A
Study In Satin
by Tigger
The clock tolling eight o'clock roused Holmes from his sleep - that and an urgent need for the facilities. Moments later, Holmes was giving heartfelt thanks for the wonders of indoor plumbing and Mr. Crapper's commode. He would never have made it to the old outdoor facility without again seriously embarrassing himself. Holmes cleaned himself up and realized that he was positively ravenous. *Not surprising, Holmes,* he told himself, *Given that the last time you sustained yourself was nearly five days in the past.* Soon, Holmes was back in his favorite chair, heartily consuming a simple breakfast of bread, cheese and tea. Unfortunately, the soup Miss Hudson had prepared for him during her last visit had long ago petrified in the bottom of the pot. The bread was actually somewhat stale, and he'd been forced to trim mold from the chunk of country cheese Miss Hudson had left for him, but Holmes found himself hard pressed to recall a more satisfying meal. It simply tasted wonderful. *Another side effect of the drug? Increased sensitivity of the senses? Might that explain my violent reaction to the scent of tobacco and tobacco residue in my pipe?* It was a strong possibility, Holmes decided. As he ate, Holmes mentally reviewed his current situation. All too soon, he would need to pursue his investigations in locales where his street urchin persona would be decidedly unwelcome. Unfortunately, the bulk of his disguise attire was not stored at Baker Street. Holmes would have to visit a number of the other establishments he maintained about London as repositories for the various costumes and other masquerade tools he had used as a matter of course in many of his more sensitive investigations. That posed an immediate dilemma for the master detective. On the one hand, the risk of being overcome by the vile withdrawal symptoms whilst out in the city presented a danger that he dared not underestimate. Yet, the other hand was the remorseless march of time - clearly his most limiting resource. Holmes knew that he could ill afford to simply sit about waiting for the next attack. His hunger sated, Holmes set aside his tray and went over to stand in front of his mirror. He ran his hands over his face and then down his torso, carefully assessing the person he saw looking back at him from the silvered glass. His initial inclination was to take up his journal and carefully measure his entire body, but he resisted that impulse. *There will be time enough for that later,* he assured himself, *but the first priority is to assure my freedom of movement in the face of Moriarty's henchman.* Holmes returned his full attention to the reflection in his looking glass. The street urchin disguise would still serve, he decided after a long moment, although to his experienced eye, his visage appeared slightly more feminine than he had the day previous. *Thank God the changes are sufficiently subtle that I still may pass for a callow youth. The cap to hide my eyes, a bit of lampblack applied judiciously to simulate dirt, and these scruffy though masculine clothes and I should still appear sufficiently boyish to pass what little scrutiny I cannot otherwise avoid.* *If the clothes are loose enough,* he thought as he slid his hands down his torso again and shook his head in disgust. His waist was definitely smaller than it had been the day before - he was sure of that - while his hips seemed unchanged if he read the fit of his trousers about his lower abdomen correctly. The loose fit of the shirt and vest would disguise that today, but if only one very recent application of the drug changed his physique this significantly, it was only a matter of time - and very little time at that - before the Baker Street Irregular would find himself in serious danger of becoming one of Mother Hell's unwilling employees. Clearly, other options were required and not solely to provide Holmes access to places his current disguise could not. Holmes sighed. If he but had the right materials at hand, then he could work on his alternative disguises while he waited for the onset of the withdrawal symptoms. That, at least, would be an effective dual use of his severely limited time. Holmes strode from his dressing room, intent on checking the alleyway for signs of the man who'd accosted him the night before. The way appeared clear, but Holmes decided to take no chances. He walked into the bedroom which had been Dr. Watson's for the last years of his life, and found what he needed. Carefully, he checked the revolver over, ensuring it was clean and that the action worked smoothly. Then he loaded the weapon, carefully aligned the hammer with the single unloaded chamber, then gingerly slid the weapon beneath his makeshift rope belt. Only to have the gun's butt dig painfully into the tender flesh just beneath his ribs. "Bloody hell," Holmes cursed as he realized what was causing the problem, "I don't have time to deal with this properly just now!" The barrel of the gun was being forced outward by the swell of his pelvis, levering the gun's handle painfully into his side. *At least that confirms my supposition that my hip-to-waist silhouette has become decidedly more feminine since yesterday. Calculating precisely how much more feminine is something that must wait until I have spare time to take a proper set of initial control measurements.