A Study in Satin

by Tigger
© 2000, all rights reserved.

 

Part I: Semper Cogitus

Chapter 9: Moriarty's Lairs

 

A freshening dawn breeze had blown in from the sea, clearing away the morning fog and for the moment, cleansing the normally ever-present coal-smoke haze from London's skies. Holmes was again out and about in his Baker Street Irregular disguise. His objectives for this day's venture were three-fold. First, Holmes wanted to examine two of Moriarty's old haunts that were within reasonable walking distance from Baker Street. Perhaps Moriarty had elected to use one of his old headquarters while in London. Holmes thought that unlikely - Moriarty knew those would be the first places that Holmes would look for clues - but it would not have been the first time that someone as clever as the Professor had tried hiding something in the most obvious place. Holmes did not dare overlook such a possibility.

His second objective was to reconnoiter the streets about his Baker Street lodgings and, if possible, locate Old Ned and any other watchers Moriarty might have left behind in the area. Eventually, Holmes knew, he would have to deal with Old Ned, especially if he harbored any hopes of disguising himself as an adult male. Besides, it was always better to know the terrain and the full scope of the forces one was dealing with before undertaking such a campaign.

Finally, Holmes needed provisions. The kitchen cupboards at Baker Street were bare, and he no longer had the services of Miss Hudson to replenish his supplies. Holmes was positively ravenous.

The night before had gone much the same as had the previous two nights. The withdrawal attack had struck just before dawn, approximately twenty-five and one half hours after the previous attack. Holmes had administered the drug and fallen almost immediately back to sleep only to reawaken a bare three hours later with the urgent need to relieve himself. Once that necessity had been dealt with, the hunger had made itself known. Holmes had devoured the last crust of bread and bit of cheese, but that meager offering had scarcely made a dent in his appetite.

Holmes thought that the problem might be related to some specific nutritional need that was exacerbated by the radical changes Moriarty's potion induced in his body. Unfortunately, modern nutritional research was not a subject Sherlock Holmes had ever considered of any practical use to a consulting detective, so he had never bothered to clutter his mind with the results of such research. However, he knew that the young, particularly the very young, drank quantities of milk - even as infants suckling at their mother's breast - and he deduced that milk might be a solution to his current needs. Certainly the cheese had seemed particularly satisfying the previous morning, so perhaps milk and milk products provided something his new and uniquely changing physiology required. He would visit the dairyman just before returning to his rooms.

~-----------~

Holmes arrived at his first destination shortly before nine A.M., but found nothing - *literally* nothing. The warehouse that had once served as Moriarty's hideaway had been razed to the ground. He moved about the outer edge of the rubble pile, but found no sign of any recent human presence, let alone any type of hidden access or underground habitation.

*Still,* Holmes mused as he picked his way around the fallen structure, *I am not the only master of disguise in this little melodrama. Moriarty is well able to camouflage a subterranean hideaway somewhere in this apparent destruction.*

Holmes began to move within what had once have been the walls of the warehouse, attempting to discover a hidden access or door. He kicked at one sheet of galvanized tin roofing, dislodging it and then screamed in horror as a veritable explosion of *huge* rats erupted from beneath the panel. Holmes' screams went up in both volume and pitch as several of the beasts scurried about and between Holmes' legs, their coarse fur brushing roughly against skin left bared where the cut-leg trousers ended. Jarred by the contact, Holmes ineffectually batted at the mindless hoard, trying to divert their furry bodies away from him.

The final straw fell when one particularly terrified creature literally scaled up Holmes' shrieking body and then launched itself from his shoulder, its long, whip-like tail lashing at Holmes throat as it flew away. That was more than the self-image that Holmes had been maintaining through pure force of will could cope with. The masculine Holmes, the Freudian 'id' that had, to that point in time dominated the personality of the conflicted body, vanished beneath an onrushing avalanche of unadulterated panic.

A now-wholly feminine Holmes screamed in terror and fled from the room, intent only on escape. She may have stepped on one or more of the damnable animals, but she didn't care nor did she slow her headlong charge. Moments later, all signs of the repellent animals had disappeared, leaving only their memory and the sour taste of fear in their wake.

Still shaking and frantically waving ineffectual arms at threats no longer present, Holmes finally slowed when she had made her escape from the rubble pile that had once been a building. With the recognition that her escape had been achieved, the panic receded and Holmes, now different in a fundamental but invisible way, collapsed to his knees on a clear patch of grass, his breathing hoarse in his abused throat.

