A
Study In Satin
by Tigger
Sherla huddled deeper into the heavy woolen blanket the head
driver had obtained for her when they'd last stopped for a change
of horses. Cold and damp, she sat beneath what cover her
temporary employees had been able to contrapt for her while they
saw to the broken wheel that had caused this particular delay in
her flight to Irene Adler. A chilly mist flitted on the blustery
winds, soaking everything with a fine coating of moisture.
A shudder ran through her body, and her heart missed a beat. Was
that just the cold, or was that the onset of the withdrawal
again? *God, no, please,* she thought plaintively. Her planned
one day trip had been delayed by bad weather forcing the driver
to stop twice before they could safely press on, and now they'd
broken a wheel. *If I weren't a man. . errr. . woman of science,
I'd almost believe that Moriarty's animate Destiny was against
me. The question is, what do I do now? Once that wheel is
replaced, I don't have time for another incident. Heavens, I
don't have time for this one or the two before this one for that
matter. What to do?*
Moments later, she was on her feet, moving toward the four men
working to replace the broken wheel. *At least they had a spare
and the tools to change it with,* she thought. "Jean-Pierre?"
she called out in French. "A word with you, if you please."
The burly driver assured himself that all was going properly and
then turned toward 'la petite mademoiselle' as he and his three
partners had named her. "Oui, mademoiselle?" he replied.
Sherla beckoned over to her makeshift tent and spoke softly.
"Jean Pierre, I am ill. It is nothing that you can catch, but
only Madame Adler can help me. I am running out of my medicine
and may not have enough left if we have another delay."
"Does mademoiselle wish me to take her to le docteur?" Jean
Pierre asked. He liked la petite. She had ordered him and his
partners into the carriage when the weather had become suddenly
very bad instead of denying them what warmth and comfort it
provided. Not many aristo ladies would have done so, but she'd
not even batted an eyelash when three roughly dressed men had
clamored into the coach the moment she had made the offer. If
she was ill, he would have to see to her as she had seen to him
on this god-forsaken trip.
"Please," she entreated, "Do not stop at a doctor. Only Madame
Adler has experience with such. . . " Sherla struggled to come up
with something the coachman would believe. "A feminine problem,"
she finally managed.
Whatever she'd expected for Jean Pierre, the reaction he gave her
was not it. "Mademoiselle is en ceinte?" he asked in a growl.
"Pregnant??" Sherla all but squealed. "Non non, Jean Pierre,
quite the opposite," she made up quickly. "Without the treatment
that Madame Adler can provide, I may never have that joy. She is
a very special type of women's healer."
"What do you wish of me, Mademoiselle?" he finally asked, gruff
kindness in his voice.
"You must get me and my belongings to Madame. In truth, she may
have moved since we last corresponded - she was a friend of my
father's, you see - and if she has, you must try to find her and
get me to her as quickly as you possibly can."
Jean Pierre stared at la petite for several moments before
nodding. "It shall be as you wish, Mademoiselle," he said, and
then walked off toward his men, bellowing at them (loosely and
politely translated) to get that damned wheel back on and to be
smart about it.
The actual words brought an unlikely smile to the face to the
waif-like figure huddled beneath the canvas tent. Then, Sherla
turned to her portmanteau and removed her pen and journal. She
sat down as far back into the tent, and thus as far from the
swirling mists as she possibly could, and began to write.
Entry in the Journal of Miss Sherla Joan Holmes
Date: February 18, 1911
Time: Approximately 7:00 P.M.
Dear Madame Adler:
I hope you have read the preceding pages - and in truth - I am
counting heavily upon your doing so. You are a woman of great
intellectual gifts and great curiosity. I am gambling everything
on that facet of your personality, for in truth, I may well have
no other option left to me. Still, I anticipate that a puzzle
such as I may present by arriving at your doorstep in the grips
of withdrawal from Moriarty's damnable potion should be almost
irresistible to one such as you. It would be to me, and we have
much in common, you and I.
Having said that, I expect that you have read this journal and
are even now, shaking your head in disbelief that anyone would
dare to play such a hoax upon you. I assure you that this is no
hoax. As proof, let me ask you, who but your husband and your
very prim parson's daughter companion would know of your life-
long competitive relationship with Mr. Sherlock Holmes.
Certainly, the Bohemian Affair never ended up in one of Watson's
published stories since I promised His Majesty I would never
permit the details to be divulged.
I am Sherlock Holmes, and I need your help.
