A Study In Satin - Part 1:Semper Cogitus free porn video

A Study in Satin by Tigger (C)opyright 2000, all rights reserved. Part I: Semper Cogitus Chapter 1. The End The cold London fog rolled in across the Thames, making the city's street lights halo eerily. Had there been anyone out and about that damp, chilly midnight hour, they would have seen only a single lighted window overlooking Baker Street. That solitary light issued from the second floor study of the flat at 221B Baker Street - the rooms of the fabled Mr. Sherlock Holmes. For a single moment, a shadowy figure peered out into the night through the parted drapery - a figure bent by age and other . . . less-natural enfeebling agencies. The years had not been kind to the great detective. His longtime friend and principal biographer, Dr. John Watson had been dead for nigh onto two years. Mycroft Holmes, the brilliant if eccentric older brother who had used his contacts as a senior official of His Majesty's Government to send Holmes so many challenging cases, had also passed away. Both losses had been devastating to the man in the gloomy rooms for their passings had left that powerful and restless intellect truly and completely alone save for memories - and vices. Sherlock's brother had been, of late, the last influential person in all of England who had still believed in the great detective's powers and abilities. With Mycroft's death, Holmes no longer had any contacts who could or would advise other such men of consequence to bring their most baffling and sensitive problems to the rooms at 221B Baker Street. Those whose hands now controlled the reins of power within the British Empire could see no point in consulting with a relic of a bygone age - a man who, in their so-very-knowing estimation, could not possibly understand the wonders and problems of their modern world. Their casual dismissal had left Holmes to struggle against the fiendish power he could not defeat - the utter and debilitating ennui that gnawed at his very soul when his powerful brain went unchallenged. All of which made the loss of Watson even more serious. Watson had been the stone upon which the great detective had sharpened his thoughts, tested his hypotheses and tightened his arguments. In short, Dr. John H. Watson had provided Holmes the intelligent and appreciative audience his investigative method and his ego required. More importantly, a living John Watson would have at least attempted to dissuade Holmes from resuming his use of the seven percent solution of cocaine as a salve for his boredom. Holmes had believed that he'd defeated the need for the drug during his years abroad after the incident at the Reichenbach Falls with Professor Moriarty, but over the past two years, he had discovered that he'd been wrong. Since Watson's death, and without challenges suited to his curiosity and intellect, Holmes' use of the drug had steadily increased. Whether that was due to the unrelenting ennui or to a real and growing addiction, Holmes did not know. Nor, at this point in his life, did he very much care. Every game, in Holmes' opinion, eventually came to a cusp, a critical moment in which a player's options became distinctly limited. After a great deal of contemplation and reflection, Holmes had concluded that his life had arrived at just such a crossroads. Holmes had always assumed that when such an important milestone in his amazing life finally occurred, it would come heralded by major events and great happenings. A case worthy of his powers such as the one that had led to the confrontation with Professor Moriarty at the Falls or an investigation such as the one he'd conducted on the behest of the King of Bohemia when he had first met Irene Adler, THE woman. Such a major event in the life of the greatest detective of his era, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, should have been presaged by something equally momentous. Only it had not. Rather, the event had been marked only by a series of relatively unimportant, disconnected events in the past sennight. It had all begun not more than a week earlier, when a particularly maudlin mood had driven Holmes to take out his case file. After Watson's death, Holmes had assumed the responsibility of documenting his investigations, not because he was vain nor because he harbored any interest in personal fame, but because the world stood to benefit from accurately rendered accounts of his method in action. Holmes had been dismayed to realize that it had been more than a year since the aging detective had been called in to undertake a case worthy of his still prodigious powers. It had been mere coincidence that the date of the final entry in the file, the date that Holmes had declared that case closed, had been one year ago to the day he had decided to look over that file. Mere coincidence. Later during the same week, Holmes had needed to renew his supply of cocaine. The meager supply that Watson had kept in his small surgery had been quickly consumed once Holmes had resumed using the drug. This had forced Holmes to find another supplier, which had not been difficult - until this attempt. This time when Holmes had gone to his chemist, he'd been told that from then on he would need a prescription signed by a licensed doctor in order to obtain the drug. That problem had been solved by means of a judicious bit of forgery, but Holmes knew from personal experience that forgery was a crime with a very short life. Eventually, the doctor and the chemist would reconcile their records and Holmes' forgeries would be uncovered. Holmes might be able to delay that unfortunate occasion by frequenting a number of other doctors and chemists, but it was only a matter of time before that avenue of relief, however reprehensible Watson had found his use of it, would be closed to Holmes as well. Holmes had therefore renewed his efforts to secure work from the various government agencies that had once clamored for his attentions. Those efforts, however, had been met only with ridicule and derision. In fact, one officious little dandy had actually had the unmitigated gall to order the office guards to "escort" Holmes from the building. Holmes had been profoundly humiliated by that cavalier dismissal and treatment. The humiliation had quickly given way to a