A
Study In Satin
by Tigger
A freshening dawn breeze had blown in from the sea, clearing away
the morning fog and for the moment, cleansing the normally ever-
present coal-smoke haze from London's skies. Holmes was again
out and about in his Baker Street Irregular disguise. His
objectives for this day's venture were three-fold. First, Holmes
wanted to examine two of Moriarty's old haunts that were within
reasonable walking distance from Baker Street. Perhaps Moriarty
had elected to use one of his old headquarters while in London.
Holmes thought that unlikely - Moriarty knew those would be the
first places that Holmes would look for clues - but it would not
have been the first time that someone as clever as the Professor
had tried hiding something in the most obvious place. Holmes did
not dare overlook such a possibility.
His second objective was to reconnoiter the streets about his
Baker Street lodgings and, if possible, locate Old Ned and any
other watchers Moriarty might have left behind in the area.
Eventually, Holmes knew, he would have to deal with Old Ned,
especially if he harbored any hopes of disguising himself as an
adult male. Besides, it was always better to know the terrain
and the full scope of the forces one was dealing with before
undertaking such a campaign.
Finally, Holmes needed provisions. The kitchen cupboards at
Baker Street were bare, and he no longer had the services of Miss
Hudson to replenish his supplies. Holmes was positively
ravenous.
The night before had gone much the same as had the previous two
nights. The withdrawal attack had struck just before dawn,
approximately twenty-five and one half hours after the previous
attack. Holmes had administered the drug and fallen almost
immediately back to sleep only to reawaken a bare three hours
later with the urgent need to relieve himself. Once that
necessity had been dealt with, the hunger had made itself known.
Holmes had devoured the last crust of bread and bit of cheese,
but that meager offering had scarcely made a dent in his
appetite.
Holmes thought that the problem might be related to some specific
nutritional need that was exacerbated by the radical changes
Moriarty's potion induced in his body. Unfortunately, modern
nutritional research was not a subject Sherlock Holmes had ever
considered of any practical use to a consulting detective, so he
had never bothered to clutter his mind with the results of such
research. However, he knew that the young, particularly the very
young, drank quantities of milk - even as infants suckling at
their mother's breast - and he deduced that milk might be a
solution to his current needs. Certainly the cheese had seemed
particularly satisfying the previous morning, so perhaps milk and
milk products provided something his new and uniquely changing
physiology required. He would visit the dairyman just before
returning to his rooms.
~-----------~
Holmes arrived at his first destination shortly before nine A.M.,
but found nothing - *literally* nothing. The warehouse that had
once served as Moriarty's hideaway had been razed to the ground.
He moved about the outer edge of the rubble pile, but found no
sign of any recent human presence, let alone any type of hidden
access or underground habitation.
*Still,* Holmes mused as he picked his way around the fallen
structure, *I am not the only master of disguise in this little
melodrama. Moriarty is well able to camouflage a subterranean
hideaway somewhere in this apparent destruction.*
Holmes began to move within what had once have been the walls of
the warehouse, attempting to discover a hidden access or door.
He kicked at one sheet of galvanized tin roofing, dislodging it
and then screamed in horror as a veritable explosion of *huge*
rats erupted from beneath the panel. Holmes' screams went up in
both volume and pitch as several of the beasts scurried about and
between Holmes' legs, their coarse fur brushing roughly against
skin left bared where the cut-leg trousers ended. Jarred by the
contact, Holmes ineffectually batted at the mindless hoard,
trying to divert their furry bodies away from him.
The final straw fell when one particularly terrified creature
literally scaled up Holmes' shrieking body and then launched
itself from his shoulder, its long, whip-like tail lashing at
Holmes throat as it flew away. That was more than the self-image
that Holmes had been maintaining through pure force of will could
cope with. The masculine Holmes, the Freudic 'id' that had, to
that point in time dominated the personality of the conflicted
body, vanished beneath an onrushing avalanche of unadulterated
panic.
A now-wholly feminine Holmes screamed in terror and fled from the
room, intent only on escape. She may have stepped on one or more
of the damnable animals, but she didn't care nor did she slow her
headlong charge. Moments later, all signs of the repellent
animals had disappeared, leaving only their memory and the sour
taste of fear in their wake.
Still shaking and frantically waving ineffectual arms at threats
no longer present, Holmes finally slowed when she had made her
escape from the rubble pile that had once been a building. With
the recognition that her escape had been achieved, the panic
receded and Holmes, now different in a fundamental but invisible
way, collapsed to his knees on a clear patch of grass, his
breathing hoarse in his abused throat.