Never in his entire life had Holmes been in the grip of such a paralyzing emotion. He'd felt fear before - only a fool would have not been afraid during the struggle with Moriarty at the Reichenbach Falls - and Sherlock Holmes was not a fool. Certainly, there had been situations in the past when he'd been caught unawares by some unexpected and unwelcome surprise, but never had Holmes felt anything remotely like what he had just experienced nor reacted as he had in the past ten minutes. "Bloody hell, but I am still trembling," he said with disgust.

That recognition seemed to break through the emotional grip Holmes was under. Gradually, his breathing slowed, his pulse ceased racing, and the roiling of his stomach eased. "All this?" he asked himself as his control reasserted itself, "because of a few rats? I am nearly incapacitated because of those vermin? NEVER!" he roared, ignoring the high toned shrillness of that oath. "I am HOLMES and I will not surrender to mindless EMOTION!"

His voice echoed off the old rundown buildings that surrounded the warehouse site, but Holmes did not notice. His mind had turned to other things. *The rats are significant,* he thought quickly. *Moriarty is nothing if not fastidious. The rats might well have been here, but if he'd used this site, he'd have poisoned them. The living rats would have consumed their dead brethren and been poisoned themselves, and yet, I saw no signs of dead rats in my admittedly short examination of the site. Still. . . *

Holmes made a more careful reconnaissance of the perimeter than he had originally, but saw no sign of dead vermin, not even bones. Holmes decided to go on to the other hideaway and see if there were any clues to be had there.

As he slipped back into the shadows, Holmes attempted to analyze the experience with the rats, but was interrupted by a loud, rude rumbling from his stomach. *Perhaps it is lack of nourishment,* he thought. *Watson was forever pontificating on the physical and emotional problems that result from malnutrition. And it has been well over a day since I had any substantial food. Why, combined with the stress this forced reconstruction of my entire body has placed on my reserves, it only stands to reason that I would not be fully under control when dealing with additional stress. Such as all those rats.*

Holmes permitted himself a pleased smile at the logic of his explanation, and ignored the slight shudder that snaked down his spine even the thought of the word "rat". With an abrupt turn, Holmes decided to delay his inspection of Moriarty's other hideaway, and went off in search of the nearest dairyman.

~----------~

The quart of milk and large chunk of cheese had only cost Holmes a few coins, and looking back on it, the proprietor of the dairy store had not seemed surprised by the purchase. *Perhaps more than a few street children feed themselves this way with what money they can beg borrow or steal. He doesn't care where they obtained the money so long as he is paid. I wonder how my lads of the Baker Street Irregulars coped when I was supposedly dead? Better than this, I hope,* Holmes thought as he carried his purchases out of the shop.

Holmes found a bench where he could rest while he consumed his meal. Hopefully, he was right about the milk. Later, Holmes would be profoundly embarrassed as he recalled the utter greed with which he inhaled his food. Milk spilled from the corners his mouth as he tried to literally pour it down faster than his still raw throat could accommodate. *Well, at least the behavior is, in all likelihood, more in character than my usual impeccable table manners,* Holmes mused as he took a huge bite from his wedge of mild, golden cheese.

All too soon, the cheese and milk had disappeared, and Holmes was still hungry. For a few moments, he thought about going back and getting more, but decided against it. That might well make the storekeeper suspicious, and besides, Holmes thought it might be a good idea to make sure that he kept what he'd just consumed inside him. The last thing he needed to do is overeat and become violently ill. Later, when he had finished his tasks for the day, he could find another dairyman and buy enough milk and cheese for his dinner and breakfast. Thankfully, the iceman was still keeping the icebox at 221B Baker Street stocked. Holmes would be able to store the milk overnight safely.

~------------~

The factory still stood, but was also abandoned. Holmes picked the ancient padlock easily enough and was soon inside the dark, dusty, web-bestrewn building. The main room was eerily empty, and what little light filtered through the dirty and discolored windows did little more than throw deeper shadows. Holmes remembered this building all too well, and swiftly made his way to where the secret entrance to Moriarty's private lair had been hidden by tool shelves and worktables.

A stray shaft of light illuminated the floor in front of the work table. Holmes went to one knee for a closer look. The thick dirt had been recently disturbed. Two sets of footprints marred the otherwise evenly dusted floorboards - one approaching the work table, one departing. By the degree to which the dust had reclaimed the footprints, making their outlines soft and diffuse rather than sharply outlined, Holmes deduced that whoever had made the prints had done so several days in the past - perhaps as much as a week.

