearing them.

The weapons are, for the most part, fairly ordinary if functional. I regret that I have not means to induce Inspector LaStrade of Scotland Yard to lend me the use of Colonel Moran's air gun for this adventure. It would surely be ideally suited for use in this type of mission conducted in such rugged terrain. I am concerned that firing a high-caliber pistol or other firearm in these still snow-covered mountains might result in an avalanche. Alas, as you well know, LaStrade is not a very cooperative man, and I cannot imagine him sending that piece of memorabilia to a some young woman, even if she does claim to be the daughter of Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Perhaps the cantankerous old bounder might balk simply BECAUSE she claims that parentage, eh, John?

In any event, another of our cases came to mind when I was searching for weapons and I have procured a device that I believe will make a more than adequate substitute for Moran's very unique air-rifle. I only hope I have sufficient stamina in the rarefied air of this extremely mountainous country to use my replacement effectively.

We shall see, shall we not?

With that, I have about run out of excuses for not addressing the issue that is truly at the heart of this journal entry. It is difficult to admit, after nearly seven decades, that I may have been wrong about so many things in life. Watching this magnificent land fly by outside our train windows, I find that I missed a great deal of what the world had to offer when I was Sherlock.

And yet, had I been any person other than I was, would I have had the wherewithal to challenge Professor Moriarty in the first place? Unlikely. Rather, I should have been married off to some eminently suitable, thoroughly proper and mind-dullingly boring man; left to vegetate in the stultifying atmosphere of the lady's solar or parlor. Perhaps I would even have become one of those women who, when faced with the inescapable necessity of the marital embrace, close their eyes and think of England.

Far better, I have come to realize, to have been Sherlock first, for those experiences have provided me a sound basis upon which to enjoy being Sherla; experiences that tell me I am more, and still can become far more than some whey-faced, wool-witted society lady cum brood-mare. And when I close my eyes during lovemaking, I can guarantee you that my thoughts, limited though they are at those precise and delicious moments, have NOTHING to do with England.

Good-day, John.

End Journal Entry.

Chapter 2. Interlude: Remembering the Past; Planning the Future

Entry in the Journal of Miss Sherla Joan Holmes

Date: March 10, 1911

Location: The Basel Mountain Lodge Hotel, Basel, Switzerland.

Time: 7:13 A.M.

My Dear Doctor Watson:
Even as I come to view my transformation as a bright new adventure, I am forcibly reminded that the every situation in this world does have it less attractive aspects. The cloud that supports the silver lining, if you will. I must tell you that I am rather offended by myself, but I am sitting here, listening to Katrina and Irene sleep, because of a nightmare. Can you credit this, old friend? I am unable to sleep because I am still badly unnerved by, of all things, a bad dream -an invention of my own subconscious mind.

Well, I suppose that is one positive aspect of the incident. It took the creation of my own mind to cause me such distress. I am writing now in an attempt to exorcize this demon of my own making so that I may proceed with my plans.

It began when we'd all retired for the night. As expected, we arrived in Basel too late to make connections with the train to Brienz, and so we bespoke a suite of rooms at the better of the two hostelries serving the railroad passengers. After a light dinner in the public room, we returned to our suite. I wanted to spend the night in Katrina's room, but since she is now "Karl", Irene said I was to remain with her in the other bed chamber. We did not want a hotel maid barging in on Irene's two "youngsters" and find them in bed together, or worse, engaged in lovemaking that might prove Karl to be Katrina.

The beds were comfortable and warm, but I was most restless. I do not know why, but I was unable to settle my mind to sleep for several hours. Finally, well after one o'clock in the morning, Morpheus claimed me . . .

. . . . From his rocky perch, he watched as Watson and the constables walked away at last. Soon, he would be able to able to covertly negotiate his way carefully down from his hidden ledge back to the path. A brisk two-hour walk across the mountains would see him safely away from Meringen and whatever henchmen Moriarty might have brought with him on this foul mission. It would still be necessary to hide until the still- dangerous remnants of Moriarty's gang could be neutralized, particularly Moran and Gilbert, but time would be his ally once they believed he had died along with their happily-departed leader.

Slowly, Holmes allowed his breathing, so long all but suspended, to return to normal. Rising to his knees, he put his head over the ledge to reconnoiter his path to the ground, when a huge rock missed exposed target by bare tenths of an inch. Instincts that had preserved his life through a thousand near fatal incidents saved him yet again as another heavy rock crashed off the ledge very close to where he had lain an instant earlier. *Up there . . . on the ledge . . . the silhouette of a man against the sun.* The arms raised another rock above the head, shading the glare and revealing a strangely shaped head and oddly stooped and rounded shoulders. An icy chill ran down Holmes spine as his mind screamed, *It CAN'T be! Moriarty is DEAD!*

Holmes tried to move, but just as he reached his handhold, a small rock caught him full in the chest, knocking the breath from his body. His hands clutched at the moss-slick rock, and somehow managed to find purchase. With great care, he moved one foot down to find another foothold. A spray of small stones heralded another attack. Holmes looked up and what he saw froze his soul. A final rock glanced off his hand. Holmes felt his grip fail and then give way as the world slowly began to slip away, and the rushing rapids at the foot of the falls rushed up to catch him - his eyes fixed on the now feminine figure above him on the cliff . . .

"NOOoooooooooooOOOOOOOOOO"

"Sherla! Wake up!" A sharp voice stung her ears and a sharper blow struck his. . . her face. "SHERLA!"

"Wha. . where. . " Sherla's eyes came open, but could not reconcile what she saw with what her mind expected. Then a shadowed figure lit a bedside lamp and Sherla recognized, "Irene?"

A comforting hand settled on Sherla's perspiring forehead. "Yes, dear. You were having a bad dream. . .a real curtain-call of a nightmare from the force of your thrashing and the sound of your screams. Heavens, child, but you are still shaking. Come, get up and sit in the chair by the fire while I get you a drink of water."

The door burst open to admit a wild-eyed Katrina, a small revolver held in her hand. "What happened?" she shouted. "I heard a scream!"

"Sherla has had a nightmare," Irene said as she handed her ward a filled glass.

Katrina hurried to her lover and went down on one knee before Sherla. "Are you all right? It must have been a horrible dream for I have never heard you scream like that."

Sherla took a deep drink from the water, holding the glass in two unsteady hands. "It was. . . it was so real and yet it wasn't. The ending was . . . wrong. . . It didn't really happen that way," she said, almost to herself.

Irene came over and took the chair next to Sherla's, and reached across to help her steady the glass. "Perhaps if you told us about the dream, and about what really happened, it might help."

After a few moments consideration, Sherla nodded. "It was about the first time. . . the first time I came to Meringen. . .and to the Falls of Reichenbach. I had arranged the destruction of his organization in England - Scotland Yard was to have taken him along with his entire gang. Moriarty knew that only my testimony would put him in prison, and had sworn to prevent, by any means possible, that outcome. So it was necessary to remove to the Continent for my own safety until Moriarty was safely in custody. Except that they missed getting Moriarty and one other gang member. The law successfully destroyed his London organization, but he escaped, and followed Watson and me to the Continent. It was in Meringen that I received word of Moriarty's escape, and knew that it would come down to he and I.

"Watson and I stayed at a hotel down in Meringen, and undertook at day's hike to the small village of Rosenlaui. We had stopped to look upon the Falls when a stripling male caught up with us carrying a message for Watson. It indicated he was needed for an Englishwoman who was dreadfully ill, but would permit no Swiss physician to attend her. I urged him off, stating that I would continue on to our original destination and would meet him later back at the hotel."

"It was a ploy?" Irene asked. "Your foe had caught up with you and used that note as a means to separate you from your friend?"

"And so I had surmised myself. Not wanting Watson to be in the way, I sent him off. Moriarty arrived but moments later. We talked, rather amicably for two men who would shortly be at each other's throats, and I wrote what I thought would be a last note to Watson, setting it on a nearby boulder beneath my cigarette case."

"Then you fought, and the world believed that you both were killed falling into the rocky chasm of the falls."

Sherla nodded again. "Only I did not fall, thanks to my skill in certain Oriental fighting and wrestling techniques. Moriarty did, and until he gloatingly appeared in my rooms not two months ago, I had believed that he had been killed on the rocks for I saw him hit one before being carried away beneath the rushing waters. I can only deduce now that it was but a glancing blow of no real significance."

"But why did you let the world believe you were dead if you had beaten the criminal?" Katrina asked, her face alight with curiosity and excitement.

"Because Moriarty was not the only one who had escaped the police. His primary assistant, a former army officer by the name of Colonel Sebastian Moran, was still at large and would make my life not worth living if I returned to London. I decided to simulate my own death until such time as I could neutralize the threat that he, and Colonel Gilbert on the Continent, posed for Watson and myself. I hid on the ledge and allowed the police to reach the conclusion the evidence indicated. It seemed that everything was going perfectly, that is, until it came time for me to make my way back down the slippery rock cliff from my ledge to the path. Moriarty had not been alone. Moran had been with him. He was above me, higher up on the cliffs, and threw large rocks down at me in an attempt to sweep me from what poor hand and foot holds I could find, and thus hurl me down to share his master's watery grave at the foot of Reichenbach Falls."

"But you did escape," Katrina breathed, a look of worshipful awe in her lovely eyes.

"Barely. Not knowing if Moran had anyone else with him, I raced across the mountains to safety, whereupon I contacted my brother Mycroft who provided me with funds. It was not a bad three years, waiting for Moran to become vulnerable, for I met many great people and learned many things. Even did some trail- blazing as a Scandinavian explorer."

"But finally you returned," Irene stated.

"Yes, there was a murder that, based on the descriptions of it in the press, I knew had to have been committed by Moran. I returned to England and let myself be seen, setting myself out as a stalking horse to draw from hiding my deadly prey. Moran took the bait and was eventually hanged for the murder that brought me back to England."

"You said that the dream was not the same," Irene said "What happened in the dream that was different that what actually took place."

Sherla drained her glass before answering. "In the dream, I got two glimpses of the person throwing the stones and it wasn't Moran."

"Who was it?" Irene asked.

"Moriarty," Sherla said, her breathing shaky, "The figure on the cliff changed into Moriarty even though I "knew" he was dead. He threw the rock hit me - the first one that struck, anyway. Somehow, in the dream, I managed to hold on. Then, I looked up again, just as another rock struck home and I fell. And I saw. . I saw. . "

Katrina started to move to Sherla's side, but Irene stopped her. "Get it out, Sherla," she ordered firmly.

"I threw the rock. . I mean. .it was Sherla who threw the rock that killed ME. . .I mean, that killed Sherlock. Then you hit me and woke me just as I was about to hit the raging waters. It was. . . It seemed. . .so real. I could feel myself falling - could feel the impact of the stone on my chest - could feel my hands and feet slipping from the wet rock hand-holds. I could SEE myself."

Sherla found that she was shaking again, and Irene reached over to pull Sherla into her arms. "There, now," Irene said gently. "The dream is over, you are all right, and what you dreamt never happened. Relax, now."

"This is so. . .so damnably lowering," Sherla rasped out in disgust, her voice breaking. "I am frightened by something that never happened. How could *I* even dream something like that?"

"Perhaps, darling, you should simply take it as a warning. You will again face this monster, and there seems to be a strange symmetry about this approaching conflict. I am not saying this dream is a premonition, but perhaps you should ensure that you do not take any part of this endeavor at all casually."

"I have not been, but I think I will redouble my efforts to be prepared, Irene," Sherla hugged the comforting body that was holding her own and sighed. "The part that still has me shaking is the image of Sherla looking down at me as I fell."

"Not all that difficult to understand, dear. Sherla lives and Sherlock - at least the male Sherlock - does not. That fact also devolves from that confrontation at the Falls. I should think that interpretation obvious."

"But he. . .I mean, I am still alive! I resisted the urge to end my life, and I have come to accept Sherla as my future, haven't I?"

"Have you, Sherla? Only you can answer that question. I think you have made amazing progress, given who you were and where you started. Perhaps, deep in your subconscious, some small part of you feels that Sherlock stands between you and your future happiness as Sherla."

Sherla thought about that and shrugged, her eyes tightly closed. "I have never given much credence to the theories of Freud and his colleagues, but perhaps I should reconsider that once we are finished with what we must do in Switzerland. Thank you, Irene, for being her for me. Emotion is a dual-edged sword, and one Sherlock never had to deal with."

"You are most welcome, dear. Now come back to bed. Tomorrow. . no, it is already today, isn't it? Today will be a long day."

"Could Katrina stay with me. . just for the rest of the night?" Sherla asked, knowing she was still shaky.

Irene gave both young women a stern look. "Oh, very well, but we are going to SLEEP, are we not?"

"Yes, Tante Irene," the two chorused in perfect synchronicity.

Well, John, I managed to sleep a few more hours, cuddled as I was between those two women I have come to love. Yes, I said 'love'. One of those silver linings I mentioned earlier.

I am going to spend my remaining hours before we arrive in Brienz reviewing my plans and precautions. As I have mentioned before in this journal, I have a great deal to live for and I wish to enjoy all that this new life can afford me. I, and those whom I have come to love, MUST survive this encounter, as much as Moriarty must finally meet his fate.

If this was a warning, then I shall use it to best effect.

End Journal Entry.

Excerpt from the Experimental Journal of Professor Moriarty

March 11, 1911

Progress to Date:

Professor Buchner now has been, how shall I put this delicately? . . fully integrated into our little research project. Over the past few days he has watched in rather appalled fascination as a phase two chimpanzee repeatedly attacked "her" brother in an attempt to force sexual congress. Sadly, both are now dead. The feminized animal suffered a fatal bite to her throat as she attempted to rape her partner. The male died shortly thereafter, his testicles crushed in the female's death throes. The expression on Dr. Buchner's face as he watched both animals die was most gratifying. I do not believe I shall have to motivate him further.

Dr. Buchner has reviewed Professor Haber's and my experimental journals, and has conducted some basic tests on the herbal preparation. He has proposed two courses of inquiry that he feels may increase our knowledge of the biological mechanisms involved with three key effects of the herbs.

His first proposal distresses me for it will take a significant period of time to show results. He wants to take an elderly subject all the way back to puberty, and then continue the administration of the drug beyond that point in time. In truth, I have conducted this experiment while in South America. The subject always ceased to regress at some point, whereupon the drug, for reasons I was never able to determine, became toxic. Something to do with the transformed physiology perhaps.

Buchner is more concerned with tracking various biochemical indices during the transition, and comparing those indices to comparably aged animals of both genders. What he hopes to learn from this experiment is not clear, but as he points out, the changes involved are complex and fundamental, and something might arise from this basic research that will help us. The problem, from my perspective, is that he wishes to make this transition slowly, allowing sufficient time to assure biochemical stabilization after each administration of the drug. He estimates that the total regression will require something on the order of six weeks.

His second, and to my mind, more interesting line of inquiry is to look more closely and see if a female to male transition might be developed. He postulates, based on both my and Haber's work, that the rejuvenation effect is inextricably linked to the gender change effect. However, he points out that my entire efforts to date have been to *prevent* the gender change. However, he thinks it may be possible to regress age while female, say to the point where the drug withdrawal is survivable, and then reverse the gender change without reversing the rejuvenation.

I challenged the Doctor with the issue that, should such a reversal be possible, would not the natives I encountered in South America have done this? His response was that perhaps the reversal was beyond their ken, lacking as they were in advantages of modern science. Another possibility is that they are simply too backward to recognize, as have Europeans and most other civilized societies, the inherent inferiority of the female of the species.

Which is, of course, a hard truth and one I had always puzzled about while conducting my researches in the Amazon. How could a tribe that was more than seventy five percent young, nubile and attractive females, been left unconquered by their more masculine and warlike neighbors? Surely, I had always thought, they would be too weak to protect themselves. Surprisingly, Buchner had a rather insightful response to that question when I mentioned it during our interview.

Dr. Buchner surmises that there were, in fact, hostile tribes in the past who attempted to enslave the formerly-male women. However, they would have soon fallen victim to the rejuvenation potion themselves. As I recall, the women of the tribe were all extremely skilled with a from of blowgun. Quite possibly, they used this to administer the drug to their opponents whereupon they had the distasteful choice of an agonizing and humiliating death, or begging entry to the tribe and becoming women. In any case, the women's tribe would have become taboo among the other tribes for what clear thinking warrior would wish to die such a death, or worse, become a woman?

Buchner proposes to work with test animals - female test animals - at a wide spectrum of maturity levels. He believes that with certain fermentation processes, he can reverse the gender change effect. The issue will be to determine what is the best age for this reverse transition to be attempted.

Unfortunately, this brings up a significant, but easily remedied problem. I am out of chimpanzees, and I never had any females in any case. I have a good many of the smaller African monkeys, but they are not very highly developed in my opinion. I am not willing to endanger my own life on a process that has only been tested on these monkeys. I have dispatched my supply man to order more chimpanzees, and to include a equal number of females in this purchase. Buchner will proceed with his testing using the greens, and by the time he has a workable treatment, the more advanced primates should be here. Once the process is proven on animals who were female-by-birth, we shall regress and transform a male animal, and see if we can then safely reverse the gender change.

The final test will, of course, be on human subjects. How many will be used in that process will depend upon the state of my reserves of South American herbs, but I will conduct at least two such tests. The first subject will be chosen from my loyal minions, just to ensure that the entire transition - elderly male to pubescent female and finally to pubescent male - is survivable. An excellent way to repay such excellent service - if it works. And if it does not? Then they will have performed an even more excellent service for me. In any event, conscripting one of the locals to fill this requirement might call undue attention to this area before I am ready to deal with such minor annoyances. Assuming that experiment is successful, the second test will be conducted using Dr. Haber as the subject. Naturally, someone possessing a high level intellect must be subjected to the process before my own matchless brain is put at risk. In truth, I should rather die than live less than I am - less than I should be.

Of course, once these experiments are complete, and I am once again young and at the height of my powers, every other person associated with this project will die. Oh, I shall reward them handsomely for their efforts - their deaths will be quick and painless - perhaps even pleasurable - but only I will know the secret of eternal youth and life.

Only Moriarty will possess that knowledge and the nigh-to- infinite power that knowledge portends. Only Moriarty will rule!

End Journal Entry.

Chapter 3. Opening Gambits

Sherla got up from her chair and strode over to the window where she stood staring outside, a look of clear disgust on her lovely face. The snow had begun falling just before they had arrived in Brienz and had continued falling steadily for the past five hours. Already nearly half a meter of new snow had accumulated and the storm showed no signs of abating anytime in the near future.

Irene was quite comfortably situated on lovely settee near a lovely warm fire with a book to occupy her mind and a cup of rich Swiss chocolate to hand. She looked up from her reading to watch with tolerant amusement as Sherla flounced back to her own seat, the frilly layers of her dress billowing in her wake. "You know that the innkeeper told us that the storm will likely continue until sometime tomorrow."

"Yes!" the girl exploded as she bolted from her chair once again, this time to begin pacing. "And then it will likely be DAYS before we can move about with any ease at all. We have an investigation to carry through!"

*Ah, so at last we see the mercurial and justly famous Holmes temperament. I wonder if she realizes that she shows only excess energy at her confinement, and not the ennui that led her male self to attempt to end his life?* Irene mused when another thought occurred to her. *And perhaps he did succeed. It's true that my meetings with Sherlock were only passing at best, but I have studied the man as I have studied no other save my husband. While I see no diminution in the powers she possessed as the world's greatest investigative detective, there is so much more to her - to *Sherla* - than I ever dreamed there could be to a man whom even his best friend could not make seem warm when he wrote of their mutual adventures.*

"How can you just SIT there, Irene?" Sherla demanded as she literally stomped over to confront the older woman. "Moriarty is out there, I can FEEL him, dammit! Every minute we delay is another minute he has to succeed at his damnable scheme, and the very LAST thing we want to deal with in this confounded tangle is a Moriarty, young and renewed, at the height of his considerable powers! We have to DO something!!"

A chuckle Irene could not repress further infuriated Sherla who spun on her heel to storm out of the sitting room of their suite. "STOP RIGHT THERE!" Irene ordered, and was pleased when the girl did stop, if not quite managing to get her to turn back to face her. "If you continue to stride about in that very unseemly fashion, I shall be forced to order Katrina to start tightening your stays again. You will call undue attention to yourself and by connection, to all of us. We cannot have that, my dear," she warned darkly. "Katrina, as we proved in Freisburg, is not yet ready for such pointed scrutiny."

"Well, she should learn to stay out of Lady's Waterclosets when she's dressed as a male," Sherla snapped.

Irene eyed watched Sherla for a few more moments, thinking that if the girl were any more tightly wound, the very air about her would likely begin to vibrate. *Perhaps I SHOULD order her laced more tightly, if only to give her something more controllable than a late winter blizzard in the Alps about which to complain,* Irene thought but then mentally shook her head. *No, as appealing as that might be, particularly to Katrina, that solution is for the moment out of the question. Sherla's reasons for not being tightly corseted still obtain. She needs to maintain her strength and ease of movement until this battle is over. Damn the girl! If she will not give over, she will force me to take an action that might ultimately prove detrimental to our cause?*

Irene was wracking her brain, trying to find some least harmful manner in which she might have to press the girl when suddenly, Sherla seemed to deflate. Shoulders drooping, the lovely young woman turned back to face Irene. "But Irene, the snow. . " she complained with just a touch of whine in her voice.

Sighing, Irene set aside her book, rose from her seat and walked over to take the distraught young woman in her arms. "This is Switzerland, sweet, the high Alps, and it is barely more than a week into March. It is winter here still." She said soothingly.

Sherla dropped her head onto the taller Irene's shoulder. Then she too sighed. "Oh, I know," she growled, "Goodness, somewhere I recall researching the area, probably for the first trip up here, and finding out that May snows are not uncommon in these climes. But I feel we are so close to our goal and adversary - so very, very close, and yet. . . ."

"So far?" Irene offered, her tongue pressed firmly in her cheek. "I know, love, but we must play the hand we are played. On the positive side, the Swiss are used to this and will have dealt with the aftereffects of this storm far more quickly than could be managed in either Paris or London. Besides, don't sleds leave tracks? I suspect Professor Moriarty might be even easier to find under such circumstances."

"Once we find one of his henchman to follow," Sherla said quietly.

"Which we will do, dear." A knock on the door distracted them both. "Enter," Irene called.

The innkeeper and a young maid entered followed by two porters, each burdened by several cases and a trunk. "Madame, we could not manage to get all of your luggage into the small sleigh, but we did bring the bags you said were most important. The rest are secured at the train station pending the end of the storm. Fraulein Schapp will unpack for you and your daughter. Where would you like this?" he asked holding up a violin case.

Sherla all but pounced on the leather case. "I will take it, Mein Herr," she said in impeccable German. "I need some diversion."

"Excellent," Irene said with a smile. *And just in time!* "Oh, and Herr Innkeeper, would you perhaps have a chess set we could use? My daughter and I would enjoy a game or two to while away the snowy arms."

"It shall be up as soon as the porters have finished helping Fraulein Schapp. Will there be anything else, Madame?"

"Another pot of your most excellent chocolate and some sweet biscuits, I think. We shall make a party of being snowed in."

The dapper innkeeper snapped off a formal bow, his heels clicking ostentatiously, and then left without another word.

With some relief, Irene heard the soft melodies of a Strauss waltz fill the room. For the moment, Sherla's active mind and intense nature were being soothed by music's magic charms.

After dinner, the trio intrepidly ventured out to look upon the wintry scene. Well bundled against the cold snow and colder winds, they made their way toward the small stable the innkeeper maintained for his guests' animals as well as his own. The path they followed had been just recently cleared, but was already beginning to refill with the falling and blowing snow.

"It seems to be letting up somewhat, don't you think, Irene?" Sherla asked hopefully once they were inside the pleasantly warm stables. Idly, she stroked the white-blazed head of a particularly curious chestnut mare as she looked at Irene for encouragement.

"Compared to what?" Katrina snorted as she shook the snow from her hat and shoulders. "If anything, I think it is falling harder, although with that wind it is difficult to tell with any certainty."

Irene smiled, glad that her lips had not truly frozen as she had momentarily feared. "I think that Karl is correct, Sherla, but on the other hand, it has been my experience that such storms to seem to crest like waves before they begin to ease. We must be patient."

"Oh, very well," Sherla said. Then she made a visible shaking movement of her thickly coated form and turned to face her allies. "I think it might be a good idea to discuss our plans a bit further." "What's to discuss?" Katrina asked impishly. "You've been haranguing me about what to look for at those warehouses and train stations since you first put me in these very unbecoming and very uncomfortable clothes."

"I know, I know," Sherla said with a forced little laugh. "But I also have something for you. Give me your right hand," she ordered firmly.

Sherla peeled back the sleeve of 'Karl's' greatcoat after Katrina extended her arm. From her reticule, Sherla removed a stout piece of leather, perhaps six inches long and two inches wide. This she strapped to Katrina's wrist. The she again dipped into her reticule and produced a small derringer pistol. She opened the weapon to ensure it was unloaded, and then connected it to a strange little lattice metal mechanism which she then attached to the leather wristband on the inside of Katrina's wrist. Holding Katrina's forearm in one hand, Sherla pressed the weapon back toward the wristband, the lattice mechanism folding into a small, tight package at the back of the pistol's handgrip.

Sherla replaced the sleeves and then stood back. "Now, make a fist and quickly flick your right hand outward at the wrist." Katrina did as she was bidden, and with a quiet snapping sound, the pistol popped from her sleeve. It would have been right at hand had the stunned Katrina thought to bring her hand back to catch the weapon.

"What is it?" Katrina asked, unable to take her eyes off the small weapon.

"A special concealed weapon, designed to come immediately to hand when you need it. Just move your hand back to normal position and open your fist, and you are armed and dangerous. Here, you reposition the weapon like this," and Sherla guided Katrina's free hand as she pressed the pistol back beneath her sleeves.

"It is a two shot derringer, but its range is severely limited. If you must use it, it might be best if you were as close to touching your target with the weapon as possible. Please practice with the actuation device until you are facile with it, Katrina, then come to me for a final assessment of your abilities with the weapon. I will give you ammunition which fit in those little loops about the leather band for it once you are proficient with the deployment and retrieval of that nasty little weapon."

"But why do I need such a thing?" Katrina asked, even as she could not stop playing with the new device. "Because the places we are asking you to surveille are dangerous in the best of times, and since we are here for Moriarty, we can scarcely call this the best of times. Secondly, because the type of minion Moriarty is likely to employ consists of dangerous men who would not scruple killing a young man. . . or a young woman. Unfortunately, that may be our only means to locating Moriarty, although I have hopes for a scheme I have developed with Irene as the key player in my little drama.

"Moi?" Irene asked, a mischievous twinkle in her amber eyes.

"Oui, Madame," Sherla said with a mock curtsy. "I think that you shall visit what estate agencies are to be found in this small city."

"Estate agencies? Are we looking for a domicile, my dear?"

"A very specific domicile, I think," Sherla agreed. "Something near Rosenlaui, I think, but not too close, with plenty of land on all sides of the main house and support buildings."

"Looking for privacy, am I," Irene said with a husky laugh. "A lover's paradise, perhaps?"

"You must use your own best judgment which I am sure you will when discussing such delicate matters, but the house must have a view and over look the surrounding country for as far as the eye can see."

"On a high point?" Irene asked before answering her own question, "Yes, that makes sense. All right, dear. I understand. Just as soon as we can move about I shall undertake this investigation for you."

"I don't understand," Katrina complained. "I thought we were only staying long enough to find and stop this Moriarty fellow. Why should we need to bespeak more permanent lodgings? Not that this place is not beautiful, but it is horribly cold, and if we were to stay, I should be stuck in these abominable male clothing."

Sherla and Irene both smiled at Katrina's outrage. "Non, ma belle," Sherla soothed, "We are not searching for a house for us, but rather, for the one that Moriarty has taken."

A firmness came into Katrina's eyes and she became thoughtful. "Explain, please," she ordered, her voice just short of imperious.

"What I have described," Sherla told her lover, taking one of Katrina's shivering hands in her still-gloved ones, "is the type of establishment I believe Moriarty would look for. Rosenlaui because, well, because I think that is where he fled. Private because he won't want unexpected visitors and the Swiss are very hospitable people. Same with a great deal of land about him. Combine that with a main complex built on a high point to command the immediate area, it would be difficult to mount any type of armed attack against him and have it succeed without significant loss of life and the likely escape of our prey."

"Marvelous," Katrina clapped her hands in pleasure. "I am going to learn SO much from you, petite." Then a very crafty grin crossed her smooth features. "And what is the plan for you, little one?"

"For me?" Sherla said with some surprise, "Why, I expect to assist Irene in her researches."

"Oh, I think that will work, at least some of the time," Irene put in, "but I think Katrina asks a more fundamental question. Yes, I think I know what our little Miss Sherla, or as she is now known, Miss Cheryl Huxley, shall do and how she shall present herself."

If Sherla had learned nothing about this magnificent woman in her short tenure in Irene's home, it was to be very cautious when that tone entered Irene's voice. "Yes? And just what is that role, if I may be so bold as to ask?"

"You, my dear, shall be our flirt!"

"FLIRT?!? ME?!??!"

*Lord, the look on her face is priceless! I don't know whether she is shocked or terrified. . . likely both.* "Well, it certainly won't be *Karl*, and I, though I must admit I am a fine figure of a woman for my age, am just a bit past the age of the true femme fatale. By process of elimination, my dear, that leaves you. Sweet 16, just out of the school room, and an incorrigible flirt."

