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

 

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Image Credit: Title picture Victorian Woman ~Sephrena.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Artwork: Original Artwork graciously donated by Brandy Dewinter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Date: February 8, 1911.

Time: 10:32 A.M.

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

End Journal Entry.
 
 

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

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

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

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

"Another inch?" Jenny asked confused.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Exactly," Holmes beamed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 
 
Excerpt from the Experimental Journal of Professor Moriarty

February 8, 1911

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"So she stays here, not at home?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 
 
Entry in the Journal of Mr. Sherlock Holmes

Date: February 9, 1911.

Time: 7:41 P.M.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then she turned and walked out the door.
 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And Joan acted on them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Date: February 11, 1911.

Time: 10:48 P.M.

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

End Journal Entry.
 
 

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

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

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

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

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

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

And use it to gain the power he truly desired.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"So, what happens now, Joan?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Just so, Jenny."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But can you do it now, Joan?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"If you say so, Mother - Jenny."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I see," Jenny said very quietly.

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

"When?" was all Jenny could ask.

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

"How will Holmes be seen leaving Baker Street?"

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

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

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

"How long?" Sherla asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What happened?" Jenny demanded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Date: February 13, 1911.

Time: 6:02 P.M.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Ahem!" Jenny called out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And you can think of none?"

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

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

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

"Who?" Jenny's head perked up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"God speed, Mother," Sherla said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Entry in the Journal of Miss Sherla Joan Holmes

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

Time: Approximately 11:00 A.M.

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

End Journal Entry.
 
 

 
 
Excerpt from the Experimental Journal of Professor Moriarty

February 16, 1911

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

End Journal Entry.
 
 

---

 
End of Part 1 - A Study in Satin

---

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

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

"THE Woman."

 

---

 
Image Credit: Title picture Victorian Woman ~Sephrena.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Artwork: Original Artwork graciously donated by Brandy Dewinter.

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Damnit, Katrina, be more careful!"

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

Another pin slid home, just a bit too deeply.

"Ouch. You did that on purpose!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sherla almost felt guilty for lying to the maid.

Almost.
 

 
 
Entry in the Journal of Miss Sherla Joan Holmes

Date: February 20, 1911

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

Time: 12:14 P.M.

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

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

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

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

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

February 21, 1911

Progress to Date:

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

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

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

She didn't look anything like that.

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

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

Sherla exploded, "IRENE!?!?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Your need for sexual release?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Thank heaven for that!" Irene swore.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But. . "

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"EMBROIDERY??!?"
 

 
 
 
Entry in the Journal of Miss Sherla Joan Holmes

Date: February 22, 1911

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

Time: 10:45 P.M.

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

End Journal Entry.
 

---

 
To Be Continued...

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

"THE Woman."

 

---

 
Image Credit: Title picture Victorian Woman ~Sephrena.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Artwork: Original Artwork graciously donated by Brandy Dewinter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Bonus?" Sherla asked, just a tad uneasy seeing the grin playing about Irene's generous mouth.

"Well, of course, darling. You are only twenty one years old, at least by your legal passport. Women do not reach their majority until twenty five. Just think, I have the privilege and pleasure of being guardian to the great Sherlock Holmes.

At Sherla's look of abject horror, Irene burst out laughing. "Oh don't look like that. I won't get in your way unless you are about to commit a faux pas that will seriously endanger your identity or your mission. Think of me as. . .a necessary part of your disguise."

If Irene expected Sherla to demur or to take part in her jest, she was to be disappointed. "Irene, I mean to kill the man once and for all. Nothing else will answer for me. If he manages to perfect his potion and the world has to face another fifty or sixty years of Moriarty . . .well, the consequences will be horrific. He must be stopped - completely and forever."

Irene considered her charge for several long moments. Sherla sat calmly under the cool, direct gaze and did not so much as flinch. "Are you certain," she finally asked, "that this is for the good of the world and not merely for the revenge of Mr. Sherlock Holmes?"

The question hung on the air, going unanswered as both women contemplated its ramifications. "I cannot answer that," Sherla finally said. "Certainly, the world cannot, in its current volatile state, long survive Moriarty's machinations, but I will not attempt to lie to you and tell you I do not want him for myself. I have ALWAYS wanted him for myself, but now, more so than ever."

"Is being Sherla so very unsatisfactory?" Irene asked softly.

"Did you not just say that world is a very difficult place for a woman?" Sherla retorted before softening. "I don't know, Irene. When it first happened? It was horrible, and I feared for my most basic self. Now? As I said, I don't seem to be able to focus as well, but there are other compensations, such as arthritis-free joints, and youth."

"I see. I hope it becomes better for you, Sherla, as I have decided, despite all the times I railed against the unfairness of the world toward my. .. *our* gender, I would not be a man for anything."

"I hope to one day agree with you, Irene."

Irene brushed her hands as if clearing away the dust of their conversation. "So, if I am to assist you, what should we do first?"

"Thank you," Sherla breathed, "I wasn't sure you would help. Step one is to find him. We cannot stop him unless we know where he is."

"Europe is a large place. Any idea where to look?"

"Not really," Sherla admitted. "He was very careful not to give away any clues when he confronted me in my rooms."

"In your journal, you mentioned something about perfecting the potion," Irene prompted.

"Yes," Sherla agreed, forgetting herself and sprawling her legs out in front of her only to be silently reprimanded by Irene. With some alacrity, she pulled her legs back to her chair and sat erect as she considered the problem. "Moriarty is old - older perhaps than I. .. Holmes was, although," and here she recalled the humiliation of her fruitless attack, "although he was physically stronger and in better health. He would want those added years to carry out his foul plots. He has ever dreamed of world conquest and if through this potion he gains sufficient time, he already possesses the will, the genius and the utter ruthlessness to achieve that unworthy goal."

"Odd that he hadn't already perfected the drug," Irene observed. "If he is so brilliant, that is."

"Oh, he is brilliant, but the only things greater than his intelligence are his ego and his arrogance. He believes himself to be even more brilliant than he is."

Irene nodded, and wished for one of her Turkish cigarettes, but resisted because of Sherla's evident allergy. "That is very odd."

"How so?

"What would bring a man like that out of hiding before he'd finished his work? Surely he had all the advantages where he was. Safety, secrecy, a ready supply of the herbs he needed - why give all that up? If he truly believes that he is capable, why reveal himself before he has completed his task?"

"An excellent question," Sherla mused softly. "And specifically, why reveal himself to me? Why not wait until he had completed his researches and was therefore able to face me as a young man?"

"I can think of one possible reason," Irene offered. "For all his masculine arrogance, he is, by all accounts, nonetheless a scientist of great ability. I suspect that he has come up against a dead end and is looking for someone who might help him find other answers. If he is, as you say, convinced of his own brilliance, he is likely telling himself that this is a mere expedience and not a necessity, but that is the only reason I can see for him to come out of hiding and confront you."

"He is seeking other expert help? That seems logical. And yet, he came for me first. Again, I ask, why?"

"Because you . . .or rather, Mr. Sherlock Holmes was the only man of any influence who might recognize him or recognize signs of his renewed activities. None of today's police officials are likely to know anything about him."

Sherla gave a self-deprecating laugh. "More fool he, then," she sighed. "I had been well and truly put out to pasture. Do you know that Holmes had been barred from Whitehall as a public nuisance?" At Irene's shocked look, Sherla continued. "Probably because it did not suit them to let it be known. They might have truly needed me one day with this war looming, so they did not see fit to humiliate me publicly. But if you did not know, that explains why Moriarty likely did not know, either."

"True enough. What type of help would he seek and where would he seek it?"

"Well, if it were me, I would look for scientists on the forefront of current researches into the body human."

"Scientists," Irene said thoughtfully, "Who are at the forefront of their fields." Suddenly she practically levitated from her seat and was burrowing through a pile of papers on her desk, muttering to herself as Sherla watched on in amazement. "Let's see . . Society of Theater Patrons . . . Society for the Preservation of Parks Along the Seine . . . Society for Women's Suffrage - Ha! Like that has any chance in this paternalistic country! Ah, here it is, La Societie Scientifique. I get these invitations all the time, but this one may prove useful." she said offering an embossed invitation to Sherla, "Certainly, it ought to be a fair place to start our search."

Sherla took the card and read it.

Docteur et Madame de Maupessant request the pleasure of Madame Irene Adler Norton at their home for a Reception and Ball for La Societie Scientifique

 
At the bottom of the card, written in a fine, lady's hand, was a personal request to Irene from the lady of the house, asking if she might consent to sing a few short selections as she and her husband were so very fond of opera.

"This is for day after tomorrow," Sherla noted.

"I had not intended to go, as my husband is still abroad, but now I will RSVP my pleased intent to attend and my very great desire to perform for their guests. That will ensure us an invitation and an opportunity to meet the type of individual we will need."

"But those attending can not include the one that Moriarty was after. If he was to have been there, Moriarty would have taken him by now."

"True, Sherla, true, but each of those attending will know of others in his field, specifically someone who has mysteriously disappeared recently. Failing that, someone there might be at least able to help us develop a list of materials your Professor might require in this endeavor. Hopefully, something on that list will be sufficiently rare in some way that we can use that as our first clue."

Sherla smiled at that. "A very sound strategy, Madame," she said with exaggerated deference.

"So good of you to say so, my dear. Please remember that during the next forty eight hours when all our tempers become frayed."

"I am afraid I do not understand, Irene," Sherla said, her confusion clear upon her lovely face.

"Obviously. Sherla, this means you will be presented to Society in two days. We shall need a new dress for you, a special one as a debutante in anything less than a designer original will draw entirely too much attention. Let's see, what else? Dance lessons. . ."

"I am perfectly able to dance!" Sherla said indignantly, "I was trained as a youth!"

"Dancing the female role? In a heavy skirt billowed by petticoats and wearing heels? Moving backwards most of the time and letting your partner lead?" Irene asked challengingly. At Sherla's wide eyed denial, Irene nodded firmly. "I thought not. Oh, and we will need some basic lessons in flirting. Katrina will need to help you with that, as I will be busy. As to the concert, it would be best if you could accompany me since that would put both of us in the presence of our quarry and will give me an excuse to include you in the invitation to call upon him that I intend to wangle from him."

"Flirting?" Sherla asked, having missed the rest of Irene's planning.

"Flirting, my dear. It is what debutantes do, and if you did not do it well . . "

"It would draw too much attention," Sherla completed darkly.

"Just so," Irene enthused as she strode to a bell rope and gave it a lusty pull. "Come, my dear. Once we have Katrina apprized of our plans, we shall go to the music room and decide upon our selections. It is, unfortunately, too late to go to the dressmakers, but we can start with the music, dancing and flirting. That should see us through the evening and tomorrow morning until the Modiste opens."

Just then, Katrina hurried into the room. "Ah, Katrina, come with us to the music room. As an old acquaintance used to say, the game is afoot!"
 

 
 
Entry in the Journal of Miss Sherla Joan Holmes

Date: February 23, 1911

Location: Irene Adler's Home outside of Paris France.

Time: 11:53 P.M.

My Dear Doctor Watson: I am exhausted. First, it was the embroidery lessons Irene has insisted upon. Needlework. My god, John, what is happening to me? Actually, I have a better feeling about that question than I did last night. Irene had a great deal to say to me yesterday in the music room that made sense. I don't know if she is correct or not, John, but I want her to be correct - especially now that she has agreed to help me in my coming battle against Moriarty. She is, as you always said, a truly exemplary woman. If I must be a woman, then I wish to be a woman of her stamp, mettle and abilities. I wish you could have seen her today, John. She drew me out as skillfully as I had ever done to any of my past informants, and then, when she saw a strategy that had a chance for success, she acted on it with great determination and enthusiasm. That is the other reason my fingers are in pain - four hours of rehearsal for her performance in two nights. I have cramps in my little fingers, John. Still, I stand by my earlier conviction that she could eventually defeat Moriarty. I would like to think that, with her help and guidance, I, too, can become a woman who is capable of bringing about his final demise. I hope so, John, for I could not wish for a better role model. I shall apply myself to that goal most assiduously, and if that means embroidery, dress-fittings, flirting and dancing, then so be it. Beyond that, I have several very positive reports to make this evening. First, I have only needed to cool my libido once in the past 18 hours - just before Katrina all but pulled me from my bed this morning. Better still, I do not feel any signs of that unquenchable urge at this point. I do, however, get this interesting little fillip of heat whenever that pretty little maid of Irene saunters by me. Not the same intensity, but of a similar nature in feeling. She seems to be around me quite a bit, too, so I have had ample opportunity to study the phenomena. It is not at all unpleasant. More importantly, my measurements seem to have steadied out at last. John - my clothes FIT for the THIRD consecutive day! I cannot begin to tell you how pleasant it is to not trip over my hem or how wonderful it is look at myself in the mirror and see a woman wearing a lovely gown and not a shapeless sack that drags upon the ground about my feet. Oh, I can still give you the precise numbers since I am certain that you would expect them, but they don't seem to matter as much to me anymore. My height is down less than half a centimeter since yesterday and my weight a bare two hundred grams (which I continue to believe may be attributed more to this infernal corset which that minx Katrina insists on tightening more each day! I may have to contrive yet another suitable, retaliatory strategy for that lass.) In any case, I believe that Moriarty's potion is finally cleansed from my system. Thank goodness! It at least means that this new gown I am to be fitted for tomorrow will have some probability of still fitting when the time comes to wear it to the ball.

End Journal Entry.
 
 
Chapter 10. A Day in the Life of a Would-be French Debutante
 
Feeling oddly bemused, Irene Adler sat regally in the comfortable (which meant that it had been designed for seating corseted women) chair provided for her by the Modiste. She reflected that she had been in this shop many times and had never experienced this peculiar feeling. She had even sat here, much as she was now, watching her beloved Nell being fitted for her wedding gown, and not felt as she did at this moment. Of course, Penelope had been her dear friend, confidante and willing, if somewhat prudish, co-conspirator - almost a sister in fact.

*Oh my goodness! Am I feeling maternal?!?!*

That was a very discomfiting thought, particularly since it meant Irene Adler was feeling maternal towards the young woman currently standing quietly as Madame la Modiste and her assistants pinned yards of creamy white silk to her body. *How can I feel motherly towards a person I have all but convinced myself is . . or was Mr. Sherlock Holmes?* she asked herself. *Heavens above, but he is years older than I!* she told herself sternly before looking up at the dark-eyed, dark haired *young* beauty who was, at that moment, trying ever so hard NOT to look enchanted with the process.

*Still,* she reminded herself, *that girl may have HIS experience as a man, but SHE is a babe in the woods as a woman. How very strange, but we have been building towards this since the 1880's, starting when I was but two and twenty. Sherla looks years younger than that age right now, particularly when she forgets to cloak herself in those tattered vestiges of male dignity.*

The modiste asked Sherla to twirl so that she could assess how the layered white skirts of silk would float above the dance floor. Irene smiled when the girl had to be asked to repeat the dance step since her first attempt did not in any way resemble the speed such a maneuver would achieve in the arms of a gentleman. When she tried this time, Sherla's skirts billowed to give a flirtatiously tantalizing, fleetingly brief glimpse of shapely, white-stockinged ankle. *Too much, perhaps? Certainly not if she'd been a girl all her life for that is precisely what the fashion calls for these days, but the mind inside that body still carries male beliefs from an earlier time.*

The Modiste glanced at Irene, expecting a look of approval or disapproval. She sighed, and then nodded. *If Sherlock makes a reappearance to complain over this tonight, I will simply tell him it is a required aspect of his disguise. That should shut him up long enough for Sherla to reassert herself.*

That line of thought brought Irene up short for a moment. She was about to consider it more fully when a disagreement broke out between her "ward" and the dressmaker. "But Mademoiselle, this is a gown pour la debutante. It must be white to show your innocence and youth, with only the smallest touches of color, and those no more than pastel highlights."

Sherla had that look Irene was coming to recognize as presaging a "Sherla isn't going to surrender one inch" encounter. "Oui, Madame, I understand it must be white, but I do not like how I look in those insipid pastels. They make me look like a child. I wish the accents to be bright, and I wish primary colors - in bright satins if you have something suitable."

The Modiste turned exasperated eyes to Irene. "Madame, the petite Mademoiselle does not understand these things. Please explain them to her," she beseeched, fully expecting Irene to tell the girl to behave so that the dress could proceed.

Irene wondered at what the girl was about. She'd not taken much interest in her dress to date, simply allowed Katrina or Irene to tell her what to where. "Show me what you propose, Madame. Put the highlight colors against my niece and explain."

Surprised, the Modiste complied, laying two swatches of cloth across Sherla's neckline. They were a robin's egg blue and the most insipid pink Irene had ever seen. Against Sherla's vibrantly colored hair and her lovely complexion (although her color was a bit high from her temper with the dressmaker), both selections DID make the girl look childish. "I think a primary colored satin about the neckline and the flounce hems, Madame," Irene directed, with complimentary embroidery highlighting the rest of the gown."

"But, Madame," the Modiste begged, not believing that Irene would side with this . . . this infant against HER superior knowledge, "this would be so very out of fashion."

"My niece is a woman of her own mind, and besides," she added with a challenging smile, "Do you not set fashion in Paris and therefore in the world? I expect you to please my niece and myself AND then assure that what pleases us becomes all that is fashionable. Oui?"

Sighing gravely, Madame shrugged her slender shoulders in defeat. "Oui, Madame. I will do what can be done."

*Which will be far better than you expect because Sherla is so beautiful, you stupid female,* Irene thought as she nodded her assent. "Oh, and see about putting some of the highlighting color beneath the layering of the skirts as well. It will tease the eye as she dances the night away." Then Irene looked up at Sherla and was again surprised. *She shows no signs of gloating at her victory over the other woman, only quiet pleasure at the thought of how the dress will look on her. I wonder if she realizes how completely, girlishly feminine she looks just now? A far cry from the very irate man who began writing that journal of hers several weeks back.*

"That's IT!" Irene crowed aloud causing everyone in the fitting room to spin about to stare at her.

"Are you all right, Tante Irene?" Sherla asked, remembering to use the familial title they had agreed upon as part of their planning.

"Quite all right, dear," Irene said, a happy smile on her face. "I just solved a little problem that had been bothering me for a while, that is all. Do continue as you were, Madame. Sherla and I have much more to accomplish today."

Irene reached for the glass of mineral water she'd been provided and took a sip. *That is the key I was looking for the night I first read his. . .her journal. There is a . . . a transition recorded in that diary. An old, tired man who was ready. . even willing to die has, over the course of his trials, slowly been growing into a young woman, and it is far, far more than merely physically. I could see Sherlock Holmes arguing with a dressmaker about the color scheme of a dress if it had something to do with a case, as this one does, at least peripherally. However, he would have looked grimly satisfied at the end of the exchange, not happily pleased. Whether she wants to or not, and whether she will admit it or not, Sherla is enjoying this outing, in spite of herself. Or perhaps more correctly, in spite of *him*self.*

And then, another thought struck Irene. *And that is, in all probability, the explanation for her fits and starts. Physically, she is precisely what she appears - a lovely young girl on the edge of womanhood. She is learning to enjoy that and her newfound youth helps a great deal in that arena. Perhaps she justifies her reaction by thinking that being a young, healthy girl is better than being an old, sick man. Only whenever she remembers she is. . . or rather *used* to be Sherlock, she freezes and closes up. Attacks my poor piano with thundering renditions of Beethoven.*

*As far as I can tell, she is becoming more feminine by the day. Initially, my inclination was to encourage that development, to put her in situations that would enhance that femininity. Especially, I am forced to admit, once I concluded that she really was Holmes. I found it delightfully amusing to think of the oh-so-very Victorian misogynist, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, dealing with and struggling through the conventions and barriers our so- called enlightened society imposes upon intelligent human beings who happen to be female.*

Irene looked up to see Sherla examining herself in the Modiste's mirrors, her concentration focused on what the dressmaker was pointing out, and shook her head. *Now, I wonder if that is the best course of action - for she is determined to face this Moriarty, who is, insofar as all my inquiries can tell me, a hideous, vile and dangerous man. Which facet of this marvelously complex creature should be dominant when it comes time to face that monster? Sherla? Or would she be better off as Sherlock in Sherla's form?* Irene cast another look at Sherla and sighed quietly. *By all appearances, there may not be any real choice. So, if she is becoming more Sherla by the day, what do I do? I must admit that I *do* feel maternal toward this very original young woman with the brain of an old man. If I must send her into battle, and I accept that I must, how do I best help her prepare herself for the coming conflict?*

"Tante Irene!" Sherla's happy call interrupted Irene's musings and she looked up to see Sherla pirouetting in front of her. "Won't it be lovely? The only thing that would make it better is to make it less white, but I understand that we cannot."

*Is this response coming from Sherlock, pretending to be Sherla for the benefit of Madame la Modiste, or is this truly Sherla forgetting to be Sherlock?* "Indeed we cannot, Miss," Irene responded, forcing a smile. "Now, run along with Madame's maid and get changed. We truly do have a great deal more to do today, starting with the shoemaker and the milliner." she ordered as she thought, *And I have a great deal more to think about.*
 

 
 
Irene was no closer to finding any answers to her problems when she strolled toward her sitting room later that afternoon. They had returned to Irene's home in time for a late lunch, after which a very pleased looking Katrina had dragged a protesting yet laughing Sherla off for her first lessons in flirting.

"Oui, oui, Mam'selle Cherie, that is it!" an excited voice all but exulted, "Now, flare the fan in front of your face so only your eyes show. Non non! Smile when you do it so that the gentleman is able to see the smile without seeing your lips! Make him WANT to see your lips. Make him want to TASTE your lips. OUI! Excellent, Cherie!"

"But I do not want to smile at men, Katrina," a different voice almost whined. "And I certainly do NOT want them tasting my lips!"

"But of course you do, Cherie, it is how these things are done. If you do not do it, or do it properly, you will be noticed in a not so good way."

Irene walked in the door just in time to hear Sherla retort, "Between you and Irene, I am getting bloody damned tired of that particular argument. I wish the two of you would give up that little prod."

"Then you will have to give up your plans with regard to Professor Moriarty," Irene said sternly. "For you are a woman now, Sherla, and if you forget that fact, you will stand out among other women like a goat among sheep. Calling attention to yourself in such a manner will likely cost you your single greatest advantage in the coming struggle."

"Irene?!??" Sherla said, spinning on her feet.

"Yes, Sherla." Irene replied before turning to Katrina. "Has our little Miss been troublesome in learning her lessons, Katrina?"

Katrina's gypsy eyes sparkled. "On, Non, Madame. In fact, she has been very good. Why, her command of the fan is unbelievable. One might almost wonder at how a former man could have gained such skill, such delicacy, such sweet subtlety with so feminine a fashion accessory."

An impish smile lit Irene's still lovely face. "Well, Sherla? Did old Sherlock play the lady with a fan for some case that the good Dr. Watson never wrote about for publication?"

For a moment, Sherla looked stunned, then rebellious, and finally, mischievous. "Why no, Irene. Sherlock was too large a man to disguise himself as a flirt. Actually, I learned the fan when I trained in an Oriental wrestling and fighting style as a youth."

"Fighting with a fan?" Katrina snorted. "Hah, Mam'selle, you seek to hide the truth from us behind something so manly as wrestling and fighting. Poof, you DID play with fans."