The prints were distinct, however, and showed no signs of a limp which indicated that these prints had not been made by Old Ned. The shoes did not show any signs of unusual or uneven wear either.

Holmes located the hidden mechanism that controlled the door and activated it. The work table and the wall it was attached to swung outward with a loud creaking of poorly lubricated hinges. He crept into the small alcove, following the prints. They stopped at the next door, and then seemed to turn around, going no further. Holmes examined the door and saw that it would swing outward, into the little alcove. However, no dust had been disturbed indicating that the door had not been opened at the same time these prints had been made. Frustrated, Holmes began looking for the latch to open the door anyway.

Then he saw it.

A brown envelope had been pinned to the door - a brown envelope with writing upon it. Holmes moved closer to door and peered at the writing, and was stunned to read his name on the envelope. Holmes took down the packet and went back into the main factory space where he found a relatively well lighted area. His curiosity thoroughly aroused, Holmes opened the envelope, extracted a piece of foolscap from it and began to read.

My Dear Holmes,

I suppose you had to check such mundane details as this location, but again I must ask you, old enemy, surely you did not think it would be so easy?

No, I have not been here, other than to leave you this note. Why, I have not even bothered myself to set any traps for you so you need not worry about them as you leave this place.

Why, you may well ask? Because, my dear Holmes, I have no need to kill you twice. As far as I am concerned, you are already a dead man. Soon, very soon, you will cease to be even a minor annoyance to me, and it will have ultimately been by your own hand. That is somewhat unsatisfying, but it is as Fate has decreed. The important thing is that the Great Sherlock Holmes has at least met his, or rather *her* master, and you are no longer a threat to me or to my plans.

Good bye, Holmes. Live long and suffer.

M.

Holmes crumpled the paper in his hand and cursed softly. Moriarty had anticipated him and had left this calling card to taunt him. Holmes was inclined to believe the letter as the other evidence supported Moriarty's claim that he had not, in fact, done more than plant that damnable note. Moriarty was unlikely to have turned his scientific mind to something so mundane as spreading dust evenly. Ergo, the footprints proved that Moriarty, or one of his henchmen who did not limp, had only been here once to plant the note.

The sound of the great tower clock tolling twelve noon in the distance broke Holmes concentration. He folded the note and put it into one of his pockets before slipping back out the way he'd arrived. He still had to find Old Ned.

~----------~

Holmes crept cautiously into a dark alleyway a few blocks east of Baker Street. A very young lad had happily taken a tuppence from Holmes in exchange for the information that the "big old codger wet's got the funny limp" was often seen in this vicinity. Hopefully, the villain's bolt hole was nearby and Holmes would be able to locate it. Sooner or later, there was going to have to be a reckoning between the two of them, and Holmes knew he'd need every advantage he could find.

In the far back of the blind alley, Holmes found a door recessed into the soot-covered brickwork. He was trying to decide whether to proceed when the door slammed open and a huge, hairy paw reached out from the inside and grabbed him before dragging him inside bodily.

Holmes barely had time to realize he was inside the building when he went flying into the nearby wall, landing hard and falling to the filthy floor. A huge shadow loomed above him. "So ye was lookin' fer Old Ned, was ye, boy? Well, little Tom knows to stay bought when 'e's been paid fer 'cause 'e knows Oi'd 'ave to 'urt 'im if'n 'e didn't. You ain't so smart, are ye, boy?"

Holmes had to think fast. "But. . .Oi was tryin' to find ye, sa'ar," he lied, "on account of Oi gots somethin' to tell ye. . .about that gennulman ye was lookin' fer."

Old Ned reached down, grabbed Holmes by the throat and jerked him bodily to his feet. He lifted Holmes up to eye level, his fetid, rotten breath making Holmes stomach turn. "Oi don'ts believe yer. Oi think maybe ye've sold Old Ned out, and that makes Old Ned right mad. Oi thinks ye needs to learn what 'appens to a bit o' nothin' like you what decides to cheat Old Ned."

Old Ned's free hand came down in a thunderous slap that sent Holmes flying across the room. Holmes rolled to his feet, his head reeling from the blow only to see the villain closing on him with a vicious looking knife in his right hand. "Oi thinks ye needs to bleed a bit, boy. Maybe Oi'll take an ear so's ye'll know just 'ow easy it'd be fer me to cut yer throat next time."

