A
Study In Satin
by Tigger
Shivering uncontrollably, Holmes repeatedly thrust the heavy black iron poker into the dancing flames, attempting to coax more heat from the burning coals. He was so bloody cold. He felt as if his internal organs had been somehow transmuted into ice. Nothing he'd done since his headlong flight into the house following his unexpected confrontation with the villain calling himself "Old Ned" had in any way relieved the fierce bone chilling cold. "Is this yet another of those side effects of Moriarty's damnable brew?" Holmes asked himself through chattering teeth when another more ominous thought occurred to him. "Or is this the onset of withdrawal?" Holmes wrapped a blanket about his body and moved over to his worktable where the two apothecary bottles stood side by side. Taking a deep breath in an effort to control his still shivering hands, Holmes carefully removed the stoppers from each bottle. He waved a hand over the top of one bottle towards his nose. Delicately, he sniffed at each bottle, but was unable to discern any significant scent. Emboldened by that, Holmes brought each bottle to his nose and carefully inhaled. There was just a hint of scent from the original bottle, and a stronger scent from the new one. *I think these are the same concoctions,* Holmes thought, *But I cannot be certain of that. The scent is simply too subtle.* Holmes re-stoppered both bottles, and set them in the center of the large table for safety. He began to pace the room, considering his options. Slowly, a plan started to take shape in his mind. Holmes retreated to his bed chamber and returned with his medical kit from which he removed two hypodermic needles. These were thoroughly sanitized using the latest methods of sterilization approved by the British Journal of Medicine. Once the needles had cooled, Holmes meticulously filled each needle, one from each of the two amber bottles, and the set the needle in front of the bottle from which it had been filled. His preparations complete, Holmes picked up his experimental journal, a pen and ink, and then strode back to his favorite chair. Holmes reconsidered his planned course of action as he settled himself in the chair's comfortable depths. *If I am to live with this withdrawal curse, I must first understand it in the fullness of its effects," he said aloud, "The only way to do so is to permit its onset and then study it for as long as I can endure it. Only then will I administer the potion from the new bottle. If that eases the symptoms, then I can be relatively assured that it is the same as the potion the chemist dispensed for me earlier in the week. If it does not ease the symptoms, I will use the other needle and the time it gains to decide upon my course of action.* That certainly appeared to be the best option available to Holmes for, at the very least, it would provide him with a more complete understanding of his current circumstance. Holmes tried one last time to think of some way by which his plan might be improved, but could not. All that could be done was being done, so Holmes stretched and settled himself to wait. Holmes hated waiting. In his line of work, patience was necessary, even vital to the execution of a successful investigation, but waiting implied idleness which was something Holmes' great mind could ill abide. In the old days, it had been the genial Dr. John Watson with his usually incorrect suppositions and hypotheses about the case at hand, or his endless, overly simplistic questions for his historical compilations, who had distracted Holmes during such periods of enforced inactivity. In more recent times, such inactivity had driven Holmes back to the cocaine habit that had ultimately resulted in this current sad state of affairs. *Bloody hell*, he thought sadly, *but I do miss Watson. Quite painfully, if I am being completely honest about the whole damned situation.* Only then did Holmes realize that the cold and the shivering had passed. Entry in the Journal of Mr. Sherlock Holmes Date: February 2, 1911 My Dear Watson, I have decided, in the throes of a strange mood of whimsy, to address these journal entries to you. I suspect that such emotional foolishness is an indication of the cancerous feminization of my formerly keen mind, but nonetheless, that is how I shall press on for as long as I am able to do so. It has now been, by my best estimate, in excess of eighty hours since I took the massively concentrated dose of Moriarty's youth serum. I have three primary objectives in the current round of experiments. First, I wish to document, or at least, begin to document the symptoms associated with the withdrawal from the addictive serum. I must know to what extent they diminish my powers physically and mentally, and how much time I can anticipate having from the onset of the symptoms before they become unendurable. Second, I must ascertain whether or not the newly acquired bottle also contains the youth serum. That bottle still contains somewhat more than an ounce of the drug. That, combined with what is left in my first bottle would provide approximately twenty one two cubic centimeter doses. Optimistically assuming that the second bottle does contain the serum, and also assuming that Moriarty did intend the drug to be taken with approximately the same relative frequency as the seven percent solution of cocaine, that would give me almost three weeks to find and thwart Moriarty's scheme, whatever that may be. Finally, I must determine if my assumption concerning the relative duration of the withdrawal inhibition of the drug is correct. Unfortunately, I cannot measure the period of efficacy with only this one dose since my first experience was with the highly concentrated form of the drug. The time period between this upcoming onset of withdrawal and the next onset will give me a better single point estimate of what I may expect from the drug at its current level of concentration. Once I have collected all this data, I will better know what my options are as I pursue my life's final goal - The Death of Dr. Moriarty. Farewell for now, Watson. I feel the need to rest. End Journal Entry. ~-----------------~ It was the heat that awakened him. Feverish, burning heat that flared first in the pit of his stomach and rolled like the