A Study in Satin

by Tigger
© 2000, all rights reserved

 

Part I: Semper Cogitus

Chapter 10: Recapitulation of a Day Gone Bad

 

Entry in the Journal of Mr. Sherlock Holmes

Date: February 6, 1911. Time: 6:16 P.M.

My Dear Watson,

I fear I must admit that I have been remiss in my journal-keeping and have failed to make even the most basic scientific entries yesterday. It is an omission for which I have no legitimate excuse.

In truth, I have spent a great deal of the time since yesterday dealing with the events of that ill-fated day, and with my own unexpected reactions to those events. While I am hesitant to give any degree of importance to those reactions, I must deal with them somehow, for they occurred, and therefore must be expected to do so again in the future. But first, the facts - always a far safer area of discourse.

The withdrawal onset continues to occur in the early hours just before dawn. As accurately as I can determine, the period of effectiveness of the drug has been between twenty four and three quarters hours, and twenty six hours over the four days since I finally regained my faculties after that first, very concentrated dose of the drug.

My weight is down to 127.75 pounds and my height is now five feet five and one eighth inches tall. I have not been eating all that well due to a recent tendency towards nausea so I suspect that my weight loss is greater than it might have been otherwise. My waist measurement continues to shrink in close correlation to my weight reduction, and is down to just under twenty six inches. My chest and hip measurements, however, continue to hold fairly steady, at least when I measure my lower chest. My hair also continues to grow and I will soon need a haircut if I have any hope of passing as a young, if somewhat short, gentleman of the town.

The sensitivity of all my senses continues to increase, particularly my sense of touch in the vicinity of my nipples. Their constant and infernal itching bids fair to drive me mad. So far, one of your herbal lotions, Watson, camomile-based, I believe, is the only thing that gives me even temporary relief.

One last objective observation before I begin the subjective analyses. I ventured out this morning to visit the dairyman and the milk, cheese and other products I purchased again served admirably in relieving my hunger. However, when biting into the marvelously flavorful but hard country cheese, I noticed that my front teeth seemed quite loose. Now, some six hours later, I find that all of my teeth are easily moved to and fro. The sensation is quite like my memories of when I began losing my so-called "baby teeth" except that instead of one or two at a time, all of my remaining teeth are so afflicted. This is most likely due to the reduction in my jaw. There isn't room for my relatively large masculine teeth. I am very much afraid, my dear Watson, that I will be drinking all of my nourishment in very short order.

Subjectively, and along the same line as above, my face definitely seems to be changing. Watson, can you believe this? My ears and nose are shrinking. I know you will recall my monograph on the use of the shape and size of the human ear in detection and identification as you provided a good deal of the medical research. My ears have become quite noticeably smaller. Precisely how much smaller, I cannot precisely say since I never anticipated this change. Ears ordinarily never stop growing as you well know, but if my entire body can grow smaller under the influence of Moriarty's drug, then having smaller ears is not such a great leap. My nose seems to be growing less prominent and shorter as well. This reduction seems to me greater than what would be expected from a proportional extrapolation based on my smaller hat size. While I am not an example of what is considered feminine beauty, my features continue to grow far less masculine with each passing day.

Well, that seems to have dealt with the less difficult material, so I shall proceed to recount my difficulties of the past twenty four hours.

I checked two of Moriarty's old hideouts yesterday. I found one destroyed and the other deserted. During my investigations of the first site, I disturbed a rather large colony of rats and found myself nearly bowled over by hundreds of the large vermin. Watson, I was paralyzed by sheer, stark terror - completely unable to move or react for well over a minute, and afterwards, all I could do was rush blindly to an open place on the ground screaming. It must have taken me at *least* five minutes to recover control of my wits! All because of mere rats, Watson. I am disgusted with myself!

Then, at the second hideout, I found that Moriarty had anticipated me yet again, and had left another of his taunting notes behind. Certainly, after my third misadventure of the day, my options in this investigation are becoming ever more limited.

My third misadventure will likely have the most far-reaching consequences for my goals in this misadventure. While trying to locate Old Ned's hideaway for purposes of putting him under surveillance, I had the misfortune to stumble upon the bounder. He had concluded that the boy I appeared to be was betraying him with the individual he sought to kidnap for Mother Hell's house of debauchery. As a result, he began to beat me, and then drew a knife. To make a long story short, Watson, I shot him with your pistol, and although I know now and knew then that the first shot was fatal, I then proceeded to empty the entire revolver into his body.

Oh, God, Watson, the blood! I simply lost what little grip I had on my control in the face of all that blood. I would have bolted in terror had I not suddenly gone so weak in the knees. Only the realization that I needed to be well away from there before the local constabulary arrived cleared my head sufficiently for me to act reasonably and make my escape.