rage the likes of which the ordinarily cold and unemotional detective rarely experienced. Briefly, he had gone so far as to actually consider turning his talents against those pompous, strutting fools - to following his greatest foe onto the path of crime, or even conquest. Then let those smug idiots at Whitehall try ignoring him. . . let them DARE to ignore King Sherlock the First. The images such confrontations conjured up had been momentarily entertaining for Holmes, but in the end, he had discarded both notions. Not because he doubted the feasibility of either option. Holmes firmly believed that he would have succeeded at either venture, but his decision to forgo those paths had come from what was to him, an unexpected source. Holmes was neither a religious nor a superstitious man, but the thought of how Watson would have reacted to Holmes turning his skills and will against the Crown had, in the end, dissuaded him. Odd that after all the years of amused yet mildly condescending tolerance toward his longtime companion, Holmes should find that he needed to feel worthy of Watson's good opinion. *The follies of age,* he thought not for the first time, *are at least as numerous of those of youth, and the worst folly of all must be conscience.* In truth, Holmes did not need to work - at least not in a financial sense. Mycroft's estate along with Holmes' own investments provided him a more than comfortable income that would last far beyond his expected lifetime. No, work was something Holmes needed, or perhaps more accurately, something Holmes craved to fill his mind, not his purse. *So, those appear to be my only viable and personally acceptable options,* Holmes mused,*I could continue to live as I am living at that precise moment. Physically comfortable and either bored to a state of utter insensibility, or assuming I am somehow able to continue to obtain the cocaine, drugged into a similar state, but not caring.* He could continue to be a forgotten creature in this modern world, or worse yet, a pitied one. "*Neither* course of action is the least bit acceptable," Holmes snarled in the barest whisper. "There is yet a third choice. This abominable maze that has become my life's game still has a third path open to me, and I choose to follow it!" Shoving the drapery closed, Holmes strode across his study to his scientific laboratory. The weak, blue flame of a carefully adjusted bunsen burner flickered, throwing eerie shadows about the otherwise darkened room. The scientist in Holmes watched dispassionately as the heat of the dancing flame caused a clear liquid in a small glass beaker to boil gently, sending its vapors billowing up into a distilling unit. The beaker had been full earlier this evening but now the fluid filled less than a tenth of its original volume. Holmes picked up the modestly sized amber-colored apothecary bottle and looked at the label. Before Holmes had upended the bottle's contents into his distilling apparatus, it had originally held a spare two ounces. An entire thirty-day's supply of the solution - at least that is what the prescription he'd been forced to present had indicated. "A prescription," he snorted into the darkness. "They will be regulating alcohol next. Or trying to, the consummate fools." Skillfully, Holmes used a pair of metal tongs to snatch the beaker off the flame and then poured its contents onto a small metal bottomed dish. He then set the dish upon an ice bath to cool the concentrated liquid. With practiced efficiency, Holmes filled his steel hypodermic from the dish, and then stalked off to his rooms. Briefly, he worried that the contents of the needle might not be sufficient to the task. Originally, Holmes had intended to concentrate the entire bottle of cocaine, but his calculations indicated that the resulting concentrate might be too thick to pass through his hypodermic needle. Still, what the needle's reservoir currently contained was nearly three weeks' dose and that should be more than adequate to Holmes' needs. As he had always done when embarked on a project worthy of his mettle, Holmes had planned and prepared thoroughly for this evening's agenda. Mrs. Hudson's daughter was scheduled to come in for her twice weekly cleaning day after tomorrow. With luck, she'd think he'd passed away of natural causes, although the police would see things for what they were, but Holmes had no desire to traumatize Miss Hudson either. Quickly, Holmes went about the nightly rituals a man developed over a lifetime. A quick wash, a soothing pipeful of his tobacconist's most excellent rough-cut blend while his Edison Phonograph played Johann Sebastian Bach's Concerto for Two Violins, and fifteen minutes reading the classics (Sophocles' Antigone in the original Greek) before reaching for his bedside gas lamp. Except tonight, rather than reaching for the gas lamp, Holmes reached for the hypodermic needle. From his meticulous researches, Holmes had determined that the now-highly concentrated cocaine solution would immediately shock and then stop his heart in a not-easily-recognizable simulation of natural cardiac arrest. If he could just turn the lamp off and throw the needle out of his immediate vicinity before he succumbed, it was entirely possible that not even the police would uncover the truth. That was the only negative aspect of his plan - at least to Holmes' way of thinking - the possibility of having his name tarred forever with the stigma of insanity for having taken his own life. Being pitied for the supposed loss of his keen mind would be a bad enough legacy, but it would immeasurably worse to have those buffoons in the government feel vindicated in their arrogant assessment of the "mad" Sherlock Holmes. "Then you had best complete the job properly, hadn't you?" Holmes chided himself rhetorically. *Reduced to talking to myself,* he thought resignedly, *perhaps I am losing my mind, after all.