A
Study In Satin
by Tigger
The hearth clock was tolling one o'clock when Holmes finally set down the last piece of altered clothing. Grimacing, he flexed his aching fingers and tried to relax the tight, cramping muscles of his sewing arm. He'd been wielding that damned sewing needle for the better part of the night, but now at last, he was done. He had what he needed for at least the next phase of his scheme. With a sigh, he gathered up his work and trudged into the bedroom only to be brought up short by the foul stench that filled the room. "Curse me for a fool," he swore, "I completely forgot to change the linen and it has been fermenting almost six days." Holmes carefully hung his new clothes up in his armoire and set about changing the linens and airing the room. He would need the room at least habitable when Miss Hudson arrived. Holmes deposited the soiled and reeking bed linens in the laundry hamper in the servants' rooms and then went back to his study. He'd slept well enough there the previous night and would, no doubt, do so again especially if he wished to draw a breath without gagging. ~--------------~ Fatigue laid Holmes low and kept him asleep even as the first fiery tongues of fever again began to rage. It was the uncomfortably warm sensation, coupled with the ragged, panting breaths that finally roused him. By then, the other symptoms were also painfully in evidence - the nearly uncontrollable shivering, the hypersensitivity and the involuntary flexing of his back and abdominal muscles. It was worse this time, Holmes thought as he fought against the acute discomfort and tried to keep track of the time for his journal entries. This time, he knew what to expect, and that anticipation somehow heightened the experience. That, and the memory of how quickly that single injection had assuaged the hellish torture. Finally, he could stand it no longer and grimly made his way back to his workbench where the second hypodermic still lay fully charged. Holmes bit his lip as he tried to quell the spasmodic tremors long enough to safely drive the needle and its torment- relieving contents home. He missed on his first attempt, and his second. Fortunately, his third time was the charm, and he managed to sink the point into the meaty part of his upper arm. As it had the previous night, the drug took effect almost immediately. Carefully, Holmes withdrew the needle, and began to relax. Holmes glanced back up at the clock. 6:36. The drug had held off the withdrawal a little more than twenty four hours. He'd have to remember to enter that data in his journal, he thought wearily, but later. He'd do that later. ~----------------~ Miss Maude Hudson was hurrying up the steps to Mr. Sherlock Holmes' second floor rooms as she heard his mantle clock chime ten o'clock. Mortified at her tardiness, Miss Hudson fumbled with her key as she stood at the door. She was so flustered at her highly unusual lateness that she dropped the key and hand to scramble after it on her hands and knees. By the time she managed to enter the apartment it was two minutes after ten. She made a quick survey of the front rooms and saw no sign of Mr. Holmes. Was he still sick, she thought guiltily? She'd meant to come back on one of her off days just to check up on him, especially seeing as how sick he'd been that last day, but then her Mum had come down with one of her attacks of the lung fever and it had been all Maude could do to tend to her own. Maude was terribly worried about her Mother's declining health. The doctor had told her that she needed to get Mum out of the city and into the cleaner air of the English country, but Maude couldn't see how she could accomplish that. What would they do for money, she'd like to know? It wasn't as if they had much, and what little they did have came from Maude cleaning other people's houses, or taking in laundry and mending and the like. It was the only work she and her sister knew how to do. How much of that type of work would there be in a poor country village - that's what Maude Hudson'd like to know. "Doctors!" she exclaimed with mild disgust. And it wasn't as if she'd be allowed to abandon Mum's "darlin' Mr. Holmes," either. If Maude had heard it once, she'd heard it a thousand times about how Mr. Sherlock Holmes had taken her Mother in as his housekeeper after her Father had died. Maude believed her Mother might expire at the very thought of leaving Mr. Holmes with no one to see to his needs properly. Miss Hudson gathered up the dirty dishes Mr. Holmes had left in the main sitting room, and carted them off to kitchen. She found the fouled linens and had immediately dunked the lot of them in a strong soap and hot water solution. The strong odor of human waste quickly had her deciding to take care of the other rooms and letting most of the stink soak out those sheets. Miss Hudson was marching purposely toward the water closet, mop and bucket at the ready when a soft "Pardon me, Ma'am, but are you Miss Hudson?" stopped her in her tracks. Maude spun towards the unfamiliar voice, her trusty mop at the ready. She was totally unprepared for the sight that greeted her in the doorway to Mr. Holmes' sleeping chambers. A remarkably . . .ummm. . plain young woman with more than a fair share of nose and