"Oh really?" Sherla challenged as she flared the fan in front of the her face. "Imagine a fan, my dear Katrina, with each spoke replaced by a thin band of the finest steel, sharpened to a razor's edge." Suddenly, Sherla launched herself at Katrina, one hand leading, the hand with the fan at her hip. At the last moment, she executed a graceful pirouette that had the suddenly fully open fan just barely grazing the startled maid's throat. Too late, Katrina leapt backwards and fell indecorously on her bottom, but Sherla had already come erect facing her, the fan once again furled in her hand. Solemnly, she bowed. "If this," she said, her eyes twinkling as she flared the fan gracefully, "had been a fighting fan instead of a flirting fan, Katrina, you would now be bleeding all over Madame Irene's lovely Aubusson carpet."

Sherla offered a hand to the still wide-eyed maid and helped her back to her feet. "I would say, Katrina," Irene said, "That the evidence supports Sherla's case. However, Sherla," she continued turning to face her ward, "You have to realize that flirting *is* a woman's weapon, and one that has been used effectively since Eve. You mentioned learning a woman's weapons in your journal, my dear. This *is* one of the most powerful, especially against men. You should make every effort to master it."

The girl considered that, and then drew the fan back across her face, letting her eyelashes flutter shut daintily. "I shall do my very best, Tante Irene." she said softly.

"Well done, Sherla! And to you, as well, Katrina. I shall see you at tea time."

Irene sailed from the room, but not before she heard, "OWW! NON NON NON, Mam'selle Cherie, rap the importunate gentleman's knuckles LIGHTLY with the closed fan. You wish to discourage him, not break his fingers! At least, not for the first importunity. And Mam'selle, s'il vous plait, smile *sweetly* when you when you hit his knuckles? Not like the hungry lioness facing the cornered and crippled antelope?"

*Somehow,* Irene smiled to herself, *I suspect that 'Mam'selle Cherie' is going to have to be exceedingly diligent on such nuances before she is entirely proficient at the fine art of flirtation. At least she didn't use one of those Oriental wrestling moves Holmes was noted for. Perhaps it is time to introduce Sherla to the male of the species and see how she reacts.* ~----------------~

Sherla hurried to the large room that Katrina had told her served as the ballroom with Irene and her husband entertained. It was not really all that large, she noted as she stepped into the room. *Why, no more than ten couples could dance properly in this room, and then only if the ladies were unimpeded by any of the more complex gowns I saw at the Modiste's shop. Oh well, now where is Irene for these dancing lessons she promised. . . or was that threatened?*

"Ahh, Mademoiselle, Madame Irene said you would be here for your lessons. I am Monsieur de Mere, and I am to instruct you in the finer points of dance."

Instinctively, Sherla measured the man. He was of moderate height and weight, certainly shorter and lighter then Sherlock had been. Still, he was taller than Sherla was, even in the high heeled dancing slippers Katrina had just buckled onto her feet. His suit was of only modest quality as were the shoes. His neckcloth was tied in one of the currently avante-guarde, excessively intricate arrangements about poorly starched collars. His hair was of moderate length and blacker than her own midnight-dark tresses while his eyes were obscured by the gray lenses of his spectacles. Most strangely, he was wearing gloves.

"Is something wrong with your hands, Monsieur?" Sherla asked as she moved into the room followed by Katrina. The house is quite warm."

"Ah, non, thank you for asking, Mademoiselle," The man said with an obsequious bow, "But most young ladies prefer that I wear gloves since the gentlemen they dance with at the balls wear them. It makes the lessons more. . . realistic, oui?" He asked as he moved over to the phonograph machine. He gave the device several vigorous cranks and then set the cylinder to spinning.

*There is something odd about this. I know Irene said she had to run an errand, but still. . *

"Come, come, Mademoiselle, we shall begin with the waltz," the dance master directed, his arms held wide for her to walk into, "All the young ladies wish to waltz, n'est-ce pas?"

Not entirely certain that SHE wanted to learn the waltz, Sherla had to be given a gentle push by Katrina before she began to move slowly toward the disconcerting man. As she approached, her eye caught sight of a glint of highlight that clashed with the man's hair. *A hairpiece? Is this man a vain type who has begun to lose his hair?* She had not even begun to work that out when a by-now familiar scent tickled at her nose.

Sherla stopped short and stared at "Monsieur de Mere". "Irene?!?" she said with audible certainty.

"Oh pooh," Katrina said behind her, disappointment evident in her tone.

"Well, I told you the idea was not likely to work, Katrina. After all, this snip of a girl is. . .was. . ., damn, I really must decide how to think of that . . .*was* Mr. Sherlock Holmes. We were unlikely to fool her, no matter how good my skills at disguise are."

"You fooled me once, Irene, up until the moment you greeted me that night at Baker Street."

"Ah, but it was a dark, foggy London night, Sherla," Irene said as she doffed the wig to reveal her own auburn-hightlighted chestnut tresses, and pulled off the gloves that had been necessary to hide her finely boned, beautifully manicured hands. "Just as well, I suppose, I was sweltering in this wig and gloves. Now, shall we dance, Mademoiselle?" Irene offered, making her leg to Sherla.

Sherla grinned impishly, and sank into the deep curtsy Katrina had taught her during the flirting lesson. *It is so marvelous to be young and flexible again,* she thought happily as she rose gracefully and took Irene's hand.

"Now remember Sherla," Irene said sternly, "*I* lead, not you!"

Nodding, Sherla giggled, "And why is it, Madame," the girl asked impishly as she began following Irene's lead, "That I believe that you say those exact words to your husband when you dance with him?"
 

 
 
Irene summoned Sherla back to the ballroom just before she had planned to retire for the evening. Sherla was somewhat surprised to see Irene back in trousers - very tight trousers - a white open necked button down shirt with tight cuffs and billowing sleeves and well shined over the calf boots. "No questions, girl," Irene had ordered. Go into that room, and dress in the clothing I have laid out for you. Then meet me here."

Several minutes later - it was a time-consuming task to remove her women's clothing, and loosen the stays of her corset just enough to permit Sherla to breathe fully without losing the stiffness about the waist that might very well be unavoidable if she ended up needing these skills with little notice - Sherla returned to the ball room attired much as Irene was save that her boots were not so well shined. "CATCH" she heard, and barely had time to react as a flash of silver streaked towards her. Some instinct took over and Sherla snatched the flying object from the air just before it sailed past her. Her hand tightened about the hilt just as she realized what it was. "A foil?"

"Just so," a grinning Irene said as she held out a fencing mask to Sherla. "You have done so well at being a lady today, I thought you deserved a reward. Besides, you need to learn how to move aggressively in that body as well as femininely if you are to achieve your goal. Fencing will help that. Furthermore, Mr. Sherlock Holmes was accounted as being quite adequate with such a weapon, and I long for some decent competition. My poor husband tries, but he worries overmuch about my safety and therefore fails to press his advantages with sufficient vigor to challenge me properly."

Sherla tested the weapon's balance, and then checked the safety button on the tip. The foil was light, but then, a rapier or saber would have been too much for her greatly reduced arm and wrist strength.

The two women slipped on their masks and took their positions opposite each other, their free hands at their hip, their sword blades just touching.

"En garde!" Irene ordered.

Their first passes were slow, at most half speed, intended for them to get the feel of the foils and to assess each other's skill rather than for true competition. The intensity gradually increased as the blades flashed and the discordant sound of steel sliding against steel filled the air. Sherla held her own through the first few passes mostly as a result of old remembered skills and tricks, but it became clear that Irene was an expert fencer, and that she was carefully controlling their contest to test, but not break Sherla.

As the match wore on, Sherla's arm and wrist began to tire, and her previously sharp thrusts were dulled and her parries came slower. She considered mounting a final flurry, but decided against it. Irene could have won the match at any time. She obviously had a superb partner somewhere if her husband was reluctant to endanger her. *If her husband is at all up to her mettle,* Sherla thought grimly, her arm afire and her lungs begging for air. "I YIELD!" she shouted as she jumped back from the fray, her sword still at the ready.

"Well done!" Irene cheered as she tossed her own mask to the quietly watching Katrina. "VERY well done!"

"Oh, certainly," Sherla retorted in some disgust. "I can barely lift my arm, let alone this foil. You could have carved me like a Christmas goose at any point in our match, and you say I did well?"

"Of course you did, goose," Irene said fondly. "You are not yet at your peak. Whatever that foul brew did to make you what you have become, it took a terrible toll on your resources. If you are to face this Moriarty of yours, you will need to develop strength and stamina to match your beauty and your brain, dear girl. You did well tonight. If your arm is up to it, we will do this every night before our evening baths. I will also look into whether there are facilities for women to exercise at l'Ecole Normale Supeerieure des Jeunes Filles. It is a marvelous school, started in the 1880's in Paris for the education of young women. You swim, as I recall? Excellent for building strength and stamina in a woman."

Sherla smiled tiredly, and nodded. Then she took on a pensive air. "It is odd, you know."

"What is?" Irene asked as she supervised Katrina putting away the foils and masks before rejoining her ward.

"These clothes," Sherla answered, drawing her hand down her body. "They feel so . . . so strange, and yet, I have been wearing garb such as this more than six decades. It is the dress and the gown that ought to feel odd."

"Perhaps, ma petite," Katrina said, that impish twinkle back in her eye, "It is as I said earlier. You were meant to be a woman instead of that cold stick of a man."

Irene braced herself to deflect a blistering retort aimed at her impudent little maid.

Even she was greatly surprised when none ensued.
 

 
 
Entry in the Journal of Miss Sherla Joan Holmes

Date: February 25, 1911

Location: Irene Adler's Home outside of Paris France.

Time: 12:27 A.M.

My Dear Doctor Watson: I am so very tired, John, but it is a good sort of tired. It has been a lovely day - better than any I can remember since. . . well, since you were taken from me, old friend. I think that is a large part of this sudden contentment - I have friendship in my life again. Heavens, even that sly-boots Katrina was friendly today. She calls me "Mam'selle Cherie" instead of Mademoiselle Sherla. I rather like it. The lone black spot, I am afraid, is that my arm is quite sore and no amount of soaking in that hedonistic bathtub of Irene's did anything to loosen the knotted muscles. And I thought ladies were not supposed to have such things. Irene tried to trick me with a disguise today. It is good to know that the old skills of observation and deduction have not gone the way of my formerly masculine state. So it would appear that Irene's contention that I am not truly diminished by my femininity is proven. It is comforting to know that. One issue occurs to me, John, as I read this journal. I do not think it wise to appear in public as Sherla Holmes. The name is too close and if "S. Holmes" reaches Moriarty's ears before I am ready for it to do so, the consequences will be grave indeed. I will discuss it with Irene tomorrow. . . today, actually. Perhaps it is time for Joan to make a temporary return. Good night, old friend.

End Journal Entry.
 
 
Chapter 11. A Lady's Debut
 
Irene awoke suddenly, and for a moment was unsure why. She was not normally a light sleeper, but something distinctly out of the ordinary had attracted her attention. The first rays of a sunrise bright with promise were slipping through her barely open draperies as she slid from her lonely bed and padded down the hallway to Sherla's room. *Why I should think it has anything to do with Sherla, I don't know, unless it is because everything unusual seems to emanate from that young woman these days.*

Sherla's door was open and her room was empty. *She's just gotten an early start to the day,* Irene told herself firmly, but she was unable to shake the feeling that she ought to confirm that. *After all, the girl has had a hellacious few weeks, and this is not consistent with her recent behavior.*

After donning her slippers and an emerald-green silk wrapper, Irene quickly searched the main living areas only to find no sign of Sherla. She was about to go rouse Katrina to aid in the search when, on a whim, Irene went to the back of the house and found the outside door unlocked. Quietly, she slipped out into the crisp dawn air. The creaky iron gate that lead to Irene's formal garden was open. *Since my rooms are directly overlooking the garden, that gate squeaking as it opened is likely what roused me.*

She found Sherla in the middle of the garden, still dressed in her white silk nightdress and blue chenille robe, kneeling upon a picnic blanket she'd evidently found in the kitchen. The girl was sitting back on her calves, her hands resting upon her thighs. Her head was back, facing into the red/yellow sun as it rose above the trees. A playful breeze teased at her hair, making night-black waves billow softly about her face. Her eyes were closed and a faint smile curled her lips.

Trying to make as little noise as possible, Irene sat down, but the breeze rustled the hem of her robe and alerted Sherla. "Good morning," Sherla said with a smile.

"Good morning to you, as well, my dear, but surely you recognize that it is barely past night."

"I could not sleep," Sherla said enigmatically.

"So I gathered. I have seen that position before," Irene continued, "another of your Oriental arts?"

"For the most part. I needed to think and did not want to rouse you by playing the piano. This is a lovely, peaceful place you've built here, Irene," Sherla sighed softly.

"Actually, it is my husband who is the gardener, although his initial motivation was to provide me a quiet place to sit and think."

"It's wonderful," Sherla assured her friend, "And the lovely fresh smell of a world at dawn after a rain seems to cleanse the very soul."

"Does it cleanse your soul, Sherla?" Irene asked gently, "Perhaps more importantly, what heavy thoughts chased you from your bed at such a disgustingly early hour?"

A small, self-deprecating smile softened Sherla's lovely face. "Tonight, tomorrow, next week, next month, next year and the rest of my life," she replied, careful to tick each reply off on the fingers of her right hand.

"That is quite a lot to ask of one chilly February morning, isn't it?"

"Perhaps, but every journey, large or small, starts with a single step, and the solution to every problem, large or small, starts with a single thought. The effort is not wasted even if I don't find my solutions today," and then Sherla's grin became mischievous, "As you well know, Madame Irene Adler."

"Just so," Irene replied with a royal nod of her nightcap-covered head. "Well, tonight and tomorrow sound rather immediate. Have you come to any conclusion about them, if I may be so bold as to ask?"

Sherla shifted about, and sat upon the blanket, pulling knees to her bosom so that she could rest her chin upon them. "That I will smile, flirt, play the piano and dance as well as my very limited instruction in all but one of those arts will permit, that I will watch you very carefully and learn all that I can about being womanly from a Mistress of the Art, and that I will try to stay out of dark corners and away from large men."

Irene hooted with glee. "Worthy goals all, but tell me, dear what you mean by "all but one". Surely you don't mean that you do not know how to smile?"

"Not like you and Katrina wish me to smile. I tend to look like. . .how did Katrina put it? Oh yes, I smile like a hungry lioness looking at a cornered and crippled antelope." The last words were imbued with a haughty pretentiousness that made both women chuckle. "Seriously though, even Doctor Watson lamented my lack of familiarity with simple good humor. 'Twas not, I am afraid, a prominent aspect of my personality."

"Well, tomorrow will take care of itself as we will likely need to sleep the day away after one of these all night society balls," Irene teased lightly before becoming serious. "You said your life, Sherla. What conclusions have you reached about that?"

She shrugged delicately. "Only that, unless Moriarty has developed an antidote and I know that if he has it is only by merest chance, that I can expect to remain a woman for the rest of my life."

"Why does "can expect" not sound a final as I might have thought it to be? You are unusually precise with your words and you did not say that you would remain a woman for the rest of your life."

"Oh, just legends and rumors," Sherla said looking back at the sunrise. "There are stories of magic and wonder that I, as a man. . .or rather that when I was a man, never gave much credence."

"Such as?" Irene asked.

"Oh, the mythologies of India are filled with stories of men becoming young women and the reverse. Or there is this very prevalent legend about a medallion, called the Medallion of Zolo, or something like that. I originally came across it in some of my early studies of ancient alchemical manuscripts in their original Greek. Subsequently, I have run across references to it in the oddest places, with stories associated to those sightings that are odder still."

"Another Philosopher's Stone? Able to turn base metal into gold?"

"Not quite," Sherla laughed. "As I understand it, this Medallion has the power to change someone into the image of whoever last wore a set of clothing. I imagine I have a few pieces of attire that date back to my younger days at Baker Street."

"So, if you succeed in your quest to stop Moriarty, is that your next inquiry? Find this magical talisman and restore yourself to your full masculine powers?"

Irene's last words were delivered with such tart sarcasm that Sherla stared at her for a moment before answering. Then she chuckled quietly. "No, I don't think so, Irene. Besides, it is entirely possible that it may be worth my life to stop Moriarty. However, if I do survive our final encounter, I won't waste my life seeking something that likely does not really exist. I may be a female now, Irene, and I may, much to my surprise, find I enjoy a great many aspects of this new life, but I am still a ma. . .errr woman of science. I shan't wile away my years haring off after some magical Holy Grail like a feminine Sir Galahad. Besides, if it does work, it could be dangerous. Imagine owning it and using it, but losing it at precisely the wrong moment? It might be worse than what Moriarty has done to me, and I would have done it to myself. Oh, ignominy." She said with dramatic effect.

Irene laughed and offered Sherla a hand as she stood. "Come along and go back to bed, girl. That is one major solution to your 'tonight' problem, and part of our 'tomorrow' problem. You need to SLEEP!"
 

 
 
The room went utterly still as Sherla stroked the opening chords that were Irene's lead in to her first selection, a piece by Schumann. Playing very softly, Sherla let the unexpected power and beauty of Irene's voice show to its best advantage. As it had this morning when they'd first begun rehearsing, Irene's beautiful voice made Sherla sigh in wonder. One of Sherlock's few regrets had been that he had never heard a young Irene Adler sing when she was the Diva at the National Opera House at Warsaw or later when she had filled that position at Prague. She still had a magnificent voice.

Following the short recital, Irene and Sherla were constantly sought out and congratulated by the many guests. Sherla, simply smiled and demurred that Irene was the one worthy of praise. "I merely played quietly so that you could hear her." she said time and again.

However, the throng who sought them out gave Sherla an opportunity to study Irene-the-sleuth at work. Watching her pursuing information was something that Sherlock had always wished to observe, but had never managed. *She teases confidences from these men with remarkable ease, and she seems to do so with the tricks Katrina has been trying to teach me. A special smile for that one, a teasing tap on the hand of this one. Always a gracious and happy greeting and some type of body contact, if only to hug a man's arm to her body. One old fellow nearly spilled his schnapps down Irene's rather daringly cut neckline.

"Oh, and Doctor, may I please introduce my niece, Mademoiselle Joan Watson. While I am an American, Joan's family supported the wrong side in our little Revolution and returned to England when American Independence of the Crown was achieved."

"Enchante, Mademoiselle," the gruff gentleman with the broad mustache and sideburns said with a thick Germanic accent. "And my I present my beloved wife, Frau Buchner?"

"I am honored, Madame," Sherla dutifully responded as she dropped into an appropriately deep curtsy. *Thank heavens there is only one royal duke in attendance tonight in whose august presence I must execute that extreme curtsy and bow,* Sherla thought as came back erect, *between these inhuman shoes and how tightly that little bitch Katrina laced me, I wasn't at all certain I would make it back to my feet!*

"Such a lovely gown, my dear," Frau Buchner said with a smile. "I love the pretty layering of your skirts that hide such interesting flashes of color. A remarkably pretty gown on a very lovely young woman."

Sherla bowed her head in acknowledgment and again caught herself just before she shook her head. *Those blasted earrings again,* she thought. Who'd have thought that those small little waterfalls of fine seed pearls, made to match the four stranded collar at her throat, would prove so distracting. Hanging over two inches from her earlobes, they fluttered and danced with the slightest movement of Sherla's head.

A waiter walked by carrying a tray of champagne. At Irene's summons, he stopped and proffered the drinks. Irene and Sherla both took one before turning back to the Buchners.

"My niece studies biochemistry back in London, Doctor," Irene said causing Sherla's ears to prick up. So far that night, Sherla had "always been an avid botanist" when introduced to a leading authority on plants and herbs, had "always been a keen assistant in her father's medical research laboratory in Edinburgh" when she'd met a research physician, and had "carefully reproduced and extended the classic experiments of the monk Mendel" when she had spoken with a young genetic scientist. Evidently, this Doctor Buchner was someone else Irene thought might be able to help them. *Where have I encountered that name before? Oh, yes! Now I recall him.*

"She has?" Buchner eyed her suspiciously. "You have? A pretty young lady such as yourself? In a laboratory doing experiments?"

"Oh, oui, Monsieur le Docteur," Sherla said modestly, "I have recently been looking into how certain gases affect fermentation. Our English beer-makers are very concerned about how they might make greater quantities of their product while eliminating pre- sale spoilage."

"My own work deals with such processes, Fraulein," the German professor replied.

"Perhaps Sherla and I might call on you, Professor, so that she might benefit from your experience before embarking on this effort?" Irene interjected.

It was clear to Sherla that Buchner wanted to say 'no', but better, more determined men than he had melted in the heat of Irene Adler's regard. "Hmmmhphh. . .yes. . . Very well. Shall we say, day after tomorrow? - three o'clock?. Half an hour?" The relatively clipped tones the man used left little doubt he was not pleased to have been so maneuvered, but Irene promptly accepted and then made their excuses.

They made their way to the lady's convenience where Sherla gave fervent thanks that a pair of maids had been stationed to help relieve the ornately dressed ladies of their encumbering garments so that the ladies might relieve themselves. Fifteen minutes later, the pair was alone in a quiet sitting room. "Perfect, Sherla, I had hoped he'd be here, but was not sure."

"Who, Irene? Buchner?"

"Yes, he is the only biochemist listed in the in the pre- conference bulletin. At least now, we will be able to speak with someone who might know someone in that field."

Sherla gave an unladylike snort. "I am surprised he's here, too. He's the best man in his field. Why do you think that I used that fermentation example? I have read his work in the journals in England. He won the 1907 Nobel Prize for Chemistry."

"Well done, Sherla!" Irene crowed. "Our most important task in coming here tonight is complete!"

Wishing she had sufficient air to sigh, Sherla still managed a hopeful smile. "Does that mean we can go home now?" she asked wistfully.

The look Irene gave her ward would have been pitying had there not been a devilish twinkle in those amber eyes. "Mais non, ma petite debutante," she purred. "You have not danced yet, although you have made your formal curtsy to le Grande Duke."

"But I don't wish to dance, Irene," Sherla whined and did not much care if she had.

"Ah, but you must, my dear, or it will be noticed. You are far too lovely not to be missed, particularly given the rather homely nature of most of this year's crop of debutantes."

"I truly am coming to HATE that argument," Sherla growled. "Two dances."

"There is a formal card of twelve dances and you shall dance them all." Irene said with total conviction.

"Four!" Sherla replied.

"You must dance ten or it will be noticed, my dear," Irene said, trying her best argument again.

"Six, Irene, and no more. Give me anymore trouble and I will trip on that fine Persian carpet as we make our way to the ballroom and twist my ankle - SEVERELY!"

"Oh come now, Sherla, at least eight. Surely even a former *man* can cope with a mere eight dances," Irene challenged.

"I will give you seven, Irene, and I will even stay through the final dance on the card which is the waltz, but I will sit out every other dance. Take it or leave it, woman!"

Irene pouted, which affected neither Sherla nor the remnants of Sherlock one whit, and then relented. "Seven it is," she said with good grace before taking her "niece's" elbow to lead her back to the ballroom.

As the passed through the door, Irene put her mouth to Sherla's ear, "You gave in too easily, dear," she whispered, "I would have been happy with six." And then she handed Sherla over to her first partner, the tall young genetic scientist. Irene smiled as she saw the light of fury burn to life in her young friend's eyes.
 

