A
Study In Satin
by Tigger
Feeling oddly bemused, Irene Adler sat regally in the comfortable (which meant that it had been designed for seating corseted women) chair provided for her by the Modiste. She reflected that she had been in this shop many times and had never experienced this peculiar feeling. She had even sat here, much as she was now, watching her beloved Nell being fitted for her wedding gown, and not felt as she did at this moment. Of course, Penelope had been her dear friend, confidante and willing, if somewhat prudish, co-conspirator - almost a sister in fact. *Oh my goodness! Am I feeling maternal?!?!* That was a very discomfiting thought, particularly since it meant Irene Adler was feeling maternal towards the young woman currently standing quietly as Madame la Modiste and her assistants pinned yards of creamy white silk to her body. *How can I feel motherly towards a person I have all but convinced myself is . . or was Mr. Sherlock Holmes?* she asked herself. *Heavens above, but he is years older than I!* she told herself sternly before looking up at the dark-eyed, dark haired *young* beauty who was, at that moment, trying ever so hard NOT to look enchanted with the process. *Still,* she reminded herself, *that girl may have HIS experience as a man, but SHE is a babe in the woods as a woman. How very strange, but we have been building towards this since the 1880's, starting when I was but two and twenty. Sherla looks years younger than that age right now, particularly when she forgets to cloak herself in those tattered vestiges of male dignity.* The modiste asked Sherla to twirl so that she could assess how the layered white skirts of silk would float above the dance floor. Irene smiled when the girl had to be asked to repeat the dance step since her first attempt did not in any way resemble the speed such a maneuver would achieve in the arms of a gentleman. When she tried this time, Sherla's skirts billowed to give a flirtatiously tantalizing, fleetingly brief glimpse of shapely, white-stockinged ankle. *Too much, perhaps? Certainly not if she'd been a girl all her life for that is precisely what the fashion calls for these days, but the mind inside that body still carries male beliefs from an earlier time.* The Modiste glanced at Irene, expecting a look of approval or disapproval. She sighed, and then nodded. *If Sherlock makes a reappearance to complain over this tonight, I will simply tell him it is a required aspect of his disguise. That should shut him up long enough for Sherla to reassert herself.* That line of thought brought Irene up short for a moment. She was about to consider it more fully when a disagreement broke out between her "ward" and the dressmaker. "But Mademoiselle, this is a gown pour la debutante. It must be white to show your innocence and youth, with only the smallest touches of color, and those no more than pastel highlights." Sherla had that look Irene was coming to recognize as presaging a "Sherla isn't going to surrender one inch" encounter. "Oui, Madame, I understand it must be white, but I do not like how I look in those insipid pastels. They make me look like a child. I wish the accents to be bright, and I wish primary colors - in bright satins if you have something suitable." The Modiste turned exasperated eyes to Irene. "Madame, the petite Mademoiselle does not understand these things. Please explain them to her," she beseeched, fully expecting Irene to tell the girl to behave so that the dress could proceed. Irene wondered at what the girl was about. She'd not taken much interest in her dress to date, simply allowed Katrina or Irene to tell her what to where. "Show me what you propose, Madame. Put the highlight colors against my niece and explain." Surprised, the Modiste complied, laying two swatches of cloth across Sherla's neckline. They were a robin's egg blue and the most insipid pink Irene had ever seen. Against Sherla's vibrantly colored hair and her lovely complexion (although her color was a bit high from her temper with the dressmaker), both selections DID make the girl look childish. "I think a primary colored satin about the neckline and the flounce hems, Madame," Irene directed, with complimentary embroidery highlighting the rest of the gown." "But, Madame," the Modiste begged, not believing that Irene would side with this . . . this infant against HER superior knowledge, "this would be so very out of fashion." "My niece is a woman of her own mind, and besides," she added with a challenging smile, "Do you not set fashion in Paris and therefore in the world? I expect you to please my niece and myself AND then assure that what pleases us becomes all that is fashionable. Oui?" Sighing gravely, Madame shrugged her slender shoulders in defeat. "Oui, Madame. I will do what can be done." *Which will be far better than you expect because Sherla is so beautiful, you stupid female,* Irene thought as she nodded her assent. "Oh, and see about putting some of the highlighting color beneath the layering of the skirts as well. It will tease the eye as she dances the night away." Then Irene looked up at Sherla and was again surprised. *She shows no signs of gloating at her victory over the other woman, only quiet pleasure at the thought of how the dress will look on her. I wonder if she realizes how completely, girlishly feminine she looks just now? A far cry from the very irate man who began writing that journal of hers several weeks back.