A Study in Satin

by Tigger

 

Part II: Veni, Veni, Vici.

Chapter 1. The Second End?

 

Sherla huddled deeper into the heavy woolen blanket the head driver had obtained for her when they'd last stopped for a change of horses. Cold and damp, she sat beneath what cover her carriage's drivers had been able to contrapt for her while they saw to the broken wheel that had caused yet another delay in her flight to Irene Adler. A chilly mist flitted on the blustery winds, soaking everything with a fine coating of moisture.

A shudder ran through her body, and her heart missed a beat. Was that just the cold, or was that the onset of the withdrawal again? *God, no, please,* she thought plaintively. Her planned one-day trip had been delayed twice by bad weather, each time forcing the driver to stop at some roadside way station or inn, and now they'd broken a wheel. *If I weren't a man. . errr. . woman of science, I'd almost believe that Moriarty's animate Destiny was against me. The question is, what do I do now? Once that wheel is replaced, I don't have time for another incident. Heavens, I don't have time for this one or the two before this one for that matter. What to do?*

Moments later, she was on her feet, moving toward the four men working to replace the broken wheel. *At least they had a spare wheel and the tools to change it with,* she thought. "Jean-Pierre?" she called out in French. "A word with you, if you please."

The burly driver assured himself that all was going properly and then turned toward 'la petite mademoiselle' as he and his three partners had named her. "Oui, mademoiselle?" he replied.

Sherla beckoned over to her makeshift tent and spoke softly. "Jean Pierre, I am ill. It is nothing that you can catch, but only Madame Adler can help me. I am running out of my medicine and may not have enough left if we have another delay."

"Does mademoiselle wish me to take her to le docteur?" Jean Pierre asked. He liked la petite. She had ordered him and his partners into the carriage when the weather had become suddenly very bad instead of denying them what warmth and comfort it provided. Not many aristo ladies would have done so, but she'd not even batted an eyelash when three roughly dressed men had clamored into the coach the moment she had made the offer. If she was ill, he would have to see to her as she had seen to him on this god-forsaken trip.

"Please," she entreated, "Do not stop at a doctor. Only Madame Adler has experience with such. . . " Sherla struggled to come up with something the coachman would believe. "A feminine problem," she finally managed.

Whatever she'd expected for Jean Pierre, the reaction he gave her was not it. "Mademoiselle is enceinte?" he asked in a growl.

"Pregnant??" Sherla all but squealed. "Non non, Jean Pierre, quite the opposite," she made up quickly. "Without the treatment that Madame Adler can provide, I may never have that joy. She is a very special type of women's healer."

"What do you wish of me, Mademoiselle?" he finally asked, gruff kindness in his voice.

"You must get me and my belongings to Madame. In truth, she may have moved since we last corresponded - she was a friend of my father's, you see - and if she has moved, you must try to find her and get me to her as quickly as you possibly can."

Jean Pierre stared at la petite for several moments before nodding. "It shall be as you wish, Mademoiselle," he said, and then walked off toward his men, bellowing at them (loosely and politely translated) to get that damned wheel back on and to be smart about it.

The actual words (however anatomically impossible for the men) brought an unlikely smile to the face to the waif-like figure huddled beneath the canvas tent. Then, Sherla turned to her portmanteau and removed her pen and journal. She sat down as far back into the tent, and thus as far from the swirling mists as she possibly could, and began to write.

Entry in the Journal of Miss Sherla Joan Holmes

Date: February 18, 1911

Time: Approximately 7:00 P.M.

Location: Somewhere on the North Road en route to Paris

Dear Madame Adler:

I hope you have read the preceding pages - and in truth - I am counting heavily upon your having done so. You are a woman of great intellectual gifts and keen curiosity. I am gambling everything on that latter facet of your personality, for in truth, I may well have no other option left to me. Still, I anticipate that a puzzle such as I may present by arriving at your doorstep in the grips of withdrawal from Moriarty's damnable potion should be almost irresistible to one such as you. It would be to me, and we have much in common, you and I.

Having said that, I expect that you have read this journal and are even now, shaking your head in disbelief that anyone would dare to perpetuate such a hoax upon you. I assure you that this is no hoax. As proof, let me ask you, who but your husband and your very prim parson's daughter companion would know of your life-long competitive relationship with Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Certainly, the Bohemian Affair never ended up in one of Watson's published stories since I promised His Majesty I would never permit the details to be divulged.

I am Sherlock Holmes, and I need your help.

