A
Study In Satin
by Tigger
"OUCH!" Sherla exclaimed as she brought her pricked and bleeding
finger to her mouth. "THIS is supposed to help me think?"
Irene looked up from her own sampler with a grin. "Well, it is
certainly quieter than my piano."
"I apologize for using it without permission," Sherla started
only to be hushed by a wave of Irene's needle-bearing hand.
"Nonsense. I am teasing. Use it as you will, provided you don't
mind an audience. I just thought this might be easier to carry
around with you, as I suspect, my girl, that you will be as much
of the reflective turn of mind as your male personage was."
"At this moment, all I am thinking of is that I have managed to
blood four of five fingers on one hand," Sherla retorted darkly.
"Well, in that you are limited by your teacher, I am afraid. If
only my dear Nell were not abroad with her husband you would
likely pick this up more quickly with a good deal less pain.
Here, let me see your sampler," Irene ordered. Dutifully, Sherla
handed the small scrap of fabric to Irene who looked at it
closely before nodding. "Well, I will say one thing for your
detail oriented perspective, Sherla, you are precise and accurate
with your stitches. Mine are not nearly so fine as yours, but
then, I am not so focused a personality as Sherlock Holmes."
Irene saw no point in mentioning the tiny spots of drying blood
that marred the formerly pristine white fabric. Sherla had
certainly already noticed and would endeavor to improve the next
time. That was a facet of her personality, too.
Sherla sighed at set aside her needle and thread. "Neither am I,
it would appear."
"Another of those differences, my dear?" Irene asked gently.
"Apparently. Just this morning, I realized I have never asked
you for your assistance in this matter - not formally, in any
case - nor have I done much to pursue my own objectives vis a vis
Professor Moriarty. That is unusual to the point of being unique
for me."
"For Sherlock, perhaps, but Sherla has had a great deal on her
plate that had to be dealt with before you could return your
attention to our villainous professor. I, on the other hand,
have been making some discreet inquiries and must admit to being
rather. . .intrigued."
Sherla's eyes went hard as she looked at Irene. "What TYPE of
inquiries and of WHOM?"
"About your professor and of some old, very knowledgeable
acquaintances. Why are you suddenly so upset?"
"Because Moriarty kills first and asks questions afterwards. If
he receives word that someone is making inquiries about him, his
likely response would be to remove the questioner and anyone the
questioner consulted. Do you have a safe place we can remove
ourselves to in order to hide?"
Irene stared at Sherla for a moment and smiled. "Under most
circumstances, Sherla, it is very difficult to recall who you
were in your previous life. Sometimes, however, such as this
moment, it is all but impossible to think of you as anyone other
than the very indomitable Mr. Holmes. Relax, dear, please. The
people I have communicated with talk only with me about such
matters. I have long trusted them with my life, and more
importantly, with the life of my husband. We are safe enough
here."
That seemed to mollify Sherla, at least somewhat. She relaxed
her stern visage into something approximating polite feminine
interest and asked, "What did you learn?"
"Not a very great deal, I am afraid. The most consistent response
is that he is dead, having met his end almost two decades ago
somewhere in the Alps - Austria, was the consensus."
"It was Switzerland," Sherla corrected tersely, "At a place
called Reichenbach Falls. You recall the period of time when I,
or rather when Sherlock disappeared and was presumed dead?"
Irene nodded. "Moriarty and I confronted each other there. I
had just arranged the destruction of his gang and he trailed
Watson and myself to a small city near those falls. We fought
and he went over the cliff and into the basin far below the
falls. I very nearly joined him in that fate. God only knows how
he survived that plunge for I cannot see how it was possible.
Unfortunately, that was not the end of the threat posed by the
professor for he had several very dangerous henchmen who would
have surely attempted to avenge his death.
"So you elected to "die" as well." Irene stated.
Sherla nodded quietly. "I deemed it the most prudent course of
action until I was in a position to neutralize them. If I had
not, Watson and I would have been in extreme danger, and quite
likely would have perished. I did not want to deceive Watson in
that fashion, but the man had no acting abilities whatsoever. He
was as honest as they come." Sherla sighed. "I have missed that
frank, supportive honesty more than I ever thought possible.
Especially now."