* "That's IT!" Irene crowed aloud causing everyone in the fitting room to spin about to stare at her. "Are you all right, Tante Irene?" Sherla asked, remembering to use the familial title they had agreed upon as part of their planning. "Quite all right, dear," Irene said, a happy smile on her face. "I just solved a little problem that had been bothering me for a while, that is all. Do continue as you were, Madame. Sherla and I have much more to accomplish today." Irene reached for the glass of mineral water she'd been provided and took a sip. *That is the key I was looking for the night I first read his. . .her journal. There is a . . . a transition recorded in that diary. An old, tired man who was ready. . even willing to die has, over the course of his trials, slowly been growing into a young woman, and it is far, far more than merely physically. I could see Sherlock Holmes arguing with a dressmaker about the color scheme of a dress if it had something to do with a case, as this one does, at least peripherally. However, he would have looked grimly satisfied at the end of the exchange, not happily pleased. Whether she wants to or not, and whether she will admit it or not, Sherla is enjoying this outing, in spite of herself. Or perhaps more correctly, in spite of *him*self.* And then, another thought struck Irene. *And that is, in all probability, the explanation for her fits and starts. Physically, she is precisely what she appears - a lovely young girl on the edge of womanhood. She is learning to enjoy that and her newfound youth helps a great deal in that arena. Perhaps she justifies her reaction by thinking that being a young, healthy girl is better than being an old, sick man. Only whenever she remembers she is. . . or rather *used* to be Sherlock, she freezes and closes up. Attacks my poor piano with thundering renditions of Beethoven.* *As far as I can tell, she is becoming more feminine by the day. Initially, my inclination was to encourage that development, to put her in situations that would enhance that femininity. Especially, I am forced to admit, once I concluded that she really was Holmes. I found it delightfully amusing to think of the oh-so-very Victorian misogynist, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, dealing with and struggling through the conventions and barriers our so- called enlightened society imposes upon intelligent human beings who happen to be female.* Irene looked up to see Sherla examining herself in the Modiste's mirrors, her concentration focused on what the dressmaker was pointing out, and shook her head. *Now, I wonder if that is the best course of action - for she is determined to face this Moriarty, who is, insofar as all my inquiries can tell me, a hideous, vile and dangerous man. Which facet of this marvelously complex creature should be dominant when it comes time to face that monster? Sherla? Or would she be better off as Sherlock in Sherla's form?* Irene cast another look at Sherla and sighed quietly. *By all appearances, there may not be any real choice. So, if she is becoming more Sherla by the day, what do I do? I must admit that I *do* feel maternal toward this very original young woman with the brain of an old man. If I must send her into battle, and I accept that I must, how do I best help her prepare herself for the coming conflict?* "Tante Irene!" Sherla's happy call interrupted Irene's musings and she looked up to see Sherla pirouetting in front of her. "Won't it be lovely? The only thing that would make it better is to make it less white, but I understand that we cannot." *Is this response coming from Sherlock, pretending to be Sherla for the benefit of Madame la Modiste, or is this truly Sherla forgetting to be Sherlock?* "Indeed we cannot, Miss," Irene responded, forcing a smile. "Now, run along with Madame's maid and get changed. We truly do have a great deal more to do today, starting with the shoemaker and the milliner." she ordered as she thought, *And I have a great deal more to think about.