"But. . but. . . "

"Sherla. . ." Irene strung the syllables out, her mein stern.

"Who says we need someone to be a flirt? Who would she. . I mean. .who would *I* flirt with?"

"Why, I don't know," Irene said, a half smile on her lips. "Perhaps the man you believe Karl will find at the train station. Perhaps someone else will show up and we will need you to employ your womanly weapons to advance our cause. Besides, having you act a bit like a slut might provide us with some other advantages."

Sherla's brows went up and then her brow furrowed. "What kind of advantages? I confess I cannot think of a single one!"

"Oh, that is because you have been thinking like a male when you stopped to consider what your role would be in this little adventure. And while I agree you are going to be required to move about rather freely in the prosecution of this investigation, you MUST remember that you are a female in a small, relatively conservative country, darling. Only females with a certain . . .shall we say . . .loose moral fiber walk about in the dark or go out and about alone? A man could. . .Sherlock could. . A woman, which is who you as Miss Cheryl Huxley are, cannot."

"What? So I dress and behave like some lady of the evening in order to get freedom of movement? I have been in this land before, Irene, and my freedom would last only so long as I kept out of the way of the police. Which would likely not be for very long."

"Silly!" Irene laughed with real mirth. "Not a whore. . .just a . . .young lady with too much spirit and too much independence. We could even play that up as part of the reason why we came to this out of the way part of the world. . .why I want the type of place you just described. We can hint that it is an effort to get you away from the young society bloods until you mature enough to know better. It gives us a cover story, and an excuse for me to run around town looking for you while you move around on your own investigations."

It was clear from the look on Sherla's face that while she understood the possibilities, she did not like the idea of being or even pretending to be intimate with a man. "Perhaps," she said, still noncommittal.

"Oh, don't worry, Ma'amselle Cherie," Katrina piped in. "You flirt very well for a beginner, and when you have to get too close to a man, your pesky little brother will be close by to . . ah. . . foil your lecherous plans."

Sherla gave 'Karl' a telling look, and then grinned. "I suppose it is the beginning of a plan, however," and here she pinned Irene with a hard glare, "the plan will be far more complete and foolproof when and IF we ever implement the "get too close to a man" part of your stratagem."

"True enough," Irene agreed meekly enough, knowing that she had won. "And tomorrow when the rest of our luggage arrives, we will check to see how your new wardrobe fits."

"What. . . NEW. . wardrobe?" Sherla demanded cautiously.

"Oh, you will love it. I thought of this little stratagem while before we left, and visited my modiste. She made heroic efforts to complete my. . .somewhat fast daughter an appropriate wardrobe."

"Oh, sounds lovely!" Katrina enthused. "I cannot wait to see them."

"I think I could and quite happily," Sherla said with much less anticipation, "But I will concede Irene's greater knowledge of the womanly weapons' potentialities. Well, I am for bed, I think. Lady and *gentleman*, shall we brave the storm that stands between us and our warm, comfortable beds? Hopefully, tomorrow will be a busy day."

Chapter 4. Karl at Large

Fortunately for Sherla's sanity, the snow ended early the next morning. "Only a scant yard's worth of snow, not even a whole meter," she murmured just loud enough that Irene was able to overhear. "Surely it shouldn't take them long to clear the roads and trails." Irene had to hurry from the room to keep from laughing aloud.

But there was precious little motion outside the frosted window of their suite that morning, and not much more in the hotel's common dining room when they made their midday meal. It had become quite apparent that the quick clearing hoped for by Sherla would not be forthcoming anytime soon. "But Maman, this place is so isolated," Sherla complained as she fumed about not be able to move about and prosecute her inquiries. "How will we ever find anyone to talk with, to ask . . ."

A sudden cue from Irene caught her eye. "There are plenty of people to ask such things, my dear," Irene said easily, "Such as our most gracious host. Good afternoon, Herr Schmidt," Irene said with a smile for the approaching innkeeper. "A most delightful luncheon."

"Thank you, Frau Huxley," the jovial man responded using the false name Irene had selected for their disguise. "I will tell my wife you enjoyed her cooking. And you, Fraulein Cheryl, did you not enjoy your luncheon?" He gave her such an exaggeratedly concerned look that Sherla laughed in spite of her frustration.

"It was delightful, Mein Herr, and well you know it," she said, batting her eyes flirtatiously.

"So why aren't you happy at my lovely hotel, Fraulein, eh?"

Irene gave Sherla a sharp kick beneath the table and a quick stern look to remind her of her role. "It is just that we have been snowed in since we arrived, and lovely as your hotel surely is," she hesitated and the thought of what Irene expected her to say brought a rosy blush to her cheeks, "It's just that. . that there are so few b. . . I mean, people my own age here. . . to talk to, that is."

"She means BOYS, Mother," Katrina/Karl sing-songed in her best pestering-little-brother voice.

"Shut UP, brat!" Sherla snarled, glaring at her "little brother."

"Karl" stuck out his tongue in response.

"Thank god there are so few boys about," Irene said sotto voce, much the obvious amusement of the innkeeper. "Children, behave yourselves! Cheryl, we do not tell people to "Shut up" - where do you pick up these awful phrases? And Karl, don't stick out your tongue. It's vulgar."

"Yes, Mother!" they chorused while still glaring at one another.

Visibly composing herself, Sherla turned her attention back to the paternally grinning host. "So, Mein Herr, when do you think we shall be able to go out and move about your beautiful city?"

"Well, Fraulein Cheryl, if you were to brave the foul winds and cold, you might be able to move about a little after luncheon. Most of the merchants have cleared paths to their doors and to the path of their neighbors. Although, I do not know if your lovely skirts will fit yet, as the paths are sadly very narrow. The wind blows still and fills in the paths as quickly as they can be cleared."

"But what about the roads?" Sherla had pressed.

"I am afraid, Mademoiselle, that the roads will not be cleared for perhaps one or two days after the winds ease."

"One or two DAYS?!?" Sherla nearly shrieked.

"After the winds ease," the innkeeper had replied, a bit of a smile on his face.

"But, but. . . That's,"

"As must be, dear," Irene said firmly, putting a cautioning hand on Sherla's wrist. "What can be done will be done as soon as it can be done."

"But, Mother," Sherla protested, remembering at the last second to let a petulant whine into her voice. "If I don't get out of this . . .," and with a pause she looked up and smiled fetchingly at her host, then continued, "very nice hotel, what will I DO?"

Irene's glare owed more to her skill from years on the stage than any real anger, but it looked quite impressive nonetheless. "Cheryl, if you cannot find something that will occupy your mind and your hands, then I'm sure I can find something for you to do. Or perhaps Herr Schmidt would appreciate some help in his kitchens, if you have so much energy to spare."

Herr Schmidt interrupted whatever response Sherla might have made with a rich, booming laugh. "Thank you very much, Frau Huxley, but I would not dream of taking advantage of the Fraulein that way. Besides, if she were in the kitchen, then so would be all the stable boys, and then where would I be?"

Leaving that question hanging in the air, surrounded by yet another booming laugh, the hotel owner wandered on to visit other of his snowbound guests. One single glance back, rewarded with a most fetching pout on Sherla's full lips, and his round belly shook with poorly suppressed mirth.

Once they were alone in the room, Irene turned a hard eye on Sherla. "You have to get control of your frustration, Sherla. It calls attention to you and that is the last thing we need. Where is this famous rational control you used to pride yourself about?"

Sherla started to make a sharp retort, and then reconsidered. "You are in the right of it, Maman," she said, just a bit shamefaced. "I shall do better. I just wish we could be done with this entire affair. I want him stopped, once and for all."

"Which you cannot accomplish in this mood. We will find him. Our plan is sound."

"I just wish we could do something," Sherla sighed.

"And so we can, since there are paths dug out of the snow," Irene said, her eyes twinkling.

"But how? A flirt such as I would not dream of soiling her lovely skirts on those snowy streets without proper, cleared paths."

"Nor would a woman of mature years such as I, my dear, but a rough and tumble young lad such as Karl must be simply *itching* to get outside into the snow."

Katrina's eyes went wide in surprise. "ME? Out. . THERE?!?" At Irene's complacent nod, Karl/Katrina shook her head. "I itch, all right, Maman, but it is because of these wooly trousers. Why ever would I want to go out in that wind and snow when there is a warm fire in our room and hot chocolate for the asking?"

"Why, to deliver a telegram for my husband to the train station. It should be fairly empty of people today and you could make a quick examination of the premises."

"But Irene," Sherla put in, "You are here as Madame Huxley. To whom will they deliver the telegram? The last thing we need is a love note returned as undeliverable."

"One of the individuals who has assisted me in the past has been forewarned to expect such messages from Madame Irene Huxley," Irene said with a slight grin, "and he will then forward them, unopened, to my darling husband. So, we can use our Karl for this little reconnaissance without worry about the delivery end of our little stratagem."

"A most excellent notion," Sherla enthused.

"It is NOT!" Katrina refuted, but she could tell she'd already lost the battle.

"Let's go upstairs right now and get you bundled up," Sherla said excitedly, "And remember to walk like a boy swinging your shoulders and not those lovely hips. You have to THINK *boyish*."

"I'll give you boyish," Katrina snarled in her ear.

"Well, yes, you did that quite well actually, the night of the ball," Sherla said with a smirk. But her own memories brought a blush to her cheeks that was not at all play-acting.

Katrina's mouth dropped open, but she realized she would be hard-pressed to find a suitable rejoinder to her so-beautiful lover. Especially since that comment had forcibly wrenched her own thoughts into an entirely different channel. By the time she realized how she had been manipulated, Sherla was already holding out her coat and muffler.

"I'll get you for this, ma petite," Katrina promised, but the promise in her eyes showed an entirely different punishment than she might have considered just a few moments before.

"Promise?" Sherla whispered back.

Irene decided she had better intercede or the trip with the telegram would be quite delayed. "Both of you, behave, or I will be the one making promises."

"Why Irene, I thought you'd never offer," Sherla said, her throaty contralto holding no hint of childishness.

It was a good thing they were in their room, because Katrina's giggle held no hint of masculinity. Or was it Irene's own laugh that resounded down the hall?

Cringing ostentatiously in apparent fear, Katrina's good humor lasted while they bundled her up, if not much longer. She sighed in defeat and allowed the two women to escort her to the front door of the hotel.

The wind blew fiercely, catching up the fallen snow and lashing the flakes about like so many icy blades. Katrina cursed under her breath as a particularly cutting blast sliced in between her chin and the woolen muffler. Grimly, she put her head down and pressed on into the wind, her only thought to get to the train station and out of the brutal winds.

"It will be a simple trip, Katrina," she fumed remembering Sherla's smiling encouragement. "You'll be there in no time at all, Katrina. Don't you remember how quickly we got here from the train station, Katrina? Of course, we were in a horse-drawn sleigh and the storm had barely started. NEXT time, SHE can be the boy. After all, doesn't she have more practice at it?" Another gust of wind lashed at her, chilling her to the bone. "And with her figure, she's better padded and insulated against this cold than I am. A whole life as a woman and she gets a better figure than I have in less than two months."

Katrina stepped into the recessed entrance of one shop in search of momentary relief from the ferocious weather while she checked her location. She thought back to just a half hour ago, trying to remember the directions the innkeeper had given "Karl" when told the boy was going to the station. Peering through the glare of the afternoon sun reflecting off the snow, she found the confectioner's shop that the innkeeper had given her as a landmark. Katrina pulled her chin down deeper into the woolen muffler and wrapped the greatcoat tighter around her before stepping back into the cleared path - nearly knocking over another brave soul fighting his way through the howling winds.

*That was close. I'd have probably ended up in one of those snow drifts and not been found again until spring.* Then another thought struck her. *Suppose he'd heard me complaining? That would have been very difficult to explain and would likely have ruined Tante Irene's and Sherla's entire plan. Time to keep your mouth shut, Katrina.*

*Stupid male clothing,* Katrina fumed silently as the cold wind buffeted her. *Women can simply put on another petticoat or two or three. Can a man put on more trousers? Not bloody likely. If I really were a man, I'd be freezing that defining part of me off out here. At least the shoulder padding Sherla put on me to make me look more masculine is helping against the wind and that awful sticking plaster she put across my bottom to make me remember not to swing my hips is gone.*

Katrina shuddered when she recalled the last time the three inch wide, eighteen inch long piece of sticky cloth had been ripped from her bottom. *Next time,* Katrina promised herself again, *That little witch gets to freeze. I will be the girl and SHE can be the boy. Just wait until I get my hands on her. . .if they're thawed enough to get a grip on her."

She was still planning her dire revenge when the sign for the Brezel train station suddenly appeared in the blowing snow. Moving as quickly as her freezing trousers would permit, Katrina raced for the door. With a huge sigh of relief, she slipped inside. The sudden change in temperature made her momentarily lightheaded and she barely kept herself from falling by leaning against the nearest wall.

Fortunately, the place was nearly deserted, so her lapse went unobserved. "Act boyish, she says," Katrina muttered and then began stalking toward the iron-grilled pay window.

A man of slender build and thinning hair got up from a desk and came over to the window at her approach. "Trains won't be running for another two or three days according to the latest telegrams from up the line. If you are here to buy tickets, you have made the trip in vain, boy."

"Thank you, sir, but I am here for my Maman who wishes to send a message to my Papa and let him know we have arrived safely," Katrina replied, reaching into the pockets of her great coat to remove a somewhat crumpled envelope which she pushed beneath the metal bars. "My Maman would like that sent to Paris as soon as possible, sir."

The station master opened the envelope, read it and nodded. "I can send this now, young man. ." he looked up, expectantly.

"Karl, sir, Karl Huxley."

"I am Herr Loche, Karl. If you want to go warm yourself by the stove over there, I will call you when I have a receipt from the receiving office."

"Danke, Herr Loche. It was very cold outside and I have never seen weather like this before."

"Well, it is a very cold wind. You get warm and I will see to this."

*Praise the Lord if the other station does not answer for at least an hour or so. It will take that long for me to get warm.*

It did not take nearly that long, but then, it did not take nearly that long for Katrina to thaw, either. Soon, she was warm enough to shed her coat and nose about the small station house. Clearly, there was not enough room for much in the way of cargo or other materials to be stored in the building, which indicated that a separate storage facility was required. She'd have to find that place, but not today. The only place she was going after that message was receipted was back to the hotel. Yes, she was headed back to the hotel and hot chocolate, to the warm fires and even warmer arms of her loving Ma'amselle Cherie..

And best of all, she would be going downwind the whole way, too. That ought to cut her travel time in that hellish cold in half.

"Young Herr Huxley?" the station master called.

"Yes sir?"

"I have the receipt for your mother's message. It will be delivered to your father's home within the hour. Here is your Mother's copy." Herr Loche said, holding out a sealed envelope. "Her change is in the envelope as well."

Katrina took the envelope, executed a small bow as Sherla had taught her, and donned her coat, hat and muffler. She waved a farewell to Herr Loche and went outside.

Her first thought was that it had gotten warmer during her time inside the station. Then, she realized that the winds had died down. "Thank heaven," she breathed as she turned towards the hotel.

She hadn't gone more than a few meters when something hard struck her in the back of her head. Seeing stars, Katrina spun on her heel to see what had happened only to catch a face another missile flush in her chest.

A boy, who'd been hiding behind a small mountain of piled snow, came out to face her, laughing. "Got you good!" he crowed as he reached into the snow to form another snowy missile. He threw this one and Katrina managed to dodge it, but did not retaliate. "Hey," he called, "What's the matter? Don't you know how to play snowballs?"

"Snowballs?" Katrina shouted back. "What's that?"

"We make balls out of the snow, like this," he called back as he demonstrated, "And then we throw them at each other, like THIS!" he shouted as he let fly the ball he'd just formed.

That ball caught Katrina just beneath her muffler, sending cold snow down beneath the collar of her coat. "Let me see if I have this right," she retorted forming her own ball and letting it fly in a weak little loft that her intended target could easily have dodged, were it not already so far wide of her mark.

"HAH! You throw like a girl. Didn't your Papa ever teach you how to throw?"

*Uh oh,* Katrina thought, *Can't be caught out this quickly over something like this!* "Ummm, no. My Papa is always away on business and I've never learned this game. It doesn't snow like this at home."

The boy came closer. "That's sad. Hey, I can show you how to throw. It really is easy. My name's Erich, by the way, Erich Loche."

"Oh? Your Papa is the station master? My Name is Ka . . umm Karl. Karl Huxley," she answered, momentarily stuttering over the new, still unfamiliar name.

"You're shivering," Erich charged. "Guess you aren't used to this type of weather. Tell you what. You go home and get warmed up. Tomorrow, I will come and teach you to throw, all right?"

"All . . all right," Katrina shivered out, exaggerating the breaks in her voice. "I am staying at the hotel up the road until my Maman can find us a place to live up here."

"Great. I will see you tomorrow after breakfast, Karl. Tell you what. I will walk you back. I bet you don't know the short cut back to the hotel. I'll have you there in half the time."

"Excellent work, Katrina," Sherla cheered. "Your new friend will be an excellent resource for us and a better cover for you. Now you have a reason to spend time in the vicinity of the train station without anyone being the wiser of your true intent."

Katrina was not so certain, but knew better than to voice her worries to the very pleased Sherla. "Tante Irene," she began, "I don't know if I can carry off this masquerade so close to a real adolescent boy. He has already decided that I throw like a girl. Suppose there are other boy-type activities that I do like a girl? How soon before he decides that I must BE a girl?"

"Oh, Katrina, . " Sherla began to protest, only to be cut off by Irene.

"Sherla!" Irene snapped before turning a gentler mein to the daughter of her heart. "Dear, you are right to be concerned, but Sherla is also correct in her assessment of the opportunity this acquaintance provides. You must try, at least, to befriend this boy."

"And if he discovers I am really a woman?"

Irene shrugged. "Hopefully he will not, but if he does, you still will have had the opportunity to find out things we need to know in the meantime. We will then use our planned story to explain why you are dressed and asked to behave like a boy. Most men will believe it. All right?"

Katrina wanted to say no, but then she glanced at the entreaty in Sherla's eyes and knew she could not deny her lover this. Sighing deeply, she nodded her acquiescence.

"But, my love," Sherla added, "We will have to start using the sticking plaster for you have been walking with a hip swing again."

"I have not!" Katrina retorted, dreading that awful tightness that made even the most restrictive corset seem comfortable by comparison.

"Of course you have," Sherla said confidently. "Look at that bit of packed snow that you tracked in, formed between the heel of your boot and the outer sole. It is thicker where the outer edge of the sole meets the heel than on the inner edge. Obviously, you are leading with your toe and instep on each stride. You have been touching toe first like a woman instead of heel first like a boy. I would wager any amount that if we were to go outside and check your tracks in the snow, you have been putting one foot in front of the other, too, also indicative of a hip-swing."

"We will see about THAT," Katrina said, her temper showing as she pulled on her coat and stormed out the door of their suite.

"Brilliant deduction, my dear Sherla," Irene said, her golden eyes twinkling in mischief. A spate of foul language announced Katrina's return to the suite's outer room. "Well, at least she is learning to curse like a boy, and I cannot even discipline her for it since she is working SO hard to stay in role."

"You were correct, ma petite," Katrina said as she let herself back into the sitting room. Her tone of voice provided almost enough warning for the Great Detective.

Almost.

"And this is what Erich showed me," Katrina said, tossing a softly-compacted ball of snow at Sherla's unfairly-dry hair. Unfortunately, her aim was not much better with Sherla than with Erich. Or perhaps it was because Sherla was rising and turning toward Katrina as she entered the room, but the snowball struck a few inches lower than the trousered member of their group had intended. And squarely into the so-very-feminine decolletage of Sherla's evening dress.

"Oops," gasped Katrina. The gasp was matched by Irene, who had risen quickly herself in a not-entirely-successful attempt to avoid the scattering snow.

Sherla, on the other hand, emitted a squeal far to outraged to be considered a gasp as she tried to scoop the freezing white snow from her cleavage.

"I'm sorry, Sherla," Katrina tried to explain, backpedaling away from the so-petite, yet so-fiery brunette.

"Hoohaahahah," Irene burst out, unable to control herself any longer. Her rich, uninhibited laughter pulled Sherla up short, looking from her intended target to the total lack of sympathy from her supposed benefactor.

"Irene, this is not funny," she snapped, as she fired off the remnants of Katrina's snowball at the older woman who showed considerable agility in dodging Sherla's not-girlishly-hurled missile.

"Oh, I don't know. I think it's wonderfully hilarious," Irene managed to get out, before being overcome with laughter again.

"I, . . ," but before Sherla could say anymore, her own laughter spilled out, destroying any potential for further intimidation of Katrina.

Smiling hugely, Sherla went over to hug her lover. "You truly are doing fine, sweetheart. You just need a little help smoothing out the rough edges of your characterization. Perhaps we can find something less. . . tacky than the bottom plaster to help you to remember to swing something other than those gorgeous hips."

"Oh, you," Katrina said, her mood improving. "You know I will wear it if you think it best."

"Wonderful!" Sherla said as she embraced Katrina tighter. "Just remember, darling. Think boyish!"

To Be Continued...

A Study in Satin - Part 3 - Chapters 5 - 8

Author:

Tigger

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CAUTION: Sex / Sexual Scenes

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"THE Woman."

A Study in Satin
Part III: Dum Vivimus Vivamus

Chapters 5-8

by Tigger

Image Credit: Title picture Victorian Woman ~Sephrena.

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

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.

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.

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:

Part III: Dum Vivimus Vivamus

Chapter 5. Interludes: Frustration and Satiation

Moriarty sat next to the large window overlooking the snow covered mountainside. The snow was only to be expected, he reminded himself, if cursedly inconvenient. Buchner's experiments with the remaining African monkeys were progressing apace, but Moriarty did not trust the results. The animals were simply too small for him to believe the results would be predictive for humans. For him. He wanted larger primates, specifically chimpanzees. *Now I wish that I had not used the last pair as object lessons for Haber and Buchner. He could be replicating the experiment on that pair even now were they still alive.*

Shrugging, Moriarty turned away from the window to regard the two men standing anxiously at his command. "Well, Carver, what is the report on the roads?"

The bigger of the two men spasmodically tugged at the knit watchcap he held in his two large gnarled hands. "Well, Professor, the lads have been working straight through ever since the wind died down enough to make progress. We should be able to get the sleigh through to Rosenlaui by noon tomorrow. From there, we'll have to see if they've cleared the trails down to Meringen. If they have, we'll be able to get the sleigh the rest of the way to Brienz to wait for the train with your monkeys."

"Chimpanzees, Mr. Carver, on your hope for a merciful death," Moriarty hissed in malevolent tones, "You had best pray that you mean chimpanzees."

The man called Carver swallowed hard and hastened to reply, "Actually, Professor, sir, . . .ummm. . we ordered both. An even dozen of them chimps, half boys, half girls, and another half a hundred monkeys, half of them boys and girls, too."

"Very well. See that I have chimpanzees, Mr. Carver, and SOON! When do you and Herr Friedrich leave?"

"We leave tomorrow, sir, just as soon as the trails to Rosenlaui are passable."

"Succeed and you will be well rewarded. Fail, and there is no place on earth that will protect you from me. Now get out and ensure the trail is ready for your departure per your schedule."

Moriarty did not even notice the men's hurried departure. They would succeed, he knew. Carver had been with him in the old days and knew well the price of failure. The look of stark terror on Bad John Carver's face when Moriarty had found him in that dockside brothel had been priceless and most satisfying. Moriarty had ordered him here as his advanced element to set up this hideaway.

Carver had escaped the Sherlock Holmes-spearheaded destruction of Moriarty's organization twenty years ago, primarily because he had never been associated with Moriarty or any of his underlings. Always on the fringes of Moriarty's organization, Carver was a competent seaman who could be relied upon to handle his job with little or no fuss, whether it was a smuggling job or a clandestine rescue of a gang member in whom the police were becoming much too interested.

Yes, Carver knew better than to fail, particularly in such a simple task as this. Moriarty allowed himself a small, amused smile. The irony of this situation had a certain appeal to it, especially since success in the tasks he set Carver would ultimately mean the man's demise. It was only a matter of time before Buchner's rather promising lines of inquiry could be tested on subjects more suitable to their needs. And if those tests were successful then Carver, along with every other soul involved with this project would be suitably rewarded.

Had not Moriarty promised them that? And was not freedom from pain a most excellent reward, particularly when one considered the alternatives.

A look of utterly serene satisfaction stole across Moriarty's countenance - serenity that was completely at odds with the plans and schemes that were slowly taking shape behind those cold eyes.

Contrary to what the staff at Herr Schmidt's hotel in Brienz believed, the lovely Fraulein Cheryl Huxley did not share the larger of the suite's two bed chambers with her "Mother". Rather, she shared the smaller of the two rooms with her younger "brother", Karl.

A pale beam of moonlight woke Katrina and she rolled over to escape its annoying radiance. Sherla's soft, warm body spooned into Katrina's own as she pulled the covers up about them both against the night chill. *She is just so lovely,* Katrina thought as she snuggled closer to her beloved.

Her afternoon's exertions had left Katrina too exhausted to make love that night. Sherla, observant as always, had ordered Katrina into a hot tub and had personally bathed her before tucking her into bed with a chaste kiss on the forehead. *And there I was, too cursed tired to be upset at being treated like a cranky child. Actually, it was rather sweet of her, except for that kiss. That is NOT where I want to be kissed by Sherla.*

*Think boyish, she says. If I was truly "thinking boyish" and had a woman such as this one in my arms, I would not simply be laying here, would I?* Katrina thought. *I wonder if she packed that. . . *

Carefully, so as not to awaken her lover, Katrina got out of the bed and padded over to the small closet where Sherla's small portmanteau was stored. Katrina dug about in it and found what she was looking for. With a sensuous grin, she stepped out of the bedchamber and lit a taper so that she could see. This was going to be FUN!

It was the contrast between heat and chill that drew Sherla out of the arms of Morpheus. Not only that, but the places that were heated quickly chilled after the heat source moved on.

Two soft arms slipped around Sherla's waist, pulling her tight against the warmth behind her. Knowing hands slipped up her body to cup her breasts and to tease at her suddenly rock hard nipples. Then something pinched daintily at her earlobe, making her arch hard in response. A soft, pleased giggle answered her body's sudden demand.

"Katrina?" Sherla half moaned, half groaned.

"Who were you expecting, petite? Herr Schmidt?"

With a growl of need, Sherla spun about in her lover's arms and pulled them close together, her mouth too busy to reply to Katrina's little jest.

Fiery need and desire consumed the pair as they rolled about the feather-ticked bed, Sherla's nightgown somehow ending up on the floor. Eager hands stroked and teased quivering flesh, agile tongues and lips caressed heated skin. Thoroughly aroused, Sherla reached downward, searching for her love's sex and was momentarily stunned by what her questing fingers found.

"And what have we here?" she asked into Katrina's kissing mouth, recovering her wits.

"What do you think it is, silly," Katrina giggled, arching her hips forward to let 'it' nudge Sherla gently.

"I think it is the godemiche, but both your hands are . . .ummm, involved," the last words said in a gasp of sudden pleasure.

"Your Katrina is a superb seamstress, my love. I made a special pair of drawers that hold the godemiche in its. . .appropriate place so that we can share it and have our hands free for. . .other things."

"Oh, what a clever, loving little minx you are," Sherla purred, pulling Katrina into a deep, penetrating kiss.

Pulling back, Katrina smiled down at Sherla. "Well, you did tell me to think boyish, my sweet," she said with a lascivious grin.

Sherla's hips gave an impatient shimmy and her hand reached down to take the long hard toy in one hand. Pulling it toward her aching womanhood, she looked up at Katrina. "Well, I think it is time for YOU to stop thinking and start ACTING!" She kissed her again, "Like a boy, that is!"

"Ohhhh yessssssssssss. . . "

"Is THAT boyish enough for you, petite?"

"Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm. . . . . "

The bright Alpine sun woke Sherla, a satiated smile still on her swollen lips. Nature's call made her waking up more urgent, and she hurried off to the small water closet down the hall. Actually, "hurried" was a relative term because she hurt in places she had never known she could hurt before, and that impeded her progress. Each step gave her a telling reminder of precisely how she had spent several hours the night before.

Fortunately, the initial pain had receded quickly to a dull, almost pleasurable ache once she began moving around. She still stepped carefully, but it was no longer worrisome. Sherlock had felt more pain after one of his swimming sessions or after struggling with some felon who refused to surrender gracefully.

"Ah, so you are finally awake, are you?" Katrina said entering the room, dressed as Karl. "Irene has had breakfast sent up and she wants to discuss the days activities. There are some roads now clear enough for the sleigh."

"Capital! At last we can begin the ending of this little drama," Sherla crowed as she tried to jump to her feet, only to be brought up short by sore muscles.

"Sherla!" Katrina yelled, leaping to help her friend. "You're hurt!" There was panic and then, sickening realization in Katrina's eyes. "Oh lord, I was too rough last night. I hurt you. Wait here, NO, Don't YOU move! I will get Tante Irene. She will know what to do. . .NO, I will have Herr Schmidt send for the physician." She was almost out the door, when the sound of laughter stopped her in mid stride.