* With a sigh, he plunged the needle home, steadily injecting the cool fluid into his arm. With a speed and strength born of ego, the Great Detective flung the needle out the conveniently open window and managed to dowse the lamp. The soothing, euphoric haze of the drug came over him much more quickly than Holmes was used to, but that was only to be expected, he surmised. At last, the boredom receded as Holmes gave himself up to the contemplation of what was, for him, the only mystery he had been unable to investigate properly. At least, not if he'd wanted to live to tell the tale. Well, he wasn't going to live, he smiled gently to himself, so now he was free to investigate what awaited men on the other side of death's veil. The thought brought a semblance of a happy grin to his lips and then his eyes drifted closed one last time. Chapter 2: Life after Death? "Mr. Holmes?" The piercing sound of a feminine voice calling out his name roused him, but he didn't want to wake up. "Mr. Holmes, are you all right?" the voice called out again, louder this time and with some discernable emotion backing it. "Who. . ?" Holmes growled, burrowing down into his bed linens. "'tis me, Mr. Holmes, Miss Hudson. I was just finishing up my cleanin' of your rooms, but you weren't up for me to change your beddin'." her voice made the last an accusation. "I have to be getting on to my own home, sir." An incredible stench assailed Holmes' nose, forcing him awake, and with wakefulness, came recognition. The *last* thing he wanted was for Miss Hudson to realize what had happened. "No, that's quite all right, Miss Hudson. You just leave out the clean linens and I will see to the bedding myself when I get up." "Are you all right, then sir? I've never known you to be a lay- a-bed, sir," Miss Hudson's voice was less strident now, more uncertain. "Not in all the years I've known you." "Just a bit of the ague, Miss Hudson. My doctor prescribed a concoction that made me sleep. I am better now, but you should keep your distance. I would not want you to become ill yourself and possibly pass the illness to your mother or sister." "No indeed, Mr. Holmes," Miss Hudson quickly agreed. "I've left some soup simmerin' on your stove, sir. It should do you up right and tight if you've got the strength to go get it." Holmes got another whiff of his soiled bed linens and nearly gagged. The thought of food only made the growing nausea worse. "That will be quite all right, Miss Hudson. I am feeling much more the thing. A hot bowl of soup will be exactly what I need once I have had a chance to bathe." *The bath, at least, is the truth of the matter,* he thought. A thought occurred to Holmes and he called out, "Did you come a day early for some reason, Miss Hudson?" "Early? Why, today's my regular day, Mr. Holmes," Miss Hudson replied before pausing, "Oh, I see. That potion your doctor gave you made you sleep longer than you thought, Mr. Holmes." *I've been unconscious for more than thirty six hours?* Holmes asked himself. *That explains the condition of my bed, but I expected my rest to be far longer than that. What happened?* Holmes reveries were interrupted by his housekeeper. "Well, since you're feelin' able, Mr. Holmes, I'll be on my way. Hope you feel better. Just leave the dirty linens in the hamper in the kitchen and I will see to them next time. Good day, Mr. Holmes. Don't worry about the stains. My mum has the same problem, her bein' of an age, y'know, and I know just how to get them white and sweet again." Holmes growled a 'thank you' and a farewell and then listened carefully for her departure. Quickly, he got out of his bed, as much to escape the foul odors as to ensure the door was securely bolted. Whatever was happening, it was definitely NOT what Holmes expected, and until he understood what was happening, he wanted no more guests. Unfortunately, no sooner was he out of bed, then the world began to spin giddily. Urgently, Holmes reached out toward his bedside table to steady himself, but it was too far away and too late. Sherlock Holmes fell to the floor in a swoon. ~--------------~ When next Holmes awoke, this time from his impromptu bed on the floor, he stood more carefully. Whatever residual effect of the drug had overcome him on his first arousal would not surprise him again. What did surprise him, as he carefully stood, was the absence of pain. Arthritis had begun to attack the old man's joints in the last year. Mornings had always been the worse. Knees, hips and elbows that had been permitted to remain relatively stationary over the course of a long, damp London night tended to argue vigorously against being forced to move again. *Perhaps there is a heaven, after all,* Holmes thought in wonder before two other circumstances seemed to refute that. The sewer- like stench of his own bodily wastes again assailed him bringing back the memories of his conversation with Miss Hudson. Quickly, he turned to leave the room and its foul odors only to trip and fall two steps later. On the hem of his nightshirt. Slowly, but still without any pain, Holmes eased himself once again to his feet. He looked down at the hem of his robe and momentarily gawked. The nightshirt's hem, which had just that night before been well above Holmes' ankles, now pooled on the floor about his feet. "Definitely a mystery is afoot here," he said aloud before turning towards his laboratory. He nearly tripped again, but caught himself. Deftly, he gathered up a handful of the nightshirt up in one hand and pulled the garment off, tossing it to the floor by his bed. Grimly, Holmes took in the multiple stains marking the nightshirt that had not been there when he'd first donned it - how long ago had that been? By the look of the dawn and taking into consideration Miss Hudson's earlier revelations, Holmes concluded that he'd worn that garment for at least two days and three nights. *One mystery at a time,* he told himself as he donned his dressing robe before striding off again. Holmes snatched up a pencil and a book as he moved past his desk towards a large empty wall on the far end of the lab. Holmes stood, back to the all and rested the book on his head. Holding the book in place, Holmes stepped out from under the book and used the pencil to mark the book's position on the wall. A ruler confirmed what the detective's trained senses had already discerned. Sherlock Holmes had somehow shrunk almost three and a half inches since he'd gone to his bed three nights past. "Amazing," he half whispered to himself before rushing off to his dressing room again, this time nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste. One look in his reflecting glass showed that he was much more