That was twice, Watson, that these despicably irrational reactions overwhelmed my reason for a significant period of time. I was helpless in their grasp - unable to think, unable to act. Actually, I must remind myself that it is now THREE times I have been so overset, Watson, as I experienced a similar bout of intellectual breakdown at the chemist shop when I found his dead body in that pool of crusted blood. How am I to face Moriarty if I cannot rely upon my greatest strength in what will most assuredly be my moment of greatest need?

One reason that I have delayed this entry so long is that I was attempting to gain, how was it you used to put it, Watson? Some emotional distance between myself and the actual experiences. Before this damnable day, I never understood why someone would not wish to face such issues immediately while they were fresh in their memory. I understand now, old friend, and I can state without qualm that the time delay has in no way dimmed the clarity of my memories. The one conclusion that I have reached is that I must be prepared for repetitions of this emotional overload in the future, but I am damned if I know how one goes about making such preparations.

On top of all this, killing Old Ned has caused several other significant problems of a tactical nature that must be dealt with immediately. First, the boy I paid to help locate Old Ned got an excellent look at my Baker Street Irregular persona. While I know from painful experience that few individuals can verbally describe a random acquaintance of short duration with sufficient accuracy and detail that an adequate likeness of that person can be developed, I cannot take the chance that this lad is the exception that proves the rule. Not if there is the slightest possibility that the police are even now looking for me in that guise.

Which is why I spent the better part of today designing my "lady of genteel poverty going shopping" costume for tomorrow and a suit I hope I can wear and still pass as a man if. . .or rather when the need arises.

More importantly, I do not for a moment believe that Old Ned is Moriarty's only henchman tasked with watching me. Old Ned was too stupid for Moriarty to rely upon to any degree. Not only that, but based on his accent and background, it is highly unlikely that the man could read or write, so how could he possibly report to Moriarty who is, I firmly believe, already on the Continent? Therefore, it is only logical to conclude that at least one other employee of the Good Professor is still at large - one who was tasked with reporting my condition to Moriarty at regular intervals. With Old Ned's death, my one link to this unknown player - the one person who *might* have been able to point me towards Moriarty - is gone. This is, my dear Watson, a very grievous loss. I am, at this very moment, unable to conceive of a new approach by which I might yet have some small hope of locating Moriarty in the extremely limited time I have left. If I cannot locate him, I cannot hope to stop him.

To give you some inkling of how distressed I am over these incidents, I spent a great deal of time today trying to think of some individual I could enlist to carry on when my time runs out - when I am too young or too female or both - to successfully pursue the evil Professor.

If Moriarty is to be stopped after my final demise, I must find and recruit some person who has at least a reasonable chance of stopping Moriarty. The effort to identify such a person, however, has not been very fruitful. The few members of the French, British and German police forces I have worked with in the past are good enough for their usual, somewhat limited work, but none of them would have a prayer against Moriarty. There is that young Belgian lad with the peculiar mustaches (I forget his name other than it is an odd, mythologically-derived name for an equally odd little man) who works for the Brussels Police. I have read of his work and believe that he shows signs of a true talent for detection and method, but alas, I fear that he lacks the experience necessary to challenge the greatest criminal mind of our time.

I am very tired, old friend, as I have not slept since I awoke yesterday morning. I must rest. Perhaps a good night's sleep will help revive my suddenly ineffectual brain.

End Journal Entry.

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

Moriarty looked up at the imposing building and gave a weary smile. The trip had been long and very hard on the old man. From Paris he had taken a westbound train instead of an eastbound conveyance, and had changed trains several times before dawn. Finally, he had boarded a train bound for Germany via southern France. Even at the height of his powers, Holmes would have been hard pressed to follow that trail with any degree of speed, and his new gender should already have seriously diminished those powers. Once in Germany, Moriarty had switched to a carriage which had brought him here to Karlsruhe.

One of his informants at the Institute had reported that the Professor's soon-to-be guest had scheduled a fairly long holiday beginning at the end of classes tomorrow. That had been a primary reason for Moriarty making his move at this time. The great Professor Haber would disappear, and no one would think to look for him for several weeks at the earliest. By then, Professor Haber would be safely tucked away in Moriarty's specially prepared hideaway in the Swiss Alps.

Moriarty smiled that mirthless smile and turned to walk back to his hotel. He was tired and would need his rest. Tomorrow would be a momentous day, and everything had to go as planned. Which it would, since Mr. Sherlock Holmes, by now truly Miss Sherlock Holmes, was no longer a potential problem in his plans.

 

 

 

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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.