A
Study In Satin
by Tigger
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 throughly 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.
