A Study in Satin

by Tigger

 

Part III: Dum Vivimus Vivamus!

Chapter 15: The Falls

 

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."

 

 

 

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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.