"I am uninjured, silly," Sherla said moving over to embrace her lover. "Just a bit. . .sore and sensitive when I try to move to quickly. It is, I strongly suspect, an expected side effect that occurs when a physically inexperienced girl spends a bit too much time gaining some very lovely experience. Trust me, every twinge makes me smile because then I remember how I came to be this way. Now, 'little brother', let us go break our fast. I find I am quite famished."

"Oh, all right," Katrina said in her pesky brother voice, her eyes reflecting her relief.

Sherla found that if she walked by moving only with her legs, the stress on her over-exerted feminine muscles was significantly reduced, and then grinned. "You know, darling, I think I have just discovered the solution to those active little hips of yours."

Katrina frowned at Sherla, confusion evident in her look. "Don't worry, after tonight, you'll understand perfectly. Trust me." Sherla stretched out the last phrase and let it hang on the air, images of how it would feel to be the one wearing Katrina's special drawers dancing in her mind.

Date: March 14, 1911

Entry in the Journal of Miss Sherla Joan Holmes

Location: The Brienz Hotel, Brienz, Switzerland.

Time: 11:37 A.M.

My Dear Doctor Watson:
I must say, dear friend, that things are beginning to look up in this devilishly frustrating action. Most importantly, the weather has become rather warm - the temperature did not even fall below the freezing mark last night so the snow removal efforts go apace. Irene and I have an appointment to call upon the local estate agent this afternoon after luncheon. The game may not yet be fully afoot, John, , but we are definitely beginning to hear the distant call of the huntsman's bugle.

Thus far, our major successes have been achieved by Katrina, in her role as Karl. She has made the acquaintance of the youngest son of the train station master, and should therefore be able to maintain a most useful surveillance on that critical area. Yesterday, Karl was given thorough instruction on the fine art of throwing by 'his' new friend, the snow providing ample ready ammunition for this exercise.

I offered to help in this adventure, but was told by the little minx, quite snippily I might add, that THIS was a boys-only expedition, and besides, _I_ would need more instruction in learning to throw like a girl than "Karl" needed in the art of throwing like a boy. I am not altogether certain whether that was a compliment or an insult.

I did get some vicarious satisfaction for her jibe, however, for it seems that the young Herr Erich Loche is something of an animal lover . . . .

"So," a very winded Katrina opened. They had been playing a wild game of snowball war that had included a great deal of running and yelling - things that both the thin Alpine air and her own more sedate feminine habits made difficult for the disguised girl. "What else do you do for fun up here?"

"You sure do get tired quickly," Erich said with some disgust. "Didn't you play at all in Paris?"

"Not. . like. . . this," 'Karl' managed to get out as the pair walked down the considerably wider cleared paths toward Erich's father's station house. "This .. is great, though." she managed to get out on only half a gasp, trying to show an enthusiasm she was far from feeling.

"You'll get better, I guess," Erich allowed with the air of someone forgiving a great sin against nature. "Mostly, I play like this, I guess, when I am not doing chores or taking care of Schultz."

"Who's Schultz?" 'Karl' asked, her wind almost restored.

"Oh, he's my pet rat."

"Pet RAT?!?!" Katrina barely contained a girlish squeal. "You have a pet rat? Why not a dog or a cat?"

"You promise not to tell?" Erich demanded. At his new friend Karl's curt nod, he continued. "My Momma says that cats make her sneeze and that dogs shed on the furniture and rugs so I can't have either. I found Schultz one day in the warehouse. One of the barn cats - they won't let me pet them - had just killed his momma and the rest of his family. I barely saved him. Now, I keep him in a small cage in the back of the warehouse so the cats can't get him."

"And you . . pet him? And everything?" Katrina felt slightly ill at the thought of actually touching a rodent.

"Of course I do. He's my pet, and a darn good one, too. Better than any stupid old dog or cat. Nobody else I know has one, either. That means he's special. . .and un. .uni. . "

"Unique?" 'Karl' offered.

"That's the word. Unique. So, you want to go see Schultz?"

Sensing another test of her "manhood", Katrina swallowed hard and tried to smile confidently. "Sounds like a wonderful idea. When?"

Katrina's hopes for a long delay in their visit were immediately dashed. "Why not right now? We're here. Come with me, and I will show you how to get into the warehouse without the keys."

Her femininely rounded hips, girded as they were in the bulky boy's trousers and greatcoat, nearly did not fit through the small hidden opening in the back of the large building. "You need the exercise, Karl," Erich had noted after showing his friend how to shimmy in. "Your bottom is getting kind of big, isn't it?"

*Sherla hasn't complained,* Katrina mentally snorted, but managed a sheepish smile. "Too much hot chocolate. I will do better, Erich."

"Aw, you're doing all right for a newcomer. My father says most newcomers have trouble getting used to the air up here. I never understood why because it is never smoky or dirty like some of the pictures I've seen of other places, but I guess it must be true. Come on, Schultz is over here in the back corner."

"That little box over there was the whole thing," Erich said proudly as he dragged Katrina over toward a small, obviously hand built pen, "when I first got him. He was so small it seemed to give him lots of room. Now he just barely fits in it and I had to add all these other stray boards from broken shipping crate and build this whole pen. Now he just uses the old box as a sort of hidey-hole.

Schultz was big. . . far larger than Katrina had anticipated . . almost as big as the fat old Persian cat one of Irene's friends from the theater was forever carting around with her. It took ever ounce of willpower she possessed not to flinch when Erich had hoisted several pounds of black rat into her arms. Even then, Erich had been forced to take one of her hands and force her to stroke the rodent. He had surprisingly soft fur, and the beast actually cuddled her.

"He is much more friendly than Madame Orlie's pussycat," she'd said in some amazement, beginning to stroke more freely and confidently. "He's so soft."

"I've had him for almost two years now," Erich said with some sadness. "According to the books at school, that is old for a rat. I won't have him for much longer."

The sadness in the boy's tones caused tears to burn at the back of Katrina's eyelids, but she managed to keep them under control.

"Perhaps you could convince your Poppa that you need a watchdog for the warehouse, and that you would take care of him. That way your Momma wouldn't have him shedding in the house."

Erich's eyes went wide. "It might work, but we've never had anybody try to break in before so he might not agree," he finished, still sad.

"Well, you have Schultz for now," 'Karl' offered, slipping the rat back into Erich's arms, "And time to figure out the best means to convince your Poppa. Now, I must get home to clean up for dinner. Do we have to go out the way we came in?"

"No, the back door locks when you close it. Come, I will show you, Big-Bottom."

*And if I fight him, I will prove there is yet another thing I "do like a girl",* Katrina thought. *Ah, I know.* "You shouldn't call people who know and promise to keep your secrets names, Erich."

"What secrets?" He demanded.

"Oh, secret entrances and secret pets - things like that. However, I promise you that I won't tell anyone about those," *except Sherla, of course,* "If you don't call me names."

I must say, John, that Katrina's discussion of her adventure with the rats was far braver than I might have been after that deluge of vermin at that old site of Moriarty's in London. I wonder if she was really as brave as she let on when she told the story?

Oh, and this morning, Katrina's shapely little hips are most definitely NOT swinging with the minx steps out for a walk. My plan of having her on the receiving end last night worked perfectly and was a great deal of fun, as well.

I wonder if my own pleasure last night is a residual aspect of Sherlock, the male? The sheer masculine satisfaction of being the impaler instead of the impaled, perhaps? Quite possible, for it is certainly a great deal more work than being recipient of such vigorous effort. And since the godemiche is not real, my own satisfaction was delayed until Katrina had recovered enough for a bit of reciprocity.

Oh well, 'tis far too introspective a question to deal with in my current mood. Until next time, old friend.

End Journal Entry.

Chapter 6. House Hunting

The classic German cuckoo clock was announcing one thirty when Irene and Sherla were shown into the office of Herr Rudolph Kreuger, estate agent.

"Good afternoon, Frau Huxley," he said bowing over Irene's hand, "And to you, Fraulein," he repeated over Sherla's. "I understand from the introductory letter you sent me that you are looking for a mountain retreat? Would this be a warm-weather residence or might you wish to avail yourself of it year-round?"

Irene rewarded him with a brilliant smile as she slipped off her gloves.. "My husband and son are avid sportsmen, Herr Kreuger, and thoroughly enjoy skiing and hunting in the winter. I should think we must start with the idea of a year-round establishment."

The door behind them opened and a tall, well made young man entered. "Ah, my son joins us. Frau Huxley, Fraulein Huxley, may I present my first-born son, Hans-Peter Kreuger who has just finished at the university in Zurich and returns to join his proud papa in the family business."

Irene offered her hand and murmured a greeting. Sherla, however, recalling her role as the family flirt, made a show of slowly pulling her glove from the hand she languidly offered the suddenly flustered scion. Recovering, he all but snatched at the proffered hand to kiss it. "Ah, Herr Kreuger, it is easy to see why you are so proud to have such a fine . . . upstanding young man as your son," she purred, delighting in the crimson blush that vividly colored the young man's fair features.

"Yes, indeed," the older man replied, well pleased with the compliment. "Hans, help the ladies with their cloaks so that we may be about our business. Perhaps, Frau Huxley, after I am better aware of your requirements, I will be able to arrange to show you some suitable properties. I am sure we have precisely what you are looking for, but I may have to contact the current residents first. If we have nothing to show you today, Hans will take you and the Fraulein on a tour by sleigh of our locality, so that you better see what we have to offer you in the way of scenery and such."

"Excellent," Irene said grandly. "I am afraid we have all become quite frustrated, cooped up as we were in the hotel these past few days. A drive in the country would be quite lovely."

Hans helped Irene from her cloak first, but almost dropped both cloaks when he helped Sherla. She was dressed in a tight rose- colored daygown, but one with an entirely too boldly cut neckline. Poor Hans visibly gawked at the beautifully displayed mounds before managing to recall himself to his tasks. "May I.. may I offer you coffee, or tea? Perhaps some chocolate."

"Oh, some of your lovely, RICH Swiss chocolate for me, please. I just love the taste and texture of it," Sherla said in a husky voice,. "So thick and . . . hot."

"CHERYL!" Irene ordered.

With a teasing, lingering smile for the stunned Hans, Sherla slowly turned her attention to her "Mother". "But Momma, I was just telling Hans-Peter how I like my, um, chocolate," she protested innocently, an effect totally undermined when the tip of her pink tongue slid slowly over her shining lips.

"Indeed? I think you would have been better off to have chosen tea instead of chocolate. More calming to the soul," Irene said sternly, although her eyes glinted with amusement and approval that neither of the men could see or would have understood. "Perhaps you would prefer to go warm yourself by the fire and drink your chocolate while Herr Kreuger and I see to business?"

With an exaggerated sigh, Sherla agreed. She stood slowly, bending just a little too far as she rose so that both Kreugers were gifted with a glimpse of her bosom.

Shaking her head in evident dismay, Irene turned her attention to the elder Kreuger. She was pleased to note that even he had a somewhat dazed look on his face as he followed Sherla's floating gait. "She is going through a difficult time, learning to deal with the demands of her impending womanhood," Irene said apologetically. "I am sorry if she upset your son."

"Oh," the estate manager said, "Oh, don't worry about it. She is a lovely young woman. 'Do the lad good to learn how to do the pretty with such a .. . . vivacious young girl. Now, tell me what it is you are looking for in a house?"

The Irene's discussions with the estate agent took approximately an hour whereupon the two women found themselves in front of the office, waiting while Hans-Peter collected their conveyance.

"Sherla!" Irene hissed into the girl's ear. "You are laying it on a bit too thick. Do you want him to take you to bed? Because, as brazenly as you are teasing him, he may show up to do just that tonight - and think he's been invited!"

Shocked at Irene's words, Sherla felt heat flash to her cheeks. "But you TOLD me to flirt with him!?!?"

"Flirt," Irene said, "not SEDUCE. You might get away with behavior like that in a London or Paris ballroom, here in the country such things may not be interpreted as mere flirtation. My god, girl . . . hot and thick? If you were Hans-Peter, what sort of woman would YOU think would talk like that? Lord above, he must think I am the proprietrix of a bordello and that you are my latest virgin for sacrificial auction."

"DAMN," Sherla cursed. "So NOW what do I do?"

A teasing smirk lit Irene's face. "Depends on whether you want to seduce him or not, dear. He is rather good looking."

"IRENE!" Sherla squealed, stamping her tiny foot on the slush- covered pavement and barely missing spraying them both in the dirty, partially frozen water. "I don't care how much better looking he is than Lafayette's however-many times removed nephew. *I* am in love with Katrina, and you blasted well know it!"

"Do I?" the older woman asked, one finely arched brow raised beneath her bonnet's veil. *but you did notice that young Hans is an exceptionally handsome man. How very difficult this all must be for poor Sherlock.* "Perhaps I do, but I did wonder if you knew it. This is the first time I have heard you admit it - in quite those words, at any rate."

"Well, I do," Sherla grumbled, "and for YOUR information, I HAVE acknowledged it."

"Where, might I ask? And to whom?"

"In my diary," Sherla replied, her voice barely audible, "And to myself."

"I think that Katrina would very much like to hear those words, Sherla, for I know that she loves you as well."

"Is the saying so very important?"

"Only a man would ask that question and mean it. I think you are woman enough to know the answer," Irene said airily. "Ah, here comes the sleigh."

"Irene! What do I do about Hans-Peter."

Irene shrugged. "Behave like any other flighty young girl barely out of the school room. Go all sweet and shy on him. After your blunt offers of but an hour ago, you will thoroughly confuse and fluster him."

"Sweet and submissive?" Sherla's face had that "just bit into a lemon" look on her face. "To a young pup like him?"

"Well, if you aren't actress enough to manage it," Irene said, a look of extreme worry on her face, "Perhaps you ought to slap his face hard the first time he makes a tentative move on you. You'll soon be known throughout the area as a nasty tease, which in turn will make your work here more difficult, but. . "

"ACTRESS ENOUGH?" Sherla sputtered, "Just watch me!" she snarled as she spun to greet their guide with a sweet, if reticent smile.

*Of course I will, darling. And now that you are trying to show me how skilled you are, I won't have to worry about you or Katrina shooting this young man some dark night when he intrudes on your. . . loving.*

Fortunately, young Kreuger was a natural gentleman, and after the first few times Sherla gave him a nervous smile and retreated from his tentative overtures, his better instincts took hold. Shortly after they'd begun their tour, Hans-Peter was alternately teasing and flattering Sherla, and giving back as good as and sometimes better than he got.

*I wouldn't doubt that Hans has at least one younger sister at home, for he has read Sherla perfectly. His father does have much to be proud of in this one. If Sherla and Katrina were not already as close to soul-mates as makes no difference, I don't think I would mind having this one pay court to my little detective. Although I WOULD insist all visits began and ended by way of the front door, and not Sherla's bed chamber window,* Irene thought as she watched the two banter and flirt.

As for Sherla, she had been almost rocked by a couple of unexpected surprises as they whooshed through the purity and silence of the snow-covered alpine countryside. Hans-Peter's more courtly attentions were affecting her in a most unexpected manner. She found she rather liked the fellow, and he was, she had to admit, very easy on her eyes. She especially liked the more genial verbal sparring game they had fallen into once he took her rather inexperienced hints that she wasn't really offering him her favors. He had the most delightful smile, especially when he was about to tease her fiercely about some thing or another.

In the middle of Sherla's ruminations, the sleigh began to slow and finally skidded to a stop. "Come, Frau Huxley, Fraulein Cheryl. I will show you one of the properties that my father will take you to visit tomorrow."

With studied ease, Hans-Peter handed Irene down from her seat and then proffered his hand to Sherla. Smiling, Sherla took his hand and was rather surprised by the controlled strength she felt in his gentle grip. When she was on the ground, he let the grip linger just a heartbeat longer than was necessary before slipping his hand to the middle of her back to guide her through the snow toward a small overlook. Fortunately, the winds had blown most of the heavier snow off the promontory for they had no difficulty moving through what accumulation remained.

Sherla was all-too-aware of the strong hand in her back, and of a queer tightness in her belly, and was surprised to find that her nipples suddenly felt quite stiff and were chafing against the cotton of her chemise. *Confound it, this is the way I feel with Katrina before we. . .before we make love. But. . .but. . he's a man!*

"As you can see, Frau Huxley, this is a very nice setting. The house is well protected from the prevailing winds down there," Hans-Peter again broke in on Sherla's thoughts, "And with a good deal of open land for skiing and other such activities."

Irene scanned the location. "It is very nice, but we did so hope for a higher setting relative to the surroundings. . . . for the view, you know."

Hans-Peter nodded. "So my father told me, however most folks around here build against the elements, particularly the snow and the wind. Building houses on high ground is very expensive since they must be far more strongly built without trees and higher ground nearby to blunt nature's wrath. In fact, the only one we've had was the one Father told you about earlier - the one we leased a while before you arrived in town. Most locals avoid such arrangements because they know the weather and the expense of maintaining such an establishment."

Nodding, Irene turned back toward the sleigh with Sherla and Hans-Peter following. He gently urged a stray curl of Sherla's dark hair back under her bonnet just before helping her into the sleigh. Without a word, Hans-Peter bundled the sleigh-blanket about the ladies, took the reins and whistled for the horses to step out for the journey back to their hotel.

"Tell me, Hans-Peter," Irene asked once they were nearly back to the main town. "Some friends of ours indicated that they were also coming up here to find a Swiss residence. Have you dealt with any English folk?"

He gave it some thought before shaking his head. "No Frau Huxley," and then he reconsidered, "At least, no English persons that a lady like you would be acquainted with. In fact, the only English person to come here recently isn't anyone a lady like you would want to know."

"Oh really?" Irene replied, managing to affect an air of disinterest only by grace of her years of acting experience.

"Yes, Frau Huxley," Hans-Peter continued into the break Irene had purposely left in the conversation. "Big brute of a fellow. At least, I think he was English. Spoke no French or German, yet his English was, well, barely understandable. In fact, he is the one who bespoke the property I told you about earlier. . the one that would have met your stated requirements so admirably."

"Oh? Where was that property, if you will excuse my curiosity?"

"Oh, a few kilometers from a lovely village called Rosenlaui which is near Meringen. Beautiful country up there. Some of the most majestic falls you've ever seen. You should make time to go up there and see them once the weather breaks."

Irene spared a moment to look at Sherla who had gone very still, her eyes hard. *Well, darling, perhaps we now know where to look.* "Tell me, Hans-Peter," Irene said. "Is there any chance that property near. . .what was it you called the place? Oh, yes, Rosenlaui. . .Is there any chance that property may become available again?"

Hans-Peter considered that question as he turned onto the lane that led to Herr Schmidt's hotel. "Well, as I recall, the lease was a relatively short one - six months, I think. The tenant was unsure that he wished to take on such a large estate for any longer time and rented it as an experiment."

"An experiment??" Sherla chimed in. "Were those his exact words?"

Surprised by the sudden vehemence from the girl, Hans-Peter finally managed a smile. "You know," he mused, "Those WERE his words. Odd that I would remember them, but the word seemed so. . . out of character for such an otherwise not-well-spoken person. Ah. . here we are, ladies. Now, my father will send you a note to let you know when I will be coming to fetch you tomorrow for any scheduled house tours he has arranged for you."

Helping the women down, he escorted them to the door of the hotel where he bowed over each of their hands, tipped his hat, and then left.

"A most delightful young man," Irene said, once they were inside their rooms and had divested themselves of their coats, gloves and bonnets.

"Yes," Sherla murmured, somewhat distractedly. "He was, was he not?" She shook herself and scanned the room for signs of Katrina. *Drat it, where IS the girl?!?* she fumed before she spotted the envelope above the hearth. Snatching it up, she tore it open and read the enclosed letter. "Gone to play with Erich at the station house. Be home by supper. Love, K."

"Well, I for one, could use a bit of a lie-down," Irene said. "What are your plans for the remainder of the afternoon?"

"I think I shall go lie down as well, Maman-Irene," Sherla said, a contemplative look on her face. "Rest well, Maman."

"You, too, dear." *Although I suspect our handsome young Hansel has given you a great deal to think upon before you will be able to relax enough to rest.*

Katrina crept toward the room she shared with Sherla. Irene's note had indicated that they had gone to bed to take a nap after their sleigh tour of the area. Katrina could use a bit of rest herself. Keeping up with a real twelve year old boy - one who was used to this thin mountain air - when one was in truth a nearly twenty year old woman had exhausted her.

*At least tomorrow, the number of hours of this hard work called 'play' will ease up. Erich told me that since the snow is mostly dealt with now, the school he attends will be opening again. He'll spend most of the day in school and I can spend most of MY day building up my strength. Thank goodness that Sherla anticipated the "where do you go to school?" question so that I had the answer that my "tutor" would be joining us once we had our own house to live in.*

Silently, she stripped out of her hated boy-clothes in the small water closet and then slipped into the bed chamber. The bed was rumpled, but there was no sign of Sherla in it. *Now where has she gone off too?*

Suddenly, small, but surprisingly strong hands and arms wrapped around Katrina, and half carried, half flipped her to the soft featherbed. "Got you!" Sherla crowed before teasingly clamping her small teeth on to Katrina's sensitive neck.

Katrina spun in her lover's arms and saw the rosy cheeks, the fiery eyes and full, moist lips and knew that Sherla was highly aroused. Taking the initiative, she rolled on top of her lover and kissed her thoroughly. Then she felt the rigid hardness that was poking into her belly. Reaching down, she took the godemiche in her hands and smiled at Sherla. "I thought it was my turn to "act boyish", my love.

Excited nearly beyond reason, Sherla squirmed beneath Katrina, her intent clear as she tried to shuck out of the special drawers. "Well, then do so, curse it!" she hissed. "Better yet, act MANNISH, but for god's sake, ACT!"

With languid and catlike grace, Katrina picked up the discarded item and rose from the bed. She positioned herself so that Sherla had a clear view of her, and extended one pointed toe into one leg of the garment. Slowly, sensuously, she drew up on the top of the drawers until it was nearly mid thigh before repeating the motions with her other leg. If anything, she was even slower raising it to her waist and lacing it on tightly, all the while shooting fiery, passionate looks at her lover that nearly had Sherla jibbering in need.

"Get OVER here and make LOVE to me NOW!" Sherla growled.

"With the greatest of pleasure, my love," Katrina purred, slinking onto the bed.

"God, but I love you," Sherla moaned just before Katrina's lips closed over Sherla's own.

Chapter 7. Feminine Terror in the Dark

The world began shaking madly and all Irene could do was hold on. "TANTE IRENE! TANTE IRENE! WAKE UP! OH, PLEASE WAKE UP!"

Bleary eyes opened, and then blinked hard several times. Surely, she was still dreaming. Irene opened her eyes again and forced them to stay open. *My god, it is Katrina next to my bed. She IS nude. . .except for that rather lewd pantalette, and she IS frantic.* "Wha. . . ," Irene's still sleeping tongue tried to get out, "What . . is . . wrong?"

"Oh you MUST come," Katrina wailed, her hands grabbing and Irene's arms and jerking the larger woman from her warm bed with unusual strength. "Oh, God, Tante Irene, I have killed her! There is so much blood! I tried to be gentle, but it was so exciting and she kept telling me to go harder and faster and. . ."

Irene was now awake enough to free an arm and put a silencing hand to her daughter's mouth. "Quiet, dear. Is it Sherla?" The still hand-silenced girl nodded vigorously. Irene looked down at the man-made phallus hanging from Katrina's drawers and saw the rust colored stains up and down its length. *It could be nothing, and yet, we don't know how fully female or how fully mature Sherla's transformed woman's parts really are.*

Both hurried back to Sherla's bed chamber where pitifully agonized moans and groans greeted their arrival. "Irene, is that you? Oh, god, help me. I think I am dying!" Sherla said, stress and pain evident in every word.

Irene sped into the candlelit room. The sheets were a crimson mess about a Sherla's hips and thighs. The girl had rolled herself into the fetal position, and Irene could see the glint of tears reflecting the candle's light on her cheeks.

Refusing to panic, Irene put a hand on Sherla's forehead, finding it warm and not cool as she would have found it from blood loss had the girl been hemorrhaging. Then she looked at the girl's bared bosom, and saw the rise and fall of normal, if sob-wracked breathing.

Smiling in relief, Irene turned back to the anxious Katrina. "Katrina, help me, please, to get our little nymph out of that messy bed so you can change the linen. Sherla, let us clean you up so that I can ensure that my diagnosis of your condition is correct, but I don't think there is anything to worry about."

"Nothing to worry about?!??" both girls squawked.

"Her MONTHLY??!?" a relieved but disbelieving Katrina shrieked.

"More quietly, please, Katrina. We don't need to apprize the entire hotel of that fact. Not to mention the fact that we just got Sherla calmed down enough to rest."

"But how could she not know that she was bleeding? How could she be flowing like that and not have known about it?" Now Katrina sounded almost disgusted.

"What happened?" Irene asked, deciding not to go into the answer to Katrina's question just yet. "All I know is from when you woke from a very sound and pleasant sleep in that. . . . very unique piece of sleep wear. How did that scene in there just now come to pass?"

"Well. . . we were. . .well, making love. . ."

"I quite inferred that given your state of dress, my dear. What happened AFTER that."

"We fell asleep, but I woke up later. Sherla had rolled away from me taking all the blankets. I was going to demand my share back, but realized I needed to visit the necessary first. Inside the water closet, I lit the oil lamp so I could see where I was going. I went to pull down my. . . ummm. . .my drawers," Irene's naughty, knowing grin made the younger woman blush crimson but she pressed on determinedly. "And that was when I saw the dried blood on the . . . on the thing. It was very obvious and I knew. . . .oh curse it, Tante Irene, I knew that she was not a virgin. Not that way, so it was not her rose d'amoure, her virgin's blood on the . . .the thing."

"You knew she was not a virgin? How? Oh yes. That day you were both determined to protect the other because you each had taken shameful advantage of the other?"

Katrina nodded. "Anyway, I lit a taper using the flame of the lamp and rushed back to the room. When I woke Sherla, she started to move, then groaned in extreme pain, unable to straighten her knees from her belly. I pulled the covers off and we both saw all that red on the sheets and on her thighs. Like I told you earlier, she had been so demanding. . .insisting that I . . go . . ever harder and faster."

"And so you assumed, as did Sherla, that you had hurt her. . inside?" Again, Katrina nodded. "Well, I checked that journal of hers. She is several days late from what was her first period, so I suspect that is a good deal of the reason that this one hit her so hard."

"But, Tante Irene, how could any woman not know that her monthly is upon her? That makes no sense. This should not have been such a nasty surprise."

"Because our monthly friend has not been a part of her life before, sweet. You've been female for your entire life, and a fertile woman for more than a third of that time. Sherla has been female for mere weeks, and that only after decades of being a man. This is, from my reading of her journal, only her second monthly of her entire life." Irene thought about their afternoon's excursion, and grinned. "And she did have a great deal on her mind today that could easily have distracted her."

"Oh really?" Katrina was suddenly intrigued. She had seen the young Herr Kreuger about the town and recognized him as a very handsome man.

"Indeed," Irene replied. "She had to confront some new and potentially for her, frightening feelings today."

"She told me she loved me today," Katrina said shyly, almost afraid that admitting that gift might somehow undo the saying.

"Good." Irene said firmly. "That was one of the feelings she had to deal with today. I'm glad she thought to tell you so soon. It speaks well for the strength of her feelings for you because I know that Sherlock never said those words to a woman."

"What happens now?"

"Well, if I am any judge of Eve's Curse, our Sherla is going to have a very rough time for the next few days. She was already cramping rather severely when you took me in to see her." Irene gave a slightly malicious chuckle. "Mere men have no idea of how strong a woman must be to function with any degree of normalcy or efficiency during her time of the month. You and I have had years of experience to inure us to most of the discomforts. Sherla has to learn to be strong during these days."

"I remember my first few times. I thought I was going to die and thought I wanted to, once or twice."

"Until I decided I wasn't going to let my own femininity get the better of me, I felt much the same," Irene told the younger woman. "Sherla is your age physically, but we must always remember that she is but a mere babe as a woman."

"Maybe I will go tend to her. She'll need nursing, won't she?" Katrina said with an evil grin.

"She is liable to be a thorough and complete bitch, dear," Irene warned her.

"And won't I enjoy telling her that?" Katrina's grin grew wider as she strutted toward Sherla's bed chamber. "Almost as much as she'll hate hearing it."

Date: March 15, 1911

Entry in the Journal of Miss Sherla Joan Holmes

Location: The Brienz Hotel, Brienz, Switzerland.

Time: 9:00 A.M.

My Dear Doctor Watson:
I am in the throes of my second menses, old friend, and, according to my beloved, acting like a complete bitch. Well, so be it. A bitch must feel better than I do at this moment. My god, John, do I have this bodily torment to face for four days, every month for the rest of my now-extended life? If I could scream in writing, I would.

In fact, consider it screamed!

My stomach is not merely rebellious, it has declared war on me. The merest smell of food, not to mention the sight of food, has me crawling, literally, for the chamber pot.

The most grievous insult of all this, however, is that I have been told I shall not be permitted (PERMITTED!!!) to participate in our ongoing investigations until I am "more the thing," according to Irene. I suspect she said it in that oh-so-very condescending manner to get me to stiffen my British upper lip and put this feminine atrocity behind me. It should have worked quite successfully, too, had my traitorous body not won that particular confrontation. I took a mere two steps to attempt to follow Irene out of the bed chamber, and then barely made it back to the chamber pot in time. Extremely humiliating, John. And just when we have uncovered our first real clue in the person of this, as yet, unseen poorly spoken Englishman. Both Irene and I are certain that this individual was Moriarty's advanced element, coming here to make arrangements for whatever property that currently serves as the Professor's lair.

