A Study in Satin

by Tigger

 

Part II: Veni, Veni, Vici.

Chapter 8: Music Hath Charms

 

Her mind awhirl with questions yet unanswered, Sherla aimlessly roamed the country house. Earlier, after her highly successful tea party, she had thought to explore the little garden behind the house, but the day had been so dreary, she'd quickly retreated back to the house. That had given her yet another question to ponder for her reaction to the weather was so unlike her. . . or more correctly, so unlike Sherlock. *In the past, I have gloried in the gray and fog of cloudy London, but now, I yearn for light and sun. Who *am* I? WHAT am I?*

She needed to think, and she needed . . . *something*, but WHAT? Sherlock would have reached for his pipe, but that option was out of the question for Sherla. The night before, Irene had taken an after dinner cigarette and Sherla had nearly lost her dinner. Even smoke that another had already inhaled did her in, so tobacco in any form was no longer an option as an aid to clear thought.

A heavy wooden door in the back of the house caught her eye and she went to it. Testing it, Sherla found the room unlocked and opened the door. Even on such a gray, rainy day, the room made the most of the available natural light. *It must be wonderful on a sunny day,* she thought with a smile and then she saw the room's raison d'etre.

Happier than she'd been mere moments before, Sherla hurried off and found a large candelabra. Returning, her smile grew even larger as the rack of candles cast a lovely golden glow on a huge concert grande piano. Sherla moved to it and sensually ran the fingers of her free hand along the shining instrument. *Old,* she thought, enchanted with the silky feel of the wood, *but lovingly and beautifully maintained. An antique?* she asked herself before answering her own question. *Of course it is. She is an artiste, a soprano who once filled concert halls throughout Europe.*

Without another thought, Sherla sat down upon the cushioned bench and then stood back up. Arranging her dark burgundy skirts more carefully, she sat back down and raised the wooden cover that protected the keys. Composing herself, Sherla took a breath and sang a single note and then pressed a key. The tones matched perfectly. *Well, since Irene no doubt keeps this beautiful instrument well tuned, I still must possess perfect pitch.*

Smiling at that discovery, Sherla positioned her hands on the warm ivory keys and was suddenly glad she had insisted on snug cuffs on her dresses instead of the loose sleeves preferred by Irene. The gold-bright embroidery flashed in the sunlight as her hands began to glide across the keyboard. Remembering all too well her recent problems with the Stradivarius, Sherla began to finger the keys without actually depressing them. Slowly, the music filled her mind as lessons of long ago came back to her. Then, her fingers became used to the positioning of the keys relative to her smaller hands. *Of course, the last time I was forced to play such an instrument by my governess, when my hands were smaller still.*

At some point, the music filling her soul was matched in the physical world. The instrument had a lovely tone, full and rich, and it thrilled Sherla. With a deftness that surprised even her, Sherla slipped into the opening bars of Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata. From that, she played several favorite piano concerti, including one she, or rather Sherlock, had written though never published.

As it always had done in the past, the wonder of music soothed her soul while its power burned the tension and darkness from her mind.

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

Something at the barest edges of her senses alerted Irene, and for a moment, she couldn't determine what it was. Setting aside her book and spectacles, she closed her eyes and let her other senses range, trying to find whatever had called her from her reading. For a moment, there was nothing, and then, she sensed whatever it was again. She almost missed it. The barest hint of a sound, more a touch of vibration that whispered on the threshold of her hearing.

Her attention focused, Irene began to discriminate this disturbance more clearly and realized she was not hearing it so much as she was feeling it through the resonance of the sturdy cottage walls that seemed to be vibrating in sympathy. And whatever it was had a familiar rhythm - a heavy, four beat grouping - three shorts followed by a much longer fourth.

*My word, that's Beethoven's Fifth!*

Quietly, she rose from her desk and made her way to the back of the house. The strength of the vibrations grew as she drew closer to the heavy door. One of the first things Irene's husband had done after purchasing this house had been to set up a music room for his beloved wife. Immediately after that, he had ordered the room made as sound-proof as possible since the urge to sing or play could come up on Irene at the strangest hours of the day or night.