 
 
By the end of the tenth dance, the combination of exercise, insufficient air and champagne was beginning to tell on Sherla. She was feeling rather muzzy-minded if the truth were to be told, and it wasn't really all that unpleasant a sensation. The dancing had thus far been great fun, particularly the Country Dance with all the hopping and skipping, and she'd only been obliged to take the lead during one dance - the Minuet - in order to try to protect her poor toes from the clod Irene had foisted onto her for that set.

And every time she had come off the dance floor to catch her breath, there had been some hopeful young swain offering her a glass of cold champagne in return for the pleasure of her company. Unfortunately for those hopeful young men, Sherla was becoming heartily tired of having her eyes compared to "dark, bottomless pools of liquid onyx" or having her hair described as "her shimmering crown of raven glory," or other such twaddle. In fact, she planned on "accidentally" tripping over his or her feet (she wasn't particular by this point) so that she could use the heel of her stiletto-like shoe to spear the next fool who dared to intimate that her lips were like "fresh, ripe strawberries moist with the kiss of morning's dew."

A woman could only be expected to tolerate so much!

At least the gentleman partnering her in this dance was a pleasant enough sort, and rather handsome if she was becoming any judge of a man's looks. He was some distant descendent of that Lafayette fellow who had joined with the colonial revolutionaries in America and given their cause significance. Well, at least this one had not encouraged loyal subjects of the Crown to revolt against His Majesty's government.

The music began to build toward its concluding crescendo when Sherla's partner began dancing them determinedly toward the garden doors. "Monsieur," Sherla said, noticing as she spoke the slight slur in her own voice, "What are you doing?"

A devil's smile looked down at her as the tall young nobleman led her out onto the candle lit terrace. "You were looking flushed, Mademoiselle," he said solicitously, "and I thought perhaps a cool, bracing breath of fresh air might revive you."

"Oh," Sherla said, pleased with his consideration, "that *does* sound lovely."

She permitted him to lead her onto the garden grounds, her step becoming more unsteady as the alcohol she'd already consumed continued to dull her wits.

Suddenly, her escort redirected her behind a stately oak and pulled her into his arms. Sherla opened her mouth to berate him for his rough handling when his mouth descended upon to her own.

For an instant, Sherla's wine-befuddled brain urged her to resist, to employ any of the dozens of disabling and painful tricks Sherlock had learned in a lifetime of dealing with the underworld. Then his tongue entered her mouth and began to tease at her own while his hands began a subtly exciting massage up and down her back, and she was lost.

Familiar heat flared in Sherla's belly and her breath came in panting, pleasure-filled moans that were cut off by the masculine lips that were sealed to her own. His hands felt so . . . so marvelous on her body, and she tried to press herself even closer to him. Something about his kiss, his body grinding against hers both fed and assuaged the flames that bid fair to consume her.

"SHER. . I mean. . JOAN!" a voice called from the terrace. "JOAN WATSON??"

"DAMN!" Lafayette's descendent cursed, but he was already pushing Sherla away and checking both their appearances. He took her arm and had just begun to lead Sherla back toward the terrace when a very upset Irene materialized in front of them.

"And where have you been, Monsieur?" she demanded, all maternal disdain and feminine hauteur.

"Mademoiselle was feeling unwell, Madame," he almost stuttered, "It is such a sad crush in there, and I thought some fresh air might do her some good."

"I see," Irene said in a low voice, and Sherla had no doubt that the sharp-eyed mistress of investigations did see - far too clearly. "Well, thank you for your so very . . . *kind* solicitude, Monsieur, toward my poor niece. I will see to her now." The young man was hesitant to depart, but Irene stared him down. "You may *leave*, sir!" she ordered sharply.

Defeated, Lafayette's descendent retreated as his honored ancestor never did, leaving Irene able to finally turn her full attentions to the obviously agitated Sherla. *She's flushed and her breathing is very rapid if shallow. My heavens, what if she is experiencing a relapse of that uncontrollable physical arousal? She CAN'T relieve herself here, and I, God forgive me, have made it all but impossible for her to leave until after the waltz.* "Are you all right, Sherla," Irene asked urgently, her voice soft, but intense. *Please be all right,* she begged in her mind.

"Thank you, Irene," Sherla said slowly and distinctly, as if each breath and word was an effort, "but I have it under control," Irene, on the other hand, heard Sherla's breath still pulsing, making her assertion of control more than a little difficult to believe. Irene started to say something, but just then Sherla did seem to regain control of herself.

"You are scheduled to dance the final waltz with the Duke," Irene told Sherla as she led her back to the ballroom. "You have to dance with him or else we will be the talk of Paris by morning. Once you've made your post-dance curtsy, we can go home. . . and you can . . . deal with this problem."

Drawing as deep a breath as her stays would permit, Sherla exhaled, attempting to clear some of the heat from her body, and then nodded. Her face grew more composed and her breathing returned to normal with each soft inhalation. Only a slow rocking on her heels hinted at the waves of need that still burned hot within her.

"I just hope that *he* steps on my toes," Sherla murmured to herself as she moved toward the waiting Duke, and made her curtsy. "I may need the distraction."
 
 
Chapter 12. Dancing in the Dark
 
For Irene, the waiting while Sherla danced the last waltz with the Duke seemed interminably long, but finally it ended and she was able to draw breath again. *Even in her cups and aroused half out of her mind, she was still able to dance,* Irene thought relieved. *Of course, it is fortunate that the man must lead in a waltz, because I think that Sherla was barely hanging on through the steps of that last movement.*

Irene's surmise was proven true when the Duke escorted an obviously winded Sherla back to her guardian. "She is unused to going about in Society, your Grace," Irene gushed when the Duke arrived at her side, "as her parents lack the means in London which is why they sent her to me for this Season. I am afraid, however, that in my enthusiasms I have overextended her tonight."

"Well, she is a lovely young woman, Madame," the Duke said as he bowed over Irene's hand, "and we look forward to her presence at other entertainments throughout the season."

Somehow, Irene managed to keep Sherla from falling on her face during their final curtsy, but it was a very near thing. TOO near a thing, and worse, she could see that Sherla's growing arousal was beginning to overwhelm her better sense. Irene was forced to take a firm grip on each of the girl's arms to stop her hands from drifting toward bodily locations inappropriate to any public place, let alone a high society ball.

"Joan, fetch your wrap," Irene said brusquely.

"Hmmm?" Sherla replied.

"Fetch your wrap, we need to go," Irene repeated. "We need to get you home and to bed."

"Bedddd," sighed Sherla happily, the prospect inviting in ways that had little if anything to do with sleep.

With great effort to avoid any more 'good byes', Irene was able to speed the girl from the scene of the ball without any further or more socially damaging incidents. Fortunately, she had already called for their carriage and soon had Sherla bundled into the landau's comfortable interior. She immediately struck the roof with her fist to direct the coachman to leave.

"Just how much champagne did you drink, girl?" Irene demanded once they were safely underway.

Sherla gave her guardian a bleary smile. "Only a couple of sips between each dance, Irene, NEVER a full glass. I know better than to get into my cups when under ::hic:: cover on an investigation," she said with slurred confidence. "I never drank more than half a glass."

Irene closed her eyes and prayed for control. "Sherla, you sat out six dances, and you had two glasses of wine before the dances began," she said with an edge to her almost calm voice.

"It ::hic:: was only champagne, Irene."

"Which you drank too much of, my girl. Nearly five full glasses by my best estimation."

"So what?" Sherla demanded almost belligerently, "Could drink TWICE that much and not become inebr . .inebri. . ummm. drunk."

Disgusted, Irene threw her hands up in defeat. "HOLMES could drink that much, my fine young girl, and he had a much larger body and a far greater tolerance than you do. Didn't you stop to think that your capacity for spirits is at BEST half what it once was? Why, if I had not arrived when I did, you would have been looking for the nearest conveniently flat surface where you could lift your skirts for that young fool."

"He was nice," Sherla purred, "Liked him. Liked kissing him. He was related to your Mr. Washington's friend, Lafayette."

"I could see how much you liked it, infant, although I suspect his antecedents had little to do with your pleasure." Irene sighed. "Well, at least tomorrow should be educational for you," she finished with a hopeful note.

"To::hic::morrow?" Sherla almost parroted, "Why tomorrow? OH, you're hoping I will have a hangover,::hic:: aren't you?" Sherla stared at her mentor with wide, owl-like eyes. "Well, prepare to be disappointed. *I* never have hangovers."

"I hope you are wrong, little one," Irene said with fond exasperation, "for you have truly earned and deserve the Mother of all 'mornings after' for THIS night's work."

Sherla said nothing, but contented herself by smiling at Irene before leaning back to find the most comfortable location in the upholstered back corner of their conveyance. All too soon, in Irene's estimation, Sherla's hands began to drift once more, this time below her cloak to slowly stroke her bosom.

Suddenly, the coach lurched side-to-side, eliciting a surprised yet pleased "OOH!" from Sherla. Eyes wide, she seemed to wait for several moments, as if hoping the landau would repeat that felicitous movement. When it didn't, Sherla again took matters into her own . . . hands, and began swaying side-to-side of her own volition.

*I should tell her to stop,* Irene thought wearily, *but she is unlikely to hear me. Besides, if this onset of withdrawal sexual excitement is at all comparable to her earlier attacks, she has little if any control over her actions as it is. Best to simply get her back to the cottage and into the privacy of her room as quickly as possible.*
 

 
 
With Irene's permission, Katrina was already above stairs when the carriage neared the cottage. She had fallen half asleep in the sitting room as she waited for the return of her Mistress and their new girl from the ball, thinking about the problems this strange person would have to face in her new life. Privately, Katrina expected that Madame Irene would have the devil's own time getting that one out onto the dance floor. Too stiff-necked by half. The girl needed to shed some of that stuffy English male dignity, and little Mademoiselle Katrina was just the lady to help with that task. Hadn't Ma'amselle Cherie already done that delightful little prank with the honey and cream? It was worthy of a true girl, and she, Katrina, had never seen it coming, had never expected such a joke by a former man.

Of course, she now OWED the girl payback in kind. Katrina had been fond of that silk chemise that had been ruined by the sticky mess. It would take some effort to top that one, though. That truly was a masterpiece and the girl's first try, too.

An unfamiliar and very giddy giggle brought Katrina out of her light doze. Quickly getting to her feet, she smoothed out any wrinkles in her skirts as best she could, and then hurried to the foyer to greet the returning party.

And stopped dead in surprise.

Sherla, her hands doing something very strange beneath her cloak, was swaying awkwardly back and forth as Irene tried gamely to keep the girl on her feet. And that insane giggling was coming from Sherla?? "Madame," Katrina squeaked as she hurried over to help Irene with her burden. "What has happened to la petite Ma'amselle Cherie?"

"Too much champagne and moonlight, Katrina. None of us, least of all Sherla, stopped to consider that *MR* Holmes' ability to consume alcohol might be significantly different than *MISS* Holmes' capacity for such things. The so-very-noble young men at the ball plied her with the bubbles whenever she wasn't dancing."

"Ah, I see," Katrina replied, relaxing. "Oh, Madame?"

"Yes, Katrina?" Irene grunted as she tried to move Sherla's relaxed body toward the girl's bed chamber.

"You said champagne AND moonlight? What moonlight?"

"The next to the last gentleman, and I use the term loosely, she danced with managed to get her out into the garden to take some fresh air. "La petite mademoiselle was looking flushed and it was such a sad crush inside"." Irene quoted in a voice dripping with exaggerated and patently false concern.

"And he what? Had his way with her?" Rage was already building in Katrina's breast at that foul thought.

"No, nothing so damaging. She simply managed to be kissed nearly senseless by her handsome young man."

"Mademoiselle?!?" Katrina's voice squealed in shock, "The girl who used to be an old man permits the dashing young chevalier to kiss her? And LIKES it??!? You are certain of this, Madame?"

"Witnessed it with my own eyes, Katrina, at least the last of it. Fortunately, I came out before it got much beyond a kiss, and I must tell you that our girl does show remarkable promise as a kisser, but I am afraid it would have gone much further and quickly. I think she is experiencing at least a mild relapse of her . . .affliction."

"Ah. . .Ma'amselle Cherie is. . . needy, again, Madame?" *That explains where la petite's hands are and what those clever little fingers are up to beneath that lovely cloak.*

"Just so, Katrina, so I think it would be best if we were to undress her and then provide her the privacy necessary to deal with that problem." Irene gave a fierce yawn. "The sooner the better, too, as I am for my own bed. It has been an exhausting day and THIS one had me awake with the sun this . . .or rather, YESTERDAY morning."

"Help me get her into her room, Madame. I will prepare her for bed. She will not be the first Mistress I have assisted in such a condition."

"I have NEVER . . . " Irene started to protest only to be cut off by Katrina.

"No, my beloved Madame, YOU never, but sadly, you were not my first employer and other women are not so. . . caring as you."

The two women finished installing Sherla in her room in silence. Irene started to leave but stopped. "Katrina, if there is anything I can do, even if you merely wish to talk. . . about things, I have come to care deeply about you. Don't let something fester when I have the resources and the means to help you."

Katrina looked at the older woman, and then smiled broadly. She hurried over to Irene and, going up on tiptoe, kissed the older woman on the cheek. "I know, Madame. It is all right. Now, you must be off to your bed. I will first loosen Mademoiselle Sherla's stays so she can breathe more easily, then come assist you before returning to la petite ma'amselle."
 

 
 
"Come now, Ma'amselle Cherie," Katrina cooed to Sherla when she returned, "Let Tante Katrina ease you out of these heavy clothes."

A muffled sound that might have been 'no' floated up from beneath the coverlette Sherla had pulled over her head. The slender form beneath the tented blanket was moving slowly but sensuously in time to odd, purring little sounds. Katrina only smiled, and began to slide the heavy cover up toward the pillowed head so that she could start the undressing.

Instead of cooperating, however, a giggling Sherla erupted from her hiding place and began to tussle with Katrina. She resisted Katrina's best efforts to disrobe her, and it became clear to the little maid that the intoxicated Sherla was feeling very playful as well as aroused. She decided to use that to her benefit for she was tired as well, and had better things to do than wrestle with this foolish girl. "Non, Non, Ma'amselle, not in the so lovely gown. Madame Irene payed many francs to Madame la Modiste and we should treat it with care. If you wish to play, you must first take off the gown."

"Oh, very well," Sherla said, her lips drawn up into an exaggerated pout, but she stopped her play and lifted her arms to permit Katrina to remove the gown.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Katrina took the gown to the wardrobe and hung it up. She'd have to steam it later to remove the worst of the creases, but it appeared that la petite mademoiselle was neat in her habits, at least. Katrina could find no stains that would cost her hours of effort in the laundry.

Smiling, she turned back to her charge, and then moved over by the bed. "Come, ma petite chou," she encouraged. "Let us deal with your lovely lingerie next since it must also be treated carefully. Then, we shall dress you into your pretty nightgown and put you to bed."

Sherla made it into, or at least on to the bed, much sooner than Katrina had anticipated. So did Katrina, although it was not into or on to Katrina's own bed for Sherla dove at the little maid and carried her headlong into Sherla's mussed bedding. Caught totally by surprise, Katrina did not react until the surprisingly agile and strong Sherla had her prey flat on her back and was straddling Katrina's body with her own.

Each of Sherla's hands held one of Katrina's wrists pinned to the mattress, the smaller girl using weight and leverage to hold the maid down. Disbelieving, Katrina looked up at Sherla and felt her breath catch at what she saw.

Her hair had come loose from the complex array of curls and twists and fell from her head like a black silk waterfall. Sherla's eyes sparkled gleefully with mischief, and something just a little darker. Red lips were parted in a half smile so that the inquisitive tip of Sherla's pink tongue could slip through to moisten them. Katrina's eyes dipped lower to the white silk chemise that barely peaked above the top of the corset and could see the dark, pointed circles where Sherla's nipples had become hard and prominent.

Now, it was Katrina's pulse that began to race, and her mouth that suddenly felt dry as dust. For Katrina had a secret, one she had never dared dream would ever see to the light of day, or the dark of night. Katrina lusted in her heart for Ma'amselle Cherie. She had since the first time she'd seen the lovely young woman, all cold and pale in the coachman's arms. Her interest had only grown stronger with each revelation about the girl's past and about her future, for Madame Irene had felt obligated to warn Katrina of the possible danger Sherla might bring into their lives. So she knew all about Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and while she hadn't understood how it was possible for an old man to become this glorious woman, La Petite Mademoiselle had simply been too ignorant of womanly things to have grown up a girl. Morever, Katrina's hunger had grown with each cautious step the girl had taken towards becoming a woman.

A girl who had been a man and was now a beautiful woman. It fair made Katrina's blood boil just thinking about the possibilities and here, atop her, was the reality.

*Mais non, I must not permit this! She is drunk, intoxicated. She would never do this otherwise and she will regret it tomorrow, and I should hate that more than anything,* Katrina told herself sternly, only to have that secret part of her whisper back, *Mais oui, Katrina, for she has always been a man until a month ago, and what would please the man she once was be a woman, would it not? How could she hate such a gift?*

Katrina was still locked in her internal war of conscience when Sherla leaned down and planted the softest, most tentative, most incredibly sweet kiss Katrina had ever experienced on her lips. Primal instinct defeated the nay-sayer inside her soul, and Katrina pursed her lips and returned the innocently close-mouthed kiss.

"That was nice, but it really wasn't a kiss. Noooooot quite." Sherla said in the childlike tones of the happily intoxicated. "I know that because I was *truly* kissed tonight," she declared, her mouth a bare inch from Katrina's own, "and it was very nice. He did it *verrrry* well," she whispered, slurring the word 'very'. "Do you?" She asked perkily.

"Do I. . .do I WHAT, Mademoiselle?" Katrina asked, not wanting to misinterpret.

"Silly Katrina. Do . . you. . .kiss. .very well, too?" Sherla asked, her voice burbling with a suppressed giggle.

*Merde,* Katrina sighed, *I am lost.* "Why don't you come down here closer and find out, cherie?"

Sherla seemed to give that grave consideration. "I don't know," she finally said. "I might slip my grip on your wrists if you kiss really well, and then you could get away from me. I don't WANT you to get away from me," she assured Katrina gravely. "I like having you here like this. It FEELS good." Sherla gave emphasis to that final statement by giving a little hip wiggle about Katrina's own straddled hips so that the maid *knew* precisely where it felt so very good.

Now, Katrina truly was lost - lost in the sensation and closeness of this remarkable girl. "I promise, my sweet, I won't leave until you tell me I may."

"Word of honor?" Sherla demanded, sounding rather masculine in her insistence, Katrina thought.

"Word of honor," Katrina assured her soon-to-be lover.

Reassured, Sherla let go of Katrina's hands, and lowered herself so that they could hold each other as they kissed. With caution and care, the two women moved their lips together, and instantly ceased to care about anything else.

Much later, Sherla whispered happily, "You kiss MUCH better than he did, Katrina."

A soft, very aroused feminine chuckle answered her. "Let's finish disrobing, Ma'amselle Cherie, and I will show you precisely how well I can kiss."

"Why does taking off clothes have anything to do with kissing?" Sherla wanted to know, "Our lips aren't covered."

Katrina laughed again. "Let us get undressed, my dear, and you will be surprised and pleased at what we uncover."
 

 
 
As it had the morning before, something awoke Irene from a sound sleep. "Not again," she complained, even as she rose from her warm bed. Silently, she padded over to her door and cracked it open. In the half light of dawn, she saw a figure slipping out of Sherla's room. For a moment, Irene thought it was Sherla making another foray into the gardens, but then she observed two very significant problems with that theory.

The figure quietly walking down the stairs was not Sherla, but Katrina, and secondly, Katrina was nude.

Irene stood there, motionless for several minutes, trying to decide what to do, and in the end decided to do nothing immediately. *I will wait and see how Sherla reacts to this before I make any decisions. She is the unknown factor in this puzzle. I know Katrina, and in truth, had expected something like this to occur, though perhaps not quite so soon. Sherla, however, is not the well bred, lovely young miss barely out of the school room that she gives every appearance of being. However, nor is she the sixty some year old man she once was. I must wait, and react to her feelings and responses in this case. Otherwise, I could do irreparable harm to my relationship with Katrina or Sherla or both.*

Fatigue called Irene back to her bed, and she answered. She would need the rest, she told herself, for she would have to be at her very sharpest when this small crisis reached its cusp.
 

 
 
Her body languid with sleepy satiation, Sherla rolled away from the edge of her bed, one arm outstretched and seeking. She came fully awake when her search found nothing but empty bed. She started to sit up and leave the bed when she came down on something hard beneath the covers. Cautiously, she reached between the sheets. Her hands found and closed upon a long, cylindrical object of strange texture.

Cold chills ran up and down Sherla's back as she withdrew and recognized the object, for with that recognition came the memories.

The object itself was truly an exemplary piece of craftsmanship. Having once been greatly attached to a real example of the item the instrument in her hand was modeled upon, Sherla could only gaze at it in wonder and in horror. It was carved from ivory and was perhaps eight inches long from tip to base, and one to one and a half inches in diameter. An ornate hilt, like that of a ceremonial dagger, was attached to the. . .appropriate end of the object. The artisan who had carved it had meticulously mimicked veins and other textures of the original model into the smooth surface of the ivory.

*I believe the French would call this a godemiche,* Sherla thought as she tried to remain controlled. *Very strange name for an phallic symbol. Hmmm. . .what is that brown, almost rusty stain along the trunk, near the head?*

Sherla rose from her bed to take the implement to the window where she could examine it in better light. An ache, deep inside her woman's flesh brought her up short, and told her all she needed to know about the source of the stain. *One must suppose,* she thought, exerting all her will to remain calm and objective, *that this means I am no longer physically a virgin.*

Her calm facade crumbled the very next instant. "OH MY LORD!" she wailed, "Whatever will Katrina and Irene think of me now? I have abused a member of her household with my lusts."

Clutching the phallus in her hand, Sherla threw herself back into the bed, and began to weep. She had most likely just lost the only friends she had left in the world.
 

 
 
Much later, a very subdued Sherla made her way downstairs. She had not wanted to summon Katrina, so she had simply pulled on a nightgown, (she'd been even more horrified when she'd realized she'd spent the night completely nude) her thick velvet robe and her slippers before venturing out to find Irene.

Irene was waiting for Sherla in her library. Whatever the outcome of the confrontation, Irene had determined in her own mind that privacy was the best course, at least in the very beginning. Sherla entered the room, and without invitation or direction, shut and locked the door.

*So, she has reached the same conclusions as I. Not surprising, I suppose. When she was Sherlock, were we not ever opposite sides of the same coin? Hmmmm. . . she has tried to hide it with cosmetics, but she has been crying and her skills are not yet sufficient to the task of hiding a long bout of tears. What does that mean, I wonder? She refuses to meet my eyes, as well.*

"Yes, Sherla?" Irene asked gesturing the girl into a chair. "What can I do for you?"

Sherla folded her hands tightly in her lap, her eyes fixed on the floor between the two women. Finally, she sighed. "I have come to tell you that last night. . . ." a choked sob broke her voice, but she took a deep breath and battled through it, "Last night, I . . .forced myself upon a member of your household. I. . .I threw Katrina to my bed using one of the Oriental techniques I told you about. . .and . . .and had my way with her."