Never in his entire life had Holmes been in the grip of such a
paralyzing emotion. He'd felt fear before - only a fool would
have not been afraid during the struggle with Moriarty at the
Reichenbach Falls - and Sherlock Holmes was not a fool.
Certainly, there had been situations in the past when he'd been
caught unawares by some unexpected and unwelcome surprise, but
never had Holmes felt anything remotely like what he had just
experienced nor reacted as he had in the past ten minutes.
"Bloody hell, but I am still trembling," he said with disgust.
That recognition seemed to break through the emotional grip
Holmes was under. Gradually, his breathing slowed, his pulse
ceased racing, and the roiling of his stomach eased. "All this?"
he asked himself as his control reasserted itself, "because of a
few rats? I am nearly incapacitated because of those vermin?
NEVER!" he roared, ignoring the high toned shrillness of that
oath. "I am HOLMES and I will not surrender to mindless
EMOTION!"
His voice echoed off the old rundown buildings that surrounded
the warehouse site, but Holmes did not notice. His mind had
turned to other things. *The rats are significant,* he thought
quickly. *Moriarty is nothing if not fastidious. The rats might
well have been here, but if he'd used this site, he'd have
poisoned them. The living rats would have consumed their dead
brethren and been poisoned themselves, and yet, I saw no signs of
dead rats in my admittedly short examination of the site. Still.
. . *
Holmes made a more careful reconnaissance of the perimeter than
he had originally, but saw no sign of dead vermin, not even
bones. Holmes decided to go on to the other hideaway and see if
there were any clues to be had there.
As he slipped back into the shadows, Holmes attempted to analyze
the experience with the rats, but was interrupted by a loud, rude
rumbling from his stomach. *Perhaps it is lack of nourishment,*
he thought. *Watson was forever pontificating on the physical
and emotional problems that result from malnutrition. And it has
been well over a day since I had any substantial food. Why,
combined with the stress this forced reconstruction of my entire
body has placed on my reserves, it only stands to reason that I
would not be fully under control when dealing with additional
stress. Such as all those rats.*
Holmes permitted himself a pleased smile at the logic of his
explanation, and ignored the slight shudder that snaked down his
spine even the thought of the word "rat". With an abrupt turn,
Holmes decided to delay his inspection of Moriarty's other
hideaway, and went off in search of the nearest dairyman.
~----------~
The quart of milk and large chunk of cheese had only cost Holmes
a few coins, and looking back on it, the proprietor of the dairy
store had not seemed surprised by the purchase. *Perhaps more
than a few street children feed themselves this way with what
money they can beg borrow or steal. He doesn't care where they
obtained the money so long as he is paid. I wonder how my lads
of the Baker Street Irregulars coped when I was supposedly dead?
Better than this, I hope,* Holmes thought as he carried his
purchases out of the shop.
Holmes found a bench where he could rest while he consumed his
meal. Hopefully, he was right about the milk. Later, Holmes
would be profoundly embarrassed as he recalled the utter greed
with which he inhaled his food. Milk spilled from the corners his
mouth as he tried to literally pour it down faster than his still
raw throat could accommodate. *Well, at least the behavior is, in
all likelihood, more in character than my usual impeccable table
manners,* Holmes mused as he took a huge bite from his wedge of
mild, golden cheese.
All too soon, the cheese and milk had disappeared, and Holmes was
still hungry. For a few moments, he thought about going back and
getting more, but decided against it. That might well make the
storekeeper suspicious, and besides, Holmes thought it might be a
good idea to make sure that he kept what he'd just consumed
inside him. The last thing he needed to do is overeat and become
violently ill. Later, when he had finished his tasks for the
day, he could find another dairyman and buy enough milk and
cheese for his dinner and breakfast. Thankfully, the iceman was
still keeping the icebox at 221B Baker Street stocked. Holmes
would be able to store the milk overnight safely.
~------------~
The factory still stood, but was also abandoned. Holmes picked
the ancient padlock easily enough and was soon inside the dark,
dusty, web-bestrewn building. The main room was eerily empty,
and what little light filtered through the dirty and discolored
windows did little more than throw deeper shadows. Holmes
remembered this building all too well, and swiftly made his way
to where the secret entrance to Moriarty's private lair had been
hidden by tool shelves and worktables.
A stray shaft of light illuminated the floor in front of the work
table. Holmes went to one knee for a closer look. The thick
dirt had been recently disturbed. Two sets of footprints marred
the otherwise evenly dusted floorboards - one approaching the
work table, one departing. By the degree to which the dust had
reclaimed the footprints, making their outlines soft and diffuse
rather than sharply outlined, Holmes deduced that whoever had
made the prints had done so several days in the past - perhaps as
much as a week.