* ~------------~ Irene was no closer to finding any answers to her problems when she strolled toward her sitting room later that afternoon. They had returned to Irene's home in time for a late lunch, after which a very pleased looking Katrina had dragged a protesting yet laughing Sherla off for her first lessons in flirting. "Oui, oui, Mam'selle Cherie, that is it!" an excited voice all but exulted, "Now, flare the fan in front of your face so only your eyes show. Non non! Smile when you do it so that the gentleman is able to see the smile without seeing your lips! Make him WANT to see your lips. Make him want to TASTE your lips. OUI! Excellent, Cherie!" "But I do not want to smile at men, Katrina," a different voice almost whined. "And I certainly do NOT want them tasting my lips!" "But of course you do, Cherie, it is how these things are done. If you do not do it, or do it properly, you will be noticed in a not so good way." Irene walked in the door just in time to hear Sherla retort, "Between you and Irene, I am getting bloody damned tired of that particular argument. I wish the two of you would give up that little prod." "Then you will have to give up your plans with regard to Professor Moriarty," Irene said sternly. "For you are a woman now, Sherla, and if you forget that fact, you will stand out among other women like a goat among sheep. Calling attention to yourself in such a manner will likely cost you your single greatest advantage in the coming struggle." "Irene?!??" Sherla said, spinning on her feet. "Yes, Sherla." Irene replied before turning to Katrina. "Has our little Miss been troublesome in learning her lessons, Katrina?" Katrina's gypsy eyes sparkled. "On, Non, Madame. In fact, she has been very good. Why, her command of the fan is unbelievable. One might almost wonder at how a former man could have gained such skill, such delicacy, such sweet subtlety with so feminine a fashion accessory." An impish smile lit Irene's still lovely face. "Well, Sherla? Did old Sherlock play the lady with a fan for some case that the good Dr. Watson never wrote about for publication?" For a moment, Sherla looked stunned, then rebellious, and finally, mischievous. "Why no, Irene. Sherlock was too large a man to disguise himself as a flirt. Actually, I learned the fan when I trained in an Oriental wrestling and fighting style as a youth." "Fighting with a fan?" Katrina snorted. "Hah, Mam'selle, you seek to hide the truth from us behind something so manly as wrestling and fighting. Poof, you DID play with fans." "Oh really?" Sherla challenged as she flared the fan in front of the her face. "Imagine a fan, my dear Katrina, with each spoke replaced by a thin band of the finest steel, sharpened to a razor's edge." Suddenly, Sherla launched herself at Katrina, one hand leading, the hand with the fan at her hip. At the last moment, she executed a graceful pirouette that had the suddenly fully open fan just barely grazing the startled maid's throat. Too late, Katrina leapt backwards and fell indecorously on her bottom, but Sherla had already come erect facing her, the fan once again furled in her hand. Solemnly, she bowed. "If this," she said, her eyes twinkling as she flared the fan gracefully, "had been a fighting fan instead of a flirting fan, Katrina, you would now be bleeding all over Madame Irene's lovely Aubusson carpet." Sherla offered a hand to the still wide-eyed maid and helped her back to her feet. "I would say, Katrina," Irene said, "That the evidence supports Sherla's case. However, Sherla," she continued turning to face her ward, "You have to realize that flirting *is* a woman's weapon, and one that has been used effectively since Eve. You mentioned learning a woman's weapons in your journal, my dear. This *is* one of the most powerful, especially against men. You should make every effort to master it." The girl considered that, and then drew the fan back across her face, letting her eyelashes flutter shut daintily. "I shall do my very best, Tante Irene." she said softly. "Well done, Sherla! And to you, as well, Katrina. I shall see you at tea time." Irene sailed from the room, but not before she heard, "OWW! NON NON NON, Mam'selle Cherie, rap the importunate gentleman's knuckles LIGHTLY with the closed fan. You wish to discourage him, not break his fingers! At least, not for the first importunity. And Mam'selle, s'il vous plait, smile *sweetly* when you when you hit his knuckles? Not like the hungry lioness facing the cornered and crippled antelope?" *Somehow,* Irene smiled to herself, *I suspect that 'Mam'selle Cherie' is going to have to be exceedingly diligent on such nuances before she is entirely proficient at the fine art of flirtation. At least she didn't use one of those Oriental wrestling moves Holmes was noted for. Perhaps it is time to introduce Sherla to the male of the species and see how she reacts.* ~----------------~ Sherla hurried to the large room that Katrina had told her served as the ballroom with Irene and her husband entertained. It was not really all that large, she noted as she stepped into the room. *Why, no more than ten couples could dance properly in this room, and then only if the ladies were unimpeded by any of the more complex gowns I saw at the Modiste's shop. Oh well, now where is Irene for these dancing lessons she promised. . . or was that threatened?