* The scientist in Holmes looked longingly at his laboratory, his curiosity about this aspect of his transformation piqued, but the detective in him firmly rejected the notion. *I will definitely need quantitative data on this so that I can predict how quickly I am changing and how long before attempting masculine disguise will be pointless AND dangerous.* Holmes thought as he extracted the pistol from the rope belt and slipped it into one of his deep pockets. *However, there will be time in hand for those inquiries after I've retrieved what I need from my various hideaways.* Holmes made one final check of the alley from the upstairs windows, then left the house and quickly melted into the back- street-shadows of London. ~------------~ Using a hansom cab to expedite his travels was out of the question for a destitute street orphan such as the master of disguise was portraying. Thus relegated to moving about only on foot, Holmes required several hours to complete his errands. After some thought, Holmes decided to retrieve whatever emergency funds he had cached at each of the flats he visited. *This will not meet all my needs,* he thought grimly as he counted out the thirty odd pounds in coins and banknotes of various denominations, *especially given my other obligations and commitments. I am going to need access to more of my funds. Somehow, I must develop a stratagem that will provide me access to my accounts at the Bank of England.* As a hedge against another encounter with Old Ned, Holmes decided to carry only a few of the least valued coins in one of his pockets as a diversionary tactic, while keeping the bulk of his funds hidden in his heavy boots. Holmes' plan was simple. Old Ned would take sadistic pleasure at stealing the few paltry coppers from the supposedly 'helpless' orphan, believing that sum to be the whole of the boy's money. All Holmes would have to do would be to slink off, looking afraid and crying, and Ned would be never be the wiser. Surprisingly, Holmes managed to complete his journey without any contact with Old Ned. However, the return trip was not completely uneventful, punctuated as it was by several near spills. Part of that was due to Holmes' lack of familiarity with his recently- changed body. His brain remembered his "old" body, and tried to move his current one as it had the old. That did not always work since his center of gravity and center of balance had changed significantly in a very short period of time. The far greater problem, however, was the increasing tendency of his hips to over-rotate as he walked, causing the track of his feet to converge as though he were walking on a circus tightrope. More than once, the combination of this unusually narrow support base and London's rough, uneven cobblestone streets sent Holmes tumbling to the pavement. Entry in the Journal of Mr. Sherlock Holmes Date: February 3, 1911. Time: 4:37 P.M. My Dear Watson, At last I have been able to conduct the measurements that have been on my mind since rising this morning. Much as I would have preferred to take this data earlier, I had no confidence that I would remain in control during my foray into London had I elected to delay that excursion in favor of conducting these measurements this morning. It is wiser by far, in my opinion, to face the next attack in the safety of my rooms with a ready, sanitary syringe at hand than to have chanced a collapse somewhere in the dark alleys and back streets of London. It has been just over eleven hours since I administered the drug. I will attempt, insofar as I am able, to conduct all further measurements at approximately the same time relative to my use of Moriarty's fountain of youth. Thus far, I feel quite fit with not the slightest discomfort that can be attributed to withdrawal. However, based on the evidence I have collected since my return, I am forced to conclude that Moriarty's statement about the cumulative effect of the drug is all too true. I immediately realized something significant had changed when the revolver levered itself painfully into my lower ribcage when I attempted to use my rope belt as a makeshift holster. Simply stated, my waist has become visibly smaller since I first put this belt on yesterday morning. The midriff of these trousers is significantly looser than when I first donned this disguise. Although I do not have a specific measurement from yesterday, my waist now measures a mere 27 inches as compared to 33.25 inches before I first injected the concentrated potion. Along the same vein, I have made a complete set of tailor's measurements of my changing body. The most compelling finding to this point is that my loss in stature has not been distributed uniformly within my previous dimensions. While my height has been reduced by just under 6 inches (starting at my former height of 6'0" to my current stature of barely 5'6"), the length of my legs has been reduced by less than three inches - closer to 2.25 inches, in fact. The greater proportion of my diminished stature has been manifested in the region between my shoulders and my waist, confirming that my body is developing female proportions in the vertical as well as the horizontal axes. My weight has been reduced by over 2 stone from my starting weight of 166 lbs to my current weight