If you are reading this, I am very likely close to insanity.
When I arrive at your home, I hope to have one dose left of this
potion that is at once the cause of my distress and the temporary
palliative for it, but this trip has been so beset with
misfortune that, even with but an hour's passage left to your
last known address, I can no longer count on being able to speak
with you. A freak snow and ice storm struck us south of Amiens
forcing us to stop twice and costing me a full extra day. Now, I
am sitting on the roadside beneath a canvas tent while my drivers
struggle to replace a broken wheel in the icy mud while the wind
and the rain howls about them.
What I need from you, what I BEG of you, is that you take up my
last case to stop Professor Moriarty. You've read this journal,
I am sure, but let me assure you that he is far, far worse than I
have painted him in this journal. Should he succeed in
perfecting his potion, thereby adding untold years to his life,
he will be fully capable of bringing unimaginable suffering to a
countless numbers of people in the world.
You, of all the men and women - well, woman instead of women
because you are the only woman I have ever met with your powers -
are the only one I believe has a chance of finding and stopping
him. First, you have bested me twice that I know of, although
now that I think of it, there were several other cases where
things did not go as I had expected. If I survive with my wits
intact, I would like to discuss those with you.
The second reason is that he will, as I did, underestimate you.
You are a woman and if there is a man on earth more arrogant than
I was, or more assured of the superiority of the male gender than
I was, it is Professor Moriarty. In fact, one of his reasons for
doing this to me was his belief that even if I survived, a mere
woman would pose no threat to him.
God, but how I would like to make him regret those words!
I know this is a great deal to ask, but you must believe me that
the threat is grave and it is, after all, your world, too. Also,
I do not leave you entirely unsupported. If you accept this
mission, go to London and seek out the shop of "Madame Jeanne
Marie." She is a modiste and a friend. Before I left London, I
left all of my files on Moriarty and his various adventures with
her.
Also, there are two men who could be of immense value to you.
They might have succeeded against Moriarty, but in my estimation
you were the best choice. The first fellow is a detective
inspector on the Brussels police force. A brilliant man with a
keen eye for detail and the tenacity of a terrier on a case. My
records on him are with the Moriarty files. The second person is
somewhat odd, and I have only met him twice but on each occasion
was impressed by what he didn't say as opposed to what he did
say. Be warned that he has a talent for saying volumes of words
that add up to nothing and that I believe he does it quite
intentionally. He is the second son of the Duke of Denver and an
amateur, but very intelligent and very good at putting together
small details to solve large problems.
My only information on Moriarty to date (and I must admit that
most of it comes from Moriarty so that you may decide that it is
quite suspect) are:
1. He did not stay any length of time in London. I would have
known if he'd been there for any amount of time and I
believe him when he said he had to get to the Continent
quickly.
2. None of his London haunts showed any signs of use. This
supports the premise that he arrived and left quickly, but
is not proof as he is most careful and might have made
entirely new arrangements certainly so if he did indeed
intend to stay long enough there was a risk I might cross
his trail.
3. He is on the Continent - where, I do not know.
4. It is clear that M desires the rejuvenation portion of this
potion for his own use and is trying to find a way to
eliminate the other side effects. Whether he has or can
obtain the expertise to do so is not as clear, though it may
represent a fruitful line of inquiry. Therefore, my working
hypothesis is that whatever he is doing on the Continent is
directly related to the development of a treatment that will
rejuvenate the subject (in this case, himself) while
eliminating the gender changing and addictive side effects.
Irene, I don't know how else to say what I must now say.
Professor Moriarty is evil. Not simply a criminal, but as close
to evil incarnate as I have ever encountered in my career. If
you elect to accept this mission in my stead, do so in the
knowledge that it is, without any doubt, a battle to the death.
He will kill you without qualm, without mercy, and very likely,
with a good deal of pleasure. If you cannot find it in yourself
to accept such an outcome, please try to contact and convince the
other two I mentioned above to take the mission.
So that is what I need of you, Irene. It is what the world needs
of you,even if I am gone.
The package with your name on it was to help prove who I say I
am, although the letter of introduction was written with the
intent that I would still be sensible when I gave it to you.
Oh, one last thing. A Doctor will be useless to me. I do not
know what the scope of my insanity will be when I have no drug to
blunt its impact, so be very careful, and if necessary, be
prepared to use deadly force to protect yourself from me.
Thank you for reading this. I hope you will accept this mission,
but I will understand if you find that you cannot.
