A
Study In Satin
by Tigger
Irene's clear blue eyes wandered yet again from the spectacularly beautiful scenery back to the equally-beautiful young woman seated opposite her in the private first class compartment. Sherla Holmes deep blue traveling gown contrasted richly with the worn upholstery of her seat, a contrast brought into even sharper focus by the glossy black of her hair. Katrina had earlier braided that hair into a simply maintained silken coronet about her head. Her attention was raptly fixed upon the old leather book she had removed from her travel bag shortly after their train had departed the previous station. Irene realized that she had seen that book before - it was one of the meticulously kept, handwritten journals that had been in the box of "bone fides" Sherla had carried with her to prove to Irene that she was, at the very least, related to the famous Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Sherla shifted the book into one hand and held it at arm's length, her head cocked. She squirmed and began to bring her right ankle up to cross over her left thigh. Irene coughed sharply, managing to break through Sherla's focus. A quizzical look crossed the lovely face as she brought her eyes up to meet Irene's. "Ladies do not cross their legs, dear, nor do they hold books in that manner." She mimed bringing the book to her lap and holding it sedately in both hands. "Thank you," Sherla sighed. "Just when I permit myself to believe that I am beginning to manage adequately I unthinkingly regress back to some male behavior." "No so very much of one, dear, *this* time. What are you reading with such single minded concentration?" she inquired, "If you do not mind my asking, that is." Sherla handed the brown-papered book to her guardian. "It is the volume of John Watson's memoirs that deals with the first time I made this trip. Oddly enough, thanks to the damage done to the main tracks from Paris to Zurich, we are currently following much the same route as Watson and I had done during what he later titled, quite inaccurately I am pleased to say, 'The Final Adventure'." "Deja vu?" Irene asked gently. Considering that thought for several long moments, Sherla shook her head. "No, I don't think so. You see, I never took any notice of these incredible vistas and lovely landscapes the first time. In fact, I have gone back and read Sherlock's monograph on this "Final Problem" last night, and my writings address none of the details that add such richness to John's journal. The snow capped mountain-tops that seem to throw off rainbows in the weak spring sunlight, the majestic evergreens, the ice-decorated lakes and rivers - none of those wonders figure anywhere in Sherlock's writings - nor do they appear in my memories." "And now?" Irene prompted. "I am seeing things much as John described them in his diary. It is so. . . so very beautiful here." "You were not taking very much of it in just now," the third person in the compartment interjected. The very slender young man next to Irene was trying to keep from squirming on the seat. "Curse these woolen trousers, Tante Irene, they *itch* abominably!" A sparkling laugh lightened the room. "Wool does irritate, does it not, my sweet?" Sherla facetiously asked her companion. "Silk and satin are much nicer." "So NOW you reveal your TRUE reason for your refusal to play the boy in this little drama," the mannishly dressed Katrina complained. "As you will," Sherla smirked. "In answer to your first comment, however, I *have* been noticing the beauty up here, *Karl*. It is just that I have also noticed how much I missed of it the first time. What I have truly been reflecting upon is why my reactions this time should be so very different. The purpose of this trip is not much different than the last. Both involved life or death situations, and yet, this time, I am reacting much as my friend Watson did." "So?" Katrina/Karl challenged. Sherla hesitated before replying. When she finally did, her voice was barely audible above the rhythmic rumble of the train's wheels upon the track. "So, that leads to the inescapable conclusion that I have changed," Sherla swallowed, and tried again. "It means that I have changed drastically, in very fundamental ways." "Oh, and you have just noticed this, ma jolie, petite mademoiselle?" Karl/Katrina rejoined pertly. "Katrina!" Irene said sharply. "Mind yourself and stay in your role!" Turning to Sherla, Irene held out a hand for Sherla's. Taking the girl's hand in hers, she smiled. "I think, my dear, that no change could be more fundamental than the one you have undergone in becoming female." "But these changes are NOT merely physical - they are to my perceptions, my reactions and feelings. .. . my. . my. . " "Thinking?" Irene completed. When Sherla nodded, her breathing ragged, Irene shifted to sit beside the younger woman so she could hug her. "Being a woman, my dear is NOT merely physical - it is everything that we are. All of those things you just mentioned are as much part of being a woman as the more obvious, but perhaps less important physical changes, dear. As Sherlock - more basically, as a MALE Sherlock - you had a lifetime in which you were forced, by many unfortunate circumstances, to learn to isolate yourself from feelings, from sensing things, from anything that distracted your full concentration. Your feelings, your senses - all those changed when you became a woman - the tricks you learned as a maturing young man are no longer quite sufficient. And I think that is just as well, for those issues you are so worried about are among the very things that make being a woman so wonderful. Are you not happier now that you are Sherla than you were when you were Sherlock?" Sherla was momentarily struck speechless by the very simple question, but then her eyes flew to Karl/Katrina and saw love warming those playful, dark eyes. And then she saw her lover surreptitiously try to scratch her thigh. "There are certainly. . .unanticipated advantages," she replied carefully. Irene's merry laugh