Irene considered that for a very long moment. *So, she takes the blame upon herself, and in so doing, implies that Katrina was both blameless and the injured party. Remarkable person, this Mr-Miss Sherlock-Sherla Holmes. Truth is all and Justice its servant.* "You were in the grips of a relapse of the withdrawal effect, my dear," Irene said gently. "Not as serious as the past ones, but combined with too much wine. . .well, it was a volatile combination."

Sherla's eyes finally met Irene's, and for a moment, the older woman thought she saw hope, only to have that emotion disappear an instant later. "That is no excuse for . . forcing myself upon another person, Madame Adler. If you wish, I shall leave your home today, but I would like to try and apologize to Katrina first."

Standing, Irene walked over to the bell-pull and summoned Katrina, then she unlocked the door before resuming her seat. "Sherla, there is something you should know about Katrina, but I must have her permission first."

The little maid sailed into the room moments later, her smiling face like the sun, particularly when she saw Sherla. "Ma'amselle Cherie, you should have called me to help you dress," she scolded fondly.

Expecting recriminations and imprecations, Sherla was greatly taken aback by Katrina's sunny mood and genuine pleasure at seeing her. Katrina saw this and became worried. *She did not like it,* she thought as her lovely mood evaporated, *and she has come to Madame to complain. Well, you knew this was possible, even likely, but she seemed to enjoy our time so very much.*

"Katrina," Irene said, drawing her maid's attention, "Sherla has just come to me."

"It is all my fault, Madame," Katrina cut her off. "La Petite was, well, somewhat indisposed and I took unfair advantage of her reduced condition. I will pack immedia. . "

"You will do NOTHING except LISTEN," Irene shouted, thoroughly exasperated. "Mademoiselle Sherla has just told me that she forcibly threw you to her bed and took shameful advantage of you. Therefore, she has offered to leave, but wanted to apologize first. What happened, Katrina? Didn't she do it well?"

Surprise, then humor lit Katrina's face. "Mais Non, Madame, Ma'amselle Cherie is very gifted, especially for a complete beginner. It was very, very nice indeed." Now, the maid looked utterly sensual.

"But. . but . ." Sherla stuttered.

"But nothing," Irene finished. "I did not tell you the story of how Katrina came to be in my employ because some small minded people think less of her for something that was not her fault. However, one result of that experience is that our Katrina is a lover of other women. If she shared your bed last night, it was because she wanted to share your bed. Now, did she take unfair advantage of you, Sherla?"

Sherla's mouth opened and closed several times before she could form any words. "No, Irene, it was nothing like that. It was. . . well, lovely. Nothing in my whole life's experience compares with the wonders Katrina introduced to me last night."

"Very well, then," Irene stood and walked to the library door. "I am going for a stroll in the park. You two come to some type of mutual accommodation. Katrina, you already know most of Sherla's story, it would be fair if you shared yours with her. I shall return in an hour and will want my breakfast, so be quick about it!"

"Oui, Madame," Katrina said demurely. "I shall tell her while we prepare your most favorite breakfast for you. Merci, Tante Irene."

Irene nodded and left. Sherla stared at her lover of the night before. "Tante? You called her aunt? She is your aunt and you work as her maid?"

"For the same reason you call her 'tante', goose," Katrina said fondly. "Now, come join me in the kitchen. I shall explain everything to you while I teach you to make fruit compote and crepes."
 

---

 
To Be Continued...

Unable to defeat the addiction-withdrawal syndrome of Moriarty's youth potion,
Holmes is running out of the drug, and faces madness and a horrible death.
Unwilling to concede victory to the Professor, he leaves England
in search of the one person who might still best Holmes' archenemy -

"THE Woman."

 

---

 
Image Credit: Title picture Victorian Woman ~Sephrena.

The model(s) in this image is in / and are no way connected with this story nor supports nor conveys the issues and situations brought up within the story. The model(s) use is solely used for the representation of looks of the main character(s) of this particular story. ~Sephrena.

Free Antique Divider licensed for use from www.designsbyannmargaret.com ~Sephrena.

Legalities: Archiving and reposting of this story *unchanged* is permitted provided that: 1) You must have contacted the author, Tigger, and have asked permission first and received said permission to host this particular work. 2) No fee be charged, either directly or indirectly (this includes so-called "adult checks") or any form of barter or monetary transfers in order to access viewing this work *and* (3) PROVIDED that this disclaimer, all author notes, legalities and attribution to the original author are contained unchanged within the work. 4) The author of this work, Tigger, must be provided free account access at all times the work is hosted in order to modify or remove this work at his sole discretion.

The characters, situations, and places within this work are fictional. Any resemblance between actual people (living or dead), places, or situations is entirely coincidental.

The title picture is the work of its respective photographer. This work, everything other than the title picture, is the copyrighted material of the respective author. ~Tigger.

Caveate Emptor! This story is a work of fiction, intended for mature individuals who enjoy stories with transgender and erotic themes and who are legally permitted to read such stories under the laws of their location. If this does not describe you, then this story is not for you and you should check elsewhere.

In addition, this story drastically departs from what is commonly referred as "The Canon" among Sherlock Holmes enthusiasts. Should this offend you, please read no further. ~Tigger.

Characterizations: This story is based on situations and characterizations found in the Sherlock Holmes stories by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. However, the Irene Adler character is also based on the characterization presented in the Irene Adler novels by Carole Nelson Douglas.~Tigger.

Artwork: Original Artwork graciously donated by Brandy Dewinter.

Acknowledgements: A story of this magnitude (over 1 megabyte of text, 56 chapters in three parts) is not solely the effort of one person. My sincere thanks to:

Brandy Dewinter - Simply stated, without her help, support, guidance and every so often a well intentioned nag, this story would not have happened. I think that about 85% of the words are mine, and the rest are hers, but all of them (mine in particular) are better for her eagle-eye for detail, grammar, theme and plot.

DanielSan - who kept me (almost) honest insofar as my characterization of the main characters and who caught more than a few glaring typos and manglings of the English language (American or English).

Paul1954 - who read my words to ensure that, in my attempt to make my characters sound English-Victorian, I did not make too much a hash of it. I am sure that it was often a painful experience. ~Tigger.

---

 
 
Part II: Veni, Veni, Vici
 
 
Chapter 13. Katrina's Story
 
Later that morning, Irene was back in her library when Sherla entered the room followed by Katrina. Sherla was dressed in a relatively sober dark blue morning dress that was as simple as it was elegant. The only ornamentation on the dress were the tiny pearl buttons down the center of the bodice, and the white lace accents around the collar and the cuffs. It was strangely at odds with the rest of Sherla's toilette for the girl's hair was far less formal, hanging as it was down her back in a single wave of midnight silk. In addition, her cosmetics were somewhat more colorful than one might expect for a lady making a morning call on an acquaintance. *Katrina's work, obviously,* Irene noted, recognizing the styles, *The style looks stunning on Sherla, although she couldn't appear publicly arrayed like this. I wonder what that means.*

"Madame. . ." Katrina started slowly.

"Call her Tante!" Sherla interrupted forcefully, "when we are alone for she has given you that, and it is a great honor and a privilege."

Irene started to make a retort of her own when Katrina merely nodded. "Oui, Mademoiselle Sherla," she said with an unexpected meekness. "Tante Irene," she began again, "I have told Mam. . I mean, Sherla about parts of my life before I came here to you, but could not tell it all. Would you, please, tell her? She needs to know, I think, as much as I needed to know about the danger she posed. I tried, but I cannot seem to get it out."

*So that is the way of it, is it? Well, all I can think is 'Brava, Sherla, well done!' Now, perhaps we can bring this problem to a close. Why, something like this would be just the thing to get Sherla's hand back in, as it were.* "Very well, Katrina-dear," Irene smiled to her young maid. "You may go to the school room for your afternoon studies. I will call you if I need you."

"Merci, Mad. . " Katrina was stopped short by a sharp look from Sherla. She cleared her throat. "Merci, Tante Irene."

Irene watched the girl leave the library, shutting the door behind her. "I appreciate what you are trying to do, Sherla, but until we are absolutely sure of her safety, it might be best if she were to remain in the habit of calling me Madame. If you insist on her calling me 'Tante Irene', she might forget in public, which could be disastrous for her and for my husband and I." She stared at Sherla who finally nodded. "Excellent. Now, perhaps then you might explain your rather eclectic toilette?"

Sherla took a seat without being invited and pinned Irene with a meaning-filled glare. "I have a vile headache," she replied tartly, "As YOU wished I would." Irene could not help smiling and Sherla gave her a sniff - another mannerism learned from the minx, Katrina. "I could not stand having my hair pinned and pulled so Katrina left it down. The cosmetics are from my most recent lesson in the art, and I liked it."

"I see. You spoke while Katrina showed you how to use cosmetics?" Irene asked, thinking this was not the way of the very impatient Mr. Holmes.

"It calmed her to be doing something with her hands and to be concentrating on something else as she spoke. She shrugged at that. "And I needed the instruction."

*Of course you needed it,* Irene thought, *And if weeding the garden or gutting fish for lunch would have distracted Katrina, you would have needed instruction in that, as well. Who are you trying to deceive, Sherla? Me or Sherlock?* Irene cleared her throat and smiled gently. "Godfrey has a preparation he swears by in such circumstances. It tastes vile, but it might help."

"Thank you, but no. The worst is past, and most such preparations involve more alcohol which I do not think my system will tolerate. I need my wits unimpaired if I am to assist you in resolving Katrina's problem. She has explained to me that the role is a disguise, and that you are hiding her from certain unnamed members of the underworld because she helped you with a case. Please explain what happened."

*How very Sherlock her bearing is right now, in spite of that very feminine ensemble, * Irene mused. *'The facts, Madame, if you please. Simply the facts!' I wonder at the difference in technique. Is it because I am not distraught over this as Katrina obviously is, or is the reason for this forthright approach to my interrogation more to do with the fact that I am not your lover?* "Very well. The short of it is that Katrina was instrumental in helping Godfrey and I break up a prostitution and white slavery ring that was preying on young women of the theater in Paris."

"That much I have managed either to wring from or deduce from what Katrina has told me. Please tell me the facts of the case."

Irene began to reach for a cigarette and caught herself. She sighed. "A friend of ours found this very talented, if poorly taught young contralto training at a little known school in one of the seedier sections of Paris. He was about to offer her a contract to sing in the chorus of the Paris Grand Opera, when the girl disappeared. He tried to locate her, but the school was no help whatsoever. Moreover, they were oddly disinterested for an institution that supposedly trains young women for the operatic vocation. Having one of their students perform at the Grand Opera would reflect glory upon them for having trained the girl, and would greatly improve their consequence in the community."

"A rather odd reaction, indeed," Sherla replied contemplatively. "I should have been rather suspicious myself."

"As was our friend. He made some, unfortunately, rather not so discreet inquiries and was attacked and beaten on the street near his home one night soon thereafter. Again unfortunately, he did not make the connection between a beating where nothing was stolen and his search for the missing girl. He continued his inquiries and was again beaten, but this time he was told that if they had to come back a third time, he would be waking with the angels in heaven or the devil in hell.

"At this point you were called in?" Sherla surmised with a smile.

"Precisely. I made my investigations through the stage set while Godfrey disguised himself as a street cleaner and instituted a surveillance on the school. No one in the theater or opera set had ever even heard of this school. Fortunately, Godfrey had more success than I did. Over the course of three weeks, he became quite familiar with those who regularly came and went. Two things caught his notice, however. One was the fact that, as he put it, 'this very nasty looking piece of goods" came to the school one day, about two weeks after Godfrey had begun his watch. She arrived and left by a very expensive, if gaudy carriage, and the next day, two of the more attractive female students no longer attended the classes."

"The gendarmerie was never called in on these 'disappearances'?"

Shaking her head, Irene held up one hand and rubbed her forefinger against her thumb as if fanning a hand full of paper currency. "When we investigated, there were no records of those women at all. We suspect they were young women from the country or from the lower classes who had some singing talent, or thought they did, who would delight in the chance to learn to sing for their living."

"All beautiful?"

"Attractive enough, certainly," Irene agreed. "In any case we decided to follow our only clue - the possible connection between the woman and the disappearance of the two students. The next time she visited the school, Godfrey followed her."

"I hope he has improved at the art of such a covert activity since our mutual adventure in Monaco?" Sherla asked with a smile.

"Well, he wasn't attempting to surveille Mr. Sherlock Holmes of 221B Baker Street this time, but he has improved greatly as a sleuth in our years together," Irene said with great fondness in her voice. "He followed her to a large, walled estate outside Paris. That night, we made an attempt to enter the grounds but found the intervening space between the wall and the house guarded by large, vicious dogs. We barely escaped."

"Interesting, and begs the question - were the dogs to keep someone in or someone out?"

"Both, in my estimation. Godfrey and I were still trying to develop a method for gaining entry that would not involve hurting or otherwise incapacitating the dogs, when our we had our first bit of luck."

"You made your own luck with your most excellent detective work, Irene," Sherla said gravely. "That you were there was a result of that effort."

She waved away the praise and continued. "While we were there looking for weaknesses in their security, that hopelessly gaudy carriage departed the estate through the gates. We noted that the carriage had to stop on both sides of the gate, first to unlock and open it, and then to close and relock it. We thought that, perhaps, we could somehow secret ourselves beneath the frame of their equipage when it stopped to open the gates upon its return, but as it happened, that was unnecessary. Katrina had anticipated our solution for she dropped to the ground from the conveyance's undercarriage once it began moving again following locking the gates. She then rolled for the nearest cover like a little dervish, which happened to be the bushes where Godfrey and I had hidden ourselves."

"A very desperate act on her part - she might easily have fallen too soon or during a turn - been run over by the wheels or attacked by those dogs of yours."

"She had decided that would be preferable to existing in that vile house another instant. We, of course, spirited her away to our home where we got her entire story from her - has she told you that? How her inhuman bastard of a father had sold her to that woman when she'd been but barely sixteen? She is not like other women, Sherla, as you have no doubt surmised. She prefers the love of other women and she has a brain - neither of which were acceptable to her father."

"Is that not a little young, even in France, for a young woman to decide she prefers the touch of women over men?" Sherla asked in disbelief.

"Your all-too-English disdain of things French is showing, my dear. She was a bastard - born on the wrong side of the blanket to a French aristocrat whose antecedents, unfortunately, escaped the kiss of Madame la Guillotine. Her birth and her intelligence made her unsuited for sale in the more socially acceptable marriage mart. It did not, however, affect her value in other, less reputable arenas. Her father raped her when she was but fourteen years old, and continued to do so until he sold her. She turned to the only consolation available - her Mother's maid who introduced her to the ways of Sappho. It was a far gentler and pleasurable introduction than her father had given her."

"I see," Sherla said, her voice suddenly so cold and dangerous that Irene could barely restrain a shiver. "The gaudy woman is a brothel keeper, then?"

"That and worse, Sherla. She called herself Madame de Sade, and it fit her. The torments and horrors she inflicted on those girls to force them to do her bidding were horrible - beyond merely inhuman! The Marquis may have the reputation, my dear, but trust me that no male could ever torment, humiliate or hurt a female like another female. Katrina resisted, as much because it is not in her to tolerate submissively the touch and sexual use of men, as because she has the soul of a lion. Knowing Katrina's preferences, Madame de Sade's punishments were to deny her that, and to make her a torture slave in her dungeon. For enough francs, a man could do almost anything he wished down there. Records we recovered later indicated that as many as fifty young women died down there, their lives paid for in francs and sous. Katrina would have been next among their number had she not escaped when she did. Her name had already been entered in the ledger, along with the negotiated price for her death - ten thousand francs.

"I hope the woman died screaming in agony, locked away in her own damned hellhole," Sherla hissed in fury, the first emotion Irene had seen since the discussion began. "And that certainly explains your concern that Moriarty was involved in such activities.

"Not quite, as I will get to in a moment. As to Madame, I am afraid her death was not so poetically just. She was, however, executed by the French courts if that is any conciliation."

"The French would have granted her far too merciful a death because she was a woman, but at least she is dead. What happened?"

"Nothing very heroic, I am afraid. My husband and I contacted a very reliable and honest official we knew. He closed down the operation and arrested Madame de Sade and her minions. We tried to help the other girls, but for the most part, they disappeared before we could do very much. I worry about them when I permit myself to think of them."

"You saved Katrina," Sherla commented softly.

"Yes we did, and fell in love with her. I had actually discussed with Godfrey the possibility of adopting her when our friend warned us that the Madame did not work alone. Apparently, there was reference to a higher power in Madame's records, someone she had to report to and answer to in matters related to her various criminal operations. In return for a rather sizeable portion of her gross profits, this mysterious individual protected her, and provided her with . . . other services."

"By that I infer you mean such services as murder on demand?"

Irene nodded. "Yes. There were numerous records of officials who became too interested in Madame's business being referred to this person, only to have them disappear forever in relatively short order."

"And you feared for Katrina should her name become public, as it would have to were you to adopt her? You were afraid this individual would try to avenge Madame, or at least, the income her demise cost him?"

"Exactly, my dear. So we took her in and made her, publicly at least, our maid. She is actually family and we are privately educating her so that when she is old enough, she might attend university and make a life for herself. Unfortunately, she has been bitten by my own investigations bug, and thinks to do what I do and have done. I will admit that she has shown a great flair for the work, but I fear that she thinks to rescue other young women such as herself. Given her personal preferences, she has not intent nor desire to wed, so at least she will not have a family to concern her."

"She has you and your husband," Sherla corrected, "and now she has me. But enough of that, some questions, if you will, please." Irene nodded and Sherla began. "Katrina's . . paternal parent, what happened to him?"

That brightened Irene, in a malevolent manner at least. "He is dead - one of the mysterious one's victims on behalf of Madame de Sade. Apparently, he thought to extort more money out of the Madame. He was found stripped, beaten and castrated outside of his country home, his severed male part stuffed into his mouth."

Sherla could not help shifting in her seat, and drawing her legs together as she considered that image. "Oh sit still," Irene admonished, her eyes twinkling, "At least now, you no longer need worry about such things, now do you?"

"As you say," Sherla replied, her voice still uneven, "However, I am more interested in this individual you hide from. There were no indications who he might be? I assume you have used your considerable skills to search him out."

Irene shook her head. "Of course, but it is as if he simply ceased to exist about the time we took in Katrina. Some clues, surely. Initials in one place, a military title in another, and some combinations of all of them. None of it made any sense to our friend or to any of the officials."

Something changed in Sherla's demeanor. "How long has Katrina been with you?"

"Almost four years. She was barely seventeen when she escaped, and was not more than sixteen when that animal sold her to that vile woman."

"That might fit. The father was killed soon after the . . .sale, too, am I correct?" Irene nodded, her expression becoming pensive. "The title, Irene, and the initials. . .do you remember them?" Her voice was now low, very intense and just a little dangerous.

"Why yes, Sherla, the title was Colonel. As for the initials, sometimes it was simply "G". Other times it was AHG or AG. Once it was recorded as Colonel G. Why? Do you know something?"

"Four, almost five years ago, Sherlock Holmes undertook his last mission abroad on behalf of his brother Mycroft. It was a mission so secret that Watson was never told for fear he might forget its great sensitivity. I was sent to neutralize the last known associate of Professor Moriarty - a man who was to Paris and France, what Colonel Moran was to London and England - Moriarty's right hand man and hand picked successor to his role as Lord of the Underworld. This . . person had come to Mycroft's attention by his acquiring of various apparatus and laboratory equipment needed to breed bacteria. It had become clear from Mycroft's investigations that this person intended to develop the bacteria as weapons."

"And this person fits the initials I just gave you?" Irene asked impatiently.

"Colonel Auguste Henri Gilbert, late of the French Army," Sherla said solemnly. "He is dead, Irene, and has been since shortly after Katrina's father was killed. I, or rather Sherlock, engineered his demise in his own foul laboratory. His organization collapsed almost immediately, as had Moran's when Mr. Holmes returned to London to save Watson. There is no one left with the power or the will to come after you or Katrina."

"My lord in heaven," Irene breathed softly, "you mean she is safe at last? I can acknowledge her in society as she has always deserved?"

"She is safe, although whether she wants anything to do with Society is another question, and one which must await another day and time for its answer."

"She deserved so much better than we could give her and still keep her safe, Sherla."

"She seems rather happy with her lot from my observations. Given what she has gone through, it is miraculous that she is so. . open and happy. That speaks volumes about her, and even more about you and your husband. She could so very easily have become one of those lost souls who ultimately end their own lives."

"As you almost did, my dear?" Irene asked gently.

"I was alone when I should not have been, and therefore decided on a permanent solution to a problem I might have later, given time and the help of friends, seen as temporary. She had friends - she had and has you. Now I have you and I have her. I do not think such a false and faulted solution would ever occur to me again."

"Do you wish to be here when I tell her the good news?"

"I think such glad tidings are more appropriately done between. . .Mother and daughter, Irene. There will be other times for all of us to work through this for it is not really over - not for her and not for me." Sherla rose and walked over to the bell pull. "I will be in the music room if either of you need me."

Sherla left the room just as Katrina hurried up from where ever she had been studying. Sherla only smiled at her concerned friend, and waved her into the library.
 

 
The melodies of Liszt and Chopan were filling the music room when Irene and Katrina entered the room. Smiling in welcome, Sherla finished her piece and then turned to her audience. "All is well?" she asked quietly.

"You . . .I mean, Mr. Holmes truly did away with that evil man?" Katrina asked, her English becoming heavily accented in her emotional turmoil. Sherla nodded. "Mada. . I mean, Maman has given me this that I might give it to you," Katrina said as she pulled a long, black leather case from behind her back.

Sherla all but pounced on it, opening the case with pure glee on her lovely face. With reverent hands, she lifted the glossy violin from the red-felt lined interior of the case, and then reached for the bow. "May I try it?" She asked, almost hesitantly.

"Of course you may," Irene huffed. "I don't play the violin, and besides, I purchased it for you. My friend in Paris Orchestra says it is a superb instrument, if not a Stradivarius, but none of those were on the market just now.

Sherla quickly tested and tuned the instrument, and then putting it to her chin, drew the bow across the strings. She sighed in rapturous bliss. Without further ado, the other two women were treated to an impromptu concert, and if an occasional note was a bit off when Sherla neglected to compensate for her reduced finger reach, no one complained. Soon, Irene was accompanying Sherla on the piano.

The pair, with Katrina as their rapt audience, played on well into the afternoon until the sound of their music could no longer drown out the growling of the empty stomachs. Reluctantly, they called an end to their idyllic moment to feed another, more earthly hunger.
 

 
 
Entry in the Journal of Miss Sherla Joan Holmes

Date: February 25, 1911

Location: Irene Adler's Home outside of Paris France.

Time: 6:33 P.M.