Rosenlaui, once again, my dear friend. If this clue proves to be as telling as every instinct I possess tells me that it is, then I shall soon enough be looking at the Reichenbach Falls. The last time I left that fearsome chasm, it was in the firm yet mistaken belief that I had rid the world of Professor James Moriarty forever.

I shan't make such an error this time. THIS time it ENDS here - once and for all.

Oh, curse it, another cramp and it's a bad one. Excuse me, John.

Date: March 15, 1911

Entry in the Journal of Miss Sherla Joan Holmes

Location: The Brienz Hotel, Brienz, Switzerland.

Time: 9:23 A.M.

My Dear Doctor Watson:
I am back, obviously. I shall never refer to women as the "weaker sex" again. I swear it.

Irene hypothesizes that my difficulty in dealing with this "time of the month" has several possible causes. First, she points out that I am "late" since my last visit by this malady was more than 30 days ago and in her experience, women who are not regular tend to suffer more when the even does arrive. LATE, the woman says. My God, John, I have, throughout the course of my life, always made an extraordinary effort to be meticulously punctual and now my body is "late"?!? I don't know whether to be embarrassed or affronted - in addition to feeling absolutely vile, that is.

Her second supposition is that something may not be quite "right" or complete about my feminine internal arrangements. However, we will only be able to ascertain that over time. Especially in light of her third possibility.

Watson, you will not credit this, but that heartless woman as much called me a whining and spineless weakling! Told me that REAL women do not allow anything so banal as "a bit of bleeding and some minor cramping" to inhibit them in this way, but she would make allowances for me since I had not "grown up learning to deal with such things with the innate courage, strength of will and determination of the female of the species."

Good god, John, she as much told me to be quiet and bear up under this female onslaught like a man! Can you imagine, John? I have not yet proven myself, in Irene's eyes at least, to be man enough to be considered fully a woman! Heavens above, I would laugh at that blatant contradiction in terms. . . .heavens, that contradiction in genders, if the spasmodic movement of certain gravely overtaxed abdomenal muscles would not send me back to my now very familiar chamber pot.

In any case, I will be alone here in our hotel suite for the next hour or so. Irene is primping for her house visits with Herr Kreuger the Elder, and Katrina as Karl, is off running an errand for Irene. I think (make that fervently HOPE) that she is seeking a chemist who may have some remedy for the worst of this . . . affliction. At least Katrina will be here most of the day since young Loche has started school again now that the snows have cleared.

Damn. Irene was right - I AM whining. I am actually glad I will not be alone while I am miserable. Well, I hereby make another promise. I will not take out my . . . not-so-very-minor comfort on Katrina.

Really, I won't.

But it will take a great deal of effort on my part, I am afraid. In fact, the only time that I have had any semblance of comfort during the night was when Katrina spooned her lovely warm bottom into my painfully cramping belly. HEAVENLY! And of course, being that close to Katrina, holding Katrina that close is wonderful as well.

Unfortunately, or perhaps, in light of hindsight, fortunately, I still had a very difficult time going to sleep, even with Katrina so close and warm. We began talking, about so many things. I don't believe that I ever. . .no, let me be honest . . I never had a conversation such as that with a woman before. It was long overdue. It all began when I shifted myself about for what must have seemed like the hundredth time. . .

"Can you not at least LIE STILL?" a tired, husky voice demanded.

"Sorry," Sherla mumbled into Katrina's tangled tresses. "Can't seem to relax."

"Cramps again, Cherie?" Katrina asked.

"Yes," was the unhappy reply.

Katrina turned over and pulled Sherla close, their pert bosoms touching beneath their soft nightgowns. "Let me rub your back for you while I keep your belly warm with my body."

"But it is my stomach that is cramping," Sherla whined.

"Trust me, petite. I have been dealing with the monthly visitor far longer than you have." Katrina said as she began to press firm fingers into the muscles of her lover's lower back.

"Ohhhh!" Sherla squealed with Katrina's knowing fingers found a particularly knotted muscle. That was followed by a nearly ecstatic, "Ohhhhhhhhh."

"The belly muscles are being pulled from two places, Cherie. The front and the back, and we will deal with both."

"Thank you," Sherla sighed as she laid her head on the pillow next to Katrina's.

Continuing her ministrations, Katrina thought a little conversation might distract Sherla enough to fall asleep. "So, what happened yesterday that got you so excited that you didn't realize something like this was impending?"

"Well. . . ." Sherla wasn't sure where to start, or how much to tell. "We went sleigh riding with Hans-Peter Kreuger, the estate agent's son, after Irene and his father spoke about our supposed requirements for a house here in Switzerland."

"Ah HA!" Katrina said knowingly. "I thought the very handsome Herr Kreuger was involved." Katrina felt Sherla go very still and her already tight muscles lock up. "Relax, dear. You came home to me."

"You're sure?" Sherla asked, almost meekly. "I mean, nothing happened except flirting which Irene and you have both told me I am to do. . . . but. . "

"But what, Cherie? You were very excited when I arrived home. Am I to conclude that you wish to have this fine young man in our. . . your bed?"

Again Sherla became quiet, but this time did not stiffen as she considered the question. Finally she sighed. "I did become excited and a great deal of it initially had to do with him. It began when we first arrived at the office. I am afraid I very shamelessly and quite ruthlessly teased him."

"How?" Katrina demanded. "Surely you didn't" she said moments later after Sherla had finished her recollection of the interplay.

"I did, and had Irene explain the errors of my ways to me before we boarded his sleigh. Then I did as Irene directed, and acted very shy, very. . . submissive for a while. Then he began to tease me back, very gently. It was. . .rather sweet, actually."

"And this gentle flirtation so excited you? You are fast, Cherie," Katrina teased.

"I'm not sure. My arousal started when I was teasing him. I must say it was very exciting to see him so . . .flustered by my audacity. He looked so like a school boy caught out at something naughty, and he literally jumped to do my slightest bidding."

"And later?"

"Later, he managed to touch me - nothing overt or offensive really - but he'd hold my hand longer than was quite necessary or put his hand on my back to walk me to and from the sleigh."

"And you became more excited?"

"Yes. It was very . . compelling. In some ways it felt like I feel when we are . . . getting ready for, um, each other. But in some ways it was . . . different . . . "

Sherla's eyes looked off into nothing, yet Katrina felt her lover's nipples press sharply into her own soft bosom and knew Sherla was becoming aroused by the memories she would not share.

"A man can be . . . satisfying, sometimes," Katrina whispered softly.

Sherla's head lifted up and she looked into Katrina's sad eyes.

"You don't like men," she said, though there was a question lurking beneath that so blunt declaration.

"I, um, don't really like men, it is true," Katrina replied. "But they are, uh, their bodies have, certain . . . abilities that I can't provide."

"You provide all I need," Sherla asserted, but Katrina thought there was a still a question in her words.

"Ma Cherie, it is not the same. Do you not find that toy satisfying, at times?"

She felt, rather than saw, Sherla's response as she just nodded silently against Katrina's breast.

"Well, the real thing can be even more satisfying. Though it can seem almost as hard, there is still a pulsing warmth to it that can be quite. . . . "

Sherla's softly feminine voice held tones of worry and uncertainty. "Do you . . do you truly want me to take a man to my bed?"

"Cherie, what I WANT is for you to be happy," Katrina replied fervently, "Happy and satisfied in every way a woman can be satisfied. If that means a man, then that is what I want for you."

"And you?" Sherla asked, "I could not be satisfied without you."

A heated kiss was all the answer Katrina could give at that moment, her throat tight with emotion. When the kiss broke, both women had tears streaming down their cheeks. "I am glad, petite," Katrina managed, her voice still husky with need and other emotions, "For I am most desperately in love with you."

This time it was Sherla who felt the unmistakable signs of arousal in her lover, though she was so distracted by her own thoughts that she hardly noticed. And when she did return from her silent musings, her first thought was of the pain she still saw in Katrina's eyes.

"I had noticed that ours gets dreadfully cold. Between times, that is," Sherla said with a snicker as she tried to lighten their suddenly somber mood.

"I suppose we must fetch a basin of warm water then, hmmm?" Katrina asked quietly, but Sherla's joke was not enough to clear the anguish from her eyes. "Ma Cherie, at some point you must . . . experience. . .must KNOW the full measure of pleasure a skilled and gentle man can give to a woman he cares for - to a woman such as you. You owe it to yourself."

"Perhaps," Sherla said. But she snuggled herself and in particular, her still cramping belly closer to her warm and cuddly bed mate and murmured, "But not immediately. And not, I think, with Kreuger-the-younger."

"And why not?" Katrina asked, beginning to be mollified, yet still worried about any chance that she was being selfish to Sherla's detriment.

"Well, he is a handsome man," Sherla giggled, "and very sweet in the bargain, but in weather as cold as this? Why, I'd be afraid his . . . equipment . . .would break with MUCH less than the stress I have come to enjoy."

That earned Sherla a short giggle from her lover which gave her. . . . other ideas. Her slender fingers started tickling Katrina in places only a true lover could have found, and only a ruthless one would exploit. "And besides," Sherla added in her suddenly squirming lover's ear, "I am currently too besotted with you to want anyone else. I LOVE you, you lovely French tart, every bit as desperately as I know you love me!" In moments, Katrina was gasping for breath, begging for relief. Relief Sherla was only too happy to supply, despite her own inability to enjoy the same for at least a little while.

When she finally allowed her beloved to catch her breath, another advantage of a real man came to Sherla. She snickered and whispered to the languid Katrina, "I suppose we would not be walking so stiffly, if we had something a bit less, um, unyielding than that so-rigid and too-often-frigid device."

"Oh, don't be so sure, Ma Cherie," Katrina whispered back, her saucy grin once more firmly displayed. "Some men have equipment so much larger than that little toy that you would hardly be able to walk at all. Though, one could not fault the durability of our device. No man has that much endurance."

Sherla made no reply. At least, no verbal reply. But the heat of her arousal made any pretense of secrecy worse than useless. Not for the first time, she cursed the sensitivity that made even the most loving of caresses intolerable at that time. Then a sudden yawn caught her by surprise.

"Ah, so Momma-Katrina's back rub is having the desired effect, is it? All right, no more talk. YOU will need what sleep you can get."

"But I am not sleepy," Sherla protested as another huge yawn took her.

Only I did fall asleep, John, but mere moments later, and managed to sleep fairly restfully until dawn.

It has been a very full twenty-four hours, John. I don't quite know where this will all lead, but I am looking forward to the journey.

Farewell, my friend. I am going to try and rest. Irene assures me that the worst of this will be over with tomorrow. I should very much like to be asleep for as much of the time until then as is possible.

End Journal Entry.

Chapter 8. A Day Alone

Katrina had returned from her errand with a foul smelling and worse tasting herbal concoction guaranteed to ease the most trying of "female complaints". That alone was enough to put Sherla's back up, as she considered her condition to be far worse than a mere "complaint," whereupon Katrina pointed out that Sherla had done little else since their night had been so rudely interrupted.

Later, Sherla would admit that it was not the packaging of the retail product that bothered her so much as where it came from and what ingredients had gone into the making of it. "Just LOOK what happened to me the last time I took something provided by a CHEMIST made from HERBS!" she had snarled when Katrina had taken her task for being so silly.

Katrina had just looked at her, just stood there for what had seemed like minutes before slamming the bottle down on the table next to Sherla. "What happened to you? You became a BEAUTIFUL woman who is young and alive instead of a bitter old man trying to die!" she'd shouted. "You became MY lover and although I do LOVE you, right at this moment, I do not think I like you all that much . . . . BITCH!"

Sherla watched in open mouth astonishment as Katrina fled from the room. *Oh dear lord, I made her cry!* Struggling to her feet, and exerting every bit of her will to prevent her stomach from emptying what little she'd managed to get down, she tried to hurry after her love.

She found the girl in Irene's room, face down on the older woman's bed, crying.

Carefully, she settled herself down beside Katrina and began to stroke the dark hair they'd normally kept hidden beneath Karl's cap of late. "I am so sorry, my love. I had promised myself that I would not take my misery out on anyone, and especially you. I am so sorry. You were right, I am a bitch."

"Yes you were. ARE!" Katrina's voice was muffled by the large feather pillow she was using to hide her face. Then she sighed and rolled to face Sherla. "But it is not all your fault. I fear that you are not the only one of us who is now. . . .expressing her most basic femininity."

"You, too?" Sherla's voice broke, "And you went outside to get that potion? For me? How could you stand to move?!?"

A resigned smile crossed Katrina's face as she heard the awed respect and wonder in Sherla's tones. "I could let you feel really guilty about it, or consider me the brave loving heroine, fighting with her last ounce of strength for her beloved's needs, but I won't. In truth, my dear, most of us do not suffer as you are during this time of the month - at least once we are used to it. The first ones are often the roughest because we have nothing to gauge them by. So, I really wasn't being all that brave and self sacrificing."

"I will try to be better about it," Sherla promised.

"I am sorry for yelling at you. Even if the discomfort is more manageable for me, this time of the month does put my emotions very close to the surface and definitely sharpens my temper. Tante Irene has been known to give me the day off during my first days." Katrina added with a mischievous grin.

"Friends?" Sherla asked hopefully.

"And lovers," Katrina replied, lifting up to kiss Sherla.

"Well, at least now there are TWO of us to try that potion you brought back from the chemist." Sherla managed brightly.

"But YOU go first!" Katrina put in quickly.

"No, you go first!"

"You!"

"No, YOU!"

They took the potion together, almost as if they were two drinking friends offering each other a toast. It was several minutes before they could unscrew their faces from the bitterness of the brew.

Surprisingly, the potion actually worked, a happy result which Sherla would later attribute more to the fact that the basis of the effusion was nearly pure alcohol than to the "specially selected and prepared healthful herbs".

Katrina, as Karl, had gone to meet Erich after school when Irene finally returned from her own outing. She walked into the suite's sitting room removing her hat pins and doffing her heavy bonnet. "Ah, so you are done writhing and complaining in your bed, are you?" She said when she saw Sherla sitting in one of the chairs by the fire.

"Oh, I am jussss wonnnerful," Sherla slurred.

"What is the MATTER with you??" Irene demanded as she dropped her gloves and hurried over to the grinning Sherla.

"Not a thing!" She was assured cheekily. "That po. . potion Katrina got me is almost all spirits. Strong. I . . think. .. I may have had a bit too much of it. My. .my poor," a hiccup broke Sherla's stream of words, "tolerance for the stuff, you know."

"I see," Irene smiled in her relief. "Although I suspect that you will regret feeling quite so wonderful in the morning."

Sherla gave an exaggerated nod of her head. "I know, but it is too late now to rect. .to rect. . to fix it. So. . what did you learn?"

"Are you sure you will remember it in the morning?" Irene asked, seating herself opposite the inebriated young woman.

"Don't know, but might as well try. . .unless you are having . . . YOUR complaint, too. Might . . as well make it a full party! Then YOU can drink some of that. . .potion."

Irene chuckled. "So, I must infer that Katrina is also having her monthly?" Her only answer was another very exaggerated head nod. "I see. Well, I am not so I will have some wine instead." Irene got up to pour herself a glass from the decanter provided by Herr Schmidt. Savoring a rather large sip of the warming libation, she turned to Sherla and said, "Very well, then, oh Great Detective. I will make my report. I managed to find something not to like about all the properties Herr Kreuger had arranged to show me. I am afraid, however, that he is more convinced than ever that we are looking for a site for a bordello. He all but propositioned me as we were coming back to the hotel. I suspect we may have to move on to Meringen more sooner than later if he becomes a nuisance."

"Sorry," Sherla responded with a broad giddy smile on her face.

"And so you should be!" Irene retorted before relenting. "You did as you thought we wanted. You have not sufficient practice at being a woman to have learned subtlety. In any case, he is going to start looking farther afield which may ultimately get us closer to Rosenlaui."

"That's wonderful," Sherla chirped happily. "I just KNEW you were the right woman for the job when I thought I was dying."

"So glad to be of service, Miss Holmes," Irene retorted. "So, will you be joining us for dinner? Frau Schmidt is making a lovely lamb dish as the main course."

Even through the alcohol fumes, Sherla's body reacted to the idea of solid food as it had all day. "I will take that as a 'no'," Irene chuckled as she watched Sherla hurry toward the water closet.

When Irene and Karl/Katrina rejoined Sherla after dinner, she was more sober if less comfortable. "A better compromise, I think," she told Irene. "So, Katrina-dear, what have you learned today for young Erich?"

"Not all that much, I am afraid," Katrina replied as she started to seat herself, barely remembering to sprawl boyishly instead of sitting daintily. "Erich had an extra chore today and likely for the next few days. Seems someone has ordered some animals, but the tracks to Meringen were damaged in the storm so they have to be held here until they can be delivered, and Erich's father has put their care and feeding in Erich's hands."

"Surely that is not such an onerous and time consuming task," Sherla challenged, wanting her friend to be advancing their investigations.

"Now, don't you go bitchy on me again, Sherla," Katrina warned sternly, pleased to see her friend flush in embarrassment. Irene hid a smile behind her hand and remained silent. This was between the two of them. "Besides, you don't know how many of them there are. Fifty of one kind and two dozen of the other kind. That is a great deal of cages to clean and bowls to fill at feeding time. I helped so that I could remain in Erich's good graces once the animals have been sent on. Interesting beasts," she added, "I have never seen any up close before."

"Oh," Irene inquired, "What kind of animals?"

"Monkeys," Katrina said. "And the others are like monkeys, only bigger with no tails."

"Chimpanzees?" Sherla said, her voice suddenly flat.

"Why yes, that is what Erich called them. How did you know?"

"Because we have just been given our second major clue. I hope you like helping Erich with those animals, my dear, because I want you with them as much as possible."

Moriarty knew the man was there, waiting on the other side of the desk to be acknowledged, but he kept his head down focused on the sheaf of papers in front of him. In truth, there was nothing there he was actually studying and could have looked up to take the man's report at any time, but it was in such subtle ways a man exercised power over his minions and other inferiors. By showing them that what he did was more important than what they did, Moriarty reinforced the line that separated him from the rest of humanity.

Finally he pushed aside the meaningless paper and, putting an impatient look upon his face, stared at the man. "Yes?" he said in a demanding, clipped tone.

"Sa'ar," the man began, "Carver sent ye a message," he said, nearly stuttering. At the last moment, he remembered he held the paper in his hand and thrust it away from him toward Moriarty.

With deliberate and obvious care that he not actually touch the messenger's hand, Moriarty accepted the paper. "You may wait outside. If I have a reply I will have it brought to you." he said by way of dismissal.

The Professor broke the sealing wax and opened the heavy parchment page.

Professor Moriarty,

The tracks to Brienz wuz broke by the
blizard. Station Master don't think
they will be fixed afore next week.

Meantimes, a cable arrived at the
station today saying that our monkys and
chimps has gotten as far as Brienz.

Brienz being only 8 miles or so as the
gul flys, I am going to drive the slay
down there to pick up wot I can.

Won't be able to cary the lot of them,
so I am asking you which to bring you
now, in case you have speshal needs for
some of them.

Carver

Aside from his henchman's abysmal spelling and grammar, Moriarty was well pleased. Carver was good man. Did what he was told, but knew when he did not know what to do. Moriarty made some quick calculations concerning the carrying capacity of the sleigh. Filled to capacity, the sleigh might manage to hold eight or so of the chimpanzees and a small number of the littler beasts. Unfortunately, these were warm weather animals, so he would lower his estimate to allow for blankets and canvas covering to keep the primates warm, dry and out of the wind on the long sleigh ride back. It was nearly four kilometers to Rosenlaui and another twelve kilometers to Brienz. They would be several hours out in the elements.

Moriarty picked up his pen and began to write his response to Carver. Almost halfway through the note, he looked again at Carver's own missive. It was crudely done, using large, childish block lettering. Moriarty wadded up his first attempt and threw it into the fire. Carver was a good underling, but he'd never understand the Professor's own elegant cursive script, or the words that Moriarty would use with someone who was better educated. More carefully this time, Moriarty began his response anew, this time printing instead of writing, and ensuring that he used short, easily read and understood words.

It took several tries before the Professor was satisfied with his message, for he found it exceedingly difficult to force his incomparable brain to communicate on such a crude and unsophisticated level. Finally, he rang for his secretary and told him to summon the messenger. He had a task for the man.

Soon, the experiments that were showing such promise with the shorter-lived African monkeys would be tried on the much longer living chimpanzees. If all went well, why, they might have a working solution in another month or so.

And of course, Professor Moriarty would personally SEE that things continued to go well.

Date: March 16, 1911

Entry in the Journal of Miss Sherla Joan Holmes

Location: The Brienz Hotel, Brienz, Switzerland.

Time: 1:19 A.M.

My Dear Doctor Watson:
I cannot sleep. Between my mind churning and my stomach churning, I have elected to get up and sit so that I do not disturb Katrina. She is also suffering from her monthly, but at least she can sleep. In truth, I must say I feel somewhat better - something on the order of a limp, tattered rag as opposed to a tattered rag being wrung out. Rather sad when feeling bad is an improvement, eh old friend? I have just taken another, smaller dose of that alcoholic tonic. I have hopes that it will be efficacious without being debilitating this time. At least, by being awake, I lessen the likelihood of a hangover from that abominable tasting brew. Next time, I believe I shall simply try an excellent brandy or a well blended cognac since I think the herbs have little to do with the effectiveness of this particular preparation. I shall do an experiment and let you know.

All in all, this has been a rather forceful reminder of what has changed for me in the past two months, John. It is rather hard to forget one is a woman when your entire body is working so diligently to make that fact painfully obvious. I never had this problem as Sherlock.

But then again, I can all but hear you saying, there were many other things I did not have as Sherlock. True enough. The fact is, I don't know if I really care if Moriarty truly has an antidote for this or not. Yes, John, even as I sit here in my current condition, I am not sure. Sherlock is still a significant part of me, and he would never make such a decision irrationally and in a fit of pique. Nor will I permit two or three days of discomfort to completely overshadow the greater logical picture.

We are coming very close now, John. The only reason I know of for such a large shipment of primates as Katrina uncovered today is research. Specifically, human research, although, I am unsure why they would want the chimpanzees. Most journal articles I have read use the smaller, cheaper monkeys. One gets more generations per year out such animals if you are looking at genetics, and not insignificantly, they are less costly than their larger cousins.

Of course, money is not likely to be an object to the Professor. I wonder if the fact that the chimpanzees are longer-lived than the monkeys might not be the reason for their inclusion in the shipment. That consideration plus their size makes them seem somewhat more similar to homo sapiens than the smaller animals. Do I infer from this that Moriarty is getting ready to test an improved version of his damnable potion? Can I ignore it?

The second answer is simple - No, I cannot. Katrina will have to be very vigilant over the next few days in case someone calls for the animals. If not, we will have to move our base of operations to Meringen when the tracks reopen and they are shipped there to await pickup.

I must speak with Irene and Katrina in the morning. We are getting closer to Moriarty which means the game becomes more dangerous as well. I must impress upon them the need for greater self security over the next few days.

I do not think I should want to live were I to lose either of them.

End Journal Entry.

To Be Continued...

A Study in Satin - Part 3 - Chapters 9 - 12

Author:

Tigger

Caution:

CAUTION: Sex / Sexual Scenes

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Posted by author(s)

"THE Woman."

A Study in Satin
Part III: Dum Vivimus Vivamus

Chapters 9-12

by Tigger

Image Credit: Title picture Victorian Woman ~Sephrena.

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

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.

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.

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:

Part III: Dum Vivimus Vivamus

Chapter 9. New and Unexpected Possibilities

"Good morning, Ma'amselle Cherie," Katrina sang, throwing open the bed chamber curtains to permit the bright, snow-reflected sunshine to flood the room. "It is a glorious day and you are being the lazy lay-a-bed! Get up, get up! Vite, vite!"

Sherla felt like burrowing into her covers, but the little minx dispensed with those next. Cursing mentally, she tested her equilibrium with a careful movement and was pleased to find that the world did not instantly go into a colored maelstrom. She felt brave enough to sit up in bed and scowl at her grinning lover. "How can you be so perky this morning? You said you were suffering from your own monthly." A thought crossed Sherla's mind and she pinned Katrina with a hard look. "That wasn't a little fib to make me feel like a whiner, was it?"

"Non, non, my love," Katrina laughed merrily. "I am having my monthly, but I am used to this where you are not, and the worst is past for me. You should be feeling better today as well, if not at your best. Aren't you hungry this morning?"

Surprisingly, she was. With a quick bound, she was out of bed, and nearly on the floor. "Easy, petite," Katrina said as she moved to support Sherla. "You are better, not all the way better."

"So I see," Sherla said with some asperity. "Help me to the necessary. I need to clean up. I feel filthy."

Later, after she had seen to her toilette and her feminine hygienic needs, Sherla moved very carefully into the sitting room where a light breakfast had been laid. Sherla found she was ravenous, but decided to be cautious until she was certain what she ate would stay down. Weak tea and dry toast may not sound like a great deal, but it tasted heavenly to Sherla and made her belly smile.

"Aren't you going to eat more, dear?" Irene asked when Sherla set her plate aside.

"If it stays down for an hour, I will have the same again."

"Ah, good plan. So, what are you going to do while Katrina and I are out and about this morning?"

About to say she would stay in the room, Sherla recalled the lovely sunny day outside. "I think I would like to sit in Frau Schmidt's solar and take some sun among her plants. Perhaps read a bit."

"A capital plan," Irene enthused. "I shall help you downstairs and get you settled before I leave to meet with Herr Kreuger. I should be back by two in the afternoon, but I will speak with Herr Schmidt so that someone checks on you periodically in the event you need help getting back to the room before that."

The plant-filled solar was delightfully warm and was aromatic with the scents of flowers and moist earth. Sherla found herself comfortably situated on a lounge chair near a small bubbling fountain with the sun beaming in on her. Her muscles, still sore from the previous day's cramps, began to relax in the humid heat of the glassed-in room.

The Schmidts made a point of dropping in on her every half hour or so, bringing in some tea, or a sweet biscuit warm from the oven, or just to chat. She managed to make it to the common room at noontime and ate a substantial if bland luncheon before returning to her seat in the solar.

It was about an hour after she'd returned from luncheon when *it* happened. Sherla had been dozing in her seat when two towheaded tornados zoomed by, squealing and laughing.

"Greta! Johann! Come back here, you imps!" another voice called from the door to the main hotel. A pretty young woman, a baby in her arms, hurried into the solar. She saw Sherla and came over to her. "Pardon me, Fraulein, did you see two children run by?"

Sherla noted her harried look, her blond hair had begun to escape what had likely been a very neat bun earlier that morning, and her blouse showed signs of something spilled or spat up on it. Pointing in the direction of the children's escape route, Sherla smiled. "They went that way. I suspect they are hiding in those bushes at the end of the room."

"Drat the little demons. I shall have to go in myself and roust them out." Then she looked at the small bundle in her arms. "Please, Fraulein, would you mind watching little Eva? She is ready to nap so she won't be a problem, but if I do not have my hands free, I will never catch up with those two for their naps."

"But. .but. . .but. ." The young woman did not hear Sherla nor did she expect anything but a positive response for the next thing Sherla realized, she had a lapful of baby whose Mother was already halfway across the room.

"Oh lord, now what do I do?" Sherla breathed as she quickly reached down to get a hold on the baby. Worried that she might somehow harm the child, she did a rapid scan of her memories, trying to recall anything she or Sherlock had ever read about caring for small children. It was not something in which the Great Detective had ever had much interest. Then she remembered that one had to "Support the head. Very well, how does on do that?"

Cautiously, she wrapped her arms around the baby so that she lay in Sherla's arms - her head crooked in her right elbow. For her part, Eva found the strange lady who was looking down at her very interesting. Waving her small arms, she grinned up at Sherla.

"She said you were supposed to sleep, Eva, so you will please go to sleep." Sherla ordered. The baby giggled up at Sherla. "That wasn't meant to be funny," Sherla retorted, which only made the baby giggle more. "Happy, aren't you," Sherla asked, suddenly finding this small person interesting.

"Ga da da ma ma ga." Eva said very seriously.

This time, Sherla was the one to laugh. "Is that so, young Miss? I would never have known that." She said, smiling broadly as she repositioned Eva in her arms much to the baby's pleasure. She was now close enough to grab hold of the lace embroidered into Sherla's day-gown's collar. "Oho, so you like lace, do you? What are you going to do with it if it comes loose, eh?"

Then, the baby gave a huge yawn, and closed her eyes, nearly throwing Sherla into a spasm. She was about to scream for the little girl's mother when she realized that the baby was still breathing. *She can't have just gone to sleep. She was so alert just a few moments ago, and yet. . ." Sherla leaned over and put her cheek near the baby's mouth, and felt the light, feathery movement of her breathing. *Fascinating. She did just fall asleep. Such unthinking trust. Amazing.*

Intellectual curiosity led Sherla to examine the sleeping child closely. Sherlock had never given much thought to children, unless he was tracking a kidnapper or unless it was one of his Baker Street Irregulars. It occurred to Sherla that she had never been so close to a child so young for so long a time in either of her lives. While she was considering this, the baby shifted in her arms and cuddled closer, her little arms seeking and finding Sherla's bosom. Eva pillowed her head against Sherla's softness, gave a happy little sigh and melted something deep inside Sherla.