somewhat heavy features was standing there looking up at Maude, a somewhat quizzical look on her face. She was perhaps an inch or two shorter than Maude's own height, and was dressed in a serviceable gown of gray cotton broadcloth with a large, floor length apron covering her from the shoulders down. A white cap covered her hair, although a short, stray dark curl had escaped just above her right eye. That errant curl belied the initial estimate of this intruder's age based on her angular features - an estimate Miss Hudson revised downward yet a second time when she assessed the fine skin texture revealed between the gown's high collar and the white cap. *A very odd looking sort of female,* Miss Hudson thought unkindly. "Excuse me, please," the girl said again, "But are you Miss Maude Hudson?" *Well, someone taught this one proper manners, whoever she is,* Maude thought. *Talks like some of the fancy, she does. Wonder where she was in service before this?* "I am," Miss Hudson said staunchly. "And just who might you be, Missie? If you don't mind me askin', that is." "Oh no," the woman replied with just a hint of a smile. "I am Visiting Nurse Joan Hanks, Miss Hudson. I am here to care for Mr. Holmes." A shot of fear sliced through Miss Hudson. She needed this position! "What's wrong with him?" she asked quickly, craning her neck in an attempt to see around the girl and into the bed chamber, "He'll be all right, won't he?" The girl made a shushing noise of her finger to her lips, quietly closed the bed chamber door, and then motioned Miss Hudson into the front sitting room. "Mister Holmes should not be disturbed. We're trying to keep him as comfortable as we can while we. . . wait." "Wait for WHAT?!?!" Miss Hudson demanded. Miss Hanks lowered her eyes and shook her head. "He's very ill, Miss Hudson. After you left from your last visit, Mr. Holmes became worse. He managed to summon Dr. March, an old friend and colleague of Dr. Watson's. After examining Mr. Holmes, he summoned me to . . ," Miss Hanks voice broke and then recovered, "to ease his time as much as is possible." "Then. . . . then. . he's going to . . ?" Miss Hudson tried to ask the question, but was cut off by a gentle hand on her own. All Miss Hanks did was nod, and Miss Hudson began to weep. Miss Hanks offered the older woman a handkerchief and then rose from her seat. She walked over to the hearth where she picked up a small packet and then returned to sit beside the silently sobbing Miss Hudson. Miss Hanks let Maude cry through the initial shock of the revelation. "Miss Hudson? When Mr. Holmes realized that he'd soon be. .. be leaving, he put together the contents of this envelope. He had originally hoped to present it to you in person, but sadly, that simply isn't possible." Miss Hanks passed the packet to Miss Hudson and motioned for her to open it. The envelope contained a piece of official-looking parchment, three train tickets and a thick stack of banknotes. Stunned, Miss Hudson could only stare at the contents, look up wide eyed at the nurse, and then back down at the money and papers in her hand. Finally, she managed a weak, "What is this?" A smile softened the features of the nurse, making her almost pretty. "Mr. Holmes said it was your pension, Miss Hudson. The paper is the deed to a solid, well maintained cottage in the Scottish Lowlands. Mr. Holmes said that he'd chosen it because the air would be good for your Mother. The tickets are passage for you and your family to journey there. The rest of it is 250 pounds which should take care of you, your mother and your sister quite comfortably for the rest of your lives." "So much money. . ." Miss Hudson said dazed. "Mr. Holmes said that he would have seen to this sooner, but he was a selfish man and did not want the bother of trying to find another housekeeper who was half as effective as you and your Mother. Now, he wishes to know that you and your family are well taken care of before. . " Miss Hanks voice fell away. "Before?" Miss Hudson prompted. "We both know what before means, Miss Hudson." Miss Hanks said gravely. Then she rose, taking Miss Hudson with her. "Now, Mr. Holmes would like you to go home and see to the preparations to leave for your new home. I will be here with Mr. Holmes and will see to what little cleaning and cooking he will be needing from now on." "Could. . .could I just see him one last time? To thank him, you see?" Miss Hanks smiled sadly, but shook her head. "Mr. Holmes is not awake right now, and it would be a shame to disturb what little sleep he can get nowadays. I'm sure you understand." "Oh, no, I wouldn't do that. Do you think I might return at a later time?" "I couldn't say, really. It would be hard to predict when he might be able to receive visitors. He's not . . . entirely himself, either. I'm afraid he might not appreciate the visit." "Oh, dear. How sad. How very, very sad. He always took such pride in his mind." "Just so, Ma'am, just so." "Well, if that's what you and the doctor think best," she said finally as she picked up her cloak and bonnet. "You're young for this kind of work, aren't you, Miss Hanks?" Miss Hudson asked as she unbuttoned her bodice and carefully hid the precious envelope in her impressive bosom. "I have more experience than