She cracked open the door and was greeted by the glorious sound of a concert grande piano being played at its full range and power. That such musical energy seemed to originate from the small woman seated at the piano's keyboard should not have been too surprising. After all, she was Holmes, and any other "surprise" had to pale in comparison to that revelation.

Irene closed the door and moved to sit upon a small stool she used when she was practicing her voice lessons. Sherla would have seen her there had the girl been playing with her eyes open. A frown of intense concentration suffused the girl's lovely face as she put hand, arm and even shoulder into the effort of bringing forth sound from the antique instrument.

As transfixed by the music as the girl playing it, Irene simply listened and observed without announcing her presence. *She is playing one of the most challenging pieces of music the world has ever known - from memory - and is doing it nearly note perfect. And she is loving it.*

The rendition ended suddenly, but before Irene could take a breath to speak, Sherla changed to a different song - a much lighter tune and one that Irene found oddly familiar. She was about to break into the girl's concentration when Sherla began to sing;

"Beautiful dreamer, wake unto me,

Starlight and dewdrops are waiting for thee;

Sounds of the rude world heard in the day,

Lull'd by the moonlight have all pass'd away!

Beautiful dreamer, queen of my song,

List while I woo thee with soft melody;

Gone are the cares of life's busy throng,

Beautiful dreamer, awake unto me!

Beautiful dreamer awake unto me!

Beautiful dreamer, out on the sea

Mermaids are chaunting the wild lorelie;

Over the streamlet vapors are borne,

Waiting to fade at the bright coming morn.

Beautiful dreamer, beam on my heart,

E'en as the morn on the streamlet and sea;

Then will all clouds of sorrow depart,

Beautiful dreamer, awake unto me!

Beautiful dreamer, awake unto me!"

Sherla stopped singing, but continued playing. She finally ended her impromptu concert with her own work, a soaring crescendo of sound that filled the small room and relieved the last of her distress. Spent, she held her fingers transfixed upon the key, her eyes closed as the final chords slowly died away.

Irene finally found her voice. "You can sing," she said quietly, "and play the piano."

A discordant sound blurted from the piano as Sherla jumped at that unexpected observation. "Irene?"

"I heard you playing. Not even my husband's efforts at isolating this room is up to the task of silencing Beethoven. Odd selection, my dear, Beethoven and Stephen Foster?"

Sherla gave an exaggerated little shrug. *How very like Katrina your mannerisms are becoming, my dear,* Irene thought, hiding a smile.

"I like his music if not all of his themes," Sherla replied, "That song is relaxing and I thought that it might help soothe me."

Then, Irene was on her feet, pulling Sherla into her arms. "That was LOVELY, my dear, just LOVELY!" she enthused. "I never knew Sherlock could play the piano."

"I can, but. . I mean, he could, but rarely did, preferring the violin. The Baker Street neighbors were sufficiently distressed about the violin, I do not think even Mrs. Hudson's good graces could have handled a piano. There were also. . . unpleasant memories," Sherla replied, her voice muffled by Irene's lovely and ample bosom.

"Well, you played divinely! You *must* use my music room whenever you feel the need. Perhaps we could do a duet, or you could accompany me during my singing exercises. I do still try to keep my voice in proper form, but without my husband, it has been difficult. Katrina, for all her other accomplishments, is not a musician."

Irene released the embrace and gave the girl a quizzical look. "So, Miss Sherla Holmes, somehow I feel this was more than just a relaxing afternoon's entertainment for you. What brought you here?"

Sherla sat back down at the piano resumed her light playing. "I had a great deal on my mind and needed to think. My hands kept distracting me," she said with just a hint of a sheepish smile.

"Your. . . .your hands?" Irene asked.

