A
Study In Satin
by Tigger
Checking his pocket watch by the crisp opalescent light of the
waxing moon, Professor James Moriarty smiled. He was fifteen
minutes early for their little duel. In an earlier age, this
might have been called a "dawn appointment", a formalized clash
over that foolish concept of a bygone era, honor. The Professor
was not hampered by that societal artificiality, which was why he
was here instead of at the location that bitch had suggested in
her taunting message.
Moriarty surveyed the scene of his upcoming triumph over his
hated foe from the vantage of his lofty perch. The serene face
of the moon washed the landscape in a stark, monochrome
blue-white light, lending a harsh and shadowy beauty to the rocky
heights. A hundred yards below, the spume of the falls glowed as
it billowed out of the chasm, and its frozen incrustations on the
surrounding granite glittered in amorphous flows and fragile
crystalline spikes. The beauty was wasted on Moriarty, but he
was well pleased: the light was sufficient to render that
arrogant fool Holmes an easy target as she approached the
appointed rendezvous.
And the richest jest of all was that SHE had been the one to
suggest his plan, however unintentionally. The last time the
antagonists had faced each other above the Reichenbach Falls,
Moriarty had not been alone - Sebastian Moran had also come to
destroy Holmes. For Moriarty, it had been just retribution, but
it had also been part of a greater plan. With Holmes dead, he
would have time to recreate his organization without the only man
with the wit and brain to oppose him. For Moran the purpose had
been far simpler - base revenge on the man who had destroyed
Moran's easy lifestyle. Moriarty had sent his lackey to the
higher ground where he might be able to use his shooting skills
to advantage when Moriarty faced Holmes.
Unfortunately, Holmes had kept beneath the ledges initially, and
then had closed on the Professor too quickly even for the great
Moran to get off a shot. Holmes' proficiency with that accursed
fighting form had done Moriarty in, sending him headlong into the
basin of the great falls. But fate had been with Moriarty, for
he had survived, and thus, he had read Watson's account of the
so-called "Final Problem." Therefore, instead of being down on
the trail where Holmes would soon arrive, Moriarty now stood
where once Moran had rained boulders down upon the detective. Now
HE had the advantage of the high ground. No puerile combat skills
would save Holmes this time.
He set about collecting a supply of rocks that he would use to
rain death down upon his greatest enemy. Fortunately, the snow
had mostly blown away from this little clearing so finding his
missiles was not difficult though the moving of them to the cliff
edge was. He was again breathing heavily by the time he had a
sufficient number of rocks to hand. Checking his watch, he was
surprised to find that it was after the appointed hour and he had
not seen anyone coming up the trail. Moriarty pulled out his
seaman's glass and searched the trail, but saw no sign of
movement, let alone any sign of a human.
Suddenly, a loud snapping noise came from the heavy brush behind
him. Moriarty spun, but was too late as a sharp stinging
sensation burned into the side of his neck. Reaching up with one
hand, he found the cause - a small, very sharp dart of the type
used by South American natives in the blowguns. Numbly, he
simply stared at it, knowing he had finally lost, waiting for the
weakness, the paralysis and the oblivion to take him.
Only none of that happened. If anything, he felt . . .more
alive. . more alert. The weariness from his recent exertions
seemed to leave him. How could that be? "How can this be?" he
repeated aloud.
"Oh, that wasn't tree frog venom, James." A soft, unfamiliar
voice sounded out of the night, seemingly carried on the winds.
Moriarty drew his revolver, and tried to localize the source.
"It is merely a little concoction of cocaine and caffeine, old
enemy, to stir your blood and stimulate your physical resources.
Physical weakness will not be an excuse when I finally defeat you
tonight."
Enraged again, Moriarty aimed and fired off two shots at where he
thought the sound originated. Soft, feminine laughter followed.
"Missed me, James. Better get control of yourself. That
caffeine might make you just a little edgy. You won't stand a
chance against me if you cannot control yourself, now will you?"
Gun raised, Moriarty moved slowly toward the brush that circled
about the small clearing. "Where are you, Holmes? Come out and
face me like a man!"
Again the soft laughter. Moriarty tried to localize the sound
but the cocaine was already confusing his senses. "But I am not a
man, am I, James? And all thanks to you."
