A
Study In Satin
by Tigger
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.