A soft bark of laughter greeted Irene's incredulous look. "I know, it sounds strange, but the fact is that when a problem was particularly on my mind, I, that is, Sherlock, used to smoke. Even measured the difficulty of a problem by the number of pipefuls of tobacco consumed while he. . I thought about its solution. And this," she said with a sigh and a staccato cord, "would be at least a five or six pipe problem."

"So you came down here to . . .to keep your hands busy so you could think?" Irene asked.

"Yes."

Irene reached over and took Sherla's dainty hand in her own. "Perhaps I might help you think? I do have a fairly good brain you know."

That earned another laugh from Sherla, but she made no move to retrieve the hand Irene still held. "You have a magnificent brain, Madam," Sherla retorted. "Why, had you not married your Godfrey, Sherlock had at one time given a good deal of consideration to making you an offer of marriage for the purpose of begetting children upon you before either of you became too old. He felt it a crime that our two brains might forever be lost to the world and thought that an admirable solution; the best of Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler carried on in our offspring."

"Hardly a romantic basis for a marriage, Sherla," Irene chided with a grin.

"No, it wasn't, but then, Sherlock ruthlessly exiled any such romantical notions from his life. Still, you fascinated him . . me a great deal. Watson always referred to you as "THE Woman." Claimed he got it from me. Likely he did. You are truly unique in my experience."

"Well," Irene said with a cough intended to clear surprise and other emotions from her throat, "You were unique in my experience before your arrival on my doorstep in skirts, Sherlock/Sherla. You are even more so, now. Here you are, telling me of your utter lack of romance, and you just finished singing, quite beautifully by the way, one of the most romantic ballads ever written in my country. Isn't that a contradiction in terms?"

"Exactly what I came down here to consider, Irene," Sherla said firmly as she kicked off her high heeled slippers, rose from the piano and began to pace. "I might have played that song in the past, but I would never have felt it before. Many things are different now - things that are intrinsic to *me*, Sherlock or Sherla Holmes - things that I had not expected to be different."

"Such as?" Irene prompted when Sherla became silent.

"That is almost as difficult to explain as telling you what is different now," Sherla replied. "Pleasures are the most significant change."

"Your need for sexual release?"

"No, that I almost understand, or at least, can attribute to the effects of Moriarty's potion. These issues have to do with things that would never have pleasured Holmes the man."

"Would never have pleasured, or would never have been *permitted* to pleasure him?" Irene asked carefully.

Sherla's restless pacing halted abruptly and she rounded on Irene. "Explain!" she snapped.

A sardonic smile crossed Irene's lips. This was more the Holmes of her memory - restless, impatient, demanding - she'd have to work on that for Sherla's sake.

But not tonight. "Obviously, my dear Holmes, did you not say how you exiled romantic notions? Surely, you did that with other, shall we say, distractions as well? Such as pleasures?"

The lovely features lost all expression for just an instant and then something akin to curiosity shown from the large dark eyes. Sherla reached out and pulled the piano bench over to where she could face Irene directly. She barely remembered to seat herself gracefully, but Irene understood and knew this was not the time for such a correction. "I take your meaning, but why now? I am regaining control of my, what is it that Freud-fellow called it? Oh yes. I am regaining control of my libido so why are these 'distractions' as you called them bothering me now?"

"I can think of many reasons, dear, not all of which may be to your liking. One possible reason is that you are, as you yourself pointed out to me, simply more sensitive and sensual now than you were as Sherlock. You *feel* more strongly now and therefore what you feel is more difficult to ignore than it was during your earlier life. Given the other issues you've had on your mind, it would seem not unreasonable that you could not maintain the relatively narrow mind set necessary to ignore such things. By the way," Irene asked, trying to divert Sherla, "What types of pleasures are we discussing?"

A dismissive hand waved about. "A great many of them, I fear," Sherla sighed. "From the way food tastes," she began hesitantly.

"That may just be the difference between French cuisine and English boiling everything limp and tasteless," Irene inserted with some disgust.