I (truly) am
Sincerely yours,
Sherlock, now Sherla, Holmes.
End Journal Entry.
Sherla was just repacking her portmanteau when Jean Pierre came
up to her. "Mademoiselle, the carriage is ready, but there is a
problem."
"Yes," Sherla responded.
"The springs were damaged when the wheel broke. The ride will
not be very comfortable. We could stop in Paris and get a
different carriage, but probably not until morning."
Sherla shook her head. "No, it is vital that I reach Madame
Adler tonight, Jean Pierre. Tomorrow will be too late."
"Very well, Mademoiselle. We will try to make the best time we
can, but you must tell us if it becomes too rough for you."
"Merci, Jean Pierre. Now, let us be off."
"Oui, Mademoiselle."
Sherla gave a moment's consideration to using her last bit of the
drug now. It was very close to the time when her last whole dose
would be wearing off, but elected not to do so. *I need to have
as much lucid time with Irene as possible. Perhaps now, after
two weeks of dealing with this potion, I am sufficiently
experienced with the attacks that I can tolerate them longer
without resorting to what is left in the bottle. It is worth the
attempt.*
~-------------~
Jean Pierre's warning proved to be an understatement. It took
her full concentration to stay on the seat, though even that
failed after a particularly gruesome bump and she found herself
on the floor of the carriage. Since her portmanteau was tied to
the floor by stout straps, she decided to stay down on the floor,
dragging cushions from the seats down after her. *At least it
won't be so far to fall.*
The intense discomfort resulting from all the shaking and
rattling was most probably why she did not notice the onset of
the withdrawal symptoms sooner. That, and the shivering cold
from her wet clothing, but by the time she did recognize what was
happening, those symptoms were well established and compounded by
the chill she had taken from her earlier soaking.
Shivering chills now alternated with the more familiar burning
heat. Her breath came in spasmodic gasps and her heart raced
madly.
Her skin became increasingly sensitive to the point where the wet
broadcloth of her traveling clothes felt like an abrasive
grinding on her body.
She felt the familiar tightening and relaxing of the large
muscles of her lower abdomen and knew that the escalation would
come soon. Struggling upright, she pulled herself hand-over-hand
to the sliding panel to the driver's perch. She knocked and
sighed when it slid open. The blast of cool air felt almost
soothing. . .for a moment or two and then her internal fires
turned away even that bit of relief.
"Oui, mademoiselle?" the brakeman called.
"How long to Madame Irene's?"
"Less than an hour at this pace, mademoiselle."
"Can you not go any faster?" Sherla asked.
"It will be very rough, mademoiselle," the man said cautiously.
"Go faster, if you please," she rasped out as the cramping
sensation in her stomach began to build. "I need to be there as
quickly as possible."
"Oui, mademoiselle," the brakeman responded dubiously.
Sherla fell back to the floor as the carriage lurched in response
to a loud crack of the driver's whip. Scrambling on her hands
and knees, Sherla tried to reach her portmanteau. The sensations
were stronger than she'd ever felt them. Just moving made her
skin seem electrified. The burning heat inside made her gasping
breath seem almost fiery and the muscular response was beginning
to impede her movements. Vainly, Sherla tried pressing a fist
into her lower stomach to relieve the muscle distress, but to no
avail. The center busk and metal stays of her corset prevented
her from concentrating pressure in any one area. It was akin to
trying to put one's fist through a knight's armor. Ineffectual
at best, and likely rather painful for the fist.
After several failed attempts, Sherla managed to open the case.
Her shivering fingers simply lacked the dexterity to handle the
straps efficiently, but finally she had it open. Quickly, she
dug through the carefully packed case looking for her medical
kit. *Got it,* she thought with something akin to triumph.
That it wasn't a triumph did not matter to Sherla anymore. All
that mattered was that the contents of that case would make it
all stop, would again allow her to regain control of her own
body.
The small leather case was nearly out of the portmanteau when a
horrific spasm gripped Sherla's entire body. Suddenly rigid
fingers let the medical case drop back into the open portmanteau.
Sherla's mouth opened to scream but nothing came out - her lungs
seemed paralyzed along with the rest of her body. The fire
changed and suddenly burned ever hotter.
For just a half heartbeat, the spasm subsided and Sherla started
to droop towards the floor, only to be struck by a second,
stronger spasm. This time, Sherla managed to get out a short
shriek of shock before the attack muted her again.
And then she fell to the floor, unconscious.