than not dead. In addition to his decreased stature, Holmes saw that he looked visibly younger. His skin had not been so . . so smooth and supple in decades. "Or is this how the afterlife occurs?" he asked himself. "If this is heaven, however, I would have preferred to keep my normal height. And I most *definitely* would have preferred not to have lost control of my bodily functions in so humiliating a manner." Only a sudden, undeniably urgent call from Nature pulled him away from his glass, but once in the water closet, another shock greeted him. It was not just his body's height that had changed. He was. . . smaller - all over. In fact, he was a great deal smaller. Although not a vain man, at least where physical prowess and size were concerned, Holmes was still greatly taken aback when he opened his dressing gown to relieve his bladder. His manhood had shrunk, too. Actually, it had *more* than merely shrunk in proportion this new stature, it had all but disappeared. Heavens above, but Holmes had seen infants with greater . . .masculine endowments than he now possessed. After that momentary shock, Holmes forced his intellect to reassert itself. He needed to determine whether his mind might be similarly afflicted. Holmes tested himself by first by recalling the design and results of a recent chemical experiment he'd conducted and then by mentally constructing the classic proof of the Theorem of Pythagoras. Neither problem proved to be at all difficult, thus confirming that Holmes' mind, at least, remained . . . adult. That concern dealt with, Holmes was all the more determined to deal with this situation with his famous rationality and powers of deduction powers. Returning to his looking glass, Holmes inventoried and catalogued his person, comparing it to the old body he remembered so well. Like his manly parts, the rest of his body had also become smaller, although by no means as much as had his genitals. His hands, which had always been long and fine fingered for a male, were now thinner, almost dainty, and tipped with surprisingly long nails. Slippers that had once fit him as perfectly as. . .well, as a well worn slipper, now foundered about a much smaller, more slender foot. About the only thing besides his fingernails that was longer about him was his hair. He'd gone to bed a balding old man, but now two to three inches of thick, luxuriant almost-black hair covered his head, and framed a face that while it was still slender was also somehow less. . .saturnine. . somehow more. . . "Juvenile is the word you are attempting to deny, Holmes," he said aloud, not at all surprised to hear a voice markedly different from his own issue forth from his mouth. "No, that's not right either," Holmes realized, still speaking aloud, trying to understand the changes in his voice. "My face, even when I was much younger, never looked like *that*! In fact, this face looks like none of the men of my lineage, as recorded in the paintings in Mycroft's old house. Which means that whatever has occurred, it not merely a simple age reversal. My understanding of that monk Mendel's work on heredity is that such features are statistically very unlikely unless I am somehow no longer of the Holmes family line. Which I would have thought impossible were it not for the evidence of my own eyes." The curiosity that was part and parcel of Sherlock Holmes came to the fore and focused his full attention on this new and fascinating problem. The detective studied his reflection as though it was the face of a stranger's face, using his powers of observation to assess age, ethnic background, fitness and physical attributes. "Age, hmmm," he said as he began to assess the changes he saw in his mirror, " a bit of a conundrum, that. The size of the head relative to stature of the total body would seem to be consistent with adult proportions, yet there is no evidence of beard growth. Quite peculiar, that." Holmes ran those incredibly soft fingers over his cheeks. "Not even the slightest indication of stubble although it has been more than two days since I last shaved. That factor combined with the significant diminution of my masculine development would also indicate a pre-pubescent condition. Rather contradictory indications, all around." Holmes turned his attention to his torso and bodily extremities, turning and twisting this way and that so he could examine himself from every possible angle. "Remarkably supple," he murmured to himself with a touch of pleasure, "Certainly more so than I can remember in many a year. On the other hand, muscular development is also slight. While such an apparent lack of muscle tissue is often a sign of a rapid growth spurt in the underlying skeletal structure, there is no evidence of the corresponding gauntness." Holmes gently pinched the flesh of his smooth thigh and watched the skin spring back when he released it. "In point of fact, it seems to be just the opposite as this body has a smoothing layer of fat - much more than I have ever possessed before, and certainly more than that aging relic that went to bed three nights past." "The face retains a distinctly English appearance. Though the nose is much shorter than before, it is still quite narrow. The eyes are slanted upward slightly, not through the presence of an oriental epicanthic fold, but as though it were a more natural shape. This is accented by higher than normal cheekbones. It is almost as if . . . " "Oh, dear God. I refuse to believe it!" Shocked at the direction his inquiries seemed to point, Holmes pulled on a clean dressing gown over the offending body. Thus attired, Holmes made his way back to his laboratory where the apparatus he'd used to concentrate the fatal dose of cocaine still stood. Dazed, Holmes sank slowly onto his favorite chair. "Is this what happens when you die?" he asked aloud. "You stay behind as something or someone other than who or what you were in your previous life? Are the Buddhists of India correct and this is some type of reincarnation? Is *this* what heaven entails?? Or perhaps more correctly, this is my first taste of hell?" "Oh," a harsh voice said from the parlor, "I rather suspect that you will find hell quite pleasant by comparison - when you finally arrive there. But for the time being, you are, unfortunately for you, my dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes, quite alive upon this earthly pale." Holmes spun out of his chair and saw a large figure coming through the door; the intruder's features lost in shadow due to the backlighting of the parlor windows. "Who *are* you?!?" Chapter 3: The Professor. "Surely I have not changed *that* much, Mr. Holmes. Certainly not as much as you have," he said with a smirk, "I am deeply hurt. After all, we have been the very *best* of enemies." "Moriarty? Is that YOU?!?" the last word came out came out in a shrill tone that shocked Sherlock even as he heard it come from his mouth. The large man gave an exaggerated bow. "At your service." "But. . .but. . you're dead! I saw you die!" Grinning, Moriarty made a show of patting his very solid and non- ghostly body. "I don't think so. I am quite alive, Holmes, but I am rather pleased to know that you thought me dead, and that my little entrance has upset you this way." The man stepped further into the light, close enough to see and be seen clearly. Leaning toward the seated Holmes, his voice took on a sneering irony as he said, "After all, my dear 'Sherlock', it's only fair, don't you think? In our long association, I have so often thought you at last removed from this mortal coil thanks to one of my brilliant stratagems, only to have you time and again rise like Lazarus-from-the-grave to thwart me yet again. This time, however, it is I who have cheated the reaper just as this time it will be *I* who will win our final battle." "What have you done to me., Moriarty?" Holmes growled. "Not precisely what I thought I was doing, I can assure you. Even now," Moriarty mused almost to himself as he regarded his greatest enemy, "You quite surprise me. The physical effects have never been quite so radical nor so rapid during any of my experimental investigations." "I'll not be some damnable guinea pig for you!" Holmes shouted as he leaped from his chair to attack the looming man. Despite his resolve and the pent-up rage at the changes that had been inflicted upon him, the attack was ineffectual. In fact, it was worse than ineffectual. Although well on in years, Moriarty still had the advantages of size, strength and reach over the now much smaller Holmes - advantages he used to their fullest as he toyed with his arch enemy before brushing him aside. Impelled as he was by Moriarty's strength, Holmes' backside landed hard on the floor and he rolled into the adjoining room. Inordinately pleased with his ability to dominate Holmes in such a satisfyingly physical manner, the still-laughing Moriarty followed intent on continuing the game, but stopped short the moment he realized where Holmes had led him. Professional curiosity replaced sadistic intent as the man Holmes had so often called "one of the greatest scientific minds in history" began to study the laboratory of Mr. Sherlock Holmes. ~------------~ "Rather primitive, Holmes," Moriarty finally said with a superior look and a dismissive gesture of his hand. "I had expected much more of you given your continual harping on your scientific methods of investigation and deduction." Still burning with shame at his loss of physical ability and over the amused ease with which Moriarty had manhandled him, Holmes glared at the criminal mastermind, "What you see here has served my needs quite admirably as YOU should well attest given our long. . . association, Moriarty." Moriarty continued to explore, almost as if he were a visitor at a colleague's facility. "I suppose," he murmured when his eye fell on a large, amber bottle. "Hello, what is this?" he asked as he picked up the bottle. Knowing eyes flickered to Holmes as Moriarty read the label, and then took in the apparatus on the table on which he'd found the bottle. "Ah, so that answers the question as to why your change was so unexpectedly rapid, my dear Holmes," Moriarty began to guffaw - a most inelegant and ungentlemanly sound - before turning humor-filled eyes back to his long-time adversary. "Although I would have expected such an overdose to kill you, *this* is just so deliciously ironic. Fate has played many a colossal jest on me where you are concerned, Holmes, but this one goes far beyond my wildest imaginings." "Perhaps, Professor, you might let me in on your 'jest'." Holmes said in as low a voice as his new vocal cords could manage. The best he could do, however, fell well short of sounding menacing. Moriarty gave one last bark of laughter before regaining control and turning his mouth up into an odd, almost affable smile crossing his visage. "You know, Sherlock, I have recently been forced to the conclusion that Nature herself has for some reason decreed that I would not be allowed to kill you. Fate has always conspired against me whenever you involved yourself in my business, and I could seemingly do nothing about it. My plans were inevitably foiled from the moment you arrived upon the scene, though the means you used showed no particular genius - certainly nothing to match my own. After a great deal of thought, I concluded that I must find for you a fate worse than death, and so I have. I substituted your "7% solution" with another concoction of my own making." A tremor of unholy mirth erupted from Moriarty. With obvious effort, he composed himself enough to continue, "And NOW," he continued still chuckling, "I find that, had I instead done nothing at all, you would have killed yourself for me. Oh, this is simply too rich." Holmes scrambled to his feet and rounded on Moriarty. "What foul potion have you used on me, Moriarty?" "Foul? Why, Holmes, how can you be so ungrateful when I have done you such a monumental favor! Look at yourself, man. I have provided you with a veritable fountain of youth." Reflexively, Holmes' fingers flew to his now-smooth face. "Youth? The effect of your potion is not simple youth! You are even older than I, Moriarty. If you had somehow discovered such an elixir vitae, you would surely have used it on yourself and faced me as a young man at the height of your powers, or waited for me to die of natural causes." Moriarty grinned, and then became overtly pensive. "Well, there is a great deal of truth in that, although I doubt I could have long resisted the gnawing temptation to taunt you with my strong, youthful body. However, I