"Just so," Sherla laughed, "but it includes having Katrina brush out my hair, now that she's gotten all the tangles out of it, or the feeling of silk on my bare skin, or the perfume of your roses in the garden or the warmth of a bath with your special scented oils in the water. That combination of heat and scent is particularly tempting and unforgettable."

"Certainly Sherlock appreciated such things," Irene insisted, "At least some of them, in any case."

"Oh, I, that is, *he* would have noticed them. Untidy hair would have worried possible clients. As for silk? It was merely cloth, and if it was clean and presentable, why care? Roses? Sherlock would sooner have noted problems with the bloom's color or with shape of its petals, or perhaps would have pointed out what insects were infesting it, but remark upon or allow himself to enjoy the flower's perfume? And we will not even discuss the bath."

"But you, that is, Sherlock enjoyed music," Irene countered.

"No one, not even Sherlock Holmes, can achieve perfect rational isolation, and music was the chink in my armor."

"Thank heaven for that!" Irene swore.

"True enough," Sherla said with a small smile, "For I begin to realize just how desolate my life would have been without the music as a balm-to-the-soul. But pray tell, Irene, you said that you had reasons that I might not care for?"

"Well, dear, you are a woman now and you were a man then. Could these not simply be a manifestation of that change? Women enjoy such things. You are a woman. Why should you not enjoy the things that women enjoy?"

Silence followed that question for a very long time. Irene waited, allowing the girl to deal with that immense concept. Finally, she stirred. "I think, Irene, that is what I fear most - that I will enjoy them and lose contact with something that was a critical aspect of me. I am truly afraid that in becoming a woman, something intrinsic to me, something important will be lost because I am no longer a man."

Irene saw Sherla's eyes grow bright and shiny, and knew she was barely containing tears, and because she knew this was Holmes, she resisted the urge to go and comfort her. "You are afraid your brain will be diminished." It was a statement, not a question.

"God, yes," Sherla said, her eyes haunted and tear-filled. "I can deal with almost anything but that."

"Then you are behaving like a fool!" Irene said sternly.

Sherla's head came up, her eyes suddenly blazing with fury. "I *BEG* your pardon?" she said hoarsely.

"As well you should, girl. Your mind is in perfect order. Look at what you've had to deal with and how far you've come. You managed to come to me, didn't you? Was that not a most excellent plan? And this afternoon, did you have any trouble deducing the meaning and implications of my little records? Or planning your little retaliation against Katrina? The answer to both questions is no, you did not. All right, you are dealing with more distractions than you are used to, but do you mean to claim that the great brain of Mr. Sherlock Holmes was somehow unreachably superior to mine? I have dealt with the joys, the pleasures, travails and the distractions of the feminine condition for more than five decades and you have just told me what you think of MY brain."

"But. . "

"But NOTHING, girl! You are brilliant. By all that's holy, you've just played a piano arrangement of Beethoven's Fifth Symphony from memory! Think about what you can do and have done before you worry about what you may not do or do as well. You will be a formidable woman, Sherla Joan Holmes, as formidable as I am myself. Perhaps more so for you truly possess a depth of understanding concerning the actions and mind of the male of the species that is far deeper than I could ever hope to attain. The world will try, in all its male-ego-dominated stupidity to place limits upon you and upon what you can achieve in your new life as a woman merely because you ARE a woman! Don't you DARE accept their foolish boundaries, and for heaven's sake, DON'T impose such limitations on yourself! You are a WOMAN, not an imbecile."

Now the tears began to flow down Sherla's cheeks, "You mean that, don't you?" She asked, her voice quavering, and when Irene nodded firmly, hugged her arms about herself tightly. "I was so desperately worried that I would not have a second chance, that I would be in some way inadequate to the task of Moriarty. But, God above, Irene, LOOK at me! I am crying, for goodness sake. How in the name of heaven can I hope to best Moriarty if I cannot control my own tears? My emotions?"