It was not an altogether comfortable feeling, and one Sherla was not certain she should explore further. *Ah, here comes the Mother. . * she thought when she saw the blond woman marching in her direction, one very displeased-looking child held firmly in each hand.

"Oh, good, she went to sleep. Ah, Fraulein . . . ?"

"Cheryl. Cheryl Huxley," Sherla replied absently, as she tried to decide the best way to safely transfer the sleeping child back to her MOther.

"Thank you. I am Frau Helga Mueller. I wonder if you would do me the favor or holding her for just a few more minutes while I get these two ready for their own nap? I mean, since you are not doing anything right now."

*What? Not DOING anything? She thinks I'm just laying about idly? Why, I'm . . well . . . um . .* "Ah, of course, if it would help."

"Oh, yes, immensely," Frau Mueller said, over her shoulder as she turned after one of her charges who had already slipped from her grasp.

Sherla sighed as she watched the trio disappear into the main hotel. It was too bad there was no way she could tell that woman that she was involved in a case upon which outcome the peace of the world might well stand. Sherla merely LOOKED as if she was doing nothing. Clear, rational and logical thought took great effort.

*Too bad you could not come up with any of that commodity when Frau Helga dropped the responsibility for this child quite literally in your lap, Miss Holmes,* she mentally chided herself.

Uncertain as to how one looked after a sleeping child, Sherla reassured herself again that the tiny baby she held was still breathing regularly. Of course, THAT was the reason, the ONLY reason, she lowered her head down to where her cheek rested on the child's equally-soft one. The soft susurrus of breath whispered against her cheek, confirming that the frail bundle was life - new life, so fragile, yet so full of promise.

It, no, 'she', Eva, stirred in her sleep, snuggling deeper into the warmth of Sherla's bosom, her little mouth opening and closing as even in sleep, she sought a comfort that only a woman could provide. It caused a most unexpected response in Sherla. Her hidden nipples erected with an alacrity hitherto only called forth by decidedly adult endeavors, yet there was no sense of wrongness, no sense of arousal about the feeling despite the presence of a young child in this instance. Instead, there was a rightness, as though the delights of the flesh that so amazed Sherla had yet another dimension of fulfillment to be explored.

"Ah, Fraulein Cheryl, aren't you just the perfect picture?" Frau Schmidt said expansively, distracting Sherla from a truth she was all too near to discovering.

"I would wager that you can not wait until you are holding one of your own in your arms, now can you?" Frau Schmidt continued, fond memories shining from her eyes.

"Oh, um, I haven't given that much thought," said Sherla.

"Well, from what I hear of your adventure with young Herr Krueger yesterday, you had better start," the older woman said with a laugh.

The laugh caused Sherla to start, her sudden movement motion partially rousing little Eva. But, thankfully, only for a moment. The baby looked up into Sherla's dark eyes and gave a happy little gurgle, then yawned so hugely it looked impossible for the tiny face. Yet, with another little squirm, she was once again soundly asleep.

Neither woman said anything for a moment, lost in a shared sense of wonder at the tiny miracle of a sleeping child. When Frau Schmidt spoke, her voice was soft and full of love.

"Dear child, do not be ashamed of the impulses you feel. One of the most wonderful joys in a woman's life is being able to bear and to love children. There is no higher calling," she said, reaching out to gently stroke the infant's head.

Then she snickered and said, "And as beautiful as you are, you will not lack for those willing to bestow that gift upon you." Before Sherla could disagree, she continued, "If we could capture your image, sitting here cloaked in the radiance of my solar with a child in your arms, men of any age would line up for the chance to make that picture real."

"I, um, no . . . ah, . . ," stammered Sherla.

"Oh, hush, girl. I know it is too early for you to admit such things. One just come into the flower of her beauty, such as you, is still unsure of her true appeal and of her true needs." Now Frau Schmidt's hand reached up to stroke Sherla's midnight-dark tresses. "But I was not always this old, or this stout," Frau Schmidt claimed with a twinkling smile, "and Herr Schmidt was quite a handsome man in his youth, too. Someday you will find your man. And find how blessed a child of your own can be."

She bustled off about her business, her check of the young woman complete. But her effect on that same young woman was far from finished when the door to the solar closed.

*Is a child, my own child, truly that desirable?* Sherla mused. *I have to admit, the smile on little Eva's face, one put there by the comfort of my embrace, was a very beautiful thing to see and to experience. I wonder what it would be like to have a child of my own. To feel her grow within me, and to bear her, and to feed her from my own body . . .*

*But that would mean I would have to lie with a man, to let him plow my so-very-fertile furrow,* Sherla realized - then realized the idea was not as horrifying as it should be, as she thought it should be, at least . . . She leaned back in her chair so that she could support the infant with no real effort and closed her eyes. She tried to imagine such a man in her life, and was not surprised when his face took on the features of Hans-Peter. She formed the mental picture of him cuddling her in his arms, as she had just cuddled the baby in her arms. It felt. . . strange - right. . .and yet, somehow wrong as well.

"And what have we here?" Irene's voice broke through that mental picture. "Who is your friend?" The older woman asked as she seated herself opposite Sherla and began stripping off her gloves.

"A mother was chasing her other two children and asked me to watch this one while she put the others down for their naps."

"You seem quite at home with her," Irene observed. "I wouldn't have thought Sherlock would have had much experience with small ones."

"Experience? Try none, Irene, and as to being "at home?" I have been terrified since the moment her Mother all but dropped her in my lap."

"Oh, well, then let me take her. . "

"NO!, she's FINE. . . I mean, I've gotten used to her. . .and. . and. . she's sleeping. . ." *And when did I learn to lie to myself? I don't WANT to give her up. . *

A quick glance at Irene's smug expression told Sherla that she had not fooled THE Woman one little bit. "Of course, dear. I was just offering," was all she said.

Irene considered the pair seated across from her. *She becomes more a woman with each passing day. When she applies her rational side, she seems every bit as formidable in that realm as was Sherlock, and yet, Sherla seems so much more than that to me. Would I have felt that way about Sherlock had I truly known him? Known him as more than the rival I always had to outdo, or as the living embodiment of a masculine world that I was excluded from solely by virtue of my birth? Somehow, I doubt it. She has grown much in her knowing these past days, and more than that since she wrote those early passages in that journal she still keeps. I would wager a fat purse that there shall be a very interesting entry in that soon enough. If she can bring herself to deal with this honestly.*

Looking up from checking the baby again, Sherla gave her curiosity full rein. "And what did you discover on your outing, Mother?"

A knowing look crossed Irene's face, but she replied. "Nothing suited to our needs and requirements, I am afraid. According to Herr Kreuger, we were well over halfway to Meringen at one point. He fears that he will not have anything more to show us soon, and will be forced to refer us to a colleague of his in Meringen."

"That is too bad. And what of the chateau Hans-Peter told us of? The one near Rosenlaui?"

"Herr Kreuger tells me that the current tenants have an option to extend the lease at their discretion, provided they are willing to increase the rent a suitable amount each time. He cannot guarantee its availability in any reasonable time frame."

"That is too bad. It sounds more and more interesting each time I hear of it."

"Doesn't it, though?" Irene agreed. "Perhaps when we remove to Meringen, we will get a chance to at least see the place, eh?"

Sherla was about to reply when she heard, "Ah, Fraulein Cheryl, thank you so much."

Frau Mueller's voice interrupted Irene's report and precluded a return to the more private musings the child had sparked in each of them. Musings that, at least in Sherla's case, had been almost frightening, yet still compelling; certainly too consuming for her peace of mind. She let the harried mother reclaim her infant, not without an instant's pang of loss.

Irene also watched the mother and child depart, but she watched Sherla more carefully. "A lovely child," she finally offered.

"Yes, she was," Sherla said, almost absently. "Irene?"

"Yes, sweet?"

"Did you ever regret . . I mean. . did you ever consider. . ." Sherla stumbled as she tried to find a way to phrase her question.

"Did I ever want a child of my own body, dear girl? Is that what you are trying so hard to ask?" Irene's voice was soft, and gently indulgent.

Finally, Sherla was able to nod. It was done very quickly, and just barely perceptibly, but it was a nod. AT least, Irene elected to take it as such. "A difficult question, my dear. One might as well ask what have I done in those years that might have gone undone had I instead been a full time mother? There is no good answer to that question, Sherla. For my part, I can only say that one must make choices in life, and I don't regret the ones I made. It helps that my dear friend Nel has given me several children to spoil - and then there has been Katrina . . .and you. No, I don't regret not having born a child."

"How long will you have to be doing this stuff," Katrina in her best 'disgusted boy' voice asked.

Erich looked up from the dustpan-full of monkey droppings he'd collected and grinned. "Don't tell my Father, but I actually like doing this. . .taking care of animals, I mean."

"Oh really? Seems like a pretty nasty chore to me," Katrina/Karl plied as she carefully measured food into one animal's food dish.

"Well, he wants me to follow in his footsteps here, take over the train station when he retires. Me? I want to be an animal doctor. But, I heard the man who ordered this lot is coming down with a big cargo sleigh tomorrow to take some of them back with him. Might make another trip the next day if the tracks to Meringin still aren't fixed."

"You ever seen this guy before?" Katrina asked, trying to sound off handed. "I mean, what kind of person needs so many monkeys. . .and what was it you called these big ones? Chimpandas?"

"Chimpanzees, stupid," Erich tossed off the insult companionably. "My Papa says the guy told him they were for research on some type of medicines. Hope they don't hurt these fellows doing it. As to the man, well, I saw him a few times around the station. Big man - taller than my father and he's over a hundred eighty centimeters and big all over. Talks funny. My dad says he's English like your Momma, and I have been learning to speak English in school, but he doesn't talk the way we're taught."

"What do you mean?"

"He just has a really funny saying things, like some of the letters aren't there. Like when he had me help him hitch up his team. He said, "'Ere, boy, over 'ere. Gimme an 'and with these 'arnesses." Like I said. . .some of the letters were missing."

Katrina nodded her understanding and spat into the straw. "So he's coming tomorrow?"

"That's what my Papa told me. Right after lunch because he has a fifteen kilometer sleigh ride and those big sleds are not very fast."

"Well, hopefully they will all get delivered soon so that we can get back to our other games." Katrina said, injecting what she hoped was sufficient disappointment into her voice.

"Oh, we will. Best of all, Papa wants me to be here tomorrow when the delivery is made so I won't have to go to school in the afternoon. We can go off on our own after I help load the sleigh. Got something I want to share with you, too. Something special."

"Sounds great." Katrina/Karl enthused. A bell chimed from the clock at the front of the warehouse. "Well, I have to be getting back to the hotel so I can get cleaned up and changed for dinner."

"Change clothes just for dinner," Erich said, shaking his head in resignation. "Unbelievable."

Katrina gave him a last "What can you do?" shrug of her shoulders and headed out the door and into the brisk evening air. She had information Sherla and Irene would want to hear.

Chapter 10. The Plan Comes Together and Apart

"So he will arrive sometime tomorrow to pick up one wagon-load of the animals?" Sherla asked as the three of them lounged in their sitting room that evening.

"So Erich believes, Sherla. Evidently, it is quite a distance to travel after picking them up. And it is a sleigh-load, not a wagon-load," Katrina replied with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes

For the moment, Katrina's attempt at teasing was lost on Sherla as she was thinking deeply about the ramifications of this tidbit of information. Finally, she shook her head and sighed. "Somehow, we will have to come up with a way for me to get a fairly close look at this fellow."

"Why must we do that?" Irene asked. "What benefit could we derive from taking such a risk? Clearly, he is not Moriarty. Not built as Erich describes him nor with a Cockney accent so noticeable that a native-German-speaker can recognize and repeat it."

"True enough, but I might recognize him," Sherla replied.

"I still don't see what benefit that has that justifies putting you at risk of being noticed by this man."

""If I recognize him, we will know whether he is a murderer, or at least if he is given to violence and with what weapon of choice. If we can follow him, we will stand a better chance of finding Moriarty. If he is too dangerous, we may need to take him out of the game immediately. I refuse to endanger young Loche or Katrina in this game."

"You would know these things?" Katrina asked, dubiously.

"Yes, dear, I would know, particularly if he was of the London underworld. It was my business to know such things, even though I was not given much opportunity to practice that business those last few years. I still kept myself well abreast of who was who within the criminal world of London, England and greater Europe."

With a sigh, Irene conceded the point. "Well, since you are so much better physically, it might not prove all that hard to arrange. You could accompany me for a bit of shopping tomorrow morning. There is a very nice little cafe across from the train station where we could take some refreshment near the appointed hour so that we would be in the vicinity when our quarry arrives."

"That would work," Sherla agreed. Then her face became quietly dreamy. "We're very close, ladies."

"What I don't understand is if you think the Kreugers know where Moriarty is," Katrina asked, scratching her leg where the itch of her woolen trousers still tormented her, "why don't you just ask them to tell you? Why all this sneaking about, asking questions without seeming to ask questions? For goodness sake, we could be at this supposed hideaway tomorrow if we would simply ask them. I am sure," and here her tone became sly, "Hans-Peter would tell you."

"Perhaps I could tease the information out of him, and it is certain that Irene could tease it from his sire, but I do not wish them to be endangered by our activities any more than I wish to endanger you and the family Loche. I don't want them implicated in whatever we, or rather I may have to do to that place, nor do I want them to be asked any difficult questions about whatever it is I finally have to do. If I fail, and Moriarty survives, I want them to appear innocent of any of my intrigues as they truly are. I have enough blood on my hands from the criminals I have sent to the gallows, Katrina. I do not wish them stained with the deaths of innocents."

"Sherla, you are frightening me," Katrina said, her voice suddenly shaky.

Standing, Sherla began to pace the room. "Curse it, Katrina, you SHOULD be frightened. This man is not simply dangerous, he is deadly. He kills, dearheart, and when he doesn't kill, he destroys lives so completely that killing might have been a mercy. Not for pleasure, not merely for purpose, but because it is expedient and simpler than the alternative courses of action before him. He defines ruthlessness. He is completely evil, yet completely rational. A sufficiently accurate description of him that truly imparts the danger he represents beggars my poor skill. It would be so much simpler to describe him and to stop him if he were merely, utterly mad and without any concept or understanding of good versus evil. Unfortunately, he is not mad."

Sherla stopped in front of the window, her back to the room. "And you are going to fight such a person?" Katrina asked softly.

"I have no choice," Sherla said tiredly, "for no one else would stand a chance, and he has to be stopped, once and forever." Sherla let the silence stand for a few more moments and then shrugged her shoulders. Turning back to face Irene and Katrina, she forced a smile to her lips. "I stopped him once, and I believe. . .know . . I can do so again. If you will excuse me, I think the day is catching up with me. I am still a bit under the weather from my monthly, I think. Good night."

. . . . . desire curled, hot, wet and demanding, in the core of Sherla's womanhood. The barest hint of a breeze across her body made her skin dimple and her nipples become somehow even harder. Hungrily, she writhed in her need, begging for a touch, begging for something. .

Her arms reached out, offering an embrace, offering herself as her legs spread invitingly. And then, in answer, a body appeared. Out of the shadows of the darkened room, it approached her. The night hid is face as the body first covered her, and then, filled her to the hot center of her woman's flesh.

Helpless in her aching need, Sherla arched to meet each thrust as her arms reached up to link her hands behind the neck of her lover. With all her strength, she tried to pull the lips of her lover to her own, but somehow she couldn't.

Pulsing bursts of pleasure colored her world and she wanted to scream with the wonder of it, but somehow, she couldn't.

Why wasn't there light? She wanted to SEE who was giving her such pleasure. Soundlessly, she begged to see the face.

A face began to form - blond hair, strong features, blue eyes and. . .a mustache?

"Hans-Peter?" she whispered.

A soft chuckle answered her as yet another thrust brought her to the brink of completion, to the brink of. . what?

Another chuckle vibrated through her body, and yet, this one was somehow softer, lighter in tone. She blinked hard and looked into the face again, but impossibly, the face had changed.

Her lover, the person filling her, pleasuring her, LOVING her was. . . .

"KATRINA!??!" Sherla screamed, coming up straight in her bed.

"What??" Katrina came out of a sound sleep. "Sherla, love, what is the matter?"

Sherla found herself suddenly wrapped in a familiar, loving embrace. "Sherla?" Katrina's voice finally slipped through Sherla's sleep fogged thoughts.

"Dream. . ." she managed to get out. "Just. . . a . . . dream."

"Sounded worse than that, sweet. Do you want to talk about it?"

*NO!* Sherla's mind yelled. "Not now. . .it. . it seems to be slipping away, somehow."

"Dreams do that sometimes, darling. Just relax and let me hold you."

Date: March 17, 1911

Entry in the Journal of Miss Sherla Joan Holmes

Location: The Brienz Hotel, Brienz, Switzerland.

Time: 10:23 A.M.

My Dear Doctor Watson:
Katrina is off running some errands for Irene, continuing the process of accustoming the village shopkeepers to her regular presence. All is going well in that regard. Irene is down in the common room meeting with Kreuger about the next set of properties that will in some way prove unacceptable.

And I? I am sitting here at this little writing desk trying to make sense of the nonsensical - like feelings and dreams. Or at least, Sherlock would have said they were nonsensical. I am not so sure.

Well, I must say that I believe the dream is a direct result of the feelings I experienced holding little Eva yesterday. There was something so. . . unexpectedly satisfying about holding her and basking in her innocent regard and trust.

And yes, there was a feeling of. . .wanting about that. I certainly missed her when Helga reclaimed Eva after putting her other children to bed.

Do I want to be a mother? I don't really know. I know I truly enjoyed holding that child in my arms, enjoyed it at a level that rivals the pleasure I get from Katrina's love, though in a way so unique that I know Katrina could never provide the same.

That is the issue, though. I know I can be a mother physically, and I believe from this afternoon's revelation with little Eva that I can be one emotionally. But Sherlock's experience shows that a father is important as more than simply the supplier and sower of seed. Both parents must demonstrate and provide the love and commitment that makes the child feel loved and secure. All of that was missing from my life, and I would not bring a child into the world without being very sure I could meet that responsibility properly.

Could I find a man to love? And what would be the implications of that for my feelings toward Katrina, and hers toward me? I do not believe love, true love, is a jealous thing. In my heart, I think I could love Katrina and still love another, just as a woman can love her husband and her children. But would Katrina feel the same? And the man who would be my husband? Could he accept that I needed Katrina in my life? That I needed time in her arms, and in her bed?

Knowing the men of my age, I think it unlikely. And if I am offered the choice, as I appear to be, then I choose Katrina over being a wife, over being a mother.

This choice is not all noble self-sacrifice. Even now the hunger for the chase burns bright within me, easily rivaling the desire sparked by holding that child. Could I ever be satisfied with a life of housewife and mother, caring for husband and children while the world marches by without my mark upon it? I must be honest and admit that I could not.

I have learned to respect and honor womanhood, and I may one day envy, in some small fashion, those women who do choose the maternal path. But it is not my path. Though now Sherla, still I am *Holmes*. I am unique in the world, with unique gifts and powers. Thus, I have different responsibilities to this world than most - responsibilities that are mine by virtue of the mind that still drives this now-feminine body, just as surely as the body influences the mind.

But oh, it was sweet to hold that child, to see her smile, to have her seek *my* bosom for warmth. I think, that in the future, I will seek out an orphanage somewhere, and help there as I may. Unlike Irene, I have no friends with children for me to spoil, but there are and will be children who need me, and I will find them for I think I need them as well.

End Journal Entry.

As Irene had predicted, the small cafe provided a superb view of the station house and the warehouse that contained the animal cages. "If he doesn't show up soon," Sherla complained, "I am going to be forced to find out how well maintained the necessary is in this place."

"Oh, hush. It is only just one o'clock," Irene chided. "And if you left now, you would miss him by the time you got your clothing rearranged."

Sherla was about to protest further when a large sleigh pulled by four heavy-bodied draft horses pulled into sight and stopped at the door of the warehouse. At that moment, her entire demeanor changed and her entire focus became the large man driving the team.

Irene looked at him, too, but it was hard for her not to watch Sherla. *Something just turned on inside that head of hers, almost like an electric bulb. I wonder what she is seeing?* "Do you know him?" Irene asked after he'd gone inside to get the first of the cages.

"No. At least, I don't think so. Let's time his movements. Erich told Katrina he was picking up six of them. Let's be outside when he should be bringing out the last animal so that I can get a closer look at him. I know what he is, I just want to know more if I can."

They walked past the sleigh just as Herr Loche released Erich to go play with his new friend for the rest of the afternoon. Irene watched as Erich and 'Karl' scampered up a snow-covered hill toward a copse of trees, looking for all the world like two boys intent on avoiding any further work. *Well played, sweet,* she thought at Katrina's retreating form.

"Well?" Irene asked as she and Sherla turned the corner.

"Not here. Let's get to the hotel and our rooms first. I need to think and ensure I truly do NOT know who that man is."

"My friends have said you can join our club, Karl," Erich said once they'd disappeared into the thick stand of trees. "All you have to do is pass our little initiation, and since there is all this pure white snow here about, that won't be a problem."

"What do we have to do? Make snow angels?"

Erich gave her a disgusted look. "No, you have to make your initial in the snow."

Confused, Katrina stared at her companion. Bending over, she quickly drew a "K" in the snow with her hand. "You mean like this?"

"No," Erich said, laughing. "This is a boys only club, see? So you have to do it like this." With casual unconcern, Erich proceeded to unbutton his fly and draw a crude "E" with his urine. "See? Nothing to it. Now you do it, and you're a member."

"Uhmmm. . .Erich. . ummm. . .I can't. . .uhh. . my Mother would. . ."

"Awww. . who's going to tell your Mother? There's no one here but you and me and the only ones I will tell are the other members of our club."

"I ummm. . .don't have to go. . .so let's go back to town and I'll buy us a sarsparilla at the confectioners and then maybe. . "

"No. Can't do it. You know about the club so you have to stay here until you pass the initiation. It's the rule."

*Can't win this one. I'll just have to leave and deal with it later. Hopefully, I can preserve my cover.* "Then, I don't want to join, Erich. I am leaving."

Katrina turned and walked out of the copse. She was about a quarter of the way down the hill when Erich hit her from behind sending them both rolling into the snow drifts. "YOU HAVE TO JOIN! I VOUCHED FOR YOU!!" Erich yelled in her ear.

Katrina struggled wildly, trying to free herself from his grip, but even though he was only twelve, he was a strong boy and she was a small female. He held her down fairly easily.

And then he put his hand upon an unexpected soft swell where muscular boyish chest was expected, and went instantly still. "Karl! You're a GIRL!"

"Quiet!" she growled at him. "I will explain, but you have to be quiet or my Mother will have a fit, all right? And please, move your hand away from there!"

Erich released his hold, and in his stunned disbelief, only barely remembered the manners his Mother had drummed into him, and offered *her* a hand.

"Let's go back to the copse, and I will explain everything to you, all right?"

Neither of them realized that their confrontation, and Erich's discovery, had been observed by a suddenly very interested individual.

"I think we are safe in assuming that he is not a killer for hire. At least, he is not a professional killer," Sherla told the two women as they gathered in their sitting room before the evening meal.

"How can you know that?" Irene asked. "You said you did not recognize him."

"Because if he were a successful member of that foul profession, I WOULD have known him, particularly as he has a London waterfront turn of phrase. He is obviously a British seaman, and a smuggler, so he is almost certainly in Moriarty's employ."

"How can you be so sure he is a sailor, let alone a smuggler?"

"It's quite simply, really. His face shows the ravages of wind and sun that come only to seamen or farmers, and the choice between those two is made obvious by his watch cap and rubber-soled boots, which are clearly seaman's attire."

"And the smuggling?" Irene asked, amused to see the deductive mind of her old friend at work.

"The scrimshaw blade he carried in his boot shows he was not primarily in the Royal Navy, since that could only be obtained by trading with those who crew foreign whaling vessels. An ordinary seaman would not have the money to buy such an artfully-worked blade, so it follows that he traded something for it, something of equivalent value. Smuggled contraband of one sort or another is the only reasonable value he could provide. I had already deduced this when he removed his gloves to sign for the shipment. The missing ring finger on his right hand is clearly the sign of a moment's carelessness with a line, all too common among seamen, and there was a tattoo on the back of his hand. That tattoo was used by a notorious smuggling ring with which Moriarty has dealt on several occasions.

"Ah, of course," Irene nodded, fighting to hold in a grin. "It is so . . . elementary when you explain it so."

"And smugglers are not dangerous?" Katrina wanted to know.

"He bears watching and care when you approach him, but he is unlikely to be trusted with a covert murder. I would say that this man lacks subtlety."

"So, now what?"

"I think our safest course of action, at least for our friends here in Brienz, is to wait until the tracks are repaired and we, along with the remainder of his primate purchase, can repair to Meringen. We'll be closer to his hideout there, and can more safely follow him in that much hillier country. So for now, we keep our eyes and ears open, but do nothing overt."

Katrina wondered if she should tell Sherla about Erich's discovery. When she had told him that story about how she'd wanted to be a boy, and how her father wanted her to be a boy, which was why they were moving here - so she could be a boy without anyone noticing - Erich had agreed to keep her secret. Even to the point of lying about her initiation to his friends.

*What will happen if I tell her? She'd send me and Irene home is what she'd do, and proceed on her own. . . ALONE! THAT can't be permitted. So, should I tell Irene? Would she send me away? Dare I take the chance? Oh, I just don't KNOW!!*

Chapter 11. Successful Promises

"A most promising result, Herr Doctor Buchner," Moriarty said in great bonhomie, "for all the patient did, in the end, sadly die."

"I must point out, Herr Professor," the broadly built academician hurried to insert, "that we did not truly observe a gender transition in this case. Our autopsy clearly shows that the monkey was still fully female, externally and internally, at the time of death."

"True, true," Moriarty replied magnanimously, "But it is a most remarkable and obvious change, is it not? I do think you are on the correct path of inquiry at last, Doctor Haber, Doctor Buchner. So, what is your proposed plan at this point?"

"Ummm. .Professor, as you are no doubt aware, we are dealing with limited supplies of certain of the key herbal ingredients. This particular treatment uses a significant amount of one particular herb - significantly more, in fact, than any of the other herbs," Sweat was beading on Buchner's forehead. "Disproportionately more, I should say."

"What are you telling me, sir?" Moriarty's pleasant mood had evaporated and the room seemed to become instantly cold.

"Only that we do not have sufficient of that one herb for very many experiments, Herr Professor," Haber bravely broke in. We have enough to treat, perhaps twenty or so monkeys, or six to eight chimpanzees, and at most three or four human subjects. Or some combination of those options."

"I see," Moriarty said coldly, his mind already working at solutions to this unanticipated logistical problem. He had, quite overly optimistically, assumed that he had more than adequate supplies of the special Amazon herbs for his needs. *I simply had not anticipated the true lack of scientific talent that mark these so-called leaders in their fields. They are the ones who have wasted my precious supplies. Hopefully, the next experiments will prove successful - we are SO close, but how to I acquire more if I should need them?*

"Would it be possible, Herr Professor, to obtain additional supplies of these remarkable herbs?" Buchner asked.

"I am already, as we speak, Herr Doctor, dealing with that issue. You and Dr. Haber are to come up with a plan of action that will suit me and make the most efficient use of your remaining resources. Trust me that you truly want to succeed in this endeavor, or perhaps I should say, you truly do not wish any further failures."

With that, Moriarty spun on his heel and walked from the room. He would have to consider having Carver make a voyage to the Amazon. It was, at the moment, the only solution that seemed to make any sense. But that would wait until he returned with the second set of chimpanzees. "Six to eight" was probably more than the six they currently had, and Moriarty wanted to be sure that the new potions worked on the chimps. It was, at most, another day.

The sun was low on the horizon as Katrina slowly made her way back the hotel after a long day of running errands. She had not even been able to make time to see Erich and thank him for his promise to keep her secret. She made her way along the water, and stopped for a few moments. Tossing stones into the icy river like the boy she pretended to be turned out to be a good way to think, Katrina realized. At least she had learned to throw like a boy.

Not that she had managed to do much else right in this cursed guise. *Unmasked by a twelve year old boy,* she fumed to herself as she heaved a particularly heavy stone into the frigid water. *What does that say about poorly I am carrying off this role? Does my continued presence here as Karl endanger the woman I honor as my Mother and the woman I love?*

She turned from the river and automatically put her hands into the pockets of her coat. *Sherla must be correct when she said that most adults fail to look at other people's children with a critical eye. It is likely the only reason I have gone undiscovered for so long a period of time. So, the question becomes, do I stay, and wait for us to move on to Meringen where I will have a second chance to be 'Karl', or do leave Brienz and return to Irene's Paris cottage?*

She passed the train station on her way to the hotel and was surprised when Herr Loche waved to her and greeted her by name. *Evidently he hasn't recognized me as anyone other than Karl Huxley. That's reassuring since I have been around him more than I have any other adult. It is also unfortunate, because it would make my escape to Paris more difficult. Even if I changed back to Katrina before purchasing the ticket, I would be purchasing it from Herr Loche. A pretty yet unfamiliar girl would draw his attention, I think, and then he might connect Katrina with Karl. Curse it, what a coil.*

She had reached the hotel for supper without finding any better solution to her problem. *I will just have to be careful until we move to Meringen. Thankfully, Erich told me that the rails will be fixed sometime tomorrow. Finally.*

"Ready for supper, young Herr Huxley?" Herr Schmidt asked, clapping Katrina on her shoulder. The blow nearly toppled her, but she somehow managed to keep her balance and smile up at the innkeeper.