My Dear Doctor Watson: It has been a most edifying time since I last wrote within these pages. I have had many new experiences, some positive and others not so very positive, but all of them enlightening in their own way. The ball went well, I think. No, that is unfair for I am working too hard to be "holmes-ish" in this journal, as if by doing so I give lie to the fact that my life and my outlook are changing as much as have my physique. I must be honest in this journal otherwise I am lying to myself which is perhaps the greatest sin of all. The ball was lovely! Wonderful! A marvelous experience of sight, and sound, of scent and flavor. I had a most wonderful time dancing, and truth to tell, I now regret having argued with Irene about those other six dances - although I must admit that my new corset did have me breathing rather heavily after the more energetic dances. I do wonder, however, if women who were born females laugh behind their fans as I did at the antics of the young men at the ball - young peacocks strutting their plumage before an unattached peahen in hopes of earning a peck or two of her favors. I must tell you that I have been unable to decide which of two choices earns the prize as the absolute worst aspect of this high society rite of courtship. On one hand there is the positively awful poetry they seem to think they must create and then inflict upon any poor female with the sound of their voices. I refuse to dignify any of it by attempting to remember it so that I may write it down here. Heavens above, John, immortalizing such clap trap would be a crime against art. On the other hand, however, are the absolutely hilarious "compliments" these young chevaliers bestow upon my and other ladies' heads. Heavens, John, if I had not been wearing gloves, one of those high-born fools would have sung the praises of the shape of my hangnails, or pontificated on the mysteries of the sweat patterns on my palms. Amazing. Another thing I have learned again, and which I should not have had need to learn again, is that I now have absolutely NO head for spirits. I became quite the giddy fool on a relatively small portion of champagne and nearly made a worse fool of myself, much to Irene's dismay. Fortunately, THE Woman emerged victorious from the fray, and we managed our escape only slightly scathed. I have discovered, that while the worst of Moriarty's foul withdrawal is past, I am still highly susceptible to the sexual demons of the flesh. And of all things, John, with a MAN!! Oh yes, I know, I know. I am a woman and starting to think like one more and more, and yes, man and woman together is nature's way of it, but curse it all, John, part of me still thinks like a man. This very good looking (yes, I noticed) young man lured me out into the moonlight and kissed me. Yes, I was well and truly inebriated by that time, and he did surprise me, but once he had me lip-to-lip? I wanted to consume him whole, John. Or be consumed by him. I was not rational enough during our. . . exchange to know quite which. At some point, the combination of the alcohol and the kiss reignited a need in me that matched my withdrawal experiences. Irene claims that had she not arrived on the scene when she did, I would have been inviting the fellow to do far more than just kiss me. I cannot say, for I do not feel that way about him right now, sober and no longer needful of physical satiation, and while Irene might not tell me a truth if she thinks it best, I do not believe that *she* believes she is exaggerating the case. Oddly enough, John, an old case of Sherlock's came up tonight - one which you were never made privy to for reasons of security. Suffice it to say, Sherlock's activities on that particular instance have done both Irene and Katrina a singular service. That pleases me greatly. I seem to have finished my size reduction, John, as none of my measurements have changed over the past several days. Oh, except for my waist and it is not for the reason you think. I have convinced Irene, and almost convinced Katrina, that I do not WISH to have a sixteen inch waist measurement. While I do admit I look magnificent laced down to such small dimensions, it does not suit my needs to have my abdominal and lower back muscles weakened as they would be were I to continue such tight figure training. We have agreed that I shall keep a nominal 19 to 20 inch waist with a lacing down to 17 to 18 inches for special occasions. Now all I must do is convince Katrina that waking up in the morning is NOT a special occasion. Irene's fencing lessons with me will keep those muscles strong so that when I go to face Moriarty, I will have the necessary freedom of movement to do what must be done. Katrina's question was if she could resume "properly seeing to your middle once this foolishness is over." I think, my friend, that I shall have to work long and hard to find a reason she will find adequate NOT to lace as she becomes dreamy-eyed whenever she mentions the words "sixteen", "inches" and "waist" in a single sentence that refers to me. And I will have a very difficult time denying her that pleasure, because perhaps the most incredible experience of all is that I have, for the first time in either of my two lives, made love with another person. Katrina to be precise. I must tell you, that I do not recall as much of it as I would wish, but what I do remember is delightful beyond my poor ability with words to describe adequately. I now know, John, or at least have glimpsed, what you must have shared and then sadly lost with your Mary. Nothing Sherlock experienced in his life compares to what I felt last night. It is something akin to being blind from birth and waking up one morning with perfect vision. I know that this expression of physical love between two female creatures is a violation of the laws of man and church, John, but am I truly a woman? Certainly a great deal of me is, and becoming more so by the day, but I am still the sum total of what once was Sherlock Holmes, a man. Do I make love with my body or with my mind? A pretty puzzle, eh? I shall consider it, but I shall not deny myself the pleasure and the love I have found in Katrina's arms while I do so. The last thing I have learned is that there has been far, far, far too little love in my life. .. lives, and I never before knew how great that lack truly was. I shall not give it up now that I have discovered it. However, the most important thing I have to tell you is that Katrina and Irene gave me a new violin today, a truly beautiful instrument. We spent the better part of the afternoon in the music room making music together. I must say, John, that this was the most lovely afternoon I can ever remember. Certainly far better than any I endured as a child. Even the challenge of a stimulating investigation never soothed to my inner spirit as did those few hours spent making music and friendship. Good night, John. It is time for the evening meal.

End Journal Entry.
 
 
Chapter 14. Moriarty's Gambit
 
Moriarty sipped his morning coffee and barely stifled an undignified sigh of quiet satisfaction that had nothing to do with the current state of progress in the laboratory. It had everything to do with the scheme he had put into motion yesterday morning. *It is as if I were once again fully alive after years spent in a fugue. Exhilarating,* he mused, *MOST exhilarating.*

A servant came in to clear away the dishes as Moriarty rose and left the table. He walked to a nearby window and gazed out over the pristine purity of the snow covered grounds. There, he permitted himself a small chuckle. *How appropriate that the first major public act of my return to the Continent should be such a finely-designed crime, forged in the heavenly solitude of such a peaceful setting. This is my destiny, to control the lesser beings of the world from a setting of tranquility, as far above their petty struggles as my own intellect is above their near imbecilities.*

*Soon, very soon, assuming the trains are on schedule,* he exulted in excited anticipation. Moriarty's smile grew wider as the picture slowly formed and became vivid before his mind's eye. Dozens of people dead or dying painfully so that one man could disappear without his disappearance being noticed. *It has been far too long since I have wielded the heady power of life and death so fully, and yet, so delicately. Any ham-handed fool with a gun can end the lives of tens of people before he is finally stopped and killed himself,* Moriarty thought with happy self congratulation, *Just as any idiot can commit a kidnapping to no other purpose than mere and too often unrealized monetary gain, but only I could conceive of murder on such a scale as a diversion for a purposeful abduction, and make it all look accidental. And the first step in the scheme to flush the quarry was sweet, as well. The authorities on the Swiss side of the border will be far too busy with more pressing matters to assist the French in their investigations until it is far too late. The trail will be cold.*

Thoroughly pleased with himself, Moriarty left the window for his laboratory to check up on Professor Haber. As he walked, one last thought occurred to him. "Wouldn't this have driven Holmes mad?"
 

 
Sherla, Irene and Katrina, dressed in warm day gowns and floor length woolen cloaks, waited in the cold mist of their own breath at the door to the university guest house. Thankfully, this would be their fourth and final call of the day and their next stop would be Irene's cozy cottage. They had, over the course of their day, refined their plan to a elegantly and precisely choreographed dance. Irene would charm the scientist while Sherla would listen carefully, and ask any pointed questions once Irene had him at ease and unguarded. While they were so occupied, Katrina would subtly interrogate the staff below stairs in her role as maid-companion to Mademoiselle Sherla.

The door opened and a austerely dignified butler of mature years appeared from within. With grave courtesy, he accepted Irene's calling card, and bid then wait in the front parlor while he announced their arrival. Sherla had to consciously restrain herself from pacing as they awaited Dr. Buchner's arrival. This man was too well connected in the biological chemistry academic world of Europe not to have noticed if anything suddenly happened to any of his colleagues. They had learned a great deal of useful information from the other scientists, but none of what they had gleaned was conclusive. They had new avenues of inquiry, but those would require a great deal of time and effort to run to ground.

While she had no firm evidence upon which to base the conviction, Sherla was becoming ever more certain that time was a commodity that was becoming increasingly short in supply. Some instinct to which she did not wish to give credence was screaming that something was about to happen, and that there was little, if anything, she would be able to do about it. It was a most disconcerting sensation.

"Ah, Madame Irene, Mademoiselle Sherla," Frau Buchner greeted them brightly as she hurried into the room. "I am so glad to see you both, but I am afraid that your visit is in vain, Mademoiselle," she said turning her full attention to Sherla. "My husband will not be able to discuss your researches as he is no longer here in Paris."

"Oh," Irene asked quickly to forestall Sherla who would have, Irene was sure, badgered the woman unmercifully in her disappointment. "And when will Monsieur le Docteur return?"

The plump blond gave a small smile of apology. "Not anytime soon, I am afraid, Madame Irene. Just yesterday morning, he was received direction from the head of his university that Eduard was needed in Zurich. He has been working with a colleague there on some very special research. They like to pretend that it is all so very great a secret, and so I suppose it was - from me - but their friends on the faculties of their respective universities apparently know what they are about.

"As to why my husband had to leave, evidently there was a serious accident involving the chemicals and other compounds he and his partner work with. The local officials wanted someone knowledgeable with the experiments as several persons, including my husband's partner, are gravely ill due to exposure to these chemicals. The other members of the faculty told the police about my husband's relationship with their fellow faculty member. He was called to come help them neutralize the chemicals before anyone else becomes ill. The chemicals must be very dangerous for my husband barely waited to pack his clothing and his research notes. He left by the late afternoon train yesterday. I do apologize, Madame, for I quite forgot his appointment with you. It was, I am afraid, a very confused situation as we tried to get him packed and on his way. He will meet me at home in Germany after he is finished in Switzerland."

Irene saw the strange look on Sherla's face and knew something was bothering the girl. "Perhaps, Madame, we might still have our visit later. My niece and I will be visiting Germany later in the spring. Perhaps, we might call upon you then?"

Frau Buchner looked uncertain. "My husband is particularly busy when he is home and in his laboratory. Perhaps you might contact us closer to the date of your visit? It might be simpler to arrange such a visit at that time."

"I understand perfectly, Madame. We will send you a note and endeavor to have our visit later. If we might have your card, please, so that I can write you?" Irene's voice was off-handedly reasonable.

"Certainly," Frau Buchner said with a relieved smile, and then hurried off to obtain one of her husband's calling cards.
 

 
"He's avoiding speaking with us," Sherla fumed as she seated herself in Irene's carriage. "He has decided that we are naught but silly females and therefore not worth the waste of his so- very valuable time. I'll wager he was somewhere in the house laughing at our effrontery for wishing to discuss his special area of expertise with him as if we might be colleagues."

Her frustrated anger earned her a merry laugh from Irene, "My dear Sherla, I would make a very large bet that the Professor is indeed gone away. No man who is not blind, deaf, and feeble-minded - OR who is not Mr. Sherlock Holmes - would turn down a chance to spend a bit of time with a young woman as lovely as you."

"That is true, Madame," said Katrina, then blushed as she realized that in fact ALL of it was true. But she continued, "Non, Ma'amselle Cherie. I spoke with the housekeeper and she is still very put out over the unexpected and sudden manner in which Monsieur le Docteur departed. Very disruptive to her well ordered house."

"Hmmmm, yes," Irene said quietly. "I do not think Madame la Docteur's Frau is a very skilled prevaricator. I think we can assume that Buchner did leave yesterday. Odd, though. My understanding is that this conference is a very important event for scientists such as Buchner and the others. The individual in Zurich must be very important indeed."

"Buchner is reputed to be a very organized and meticulous individual," Sherla mused aloud. "A wild departure such as this would not have gone well with him," Sherla turned to Katrina. "Any mention of him appearing to be angry or upset at this sudden, and by all accounts, unanticipated summons?"

"Non, Ma'amselle Cherie. Just that he was most anxious to be on his way."

Sherla stamped her foot against the carriage floor. "Blast! I was so certain that his intimate knowledge of the international chemistry world would prove to be decisive in shattering the veil of secrecy Moriarty has spun about his current activities. Now, our investigations will be quite tedious and lengthy researches of special chemicals and experimental apparatus that may or may not prove fruitful."

"I have contacts who are quite capable of following trails of such minutia, my dear. We can continue your education in the arts of being a modern social female," Irene said with a grin.

"Well, since I am already excelling at those lessons, Madame," Sherla replied, "I know precisely what I wish done as soon as we are safely within the cottage."

"Oh?" Irene asked lightly, "And what might that be, my dear?"

"I want these thrice cursed stays loosened!"

"Mais, non," Katrina interjected. "You are so lovely like that, Ma'amselle Cherie. And besides, you are only laced but a hair's breadth beneath nineteen of your English inches."

"We will check, Miss Sly Boots, when we arrive, AND we will use *my* measuring tape. I am not so certain I trust you where my middle is concerned."
 

 
 
Entry in the Journal of Miss Sherla Joan Holmes

Date: February 26, 1911

Location: Irene Adler's Home outside of Paris France.

Time: 5:34 P.M.

My Dear Doctor Watson: We met with three of the four scientists today. If I did not feel that our time to find and stop Moriarty grows dangerously shorter by the minute, I would have concluded that our excursion was highly successful. Given sufficient time, I am sure the clues provided by our unwitting informants will ultimately lead us to our quarry. Only I cannot shake this notion, this certitude that Moriarty is about to make some significant move. And we are ill prepared for to meet this thrust of his, John, whatever it is. On a more pleasant note, I am happy to report that I won a minor victory today, John. Katrina WAS using a somewhat shortened measure tape when lacing me down. The little minx. Her nineteen inches was nearly and inch and half less than that. Irene said she would speak to her. Hopefully, she will understand that I need I cannot afford to have any of my muscles intentionally weakened if I am to have any chance of success in my fast approaching face-to-face conflict with Professor Moriarty. Oh stuff! I nearly wrote "mano e mano", John. What is it now? "Femma e mano"? Lacks something of the dramatic, I think. Battle of the Sexes sounds too much like the title of one of those dreadful novels that Katrina is forever reading. And that is something else about being female that is taking a great deal of getting used to, John. Women are distinctly limited in their cursing, at least they are if they wish to remain "a socially acceptable female." I don't mind telling you, old friend, but I am beginning to think that "socially acceptable female" would make a perfectly worthy epithet all on its own merits. Might be rather satisfying to tell someone "May you devolve into a socially acceptable female." Oh well. As for Katrina, when she isn't attempting to cut me in half with a corset, she is actually a very good friend. More than a friend as she spent the night with me again last night, John. I can quite happily report that making love is even more exquisite when your senses are not dulled by drink. A discovery that has given me cause to reflect on my prior life. How many other such beautiful experiences have I denied myself, John? How many times, old friend, did I ignore your well- intentioned advice on matters of pleasures and joy in favor of intellectual purity? Had I met someone like Katrina in those days, someone who could and would teach me the joys I have since learned, would I have sought the mind-dulling kiss of hypodermic? I suppose we will never know, but given what I know now, I cannot see how even narrow-viewed and overly-focused Mr. Sherlock Holmes could be so dense. I know I told you that I have decided I want to live, old friend, and I must admit that such new experiences, many of them of the flesh, are a large part of my conversion to that desire. Once the issue of Moriarty is over and done with, I may consider becoming a rather dissolute lady of leisure. And would that be so bad? If I were to observe the person I have become objectively, I would look at these slender, soft hands and deduce that they had never felt a callus. I would note the cascading waves of sleek black hair that I just cannot seem to bear to braid and see the results of hours spent brushing it into shining perfection. I might well conclude that this body I now wear would seem to have been intended for the softer pastimes of a lady, not the coarse indignities of criminal investigation. In truth, John, I do not know if I am becoming vain or if I still cannot believe the evidence of my own eyes, but I cannot pass a mirror by without stopping to look at myself. Not only that, but what I see in those dark, silver-highlighted depths is always a surprise - particularly since Katrina has begun teaching me the finer nuances of women's cosmetics. Such a devious little creature, John. I think you would like her, as I now do myself. Well, perhaps not QUITE as I do right now. Have I just made a lewd jest? How interesting. Didn't know I had it in me, eh John? Back to my earlier point. Perhaps I have always been vain, but I have to admit that as Sherlock I took some solace in the belief that my admittedly-prominent nose was useful and aided me in discerning subtleties of scents at a crime scene. I now must confess that was the most foolish of vanities, because the pert button that now adorns Sherla's face is ever so much more sensitive than the so-much-larger one that had dominated Sherlock's appearance. What I know of optics implies that eyes must be of a certain size for clear vision, so it is no surprise that my eyes appear so large in my much smaller face. But they appear so expressive as well, despite the depth implied by their dark color. I fear that I will need to school those eyes most carefully or I shall never again be able to put forth a credible bluff. Irene has been working with me on developing that bit of feminine guile. Oh, there I go, giving away the jest. Of course I am not giving up detecting. T'would be easier to give up breathing, but I am going to enjoy being what I have become as well. Miss Sherla Holmes, Consulting Detective, is a far more joyful person than was Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective. Thank God. Forgive me that unladylike epithet, John. In any case, to continue my earlier discourse, I must conclude that I am indeed quite vain, for I find that I daily take greater pride in my feminine bounty. The tightness of my corset is foolish and a bother, but the swell of my bosom is quite noticeable on my small frame. I believe that I am more amply endowed than that minx Katrina, an effect made much more dramatic by the petite delicacy of my other features. All in all, I have come to realize that I am quite pretty, and surprisingly, I am quite pleased by that realization. I no longer consider the time spent enhancing my appearance to be time wasted. Indeed, since Katrina insists, even after being freed of her fear of Moriarty's long-dead henchman, on playing my maid, time spent in that endeavor is very pleasant indeed. Yes, old friend, I know what you are thinking, and you are correct. I am becoming a woman in all ways that matter. There are rewards in that, John, rewards that I would never have understood nor accepted in the old days at Baker Street. I only know that my having realized and accepted that very basic truth has everything to do with my daily increasing joy at having survived Moriarty's potion, and with my decision to continue living following his imminent demise. I find that contemplating such a life is a very pleasant thing, in and of itself. Good afternoon, old friend.

End Journal Entry.
 
 
Sherla set aside the diary and had just risen from her desk when her door burst open to reveal a surprisingly agitated Irene.

"What is it, Irene?" She asked moving over to take the older woman's hand.

Irene held out the newspaper she was holding in her hand. Sherla took it and immediately went pale. She scanned the article quickly, but the headline told the entire tale.

"TRAIN DISASTER IN SWITZERLAND. ALL PASSENGERS DEAD IN DERAILMENT AND FIRE!"

"The train Buchner was embarked upon?"

"He is mentioned in the article by name, but thus far the dead have, for the most part, gone unidentified. The paper hints that a fire spread very rapidly, consuming most of the train and those aboard. The article also mentions that there a many wolves in the area who are typically near starvation at this time of the year."

Sherla read the article more carefully and set it aside. "It may be precisely what they say it is, Irene, a tragic accident."

"But you don't think so any more than I do," Irene retorted.

"No, I don't think so, Irene, but I am without any evidence to support that conviction," Sherla admitted almost shyly, "But every fiber of my being is screaming that this is not a terrible accident caused by a mechanical failure at precisely the worst possible location."

"Then we must assume that this. . . travesty may be a terrible act of murder designed to look like a terrible accident. Why kill Professor Buchner?"

"A very good question, Irene, but one we don't dare concern ourselves with as yet. The article states that the dead are unidentified which means that the survivors may not be either, particularly if they are no longer in the vicinity of the train."

"You are saying that he may not be dead," Irene said slowly.

Sherla nodded. "*ONE* possible answer is that he is not dead. The press is not usually interested in pleasant news so they tell of the dead and not the living. He might be there waiting, or he might have wandered off. There is, however, a third option we must consider. I told you he was acknowledged as the best in Europe in a field in which Professor Moriarty has reason to be interested. However, Buchner's very visibility would seem to make him invulnerable to abduction." Sherla sat quietly on the stool in front of her vanity. Her fingers began stroking her midnight locks as her mind thought of the various possibilities. "Unless. . . . Irene, I need to see the scene."

Irene nodded. "That was my own reaction, and I may have an idea as to how we can achieve that end." At that, Sherla's head came up, her eyebrows cocked upward in query. "Frau Buchner. She might wish some feminine support when she goes to the scene herself. You saw where the article said that a train with wives and next of kin would be taken to the site tomorrow?"

"You believe we can manage to be with her on that train?"

"Watch and learn, infant." Irene said, a dark, determined smile crossing her face. "I will tell Katrina to pack our warmest clothes. Winter in the Alps will be far colder than here in Paris."
 
 
Chapter 15. Back on the Trail
 
Sherla was still shaking her head, this time in disbelief, three hours later when the three women boarded the special train assigned to convey relatives of the dead to the site. Frau Buchner had shown nothing but tearful gratitude for what Sherla had been certain should have been perceived as unwelcome busybody behavior. Certainly, no one in Sherla OR Sherlock's prior experience would have so readily welcomed the support of near strangers at a time such as this.

Unable to resist any longer, Sherla had pulled Irene aside once they had arrived at the train station, and asked why the woman was so willing to permit Irene to take charge as she had.

"I told you earlier, my dear, that she was not a woman of independent mind. Her husband is her whole world because he tells her what to do and when to do it. I merely stepped into that role and she was pleased to permit me for it relieved her of the responsibility."

"But you are a stranger to her. Doesn't she feel that might be dangerous? You could be a thief or worse. I do not understand her thinking in this at all," an increasingly frustrated Sherla had asked.

"There is a fundamental difference between men and women, Sherla, that your past experiences would not have revealed to you. Perhaps I have some insight into that since I am a woman who has been forced to function in a man's world - sometimes on their terms. Men are problem solvers. Their self-image, and ultimately their pride, derives from their ability to overcome the obstacles of life from their own resources and abilities. To seek or even accept aid implies a failure to solve their own problems themselves."

"Women, on the other hand, do not face this same imperative. Whether this is merely cultural or inherent in our biology I do not know. It may be a holdover from the times when men went out to hunt and women stayed together in the village. But women can give and receive aid with no loss of pride, and so we do."

Irene smiled, took Sherla's arm in hers, and led her back toward the spot where Katrina and Frau Buchner waited for the boarding call. Then she put her mouth to Sherla's ear. "Did you not come to me, dear?" She whispered, "and did I not offer my help before I knew or believed the truth about you?"

That conversation and what it implied about the feminine sex had bothered Sherla ever since they had boarded the train and taken their compartments. It bespoke a spirit of giving and of nobility that would have shamed most men. It was a perplexing problem, and one she would have to work on for some time to come.

Sighing, she reached into the small bag she had carried on to the train with her, and pulled out her embroidery sampler. Perhaps this time, she wouldn't grace the white linen with nearly so much of her blood.
 

 
They stopped at a village a few miles short of the site of the derailment, for nightfall came quickly in the mountains, and the guards did not want to be there in the open when darkness and the wolves arrived. Several women had argued with this decision, wanting to press on and save what might be left of their husbands. Sherla resisted the urge to tell the women to face reality for it was clear to her that anyone who might have survived the accident had been forced to face a day and two nights in the wilderness. There would be no survivors.

At least, none who had survived on their own.

Dinner that evening was simple, hearty, country fare. Potatoes and other root cellar vegetables in a cheese sauce, served with lamb. It was quite tasty, but very few of the women had any appetite as they all thought about the grizzly task that lay before them the following day.