"By using those very emotions, of course, my dear Sherla," Irene responded in a matter-of-fact, no nonsense tone. "Women have been using tears in lieu of fists since before recorded time, and with great effectiveness. You are no longer Sherlock, and in the transition you have lost some physical abilities you once had. But you have also lost what I considered to be a very limiting narrowness of outlook in key areas of the human condition. Sherla, your mind is not diminished, and you will continue to find new abilities that will be no less effective than those you think you have lost if you will but look! I believe that in your journal, you referred to them as 'a woman's tools' and 'a woman's weapons'."

Irene stood, and again pulled the girl into her arms. Slowly, Sherla unwound her arms from about her own body and put them around Irene. "How can you not best him, Sherla? For all his knowledge and his cunning, he is but a mere man. You will become a singularly superior woman who has once BEEN a man. You have all the knowledge of the male and all the powers of a woman. He will have no chance against you. Once you learn to think more like a woman, that is."

Pulling back from the embrace so that she could smile up at the taller woman, Sherla asked "So that is an advantage you are going to teach me? The ability to think like a woman?"

"You are already learning that, my dear, all by yourself. However, Katrina and I will both help you with that journey,, right after I teach you a way to think that does not involve shaking my house so violently that I feel it all the way to my library." Irene replied.

"I know you smoke, Irene, but I cannot anymore. Just a whiff of tobacco smoke makes me almost violently ill."

"And so you shan't smoke, for that reason as much as it is not something well-born ladies of Society are permitted to do. No, I had something else in mind to fill those idle hands of yours, my dear," Irene said with a devilish smile as she took Sherla's arm into her own. "Now, come and let Katrina help you dress for dinner."

"And what, pray tell is it that you have in mind for me, Irene?" Sherla asked as she started to follow Irene's lead toward the music room door.

"Embroidery." Irene said simply. "Perhaps you will enjoy it as much as music, and it is much quieter and far easier to carry than my piano."

"EMBROIDERY??!?"

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

Entry in the Journal of Miss Sherla Joan Holmes

Date: February 22, 1911

Location: Irene Adler's Home outside of Paris France.

Time: 10:45 P.M.

My Dear Doctor Watson:

Oh, God, John, I am NOT going to die - at least not from the effects of Moriarty's potion. I really am going to LIVE! Moriarty has NOT destroyed me.

Thanks be to God in heaven, I am going to live. I am so relieved, John, and not, I am surprised to admit, simply because it means I will have another opportunity to free the world of Moriarty's machinations.

In truth, old friend, I find that I no longer wish to die. That amazes me as well. I am female now - subject to the vile whimsy of the lunar calendar and to the needs and demands of a physical and emotional make up that is completely alien to my former life and beliefs - and yet, I do not wish to die. The man who attempted to take his own life, a bare four weeks ago, would have found this new existence and its many distractions unendurable, and but for the threat posed by Moriarty, would likely have ended this life before it could even begin.

I would say, old friend, that this is one of those exceptions that prove the rule. For had it not been for the colossal conceit and arrogance of Mr. Sherlock Holmes, along with his unswerving belief that only HE could find and stop Moriarty, I would not have lived long enough to reach this wondrous conclusion that I wish to LIVE. Thus, in my case and in this instance, pride did not goeth before the fall.

I find, John, that despite all that has happened, or because of it, I have come to recognize the reason for living is . . . to have a reason for living; to have a purpose and a goal in life. With no cases before him, and no challenges worthy of what he considered his mind to be, Sherlock faced unending pointlessness.

Now, I have both a short-term goal, to defeat Moriarty, and the more challenging longer-term goal of building a life that fulfills these marvelous senses that my new body possesses, that stimulates my still-voracious intellect, and that reclaims the reputation that had once belonged to Sherlock. All this I can accomplish, John, with Irene's help of course, but there is a new lifetime of opportunity before me, and I cherish this gift from Moriarty that was intended to be such a curse.