"Yes, sir. I am very hungry. Mother has had me running to just about every shop in the city this morning."

"Good lad!" Herr Schmidt said jovially. "Run and get your lovely Momma and sister, and we will feed that appetite of yours. Frau Schmidt made her apple strudel for the sweet, just for you."

"Oh, thank her for me, sir," Katrina said with honest gratitude, and hurried off to find Irene.

*Boy needs feeding up. Polite as that sister of his is flirtatious, but he needs to build some muscle - get himself a manly figure. Well, Momma's food will put some meat on those skinny bones. I'll have her give Frau Huxley some of her recipes, too. Good lad.*

"Ah, Carver, you have brought in the first load of chimpanzees without incident?" Moriarty asked.

"Nary a one, Professor," the seaman responded. "They're snug and warm in that room off the main lab area. Those two science coves be checkin' that lot over as I stands here talking to yer. But, they seemed right lively to me when I turned 'em out into that big holding cage."

Carver had worked with the previous shipments of animals and had learned how to care for and to read the reactions of the lab animals. Moriarty nodded in satisfaction. "And you'll be heading back for another load." It was not a question.

"First thing in the morning, Professor. The station master expects me after lunch again. By the time I get them back, the rails to Meringen will be fixed and the lot of 'em will be only a couple of easy miles away."

"True, true. Once you are back, I have another mission for you, Carver. One that will make use of your seaman's skills. Tell me, have you ever sailed to South America before?"

"Couple times, Professor," the big man shrugged. "Took leave in Rio once or twice. Smuggled some art out of Buenos Aires, too."

"Excellent. I shall tell you more when you return." It was obviously a dismissal, but Carver was hesitant to leave. Moriarty gave him a stern stare, but still the seaman stood his ground. "You have something else, Carver?" Moriarty's tone made it clear that Carver had better have something else to share with his leader.

"Ummm. . . Professor? You remember when you told me to be on the lookout? When we first got set up here?"

Moriarty only stared at Carver, rare confusion in his eyes.

Buchner and Haber had been watching as the big sailor went into speak with Moriarty. They were working at getting the new animals settled and deciding which would be their next test subject when Carver burst from Moriarty's office, the old man appearing immediately behind him in the doorway.

"You have your orders, Carver! I am too close. Success is within my reach at last, and I will take NO chances. See that you are back here before dark tomorrow. Do . . . NOT. . . FAIL!"

The two captive scientists became very obviously involved in their tasks, and tried to move out of the enraged Moriarty's line of sight.

Not entirely successfully.

Sherla smiled in relief as Katrina began to loosen her stays. The three women had just concluded a short planning discussion dealing with their itinerary for the next three days. Irene, satisfied with their plans, had left to make arrangements with the concierge for handling the packing and transport of their luggage leaving the two younger women to prepare for bed. "If Irene finds out the tracks have been deemed ready for passenger traffic, we shall be on our way to Meringen at last."

"I am glad, Sherla. Truth to tell, I was beginning to get nervous about my masquerade. Every time someone smiles at me, I almost expect them to ask what a nice girl like me is doing dressed up like a rough and tumble boy."

"Nonsense, sweet, you are doing wonderfully. Remember, *I* have been watching you. And you are becoming more adept at the role with each passing day."

"Well, if you say so, petite, but I shall be glad to start anew in a new place."

Something in her lover's wistful tones caught Sherla's full attention. "Would you prefer to stay in tomorrow?"

Katrina sighed. "I would prefer to stay in, but I promised Erich I would help him load the sleigh with chimpanzees again." *In return for his promise to keep my secret,* she thought darkly. "Then I am going to claim I must be here to help pack and leave the train station as soon as possible."

"Irene could send a message to Herr Loche that you are ill if you would rather spend the entire day here." Sherla said, finally recognizing how nervous her lover was acting recently. *Perhaps the strain IS getting to her. Well, the role has served its purpose and there really is no need for her to venture out once we get to Meringen.*

"No, it is all right. Besides, I would then show up the next day hail and hearty when it was time to leave the next day, which might draw undue attention to us."

*There is more to this than a desire to avoid dirtying her hands in monkey droppings,* Sherla thought. "What is really bothering you, love?" she asked gently.

Katrina turned away, focusing her attention on the fire instead of Sherla before answering. "Oh, just what we were speaking of a moment ago. I feel like . . . I . . I feel like I am on borrowed time in this guise." *And the loan has already come due and marked past due. Oh god, I wish I had never agreed to this charade. Now I am lying to her!* "I am terrified that I will give away the entire charade," Katrina continued. "You've convinced me how deadly, how purely evil this Moriarty truly is, and I don't want to be the instrument of your or Tante Irene's death! And I would be if some failure of mine brought you to this fiend's attention before you were ready to move against him."

Sherla considered her words carefully, and then took Katrina's hand in hers. "Come over to the settee, darling. Here, sit." Sherla pressed her lover into the soft cushions and then went down on her knees in front of her. "I have already told you that I think you are doing wonderfully in the role, and I promise you, that IF I thought there was the slightest chance of your disguise being pierced, I would end this scheme, for I would not put YOU in danger. Understand me?" Sherla looked Katrina straight in her eyes. She stared back for a few moments before her guilt over her secret failure made her look away. She finally managed a barely perceptible nod.

"Good, and in the second place, young miss, I am and have been ready to move against Moriarty the moment he shows himself to me. He won't surprise me, love. Remember who I am and who I was. I defeated him when I was Sherlock, and I will defeat him as Sherla."

"You sound so certain now, but last night, when you spoke of him you sounded far more cautious."

"Cautious, yes. Frightened, no. Trust me, my love. We will triumph."

A knock on the outer door interrupted them. Shrugging, Katrina rose from the settee and walked over to open the door. Herr Schmidt entered, a pleased smile on his broad face. "A message has arrived, young Herr Huxley, for your lovely sister," he said, holding out a wax-sealed envelope. He cast a paternal grin at Sherla. "I was asked to wait for a reply, Fraulein."

*This is NOT an appropriate time for whatever has put that look on our host,* Sherla thought with mild annoyance, even as she pasted a flirtatious smile on her own face. "And who would be so very bold, I wonder?" she asked as she hurried over to snatch up and open the missive.

Dear Fraulein Huxley,

I would be honored if you would accept my
invitation for a moonlight sleigh ride
followed by dinner at my home. Naturally,
your charming mother and your young brother
are included in both invitations. I would
like to earn the privilege of calling on you
once you and your delightful family are
settled in our little community.

Affectionately,
Hans-Peter Kreuger

*Well, well. . . the man from my very erotic dream wants to escort me out. The dream father of my dream child,* she thought, a bittersweet smile coming to her lips.

"What is it, sister?"

"An invitation, Karl, for a sleigh ride and dinner - from Hans- Peter." *If we were to be here any longer, it might do well to encourage this - he would be useful in that he knows the location of Moriarty's hideaway and he has that very nice sleigh to transport us, but that would endanger him and his family too much. It would be much less suspicious if the estate agent Irene has contacted in Meringen was the one who showed us that property.*

Sherla turned back to the innkeeper. "Herr Schmidt, I cannot accept this very nice invitation. Mother, Karl and I will be quite busy tonight and tomorrow preparing for our trip to Meringen. Please convey our regrets to Hans-Peter." She saw the surprise on Herr Schmidt's face and nodded to confirm her decision. *And my failure to send him a message in my own hand, or to speak to him myself should put paid to any further overtures from Hans-Peter. I only hope that I have not truly hurt his feelings or his confidence.*

Katrina saw the sad smile on Sherla's face and felt her insides twist. *She wants him. She has told me she loves me, but she wants him, and now her honor prevents her from taking what she truly desires. If I were not here, she'd be free to follow her heart. All I have to do to keep her is stay, and that would be the most reprehensible act I could ever commit.*

She waited until the confused innkeeper took his leave, and then turned to face Sherla. Tears were burning at her eyes, but she took a deep breath to help her control herself. "I. . . think, Sherla, . that. . . that since my role here is done, I . . I would prefer to go home to Paris. . .instead of this Meringen place. I am tired of this boy disguise, but my face is. . .too well known and I can't change back here." A stray tear or two escaped her eyes, but she ignored them and turned her face away. "I am so damnably tired of these itchy trousers. I . . .I believe I shall go . . go and pack."

All but stupefied, Sherla watched as her lover nearly ran from the room. *What in heavens name was that all about?* She followed Katrina and slipped into the bed chamber before the other girl could latch the door. It was the final straw for Katrina and she broke down completely. In an instant, Sherla had her wrapped in her arms and was making soft, comforting noises. The deluge of tears took a while to die down, but eventually, an exhausted Katrina found herself lying on the bed, cuddled in Sherla's arms. "Now, tell me what is truly the matter."

"You wanted him," Katrina said simply. "You wanted to go with him, but you didn't, because of me."

Sherla considered that. "That is true, at least in part. I may have wanted him, a little bit - that's curiosity - and I did not go with him, in part because of you, but mostly because of me."

"He could give you things I cannot, my love, and I want you to have everything good life has to offer. . ."

"And you are thinking that includes children, is that it?" A shaky nod answered her. "I have been giving children a great deal of thought of late myself. Part of my monthly blues, I suspect, and having a lovely little baby all but dropped into my arms yesterday, but I know. . .listen to me, my love, I KNOW that is not my path."

"You're just saying that. . . because you feel obligated," Katrina heard herself whine and hated it.

Sherla brought her hand up to cup Katrina's chin up so that she was looking directly into Sherla's eyes. "Goose," she said, a loving smile glowing from her face. "I could never be satisfied and fulfilled as a wife and mother, noble though those life paths are. After all, I may be Sherla, but I am also still *Holmes*, and the hole in my life without adequate challenge to my intellect would be greater than any due to the lack of children or a husband. I truly believe that I was put on this earth to stop criminals from preying on the innocent. However, all that is secondary to this, by far more important truth, you silly widgeon. I . . . love . . . YOU, and I want you in my life more than anything else I could possibly have in this new world that has opened up before me."

"You're sure? Truly?" Sherla only managed a nod before Katrina began crying again.

"What is the matter?!?" Irene's voice called from the still open bed chamber door. Neither young woman had heard her return from her last-minute-get-together with the concierge.

"Ah, Irene, just the person we need," Sherla called. "Would you come in for a moment? I have a declaration to make that must needs be witnessed."

Irene slipped into the room and stood by the bed. Sherla rose from the bed, and then pulled Katrina to her feet as well. Taking both of Katrina's hand in hers, Sherla faced Katrina. "My love, I want to make my life with you, and I do hereby pledge myself to making you as happy and fulfilled as I possibly can."

"Oh, beloved," Katrina sighed, "That is what I want, as well. I was just afraid that. . ." then she stopped herself short, and squared her shoulders. "I would pledge myself, but I am already yours, as I have been since that first night together. I want nothing more from life that to spend mine with you."

A single finger came up to shush Katrina. "Thank you" Sherla whispered, and then kissed Katrina softly, but possessively on her lips. "You are mine and I am yours."

Katrina was instantly in Sherla's arms, kissing her fervently, her fingers again seeking the fastenings on Sherla's clothing at the same time. Irene chuckled, "I can see that I have become quite de trops now that my witness function is no longer needed," and let herself out of the room, closing the door behind her.

"Well, you've made your choice, love" Sherla purred as Katrina finally finished loosening her stays, "And now you are MINE!" She stretched sensuously and enjoyed the feeling of an unrestricted deep inhalation. She speedily dispensed with her chemise and pantaloons before turning to help Katrina divest herself of Karl's clothing. "Have I ever mentioned, just how much I LOVE unwrapping you at bedtime? You are the most wonderful gift I have ever been given in either of my lives, and I get to open you EVERY single night for the rest of our lives! God, you are so WONDERFUL!"

Katrina blushed as Sherla planted soft, possessive kisses on each patch of slowly exposed skin. "I love you, too," she whispered as she felt the fire begin to flare in her loins.

Sherla slid on to the bed and beckoned to now nude Katrina. "Come and love me, Katrina. Come and let me love you."

"Whenever you wish, my love," Katrina sighed. *for however long we can.*

Chapter 12. Kidnap Rescue Attempt

Irene burst into the sitting room. "Sherla! Erich just came. They've taken Katri. . .I mean, Karl!"

Sherla burst from her seat. "WHAT?!? Who? When?"

A very white-faced Erich stepped out from behind Irene and, swallowing hard, faced the furious Sherla. "Please, Fraulein, I tried to save her, truly I did, but he was very big and very strong. I could not stop him."

Swallowing her rage, Sherla knelt down in front of the boy who was trying his best to hold back tears. She forced a gentle smile to lips that wanted to snarl at the world, and put an even gentler hand on the boy's shoulder. "I am sure you did your best, Erich, and you did even better coming straight to Mother as you did. Now, who took Karl. Did you recognize the man?"

"Yes, Fraulein. It was the man who picked up the monkeys and took them away in the sleigh. He took Karl, too. She fought him, Fraulein, truly she did, but he hit her and she went very still."

"SHE??" Sherla demanded. "Karl is a boy!"

"Please, Ma'am, but I knew she was a girl, because, well, I tried to initiate her into a boy's club here in Brienz - only a boy could do the initiation, Ma'am, out in the snow?"

"What type of initiation?" Irene demanded, "And how did that give you the idea Karl was a girl?"

"We . . . we write our initial in the snow, Ma'am," Erich choked out, his face bright red, "with our. .with our. . Ma'am, girl's can't do it at all because, . . .well, because girls can't aim."

For just a moment, Sherla had to choke back the urge to laugh as a clear vision of Katrina's predicament came to her. "I understand, Erich."

"He, um, she wouldn't do it. She wouldn't even try, and I thought she thought she was too good for our club, too high class for something like that. So I tackled him, uh, her and was going to make her agree to do it, when . . ."

"When what, dear?"

"I, um, felt . . . something she, I mean, something I shouldn't have felt. . . . if she was a boy. You see?" He begged, not wanting to say the horrible thing they had to do in front of these nice ladies.

"I see," Sherla replied, again schooling her features and striving for self control. "When did this happen, Erich? When did you discover her secret?"

"Two days ago, Fraulein, after she helped me with the monkeys."

"When the man came and picked up the chimpanzees?"

"Why, yes, Fraulein. It was right after he'd come to get his first batch of them."

"I see." Sherla's eyes went very dark. "All right, Erich, Karl and I need your help. Will you?"

"Oh, Yes, Ma'am. What can I do?"

"I want you to run and find Hans-Peter Kreuger. Tell him. . .no wait, I will give you a note. You are to tell him that I said this will be his only chance because my Mother said we are leaving soon. Can you do that?"

"Easy as anything, Ma'am. And this will help Karl?"

"As nothing else could, dear. Just a moment while I write the note."

"What was in the note?" Irene asked as she followed a rapidly stripping Sherla into her bed chamber.

"A tease. I told him how much I loved the sleigh ride and thought that a moonlight ride would be wonderful fun. Essentially, I accepted, somewhat belatedly, an invitation he sent me. He, being male, will likely interpret it as an apology for a childish slight done him last night and as an attempt to make up to him, but he will come which is all I want. Help me with these under-things, please? I need to be dressed before he arrives."

"I am going with you." Irene said firmly as she began unlacing Sherla's lingerie.

"And I told him that in my message, since I am a properly brought up young lady and need my chaperone. I am counting on you to prevent him heading for the mountains as soon as he drops me off near Moriarty's lair. Only loosen the corset a bit, Irene. I will need its support for my bosom, but unlace the pantaloons and the shift."

"You think to go in after her alone?" Irene was aghast, but she kept working at the various fastenings.

"It is the only way that has any chance of success. You know the layout we described as being the type of chalet we sought and both Kreugers said this place was a perfect match. Too much visibility for a large group to have any possibility of a covert approach. If we involved the magistrate, Katrina would be dead before we were ten yards inside the property line."

"Why would he take her?!?" Irene fumed. "Why take a boy too young to shave?"

"Because Moriarty is afraid she is me. Obviously, he had his people on the lookout for a female masquerading as a male, thinking that I would not acclimate to my new gender and would try to pass for a man. That is what he set his henchman to look for in London and evidently, what he did here. I must assume that he did not completely accept the accounts of my apparent suicide."

Finally shed of all her bulkier lingerie, Sherla began pulling on men's long sleeved and long legged white undergarments. Once those were on, she pulled thick, woolen stockings over her lighter silk ones before donning a second set of the long men's under things. Over those, she squirmed into a white quilted shirt and trouser set of the type the local skiers wore. She added white boots and then laid out matching gloves and a matching knit hat alongside her fashionable floor length cloak. "That will disguise my current attire when Hans-Peter arrives to pick me up."

"You are very sure he will come?"

"Yes," was Sherla's terse response as she knelt on the floor and pulled out a long canvas bag. She placed it on the bed and opened it. From it, she withdrew two revolvers, one of which she handed to Irene, then a long hollow tube, painted white, and a small cigarette-case sized packet. These she laid beside the cloak, hat and gloves before turning her attention back to the open case. She took a sheathed knife and strapped it to her right thigh, before strapping a small derringer, similar to the one she'd given Katrina, to her right wrist beneath the outer shirt's sleeve.

What is that?" Irene asked as she fingered the long hollow tube.

"A South American dart blowgun. Watson and I had a case where one was used. I found the weapon fascinating and learned to use one after that," Sherla replied without looking up from what she was doing. "It is silent, and when combined with these poison-tipped darts," Sherla held up a small, fletched missile, "instantly paralyzing and eventually deadly."

"Deadly? you are going up there prepared to kill?"

"Intending to kill, Irene," Sherla looked up with hard and frightening eyes. "Whoever stands between me and Katrina is already dead - they simply have not yet stopped breathing."

"Is that truly necessary, Sherla? Must you kill out of hand like that? Aren't there non-lethal alternatives for that weapon that might work as well?"

"The key word in that sentence, Irene, is 'might'. We will only get one chance to save her. If we . . . If *I* fail, she will be dead before I could hope to mount another attack." Sherla looked in the mirror and tried to pull on the stocking hat, but her hair kept escaping.

"Let me plait that mane of yours, Sherla. You'll never get that hat on as it is now. Perhaps a tight coronet of braids will do the trick."

"We don't have time for that, Irene," Sherla told her sharply. "Merely pull it back out of my face and secure it into a single tail down my back. I will wear it inside the outer shirt."

Irene could feel the barely controlled tension roiling just beneath that seemingly emotionless surface. She had never seen Sherla in this mood. *She is almost like Sherlock I used to dream of bettering back in the old days - coldly rational and clear visioned - and yet, there is an utter ruthlessness, an uncompromising determination to stop at nothing and give no quarter to save her lover that I have never heard of being associated with the great detective.* Sherla squirmed beneath her fingers. "Too tight?" Irene asked.

"No, no. . it's fine. Keep going," Sherla replied, her disinterested tone telling Irene that she must have pulled the hair too tight if she'd broken even the slightest bit through Sherla's concentration. She eased back just a small amount on the tension she was using.

*Is this determination and ruthlessness a feminine aspect - something akin to that of a lioness protecting her cubs or a woman fighting for her family? Or is Sherla's ruthlessness more due to the fact that for the first time in her life she is truly in love and that love is in danger of HER life? I wonder what the old Sherlock might have accomplished had he but permitted himself the strength of honest emotions-under-control rather than utterly suppressing them. One thing is certain - after this night's work I will either have both of them, hale and well, or I will be mourning both my almost-daughters for Sherla will never leave without Katrina. God help them both.*

The sleek, four-in-hand sleigh slooshed up to the rear of the hotel precisely as Sherla's note had directed. "Good evening to you, Fraulein Cheryl, Frau Huxley," Hans-Peter greeted as he dismounted from the sleigh. "Are you ladies ready for the ride. of your lives?" the smiling young man asked as he bowed over each lady's extended hand. "Trust me, there is nothing like a fast sleigh through the mountains on a moonlit night."

Sherla smiled graciously and then allowed him to hand her up and settled herself on the front seat while Irene was assisted into the back seat.. Boarding himself, Hans-Peter took up the reins. "And where would you like to ride, Fraulein Cheryl?" he asked as he turned to face her - and found himself looking down the barrel of one of Mr. Colt's Peacemaker Revolvers. "Sit very still, Hans-Peter," Sherla ordered in a steady voice, "for I do not wish to hurt you. Mother?" Sherla then called, "Are you ready, as well?"

"Yes, dear," Irene replied, her own weapon now at the ready, the barrel cold against the nape of the young man's neck. "I have him covered. Go retrieve your things."

Sherla nodded and then hopped down from her seat and disappeared into the shadows. She reappeared moments later carrying her large canvas case. Quickly, she put it into the back of the sleigh beside Irene before rejoining the stunned Hans-Peter in the front seat.

"What. . what is this?" he asked, a quaver in his voice.

"Listen very carefully. "My brother has been kidnapped. I used your invitation of last night as a means to get you to come, and in a hurry. I'm sorry for using your feelings like that, but I'm telling you that I will do whatever I deem necessary to rescue my brother. If you resist or try to impede me, I will shoot you and drive the sleigh myself. Do *not* consider this a bluff."

"Your brother has been kidnapped?" Hans-Peter asked, his voice breaking in his surprise.

"Yes he has been, Hans-Peter," Sherla said sharply, "and you know where he is."

"I do NOT!" he retorted indignantly. "I would have NOTHING to do with such a crime!"

"I know that," Sherla replied, "But you *do* know where he is all the same. That property you and your father told Irene about - the one near Rosenlaui - is where they have taken him."

"How can you know that?" He demanded, and then immediately quieted when he felt the cold steel of Irene's pistol nudge him firmly in the back of his neck.

"You don't need to know how I have come by that information. In fact, it would be in your best interests to know as little as possible about such things. All you need to do is drive this sleigh and me to that place. Now."

"No, Cheryl, Frau Irene, you ladies are most surely distraught and not thinking this through clearly. Let me take you to the magistrate instead. He will gather as many men as are needed and we will go investigate this place for you."

"Who is far less capable than you wrongly think I am. No, I must do this alone. I am the only one with any chance at all of getting Kat. . Karl out of there alive. Now, DRIVE, Hans-Peter!"

"I don't have to do this. You won't kill me. That would be murder. Besides, you'd be lost inside of an hour."

Sherla considered his challenge for several moments before locking her fierce gaze on Hans-Peter. He could not suppress the shudder that shook him - her eyes were like glittering chips of dark ice - and were infinitely colder than anything to be found in the black night sky. With careful precision, her pistol barrel dropped, only to press it's deadly snout between his legs. "This will not be debated. You will do as I say, or suffer consequences far worse than you can imagine."

"Herr Kreuger," Irene interjected, "It is MY child who is at risk. I assure you, that should you fail to help us save he. . him, I shall kill you."

"All right, all right, I will take you."

"I knew you would see it our way. Just one thing, Hans-Peter. Do what you are told, and ONLY what you are told, and you, at least, stand a good chance of surviving this night's work. Unlike those animals who stole my . . . brother."

The look of unswerving determination on her face, the remorseless depths of her black eyes, convinced Hans-Peter in a way that words could never match that she was set on her path and would not be swayed from it. Without a word, he flipped the reins and drove them off into the moonlit night.

The twelve kilometers to Meringen took the strong team about ninety minutes to cover the distance. Very little was said during their headlong charge through the snow-shrouded countryside, but as they approached the small village, Hans-Peter finally spoke, "This place is in the country, in the hilly area several kilometers outside Meringen. It is doubtful that anyone has cleared the trails into that part of the country since the last storm yet. It is very isolated and not very populated - one reason why my father was so pleased to get paying tenants into it during the winter. If the trails are not cleared, the sleigh will founder in the drifts before we've gone half a kilometer."

"Trust me, Hans-Peter," Sherla said confidently, "You will find the trails you need well cleared. The kidnappers have already made two trips to Brienz since the storm to pick up items that were being temporarily stored at Herr Loche's warehouse."

"If you are sure," he replied, his tone disbelieving.

"Once we round that bend you will be able to see the main buildings if there are any lights on," Hans-Peter said as he brought the team to a halt."

"How far to the main compound?" Sherla asked.

"Half a kilometer, perhaps a bit more once you round the curve."

"All right, this is as far as we go." Sherla hopped off the sleigh and doffed her cloak. She pulled the stocking hat from her pocket and used to replace the bonnet she had worn as part of her "girl-going-for-ride" disguise. Hans-Peter watched in amazement as Sherla gathered her weapons and stored them in a specially designed belt/harness arrangement she buckled tightly about her waist and shoulders.

She checked her pistol one last time, ensuring that all chambers had fresh rounds, reloading the cylinder quickly and competently, before holstering the weapon and turning to Irene. "It will likely take at least an hour for me to make a covert approach to the chalet main compound. Have Hans-Peter walk and cool the horses, but have them hitched and ready to move in an hour. I plan to use a fire as a diversion. If you see the fire and don't hear a great deal of shooting, head in at your best speed to pick up the two of us. Have your gun ready to cover our evacuation in the event I was not able to deal with all the guards."

"I should go with you," the young man said, taking a step forward.

"No, you should not," Sherla said sharply. "You are not trained for this type of activity and will give us away before we could reach the compound, let alone locate Karl."

"And you ARE so trained?" he asked derisively.

"Yes," was all Sherla said. Then, with a final kiss for Irene's cheek, she turned to face the cleared trail.

For several moments, she simply stood there without saying a word. She stamped her feet and rotated her arms, shoulders and waist. She did some deep knee bends and some funny little hops while twisting herself in mid air. One hand flexed over the butt of the pistol while the other unsheathed and then sheathed her knife. Finally she again stood fully erect, and squaring her shoulders, took one last cleansing breath. As she exhaled, her bones seemed to loosen, or soften somehow, as though her body were becoming fluid and amorphous. She began to flow over the road like a drifting white mist, only her rapid disappearance into the night revealing her deceptively-fast pace. In seconds she had left Irene, Hans-Peter, and the safety of the sleigh behind, entering a darker world.

"My god, she's . . .she's truly frightening," Hans-Peter whispered.

*Not as frightening as she will become if anything has happened to Katrina,* Irene thought grimly. Turning back to Hans-Peter, Irene motioned toward the horses. "I believe Cheryl directed that you were to see that the horses cooled down properly, my young friend," Irene said quietly. "I suggest you see to it so that we are ready when needed."

To Be Continued...

A Study in Satin - Part 3 - Chapters 13 - 16 (Finale)

Author:

Tigger

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"THE Woman."

A Study in Satin
Part III: Dum Vivimus Vivamus

Chapters 13-16

by Tigger

Image Credit: Title picture Victorian Woman ~Sephrena.

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

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.

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.

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:

Part III: Dum Vivimus Vivamus

Chapter 13. First Strike

"Fool! Idiot!" Moriarty's words might have been said without raising his voice, but they were no less frightening to the object of his ire. Carver had worked with the great Professor James Moriarty from the old days, and therefore knew the man was at his most deadly when his voice was at its softest.

And just then, the old smuggler was having to strain very hard to hear Moriarty.

"If I did not have a task for which you are the most immediately available and suitable person, you would be on your way to hell right now!" Moriarty said, his face bland and his words only slightly more audible. "This female is NOT Holmes. I met with Holmes when he was well into Stage Two, and he could not have changed so much as to be this . . . girl. Now, we have made an overt move which will necessitate a response by the local authorities to find her."

"Wouldna they have done that even if the girl was . . who you was lookin' for. .. . sir?"

Moriarty shrugged that away. "Perhaps, but now the action that may have them coming to my doorstep was all to no purpose."

He turned away from Carver, making a mental note that Carver would die immediately upon his return from the Amazon, and that he would die painfully for this inconvenience. Then he sighed. He had been given this hand and he must needs play it out to his least detriment. Looking out of his study window, he saw the light burning in the lab structure. *Buchner and Haber,* he mused, preparing the selected chimpanzee for the post-regression experiments.*

Suddenly, Moriarty went ramrod straight. "What an opportunity!" he crowed. "Perhaps I can, in my brilliance, turn this problem into a great success." He spun on his heel and faced the shaken seaman. "Carver, fetch Doctors Haber an Buchner. I have a little experiment I wish them to run. After I finish with them, I will deal with you."

"Yes Sir," Carver said as he left the room as quickly as he could.

"But, Professor Moriarty, the treatment is largely unproven," Doctor Buchner argued, "Our only subject died before we could ascertain that the transition would complete, or was even the correct transition at all. We could have simply been changing the animals physical characteristics without changing its gender. And the fever was vicious - to try something so dangerous and not fully tested like that potion on a helpless child, sir. Surely there is another solution."

Moriarty simply stared at the chemistry teacher, and slowly shook his head. "For all intents and purposes, Doctor, she is already dead. From the moment my man took her in Brienz, her continued life became a liability and a danger to me. If the manner of her death so distresses you, rest assured that I can and will devise a far more painful, far more harrowing end for her should you delay ANY further in following my orders. Are my orders and requirements sufficiently clear, gentlemen? Do I need worry that you will in any way FAIL to do as I have directed?"

"No sir," both men finally replied.

"Your wishes are perfectly clear, Professor Moriarty," Buchner replied, completely cowed, "We shall. . . we will do as you have directed."