The prints were distinct, however, and showed no signs of a limp
which indicated that these prints had not been made by Old Ned.
The shoes did not show any signs of unusual or uneven wear
either.
Holmes located the hidden mechanism that controlled the door and
activated it. The work table and the wall it was attached to
swung outward with a loud creaking of poorly lubricated hinges.
He crept into the small alcove, following the prints. They
stopped at the next door, and then seemed to turn around, going
no further. Holmes examined the door and saw that it would swing
outward, into the little alcove. However, no dust had been
disturbed indicating that the door had not been opened at the
same time these prints had been made. Frustrated, Holmes began
looking for the latch to open the door anyway.
Then he saw it.
A brown envelope had been pinned to the door - a brown envelope
with writing upon it. Holmes moved closer to door and peered at
the writing, and was stunned to read his name on the envelope.
Holmes took down the packet and went back into the main factory
space where he found a relatively well lighted area. His
curiosity thoroughly aroused, Holmes opened the envelope,
extracted a piece of foolscap from it and began to read.
My Dear Holmes,
I suppose you had to check such mundane
details as this location, but again I must
ask you, old enemy, surely you did not think
it would be so easy?
No, I have not been here, other than to
leave you this note. Why, I have not even
bothered myself to set any traps for you so
you need not worry about them as you leave
this place.
Why, you may well ask? Because, my dear
Holmes, I have no need to kill you twice.
As far as I am concerned, you are already a
dead man. Soon, very soon, you will cease
to be even a minor annoyance to me, and it
will have ultimately been by your own hand.
That is somewhat unsatisfying, but it is as
Fate has decreed. The important thing is
that the Great Sherlock Holmes has at least
met his, or rather *her* master, and you are
no longer a threat to me or to my plans.
Good bye, Holmes. Live long and suffer.
M.
Holmes crumpled the paper in his hand and cursed softly.
Moriarty had anticipated him and had left this calling card to
taunt him. Holmes was inclined to believe the letter as the
other evidence supported Moriarty's claim that he had not, in
fact, done more than plant that damnable note. Moriarty was
unlikely to have turned his scientific mind to something so
mundane as spreading dust evenly. Ergo, the footprints proved
that Moriarty, or one of his henchmen who did not limp, had only
been here once to plant the note.
The sound of the great tower clock tolling twelve noon in the
distance broke Holmes concentration. He folded the note and put
it into one of his pockets before slipping back out the way he'd
arrived. He still had to find Old Ned.
~----------~
Holmes crept cautiously into a dark alleyway a few blocks east of
Baker Street. A very young lad had happily taken a tuppence from
Holmes in exchange for the information that the "big old codger
wot's got the funny limp" was often seen in this vicinity.
Hopefully, the villain's bolt hole was nearby and Holmes would be
able to locate it. Sooner or later, there was going to have to
be a reckoning between the two of them, and Holmes knew he'd need
every advantage he could find.
In the far back of the blind alley, Holmes found a door recessed
into the soot-covered brickwork. He was trying to decide whether
to proceed when the door slammed open and a huge, hairy paw
reached out from the inside and grabbed him before dragging him
inside bodily.
Holmes barely had time to realize he was inside the building when
he went flying into the nearby wall, landing hard and falling to
the filthy floor. A huge shadow loomed above him. "So ye was
lookin' fer Old Ned, was ye, boy? Well, little Tom knows to stay
bought when 'e's been paid fer 'cause 'e knows Oi'd 'ave to 'urt
'im if'n 'e didn't. You ain't so smart, are ye, boy?"
Holmes had to think fast. "But. . .Oi was tryin' to find ye,
sa'ar," he lied, "on account of Oi gots somethin' to tell ye. .
.about that gennulman ye was lookin' fer."
Old Ned reached down, grabbed Holmes by the throat and jerked him
bodily to his feet. He lifted Holmes up to eye level, his fetid,
rotten breath making Holmes stomach turn. "Oi don'ts believe
yer. Oi think maybe ye've sold Old Ned out, and that makes Old
Ned right mad. Oi thinks ye needs to learn what 'appens to a bit
o' nothin' like you what decides to cheat Old Ned."