"Such friends are beyond price to such as you and I. I feel
quite the same about my own dear Nell. What finally brought you
back? Since you went into hiding to protect Dr. Watson, that
implies that a danger to him must have brought you back."
Sherla started at Irene's words, and marveled again at the
woman's perception. "Watson managed to run afoul of Moriarty's
most nefarious underling, Colonel Moran, whom I had always
considered to be the second most dangerous man in London. By
then, I was ready and was able to arrange Moran's capture.
Deprived of Moriarty's genius and Moran's ruthlessness, the
remainder of the professor's criminal empire collapsed soon
thereafter."
"I see. That fits the information I developed. Beyond that, all
I learned was that if there was any type of organized criminal
activity going on in Europe while your professor was alive, he
was either behind it or profiting from it. It seems he had a
particular passion for white slavery - kidnapping young women and
selling them to brothels or to certain foreign interests."
"Some parts of the world still have the means and the will to
keep women in sexual bondage and whether they do so with bars of
steel or curtains of silk, it is still bondage. Men, and some
women, were willing to pay a great deal of money for lovely young
girl slaves. Moriarty liked money because he could use it to buy
power."
"The world is a difficult enough place for a woman, as you will
surely find, my dear, without that type of loathsome vermin
preying upon our gender. For that reason alone, I would be
willing to assist you in this case, even if you had not brought
so tempting a bonus with you."
"Bonus?" Sherla asked, just a tad uneasy seeing the grin playing
about Irene's generous mouth.
"Well, of course, darling. You are only twenty one years old, at
least by your legal passport. Women do not reach their majority
until twenty five. Just think, I have the privilege and pleasure
of being guardian to the great Sherlock Holmes.
At Sherla's look of abject horror, Irene burst out laughing. "Oh
don't look like that. I won't get in your way unless you are
about to commit a faux pas that will seriously endanger your
identity or your mission. Think of me as. . .a necessary part of
your disguise."
If Irene expected Sherla to demur or to take part in her jest,
she was to be disappointed. "Irene, I mean to kill the man once
and for all. Nothing else will answer for me. If he manages to
perfect his potion and the world has to face another fifty or
sixty years of Moriarty . . .well, the consequences will be
horrific. He must be stopped - completely and forever."
Irene considered her charge for several long moments. Sherla sat
calmly under the cool, direct gaze and did not so much as flinch.
"Are you certain," she finally asked, "that this is for the good
of the world and not merely for the revenge of Mr. Sherlock
Holmes?"
The question hung on the air, going unanswered as both women
contemplated its ramifications. "I cannot answer that," Sherla
finally said. "Certainly, the world cannot, in its current
volatile state, long survive Moriarty's machinations, but I will
not attempt to lie to you and tell you I do not want him for
myself. I have ALWAYS wanted him for myself, but now, more so
than ever."
"Is being Sherla so very unsatisfactory?" Irene asked softly.
"Did you not just say that world is a very difficult place for a
woman?" Sherla retorted before softening. "I don't know, Irene.
When it first happened? It was horrible, and I feared for my
most basic self. Now? As I said, I don't seem to be able to
focus as well, but there are other compensations, such as
arthritis-free joints, and youth."
"I see. I hope it becomes better for you, Sherla, as I have
decided, despite all the times I railed against the unfairness of
the world toward my. .. *our* gender, I would not be a man for
anything."
"I hope to one day agree with you, Irene."
Irene brushed her hands as if clearing away the dust of their
conversation. "So, if I am to assist you, what should we do
first?"
"Thank you," Sherla breathed, "I wasn't sure you would help.
Step one is to find him. We cannot stop him unless we know where
he is."
"Europe is a large place. Any idea where to look?"
"Not really," Sherla admitted. "He was very careful not to give
away any clues when he confronted me in my rooms."
"In your journal, you mentioned something about perfecting the
potion," Irene prompted.
"Yes," Sherla agreed, forgetting herself and sprawling her legs
out in front of her only to be silently reprimanded by Irene.
With some alacrity, she pulled her legs back to her chair and sat
erect as she considered the problem. "Moriarty is old - older
perhaps than I. .. Holmes was, although," and here she recalled
the humiliation of her fruitless attack, "although he was
physically stronger and in better health. He would want those
added years to carry out his foul plots. He has ever dreamed of
world conquest and if through this potion he gains sufficient
time, he already possesses the will, the genius and the utter
ruthlessness to achieve that unworthy goal."