you might think. I have worked with a respected colleague of Dr. Watson for many years." Miss Hudson rebuttoned her dress, started to put on her cloak, only to abruptly stop short of that. She turned a concerned eye on the young nurse. "You're sure you won't be needing any help? I noticed that you didn't clean up those sheets he soiled the day I was here." There was a touch of censure in Miss Hudson's voice and Miss Hanks flushed at the rebuke. "Dr. March called me in yesterday, Ma'am. Mr. Holmes was in tolerable bad shape, and I had to clean him and see to his needs first. It was very late when the Doctor said all was done and he told me I was to get some rest as I would be needing it today," she hung her head. "I'm ashamed to say I forgot them this morning, Miss Hudson." The girl's obvious remorse touched Miss Hudson's heart. "Well, it being the case that you was following the Doctor's orders, I can understand how seeing to Mr. Holmes personal needs would be more important than those sheets." Miss Hudson nodded and finished donning her cloak. "Take care of him, Miss. He's a very good man for all his odd ways. My Mum and me. . . well, we'll miss him something fierce." Miss Hanks watched Miss Hudson leave, closing and locking the door behind her. For several long moments, she simply stood there, her eyes unfocused, and perhaps, just a little over bright. Then, she reached up and slipped off the white cap. "And he . . . or rather, *I* shall miss the two of you as well, Miss Hudson," Sherlock Holmes said quietly to the locked door, "something fierce." Entry in the Journal of Mr. Sherlock Holmes Date: February 4, 1911. Time: 5:11 P.M. My Dear Watson, I am glad that I had already made the arrangements for Miss Hudson's retirement home before this sorry situation unfolded. With Old Ned and God knows how many other of Moriarty's henchmen prowling about, I could not take the chance that they might attempt to use her in order to get to me. Besides, it is the correct thing to do. After all, in a few more weeks, Sherlock Holmes will effectively, if not in reality, be dead. The only problem is that there will not be a body confirming that death so the reading of my final will and testament will likely be held up by the courts, to the detriment of Mrs Hudson and her daughters. I could not permit that to happen. The purchase of an appropriate residence along with obtaining the tickets had been seen to a month ago. As for the 250 pounds, well, that does pose a problem since it comprises all but about fifty pounds of my readily available cash. Still, that is enough to purchase what I will need from the various second hand and pawn shops. That expedition is scheduled for tomorrow as I have to finish altering a less "servant-like" dress first. The clothing I will need for my next course of action must be of a more genteel nature - a raiment of obvious quality but now looking a bit shabby. As to how I shall acquire more money, I have the inkling of a plan. Hopefully, old friend, you are just as emotionally sentimental as I have always accused you of being for I shall need some items I pray you did not dispose of when you moved back to Baker Street. We shall soon see. Quantitative effects of the second dose of Moriarty's potion are consistent with those measured yesterday. Another quarter of an inch shorter in stature, one and one half pounds lighter and my waist is another half inch smaller. My hair has grown almost to collar length and seems to be a bit fuller than yesterday as well. The point at which I could no longer stand the withdrawal pains occurred nearly twenty six hours after the previous administration. I don't know precisely when the attack began as I was asleep, and was fully involved when I finally awoke. Perhaps that is just as well. Rest is vital to the working of the mind. One very significant change has been noted just this evening. My urethra is no longer at the tip end of what is left of my male organ. It is now located along the bottom of the trunk near what now passes for the head. What this means is that I can no longer stand and deliver - at least now without wetting myself, that is. I must now sit to handle all my bodily eliminations, Watson. Rather lowering, don't you think? I must now discuss something that I would rather left unsaid. I wish you were here in body, Watson, to help me analyze this. For all your many well documented shortcomings as an objective observer and deductive investigator, old friend, you always understood the workings of the human heart and the associated emotions far better than I ever could. I felt quite. . . bereft today, Watson, when Miss Hudson left me for the last time. It is not a pleasant sensation - as if somehow there is suddenly a large hole inside me that something used to fit in that now lies empty and barren. I fell into that hole on several occasions today, Watson, when I would see some little thing that had to be Miss Hudson's handiwork for I would never have thought of doing them. A small cache of potpourri in the back of my armoire. A simple arrangement of what had once been flowers on the kitchen table. The scent of beeswax and lemon juice about all of the wooden furniture. I do miss her, Watson. . . and you, something fierce. End Journal Entry.