* "Ahh, Mademoiselle, Madame Irene said you would be here for your lessons. I am Monsieur de Mere, and I am to instruct you in the finer points of dance." Instinctively, Sherla measured the man. He was of moderate height and weight, certainly shorter and lighter then Sherlock had been. Still, he was taller than Sherla was, even in the high heeled dancing slippers Katrina had just buckled onto her feet. His suit was of only modest quality as were the shoes. His neckcloth was tied in one of the currently avante-guarde, excessively intricate arrangements about poorly starched collars. His hair was of moderate length and blacker than her own midnight-dark tresses while his eyes were obscured by the gray lenses of his spectacles. Most strangely, he was wearing gloves. "Is something wrong with your hands, Monsieur?" Sherla asked as she moved into the room followed by Katrina. The house is quite warm." "Ah, non, thank you for asking, Mademoiselle," The man said with an obsequious bow, "But most young ladies prefer that I wear gloves since the gentlemen they dance with at the balls wear them. It makes the lessons more. . . realistic, oui?" He asked as he moved over to the phonograph machine. He gave the device several vigorous cranks and then set the cylinder to spinning. *There is something odd about this. I know Irene said she had to run an errand, but still. . * "Come, come, Mademoiselle, we shall begin with the waltz," the dance master directed, his arms held wide for her to walk into, "All the young ladies wish to waltz, n'est-ce pas?" Not entirely certain that SHE wanted to learn the waltz, Sherla had to be given a gentle push by Katrina before she began to move slowly toward the disconcerting man. As she approached, her eye caught sight of a glint of highlight that clashed with the man's hair. *A hairpiece? Is this man a vain type who has begun to lose his hair?* She had not even begun to work that out when a by-now familiar scent tickled at her nose. Sherla stopped short and stared at "Monsieur de Mere". "Irene?!?" she said with audible certainty. "Oh pooh," Katrina said behind her, disappointment evident in her tone. "Well, I told you the idea was not likely to work, Katrina. After all, this snip of a girl is. . .was. . ., damn, I really must decide how to think of that . . .*was* Mr. Sherlock Holmes. We were unlikely to fool her, no matter how good my skills at disguise are." "You fooled me once, Irene, up until the moment you greeted me that night at Baker Street." "Ah, but it was a dark, foggy London night, Sherla," Irene said as she doffed the wig to reveal her own auburn-hightlighted chestnut tresses, and pulled off the gloves that had been necessary to hide her finely boned, beautifully manicured hands. "Just as well, I suppose, I was sweltering in this wig and gloves. Now, shall we dance, Mademoiselle?" Irene offered, making her leg to Sherla. Sherla grinned impishly, and sank into the deep curtsy Katrina had taught her during the flirting lesson. *It is so marvelous to be young and flexible again,* she thought happily as she rose gracefully and took Irene's hand. "Now remember Sherla," Irene said sternly, "*I* lead, not you!" Nodding, Sherla giggled, "And why is it, Madame," the girl asked impishly as she began following Irene's lead, "That I believe that you say those exact words to your husband when you dance with him?" ~-------------~ Irene summoned Sherla back to the ballroom just before she had planned to retire for the evening. Sherla was somewhat surprised to see Irene back in trousers - very tight trousers - a white open necked button down shirt with tight cuffs and billowing sleeves and well shined over the calf boots. "No questions, girl," Irene had ordered. Go into that room, and dress in the clothing I have laid out for you. Then meet me here." Several minutes later - it was a time-consuming task to remove her women's clothing, and loosen the stays of her corset just enough to permit Sherla to breathe fully without losing the stiffness about the waist that might very well be unavoidable if she ended up needing these skills with little notice - Sherla returned to the ball room attired much as Irene was save that her boots were not so well shined. "CATCH" she heard, and barely had time to react as a flash of silver streaked towards her. Some instinct took over and Sherla snatched the flying object from the air just before it sailed past her. Her hand tightened about the hilt just as she realized what it was. "A foil?" "Just so," a grinning Irene said as she held out a fencing mask to Sherla. "You have done so well at being a lady today, I thought you deserved a reward. Besides, you need to learn how to move aggressively in that body as well as femininely if you are to achieve your goal. Fencing will help that. Furthermore, Mr. Sherlock Holmes was accounted as