If you are reading this, I am very likely close to insanity. When I arrive at your home, I hope to have one dose left of this potion that is at once the cause of my distress and the temporary palliative for it, but this trip has been so beset with misfortune that, even with but an hour's passage left to your last known address, I can no longer count on being able to speak with you. A freak snow and ice storm struck us south of Amiens forcing us to stop twice and costing me a full extra day. Now, I am sitting on the roadside beneath a canvas tent while my drivers struggle to replace a broken wheel in the icy mud while the wind and the rain howls about them.

What I need from you, what I BEG of you, is that you take up my last case to stop Professor Moriarty. You've read this journal, I am sure, but let me assure you that he is far, far worse than I have painted him in these writings. Should he succeed in perfecting his potion, thereby adding untold years to his life, he will be fully capable of bringing unimaginable suffering to a countless numbers of people in the world.

You, of all the men and women I have ever known, are the only one I believe has a chance of finding and stopping him. First, you have bested me twice that I know of, although now that I think of it, there were several other cases where things did not go as I had expected. If I survive with my wits intact, I would like to discuss those with you.

The second reason is that he will, as I did, underestimate you. You are a woman and if there is a man on earth more arrogant than I was, or more assured of the intellectual superiority of the male gender than I was, it is Professor Moriarty. In fact, one of his reasons for doing this to me was his belief that even if I survived, a mere woman would pose no threat to him.

God, but how I would like to make him regret those words!

I know this is a great deal to ask, but you must believe me that the threat is grave and it is, after all, your world, too. Also, I do not leave you entirely unsupported. If you accept this mission, go to London and seek out the shop of "Madame Jeanne Marie." She is a modiste and a friend. Before I left London, I left all of my files on Moriarty and his various adventures with her.

Also, there are two men who could be of immense value to you. They might have succeeded against Moriarty, but in my estimation you were the best choice. The first fellow is a detective inspector on the Brussels police force. A brilliant man with a keen eye for detail and the tenacity of a terrier on a case. My records on him are with the Moriarty files. The second person is somewhat odd, and I have only met him twice but on each occasion was impressed by what he didn't say as opposed to what he did say. Be warned that he has a talent for saying volumes of words that add up to nothing and that I believe he does it quite intentionally. He is the second son of the Duke of Denver and only an amateur at detection, but very intelligent and very good at putting together small details to solve large problems.

My only information on Moriarty to date (and I must admit that most of it comes from Moriarty so that you may decide that it is quite suspect) are:

1. He did not stay any length of time in London. I would have known if he'd been there for any amount of time and I believe him when he said he had to get to the Continent quickly.

2. None of his London haunts showed any signs of use. This supports the premise that he arrived and left quickly, but is not proof as he is most careful and might have made entirely new arrangements – certainly so if he did indeed intend to stay long enough there was a risk I might cross his trail.

3. He is on the Continent - where, I do not know.

4. It is clear that Moriarty desires the rejuvenation potential of this potion for his own use and is trying to find a way to eliminate the other side effects. Whether he has or can obtain the expertise to do so is not as clear, though it may represent a fruitful line of inquiry. Therefore, my working hypothesis is that whatever he is doing on the Continent is directly related to the development of a treatment that will rejuvenate the subject (in this case, himself) while eliminating the gender changing and addictive side effects.

Irene, if you can bring yourself to accept that I am who I say that I am then you must know that I do not lightly make statements or accusations beyond those supportable by direct evidence. Yet, I tell you bluntly that Moriarty is evil – evil in the same way as the Serpent that caused all the ills of the world. To the casual observer, he appears to be cultured, well-mannered, reasonable; yet within that foul mind there is not the slightest trace of morality. "Good" in his foul lexicon is defined by whatever furthers his goals; anything else is to removed from his path with total, unhesitating ruthlessness. Should he decide that you are a threat to his plans, he will kill you, without qualm, without mercy, with no emotion whatsoever, except that of satisfaction from having furthered his own plans. He is incapable of even recognizing his own evil for the concept of morals is totally foreign to his nature. If you elect to accept this mission, in my stead, do so in the knowledge that it is, without any doubt, a battle to the death. If you cannot find it in yourself to accept such an outcome, please try and contact other two I mentioned above and convince them to take on the mission.

So that is what I need of you, Irene. It is what the world needs of you, even if I am gone.

The package with your name on it is something I hope will help prove who I say I am, although the letter of introduction was written with the intent that I would still be sensible when I gave it to you.

Oh, one last thing. A Doctor will be useless to me. I do not know what the scope of my insanity will be when I have no drug to blunt its impact, so be very careful, and if necessary, be prepared to use deadly force to protect yourself from me.

Thank you for reading this. I hope you will accept this mission, but I will understand if you find that you cannot.

I (truly) am

Sincerely yours,

Sherlock, now Sherla, Holmes.

End Journal Entry.