"Odd that he hadn't already perfected the drug," Irene observed.
"If he is so brilliant, that is."
"Oh, he is brilliant, but the only things greater than his
intelligence are his ego and his arrogance. He believes himself
to be even more brilliant than he is."
Irene nodded, and wished for one of her Turkish cigarettes, but
resisted because of Sherla's evident allergy. "That is very
odd."
"How so?
"What would bring a man like that out of hiding before he'd
finished his work? Surely he had all the advantages where he
was. Safety, secrecy, a ready supply of the herbs he needed -
why give all that up? If he truly believes that he is capable,
why reveal himself before he has completed his task?"
"An excellent question," Sherla mused softly. "And specifically,
why reveal himself to me? Why not wait until he had completed
his researches and was therefore able to face me as a young man?"
"I can think of one possible reason," Irene offered. "For all
his masculine arrogance, he is, by all accounts, nonetheless a
scientist of great ability. I suspect that he has come up
against a dead end and is looking for someone who might help him
find other answers. If he is, as you say, convinced of his own
brilliance, he is likely telling himself that this is a mere
expedience and not a necessity, but that is the only reason I can
see for him to come out of hiding and confront you."
"He is seeking other expert help? That seems logical. And yet,
he came for me first. Again, I ask, why?"
"Because you . . .or rather, Mr. Sherlock Holmes was the only man
of any influence who might recognize him or recognize signs of
his renewed activities. None of today's police officials are
likely to know anything about him."
Sherla gave a self-deprecating laugh. "More fool he, then," she
sighed. "I had been well and truly put out to pasture. Do you
know that Holmes had been barred from Whitehall as a public
nuisance?" At Irene's shocked look, Sherla continued. "Probably
because it did not suit them to let it be known. They might have
truly needed me one day with this war looming, so they did not
see fit to humiliate me publicly. But if you did not know, that
explains why Moriarty likely did not know, either."
"True enough. What type of help would he seek and where would he
seek it?"
"Well, if it were me, I would look for scientists on the
forefront of current researches into the body human."
"Scientists," Irene said thoughtfully, "Who are at the forefront
of their fields." Suddenly she practically levitated from her
seat and was burrowing through a pile of papers on her desk,
muttering to herself as Sherla watched on in amazement. "Let's
see . . Society of Theater Patrons . . . Society for the
Preservation of Parks Along the Seine . . . Society for Women's
Suffrage - Ha! Like that has any chance in this paternalistic
country! Ah, here it is, La Societie Scientifique. I get these
invitations all the time, but this one may prove useful." she
said offering an embossed invitation to Sherla, "Certainly, it
ought to be a fair place to start our search."
Sherla took the card and read it.
Docteur et Madame de Maupessant
request the pleasure of
Madame Irene Adler Norton
at their home
for a
Reception and Ball
for
La Societie Scientifique
At the bottom of the card, written in a fine, lady's hand, was a
personal request to Irene from the lady of the house, asking if
she might consent to sing a few short selections as she and her
husband were so very fond of opera.
"This is for day after tomorrow," Sherla noted.
"I had not intended to go, as my husband is still abroad, but now
I will RSVP my pleased intent to attend and my very great desire
to perform for their guests. That will ensure us an invitation
and an opportunity to meet the type of individual we will need."
"But those attending can not include the one that Moriarty was
after. If he was to have been there, Moriarty would have taken
him by now."
"True, Sherla, true, but each of those attending will know of
others in his field, specifically someone who has mysteriously
disappeared recently. Failing that, someone there might be at
least able to help us develop a list of materials your Professor
might require in this endeavor. Hopefully, something on that
list will be sufficiently rare in some way that we can use that
as our first clue."
Sherla smiled at that. "A very sound strategy, Madame," she said
with exaggerated deference.
"So good of you to say so, my dear. Please remember that during
the next forty eight hours when all our tempers become frayed."
"I am afraid I do not understand, Irene," Sherla said, her
confusion clear upon her lovely face.