filled the compartment and she hugged Sherla tightly. "No more than I should have expected from you, darling- Sherla. Not that I believe for one instant that IS not a great deal more than that in your discoveries, but I suspect there is still enough of Sherlock about you to resist such an overarching admission." Irene returned to her own seat and handed back Watson's diary. "Perhaps you should write in your own journal, Sherla - if not about your deeper feelings, then about your reactions to this gorgeous scenery. Fill in the holes of that sadly one-sided monograph. Make it whole, and perhaps in so doing, you will find another piece of the puzzle that will help you become whole." ~----------------~ Date: March 9, 1911 Entry in the Journal of Miss Sherla Joan Holmes Location: Train from Strassburg, Germany to Basel, Switzerland. Time: 9:24 A.M. My Dear Doctor Watson: Well, old friend, how strange a thing is chance. Professor Moriarty employed the destruction of the railroad tracks between Paris and Zurich to disguise his kidnapping of Professor Buchner. However, that single action has expanded outward, causing secondary effects due to the accommodations the train companies have been forced to undertake in response. First, although the now-necessary redirection of our passage through Germany adds less than one hundred kilometers to our trip, it adds at least one additional day to our travel time. We were required to change to a southbound train in Strassburg and as one could anticipate, our train from Paris was late while the Basel train from Strassburg left on time. Naturally, it left without us. We were then forced to wait until this morning to continue our expedition. Odd about Strassburg, John. Remember that public house at which we spent so many convivial hours on our fateful trip that ended at the Reichenbach Falls? I could see it from our rooms and yet, as Sherla, I am not permitted to so much as walk through its doors. It is now, as it was then, a males-only establishment. Ah, I suppose I should count that a blessing given my current inability to deal with alcohol. Remarkably, I find myself following the exact same route that you and I took twenty years ago. A great sense of deja vu all but overwhelms me at times, John. So much so, in fact, that today, I nearly called to you in our compartment. Were I not a woman of science and method, I would begin to believe that Destiny is bringing me back to this place in the same manner as before because the mission went unfinished the first time. We are finally en route to Basel after a short stop in Freiburg as I pen these words. I must tell you, John, THAT was a stop to be remembered. Irene and I had just returned to our first class compartment, having taken a short constitutional and having made a visit to the women's necessary facility in the train station. . . . . . ~-------------~ Sherla checked that the compartment door was closed and turned an impish grin to Irene. "I thought we would need smelling salts for *Karl* when you sent him off on that errand after we arrived." Irene's answering grin was equally mischievous. "Well, *he* has to learn to function on his own in such circumstances if your plan is to work. In the past, I have always been close by when it was necessary for her to do a "trouser role". This is a safe enough place for her to practice. The station is sufficiently crowded that she is unlikely to draw any undue notice and she will gain needed confidence in her ability to pass scrutiny." "Oh, I agree with your stratagem, Irene, but I rather think Katrina will be looking to do you a mischief at the earliest opportunity." "Oh, pooh," Irene replied with a flick of her elegantly gloved fingers, "She'll be fine and moreover, she will know it was for the best." "Perhaps," Sherla replied slowly, her tone of voice and gamine grin casting doubt before becoming more serious. "I do wish she looked older. She will be noticed, if not the first time she goes to the station, then the second or the third." Irene shrugged. "We tried to age her, if you will recall but she is simply too petite and fine boned to look any older than she does. You tried yourself, if you will recall, dear. As a boy, the way she looks is the best we can do. Twelve, perhaps thirteen. It will have to do. I will have her send Godfrey a telegram everyday from the train station. It will give "Karl" an excuse and reason to be at the train station. And if a young boy chooses to loiter about his task to watch the hustle and bustle there, no one will be very surprised." "I don't want her hurt!" Sherla's voice was suddenly intense. She was about to say more when the door to their compartment was jerked open and a large, very red faced conductor filled the open door. "Madame," he began in a heavily accented French. "Is this. . . this. . .hooligan your son?" From behind him, a bedraggled and very frightened Karl was jerked forward. With a cry, Irene was on her feet, pulling the terrified young person into her arms and into the safety of the compartment. "Yes," she returned icily, "He is my son. What right have you to mistreat him in such a way." Queenly hauteur vibrated from her very being, and the conductor took a small step backward. The large man doffed his cap in a suddenly remembered bit of courtesy. "Your son, Madame, was caught trying to sneak into the Ladies Necessary. He was obviously going to try to spy on the ladies inside." "Oh really," Irene said quietly. "My son does not read German, Herr Conductor. Were there any women entering or leaving the necessary when he tried to go inside?" "Well, no, Madame, but. . " "I see. And of course, you asked him if he had made a mistake and he TOLD you he was trying to sneak into the ladies room? He MUST have told you this since you have so ROUGHLY handled my asthmatic son. Why, only such a confession would JUSTIFY the possibility of bringing on a debilitating attack." "Well, no, Madame, but. . " "NO!?!?" Irene's furious scream forced the conductor back yet another two steps. "Get out of my