"No, damn you, you are a slut," Moriarty roared into the wind,
"You are an insatiably needy, sexually driven slut, and that is
precisely how I wanted you, bitch."
"Now, isn't that strange," Moriarty thought her had located the
voice. He spun and again fired. "Missed again, James. That
leaves you only three bullets. Better take care to make them
count."
Sherla kept moving, slipping from point to point, only speaking
for short moments from each spot. "Now, if I were so insatiable,
why am I not out in that clearing, tearing your trousers off you
and raping you? Perhaps, because I am not that needy?"
"You HAVE to be. There was not enough of the potion to finish
your transition," Moriarty snarled.
"You forgot the chemist, James. Oh, you remembered to kill him,
but you forgot to take the remainder of your potion with you."
Sherla made a tsking sound. "Sloppy, my dear Professor. . VERY
sloppy, but then, you always were when you did not have a large
organization between you and the real world."
The insult made Moriarty's drug-sharpened temper snap again.
Furiously, he searched and for an instant, thought he saw a
shadow. Again he aimed his pistol into the brush and fired.
Although his ears rang from the explosive report of his gun,
Moriarty thought he heard something fall to the ground, and then,
for several moments, there was silence. Fearing a trap, Moriarty
held his gun at the ready, and strained his ears, but all he
could hear was the deep, faraway roar of the Falls.
Relaxing, he lowered the gun, and began to move in the direction
he'd fired. The bitch might still be alive. *I almost hope that
she is,* he thought with a relieved smile, *So that I can look
into her eyes as I put these last two bullets between them.*
He'd just reached the brush line when something struck him in the
back. Turning, he saw a dark shadow, standing near his pile of
rocks. "Well shot, Professor, but you missed again," the shadow
taunted as it heaved something at him.
Moriarty tried to dodge, but the rock still glanced off his
shoulder, and disrupted his aim just as he fired off his last two
bullets.
Tossing the now useless weapon aside, Moriarty ran towards the
place the shadow had disappeared back into the dark bushes.
He heard the soft hiss of air before he felt the sting again,
this time in his shoulder. *Perhaps the poison was rubbed off by
my greatcoat,* he thought as he reached up to pluck away the
dart, only it wasn't a native-styled dart - it was made of metal.
Moriarty pulled it free and used the moon to illuminate the
object. It was some type of hypodermic syringe.. . . and it was
now empty.
"It's not a poison, Moriarty." The voice said again. He turned
and saw the shadow step from the bushes again. One hand reached
up to pull away a dark stocking hat to reveal feminine features
and long black tresses that seemed to shine in the moonlight.
The other hand held a revolved trained on him. "In truth, I
think, for you it will be infinitely worse. That syringe
contained the same dose of your rejuvenation potion that I took
every night after I awoke from the first distilled and
concentrated dosage. I filled the syringe from a large bottle
that I saved from your laboratory before I torched it. As I
recall, you told me that a single dose was enough to bring on the
addiction, but trusting you as I do, I had Buchner and Haber
confirm that for me."
"How. . you are nothing but a slip of a girl. . .surely you
cannot be. . ."
"Holmes?" she asked, "Oh, but I can assure you, old enemy, that I
am. I am Holmes, but thanks to you, I am a great deal more. And
why am I more? Because of the people who came to my aid, the
people who embraced me and my cause, the people who LOVED me."
Moriarty could almost feel the drug coursing through his body -
the slow languor as it swept through his veins. "That is not. .
.logical. How can you - a mere emotion-ridden, sexually-confused
female even dare to claim that you are in any way superior to the
great detective, Sherlock Holmes?"
"I doubt you could ever understand, old man. I am a middle-aged
housekeeper, who saw to the comforts and needs of a cantankerous
curmudgeon for no other reason than that her Mother had liked the
man when he was younger. I am a former royal mistress and
dressmaker who believed an outlandish story and gave help where
it was desperately needed. I am an operatic singer and actress
with a flair for investigation, who took in a waif and taught her
the joys, the strengths and the beauty of womanhood. I am a
young housemaid, who fell in love and in so doing, taught a
hidebound fool how to love in return. But most of all, James, I
am, most definitely, Holmes, with my full intellectual powers
undiminished, and in fact, enhanced by an openness and vivacious
joy of life that the old man I once was could never have
understood and would never have had the sense to appreciate.