inexorable tide throughout the rest of his body to his extremities. Grimly, Holmes fought his way out from the cloying grasp of the blanket he'd wrapped about himself earlier. A glance at the clock above the hearth told him it was early morning, perhaps just before dawn. Holmes marshaled his formidable will, and set himself about the task of documenting his symptoms. His hand shaking, Holmes took up his pen, and began to write. Entry in the Journal of Mr. Sherlock Holmes Date: February 3, 1911. Time: 4:23 A.M. I am clearly in the grips of some abnormal physiological reaction. I find my manual dexterity is severely limited as I can barely grip the pen or write without smearing the ink. I seem to be suffering from a moderate fever. I have stripped nearly to the skin and am still burning up. Perspiration, particularly from my underarms and privates, does little or nothing to assuage the burning heat. 4:37. A new symptom now afflicts me. I cannot seem to draw a steady breath as I literally pant like a mongrel dog. At the same time, my pulse rate is accelerating and my heart literally seems to pound within my chest. I fear this may be a precursor of some type of heart seizure. 4:46. I seem to be growing steadily more sensitive to physical stimuli. My skin, particularly in my upper torso, is all but quivering in response to the lightest touch or breeze of air. The aforementioned issues with my respiration and heart rate appear to be growing worse by the minute. I am convinced that the mechanism by which this withdrawal ultimately kills is some form of cardiac arrest. My handwriting continues to degrade as well, and is becoming all but illegible. I do not know how much longer I will be physically able to continue this experiment. 4:57. I am starting to feel what may be the onset of severe cramping in my lower abdomen. The large muscles about my lower torso and back seem to be flexing without any volition of mine, and in fact, nothing I have attempted seems to relax them. 5:03. Those areas most affected by Moriarty's foul potion are itching fiercely. It is only by the greatest effort of will that I can keep myself from clawing them to shreds. There is also pronounced swelling and a sense of internal pressure that aches so deeply I can hardly stand upright. 5.12. Can't breathe. Heart racing. Aching so fiercely I feel faint. Can't continue End Journal Entry Holmes' pen trailed off down the page as he turned nearly-palsied hands to the first needle. Injecting himself, he sat back to await the effects of the drug, wondering if he would have to use the original solution, or whether the quantity he had obtained from the dead chemist was equally effective. Entry in the Journal of Mr. Sherlock Holmes Date: February 3, 1911. 5:20. I have injected myself with the potion from the newer bottle. Initial indications are that its contents are the same concoction as the first. Symptoms noted earlier in this entry began to subside within sixty seconds of the introduction of the serum into the body. Now, less than five minutes since the injection, sensitivity, motor control, respiration and pulse rate are nearly back to normal. 5:26. All body data restored to normal except that I am greatly fatigued by my ordeal. I must rest before I can further analyze these results and determine my next course of action. End Journal Entry. ~-------------~ Interlude: On the English Channel. The sun exploded from the cold gray dawn sea; its spectacular colors painting the sky to the portside of the small sailing craft in bright golds and reds. Except for the sailors on watch, only one other was awake to appreciate the sun's glory. A creature of the dark, Moriarty was often still awake when Nature put on her daily light show. *A most auspicious start to the day,* he thought with quiet satisfaction. Moriarty looked about him and was pleased by what he saw. The sea was calm, for the Channel, with freshening winds that indicated that pleasant situation would not last long. They would arrive in Calais in short order. *Soon,* he thought, *Soon my plans will come to fruition and Europe will be mine.* The only negative aspect of his adventure so far had to do with, as seemed only natural to Moriarty, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. A missive from his man of affairs had been delivered to the professor just before sailing. The letter had described how the brutish oaf, Old Ned, had apparently recruited some young guttersnipe to help watch for Holmes. The guttersnipe was, in all likelihood, Holmes himself disguised as a boy instead of a young man as the professor had anticipated when he'd set that trap for his old enemy. Moriarty had not honestly believed that the foolish oaf had any chance of capturing even a greatly diminished Holmes, but the thug would pose a visible and viable threat that Holmes would be forced to contend with before he could take any other more direct action against Moriarty. That in itself would be useful, and besides, the blundering fool might get incredibly lucky. The thought of Holmes forced to live out the remainder of his days as a white-slave prostitute was simply too delicious for words. Moriarty truly wished he could have taken the time to watch and fully savor the imminent self destruction of Holmes, but time was something he needed to carefully hoard, at least until his youth potion was perfected. Until then, his own age was a factor to be considered. Surely Fate would not grant him so great a victory over his arch nemesis only to have him die of old age just as his final triumph was at hand. *No,* Moriarty reassured himself, *Fate MUST have far greater plans for me, otherwise why would I have been gifted with this great intellect and the will to use it fully?* No other answer fit the data. Moriarty was great, would be greater still, because Fate had so decreed it. He would perfect his drug for both its potentialities, extending his own life in the process so that he could use the other potential of the drug to secure his rightful place as ruler of mankind. Perhaps when he'd finally succeeded he'd go back to London and see if Holmes still lived. If so, the stubborn fool might still afford him some small amusement. And there was always the Mother Hell option, too, once he had tired of tormenting the little slut.