am forced to admit that there are a few. . . side effects that I have not, as yet, been able to eliminate from that potion. Not to worry, my dear Sherlock, I do have hopes of resolving them in the near future." "Side effects? *What* side effects?" "The most obvious one will soon become quite apparent, my dear Holmes, but as I must be leaving in short order for the continent I will, sadly, not be here to savor your torment. In any case, the drug you so blithely injected into your body will, over time, systematically and completely change your most basic and essential self in ways not even you could begin to imagine. I had hoped that the changes would have come up on you more subtly, causing you what I dreamed would be a great deal of distress as you realized what was inevitably, inexorably happening to you." "Time has not improved you, Moriarty, you are still an unprincipled fiend." "Why, thank you for the compliment, Sherlock," Moriarty replied evenly. "However to continue, if I may? By concentrating the drug as you did, you made its effects immediate and I suspect quite obvious. As I mentioned, I find it rather disappointing that you have denied me that little pleasure, but perhaps seeing you like this makes it worthwhile after all. That was quite a display earlier, Holmes - one I shall dine on with relish for years to come. The greatly intellectual and coldly rational Mr. Sherlock Holmes behaving like a hopelessly emotional and scatter- witted female, shrieking, spitting and clawing - quite ineffectually, I might add - was vastly entertaining." Holmes felt the rage once again building but managed to restrain himself with pure force of will. "And the other, less obvious effects?" "Ah, my dear *Miss* Holmes, from your utter lack of reaction am I to conclude that you had perhaps already reached that conclusion yourself? Yes, I can see that you had. What a pity as I was so looking forward to your look of horror when I revealed your fate to you." Moriarty made an insincere clucking sound before continuing. "My congratulations, dear *lady*. Not that the insight will do you any good." The truth of Moriarty's claim, buttressed by Holmes own deductions from the earlier self-examination, became too much even for the vaunted self control of the world's greatest detective. Burning tears forced their way from *her* eyes as she clenched now-lengthened fingernails painfully into tender palms. In a voice that Holmes now realized was not truly strange, merely a woman's low alto, she managed to choke out, "You said there were other side effects.") Moriarty shrugged carelessly. "They will become obvious as you continue to take the drug. I will tell you that all of the effects are permanent and cumulative. The more you take, the younger and more female you will become." "Then I will simply stop taking it," Holmes retorted, giving up and dashing away at the tears now streaming down her cheeks, "It is not as if I have any great amount of the drug left." "Sherlock, Sherlock, please don't cry anymore, little girl," Moriarty chided mockingly, "but, surely you don't believe it would be so simple as that? The drug is highly and irreversibly addictive. It induces a unreasoning, undeniable need, an unquenchable thirst if you will, for ever more of the potion. The hunger spawned by opium and its various derivatives are mild by comparison. You would have been addicted right now had you taken but the normal dosage, but since you have obviously taken several days' dosage in one night, you are now utterly and irretrievably in the drug's thrall. It would be very amusing to watch you suffer through the withdrawal symptoms I have documented in my researches, but as I said, I have pressing business on the continent which will keep me from watching you directly." Moriarty turned toward the door leading to the street. "Moriarty, you said withdrawal symptoms. What kind of withdrawal symptoms?" That terrible smile darkened the old professor's features again. "Oh, those are to be your surprise, so I shan't tell you any more about them. However, I will tell you that my experimental animals often went quite mad during withdrawal particularly when I denied them relief. Only a few were fortunate enough to die quickly. And don't bother wasting your few remaining hours of sanity trying to reproduce the elixir. I concocted it of herbs I discovered during my forced sojourn in the jungles of the Amazon. You won't find their like anywhere in this hemisphere and you don't have time to obtain them from their source. So, I will bid you good day, *Miss* Holmes. We won't meet again. Do try to survive as long as you can possibly manage, won't you?. I would truly hate for your suffering to end too quickly." With that, Moriarty quietly shut the door, and disappeared into the bustle of London. Chapter 4: The Hunt Begins For uncounted minutes, Sherlock Holmes simply stood there, alone with his tears, clad in his too-long dressing gown and gripped by the rage that he'd failed to completely suppress when Moriarty had been present. *I am NOT - I WILL NOT be - merely an emotionally overwrought, irrational female,* he assured himself. "But aren't you behaving in just such a manner now?" he asked himself aloud in that husky yet not-very-masculine voice. "Are you not giving your emotions free rein and thus clouding your perceptions and mental processes? Get a grip on yourself, man!" he ordered. "I. . .AM. . . HOLMES! I am objective! I am in CONTROL!" It required a monumental effort, but Holmes ultimately succeeded in regaining at least some semblance of his famous control. Objectivity, on the other hand, proved to be, by far, the more difficult attribute, as this attack had been visited upon Holmes' very self image and most basic identity. Even the great Holmes, champion of rationality and cold logic, found it difficult to be objective about something so personal, something so intrinsic. Depression yet loomed at the still-ragged edges of his control. He felt a burning need to rail against this foul machination of Fate and to demand to know why something so abominable had been visited upon him, but Holmes resisted that unworthy and useless display. However, even as he won out against that urge, a significant question occurred to him. "Why now?" Holmes asked, voicing that question