His head was starting to spin now, and Moriarty eased himself
down to the ground, still staring at his opponent. "That's
poppycock. You should be sex-crazed -unable to control
yourself."
"Oh, I was, but that young woman who taught me to love and the
opera singer got me through the worst of that. I am rather
easily aroused, but I find that my mind is even more alert, more
effective after a good, sweaty session of lovemaking with my
lover."
Moriarty fought to remain conscious. There had to be a way out
of this. If Holmes saved some of the original potion, then
surely he must have saved some of the antidote Buchner and Haber
had been working on. Surely, he would not wish to remain a
woman. *Must stay awake. . keep her talking. . find my chance.*
"Why not simply kill me?"
"I was going to do that very thing," Sherla answered, her tone
very matter-of-fact. "But then, you took my lover, and you used
her in one of your foul experiments, so I decided that killing by
my hand was too good for you. You had to truly suffer. Do you
feel it, yet, Moriarty? That delicious weightlessness just
before sleep claims you? When you wake up, you will be like I
was that morning you came for me. You'll have, what, oh about
twenty-four hours before the withdrawal hits you. Oh, you'll
still be male -for the most part - but soon you will be consumed
by the base needs of your own body. Your great intellect
imprisoned within an insatiable animal demand for sexual
stimulation, even as that stimulation becomes impossible. Tell
me, James, do you think you will injure your own manhood, rip it
off in your frantic compulsion as Buchner told me several of your
laboratory animals did? Small loss, I should think, and it will
become even smaller as the potion does its work.
Moriarty growled, but made no move. Sherla wondered if he could
move. "However, as I said, I am a fair woman. You can have more
of the potion if you like. I'm afraid I don't think you would
make a very pretty girl, Moriarty, but then, I am rather
surprised by how I turned out. If not, that are some places of
the world where all that is needed is the right plumbing and a
woman can still make a living. You'd know about those places,
wouldn't you, James, for you sent enough innocent young women to
them in your time? Would you like to make your living on your
back? Would you like some more of this potion so you could? I
have enough, you know. I saved it just for you."
Sherla disappeared into the brush and returned with her canvas
bag. Reaching into it, she withdrew the bottle and her
hypodermic case. "The potion and the filled syringe will be
beside you on the ground when you awaken. If you sleep like I
did that first time, you should have about an hour in which to
make your decision," Sherla's smile became dark and mirthless,
"Then the burning will start - the need for something I could not
understand, but that I am sure you are fully cognizant. Make
sure you use the needle quickly, James, for it won't be long
before your hands are busy with other tasks, however fruitless."
"You overcame the effects, Holmes," Moriarty hissed, "I could,
too. Have you thought of that?"
Sherla concentrated on filling the needle's reservoir before
turning back to Moriarty. "I told you," she said almost gently,
"That I made it because of people who helped me, because of
people who cared for me. I think, James, that I could put you
down in any city in the world, and you would not find anyone who
would help you. For all my arrogance and pridefulness, I still
helped people while you hurt them. I would not be here without
them for I would have taken the route you intended. I don't
think you can make it alone, but I am willing to give you that
chance." She shot a small spray of the fluid from the needle to
clear any air bubbles and let Moriarty see it. "Your decision,
Moriarty. Just one last piece of information, however."
He felt the drug begin to dull his senses, felt the slow slip
into unconsciousness during which his masculinity, his
intelligence, would be forever stripped from him. "What?" he
managed to get out.
"The drug you used on my lover? It is a dead end. It did not
work - she is just as beautifully feminine as she was before you
captured her. . . just as you will be for the rest of your now
greatly extended life."
Sherla moved over near her foe, intent on putting the needle near
his hand, but he stopped her with his other hand, his grip
surprisingly strong. He looked up at his long-time enemy, and
saw her gilt in moonlight. She was beautiful, he realized, and
she was at peace. She'd truly won, at last.