Holmes rolled to one side, just barely avoiding Ned's grasping hand. When he came out of the roll, Watson's service revolver was in his hand. Ned's eyes went wide, and then he charged at Holmes, the knife raised for an obvious killing stroke.

The first shot took Ned squarely in the chest. Holmes emptied the revolver into the man's body even as he fell, the last bullet disintegrated the back of Ned's balding skull.

For the second time that morning, Holmes was overwhelmed by unfamiliar emotions that he could not even stand. There was just so much blood - everywhere! On the wall, on the floor, on Ned. . . on Holmes.

Holmes stifled the urge to scream as he tried to wipe Old Ned's blood from his vest and instead ended up with it covering his hands. Still on his knees, Holmes ripped the vest from his body and tossed it aside. The sickly sweet scent of hot blood mixed with the sharp taint of burnt gunpowder and cordite made Holmes feel lightheaded and nauseous. For a brief moment, he feared he might faint or vomit, but in the end did neither. Holmes managed to quell the upheaval in his stomach and to remain conscious by sheer force of will. Finally, he struggled to his feet and staggered toward the door and escape. At the last instant, he stopped, remembering to retrieve his vest and Watson's revolver before finally slipping out the door and into the alley.

Holmes made his way directly back to Baker Street, forgetting to stop and purchase foodstuffs. He simply wasn't hungry anymore.

~----------~

Interlude: Calais to Paris Train

Moriarty brooded in his private compartment as the train hurtled through the night. Thoughtfully, he looked down at the missive that had reached him just before he had boarded the train earlier in the evening.

So, Holmes had decided to take direct action. Moriarty had anticipated this, if not quite so soon. According to Moriarty's informant, someone, most likely Holmes, had retrieved the letter he'd hidden in the secret passage at the old factory. Moriarty smiled as he considered the consternation that note would cause his old enemy. The smile was not a pleasant sight.

The other item discussed in the letter was the sudden, unexplained disappearance of Old Ned. He had not reported to Moriarty's informant in over twelve hours which, given the fact that the old fool was only paid when he reported, indicated that Ned was likely no longer among the living. Again, Moriarty had expected Holmes to deal with Ned, but this soon?

Holmes was a strategist by nature - a thinker - and he would not have had time to have determined Ned's habits and patterns in order to exploit Ned's many weaknesses. Nor would Holmes have had time to locate a suitably advantageous site for this final confrontation. Such impulsive, immediate action was not like the Holmes Moriarty had come to know and hate. This was out of character.

Moriarty put his head back against the seat and closed his eyes in relaxed concentration. Yes, these behaviors were definitely out of character. Had the youth potion changed something intrinsic to Holmes' mind along with transforming his body? Something Moriarty personally needed to be concerned about, especially since he fully intended to use the drug on himself once he'd been able to perfect it by eliminating the gender changing side effect. This other possible side effect had not been noted during his earlier researches using the lower animals. Moriarty wanted to be young, but he wanted to be a young Moriarty at the height of his powers. The last thing he wanted was to become some youthful, yet irrational fool.

Or perhaps this sudden unpredictability or impulsiveness was not intrinsic to the age regression aspect of the drug, but rather was a feminine-based characteristic that even the great mind of Sherlock Holmes could not control. Moriarty would need more data. It was too bad that his informant would no longer know where to send his reports. He'd been unwilling to take the chance that Holmes might locate his main informant and force information concerning Moriarty's whereabouts from the man, so the itinerary he'd provided to his man had been a fabrication.

That was, in part, why Moriarty had gone to Calais instead of directly to his final destination. There were many ways to hide his trail in France, and he'd had too many misadventures with Holmes to believe the detective would not discover where Moriarty had departed from and where he'd been bound when he'd left England. Holmes still might track him down, but it would take far more time with Calais as the starting point on the Continent. And while time was limited for Moriarty, it was far more so for Holmes.

Moriarty set the note aside and sighed. It was done. As for the concern about the mental changes wrought by the drug, Moriarty could deal with that problem without watching Miss Sherlock Holmes. He would simply have to be careful with his final testing once the drug no longer changed males into females. He, unlike Holmes, at least had enough time to be cautious.

 

 

 

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© 2000 by Tigger. All Rights Reserved. These documents (including, without limitation, all articles, text, images, logos, compilation design) may printed for personal use only. No portion of these documents may be stored electronically, distributed electronically, or otherwise made available without express written consent of the copyright holder.