"Excellent. A part of this experiment is to see if you can control the fever long enough for you to fully study her transition. If she survives, I will arrange a painless death for her, or hopefully, for him."

"You want us to try and break the fever, Professor?"

"Precisely. Now go and prepare the potion. I will have the girl brought to you in the laboratory," The two men slowly turned to leave, but were called back to Moriarty one last time. "I shall be watching you as you prepare her and the treatment, gentlemen. Do not try anything that might invalidate this experiment. You would do well to recall that I have members of my organization watching your immediate family. Displease me, and their deaths will make that young woman's seem joyous in contrast. Now go."

Moriarty stood in his study for several minutes, allowing himself to savor the anticipation of a possible end to his great work. To defeat death would be his greatest achievement, greater even than his final victory over Mr. Sherlock Holmes. It was hard, he mused, to decide which would give him greater satisfaction and pleasure.

With that thought still ringing in his head, Moriarty left his study and dressed for his walk to the laboratory.

Sherla's brave trot lasted only until she was actually around the corner and out of sight of Irene and Hans-Peter. There were two reasons for this decision - one necessary and one annoying.

There was a bright half moon shining that night, and while Sherla herself was more than adequately camouflaged in her white outfit against the white snow, her shadow was not. The moon, low on the horizon cast long, dark shadows that danced and played on the white screen of the snow-covered landscape. Fortunately, a light wind blew as well, making the trees and branches move so that their shadows also flickered in the night. All the same, Sherla took to the snowier parts of the open ground, keeping low so that the snow hid both her and her shadow as she made her approach to the target.

Her other reason, the very annoying one, was that she found she could not maintain such a pace - not through the heavy snow and the light air. Sherlock had always been an exceptionally fit man, one who had never suffered from a lack of endurance or strength, even during his many forays into more mountainous climes. Sherla, although she had worked very hard on her level of fitness, was not yet up to Sherlock's old standard, and she had soon become winded. Slowing her pace might have been the correct and tactically necessary decision to make under the moonlight conditions, but that it was physically necessary as well galled her mightily. *Soon,* she thought, *and I will handle such trials with ease once more.*

It took her about forty five minutes to reach a small berm approximately one hundred and fifty yards from the large building that fit the description Hans-Peter had given her of the main house. Silently, she drew her seaman's glass from her harness and scanned the area. She took several minutes, locating the guards and searching for the best approach route. She needed to be within twenty yards for the blowgun to be effective, ten would be better.

For a moment, she thought about the special hypodermic dart she'd brought - the one she intended for Moriarty. It contained a mixture that included a sizable dose of pure caffeine. The stimulant would be welcome now, her body cold and fatigued. *No, the stimulation would not be worth the other effects,* she reminded herself, and rested just a few more moments before beginning the arduous effort of crawling through the snow toward the compound. Her estimate of an hour would, she was afraid, turn out to be rather overly optimistic.

"It's been an hour," Hans-Peter said as he held up his pocket watch for Irene's inspection. "She said it would be an hour."

*Do you think that I do not know that?* Irene's mind railed at the boy. However, she managed to control that when she replied, "That was only an estimate made in the absence of real knowledge of her objective. We've heard no gun shots and seen no sign of unrest over there. She is fine." *I hope.*

"Don't you think we should climb that hill, and maybe take a look? Maybe she needs some help."

"And not be here when she needs us AND the sleigh? No, Hans- Peter, we must serve by standing and waiting, difficult thought that most assuredly is. Sherla will succeed unless we make a mistake because she will not make any."

"But she is so young!?!?"

"There is young, my dear boy, and then there is young."

"Which is she, then?"

"Whichever one she needs to be. Now be quiet, so that we can listen."

Date: March 19, 1911

Excerpt from the Experimental Journal of Professor Moriarty

New Experiment.

Description: Doctors Haber and Buchner have injected the captured girl with their experimental treatment. They are now watching her, waiting for the onset of transition symptoms.

Background: This potion is the result of Dr. Buchner's work with the transitioned African monkey. The mammal was fully regressed from a mature male to a pre-estrus female, and then treated with Buchner's invention.

Results of earlier test: The subject, in very short time compared to a regression subject, exhibited characteristics similar, but in reverse of, the original potion's transitional Phase 1. Certain secondary characteristics started to become masculine in nature. Unfortunately, at that point, the creature became fevered - running a very high temperature and suffering from convulsions. While the convulsions died soon enough, the fever did not. Haber and Buchner were not quick enough to take remedial action and, unfortunately, the patient died.

Post mortem examination indicated that the creature was, in fact, still fully female from a reproductive standpoint. No transitional or vestigial male organs were found during the dissection, as there had been vestigial female organs in the male during the male-to-female transitional phase one. There were also anomalies in the large muscle tissue - some type of, as yet, unexplained swelling. Perhaps the muscles would have become larger and stronger - in other words, more masculine, but that is unproven. The muscles of the small African monkey are too small for more complete testing.

Purpose of the current test: That is one of the primary reasons that I have decided to experiment upon this female that Carver, in his gross stupidity, captured. Her muscles will lend themselves to such post-mortem examination and we will be able to see if her muscle tissue and muscle groups are redistributing themselves into a more masculine physiology. Buchner and Haber are also ready for the onset of fever this time and will, if I may permit myself a small jest, work feverishly to combat the fever from its very onset. If they can keep the captive alive throughout the entire transition, however that ends up, then much can be learned both before and after she is killed.

Speculation: I wonder if the girl will still be alive when I rise from my bed tomorrow morning? I wonder if she will still be a girl, or whether she will now be the boy she pretended to be? How very exciting to think that I could be young and vigorous in mere days if this experiment works out.

Very exciting, indeed.

End Journal Entry.

Finally, Sherla reached her objective - a large mound of cleared- away snow at the side of the main house. Forty five minutes behind the schedule she'd given Irene and Hans-Peter. Sherla hoped that Irene would be able to keep the young, and therefore likely-to-be-audacious Swiss lad under control. The last thing she needed right now was an overly enthusiastic, but in all likelihood, fatal cavalry charge.

For it would indeed be fatal until Sherla could neutralize Moriarty's guards. While tracks indicated that few, if any of the guards were making rounds through the areas with the still- very-deep snow (which was why Sherla had chosen to use them for her approach) the guards were rather vigilant. *A tribute to their fear of Moriarty, no doubt,* Sherla thought grimly.

Unfortunately for them, however, the guards had evidently concluded that their only threat axis was down the main, cleared road, and that no one was likely to sneak up on them through the three to five foot deep snow drifts.

*No one except a person trying to save their loved one's life. Silently, she drew out the dartgun and a half dozen of the deadly darts from her belt. She laid these down on a small shelf she had hand-carved out of her snow-bank fortress. Carefully, she blew on the long tube to ensure that it was clear of snow or other obstructions. She gave herself a few more moments to ensure that she had her full wind back, and then positioned herself for the attack.

She selected one of the poison-tipped darts, loaded the gun and crawled up onto the top of the mound, laying herself flat upon it and becoming one with the snow.

She watched, oh so very carefully, she watched, careful to keep her lungs always at least half full of air as she held the loaded gun to her lips. Then, both guards in the front of the house turned away from her and she launched sharp death at the furthest guard. The drug acted instantly and he was falling before he'd had a chance to rub at the stinging sensation in his neck. His partner moved towards him, saw his wide open eyes and rose back up to shout an alarm. Sherla's second dart had him going down before he'd managed to finish drawing in air to yell.

Loading her gun once more and placing the three leftover darts back in her pouch with the others, Sherla moved out of her hiding place to the corner of the house. She peaked around the corner and saw the third guard just coming round the back of the house from his rounds back there. Instants later, he was down and dying.

Sherla's reconnaissance from the hill top had indicated there was only one more guard - a big man who seemed to be stationed in front of the other large building in the compound. Stealthily, she slipped behind the house and made her way toward the other house, keeping to the small bushes and evergreens of the house's formal garden for cover. She wasn't ten yards from the entry door when the large guard reappeared from inside the building. He stamped and shook his hands in a futile effort to keep warm. *If you didn't go inside and get used to the warmth, you would become more able to deal with the cold,* Sherla silently advised him, and then she recognized him. *The English sailor. You are the bastard who took my Katrina!*

Hot rage blazed in Sherla's gut, but only for a moment. She would be no good to her lover dead, and only controlled warriors came back to fight another day. Very slowly and very quietly, she unloaded and sheathed her dart gun before drawing her knife. Then she watched.

*It be too bloody cold out here for a man,* Carver thought morosely, *just cause I snaffled the wrong little lightskirt, the Professor sticks me with the midwatch out here, so's I can't even move about to keep meself warm. Well, Jerry has missed his round. Must be he's found a warm place to stay, too, so I'll just slip meself back inside for a bit - leastwise until the time for 'is next round.*

Sherla watched the man disappear into the building. Moving quickly, she used existing snow prints and danced to the door. She hid herself in the shadows and waited. Several minutes later, the kidnapper stepped back outside. He walked out into the yard and looked for signs of the head of the night guard, hoping he'd show up soon so that Carver could slip back inside. "Bloody foolish business if you asks me," he fumed when it had been two minutes and there was still no sign of good old Jerry. "What fool'd come way out here this time of night, I'd like to ."

Carver never ended his statement because he suddenly found himself face down in the snow with a blade tickling his throat. "Don't say a word or make a sound," Sherla hissed, once again grateful for the Oriental wrestling skills that had so often saved Sherlock's life.

"Who. . who are you."

The knife bit his neck and he could feel liquid heat trickling down his neck. "I told you 'not a word'. I am here for the person you kidnapped today. If you want to live another ten seconds, you will tell me, very quietly and very persuasively, where to find her."

Carver tried to move, tried to shake off the small weight on his back, but the knife cut again, this time closer to the arteries he himself had slit on other folks that had needed killing. Whoever this little one was, he knew how to use that knife. "She's. . .she's inside. The professor 'as them scientifical fellows using her in one of them expe. . exper. . " he tried to remember the unfamiliar word, but failed.

"Experiments? Is that what you are trying to say?" A chill ran icy fingers of stark fear up and down Sherla's back. *Oh, God, Katrinaaaaaaa!* her mind screamed in rage mixed with hate and fear.

"Yes sir. He wanted to see what the new stuff'd do, seein's how it killed one of the monks and seein's how he was goin' ta have me kill her anyways."

The weight left his back. "Turn over, curse you!" the voice hissed. Carver spun, his arms reaching for what he was sure was a small person. He had to attack quickly if he hoped to survive.

Something pricked at his neck. It burned for just a moment, and then he felt his entire body go lifeless and limp. He looked up and saw the face of his attacker. "Who. . .are. . you." he managed to get out . He did not live long enough to hear an answer, even had one been offered.

Without a word, Sherla turned and walked towards the door that led to her beloved, the dart she'd stabbed him with still in her hand. She had wanted to rail at him for having dared to kidnap Katrina, for having DARED to put his HANDS upon her, for having DARED to FRIGHTEN her. Sherla had wanted to watch him die slowly, knowing who she was and why she'd done it, but that was an indulgence for which she did not have time. She had to find and save her lover, and then, she had to make certain that Moriarty would come to her for their final confrontation.

"Well, at least we gotten her past the convulsions still alive, Edward," Haber said, "And the snow seems to be keeping the fever in check."

"At least for now. Damn Moriarty. I wish we dared give her the original potion to counter this one, but he'd make us and our families pay for it."

"I know, and besides, we don't even know if that," and he pointed to a five hundred milliliter bottle filled with a clear liquid, "is a counter for what he made us inject into her. That would mean we had succeeded in finding his antidote and we simply cannot be sure that we have."

"Ja ja, I know," Buchner sighed. "At least she is holding up better than poor little Adolf did when we tried it on her."

"We let the fever get a hold on the monkey, my friend. It has not gotten away from us with her, yet."

"Excuse me, gentlemen, but I would appreciate it if you would both step back from that girl and put your hands in the air." a firm voice said.

"Who are you?!?": the first speaker demanded, at the same time the second speaker blurted out, "Fraulein Watson?? What are you doing here?"

"Rescuing her, and now, I suppose, the two of you. Good evening, Professor Buchner. Can she be moved?"

"We need to keep her cool, to fight the fever, " the first man replied, "but I should think that will not be a problem in the outside cold."

"All right. You said that bottle was the original youth potion?" Sherla asked. At Haber's nod, she continued. "This is what we shall do. First, you will tell me where the rest of Moriarty's henchmen sleep. The guards outside are all dead or dying. While I deal with the rest, you two will prepare to leave. Bundle up and have a litter or something to carry Katrina upon. I have a sleigh, but we will have to get away from the fire I will set as a diversion for them to pick us up."

"What about Moriarty's other herbs? His journals? They are all here in this lab as well. What about Moriarty?

"I will deal with Moriarty. You may trust me on this. As for his foul journals and herbs, are there any in here that might help her?" Sherla asked pointing to where Katrina lay, wrapped in snow.

"We don't know, but it is not likely," Buchner said. "If anything will, that bottle of original potion might have some benefit after she is over the worst of the fever - if this IS a female to male transition. Other than that, we can only nurse her through the fever and hope for the best. We really don't know what this drug will do to her."

Deflated, Sherla allowed herself a single tear before forcing her mind back to the task at hand. "Then bring the bottle with you when we leave. As for the rest, I think I am uniquely qualified to state that they can all burn in hell and the world will be a safer and better place for doing of it. We will burn them with the rest of this place. Now, tell me where the other men are housed."

A scant ten minutes later, Sherla was back. The half dozen remaining gang members would never awaken, thanks to the darts now sprouting from each criminal's neck. "Ready?" she asked. At their nod, she ordered them to take Katrina outside. Sherla found several jars of volatile chemicals and shattered them, saturating rags and wood with the flammable material.

At the door, she tossed a lit match into the small stream of chemical she has poured to act as a fuse to the main bundle of saturated rags and wood.

She was barely away with the explosion hit, shattering windows and turning the interior of the large laboratory building into a small scale vision of the depths of hell.

Unable to resist, Sherla turned back to view the results of her handiwork one last time. The old dried timbers of the chalet's outbuilding quickly became fully involved. It would be only a few minutes before the entire structure burned down to the frozen earth. *And so, once again, I have destroyed everything Moriarty values in the world, leaving him less than nothing. Just as I destroyed his London criminal organization over twenty years ago. Now, we have but to meet once more, and for the final time. I suspect the little gift I left for him on the door to his guards' barracks will ensure his presence. If not, I will merely seek him out, but the end will be the same.*

Satisfied, she ran to the two men struggling with the litter. "Let us take our leave now, gentlemen. Head down the main path to the gate. I will cover your backs in case I missed anyone. Our sleigh should be here momentarily.

"HERE IT COMES!" Buchner shouted, nearly hysterical relief ringing in his voice while in the background, another voice called for guards who were beyond hearing the summons.

Chapter 14. The Calm

Neither Sherla nor Irene remembered much of that wild ride across the midnight-dark mountain trail towards Meringen. They had all piled into the sleigh as soon as Hans-Peter had brought it to an incredibly fast stop near the front gate of Moriarty's lair. The sound of a firearm being discharged had hurried them on their way without any consideration of comfort. However, they stopped to reseat everyone about a kilometer past the bend in the trail where they had waited in growing fear for Sherla's signal. Irene and Sherla had crowded into the front seat with Hans-Peter, so that the two physicians could see to the Katrina.

For Sherla, covering the four kilometers to Meringen seemed to take hours, when it had actually taken barely more than half an hour. Once inside the village, Sherla had directed Hans-Peter to the Englischer Hof. The innkeeper, Peter Steiler the Younger, was still awake and helped them convey the sick young woman to a bed where the doctors and the Mother could see to her needs.

Afterwards, although she was desperate to be with Katrina, it was Irene, as the apparent mother, who was expected to remain with Katrina as the doctors worked to save her young life. Thus, it was Sherla who was left to deal with the very curious Herr Steiler-the-Younger. "You are every bit as efficient and hospitable as my Uncle John said your father was," Sherla opened, trying to belay any questions she did not wish to answer. "He and his friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes stayed here some twenty years ago. You have kept it JUST as they described it." She tried to flirt, but was evidently too distracted to do a sufficiently proper job of it.

"What is wrong with the young Fraulein, if I might ask," Steiler asked, not wanting to face his gossip-loving wife in the morning without the entire story.

*Tis fortunate that we had not already arrived here with Katrina in her Karl guise when this happened. That would be just one more thing to have to explain when a lack of explanation is to everyone's advantage.* "She became ill while we were visiting a friend, and wandered off in her fever. By the time we found her, it was closer to bring her here than to return to our host. The doctors, who were kind enough to help with the search, thought it best we get her inside and into bed as quickly as possible."

"Will you require anything?" he asked, his hotelier's instincts overcoming his wife's interest in gossip. "Some hot tea perhaps, or some hot broth?"

"If it would not be too much trouble, that would be very nice. We missed the evening meal and have been out in the cold for ever so long." *And it will keep you busy while I go do what I must. After I tell Irene and the doctors what I have just told you.* "Now if you will excuse me, I want to go check on my sister, please."

"The doctors are hopeful she will survive." Irene told her as she sponged her adopted daughter's face with cool water. "The snow stopped the fever which is evidently what killed the monkey. They will stay with her and make sure she stays cool, but they believe she will awaken in the morning."

The doctors had gone off with Herr Steiler for something hot to eat and promised to be back very quickly. "As Katrina or as Karl? They said Moriarty thought that was the antidote to the gender changing side effect." Sherla had perched herself on the bed as close to her lover as she could manage.

"Will that make a difference to you, my dear?" Irene asked gently.

"I would like to say no, but it will be different. Inside she is still Katrina, and it is Katrina I love." Unable to keep from touching her love, Sherla gently held Katrina's limp hand in hers. "I just hope she . . .he will still love me."

"Stand by him or her, dear, and I think it will all work itself out." Irene told her as she withdrew the thermometer from Katrina's mouth. "Hmmmm. . . a touch below 38 degrees. The doctors said that any reading less than forty degrees is good news."

"But when will she wake up?" Sherla demanded.

"The doctors were very encouraged when she woke up a few moments before you came in. They indicated that was a very positive sign."

"But then she went back into the coma. Aren't all comas dangerous?"

"They think this is more natural sleep than anything."

"She doesn't look any more masculine to you, does she?"

Irene considered that and shook her head. "Not in her face, certainly, and she does not seem to be changing size. You did shrink a great deal when you changed, did you not?"

Sherla nodded. "Almost a foot." Just then, the doctors came back.

"If you will give us some room, ladies, we will examine the patient again. You just checked her temperature, Frau Adler? Ah yes, that is good. VERY good."

Sherla and Irene moved away from the bed. "What now?" Irene asked.

"I don't know," Sherla sighed. "I took steps to force a final confrontation with Moriarty, but I can't leave - not when. . not when I. ." suddenly, the strong will crumbled and Sherla found herself sobbing on Irene's shoulders, the older woman's arms strong and firm about her. "What am I going to do if she dies? What if I never again can tell her how much I love her??!?"

Before Irene could answer, a new voice, slurred. "What is happening? Who. . . who is crying?"

Irene and Sherla spun to see Doctor Buchner helping Katrina sit up in the bed. "KaTRINA!? You're awake!!"

"What has happened to me?" the girl asked.

"Katrina, what happened to your voice?" Sherla asked, then berated herself for a fool. It was obvious what had happened. Katrina's voice had changed from a clear, light soprano to a husky alto that seemed to belong in a bigger woman than the near-child laying in the bed.

"What? Oh, it does sound funny. Oh, dear, what has he done to me?"

"It doesn't matter, my love," Sherla said, bending low over the sick girl to place a soft kiss on her forehead. "As long as you will live, we can overcome any problem." Then she dropped her voice very low and whispered, "God, but I love you, Katrina. Please, don't ever, EVER leave me."

"Actually," Buchner interjected, "there shouldn't be any further problems. Once we beat the fever, I really never expected more than a bit of muscle development. We pointed to that change in Adolf, our little African monkey, as something that might be a precursor to a female to male transition. Professor Moriarty, on examining the monkey after its death, concluded that the observed changes fit nicely into a reverse of the transitional phases he had identified in the male to female transitions.

"So, in your opinion, Katrina is likely to remain female?" Irene asked.

"Even the voice change is somewhat of a surprise," Haber replied. "In all honesty, Frau Adler, the treatment we were forced to use on the Fraulein was not really a very promising line of inquiry, but of course we could not tell Moriarty that. We would have been killed. Or worse. In any event, now that it is clear she will survive the fever, I think you have little to worry about."

Irene watched anxiously as Sherla began to work. Still weak from her fevered ordeal, Katrina had soon fallen asleep, whereupon Sherla had slipped from the room, her face again set in grim determination.

She had found her other daughter-of-the-heart in the smallest of the bedrooms. Sherla had placed the now familiar carrying case upon the bed and begun extracting an all-black version of the white quilted ski clothing she still wore.

"What are you doing?" Irene asked sharply.

"I have to go back out there, Irene. My activities tonight have hurt Moriarty, perhaps mortally in the final analysis, but he is still alive. Like an injured beast, he is now even more dangerous. I have to finish this once and for all."

"You think to go back to the chalet?" Irene's voice betrayed her worry and concern.

"No," Sherla's voice was cold as she finished donning her new set of clothing and reached for her weapons harness. "I am going up to Reichenbach Falls."

"And you believe you will find him there? Why would he go there?"

"Because I left him a graven invitation - mano e femma - to the end."

"And you believe he will just go up there? Why wouldn't he simply flee back to South America where he was safe before? Where he could acquire more of those accursed herbs?"

"To what end? According to the doctors, I destroyed his records as well as his ready supplies. He could go back, but he'd be back where he began. Worse, actually, because thanks to the doctors, he would be following a dead end with that potion they used on Katrina. Eventually, he would either have to decide to die, or he would be forced to accept changing into a woman in order to gain the years he'd need to face me one more time. That is something someone with his 'natural-inferiority-of-women' mind set simply would never be able to accept doing to himself. Besides, he knows that I know where he got those herbs, and he knows that I will pursue him to the gates of Hell itself this time."

"He could come for you first."

"So he could, and that is why I told him where to find me. When you think about this metaphorically, this is what happened twenty years ago all over again. History repeats itself in that I have once again completely destroyed his power base. I expect he will react the same this time as he did then, particularly since I taunted him about that fact."

"Fraulein Watson?" a older, male voice called from the door.

Sherla turned her attention to him and replied, "Yes, Doctor Buchner?"

He held out a small metallic cylinder, perhaps a centimeter in diameter and three centimeters long. "Here is what you asked for."

"You were able to do it, then?" she asked, accepting the offering and putting into her pouch.

"Yes, but we do not know how effective it will be or how sterile it is."

"I see," Sherla replied. "In truth, it will only matter that he believes it will be effective. Thank you again, Doctor, I will be back in a few hours. Please take care of her."

Irene moved to block the door. "I am going with you."

"No, you are not. He might use you against me. This is between Moriarty and me, and will end that way as it always should have done." With a kiss for Irene, Sherla slipped from the house, and made her way to a trail she well remembered from an adventure of twenty years past. An adventure John Watson had written as the epitaph of Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

Moriarty stood quietly staring at the dying embers of what had been, mere hours before, his laboratory. Now it, like his plans, had been reduced to so much ash.

His life's work - destroyed again. Someone was going to pay. Moriarty would make the person or persons responsible for this outrage pay the full measure for this if it took the remaining years of his life.

After his enraged attempt to shoot at the fleeing sleigh, Moriarty had made a futile search for his underlings. He had found his two house guards in front of the house dead - killed by what he recognized as a blowgun dart. *Very likely based on venomous skin excretions of the South American poison arrow frog.* he'd mused, for he had recognized the now-frozen death mask both corpses wore. Then, in his mad flight to his blazing lab, he had tripped over Carver's body and found that he had been dispatched by the same silently lethal weapon.

The lab was lost. Everything was lost. He had foolishly kept all of his records in that building as well, thinking his security more than adequate. Now, all he had left was the possibility of revenge. And for that, he would need to uncover the identity of whoever had done this to him.

Like the scientist he was, Moriarty began by searching for data - Holmes would have called it clues or evidence - but James Moriarty thought of it as data. On the far side of the house, he found the trail of whoever had breached his security. *Must have all but swum his way in from that small hill in the distance,* he thought, *keeping his head just high enough to breath, but letting the snow hide his body. Not very many tracks of my men making security walks over here as well. Whoever this is, picked the perfect vector for his attack and took good advantage of my stupid minions shoddy efforts.*

He followed the tracks and saw the attack in his mind. First the front guards and then Carver. *He didn't kill Carver with the dartgun,* he noted, seeing the impressions that indicated that Carver had rolled over in the snow after being taken down initially. *He was stabbed with that dart. Why? Ah, of course, Carver was the one he questioned after killing the first two. Most effective and well planned.*

He circled the soot blackened snow and found another set of tracks. These were not as careful or as stealthy as the ones his intruder had made on his initial approach, and they were matched by a second set of the same prints returning to the laboratory. Moriarty was certain where they led and what had happened, but he was too thorough, too good a scientist to make such an assumption.

The tracks led to the makeshift barracks that had housed his men. Inside, he found them all dead, each killed by one of the poisoned darts. *My foe is very skilled with that lethal little toy. I wonder who he is? Is it someone I met in South America for that is the only place I have ever encountered such weapons? Perhaps a relative or friend of one of the guides I killed during my sojourn with the women's tribe on the Amazon? That would mean he'd found them, too and learned what I had done there. It would also mean he has somehow followed my trail all the way here. Truly a remarkable man, in that event. Only one other in my experience might have had such skill and dogged determination.*

Moriarty turned to leave that scene of death when a flash of steel in the moonlight caught his eye. There was a knife stuck into the back of the door, and from it hung a piece of paper. Striding to the door, Moriarty pulled the blade free of the door, careful not to damage the paper. When he read it, his face went white and then bright red with rage, and the paper crumpled in his fist.

Storming outside, his anger burned white hot as he walked back to the dancing flames that greedily consumed his hopes and plans and future. Even a man of Moriarty's great powers required a few moments to control and subdue the fury that washed over him. When he had, however, he very carefully smoothed out the crushed ball of paper and began to reread the message.

Greetings Professor,

Now it is YOUR turn to find clever little
notes such as the ones you left for me not
more than two months ago in London.

Once again, old enemy, I have stopped you as
I did twenty years ago when I destroyed your
spider webs of crime in London and in Paris.
Only this time, I have destroyed your hope of
regaining your youth and vigor.

As I have regained mine.

Oh yes, Professor, I AM HOLMES!

You are through, Moriarty. All your men are
dead; all your vile herbs and potions are
destroyed. There is no place on earth you
can run or hide where I will not find you.
Thanks to your own efforts, I have the
advantage of the years of new youth, and I
shall use them until I find you or until you
simply die of old age.

For you, it is all over. Finished.
Destroyed.

However, Dear Professor, I am a generous
woman. You have given me such a wondrous
gift that I feel compelled to return the
favor. Rather than watch as you die in
ignominy, I offer you one, final chance at me
- and me at you.

There has been a certain inevitability in
this return to the site of our last great
battle. I can almost believe that your
Destiny has brought us back here to finish
what we started those many years ago. I
would say that things are even still rather
fair, for while you are now a very old man, I
am naught but a woman.

Yes, Moriarty, fully a woman as you no doubt
planned, but as you can also see from the
carnage I have wrought among your men, I am
also a rather capable woman.

Come to the Falls, Moriarty, the Reichenbach
Falls. Let us finish this thing there once
and for all. This time, it shall be just you
and me for I have no John Watson and you have
no Sebastian Moran.

I shall await your pleasure at three a.m this
morning, old enemy. Come prepared to die."

Sherla Holmes

"That bitch DARES to taunt me? After what she has done to ME?!!?!?"

The hissing orange roar of the inferno that was once his lab cast a scorching light upon the face of the enraged Moriarty. For once, his physical shell mirrored the dark core within. Veins throbbed at the surface of his temples, visibly echoing the manic thumping of his outraged heart. His heavy brows cast deep shadows upon the sockets of his eyes, from which his orbs seemed to burn with their own internal flame. His jowls were snarled in a lipless grimace of fury, and it seemed as though he had ripped out the throat of the world for his teeth were bloodied by the hue of the flames.

"HOLMES!" he screamed to the sky. "HOLMES!! I don't know how it could be you but it simply does not matter! AGAIN you meddle where you do not belong! It is YOU who are DEAD, Holmes, do you hear me? DEAD! It is YOU who cannot run! YOU who cannot hide! There is no place in the universe that is safe from my wrath! I would storm the very gates of Hell itself if only I can bring you down with me! Oh, I shall be there to answer your fooling challenge, Holmes, and this time, I . . SHALL . . . DESTROY . . . YOU! HOOOOLLLLLMMEEEEESSS!!!!"

His thunderous cry echoed off the surrounding peaks, the curious interaction of the mountains' slopes bringing his fury to the fleeing band below. Irene shuddered at the malice implicit in those cries upon the wind as she urgently caressed Katrina's burning forehead with a palm full of snow. Then her glance fell upon Sherla's face and she nearly gasped at the echo to Moriarty's hatred and fury that she saw there.

Moriarty continued to fume as he stalked back to his own quarters, his mind alive with the vision of the humiliations he would visit upon his transformed foe before he finally granted her death. However, by the time he'd reached his rooms and began to dress, his mind was once again in control, and he was once again the cold, rational genius who had calmly waited while Holmes had written what should have been his last words to that fool Watson.