Except Sherla, who initially ate with great relish until Irene kicked her beneath the table. A quick shake of her head and a pointed look at the other women told Sherla she needed to behave more circumspectly, which was sad. The casserole WAS delicious and Sherla had been starved after the long day and trip on the train.

"Eat like a lady in public, Sherla," Irene hissed into her companion's ear, "Or I shall not permit Katrina to loosen your stays until bedtime until we return home!"

That thought effectively spoiled Sherla's appetite for the remainder of the meal.

Things improved little when it came time to retire for the night. The quaint country inn was ill suited to such a crowd for it was normally only a refreshment stop and did not under ordinary circumstances take in so many overnight guests. Filled quite literally to its aged rafters, the inn housed the many women as best as could be done given the circumstances. Irene, Frau Buchner, Sherla and Katrina would be sharing a small, one bed- room - Irene and the Frau sharing the bed, Sherla and Katrina bundling on the floor.

"It's like a house-party," Irene had said when Sherla had grumbled about sleeping on the floor like a child. "Consider it one of the lessons you should have learned as a young girl, dear."

Sherla thought about responding vulgarly, but the arrival of Frau Buchner precluded that. *At least I am still sleeping with Katrina,* she thought by way of making do with what she had.

Except that it did not turn out quite the way she envisioned when they were finally all snuggled down into the heavy sleeping quilts the inn provided against the cold.

"Mais non, Ma'amselle Cherie," Katrina had hissed when Sherla had teasingly run a single sharp nail down her lover's ribs. "We must not! Madame la Docteur's wife is up there with Madame Irene and she will hear us."

Aroused as she always was when her body was in close contact with Katrina, Sherla hissed back, "So? Then we will be quiet."

"You?! Quiet?" Katrina hissed sarcastically. "Hah! You squeal, most sweetly to be sure, but like the baby pig when you reach your satisfaction. Non, we cannot chance it. You must make the trip to the train wreck tomorrow, and may not be able to if Madame La Docteur's wife is upset with you or believes you to be immoral. Now, roll over and go to sleep!"

"But. . ." Sherla was feeling the need. She did roll over, but almost immediately began slowly stroking herself below the covers, trying to "solve" her problem quietly.

Katrina felt the subtle movement of arm and hip, correctly guessing its cause. Leaning close, Katrina brought her hand down sharply on Sherla's shapely bottom, and sternly whispered in her lover's ear, "Cherie, you cannot do this. I already told you that you make too much noise when you reach the goal toward which you strive, no matter how quiet you are right now."

But the demand of her body was already too intense, too strong, and was made stronger still by the heat on her spanked buttock. Sherla could not stop. "But I must! Oh, Katrina, I burn!"

"Non, you must not," Katrina hissed, snaking her hands around Sherla to capture the girl's hands and hold them still.

Katrina missed, and Sherla whirled out of her grasp within the covers, turning to face her lover and smother her face in kisses no less desperate for their eerie silence. "Oooo, but Katrina, I need you. I'll even let you spank me again, if that is what it takes for you to help me." Sherla whispered when her mouth wasn't otherwise occupied with Katrina's lips.

Katrina reached again for Sherla's hands, this time successfully, and forced both wrists behind the petite mademoiselle's back. That goal accomplished, she sought to still Sherla's shuddering body by laying upon her lover, but to no avail. Sherla, delighted with the press of Katrina's lovely feminine body upon her own, squirmed ever more vigorously under the maid's weight, blindly seeking the stimulation her body demanded.

Perhaps it was the sense of having her hands bound behind her - and what did that say about those ideas that Irene had once so blithely hinted at? - but in a few minutes it was obvious from her panting breaths that Sherla would make noise, regardless of the price to be paid later.

Katrina did what she could, capturing Sherla's mouth in her own and swallowing the sound that emerged. A few muffled cries escaped, more like the distant whimper of a kitten than the howls that so often accompanied Sherla's successes, but it could not be helped.

Eventually Sherla relaxed, limp and again breathing more naturally. When she was sure there would not be a repeat encounter, Katrina relaxed as well, letting go of the arms of her lover and friend.

"What was that?" Frau Buchner's drowsy voice called from the darkness above them.

Katrina closed her eyes in resignation, but Sherla's wits saved them. "Your pardon, Frau Buchner. I am afraid I had a bad dream and Katrina had to wake me."

"Oui, Madame," Katrina put in, "She was struggling ever so hard and I am afraid I had to become rather forceful with her."

"I knew bringing impressionable young women along on such a sad affair would be a mistake." the older woman half spoke, half muttered.

"I shall be all right now, Frau Buchner. Please forgive me for waking you."

Frau Buchner mumbled something vaguely affirmative and rolled over in the bed. Both girls listened silently in the dark, wondering if they had compromised their standing with Frau Buchner, but all they heard was a purring snore that indicated she had obliviously fallen back to sleep.

"Now be quiet!" Katrina hissed.

"Yes, my love," Sherla purred in her ear, then let just a hint of giggle into her soft tones as she said, "Next time, I get to hold your arms, even if I have to find some rope to do it," she promised before adding, "Do YOU like getting spanked, Katrina- dear?"

"Perhaps," Katrina said as she rolled over, "And then again, perhaps not. We will have to see, won't we? That is, if you are able to carry out your so very brave boast, *little* one."

Sherla's mouth went wide, and then curled into a feline smile of her own. They would see, and very soon. VERY soon.

In the morning, Irene smirked at the still cautious pair after Frau Buchner had left the three of them alone. "You never told me you were bothered with nightmares, Sherla. From the sounds you made, that . . . dream must have been rather. . . intense." Then she walked off after Frau Buchner, leaving the two girls speechless in her wake.
 

 
The scene of the train wreck should not have belonged to the earth, but rather to some especially deep, uncharted region of hell. Very little remained of what had been a well appointed and luxurious conveyance: some metal frames, a few cast iron heat stoves lying precariously on their sides, shards of broken window glass that had fallen to the ground and shattered, and the heavy iron wheels that had once carried the massive train cars. Everything not made of metal . . . or bone, had been consumed in the hellish fires that had followed the derailment. Some sets of the wheels had actually ridden up onto the wheels of the car ahead of them, an indication, Sherla thought, of just how quickly and suddenly the train had been forced to a stop.

The locomotive itself was completely off the tracks and was laying on its side, its long dimension nearly perpendicular to the tracks as the momentum of the cars behind it had pushed its back end forward before stopping. The huge water tank had been breeched by the by the explosion of the boiler. Melted snow and the remnants of locomotive's water supply had pooled to form a small ice-lake about its burnt and scorched metal body.

Sherla had taken this all in, along with the appalling stench of other things burnt - metal, wood, fabric, but most horrifically, human flesh. The fire must have been hellishly hot for the snow and ice had melted for as much as ten feet on either side of the track.

Then she saw her first . . . remains. Actually, what she saw first was but a skull - a child in so far as she could tell for the blackened shell of bone was very small. Then Sherla saw another charred skeleton, lying over the torso of the first. A flash of gold caught Sherla's eye, and she realized it was all that remained of some piece of jewelry. Moving closer, she saw the dim sparkle of precious gems peaking out from the misshapen clump of gold. It had once been an expensive item, Sherla mused, a brooch, perhaps, and that meant that this was a Mother and a child, and that the Mother had tried to save her child with her own body.

Tears suddenly burned at Sherla's eyes and she spun away from the frightful scene, her hands clutching fiercely at the unusually large reticule she'd brought with her from the inn.

A firm yet gentle hand gripped her shoulder, making her jump and spin, ready to protect herself. "Easy, Sherla," Irene said softly.

"Oh, god, Irene," Sherla hissed out on a half sob as she fell into the startled older woman's arms. Then she saw what Sherla had seen, and understood.

She held the girl for several minutes, letting her weep. When she felt the tide beginning to wane, she took Sherla by the shoulders and held her away so that their eyes could meet. "What you just saw is a terrible thing, my love, but it is far more than merely terrible if someone did this intentionally. That is what we feared and what we have come here to ascertain. I have seen and spoken with the man in charge of the investigation and he has already decided that this was all simply a tragic accident. His mind is made up and he is merely going through the motions of an investigation. You are the only hope that child and his mother have for justice. YOU must find the truth. I will help, of course, but I have never dealt with anything of this scale before. I am afraid I am not even certain where to begin."

For more long seconds, Sherla could only stare blankly at Irene, and then her face cleared, the tears dried and her visage hardened. "Irene?" Sherla said in a cold, hard voice. "I need to know what the inspectors have found. I have to know what they base their conclusion on."

Irene considered that, looked at Sherla, and seemed to consider yet again. "There might be a way, but it all depends on you charming the man in charge."

"Me??!?" Sherla all but squeaked.

"Remember what I told you about Doctor Buchner. You are a young, beautiful woman, my dear. You must charm him, make him want to bask in the glow of your girlish admiration for his brilliance as an investigator."

"And how do I do that?" Sherla hissed back at her pseudo- guardian.

A wicked grin lit Irene's lovely face. "Recall your lessons in flirting, my dear? Coo at him, flatter him, ask him questions with wide amazed eyes, compare him with awe in your voice to that Englishman you've read about in the daily newspapers - what was his name? Oh yes - Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Think sweet and fluffy, Sherla-love."

"And you think that will work??"

"When a beautiful girl like you tells a man he is Saint George, he is going to look first for his armor and then seek out a suitable dragon to slay for her. Trust me."

"Why can't you do it?"

"Because I am not the most beautiful woman here, sweet, and because I have already established myself as that most frightening of creatures to French men such as him - the intelligent woman."

"Oh, so I am to be not very intelligent?" Sherla demanded with some ire.

"If you wish your information, my sweet. Do you?" Sherla had to think about that for a moment, but the answer was clear. She nodded. "Very well. Put a sugar-sweet smile on those luscious lips and vacuous look on that beautiful face. I will be with you, but you must be the one to flatter him shamelessly until he reveals the information you wish to know."

Sherla did her best, trying to mimic the smile Katrina used when she was trying to get around Sherla in some manner, and followed Irene toward the head of the inspection team.

He was a short man, beginning to go to fat, and perhaps in his middle forties. The brim of his hat was beginning to fray and his mustache still bore evidence of the soup he'd eaten for lunch. As Sherla and Irene approached the small camp area the inspectors had set up as an on-scene headquarters, he was talking at one of his subordinates when he saw the two women approaching.

"Monsieur," Irene said graciously, allow me to introduce my niece, Joan. She has been begging me to introduce you since I told her we had spoken."

Sherla offered her hand, anticipating him shaking it and was momentarily surprised with the inspector bowed over her hand to kiss it. A sharp look from Irene had her back in character before he had straightened. "Oooo, Monsieur le Directore, you are so gallant. I am in awe of what you are doing. What have you discovered, sir. . that is, if you can explain it to someone such as I." She said, fluttering her voice and her lashes. *Katrina said that you cannot over do this type of thing with a man. I only pray she is right.*

"I am only a lowly chief inspector, Mademoiselle, But of course I would be very pleased to show you the fruits of our investigation. However, a great deal of what we have uncovered is very technical. You must not be disappointed if you do not comprehend every small detail."

Sherla gave a delighted noise to mask the growl in her mind at his paternalistic condescension. Taking the arm the Frenchman offered, she hung upon it shamelessly as he led her to the remnants of what had once been a luxury sleeper car. *At least it is not the one with the mother and child,* Sherla thought with relief. *I don't know if I could have looked upon that scene without bursting into tears again.* Then, she sternly put that image out of her mind and concentrated on the chief inspector.

They stopped near the approximate center of the car, where he pointed to a steel heating stove resting precariously on a bit of flooring. The floor was badly charred on both sides of stove which had its feeder door hanging on only one hinge and a long crack from the fire box to the flue. "As you can see, Mademoiselle Joan, this stove was damaged when the train crashed which is what caused the fire. The red hot coals escaped and set all of the cloth and wood afire, which spread so quickly, none of the sleeping passengers could escape."

"Oh, that is so sad, Monsieur le Directore, but so very clever of you see that so clearly," Sherla cooed as she hugged his arm with what she hoped was a frightened shiver when something caught her eye. "Oh look at the glass on the ground. The windows?"

"Oui, Mademoiselle. Very good. Very observant. We shall make a detective of you yet. The glass could not burn so it fell to the ground and broke when the frames were consumed by the hungry flames."

"It breaks so many different ways," she said in a wondering voiced as she toed some thin, sharp shards near some broader, larger pieces."

"Oui. It depends on how it falls, I suspect," the inspector said with pompous indifference. "Is that all Mademoiselle wanted to see?"

Sherla made a pout. "Could you please show me what caused the train to leave the tracks like this?"

"All right, but then, sadly, I must return to my men."

He lead her to the head of the train. Along the way, Sherla pointed out an area on the car that would have been beneath the front exit. "How odd to see something so white when everything else is burnt black," she said. Irene's back went instantly stiff, telling Sherla she was on dangerous ground.

Fortunately, the inspector did not rise to her faux pas. "We noticed that, too, Mademoiselle. Apparently the burning wood was blown away by the wind or some such thing before the fire could blacken those spots. There are a few others just like it on other cars."

Sherla only swallowed hard against an urge to ask more pointed questions and allowed the man to lead her to the locomotive. He showed her the badly bend and broken tracks with a flourish. "And so, when the rails buckled, the locomotive left the tracks."

Bending over to look at the jagged edge of the tracks, Sherla exclaimed, "The broken ends are so very shiny, Monsieur le Directore."

Growing more disinterested by the moment, the inspector scarcely spared a glance at the damaged track. "Iron does that when it bends and breaks, Mademoiselle. It is a common enough effect. Now, if you ladies will excuse me," he said, lifting his hat to them before heading back to the warmth of his camp.

Sherla barely acknowledged the man's departure, her eyes fixed on the polished silver sheen on the broken track. "Sherla?" Irene whispered when the inspector was out of earshot.

"Damn that thrice-cursed fool, Irene," Sherla hissed, tears running down her face. "He has clear evidence of murder on an inhuman scale and he won't see it, even when I tried to show him where to look. Moriarty sabotaged the tracks, then deliberately trapped every single passenger on that train by setting intense fires at every exit and shot those who tried to leave through the windows. That fiend canNOT be allowed to EVER do something like this again. He must NOT be permitted to live!"

"You're sure?" Irene asked?

Nodding, Sherla took out her handkerchief and wiped it vigorously across the damaged track. "I need your handkerchief, Irene, for another sample, but in answer to your question, yes, I am certain." She rose back to her feet, her face once again composed. "Perhaps it is just as well that buffoon of an inspector is an incompetent fool. As the head of this investigation, he'd be the one assigned to go after the murderer. That would only get more innocents killed for he would be laughably outmatched by Professor Moriarty."

"Then there is no question in your mind?" Irene asked. "That all of . . . this. ." and Irene's gaze took in the entire train, "is your Moriarty's work?"

"No question whatsoever," was the uncompromising answer. "I must go and examine the scene of the crime more carefully and collect evidence, but there is no doubt at all that this was a murder and that Moriarty is behind it."

She turned away from Irene and began to stride down the train only to be brought up short as Irene grasped at Sherla's elbow. Her face a furious mask, Sherla spun to face Irene. "Don't forget you are Sherla and not Sherlock. Be careful of your behavior!" Irene hissed.

Nodding, Sherla turned again, but this time, her head was down, and every once in a while, her shoulders heaved as if she were weeping again. She spent the rest of their stay wandering about the remains of the once-great train. Seemingly aimlessly, she would stop to weep harder, several times falling to her knees, her handkerchief in her hand before pushing herself up from the ground to continue her wanderings. The last time she stayed down until several of the workers rushed to her aid, and helped her to her shaking feet. Gently, they assisted her up onto one of the cars so that she could sit for a few moments. No one noticed her reach into her reticule to remove a pair of opera glasses.
 
 
Chapter 16. Point-Counterpoint/Disaster-Opportunity
 
 
Entry in the Journal of Miss Sherla Joan Holmes

Date: February 28, 1911

Location: The Mountain Grotto Inn near the French/Swiss Border.

Time: 9:58 P.M.

My Dear Doctor Watson: We visited the site of the train disaster today. No other word comes immediately to mind, old friend, but I must admit that 'disaster' falls a good deal short of what occurred out there. That sad description of what we saw out there in the Alpine wilderness would have fallen short of the mark if what had occurred had been was nothing more than random chance - a losing throw of the dice by a bored god of some ancient pantheon. BUT, it wasn't random chance at the heart of this unspeakable crime and tragedy, Watson. I needed to see what the investigation team sent in by the French government had discovered. Irene declared that the most efficient method to achieve that end required that I must play the silly ingenue with the inspector in charge of the investigation. Either I was not as overtly blatant as I thought or the chief inspector was far more gullible than I would have dreamed possible. Flattery, I suppose, will get one almost anywhere or anything. Especially if the flatterer is a beautiful young woman (and somehow, I am beginning to accept that is what and who I am - fascinating) and the flatteree is an older fellow well-past his days of attractiveness to most such women. He was more than happy to show off his solution to the puzzle of this train-wreck's cause. Perhaps this arrogant of me, old friend. . .no, it IS arrogant, but some things are unlikely to ever change. In any case, Sherlock would never have permitted a woman to control him in the manner I toyed with that buffoon. *I* will never permit anyone to control ME in such a manner. I know that in my prior life, I spoke of the limitations of the feminine sex at some length, but now I find that I am discovering that the male gender is quite as limited. Where Sherlock found women illogical and prone to allowing their emotions cloud their reason, I now see most men using such a small fraction of their brain that it is no surprise they are dominated by other portions of their anatomy. Perhaps it was not women when I was a male, nor men now that I am a woman. Perhaps, the correct answer is that male or female, woman or man, Mister or Miss, I am still Holmes. And that would-be hero of a chief inspector was not. John, the shallowness of his investigation still appalls me. I must conclude that the efforts of Inspector Laviare (late of the Paris Police) to publish my monographs as instructional and procedural materials for the French police have met with failure. No one using MY methods could have missed the obvious clues that fool ignored even when I prompted him to look at them. As I just finished explaining to Irene, this was murder on an almost unimaginable scale. I have evidence that will prove that assertion, but that closed minded, arrogant fool who was put in charge of what I may only loosely call "the investigation" would never recognize much less accept that proof. Still, against my better judgment of his intelligence, I attempted to point out the critical clues to him. Sadly, he was and remains too fixated on his simplistic and erroneous conclusions to accept anything I discovered, most particularly since I am merely "une petite, belle juene fille". It would be too far beyond his sadly limited mind to perceive this catastrophe for what it truly was - as the mass murder. Naturally then, it must follow therefore, that it would HAVE to be beyond my poor female faculties to have seen, let alone put together into a solution to this monstrous crime. Of course, that means little, since even if the imbecile HAD believed me, bringing the true criminal to justice would require infinitely more than his poor skills to accomplish. Only one man kills like that, John - on such a scale, without regard to children and other innocents or with such techniques. I have absolutely no doubt that this heinous act was planned by Moriarty and executed by his minions. How do I know this was a murder and not the accident the chief inspector wants to believe that it was? Several factors, old friend. A white, flaky patch was found adhering to the metal framing beneath several of the destroyed cars. In particular, I noted that this was at the extreme ends of the cars, directly beneath the doors. It is not a normal wood ash nor was it a patch of mostly intact paint, but it was seemingly burnt into the heavy iron framing. . I suspect, no, I am convinced that these patches are composed of an oxide of magnesium. In order to be certain, I will of course, chemically analyze the samples I obtained at the scene once we return to Paris. I infer that, by some means not clear from the evidence of the remains, magnesium laced explosives went off or were set off beneath the front and rear entrances to each car when the train derailed. The nearly instantaneous, incredibly hot fires that ensued blocked the normal escape routes from the cars. Additionally, any wood and fabric that came in immediate contact with the fiery metal would have, for all intents and purposes, exploded into flame themselves so the fire would have spread into the cars from the two extreme ends toward the center. This theory is borne out, in fact, by the one car the inspector elected to show me. It had a small bit of wood, perhaps two or three planks worth, survive - almost in the center of the car. The char pattern on the forward and after edges of that planking strongly indicates that fire had burnt from both ends of the car. Even assuming that most of the unsuspecting passengers were not stunned or severely injured from the shock of the derailment, they would have had no chance to escape the flames via the front or rear exits. The head investigator's concept that the conflagration started when the locomotive's firebox was sundered is simply ridiculous. Even if one accepts his other contention that the various stoves and fires used for warmth in the winter mountains, the fire spread far too quickly for that to have been the cause. There would have been survivors in that scenario, John, and in point of sad fact, there were none. How do I know that? I looked for tracks. I used Irene's opera glasses in lieu of a seaman's glass and searched the horizon. No snow has fallen since the night of the murder, or else there would have been snow in the vicinity of the cars, or atop the ice lake the engine's water tank created. There were no tracks in the distance, John - none. We found no survivors on our trip to the scene, nor will there be any on the other side of the break in the tracks. The newspaper article's reference to wolves will turn out to be a journalist trying to sell more papers to a blood thirsty populace. The derailment was also not left to chance. The tracks were broken and the metal at the break was rather shiny. Our esteemed investigator believes that this shininess was due to the breaking of the metal train rails. Only it is not. There is a metallic sheen on both sides of the track break that looks nothing like a good clean steel break. It looks like mercury. I deduce that someone spread a mercury-based compound onto the tracks before the train ever arrived. Chemists have long known that certain mercuric compounds attack the granular structure of many metals causing them to become weak and brittle. This one, obviously, was designed to attack the iron and steel used in railroad construction. I obtained a sample of that compound as well, rubbed into another of my handkerchiefs when I supposedly tripped over the mutilated track and fell. When the profoundly heavy locomotive ran over those chemically-embrittled rails, the track buckled under the concentrated mass, then broke and bent, causing the locomotive and then the traincars to derail violently. Why? I can only speculate for there is insufficient evidence to prove my contention. I believe that Buchner was the target. I suspect that two, perhaps three of Moriarty's henchmen were aboard the train. As the train approached its destiny, they moved Buchner to a forward facing door, bracing him and themselves against the impact. As soon as the train stopped, they escaped the train and detonated the magnesium devices. As to where they went, again I can only make an informed supposition. I believe they most likely had a small engine or train awaiting them on the other side of the rail break. There was a blind curve ahead where they could have secreted their transportation until the moment it was needed. I believe that it is also likely that Moriarty's men dealt with any survivors and fed them back into the flames. While with the inspector, I found shards of glass that had broken differently than the other windows. I had one of my "weeping attacks" there, and attempted to piece together the glass. It was not difficult and it became clear that the window had been broken by means other than falling to the ground. The reconstructed glass had a small hole in it - obviously put there before it shattered - approximately the size of a standard rifle bullet. Since this train was both a luxury train and since it was to go into the mountains during late winter, I think it unlikely that any paying customer would have tolerated a hole such at that. No, John, that bullet probably stopped some poor victim from attempting escape from a fiery death via the window. There is no question in my mind who is behind this crime against humanity. It has to be Moriarty. No one else in the world has the knowledge and the utter lack of conscience to kill in such a manner. I was, it would seem, correct in my premonitions and in my assessment of Buchner. I simply did not act on those feelings for they were not derived from logical analysis and deduction. I know what you are thinking, old friend. I should report all of this to the proper authorities, including the fact that their inspector an incompetent fool. Give them the evidence and let them track down Moriarty. I did not and will not do this for three reasons. First, I don't believe the French authorities are capable of dealing with Moriarty. They were unable to do so all those years before and I have seen nothing to indicate that they have improved to the point where they could outwit the great Napoleon of Crime. No, if I did that, he would without doubt escape. My second reason is that when that buffoon brags of his "successfully concluded investigation" to the press, Moriarty will believe that he has succeeded in carrying out a perfect mass murder and kidnapping. I do not wish him any more on guard than he already may be. Finally, John, I did not report my findings to the French authorities for the most personal of reasons. In perfect honesty, old friend, I do not want ANYONE other than myself to be the person who ends Moriarty's vile career. I did not think, John, that this case could become more personal. What he did to me was intended to be a vicious, mind destroying attack on all I, as Sherlock, held dear. Regardless of the fact that it may become the finest gift anyone has ever given me, Moriarty's intentions were vile in the extreme. How could anything be more personal than an attack intended to destroy the mind of a victim? But he has made it more personal. That child and Mother has touched me deeply, old friend, and in ways that no other crime ever has. I have seen death before - violent, malevolent and perverse death - and faced it with rational calm and quiet detachment. But there is nothing calm or detached about the way I react to the mere memory of that child and Mother, or to the recognition of her selfless but hopeless battle to save her child's life at the cost of her own. I will likely never know their names, John, and I will likely never know their faces, but one thing I swear. Professor Moriarty will pay for their needless and needlessly painful deaths. By all that is holy and good, Professor Moriarty will pay - IN FULL MEASURE! I swear it! I pray that their torment of those needless, horrible deaths will be visited on that foul fiend every minute of every day of his eternal sojourn in the darkest pit of Hell. He has made his first overt move, which means he has at last come out of hiding. So long as he remained hidden, remained perfectly covert, my chances of locating him were, at best, small. However, now he has broken cover and in doing so, he MUST have left a trail. He must feel relatively secure to have taken that step, likely thinking that without Sherlock Holmes to hound his every move, he would be safe in doing so. Well, now he will reckon with Sherla Holmes taking up the scent, and he has filled me with a fuller, far more burning determination to bring my quarry to ground than Sherlock could have known. It will prove to be a fatal error on his part as I finally begin to understand the concept "deadlier than the male".