Old Ned's free hand came down in a thunderous slap that sent
Holmes flying across the room. Holmes rolled to his feet, his
head reeling from the blow only to see the villain closing on him
with a vicious looking knife in his right hand. "Oi thinks ye
needs to bleed a bit, boy. Maybe Oi'll take an ear so's ye'll
know just 'ow easy it'd be fer me to cut yer throat next time."
Holmes rolled to one side, just barely avoiding Ned's grasping
hand. When he came out of the roll, Watson's service revolver
was in his hand. Ned's eyes went wide, and then he charged at
Holmes, the knife raised for an obvious killing stroke.
The first shot took Ned squarely in the chest. Holmes emptied
the revolver into the man's body even as he fell, the last bullet
disintegrated the back of Ned's balding skull.
For the second time that morning, Holmes was overwhelmed by
unfamiliar emotions that he could not even stand. There was just
so much blood - everywhere! On the wall, on the floor, on Ned. .
. on Holmes.
Holmes stifled the urge to scream as he tried to wipe Old Ned's
blood from his vest and instead ended up with it covering his
hands. Still on his knees, Holmes ripped the vest from his body
and tossed it aside. The sickly sweet scent of hot blood mixed
with the sharp taint of burnt gunpowder and cordite made Holmes
feel lightheaded and nauseous. For a brief moment, he feared he
might faint or vomit, but in the end did neither. Holmes managed
to quell the upheaval in his stomach and to remain conscious by
sheer force of will. Finally, he struggled to his feet and
staggered toward the door and escape. At the last instant, he
stopped, remembering to retrieve his vest and Watson's revolver
before finally slipping out the door and into the alley.
Holmes made his way directly back to Baker Street, forgetting to
stop and purchase foodstuffs. He simply wasn't hungry anymore.
~----------~
Interlude: Calais to Paris Train
Moriarty brooded in his private compartment as the train hurtled
through the night. Thoughtfully, he looked down at the missive
that had reached him just before he had boarded the train earlier
in the evening.
So, Holmes had decided to take direct action. Moriarty had
anticipated this, if not quite so soon. According to Moriarty's
informant, someone, most likely Holmes, had retrieved the letter
he'd hidden in the secret passage at the old factory. Moriarty
smiled as he considered the consternation that note would cause
his old enemy. The smile was not a pleasant sight.
The other item discussed in the letter was the sudden,
unexplained disappearance of Old Ned. He had not reported to
Moriarty's informant in over twelve hours which, given the fact
that the old fool was only paid when he reported, indicated that
Ned was likely no longer among the living. Again, Moriarty had
expected Holmes to deal with Ned, but this soon?
Holmes was a strategist by nature - a thinker - and he would not
have had time to have determined Ned's habits and patterns in
order to exploit Ned's many weaknesses. Nor would Holmes have
had time to locate a suitably advantageous site for this final
confrontation. Such impulsive, immediate action was not like the
Holmes Moriarty had come to know and hate. This was out of
character.
Moriarty put his head back against the seat and closed his eyes
in relaxed concentration. Yes, these behaviors were definitely
out of character. Had the youth potion changed something
intrinsic to Holmes' mind along with transforming his body?
Something Moriarty personally needed to be concerned about,
especially since he fully intended to use the drug on himself
once he'd been able to perfect it by eliminating the gender
changing side effect. This other possible side effect had not
been noted during his earlier researches using the lower animals.
Moriarty wanted to be young, but he wanted to be a young Moriarty
at the height of his powers. The last thing he wanted was to
become some youthful, yet irrational fool.
Or perhaps this sudden unpredictability or impulsiveness was not
intrinsic to the age regression aspect of the drug, but rather
was a feminine-based characteristic that even the great mind of
Sherlock Holmes could not control. Moriarty would need more
data. It was too bad that his informant would no longer know
where to send his reports. He'd been unwilling to take the
chance that Holmes might locate his main informant and force
information concerning Moriarty's whereabouts from the man, so
the itinerary he'd provided to his man had been a fabrication.
That was, in part, why Moriarty had gone to Calais instead of
directly to his final destination. There were many ways to hide
his trail in France, and he'd had too many misadventures with
Holmes to believe the detective would not discover where Moriarty
had departed from and where he'd been bound when he'd left
England. Holmes still might track him down, but it would take
far more time with Calais as the starting point on the Continent.
And while time was limited for Moriarty, it was far more so for
Holmes.
Moriarty set the note aside and sighed. It was done. As for the
concern about the mental changes wrought by the drug, Moriarty
could deal with that problem without watching Miss Sherlock
Holmes. He would simply have to be careful with his final
testing once the drug no longer changed males into females. He,
unlike Holmes, at least had enough time to be cautious.