aloud, "Why did Moriarty launch this assault now? Clearly, by his own testimony, he has been experimenting with this compound for some time. Surely, he has had ample opportunity in recent years to attack me in this manner. So the key question becomes why move now? Not sooner, not later, but now?" And just as immediately, an answer occurred to Holmes. "Because some other factor, critical to his scheme, must have changed. He has an idea that may help him solve whatever problems he has with the drug and he is taking steps to keep me from becoming involved. But WHAT is he doing, curse the fates?!? How can I stop him if I cannot deduce WHAT he is planning? Facts, man, you need FACTS!" An almost forgotten habit had the great detective pausing, waiting for another voice to answer his, but none did. Watson was still gone, and Holmes felt more alone than he'd ever felt before. Grimly, Holmes set aside those thoughts, those feelings, and began to reconstruct the events of the past three days. Somewhere, there simply had to be some clue or bit of evidence that he could use against Moriarty. Lost in thought, Holmes paced aimlessly about his study until he found himself near his favorite chair and sat down. Suddenly, he found himself flailing deep within the chair's embrace, his feet no longer able to remain in contact with the floor. The unexpected, forceful reminder of his reduced stature momentarily startled Holmes out of his reveries, but only momentarily. Instead, the experience served to harden his determination to pursue this case to a final, undisputed conclusion. The disciplined habits of a lifetime returned to the fore, focusing his powers of concentration and finally quelling the emotional maelstrom of the past hour. Sherlock Holmes was soon completely engrossed in reviewing and analyzing his memories. Without conscious thought, he reached for his famous pipe and the Persian slipper that Holmes used in lieu of a tobacco pouch. And promptly began to choke. Then he sneezed hugely. Tears began to flood his eyes uncontrollably before he realized what was wrong - an aroma that had once appealed to him was now too harsh - too strong for his now-youthful, newly-sensitized nasal tissues. Eyes streaming, Holmes was forced to rush to an open window and take several deep, cleansing breaths of the cool morning air before he could again breathe normally. Frowning, he carefully took up and examined his pipe. The stench that emanated from the tar-encrusted bowl nearly made him nauseous. Disgusted, he tossed the pipe and Persian slipper into the far corner of the room. "Even my pipe," he growled, "the fiend denies me even that simple pleasure of my lost manhood. Yet another motivation to find Moriarty and conclude our business once and for all." ~------------~ Holmes spent the next hour thinking, more than once catching himself again reaching for now missing pipe. While several avenues of inquiry appeared open to him at that point in time, the most significant immediate problem he faced was the imminent onset of Moriarty's promised withdrawal syndrome. There would, beyond any doubt, be such a withdrawal. Moriarty had been too amused by the picture of Holmes suffering through the condition for it to be a decoy. More importantly, Moriarty had to be involved with some very large scheme - one so large in scope that he had been willing to risk exposing his continued existence to Holmes. Moriarty had to know that, even in this. . . incomplete form, a fully rational, unencumbered Sherlock Holmes would prove to be a major threat to any scheme Moriarty might have planned and, more importantly, to the villain's own freedom and safety. Achieving his ends would therefore require that Moriarty put in motion some mechanism that would prevent Holmes from intervening in the evil Professor's manipulations and games. Ergo, Holmes concluded, the withdrawal syndrome had to be real. That conclusion both greatly complicated and simplified Holmes' plans. Strategically, his time was doubly limited by Moriarty's cursed brew. Even assuming he had enough of the potion to last indefinitely, eventually he'd become so young (and so female) that even his great mind would fall prey to the twin demons of youth and irrationality, whereupon he would no longer be capable of successfully dueling with the great Professor Moriarty. All that aside, if Holmes were to even attempt the battle, he would need some means to blunt the effects of the syndrome and at this juncture, Moriarty's potion was the only agent to Holmes' knowledge that would accomplish this goal. Holmes checked his bottle of the drug only to find a half to three quarters of an ounce remaining from his concentration experiment. "How much time does this buy me," Holmes murmured thoughtfully. At his typical rate of consumption, Holmes used approximately two cubic centimeters of the drug at a time. "I detest making assumptions, but I have no other avenue open to me," he said. "So, assuming that the ordinarily meticulous Moriarty wanted the new drug to be taken in approximately equivalent dosages as the cocaine it masqueraded as, that scant half to three quarters of an ounce should provide about anywhere from seven to ten withdrawal-delaying doses of the drug." *How much time does this afford me?* Holmes wondered again as he swirled the contents of the dark, amber bottle. "Probably not much," he breathed, still not used to the musical tones that issued from his mouth. "Normally, I would take no more than a single dose a day. That would mean this," he held the bottle back up to the light, "Might be expected to last a week, perhaps ten days at the most. Depending on the addictive strength of this compound, however, it might also be considerably less." Holmes slammed his fine-boned fist against the desk. He needed more time! A week simply was not sufficient time to locate, not to mention, stop Moriarty before the effects of the withdrawal killed Holmes. He needed to acquire more of the drug. If he could just balance the withdrawal against the rate of age regression, he might be able to buy enough time to find Moriarty. But where would he find more of the drug? He didn't have enough time or drug to analyze the compound, and even assuming he could determine its constituents, it very likely required exotic, unobtainable