It will definitely be a challenge, though it would seem that the incomparable Irene was correct: the fits of extreme sexual hunger are definitely becoming less frequent. Only two such events since the midday meal. Now I am ready for bed, and feeling just a little. . . . well, lusty. That feeling is nothing like the intensity of three nights ago, but I suspect I shall need some relief before I will be able to sleep.

I have no comparable experiences in my previous life to judge this by, John. Even as a boy, I was more likely to have a nocturnal emission than deal personally with such exigencies in the light of day. Of course, that woman my father hired had a great deal to do with that given her harsh opinions on the subject of masculinity and even harsher punishments. I still recall the time she caned me on a no-longer-existent portion of my anatomy for 'playing with your nasty person.' I rather think that my childhood and adolescent experiences under the harsh rule of that cursed female is, in large part, what put me off the feminine sex during my adult life.

Irene's tolerant and accepting reaction to my burgeoning sexual need, on the other hand, has a great deal to do with why I am still somewhat sane right now.

While the fits have died away, the almost overwhelming acuity of my senses has not. Silk across my skin, a breath of breeze across my bosom, hot bubbly water on my body are all very intense and pleasant experiences. I discovered this morning, for example, that I love having my hair brushed. Most amazing.

I almost shiver in delight just thinking and writing about those feelings.

On the other hand, John, for all I relish these new feelings, I am still worried. What are the implications of this broader range of sensual inputs in regards to my observational and deductive skills? When all I was required to deal with was hard fact and thorough observation, I was a potent force in the world of me. I was an opponent to concern even someone such as Professor Moriarty.

These new heightened sensations are very distracting at times, very pleasantly so, but distracting none the less This concerns the part of me that is still, and mayhap will always be Sherlock. Will I be still be an opponent worthy of Moriarty without that singleness of purpose, that clarity of vision? I do not know. I only know I must try.

On another issue, I still seem to be growing somewhat smaller, although not nearly as much nor quickly as earlier. Irene suspects that there is some residual amount of the potion inside my body, still working its evil deed. My height is down to 154 centimeters (60 and five eighths inches) while my weight is down to 47.5 kilograms (104.5 lbs). Much slower rate on both, I think - about half a pound a day and a quarter inch a day in height.

Of course, Irene's insistence on tight stays has had a rather negative effect upon my appetite so I may be losing weight naturally as well as due to any residual effects of the drug. My waist is down half a centimeter from the day before yesterday, again with Katrina pulling the tape very tight. She gleefully informed me that I should be able to lace myself down to a "magnifique forty centimeters" which I calculate to be something less than 16 inches. My god, John, I think I must have been born with a larger waist than that! When I was Sherlock, I could span sixteen inches with my hands, for goodness sake. The girl is a fiend. I am wondering if she is Moriarty's niece or some other such relation.

Sixteen inches? I believe, old friend, that I am going to use metric measures from now on. In regards to a corset, forty sounds much less daunting than sixteen, even when I know rationally that they are the same size.

I have rediscovered music in Irene's practice room, and it was wonderful! Leaving the Stradivarius behind was one of the most singly difficult aspects of this quest, John. I felt then, and do feel still, that it is too valuable an instrument to drag about Europe as I pursue Moriarty. More importantly, the mere possibility of it falling into his foul hands should I be unequal to the task of stopping him is too horrible to consider. The thought of that wonderful instrument in his possession would be a desecration of the divine gift of music. At least, Irene's grand piano is unlikely to suffer such a fate.

Tomorrow, I think I will ask Irene whether she truly meant it when she referred to me as having been the male Sherlock. It slipped out during a heated discussion about my lack of a genteel and ladylike tongue so we were otherwise distracted from that revelation. Tomorrow, when we are both less excited, I think, I shall raise the issue at breakfast. After that, she plans on a short outing to the shops for fittings and for accessories.

It seems that my good sturdy English attire, designed with London chill and fog in mind, will badly shame her as my sponsor in sunny Paris.

End of Journal Entry

 

 

 

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