End Journal Entry.
 
 

 
Setting the newspaper aside, Professor Moriarty was in a most jovial mood. The plan had worked to perfection, as well it should have since it was his conception. He had, of course, had plans go awry in the past, but then the fault had always lie in the execution of the plan and not in the plan itself. *As should be expected,* Moriarty thought, *with Holmes at last departed from this mortal veil.*

Still pleased with himself, Moriarty retrieved the paper and read aloud the casualty list, savoring each name, until he reached "Professor Eduard Buchner, Professor of Chemistry at University of Breslau. 1907 Nobel Chemistry Prize winner for his work on the organic chemistry processes involving fermentation and yeasts." That one he read twice before bursting into amused laughter.

He tossed the paper aside and walked over to the one way mirror that looked out upon his laboratory. The so-very-eminent, and thought-to-be-deceased Professor Eduard Buchner was engaged in a very intense discourse with Professor Fritz Haber that was punctuated by many gesticulations and hand-pointings.

"I shall need to arrange a suitable demonstration for the newest member of my little family," Moriarty mused. "Another chimpanzee, I think, at least at first. And then, if Herr Dr. Buchner proves to be the solution to my little problem, then I will no longer need the services of our good Professor Haber. Seeing Haber waste away into a ravenously insatiable female slut, his mind no longer capable of any thought save how to obtain her next sexual release, should prove most instructive and motivational for my remaining academic. The ancient Chinese often executed those who invaded the sanctity of the imperial bedchamber by having the villain sexually teased and tormented by the lesser concubines until he expired from a heart attack. Perhaps I shall do this with Dr. Haber once he is in withdrawal. How long will it take for someone to die of unrequited lust? That might be a useful thing to know when I rule Europe and wish to encourage my subjects in their efforts to serve and please me."

There would be a transitional period, Moriarty knew, while Haber briefed the new man on the ongoing work and results to date. Buchner had the reputation of quickly grasping principles of new research and of seeing ways of applying those principles to new problems. Moriarty hoped that he had seen principles that might now be of use in Moriarty's research; principles that could now solve the problem that so far stymied Haber - developing a rejuvenating drug that was free of both the addictive and the gender-changing side effects of the current potion.

Of course, there was that second project - the development of a weapon that would be useful against massed armies in the field, or as an instrument of terror against cities or countries that foolishly resisted Moriarty's rule. So, on second thought, perhaps there was sufficient reason to keep Haber around the lab and . . . unimpaired, at least for a while. It was a task for which this man who could have become infamous as the father of gas warfare was uniquely qualified.

Moriarty went back to his office and sat down to think. There had been two or three carefully calculated risks in the plan to kidnap Buchner. The most significant of those had been the issue of possible survivors who might have seen his henchmen making off with Buchner. That necessitated the death of the entire complement of passengers riding the train. Fire was a most effective tool for that end.

However, the locomotive would not burn. The engineer and brakeman were, fortunately, quite naturally and unexceptionally killed in the derailment - head injuries when they were thrown from the locomotive - but the passengers posed a problem. They had to die - all of them - no escapees could be permitted. The fire took solved most of that problem, while a handpicked group of sharpshooters took down anyone who might have escaped by other means.

Moriarty allowed himself a few pleasant moments to picture the scene as the fire took the train to Hell. He heard the terror filled screams, saw the faces pressed against the windows that were not designed to open. He tried to imagine the play of emotions across the face of any passenger who managed to force open one of the train car windows. Exultation as the window finally gave. Disbelief and then renewed horror at the moment they saw one of his rifleman take aim. Shock, then pain and finally the blank stare of death as a bullet ended their flight to safety. It was sad that the available moving picture technology was still so unwieldy and bulky. Moriarty would have enjoyed having a pictorial record of this epic triumph.

The train cars not only made excellent funeral pyres but also melted away the bullets from the remains of those who died before the hungry flames took them. "By my calculations, the temperature inside the coaches should have been sufficient to ignite the flesh of the passengers so that their own bodies would contribute to the flames. In the end, nothing would be left but a few charred bones, not terribly distinguishable from any wood that was not completely consumed, eliminating any chance of anyone identifying - or recognizing the anomaly of being unable to identify - Professor Buchner's remains."

The other risks, such as the means for starting the fires or derailing the train, were much less likely to cause question than the fire itself. Few men would have recognized the effects of the pyrotechnic bombs Moriarty had directed his subordinates to secret in the undercarriages of the various train cars, and no one save himself. . . well, no one LIVING save himself, would have noted any mercuric residue on the broken rails. Yes, he had gambled, but he had won! None of the newspapers had even the tiniest glimmer of a mention of possible sabotage of the train. The police might be more effective than they had been in his younger days, but Moriarty did not think they were so effective as to hide that type of news from all European newspapers.

The plan had worked. . . PERFECTLY.

The smile returned but for a moment before Moriarty steeled his face into a stern visage. It was time, he thought, to present the good Dr. Buchner with the facts of his new life. Then he'd have Haber arrange the demonstration for his new colleague.

Buoyed by his success, Moriarty strode to the door to meet with the two professors of chemistry.
 
 
Chapter 17. The Search for Moriarty
 
The four women spent the next few days at the small inn while the authorities attempted to identify the human remains of the tragedy. Unfortunately, there were significantly fewer "remains" than there were passengers. "As Moriarty planned, Irene," Sherla had said when Irene had told her of that outcome. "The combination of a magnesium-based chemical accelerant, old wood and a great deal of paint made for an extremely hot, long burning fire. It truly was a funeral pyre."

When it became clear that none of the remains could be identified as Dr. Buchner, his wife decided she would go back home to Germany instead of back to Paris. "I need to see my family, Madame Irene," she had cried quietly as she told Irene of her decision.

"We understand perfectly. If you would like, I could arrange to have your things in Paris forwarded to your home."

"You would not mind?" Frau Buchner had been almost pathetically grateful.

"With that dragon of a housekeeper? It will be simplicity itself. You need only provide me with a letter directing your temporary staff to follow my instructions. You will be all right on your own?"

"Yes, thank you. I am past the initial shock of it all. Now I wish to be home. I have made arrangements to leave tomorrow morning."

"Excellent. Katrina, Joan and I will be off to home as well. You will hear from me shortly with the details of your personal things."
 

 
The trip back to Paris was passed in relative silence, each woman lost in thought. Irene, shifting uncomfortably in a corset she had let that smirking Katrina tighten just a bit too much that morning, tried to find a comfortable position on the rear-facing seat of their first class compartment. Perhaps it was that backward-looking orientation, but she found her mind traveling back over her life . . .

She had been thirty when she had wed her beloved Godfrey. Up until that magical epiphany, she had all but given up on finding someone who could live with her admittedly unique personality - someone she would want to live with her. Frau Buchner's loss had touched Irene deeply, and she wished Godfrey was home waiting for her so she could show him how much she loved, and yes, needed him. She cursed, fluently and in four languages, the business that kept him an ocean away from her.

Sherla seemed not to notice any problems with her own corset. She sat against the window, staring out at the gray landscape as though the horizon stretched a thousand miles into the distance instead of the scant hundred yards the misty day allowed. Her own thoughts fixated on the woman and child she'd seen on the remnants of the train. Where the old Sherlock had prided himself on never becoming emotionally involved with the players in his various investigations, Sherla realized she was strongly identifying with the woman who had died protecting her child. Could she, Sherla, ever feel that sense of self-sacrifice for another human being?

A tiny voice deep in her heart whispered "Yes."

That change in perception, that, dare she even think it, that almost maternal certainty that she WOULD sacrifice herself in a similar situation, bespoke a transition far deeper and more total than the more obvious physical changes she had undergone this past month. She was now a Woman. She could now conceive, carry and give birth to new life - a son, a daughter.

Motherhood was such an alien concept. During his life, Sherlock had conducted not-infrequent liaisons with women, primarily to relieve those unfortunately demanding physical needs before they impacted his intellectual powers, but he had always taken great care to ensure the woman would not become pregnant. Now, she was the one who could become pregnant, and although it seemed inconceivable to the part of her that still was Sherlock, it was no longer physically impossible. Moreover, thanks to Moriarty's potion, she was rather easily aroused, as her times with Katrina had proven.

Would she be as easily aroused by a man? As much as she would prefer to state, quite emphatically, that the answer was a resounding "NO!", that was emotion speaking, not rational analysis. The truth was that Sherla already KNEW she could be aroused by a man. If nothing else, that kiss beneath star-lit skies at the Paris ball had clearly proven her susceptibility to the male of the species. One too many kisses like that and her next rational thought could well be about her impending motherhood. It was a rather lowering possibility.

Katrina spent the trip pondering two equally disturbing consequences of the past few days. Memories of Sherla at the disaster site still thrilled the little maid. If any doubt had lingered in Katrina's mind as to the truth of Sherla's claim to having been the famous English detective, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, her performance of the past few days had proven her case beyond question. Sherla had not only played the starry-eyed innocent, awed by the inspector, to perfection, she had also, in mere minutes, uncovered evidence that the foolish man's team of "trained" experts had not seen or had simply ignored.

Ever since Sherla had dispensed with the threat that had kept Katrina in hiding as a maid, the young French girl had spent a great deal of her free time thinking about what she was going to do with the remainder of her life. Could her new life's challenge be to learn the methods of the great Sherlock Holmes and become a detective? Would Sherla even consent to teach her? There certainly could be no better teacher in the ways of deduction and observation.

And yet, perhaps Sherla was angry with her for spanking her to be quiet - for what Katrina had been intended as a light-hearted bit of loving fun. Oh, Katrina so hoped that she had not ruined her relationship with Sherla, for as much as the thought of becoming a detective appealed to her, Katrina recognized within herself a much more pressing need - a much more personal and basic need. She was very much afraid that Ma'amselle Cherie had stolen Katrina's heart. What would she do if Sherla did not care to offer her own in return??!?
 

 
All three women were exhausted when the hired landau deposited them and their minimal luggage at Irene's doorstep. After a quick meal, they retired to their rooms and slept the clock round.

After lunch the next day, Irene went seeking Sherla. She found her in the library, as she had expected she would given Katrina's tight lipped description of Sherla's mode of dress.

Irene came to the open library door and stopped in her tracks. Wide-eyed, she could only stare at the scene being played out by her young ward/old rival in the center of her library. She *was* dressed rather outlandishly in trousers and some type of sleeveless bodice that appeared to be made of yard upon yard of linen wrapped tightly about her torso effectively compressing her lovely breasts. Her hair was tightly braided and wrapped around her head. Perspiration glistened on her exposed skin and soaked her makeshift costume.

Sherla had moved the wooden step Irene used to reach books on the top shelves to the center of the library and she was vigorously stepping up and down from the step at a very rapid pace. In her right hand, she held an old cavalry saber that had been a wall decoration, her left hand wielded a knife. As she stepped up and down, she swung and thrust the two weapons vigorously.

Irene moved silently into the room, all the while continuing to watch Sherla. The girl was concentrating on her breathing, taking in one deep breath on every second ascension, and exhaling on the next two. It occurred to Irene that Sherla's movements with the two weapons were not mere exercises for it became clear that she was actually fencing with some foe she saw only in her mind's eye. Quietly, so as to not disturb Sherla's focus, Irene moved over to the sideboard and poured herself a snifter of cognac before seating herself at her desk.

The display continued at the same pace for another ten minutes before Sherla began to gradually slow her movements before finally stopping altogether after five more minutes. She simply stood there in the center of the library, her hands on her hips, inhaling deeply to clear her oxygen starved lungs.

"Well, that was impressive. Did your opponent survive?" Irene asked as she filled a glass with water and walked over to offer it to Sherla.

Her eyes not betraying any surprise or emotion, Sherla took the proffered glass and drank deeply before answering. "Of course not. Can't you see him there? Bleeding all over your Aubusson carpet?"

Irene chuckled at that before becoming serious. "What was that all about?"

"Becoming physically prepared," Sherla answered. "After what I saw in Switzerland, I know that I must face Moriarty. The last time I did that he played with me the way a cat does a mouse. He overpowered me so I must become as strong and fit as possible before he and I meet for the final time."

"Darling," Irene said hesitantly, "Regardless of how much of this you do, how hard you work, you will still be a very petite woman when you finish. There is a limit to how strong you can make that body, no matter how much time you spend conditioning yourself."

Nodding, Sherla gave Irene a half smile. "I am not going to challenge him to a physical contest again, Irene. But however I elect to deal with Professor Moriarty, I will require the stamina to see it through." Sherla gave a quick but awkward fencer's salute with the heavy saber, "And besides, using this strengthens my wrist for our next bout with the foils. Tonight?"

"Of course," Irene said before moving back to her desk and the packet she'd been carrying. "You know that Katrina is very worried about you. You quite scandalized her when you insisted on wearing that mummy's wrapping and refused her entreaties to put on your stays."

"Scandalized? Not hardly. She's just upset because she is determined to train my waist down to something less than sixteen inches and will try anything to keep me in those damnable corsets every minute of every day. She'd have me bathe in the things if she could find one that would survive being immersed in hot water. This morning she actually hinted that perhaps I did not need to bathe quite so often."

"She is French, dear. She is also worried that she has angered you in some way."

Sherla's dark eyes snapped to Irene's. "Angered me? How ever did she get that idea?"

"Well, I am not certain I have all the particulars, but I believe it has something to do with the night you had those. . ummm. . bad dreams?"

A vivid blush flamed across Sherla's creamy complexion and she took another swallow of her water. "Yes?" she finally asked in what she hoped was a non-committal tone.

"Well, as I understand, she had to . . . well, swat you to. . errr. . wake you? And since you have not shared any more bad dreams with her since that night, she is afraid that the spanking offended you."

"I see," Sherla said, almost to herself.

"Did it?" Irene asked gently, "Offend you?"

Sherla went very still. She had thought about that night many times over the past few days, but never had she felt offended by the experience. What she had felt, she was not certain she wanted to admit even to herself, but she knew that "offended" was not how she felt. "No, she didn't. Actually, I was afraid that we would get caught by Frau Buchner and that she might decide to make us leave before I had learned all there was to be learned up there. So I very carefully avoided doing or thinking anything that might have resulted in. .. . bad dreams."

"Katrina is very fond of you, Sherla," Irene finally said. "Much more than fond. If you cannot . . . "

"I am more than fond of her, as well, Irene," Sherla cut her off as the older woman tried to raise the issue diplomatically. "More than I have ever felt for another person, including John Watson for I never wanted to make lo. . .have bad dreams with Watson. What should I do? I do not have a great deal of experience with . . . such relationships."

"Katrina tells me you offered to spank her the next time?"

*In truth, I told her I would restrain her, but I won't tell Irene that.* "Close enough."

"Then do so, playfully, and make sure she knows she is forgiven."

"But she has done nothing to be forgiven for," Sherla protested.

"Spoken like a man, Sherla. She FEELS she needs forgiveness, and if you two have some delightful bad dreams as a result, it will be all the better. One thing Sherlock probably never had the pleasure of was making up in bed. Trust me, sometimes I create a reason to fight with my husband just so that we can repair our differences in the matrimonial boudoir."

"I see, and you believe that Katrina would enjoy this type of romp?"

"Provided you are gentle, yes, the little minx will thoroughly enjoy herself."

"Thank you, Irene, for your help. I find that she is very important to me," Irene bowed her head regally in response. "Was that the only reason you sought me out? I sense that I have the need for another of those baths that so distress Katrina."

"Oh, yes," Irene said quickly. "I have received some reports from the agents I hired to look into those other avenues of inquiry and I wished to go over their findings with you. I also have a train map of Switzerland showing all the usable laid track," she said as she opened up the map. "That particular line has, unfortunately, many little spur lines off the main route between the accident and Zurich. We will have a difficult time finding whatever transport Moriarty's henchmen used."

"We should never expect anything involved with stopping Moriarty to be simple, Irene. He is, in his own evil way, as brilliant as my brother Mycroft was. His weakness is that he believes that brilliance makes him infallible."

"Yes, I understand," Irene said with a sigh, "but for such a small country, Switzerland truly has an excellent rail system. Lord, but there are just so many of those little villages that can be reached by branches off the main track to Zurich. Heimberg, Interlaken, Brienz, , Meiringen, Heavens, even Bern is on the route. . . "

"WHAT DID YOU SAY?" Sherla shouted as she whirled on the stunned Irene.

"Just. . just that there were so many little villages where they could have taken Buchner. Why?"

"No. . you said. . you said Meiringen, did you not?" Sherla's voice was intense, her eyes fierce.

"Why, yes, I did. But why is that so important?"

But Sherla acted as if she had not heard the question, turning away and walking to the window, her eyes distant. "He wouldn't, would he?" She asked, mostly to herself. "I never considered that, and yet, his old haunts were the first places I looked in London."

Irene moved over to stand behind the rigidly erect Sherla. She reached out to squeeze her tight shoulders, as much reminding the girl she was not alone as offering comfort. "What is it, Sherla? What is Meiringen?"

"A short walk from a place I hoped never to see again, Irene. A place where I thought I had killed Moriarty; a place where he thought to kill me," Sherla's voice was soft, almost ethereal as she answered. "My god, Irene, I think he's gone back to Reichenbach Falls."
 

 
Irene found Sherla in the music room, playing some somber piece on her violin. "I've never heard that before," she said as she took her seat at the piano.

"I just created it," Sherla said with a half smile as she put down the violin. "I have to go to Reichenbach Falls," she said baldly.

Irene met the challenge in Sherla's voice with a smile of her own. "I know. So, when do we leave?"

Black eyes went wide, "I never said I expected you to accompany me." Sherla said, her voice cracking with unexpected emotion.

"No," Irene said evenly, "I know you didn't say it, and I strongly suspect you never gave it any consideration."

"Actually, I did, but I have already asked too much of you. There is every possibility that this could end in more than just Moriarty's death. I. . . I have care too much about you to put your life in mortal danger on this mission. No, it is better that I go alone."

"IF you try to go without us," Irene retorted, waggling an admonitory finger at the younger woman, "Then we will be on the next train after you."

"WE?!? No, not Katrina, Irene. She cannot be endangered like this. It would kill me if she was hurt or worse over this."

A sardonic smile crossed Irene's lovely features. "I am glad you have realized that she is that important to you. Perhaps you are not so much the thick headed Sherlock as I had once thought anymore."

"It has not been an easy thing to confront, but it is no less factual and unassailable. I do not have any great deal of personal experience with the emotion, but I suspect that I am in love with the minx."

"She will follow us, too, dear. She will be safer for the benefit of your experience with this criminal and his methods than trying to investigate on her own. She is very intelligent and has learned much from me, but my inquiries rarely involve criminals. . .at least, violent criminals. She will, I am afraid, make herself too obvious."

"And get her lovely person killed," Sherla said with disgust. "Very well. I would like to be on our way as soon as we can make arrangements and some suitable plans."

"I have already sent a message to my man of affairs, Sherla. I asked him to arrange passage suitable for a family of three - well-to-do but not wealthy. I suspect we will be able to leave in two, three days at the most, and Sherla?"

*Why am I surprised at her perceptions? This is THE Woman, and while her methods may differ from mine, the results of her inquiries easily equal my own accomplishments.* "Yes, Irene?"

"I think one of us should go disguised as a male, for the freedom of movement that will afford."

"You?"

"No, not me. I am not as young as I once was and lack the stamina and quickness that might be required. Actually, my dear, I was thinking of you."

"Me?"

"You, Sherla. After all, you have a great deal of experience in the role."

Sherla considered that and then shook her head. "No, I will not do that, for two reasons. First, I am not suited to the role. I will, at best, look like a very effeminate adolescent male and that will draw idle attention to us."

"Trust me, darling, you won't. I know you are a master of disguise, but I have years of theatrical experience and have on occasion passed quite adequately as a male."

"As I have cause to know, but that leaves the second reason, which is less reasoned, but far more important to me. When I defeat Moriarty, I want it to be as a woman. He did this to me - in part for revenge - but mainly as a means to neutralize me as a threat to him. A mere woman could never hope to defeat the great Moriarty. Well, I wish the last thought he has to be that a woman DID defeat him and that he himself created her."

"That is a rather emotional reason, dear," Irene teased, "Not that I don't understand and agree with it, but what would the Great English Detective say about it?"

"He would say that it was still the correct stratagem, though admittedly for a different reason. Moriarty will be on the lookout for an English man, or perhaps an English boy. Katrina, with her Gallic features, will clearly not be a feminized Sherlock Holmes in disguise."

Irene nodded her understanding, "Truly excellent logic, my dear, and very difficult to argue against."

"Quite true, but in a larger sense, that does not matter. I am Sherla, not Sherlock. All that Sherlock was, I am. But I am also different, and perhaps in that difference I am also more than he was. I know I must face Moriarty as Sherla, finding my solutions as the woman I am, not as the man I am no longer."

*I think you are in the right of that, my dear,* Irene thought with a smile. "So, who tells Katrina that she is to be your younger brother for this adventure, you or I?"

A wicked, mischievous smile bloomed on Sherla's lovely face at that idea. "Oh, I think I will reserve that pleasure for myself, Irene. AFTER, I have had our . . .what did you call it? Making up session?"

Irene laughed merrily, and asked, "Have a plan, do you?"