compartment, you pompous ass, before I decide to take this to the authorities!" Irene was all solicitude as she turned back to her "son". "Are you all right, sweetheart? Do you feel faint at all? Do you feel an attack coming on?" "Karl" made a show of taking some long, relatively shallow breaths, careful to wheeze once or twice, particularly when the conductor went pale the first time. Finally, "he" shook his head. "No, Maman," he whispered, "Just a little short of breath from being dragged here." "You are disMISSED!" Irene snarled at the conductor as she slammed and locked the compartment door. Then, she slid the door curtain shut. The three of them sat very quietly until the train's lurch signaled their departure from Freisburg. Once the noise of the train was sufficiently loud, all three broke into slightly hysterical giggles. Irene recovered first. "That was too close, Katrina," she said sternly. "You must be more careful!" "I had to use the facilities, and knew it was close to departure time," Katrina said, shamefaced. "One would think these clothes would be reminder enough for me." Irene saw that the girl had been truly frightened by the experience, and decided to let it drop. She had figured without considering Sherla. "So, you wanted to peek, eh?" she said, and then slid her skirt slowly up to reveal a very shapely ankle. "All you had to do was ask, dear *Karl*," she purred before beginning to giggle again. "Don't DO that," Katrina begged in a near grown. "Do what? This?" Sherla asked laughingly as she further extended her leg for Katrina's viewing pleasure "No," Katrina did groan this time and shifted about on her seat, "Don't laugh. I still need the necessary - BADLY!" ~--------------~ Fortunately, John, our first class car had a private convenience, complete with chamber pot so poor Katrina did not need to suffer TOO long. It was a valuable lesson, however, and something we will need to account for in our future planning. Irene and I have agreed that we will not proceed immediately to Meringen. It is barely 12 kilometers from Brienz to Meringen and we might be able to make a few quiet but useful inquiries in Brienz. Since I do not believe that Moriarty ever operated in Switzerland in the old days, I think it is most likely that he would have needed to import his people to the locality to carry out his nefarious plots. One must, therefore, suspect that at least one of those decidedly unworthy fellows would stand out obviously among the locals. THAT is the person we must find for THAT is the person who will ultimately lead us to Moriarty's lair. Having said that, I think it is clear that the further from Moriarty's actual base of operations we conduct these initial investigations, the safer we will remain. Should Brienz prove unfruitful, we will move toward Meringen and then towards Rosenlaui. Why Rosenlaui, you may well ask? Because Rosenlaui is where I believe I will ultimately find Moriarty. I cannot say why I believe that, except that the little mountain hamlet is small enough and far enough from more populated areas that Moriarty could set up his operations there more easily than he could even in Meringen. Which brings us to that special suitcase filled with the various items I spent our last two days in Paris acquiring. Katrina was quite scandalized by the items of apparel I procured and did not wish to help me by doing the necessary fitting and alterations for me. At least, she was scandalized at first; now I believe she is rather intrigued by how I look when wearing them. The weapons are, for the most part, fairly ordinary if functional. I regret that I have not means to induce Inspector LaStrade of Scotland Yard to lend me the use of Colonel Moran's air gun for this adventure. It would surely be ideally suited for use in this type of mission conducted in such rugged terrain. I am concerned that firing a high-caliber pistol or other firearm in these still snow-covered mountains might result in an avalanche. Alas, as you well know, LaStrade is not a very cooperative man, and I cannot imagine him sending that piece of memorabilia to a some young woman, even if she does claim to be the daughter of Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Perhaps the cantankerous old bounder might balk simply BECAUSE she claims that parentage, eh, John? In any event, another of our cases came to mind when I was searching for weapons and I have procured a device that I believe will make a more than adequate substitute for Moran's very unique air-rifle. I only hope I have sufficient stamina in the rarefied air of this extremely mountainous country to use my replacement effectively. We shall see, shall we not? With that, I have about run out of excuses for not addressing the issue that is truly at the heart of this journal entry. It is difficult to admit, after nearly seven decades, that I may have been wrong about so many things in life. Watching this magnificent land fly by outside our train windows, I find that I missed a great deal of what the world had to offer when I was Sherlock. And yet, had I been any person other than I was, would I have had the wherewithal to challenge Professor Moriarty in the first place? Unlikely. Rather, I should have been married off to some eminently suitable, thoroughly proper and mind-dullingly boring man; left to vegetate in the stultifying atmosphere of the lady's solar or parlor. Perhaps I would even have become one of those women who, when faced with the inescapable necessity of the marital embrace, close their eyes and think of England. Far better, I have come to realize, to have been Sherlock first, for those experiences have provided me a sound basis upon which to enjoy being Sherla; experiences that tell me I am more, and still can become far more than some whey-faced, wool-witted society lady cum brood-mare. And when I close my eyes during lovemaking, I can guarantee you that my thoughts, limited though they are at those precise and delicious moments, have NOTHING to do with England. Good-day, John. End of Journal Entry.
