A Study In Satin

Part 1 - Semper Cogitus


by Tigger



Chapter 6 - Experiments in Time

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.