Sherla was just repacking her portmanteau when Jean Pierre came up to her. "Mademoiselle, the carriage is ready, but there is a problem."

"Yes," Sherla responded.

"Part of the carriage suspension was broken when the wheel came off. We have built a wooden brace to replace it, but the ride will be very rough. . . very harsh. Are you well enough to travel under such conditions, Mademoiselle? We could stop in Paris and get a different carriage, but probably not until morning."

Sherla shook her head. "It will have to do. It is vital that I reach Madame Adler tonight, Jean Pierre. Tomorrow will be too late."

"Very well, Mademoiselle. We will try to make the best time we can, but you must tell us if it becomes too rough for you."

"Merci, Jean Pierre. Now, let us be off."

"Oui, Mademoiselle."

Sherla gave a moment's consideration to using her last bit of the drug now. It was very close to the time when her last whole dose would be wearing off, but elected not to do so. *I need to have as much lucid time with Irene as possible. Perhaps now, after two weeks of dealing with this potion, I am sufficiently experienced with the attacks that I can tolerate them longer without resorting to what is left in the bottle. It is worth the attempt.*

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

Jean Pierre's warning proved to be an understatement. It took her full concentration to stay on the seat, though even that failed after a particularly gruesome bump and she found herself on the floor of the carriage. Since her portmanteau was tied to the floor by stout straps, she decided to stay down on the floor, dragging cushions from the seats down after her. *At least it won't be so far to fall.*

The intense discomfort resulting from all the shaking and rattling was most probably why she did not notice the onset of the withdrawal symptoms sooner. That, and the shivering cold from her wet clothing, but by the time she did recognize what was happening, those symptoms were well established and compounded by the chill she had taken from her earlier soaking.

Bone-deep chills now alternated with the more familiar burning heat while the chilly air made the perspiration feel clammy on her cheeks and forehead. Her breath came in spasmodic gasps and her heart raced madly.

Her skin became increasingly sensitive to the point where the wet broadcloth of her traveling clothes felt like an abrasive grinding on her body. The sensitivity was worst in those areas that had been most affected by the potion. Her nipples felt hugely-engorged with blood and burning with fire. The woman's flesh at the apex of her thighs also seemed swollen, and pulsed with a deep, consuming ache.

She felt the familiar tightening and relaxing of the large muscles of her lower abdomen and knew that the escalation would come soon. Struggling upright, she pulled herself hand-over-hand to the sliding panel to the driver's perch. She knocked and sighed when it slid open. The blast of cool air felt almost soothing. . .for a moment or two and then her internal fires turned away even that bit of relief.

"Oui, mademoiselle?" the brakeman called.

"How long to Madame Irene's?"

"Less than half an hour at this pace, mademoiselle."

"Can you not go any faster?" Sherla asked.

"It will be very rough, mademoiselle," the man said cautiously.

"Go faster, if you please," she rasped out as the cramping sensation in her stomach began to build. "I need to be there as quickly as possible."

"Oui, mademoiselle," the brakeman responded dubiously.

Sherla fell back to the floor as the carriage lurched in response to a loud crack of the driver's whip. Scrambling on her hands and knees, Sherla tried to reach her portmanteau. The sensations were stronger than she'd ever felt them. Just moving made her skin seem electrified. The burning heat inside made her gasping breath seem almost fiery and the muscular response was beginning to impede her movements. Vainly, Sherla tried pressing a fist into her lower stomach to relieve the muscle distress, but to no avail. The center busk and metal stays of her corset prevented her from concentrating pressure in any one area. It was akin to trying to put one's fist through a knight's armor. Ineffectual at best, and likely rather painful for the fist.

After several failed attempts, Sherla managed to open the case. Her shivering fingers simply lacked the dexterity to handle the straps efficiently, but finally she had it open. Quickly, she dug through the carefully packed case looking for her medical kit. *Got it,* she thought with something akin to triumph.

That it wasn't a triumph did not matter to Sherla anymore. All that mattered was that the contents of that case would make it all stop, would again allow her to regain control of her own body.

The small leather case was nearly out of the portmanteau when a horrific spasm gripped Sherla's entire body. Suddenly rigid fingers let the medical case drop back into the open portmanteau. Sherla's mouth opened to scream but nothing came out - her lungs seemed paralyzed along with the rest of her body. The fire changed and suddenly burned even hotter.

For just a half heartbeat, the spasm subsided and Sherla relaxed. With timing she would surely have attributed to maleficent Destiny, the carriage took advantage of her unbraced condition to throw her headfirst into the door. The crack of impact was lost among the clatter of the wheels, and, unnoticed by the drivers, she fell to the floor unconscious.

 

 

 

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