"Obviously. Sherla, this means you will be presented to Society
in two days. We shall need a new dress for you, a special one as
a debutante in anything less than a designer original will draw
entirely too much attention. Let's see, what else? Dance
lessons. . ."
"I am perfectly able to dance!" Sherla said indignantly, "I was
trained as a youth!"
"Dancing the female role? In a heavy skirt billowed by
petticoats and wearing heels? Moving backwards most of the time
and letting your partner lead?" Irene asked challengingly. At
Sherla's wide eyed denial, Irene nodded firmly. "I thought not.
Oh, and we will need some basic lessons in flirting. Katrina
will need to help you with that, as I will be busy. As to the
concert, it would be best if you could accompany me since that
would put both of us in the presence of our quarry and will give
me an excuse to include you in the invitation to call upon him
that I intend to wangle from him."
"Flirting?" Sherla asked, having missed the rest of Irene's
planning.
"Flirting, my dear. It is what debutantes do, and if you did not
do it well . . "
"It would draw too much attention," Sherla completed darkly.
"Just so," Irene enthused as she strode to a bell rope and gave
it a lusty pull. "Come, my dear. Once we have Katrina apprized
of our plans, we shall go to the music room and decide upon our
selections. It is, unfortunately, too late to go to the
dressmakers, but we can start with the music, dancing and
flirting. That should see us through the evening and tomorrow
morning until the Modiste opens."
Just then, Katrina hurried into the room. "Ah, Katrina, come
with us to the music room. As an old acquaintance used to say,
the game is afoot!"
~-----------------~
Entry in the Journal of Miss Sherla Joan Holmes
Date: February 23, 1911
Location: Irene Adler's Home outside of Paris France.
Time: 11:53 P.M.
My Dear Doctor Watson:
I am exhausted. First, it was the embroidery lessons Irene has
insisted upon. Needlework. My god, John, what is happening to
me?
Actually, I have a better feeling about that question than I did
last night. Irene had a great deal to say to me yesterday in the
music room that made sense. I don't know if she is correct or
not, John, but I want her to be correct - especially now that she
has agreed to help me in my coming battle against Moriarty.
She is, as you always said, a truly exemplary woman. If I must
be a woman, then I wish to be a woman of her stamp, mettle and
abilities. I wish you could have seen her today, John. She drew
me out as skillfully as I had ever done to any of my past
informants, and then, when she saw a strategy that had a chance
for success, she acted on it with great determination and
enthusiasm. That is the other reason my fingers are in pain -
four hours of rehearsal for her performance in two nights. I
have cramps in my little fingers, John.
Still, I stand by my earlier conviction that she could eventually
defeat Moriarty. I would like to think that, with her help and
guidance, I, too, can become a woman who is capable of bringing
about his final demise. I hope so, John, for I could not wish
for a better role model. I shall apply myself to that goal most
assiduously, and if that means embroidery, dress-fittings,
flirting and dancing, then so be it.
Beyond that, I have several very positive reports to make this
evening. First, I have only needed to cool my libido once in the
past 18 hours - just before Katrina all but pulled me from my bed
this morning. Better still, I do not feel any signs of that
unquenchable urge at this point. I do, however, get this
interesting little fillip of heat whenever that pretty little
maid of Irene saunters by me. Not the same intensity, but of a
similar nature in feeling. She seems to be around me quite a
bit, too, so I have had ample opportunity to study the phenomena.
It is not at all unpleasant.
More importantly, my measurements seem to have steadied out at
last. John - my clothes FIT for the THIRD consecutive day! I
cannot begin to tell you how pleasant it is to not trip over my
hem or how wonderful it is look at myself in the mirror and see a
woman wearing a lovely gown and not a shapeless sack that drags
upon the ground about my feet. Oh, I can still give you the
precise numbers since I am certain that you would expect them,
but they don't seem to matter as much to me anymore. My height
is down less than half a centimeter since yesterday and my weight
a bare two hundred grams (which I continue to believe may be
attributed more to this infernal corset which that minx Katrina
insists on tightening more each day! I may have to contrive yet
another suitable, retaliatory strategy for that lass.) In any
case, I believe that Moriarty's potion is finally cleansed from
my system.
Thank goodness! It at least means that this new gown I am to be
fitted for tomorrow will have some probability of still fitting
when the time comes to wear it to the ball.
End Entry