being quite adequate with such a weapon, and I long for some decent competition. My poor husband tries, but he worries overmuch about my safety and therefore fails to press his advantages with sufficient vigor to challenge me properly." Sherla tested the weapon's balance, and then checked the safety button on the tip. The foil was light, but then, a rapier or saber would have been too much for her greatly reduced arm and wrist strength. The two women slipped on their masks and took their positions opposite each other, their free hands at their hip, their sword blades just touching. "En garde!" Irene ordered. Their first passes were slow, at most half speed, intended for them to get the feel of the foils and to assess each other's skill rather than for true competition. The intensity gradually increased as the blades flashed and the discordant sound of steel sliding against steel filled the air. Sherla held her own through the first few passes mostly as a result of old remembered skills and tricks, but it became clear that Irene was an expert fencer, and that she was carefully controlling their contest to test, but not break Sherla. As the match wore on, Sherla's arm and wrist began to tire, and her previously sharp thrusts were dulled and her parries came slower. She considered mounting a final flurry, but decided against it. Irene could have won the match at any time. She obviously had a superb partner somewhere if her husband was reluctant to endanger her. *If her husband is at all up to her mettle,* Sherla thought grimly, her arm afire and her lungs begging for air. "I YIELD!" she shouted as she jumped back from the fray, her sword still at the ready. "Well done!" Irene cheered as she tossed her own mask to the quietly watching Katrina. "VERY well done!" "Oh, certainly," Sherla retorted in some disgust. "I can barely lift my arm, let alone this foil. You could have carved me like a Christmas goose at any point in our match, and you say I did well?" "Of course you did, goose," Irene said fondly. "You are not yet at your peak. Whatever that foul brew did to make you what you have become, it took a terrible toll on your resources. If you are to face this Moriarty of yours, you will need to develop strength and stamina to match your beauty and your brain, dear girl. You did well tonight. If your arm is up to it, we will do this every night before our evening baths. I will also look into whether there are facilities for women to exercise at l'Ecole Normale Supeerieure des Jeunes Filles. It is a marvelous school, started in the 1880's in Paris for the education of young women. You swim, as I recall? Excellent for building strength and stamina in a woman." Sherla smiled tiredly, and nodded. Then she took on a pensive air. "It is odd, you know." "What is?" Irene asked as she supervised Katrina putting away the foils and masks before rejoining her ward. "These clothes," Sherla answered, drawing her hand down her body. "They feel so . . . so strange, and yet, I have been wearing garb such as this more than six decades. It is the dress and the gown that ought to feel odd." "Perhaps, ma petite," Katrina said, that impish twinkle back in her eye, "It is as I said earlier. You were meant to be a woman instead of that cold stick of a man." Irene braced herself to deflect a blistering retort aimed at her impudent little maid. Even she was greatly surprised when none ensued. ~-----------~ Entry in the Journal of Miss Sherla Joan Holmes Date: February 25, 1911 Location: Irene Adler's Home outside of Paris France. Time: 12:27 A.M. My Dear Doctor Watson: I am so very tired, John, but it is a good sort of tired. It has been a lovely day - better than any I can remember since. . . well, since you were taken from me, old friend. I think that is a large part of this sudden contentment - I have friendship in my life again. Heavens, even that sly-boots Katrina was friendly today. She calls me "Mam'selle Cherie" instead of Mademoiselle Sherla. I rather like it. The lone black spot, I am afraid, is that my arm is quite sore and no amount of soaking in that hedonistic bathtub of Irene's did anything to loosen the knotted muscles. And I thought ladies were not supposed to have such things. Irene tried to trick me with a disguise today. It is good to know that the old skills of observation and deduction have not gone the way of my formerly masculine state. So it would appear that Irene's contention that I am not truly diminished by my femininity is proven. It is comforting to know that. One issue occurs to me, John, as I read this journal. I do not think it wise to appear in public as Sherla Holmes. The name is too close and if "S. Holmes" reaches Moriarty's ears before I am ready for it to do so, the consequences will be grave indeed. I will discuss it with Irene tomorrow. . . today, actually. Perhaps it is time for Joan to make a temporary return. Good night, old friend. End entry