"Yes, I do, as a matter of fact. Would you mind assisting me in getting ready? I am afraid that I cannot dress properly for this without assistance and I would not want Katrina to be. . .forewarned?"

"Oh, I would be honored to assist, if you promise to tell me every delightfully wicked detail afterwards."

"I shall," Sherla agreed easily, "Unless I make Katrina tell you all about it as part of her penance."

Sherla rose and offered her hand help Irene to stand. "PENANCE??" Irene asked still chuckling.

"Well, you did say she felt guilty? Trust me, that is NOT what she will feel when I have finished with her this afternoon." Both women wore sinfully delighted grins as they walked arm in arm to the music room door.
 
 
Chapter 18. Last Moments Before the Storm
 
Katrina hurried to Sherla's room as Irene had bid her. This was the first time Ma'amselle Cherie had summoned her since their return from the train site, and Katrina so hoped that it might herald an devoutly desired ending to their recent estrangement. A huge grin lighting her gamine face, she knocked on the closed door to Sherla's bed chamber.

"Enter!"

The terse nature of the reply gave Katrina a moment's pause. Perhaps La Petite was still displeased with her, but if that was so, why else would Sherla have called for her? To change her outfit perhaps? It was time to dress for afternoon tea, she mused, and Mademoiselle had not called her to help with her corset since ordering her to remove it and dress her in those, and here Katrina cringed slightly, trousers.

More carefully than she might have just a moment earlier, Katrina opened the door and entered. She was surprised to find the heavy brocaded curtains tightly closed, and the room dark except for the eerie red-embered light of the dying fire. Blinking against the darkness, she began scanning the shadows for some sign of her mistress. All she could see was a pool of even deeper obscurity in the room's only armchair, backlit by the flickering glow of the embers of the fire.

Katrina approached the chair, circling around it in an attempt to get a clearer view into the shadow. "Mademoiselle?" she asked hesitantly.

"Yes, Katrina," Sherla replied, and then the room's main ceiling light switched on, illuminating the chamber with its incandescent radiance.

Her first clear look at Sherla had Katrina's mouth falling open in disbelief and then . . . lust. Never had she seen La Petite Mademoiselle arrayed so. . so. . .sternly. . .and yet. . so beautifully. Still staring, Katrina swallowed hard, trying futilely to moisten the suddenly arid regions of her mouth.

Katrina's stomach began a mad dance of anticipation, arousal and just a soupcon of fear as Sherla rose from her throne. With slow grace, Sherla closed the distance between them. *She must be wearing very high heeled shoes for she is now taller than me,* Katrina thought in awe, *and that gown is. . is . .magnifique!*

Katrina didn't know it, but Sherla had chosen her outfit because of the very profound effect a similar costume had had on the solicitor Carroll. The blood red and midnight black combined to uncover heretofore deeply buried feelings and needs in the Tuscan maid as well, things that were at once the stuff of nightmares and - when displayed so beautifully on Sherla - the stuff of darkest fantasies.

The gown was crafted of glistening black satin, and covered Sherla from throat to floor, from shoulder to wrist except fora bold, heart shaped decolletage that displayed Sherla's high rounded breasts.

The silky black waves of Sherla's hair seemed even deeper, even darker than her dress, showing clearly against the material as they fell wild and free to the center of her back. The dark framing of dress and hair brought her face into dramatic focus - a face made starkly beautiful with unusually vivid cosmetics. Sherla's huge eyes were enlarged even further by a dark kohl outline while her eyelids were shaded in blends of rich blues and mossy greens. Her sensuous mouth was a lurid slash of red that made Katrina lick her lips, all the while wishing she was licking Sherla's instead.

Sherla had accented the stark simplicity of the gown with bright reds that matched her lips for color and depth. A golden comb sparkling with bright red stones held back her hair and revealed red-flashed earrings. A ruby cameo mounted on a high-throated red satin collar was at the same time delicately feminine and stiffly formal. A red belt, also of shining satin and nearly tall enough to function as a corset in its own right, highlighted Sherla's incredibly tiny waist. Matching red gloves hovered near that waist, moving with deceiving languor that nonetheless drew Katrina's eyes to her lover's delicate hands . . . and to the object they were stroking.

Sherla gently slapped the black crop's snappy, stinging tongue of leather into one gloved palm. "Irene tells me," Sherla said in a soft, husky voice, "that you think you feel that you require my forgiveness for that first night at the inn."

Katrina almost broke at the memory, and felt a moist heat begin to burn behind her eyelids. "I am so sorry about the spanking, Ma'amselle Cherie. I was only playing," she almost sobbed, "I did not mean to upset you so."

Sherla moved around to stand behind the little maid, pleased that the painfully tight, incredibly tall heels she had borrowed from Irene gave her the advantage of height over her lover. "Oh, and what did you mean to do," she husked into Katrina's ear as she gently fingered a stray brunette lock from the girl's ear.

"Some. . .some girls get. . . aroused," Katrina almost stuttered in her excitement, "More aroused when their bottoms are warmed. I . . I was teasing you and did not mean to hurt or anger you. Honestly, Ma'amselle."

"Well, in that case, I think perhaps I will forgive you," Sherla stepped back to keep Katrina from leaping into her arms. "After I have reciprocated and seen if you are one of those who become, how did you say it? Ah yes, more aroused, eh?"

"Ma'amselle wishes to . . to spank me? Now?" Katrina squeaked half in alarm, half in arousal. Still, she was not completely sure she trusted Sherla that far. After all, she had been a man less than a month ago, and who would be the one spanking her? Ma'amselle? Or Mr. Sherlock Holmes wearing Ma'amselle's form?

"Yes, I do." Sherla emphasized that statement with a sharp lash the crop across Katrina's hip. As Sherla had intended, the little maid's heavy gown and petticoats blunted the blow, but, the crack of the slap still had Katrina jumping back. "But only if you are willing. Are you going to let me have my turn, my sweet?" Sherla cooed seductively beneath her breath.

Oddly enough, the fact that the first lash had not really hurt comforted Katrina, and made her think that perhaps La Petite knew what she was about after all. "Oui, Mademoiselle. I submit myself to your justice."

"Very well. Stip out of your clothes now, wench!" Sherla snapped. "Leave your stockings, shoes and corset and then go over to stand next to the lacing stand."

Katrina could not recall the last time she had undressed so quickly and so carelessly, but minutes later, she was standing in front of the heavy apparatus designed to afford ladies the tightest corseting possible. Sherla prompted her to raise her hands to the hanging bar above her head. Before Katrina quite knew what was happening, Sherla had buckled two of Irene's soft leather love cuffs about her friend's wrists, effectively binding them above her head until Sherla decided to free her.

A wicked grin on her face, Sherla moved behind the stand and began slowly turning the hand crank affixed to the back of the apparatus. Katrina gave a surprised shriek as her hands began moving inexorably upward, ever upward, until only by severely arching her tiny feet could she support her weight on the very tips of her dainty toes. Then Sherla turned the girl so that she was facing the large easy chair before cuffing Katrina's feet to the base of the appliance. She considered her quarry one last time, and backed off the crank a turn, easing some of the tension from her lover's shoulders and arms. The foot cuffs had forced Katrina's legs apart, causing her to lose her already precarious footing, and truly hurting the girl was the last thing Sherla intended.

Reseating herself, Sherla allowed herself a barely audible sigh of pleasure. "Ah, Katrina-darling, but you are a gorgeous little minx. I am going to enjoy this little game EVER so much. The only question is," and here Sherla's voice dropped into a deliciously evil tone, "Will YOU enjoy it as well."

The fire of Sherla's frankly appreciative gaze kindled matching blazes inside Katrina. Her tiny dark nipples hardened and crinkled, standing out impudently from her almost almond-hued breasts while her woman's flesh parted and grew hot, moist and so wonderfully sensitive. "If I am gorgeous, Mademoiselle," she breathed, "you are beyond incredible."

Sherla stood and moved back to her captive. Slowly she circled Katrina, every once and a while letting the tip of the crop graze across a soft expanse of bared bottom, or letting her lips and tongue taste a particularly tempting bit of flesh. Then, she moved in front of Katrina, her crop drawing circles on the front of Katrina's corselette. "And what is this?" Sherla demanded. "Surely with your own fascination with lacing me, you would wear something more . . . shall we say stringent than that bit of children's wear? That piece of cloth is not even worthy of the name lingerie," she finished with some disgust.

"A maid must dress herself, Mademoiselle. I cannot lace myself as I do you and no one helps a maid dress."

"Then permit me to be the first to congratulate on your great good fortune, my sweet. Since you are no longer a lowly maid, but a member of Madame's family, we will start lacing you properly starting today," Sherla said as she pulled out one of her own new corsets. "In fact, from this day forward I will PERSONALLY see to your corsetry right after you have seen to mine. Now this," she said holding up her selection, "should fit you perfectly."

Katrina almost groaned for she recognized the garment immediately. That was the corset she had bribed the corsetierre's assistant to make just a bit (*only a few centimeters,* she reminded herself, *Certainly five counts as being a few.*) smaller than Madame Irene had deemed their ultimate goal for Mademoiselle Sherla.

Moments later, Katrina's own corset was on the floor at her feet, replaced by the new white-laced, steel-boned confection and a gleeful Sherla was working at the laces. "Now, I have never done this before, sweet, lacing up a lovely young woman's corset, but I can assure you that I have paid very strict attention every single time you have done it for, or is that more correctly, TO me?"

"Ma'AMSELLE. . .that is TOO tight!" Katrina had begged when Sherla had barely begun the second set of lace-tightening.

"Oh really? But, Katrina, the edges of the corset are so very far apart. You are sure it is too tight? Well, let's see. Where did I put that tape measure? Ahh. Here it is."

Katrina's eyes went wide when she saw the measure Sherla held, for it was the altered one she had used in her attempt to convince her lover that Sherla was not being laced too tightly. "See," Sherla piped as she held the measure up for Katrina to see, "A mere 19 inches. Surely you can go another one or two?"

"Non, Ma'amselle," Katrina begged, knowing that 19 inches on that tape was in truth closer to seventeen, "Please no more."

"Oh very well, then I suppose I shall entertain myself in other ways." Katrina watched helplessly as Sherla slowly inched the bright red glove from her right hand. She held the glove up to Katrina's mouth and ordered, "Hold this for me, dear."

Katrina took the glove between her teeth, trying to keep her tongue away from the leather so as not to damage it. Smiling widely, Sherla gently circled and teased her captive's nipples with her finely pointed nails, sending bolts of sensual fire through Katrina's helpless body. When one impudent bud was sufficiently prominent, Sherla bent over and took the tender tip between her own teeth and bit down gently. "MmmmmmmmmMMMMMMM," Katrina squealed around the glove as Sherla rolled the sensitive bit of flesh with her teeth.

A teasing finger tickled at the font of Katrina's womanhood and came back moist and fragrant. Katrina watched in helpless arousal as Sherla licked and savored the flavored finger with exaggerated relish. "Are you excited, my sweet?" Sherla whispered in Katrina's ear just before taking a sharp bite on her lobe.

"Oh, god yes, Sherla," Katrina answered, letting the glove fall from her mouth, "Please love me before I die!"

"But what about your spanking?"

"Love me, spank me, whatever, but please DO something!"

A soft, pleased chuckle answered her. "I thought you would never ask, my love." The next thing Katrina felt was Sherla's mouth ravaging her own - seeking, tasting, possessing. She did groan when those lovely lips left her mouth to trail liquid fire down her breasts. One last nibble on one of her nipples and then that incredible tongue of Sherla's was on Katrina's woman's flesh. Voraciously, Sherla fell upon her lover, all but consuming her soul as she took the little maid's body and made it hers.

That first crashing climax was still echoing in Katrina's mind as it gradually began to function again - several hours later. That incredibly fiery orgasm was the last thing she could remember clearly from the previous evening's activities. As her world expanded from the delicious memories written so indelibly in her heart and soul, she became aware that she was entwined about her beloved's body, still wearing that uncompromising corset, but happy to be in Sherla's arms once again. Maybe next time she'd actually get spanked. She'd have to make sure of it.
 

 
Following breakfast, Irene directed the two girls into her study, where she laid out the plans for their trip to Switzerland. "The track that was destroyed will be disrupting normal travel to Zurich for several more weeks as the weather makes such repairs difficult at best. Therefore, we will be traveling via Germany and entering Switzerland from the north. It will add a day or so to our travel time, but it will also give Katrina, or rather, Karl, additional time to become more comfortable with her role. I have used her in trousered disguises before, but never for so long a period before."

"I am still uncertain, Madame. . I mean, Tante Irene, and Ma'amselle Cherie, precisely why I need to go disguised as a stripling boy."

"Because," Irene said smiling, "We might need someone with more freedom of movement than would be socially appropriate for Society gentlewomen once we arrive there. We cannot anticipate where the trail will lead or what type of false trails have been laid. We will need you to go to those places were two respectable ladies could not go without a great deal of notoriety resulting."

"But Ma'amselle Cherie has far more experience is such roles than I. Would it not be wiser for HER to disguise herself in the rough, uncomfortable clothes of the rowdy boy?"

Sherla chucked at that. "Trust me, dear, I have what I consider to be very good reasons to go as myself."

Irene started at that. *Does she realize what she just said? She has just identified herself casually as Sherla. How much you have grown, little one, in such a short time.*

"Besides," Sherla continued, her naughty grin back in place, "If it is comfort you are concerned with, recall that boys are not corseted. Your own figure training will, of necessity, be delayed now until we complete this mission and I can safely order you back into your dainties."

The other girl blushed vividly, the red all the more brilliant for her normally light almond complexion, but nodded her compliance. *And what was that all about,* Irene thought watching her adopted niece give in submissively to her ward. *I would say that, however Sherla exacted her retribution last night, Katrina did not find it too onerous.*

"Very well," Irene spoke up, regaining control of the exchange. She then lifted a paper from her desk and handed it to Sherla. "That is a compilation I made last night while you two were. . .otherwise occupied."

Katrina's blush returned with a vengeance, but Sherla barely heard Irene as her total focus locked on the paper in her hands. "Where did you get this information?" She demanded of Irene, her eyes hard.

"From the inquiry agents I had looking into the clues we obtained from the scientists. Why?"

"Have your man of affairs contact these men or their employers. Order them into hiding until they hear from us. Moriarty will likely have left behind an agent who will pass along to him that someone is asking dangerous questions."

"Then you agree that information is decisive?"

A small grin curved Sherla's full lips. "It certainly relieves my worries at making such a move based only on my intuition that Moriarty has returned to Reichenbach Falls. The fact that all of this very specialized equipment and material has been sent to Brienz in the recent past indicates that someone is setting up a very well equipped biological-chemistry laboratory in that vicinity."

"What is this Brienz?" Katrina asked.

"An Alpine village, not very far from where I expect we will find Professor James Moriarty. When do we leave, Tante Irene?" Sherla asked getting into her own role.

"We leave day after tomorrow on the train to Munich. And we will need to pack carefully to ensure we have everything we are likely to need. That part of Switzerland is relatively isolated."
 

 

 

 
 
Entry in the Journal of Miss Sherla Joan Holmes

Date: March 7, 1911

Location: Irene Adler's Home outside of Paris France.

Time: 2:21 P.M.

My Dear Doctor Watson: I apologize for not writing sooner, but there has been a great deal to do and far more to think about in the past week. The clues have begun to fit together, old friend, and we begin to perceive the form of the puzzle if not the ultimate solution. Tomorrow we leave for Switzerland . . . for Meiringen. Now there's a place I never thought to visit again, but all the information we have been able to glean point to that as Moriarty's hideaway in this adventure. If I were a believer in destiny rather than fate, I would say that this was a sign that Moriarty and possibly my destinies are to end on that rocky mountainside amidst the cascading waters of the falls. I hope not, John, for I have found a great deal to live for in the past days. A very great deal. This case is drawing to its climax, as I am sure you could tell. Moriarty has become increasingly overt in his actions. He must have known that, if I had survived his foul plot, his procurement of large quantities of relatively unique equipment and materials would have drawn my attention. That is one reason Irene and I will not be going directly to Brienz as I suspect that there are watchers there. Or at least, caution dictates that I must suspect that there are watchers there. One important question has not been resolved yet, John. If Moriarty has spent years in South America, and only recently returned to Europe, how much of an organization can he truly have behind him? His old organizations collapsed with the deaths of Moran and Gilbert. Certainly, he could and has hired thugs to do his bidding, but thus far, I have only encountered or seen evidence of the mercenary type. Certainly no one the quality of a Moran or that fellow we encountered during the case of the Redheaded League. If I could be more certain of what we were up against, I could chance taking a more direct course of action. However, I will not endanger Katrina or Irene by doing so. So, I am again ready to embark upon what may well be the last chapter of my life's adventures, John, but I am by no means as sanguine on the subject as I was that last time at Reichenbach Falls. However, Moriarty must be stopped. A rejuvenated James Moriarty at the height of his powers is more than our world can survive. If the price of stopping him is my life, so be it. I wish you were here to write that chapter for me, old friend.

End Journal Entry.
 

---

 
End of Part 2 - A Study in Satin

---

 
 
To Be Continued in "A Study in Satin Part 3 - Dum Vivimus Vivimus!"
 

Unable to defeat the addiction-withdrawal syndrome of Moriarty's youth potion,
Holmes is running out of the drug, and faces madness and a horrible death.
Unwilling to concede victory to the Professor, he leaves England
in search of the one person who might still best Holmes' archenemy -

"THE Woman."

 

---

 
Image Credit: Title picture Victorian Woman ~Sephrena.

The model(s) in this image is in / and are no way connected with this story nor supports nor conveys the issues and situations brought up within the story. The model(s) use is solely used for the representation of looks of the main character(s) of this particular story. ~Sephrena.

Free Antique Divider licensed for use from www.designsbyannmargaret.com ~Sephrena.

Legalities: Archiving and reposting of this story *unchanged* is permitted provided that: 1) You must have contacted the author, Tigger, and have asked permission first and received said permission to host this particular work. 2) No fee be charged, either directly or indirectly (this includes so-called "adult checks") or any form of barter or monetary transfers in order to access viewing this work *and* (3) PROVIDED that this disclaimer, all author notes, legalities and attribution to the original author are contained unchanged within the work. 4) The author of this work, Tigger, must be provided free account access at all times the work is hosted in order to modify or remove this work at his sole discretion.

The characters, situations, and places within this work are fictional. Any resemblance between actual people (living or dead), places, or situations is entirely coincidental.

The title picture is the work of its respective photographer. This work, everything other than the title picture, is the copyrighted material of the respective author. ~Tigger.

Caveate Emptor! This story is a work of fiction, intended for mature individuals who enjoy stories with transgender and erotic themes and who are legally permitted to read such stories under the laws of their location. If this does not describe you, then this story is not for you and you should check elsewhere.

In addition, this story drastically departs from what is commonly referred as "The Canon" among Sherlock Holmes enthusiasts. Should this offend you, please read no further. ~Tigger.

Characterizations: This story is based on situations and characterizations found in the Sherlock Holmes stories by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. However, the Irene Adler character is also based on the characterization presented in the Irene Adler novels by Carole Nelson Douglas.~Tigger.

Artwork: Original Artwork graciously donated by Brandy Dewinter.

Acknowledgements: A story of this magnitude (over 1 megabyte of text, 56 chapters in three parts) is not solely the effort of one person. My sincere thanks to:

Brandy Dewinter - Simply stated, without her help, support, guidance and every so often a well intentioned nag, this story would not have happened. I think that about 85% of the words are mine, and the rest are hers, but all of them (mine in particular) are better for her eagle-eye for detail, grammar, theme and plot.

DanielSan - who kept me (almost) honest insofar as my characterization of the main characters and who caught more than a few glaring typos and manglings of the English language (American or English).

Paul1954 - who read my words to ensure that, in my attempt to make my characters sound English-Victorian, I did not make too much a hash of it. I am sure that it was often a painful experience. ~Tigger.

---

 
 
Part 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...

Unable to defeat the addiction-withdrawal syndrome of Moriarty's youth potion,
Holmes is running out of the drug, and faces madness and a horrible death.
Unwilling to concede victory to the Professor, he leaves England
in search of the one person who might still best Holmes' archenemy -

"THE Woman."

 

---

 
Image Credit: Title picture Victorian Woman ~Sephrena.

The model(s) in this image is in / and are no way connected with this story nor supports nor conveys the issues and situations brought up within the story. The model(s) use is solely used for the representation of looks of the main character(s) of this particular story. ~Sephrena.

Free Antique Divider licensed for use from www.designsbyannmargaret.com ~Sephrena.

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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 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...

Unable to defeat the addiction-withdrawal syndrome of Moriarty's youth potion,
Holmes is running out of the drug, and faces madness and a horrible death.
Unwilling to concede victory to the Professor, he leaves England
in search of the one person who might still best Holmes' archenemy -

"THE Woman."

 

---

 
Image Credit: Title picture Victorian Woman ~Sephrena.

The model(s) in this image is in / and are no way connected with this story nor supports nor conveys the issues and situations brought up within the story. The model(s) use is solely used for the representation of looks of the main character(s) of this particular story. ~Sephrena.

Free Antique Divider licensed for use from www.designsbyannmargaret.com ~Sephrena.

Legalities: Archiving and reposting of this story *unchanged* is permitted provided that: 1) You must have contacted the author, Tigger, and have asked permission first and received said permission to host this particular work. 2) No fee be charged, either directly or indirectly (this includes so-called "adult checks") or any form of barter or monetary transfers in order to access viewing this work *and* (3) PROVIDED that this disclaimer, all author notes, legalities and attribution to the original author are contained unchanged within the work. 4) The author of this work, Tigger, must be provided free account access at all times the work is hosted in order to modify or remove this work at his sole discretion.

The characters, situations, and places within this work are fictional. Any resemblance between actual people (living or dead), places, or situations is entirely coincidental.

The title picture is the work of its respective photographer. This work, everything other than the title picture, is the copyrighted material of the respective author. ~Tigger.

Caveate Emptor! This story is a work of fiction, intended for mature individuals who enjoy stories with transgender and erotic themes and who are legally permitted to read such stories under the laws of their location. If this does not describe you, then this story is not for you and you should check elsewhere.

In addition, this story drastically departs from what is commonly referred as "The Canon" among Sherlock Holmes enthusiasts. Should this offend you, please read no further. ~Tigger.

Characterizations: This story is based on situations and characterizations found in the Sherlock Holmes stories by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. However, the Irene Adler character is also based on the characterization presented in the Irene Adler novels by Carole Nelson Douglas.~Tigger.

Artwork: Original Artwork graciously donated by Brandy Dewinter.

Acknowledgements: A story of this magnitude (over 1 megabyte of text, 56 chapters in three parts) is not solely the effort of one person. My sincere thanks to:

Brandy Dewinter - Simply stated, without her help, support, guidance and every so often a well intentioned nag, this story would not have happened. I think that about 85% of the words are mine, and the rest are hers, but all of them (mine in particular) are better for her eagle-eye for detail, grammar, theme and plot.

DanielSan - who kept me (almost) honest insofar as my characterization of the main characters and who caught more than a few glaring typos and manglings of the English language (American or English).

Paul1954 - who read my words to ensure that, in my attempt to make my characters sound English-Victorian, I did not make too much a hash of it. I am sure that it was often a painful experience. ~Tigger.
 

---

 
 
Part 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."
 

 
 

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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

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