He needed a plan of his own because it was patently clear that his adversary had one. The attack on his base had been superbly planned and executed. Whoever was working with Holmes, for there HAD to be someone working with that bitch - no mere woman could have caused such damage or wreaked such destruction - was a worthy opponent. He would have to be prepared. It was too bad that Holmes had such an ally and he did not, but that could not be helped.

*Ally! Moran! That is it!* Moriarty exulted, jumping to his feet. "NOW, I have you, Holmes, and whoever your ally is, I have him as well. I hope the Devil has a particularly warm welcome planned for you this night, for you have surely earned your eternity of torment."

With that, the Professor selected his weapons, and left the room. He would need a horse for it was already moving towards one in the morning. He needed to be in place well before that foolishly honorable Holmes arrived for their epic final battle.

"Too bad there is no one to write of this adventure of yours, Holmes, for I would very much enjoy seeing your ignominious demise as well publicized as were your so-vaunted and over- aggrandized meddling in the affairs of your betters. Perhaps, in my declining years, I shall have to write my own memoirs if only to showcase tonight, my greatest and sweetest triumph."

Chapter 15. The Falls

Checking his pocket watch by the crisp opalescent light of the waxing moon, Professor James Moriarty smiled. He was fifteen minutes early for their little duel. In an earlier age, this might have been called a "dawn appointment", a formalized clash over that foolish concept of a bygone era, honor. The Professor was not hampered by that societal artificiality, which was why he was here instead of at the location that bitch had suggested in her taunting message.

Moriarty surveyed the scene of his upcoming triumph over his hated foe from the vantage of his lofty perch. The serene face of the moon washed the landscape in a stark, monochrome blue-white light, lending a harsh and shadowy beauty to the rocky heights. A hundred yards below, the spume of the falls glowed as it billowed out of the chasm, and its frozen incrustations on the surrounding granite glittered in amorphous flows and fragile crystalline spikes. The beauty was wasted on Moriarty, but he was well pleased: the light was sufficient to render that arrogant fool Holmes an easy target as she approached the appointed rendezvous.

And the richest jest of all was that SHE had been the one to suggest his plan, however unintentionally. The last time the antagonists had faced each other above the Reichenbach Falls, Moriarty had not been alone - Sebastian Moran had also come to destroy Holmes. For Moriarty, it had been just retribution, but it had also been part of a greater plan. With Holmes dead, he would have time to recreate his organization without the only man with the wit and brain to oppose him. For Moran the purpose had been far simpler - base revenge on the man who had destroyed Moran's easy lifestyle. Moriarty had sent his lackey to the higher ground where he might be able to use his shooting skills to advantage when Moriarty faced Holmes.

Unfortunately, Holmes had kept beneath the ledges initially, and then had closed on the Professor too quickly even for the great Moran to get off a shot. Holmes' proficiency with that accursed fighting form had done Moriarty in, sending him headlong into the basin of the great falls. But fate had been with Moriarty, for he had survived, and thus, he had read Watson's account of the so-called "Final Problem." Therefore, instead of being down on the trail where Holmes would soon arrive, Moriarty now stood where once Moran had rained boulders down upon the detective. Now HE had the advantage of the high ground. No puerile combat skills would save Holmes this time.

He set about collecting a supply of rocks that he would use to rain death down upon his greatest enemy. Fortunately, the snow had mostly blown away from this little clearing so finding his missiles was not difficult though the moving of them to the cliff edge was. He was again breathing heavily by the time he had a sufficient number of rocks to hand. Checking his watch, he was surprised to find that it was after the appointed hour and he had not seen anyone coming up the trail. Moriarty pulled out his seaman's glass and searched the trail, but saw no sign of movement, let alone any sign of a human.

Suddenly, a loud snapping noise came from the heavy brush behind him. Moriarty spun, but was too late as a sharp stinging sensation burned into the side of his neck. Reaching up with one hand, he found the cause - a small, very sharp dart of the type used by South American natives in the blowguns. Numbly, he simply stared at it, knowing he had finally lost, waiting for the weakness, the paralysis and the oblivion to take him.

Only none of that happened. If anything, he felt . . .more alive. . more alert. The weariness from his recent exertions seemed to leave him. How could that be? "How can this be?" he repeated aloud.

"Oh, that wasn't tree frog venom, James." A soft, unfamiliar voice sounded out of the night, seemingly carried on the winds. Moriarty drew his revolver, and tried to localize the source. "It is merely a little concoction of cocaine and caffeine, old enemy, to stir your blood and stimulate your physical resources. Physical weakness will not be an excuse when I finally defeat you tonight."

Enraged again, Moriarty aimed and fired off two shots at where he thought the sound originated. Soft, feminine laughter followed. "Missed me, James. Better get control of yourself. That caffeine might make you just a little edgy. You won't stand a chance against me if you cannot control yourself, now will you?"

Gun raised, Moriarty moved slowly toward the brush that circled about the small clearing. "Where are you, Holmes? Come out and face me like a man!"

Again the soft laughter. Moriarty tried to localize the sound but the cocaine was already confusing his senses. "But I am not a man, am I, James? And all thanks to you."

"No, damn you, you are a slut," Moriarty roared into the wind, "You are an insatiably needy, sexually driven slut, and that is precisely how I wanted you, bitch."

"Now, isn't that strange," Moriarty thought her had located the voice. He spun and again fired. "Missed again, James. That leaves you only three bullets. Better take care to make them count."

Sherla kept moving, slipping from point to point, only speaking for short moments from each spot. "Now, if I were so insatiable, why am I not out in that clearing, tearing your trousers off you and raping you? Perhaps, because I am not that needy?"

"You HAVE to be. There was not enough of the potion to finish your transition," Moriarty snarled.

"You forgot the chemist, James. Oh, you remembered to kill him, but you forgot to take the remainder of your potion with you." Sherla made a tsking sound. "Sloppy, my dear Professor. . VERY sloppy, but then, you always were when you did not have a large organization between you and the real world."

The insult made Moriarty's drug-sharpened temper snap again. Furiously, he searched and for an instant, thought he saw a shadow. Again he aimed his pistol into the brush and fired.

Although his ears rang from the explosive report of his gun, Moriarty thought he heard something fall to the ground, and then, for several moments, there was silence. Fearing a trap, Moriarty held his gun at the ready, and strained his ears, but all he could hear was the deep, faraway roar of the Falls.

Relaxing, he lowered the gun, and began to move in the direction he'd fired. The bitch might still be alive. *I almost hope that she is,* he thought with a relieved smile, *So that I can look into her eyes as I put these last two bullets between them.*

He'd just reached the brush line when something struck him in the back. Turning, he saw a dark shadow, standing near his pile of rocks. "Well shot, Professor, but you missed again," the shadow taunted as it heaved something at him.

Moriarty tried to dodge, but the rock still glanced off his shoulder, and disrupted his aim just as he fired off his last two bullets.

Tossing the now useless weapon aside, Moriarty ran towards the place the shadow had disappeared back into the dark bushes.

He heard the soft hiss of air before he felt the sting again, this time in his shoulder. *Perhaps the poison was rubbed off by my greatcoat,* he thought as he reached up to pluck away the dart, only it wasn't a native-styled dart - it was made of metal.

Moriarty pulled it free and used the moon to illuminate the object. It was some type of hypodermic syringe.. . . and it was now empty.

"It's not a poison, Moriarty." The voice said again. He turned and saw the shadow step from the bushes again. One hand reached up to pull away a dark stocking hat to reveal feminine features and long black tresses that seemed to shine in the moonlight. The other hand held a revolved trained on him. "In truth, I think, for you it will be infinitely worse. That syringe contained the same dose of your rejuvenation potion that I took every night after I awoke from the first distilled and concentrated dosage. I filled the syringe from a large bottle that I saved from your laboratory before I torched it. As I recall, you told me that a single dose was enough to bring on the addiction, but trusting you as I do, I had Buchner and Haber confirm that for me."

"How. . you are nothing but a slip of a girl. . .surely you cannot be. . ."

"Holmes?" she asked, "Oh, but I can assure you, old enemy, that I am. I am Holmes, but thanks to you, I am a great deal more. And why am I more? Because of the people who came to my aid, the people who embraced me and my cause, the people who LOVED me."

Moriarty could almost feel the drug coursing through his body - the slow languor as it swept through his veins. "That is not. . .logical. How can you - a mere emotion-ridden, sexually-confused female even dare to claim that you are in any way superior to the great detective, Sherlock Holmes?"

"I doubt you could ever understand, old man. I am a middle-aged housekeeper, who saw to the comforts and needs of a cantankerous curmudgeon for no other reason than that her Mother had liked the man when he was younger. I am a former royal mistress and dressmaker who believed an outlandish story and gave help where it was desperately needed. I am an operatic singer and actress with a flair for investigation, who took in a waif and taught her the joys, the strengths and the beauty of womanhood. I am a young housemaid, who fell in love and in so doing, taught a hidebound fool how to love in return. But most of all, James, I am, most definitely, Holmes, with my full intellectual powers undiminished, and in fact, enhanced by an openness and vivacious joy of life that the old man I once was could never have understood and would never have had the sense to appreciate.

His head was starting to spin now, and Moriarty eased himself down to the ground, still staring at his opponent. "That's poppycock. You should be sex-crazed -unable to control yourself."

"Oh, I was, but that young woman who taught me to love and the opera singer got me through the worst of that. I am rather easily aroused, but I find that my mind is even more alert, more effective after a good, sweaty session of lovemaking with my lover."

Moriarty fought to remain conscious. There had to be a way out of this. If Holmes saved some of the original potion, then surely he must have saved some of the antidote Buchner and Haber had been working on. Surely, he would not wish to remain a woman. *Must stay awake. . keep her talking. . find my chance.* "Why not simply kill me?"

"I was going to do that very thing," Sherla answered, her tone very matter-of-fact. "But then, you took my lover, and you used her in one of your foul experiments, so I decided that killing by my hand was too good for you. You had to truly suffer. Do you feel it, yet, Moriarty? That delicious weightlessness just before sleep claims you? When you wake up, you will be like I was that morning you came for me. You'll have, what, oh about twenty-four hours before the withdrawal hits you. Oh, you'll still be male -for the most part - but soon you will be consumed by the base needs of your own body. Your great intellect imprisoned within an insatiable animal demand for sexual stimulation, even as that stimulation becomes impossible. Tell me, James, do you think you will injure your own manhood, rip it off in your frantic compulsion as Buchner told me several of your laboratory animals did? Small loss, I should think, and it will become even smaller as the potion does its work.

Moriarty growled, but made no move. Sherla wondered if he could move. "However, as I said, I am a fair woman. You can have more of the potion if you like. I'm afraid I don't think you would make a very pretty girl, Moriarty, but then, I am rather surprised by how I turned out. If not, that are some places of the world where all that is needed is the right plumbing and a woman can still make a living. You'd know about those places, wouldn't you, James, for you sent enough innocent young women to them in your time? Would you like to make your living on your back? Would you like some more of this potion so you could? I have enough, you know. I saved it just for you."

Sherla disappeared into the brush and returned with her canvas bag. Reaching into it, she withdrew the bottle and her hypodermic case. "The potion and the filled syringe will be beside you on the ground when you awaken. If you sleep like I did that first time, you should have about an hour in which to make your decision," Sherla's smile became dark and mirthless, "Then the burning will start - the need for something I could not understand, but that I am sure you are fully cognizant. Make sure you use the needle quickly, James, for it won't be long before your hands are busy with other tasks, however fruitless."

"You overcame the effects, Holmes," Moriarty hissed, "I could, too. Have you thought of that?"

Sherla concentrated on filling the needle's reservoir before turning back to Moriarty. "I told you," she said almost gently, "That I made it because of people who helped me, because of people who cared for me. I think, James, that I could put you down in any city in the world, and you would not find anyone who would help you. For all my arrogance and pridefulness, I still helped people while you hurt them. I would not be here without them for I would have taken the route you intended. I don't think you can make it alone, but I am willing to give you that chance." She shot a small spray of the fluid from the needle to clear any air bubbles and let Moriarty see it. "Your decision, Moriarty. Just one last piece of information, however."

He felt the drug begin to dull his senses, felt the slow slip into unconsciousness during which his masculinity, his intelligence, would be forever stripped from him. "What?" he managed to get out.

"The drug you used on my lover? It is a dead end. It did not work - she is just as beautifully feminine as she was before you captured her. . . just as you will be for the rest of your now greatly extended life."

Sherla moved over near her foe, intent on putting the needle near his hand, but he stopped her with his other hand, his grip surprisingly strong. He looked up at his long-time enemy, and saw her gilt in moonlight. She was beautiful, he realized, and she was at peace. She'd truly won, at last.

The twin realizations snapped his reason. Somehow, he snatched away the syringe before tossing Sherla aside. "Moriarty as a woman? Never!" With a great effort, Moriarty hurled the hypodermic out into the falls, and then threw himself at the edge of the precipice. Sherla simply watched as he hit the ground, rolled once, and disappeared over the edge.

Sherla rose to her feet and walked to the cliff-edge. Down below her she saw him, his body facing upward over a rock, arms and legs splayed outward. Leaving her equipment behind, Sherla hurried back down the steep and rocky path she had used to the clearing. Moments later, she arrived at the Falls scenic overlook.

She half expected Moriarty to be gone when she got there, to have disappeared into the cold mist as he had so many other times, but he hadn't. She found him laying across the rock, just as she had seen him from the heights. His neck and back were broken; his heart forever stilled. It was the second time Holmes had met Moriarty in this dark place of forbidding beauty, and the second time he had defeated his arch foe.

Moriarty was dead.

Sherla pulled him from the crag on which he had landed, sliding his body to the rocky ledge that formed the trail. Bracing herself against the higher cliff, she nudged the lifeless form of her old adversary with her boot until it fell over the sheer stony edge. As she watched it tumble into the raging waters of Reichenbach Falls, she said, "Good-bye, old enemy, and good riddance. May your soul burn in the hell you would have created here on earth."

The distant splash of the body, though the sound was lost within the roar of the falls, put a final end to the conflict that had consumed two lifetimes, and defined the beginning of a third. For the first time Sherla became aware of the cold spray that had penetrated through her thin skiing clothes. She began to shiver uncontrollably, teeth chattering and fingers almost losing their grip on the blowgun she still clutched.

*I will join that man in an icy death if I do not get warm soon,* she realized, and turned to get her coat from where she had used it as a decoy up in the clearing. The climb back up to the level of their final confrontation took all her reserves of strength, far more than she had to spare while fighting the energy-draining chill of her sodden clothes.

When Irene found her, Sherla was staggering almost blindly down the trail to Meringen, shaking with cold and too numb to notice for a moment that she had been grasped in a fiercely-desperate embrace.

"My God, Sherla, are you all right?"

"I am f . . f .. f ine, Tante Irene, though I c. .c .can't seem to stop shivering."

"Come, let me help you to the sleigh. We have dry blankets there."

"Thank g . g. .goodness. I am so tired. So c. c. .cold."

"Hans-Peter," Irene shouted, "Come help me with her. She is frozen to the bone!"

"No. . no, I am fine. b. .be all right. .once. .once I. ..c. can get. .warm," Sherla stuttered, her dark eyes wide as she looked into Irene's own amber ones.

"Then he's dead?" she whispered. Sherla nodded. Irene continued. "Are you able to make it to the sleigh and ride down to a warm bed and the family that loves you?"

"Yes, th. .that sounds. . heavenly."

Hans-Peter reached them at a dead run and took Sherla's free arm. The trio started to make their way toward where Irene had left the sleigh, but Sherla's strength gave out after but a few steps.. At Irene's nod, Hans-Peter swept Sherla's small, shivering body into his arms, and soon thereafter, they had her packed in blankets for the trip back to Englischer Hof.

The comfort of the thick coverings roused Sherla enough to ask, "How is Katrina?"

"She is fine. Woke up pert and sassy just before I left to look for you. It was all we could do to prevent her from going after you in her shift."

"You shouldn't have left her, Tante Irene," Sherla said, her voice slurred by fatigue, and further distorted by her still-chattering teeth.

"What?!? You think you mean less to me than she does? You are BOTH my daughters in my heart." Irene allowed that to sink in for a few moments before she relented with a smile.

Sherla forced her tired mind to absorb that thought, and she tried to find some words to show her gratitude. In the end, words were not enough and she struggled up from her blankets for a moment to lean toward THE Woman, now tranformed forever from rival to something far, far more dear. She kissed Irene softly, heedless of the worry that showed on the woman's face at the touch of her so-cold lips.

"I love you, Irene Adler, and that is something I have only felt for two other women in either of my lives."

Irene smiled gently and kissed Sherla back. "I love you, too, dear. Now, rest while we get you back to the hotel."

Chapter 16. Game Over

Within minutes, Sherla was again asleep. She slept deeply the entire ride. As they approached the Englischer Hof, Irene tried to rouse her, with only limited success. *Poor dear has expended her last bit of stamina this day.*

So, Sherla was still only half awake when a petite, dark-haired whirlwind pounced the moment Hans-Peter's sleigh slid to a stop in front of the hotel. "I have been worried out of my HEAD over you! Are you all right? What happened up there? Are you all right? Here, let me help you out of the sleigh Are you all RIGHT? Why did you take so long? Are you all RIGHT? Why aren't you answering me?"

"Katrina?" Sherla asked very carefully.

"WHAT?!" the exasperated girl nearly bellowed.

"Ummm. . .do you realize you are holding me nearly over your head off the ground?"

"I'm what?" Katrina squealed, as she realized she was doing precisely what Sherla had accused her of doing. Very carefully, she eased her lover down to the ground and then pulled her into her arms for a hug.

"I did say that it was the changes in the muscle tissue that helped us convince Moriarty that we were on the trail of the antidote he sought," Doctor Buchner said as he came upon the small group. "I would say that Fraulein Katrina has experienced much the same effect."

"So it. . . did," Sherla said as she tried to find the ground with both feet. "Uh, Katrina?"

"Yes, Sherla?"

"I feel . . . very. . .strange. . " and the world went black.

When Sherla regained consciousness, she had been stripped of her black ski clothing and long underwear, and had been bundled into a warm flannel nightgown. She was tucked into a soft bed with thick quilts. "What. . . what happened?" She managed to ask.

"YOU FAINTED!" an obviously upset Katrina accused. "Practically fell into a snow bank if I hadn't caught you. What is the matter? Are you ill? The doctors said you aren't running a fever but why did you faint?"

"If you let her get a word in edgewise, Katrina," Irene's amused voice interrupted, "I think you will find out that she is simply exhausted and needs rest, warm food and more rest. She has been exerting herself most dreadfully ever since we discovered you were abducted."

"Well, she is going to rest now, aren't you, Sherla?" Katrina demanded. "You're going to lay there in bed and let us watch over and take care of you."

Something deep inside Sherla started to resist - let someone else responsibility for her safety? And then, the resistance crumbled. This was Katrina, the woman she had pledged herself to and Irene, one of the two women who had shown her what maternal caring and love was supposed to be. She loved them both, and just as importantly, she trusted them both. . . . with her love and with her life. "Thank you," she whispered as her eyes drifted closed again, "I am so very tired."

"We will BOTH be here, dear," Irene said softly. Then she doused the bed lamp. "Sleep well."

The sun had gone down again when Sherla next awoke to find Irene seated by her bed, watching over her. "I sent Katrina to bed. She is still tired as well, for all her new found strength." Irene then sent for the soup that Frau Steiler had made for the invalids. Sherla had initially be upset when Irene had insisted on feeding her, but that had passed into resignation when the still-empty spoon shook in her hands.

After her meal, Irene had asked her about the fight. Sherla had told her the entire story, including her offer to relent on her plan to kill Moriarty out of hand.

"I offered him the rest of the drug, enough that he could have survived and completed the transition." Sherla told Irene as they walked up to the clearing.

"But he refused to take it, didn't he?" Irene asked, and then smiled knowingly when Sherla shook her head "I wouldn't have thought he'd accept that, given what you've told me about him, but still neither would we have wanted Moriarty loose in the world, young and full of energy. Female or otherwise."

"I wasn't worried about that, Irene. His ego would never have accepted the idea of becoming a woman, and in any event, he would not have found the help that made it possible for me to grow into a new, fulfilling life," Sherla said as she took pressed Irene's hand to her cheek. "He threw the syringe at the falls, then followed after it. I have always intended his death, but this is somehow easier. I gave him the same chance he gave me and while he is still dead, my conscience is clear."

"Good, dear. It is time we put this behind us. This has been a very difficult time for you, these last two months. I think it is past time that we all go home to Paris," Irene said. "But for now, I want you to try and sleep some more. You took far more out of yourself than you realize, I think.

"I think you are in the right of that. You go to bed, too, for I shall be all right now. Good night, Irene."

A mischievous gleam lit Irene Adler's lovely amber eyes, as she recalled another time, and another Holmes. "Good evening to you," she said, her voice dropping an octave into her male tones, "Miss Sherla Holmes."

End of Part 3 - A Study in Satin

Epilogue and Afterward - Mens Sano in Corpore Cito!

Epilogue

Irene looked at her onetime maid in annoyance. "Katrina, stop fidgeting. What has gotten into you this morning?"

She should have paid more attention to the smug look on Sherla's face, a look that became even more pronounced as Katrina explained.

"I'm sorry, Tante Irene, but Sherla tied my corset inexcusably tight this morning, and my body just doesn't reshape itself as it used to do." For several weeks since their return from Switzerland, Katrina's body had continued to change. While her stature and figure seemed unaffected, her muscle mass had steadily increased before leveling out at about one and one half times her original weight. Doctor Buchner had examined her on several occasions and had said that her muscle tissue had become much denser than the norm, particularly for women.

"Would you prefer to return to trousers, my strong friend," herla offered, her eyes twinkling.

"No, but tomorrow I will insist that you tighten my corset first, ma petite," Katrina threatened gleefully, "Remember my new-found strength, and what it will most certainly do to you if you get carried away again."

"Enough, girls. We have more important business to attend to. Herr Buchner has sent a letter asking what became of the rest of Moriarty's foul potion. What shall we tell him?"

"Tell him that it was disposed of, of course," Sherla said without hesitation. "Though he is an honorable scientist, I do not think that brew should form the basis for any further experimentation."

"But he already knows of it, Sherla," Irene argued, "He and Dr. Haber both."

"I think that without the potion or the herbs to experiment with, Professor Buchner will not be a problem. He has a scientist's ability to focus on the problem at hand, and he will be all too ready to return to his interrupted research. Dr. Haber, on the other hand . . . "

"I didn't like him at all," Katrina interjected, a shiver of remembered fear accenting her words.

Sherla nodded, and said, "We may need to find a way to watch our Herr Haber, in the times to come. He has had entirely too much involvement with the Kaiser and his minions. It would not do to have the Prussian war machine possess chemicals like those Moriarty desired."

"And how will we stop him, if he tries?" asked Irene.

"'We', Tante Irene?" Sherla said, the twinkle in her eye more pronounced than ever.

"Yes, WE!" both of the other women retorted loudly. "I have not had so much fun in years," Irene went on, "and don't for a moment that Mademoiselle Muscles is going to let you wander off on another dangerous case without her. I shall have to convince Godfrey to participate, for he will become quite the wet blanket otherwise, but I think we make an admirable team."

"Yes, Ma'amselle Cherie, do not even CONSIDER going off without me!" Katrina said fiercely.

"Very well, very well," Sherla laughed, her hands going up in a sign of surrender. "I agree with all your arguments and promise to comply with all your limitations. Now, all we need is a case or two."

"Well, now that you mention it, I may have something worthy of our mettle," Irene said, reaching into her reticule and withdrawing a small brown bag that she passed to Sherla.

Her curiosity aroused, Sherla emptied the bag onto the tea table and found that it held one white ladies glove of a type women would wear out and about on their day's errands.

"That is the only clue the police have on the abduction of a small child. Evidently, the mother went into a dressmaker's shop for 'only a moment' and came out later to find the child gone from the bench and that glove there."

"No other clues?" Sherla snorted derisively, "more likely they found not the ones that were there. I suppose we can assume that the scene was not protected?" Irene nodded. "And that there were no witnesses in that moment?"

"Well, that is a more interesting question since that 'moment' involved a dress fitting which as you now know, dear, takes somewhat more than a moment."

"I see," Sherla said as she reached for Irene's magnifying glass. She examined it carefully, for several moments before looking up. "Katrina, if you are going to shadow me on my cases, it is time for you to begin learning my methods. Please examine this glove and tell me everything about it and the wearer that you can."

Suddenly nervous, Katrina approached the table and knelt. She spent longer than she might have otherwise, but la petite had looked at it so closely, she assumed that there had to be something there to see.

Finally, she looked up. "I am not sure, Sherla. It is a left glove. From what I can see of it, I think it might belong to an older woman, perhaps of somewhat reduced means. She is slender, I think. Other than that, I cannot be sure if she is even the right person to look for."

"Explain your reasoning," Sherla said.

"The left glove part is obvious. It is also a small glove, one that might fit you or I which is why I thought her slender, and yet, see this bulge on the third finger at the main joint? That might be swelling such as from arthritis which is how I infer her to be an older woman. Her circumstance I infer because the gloves are rather dirty - see the smudges on the finger tips? And the index finer has a hole in it - right at the tip where the finger nail would be as if the nail poked through it.

"Well argued," Sherla said with as smile, "Almost completely wrong, but well argued. You do have potential, my love. Our lady is slender, however she is likely young and well off. The swelling is actually from a large ring, which since it is worn on the left third finger, we must conclude is due to a betrothal or other such gaudy bauble. Likely a large square cut stone, too large to be a diamond I should think, but perhaps a ruby or more likely yet, a sapphire. Twenty plus carets I should think. As to the condition of the finger tips, our lady is left handed, thus accounting for the fairly fresh dirt stains on the glove. The tear in the index finger is due to her own, very well filed nail. If you had used the glass, you would have seen that these fibers are sharply cut and not yet frayed, indicating that the tear is very recent. And, she is blond, another fact you could have ascertained," Sherla said as she lifted a long, fine filament from the cuff of the glove, "had you but used the glass. Odd, Irene, that the police missed this clue."

"True enough, my dear, but they did. What do you suggest they do next?"

"I should check the boys immediate family - aunts, female cousins and so forth, and see if any of them wear a ring such as I have described. And I would try to discover if the mother had any reason to wish to have her son removed from her home - perhaps an abusive father. It is entirely too fortuitous that the boy was out there so long, and that he went so quietly with someone in front of a Parisian store in the middle of the day."

"Brava, my dear," Irene cheered.

"You made that up," Katrina said with a lovely little pout on her lips. "No one can tell all that from a glove."

"We shall see, my sweet," Sherla said with a wink, "we shall see."

Afterward

Those who read this record should know that it is based on two diaries found wrapped together with a gold ribbon in a box of my Grand Aunt Katrina's belongings. I am busily searching the rest of her possessions for any more volumes of the diaries apparently kept by herself and Miss Sherla. Unfortunately, I have not run across any further such memoirs, but the attic at the old New Orleans Manor house to which she and Miss Holmes (who I always knew as my 'Auntie Shirley') moved to after the First World War is vast, and I have hopes of locating more such prime source reference material.

The reader may wonder how it is possible, even given the current medical impossibility of the male to female transition, that such events took place. I mean, Sherlock Holmes had documented adventures well into the Great War, and many believe he lived in seclusion subsequent to that following his final retirement from investigation. The answer is we will likely never know. Perhaps, the English government came up with an imposter, much as they did during World War II with Winston Churchill. Having the Great Detective working for British Intelligence, rooting out the Kaiser's spies must have been a great morale booster for the folks on the home-front, particularly when the bomber Zeppelins began attacking England later in the war.

Dr. Fritz Haber eluded Miss Holmes' attempts to derail his military research and became the Father of Gas Warfare. He invented most of the chemicals and delivery systems used by the Germans in their attempt to chemically clear the infamous "No- Man's-Land" that was the trenches of France during World War I.

Oh, before I forget, there were a few other items in the box that contained the diaries. First was a pair of matched magnifying glasses - beautifully crafted with gold frames and rosewood handles - and as clear as . . well, glass. I also found a very heavy box - approximately eight inches long by four inches wide by four inches deep - with a hinged top and a very sturdy hand strap. I believe they called this type of purse-things 'reticules'. Strange design, too, for the inside bottom only went down two of the four inches of the reticule's depth. I suspect, if I cared to cut it open, I would find lead shot.

And finally, there was a sealed bottle - amber in color and about two hundred and fifty milliliters inside. It had no label on it, but it did smell faintly of something floral or herbal. It is still mostly full. If it is what I think it is, that is enough for four, five, maybe even six transitions. If it is still viable after all these years.

And I have no better idea what to do with it than Aunt Shirley. . err. . Sherla and Katrina did. Could turn out to be very dangerous stuff in the wrong hands. There is more than likely someone, somewhere who would find Moriarty's idea of a weapon of mass feminization as a very strategically beneficial concept. Particularly those who still do the "winners and spoils" thing. The thought of a weapon like that in the hands of a Hitler is terrifying. The Battle of the Bulge might have had more than one connotation in modern history. On the other hand, it seemed to turn out well for my Aunt Shirley.

Then again, it might not be Moriarty's potion at all. I wonder how I might test it?

Tigger DeMilne
June 1, 2000.

End of A Study in Satin