of 132.25 lbs. I believe this explains a substantial portion of the excess waste material which fouled my bed upon my first awakening despite my lack of food intake during the same period. I also believe that this sudden loss of body mass explains my muscular weakness relative to Moriarty during our abortive physical altercation. I know that I was severely dehydrated at that point, but now that I have replenished my bodily moisture reserves, I feel much better - certainly stronger than I did when Moriarty humiliated me by toying with me. But back to the measurable data. My hair has also continued to grow, nearly an inch since yesterday. If it grows much longer, even that scruffy hat will not contain it. Additionally, there is not a single strand of gray hair to be found anywhere on my head. This cataloging of the changes in my body may well turn out to be, in the final reckoning, a fool's errand. As a scientist, I have always believed in the adage "knowledge is power", but even I wonder precisely what good this knowledge might afford me. So, Watson, why do I do this - study myself as if I were a laboratory specimen and Moriarty's foul potion some type of experimental treatment? Perhaps because the objectivity of an experimental scientist gives me some needed emotional distance? Quite likely. I strongly suspect that so long as I can deal with this. . . horror? Hmmm, horror is an apt term if somewhat emotional for what I am experiencing at this point in time. Isn't that how Moriarty described me? Like a hopelessly emotional and scatterwitted female? Well, so long as I can deal with this horror scientifically, objectively and rationally, then I can believe that I am still Sherlock Holmes and that I still have the wherewithal to find, stop and ultimately, to kill Professor Moriarty once and for all. Enough of that! Back to the point of this exercise. I have made other, less quantitative observations that, although they are not my preferred numerically verifiable evidence, may cast some more light on the near-term effects of the drug. As noted above, my waist is definitely smaller, but neither my hips nor my upper torso show any corresponding reduction. However, the shape of those two bodily features do appear to have changed, becoming somewhat rounder - at least relative my previous form. This is not yet a factor in the fit of my trousers which seem able to accommodate the change, but the shoulders of my expertly tailored shirts and coats now hang down loosely onto my arms while still fitting snugly about my chest. Actually, I believe that those items of apparel currently fit even more snugly about my upper torso. If not, I am certainly more aware of a constricted sensation about my chest primarily because my nipples have become rather annoyingly sensitive. While this increased acuity seems consistent with the previously noted enhancement of my other senses, notably taste and smell, in this case it is most distressing. The tight shirt-cloth chafes my nipples until I want to tear the shirt away. To put a fine point to it, the irritation makes the things itch intolerably. My genitals also continue to change. I believe that my scrotum has become tighter and smaller, although, once again, I have only subjective observation to confirm that hypothesis. Yet. Now that I think on it, I don't believe that I have ever run across a generally accepted and accurate metric for assessing the size of the masculine endowments. The most widely accepted methods appear, on the face of my own observations, to rather inaccurately overestimate that organ's dimensions. I suspect I will have to invent my own method in this case. On another related issue, I am beginning to wonder how young, physiologically, I have actually become since the first administration of the concentrated version of the drug. It is difficult to assess because of the dual, sometimes contradictory, sometimes complementary nature of the effects of the elixir. What changes are brought about from the reduction of my age and what changes are the direct result of the changing of my fundamental gender? At this point, I cannot tell. Well, I must beg your pardon, Watson. Miss Hudson arrives tomorrow and I must be ready for her. I am going to miss her and her mother, but it will not be safe for her to be around me in the coming days; Moriarty's henchman being the least of the horrors she might have to face should she continue to attend me here. I have a plan, but it will require much work between now and her usual arrival time tomorrow morning. Farewell, old friend. End Journal Entry. Holmes laid down his pen and reread the journal entry. Even now, after all the time he'd had to adjust to what was happening, to what had been done to him, it read like one of George Wells' fantastic, pseudo-scientific works of fiction that Watson so enjoyed reading. Except not even H.G. Wells could have conceived of such an idea. No, only one man had the imagination, the knowledge and the will to have conceived something like this. The question was how did one go about stopping such an individual? At that moment, even the great Sherlock Holmes had to admit that he had no idea. Sighing, Holmes pushed aside his journal and reached for the pile of clothes laid out on his table. Perhaps he'd think of something while he resized these garments.