The twin realizations snapped his reason. Somehow, he snatched
away the syringe before tossing Sherla aside. "Moriarty as a
woman? Never!" With a great effort, Moriarty hurled the
hypodermic out into the falls, and then threw himself at the edge
of the precipice. Sherla simply watched as he hit the ground,
rolled once, and disappeared over the edge.
Sherla rose to her feet and walked to the cliff-edge. Down below
her she saw him, his body facing upward over a rock, arms and
legs splayed outward. Leaving her equipment behind, Sherla
hurried back down the steep and rocky path she had used to the
clearing. Moments later, she arrived at the Falls scenic
overlook.
She half expected Moriarty to be gone when she got there, to have
disappeared into the cold mist as he had so many other times, but
he hadn't. She found him laying across the rock, just as she had
seen him from the heights. His neck and back were broken; his
heart forever stilled. It was the second time Holmes had met
Moriarty in this dark place of forbidding beauty, and the second
time he had defeated his arch foe.
Moriarty was dead.
Sherla pulled him from the crag on which he had landed, sliding
his body to the rocky ledge that formed the trail. Bracing
herself against the higher cliff, she nudged the lifeless form of
her old adversary with her boot until it fell over the sheer
stony edge. As she watched it tumble into the raging waters of
Reichenbach Falls, she said, "Good-bye, old enemy, and good
riddance. May your soul burn in the hell you would have created
here on earth."
The distant splash of the body, though the sound was lost within
the roar of the falls, put a final end to the conflict that had
consumed two lifetimes, and defined the beginning of a third.
For the first time Sherla became aware of the cold spray that had
penetrated through her thin skiing clothes. She began to shiver
uncontrollably, teeth chattering and fingers almost losing their
grip on the blowgun she still clutched.
*I will join that man in an icy death if I do not get warm soon,*
she realized, and turned to get her coat from where she had used
it as a decoy up in the clearing. The climb back up to the level
of their final confrontation took all her reserves of strength,
far more than she had to spare while fighting the energy-draining
chill of her sodden clothes.
When Irene found her, Sherla was staggering almost blindly down
the trail to Meringen, shaking with cold and too numb to notice
for a moment that she had been grasped in a fiercely-desperate
embrace.
"My God, Sherla, are you all right?"
"I am f . . f .. f ine, Tante Irene, though I c. .c .can't seem
to stop shivering."
"Come, let me help you to the sleigh. We have dry blankets
there."
"Thank g . g. .goodness. I am so tired. So c. c. .cold."
"Hans-Peter," Irene shouted, "Come help me with her. She is
frozen to the bone!"
"No. . no, I am fine. b. .be all right. .once. .once I. ..c. can
get. .warm," Sherla stuttered, her dark eyes wide as she looked
into Irene's own amber ones.
"Then he's dead?" she whispered. Sherla nodded. Irene
continued. "Are you able to make it to the sleigh and ride down
to a warm bed and the family that loves you?"
"Yes, th. .that sounds. . heavenly."
Hans-Peter reached them at a dead run and took Sherla's free arm.
The trio started to make their way toward where Irene had left
the sleigh, but Sherla's strength gave out after but a few
steps.. At Irene's nod, Hans-Peter swept Sherla's small,
shivering body into his arms, and soon thereafter, they had her
packed in blankets for the trip back to Englischer Hof.
The comfort of the thick coverings roused Sherla enough to ask,
"How is Katrina?"
"She is fine. Woke up
pert and sassy just before I left to look for you. It was
all we could do to prevent her from going after you in her
shift."
"You shouldn't have left her, Tante Irene," Sherla said, her
voice slurred by fatigue, and further distorted by her
still-chattering teeth.
"What?!? You think you mean less to me than she does? You are
BOTH my daughters in my heart." Irene allowed that to sink in
for a few moments before she relented with a smile.
Sherla forced her tired mind to absorb that thought, and she
tried to find some words to show her gratitude. In the end,
words were not enough and she struggled up from her blankets for
a moment to lean toward THE Woman, now tranformed forever from
rival to something far, far more dear. She kissed Irene softly,
heedless of the worry that showed on the woman's face at the
touch of her so-cold lips.
"I love you, Irene Adler, and that is something I have only felt
for two other women in either of my lives."
Irene smiled gently and kissed Sherla back. "I love you, too,
dear. Now, rest while we get you back to the hotel."