materials. Idly, Holmes looked down at the bottle clutched in his hand until his subconscious scanning of the label impinged on his racing mind. "A-HA! That's IT!" he cheered, setting the bottle aside. He'd return to the chemist shop post haste and force the proprietor to admit to being in league with Moriarty and to give Holmes more of the drug. At least then he'd have a fighting chance of stopping Moriarty one last time. Resolutely, Holmes turned to his dressing room. He must have something in his disguise case that would let him move about the city. The chemist shop opened at ten a.m. and Holmes wanted to be the first person in the door. Chapter 5: A Very Dead End Holmes' first challenge was clothing himself. Nothing in his austere personal wardrobe remotely fit him anymore. Although his loss of stature was not so much as to preclude him passing as an adult (albeit a very young adult), the reduction was sufficient to draw undesired attention to him were he to appear so attired in public. The cut of the arms of his coats and the legs of his trousers were obviously too long for his new frame. His waistcoat was now unfashionably loose about his torso and fell several inches below his waist. His day-wear hats, he discovered, looked patently ridiculous on his markedly smaller head. *What does that indicate about the measure of my brain?!?* he wondered in horror as he stared at the reflection of his famous deerstalker riding low on his forehead, nearly covering his eyes. Yet another effort of will set that fear aside and Holmes focused on the problem at hand. "What I need is a messenger," Holmes mused. "Unfortunate that I have not kept contact with my Baker Street Irregulars . . . WAIT! Bloody Hell, that's IT!" Animated by the inspiration, Holmes was shortly examining himself in his mirror. A pair of old work trousers had been shortened and strategically holed using a rough hand and a pair of scissors. A piece of manilla hemp replaced the necessary belt and held the pants in place. His disguise drawer had given up a rough seaman's shirt and a leather vest that hung on him, but served his needs well enough. A ratty, oversized knit beret hung over his eyes effectively masking his features. For shoes he wore a pair of decrepit work boots that threatened to slip off his feet. Coal black from the now cool fireplace dirtied his features and made him look even more the street orphan that he wished to portray. It would work, he thought with a touch of satisfaction, this time, in any case. He would need better in the future, however. He'd have to visit a few of his disguise apartments and collect the raw materials - including his sewing kit. If he had any hope of presenting and adult appearance, he'd need to alter his clothing. That would be time consuming, but he'd need at least one suitable set of attire before he could call upon the pawn and second hand shops to complete his wardrobe. The proprietors of those establishments would likely consider a lad such as Holmes now saw in his glass to be a thief and would show him the door rather quickly and rather forcefully. Another thought struck Holmes. He frowned as he tried to find a suitable argument against that particular course of action, but found none. He'd go to his special apartments and collect his few feminine disguises, too. And he would go to the pawns and second-hand shops for women as well. "DAMN your black soul to HELL, Moriarty," Holmes snarled, and then strode to the servants' quarters and the back door of the Baker Street apartment. Moments later, he returned to his study. Holmes found what he wanted and quietly slipped into the grimy back alley. ~------------~ The trip to the chemist took somewhat longer than Holmes had anticipated primarily because he chose to remain in the shadows of London's many back streets and alleyways. This disguise would be noticeably out of place on the busy lanes of a well-to-do neighborhood. That could draw unnecessary and potentially heated attention. The very last thing Holmes needed was a confrontation with some outraged middle class merchant or worse, one of Scotland Yard's finest. The thought of attempting to explain himself to some contemporary edition of Inspector LaStrade made him shudder. Holmes arrived at the chemist just as Big Ben was tolling the hour. He stayed in the shadows of a building across the way, waiting for the blinds to open, the "closed" sign to be taken down and the proprietor to unlock the front door. Thirty minutes later he was still waiting. A frisson of anxiety curled in Holmes' chest as he considered the possibilities. Quickly, he made his way to the back of the small storefront shop and located its delivery entrance. Holmes carefully tested the latch and found the door unlocked. Silently, Holmes pushed the door open and slipped inside. He didn't notice a fine gossamer thread breaking as the door finished its opening swing. The back of the shop was deserted, but a dim, thin arc of light directed Holmes to the connecting door into the public areas of the establishment. Holmes abandoned stealth and moved into the main shop where he found precisely what his instincts had anticipated. The body of the chemist lay in a heap behind the service counter, an oval of well coagulated, rusty red blood about him. He'd obviously been dead for some time. *Moriarty must have visited him immediately after leaving my lodgings. And while *I* was wallowing in emotion, Professor Moriarty was dealing with this man,* Holmes thought. "DAMN me for a FOOL!" A closer examination of the body revealed a cheap, brown envelope pinned to the man's watch fob. Careful not to step into the sticky blood, Holmes reached over and retrieved the envelope. Holmes opened it and was not surprised to find it addressed to him. My Dear Holmes, You are, sadly, too late. Not that preventing my little murder of the chemist would have assisted you in any substantive manner. Our dear departed friend only brewed the potion for me using herbs and ingredients I supplied. You won't find any of the necessary compounds here, or anywhere else in this hemisphere. Did you really think it would be so simple, old enemy? For all you are more than half female, you are still Holmes, and I, for all my advanced years and physical infirmities, am still Moriarty. With each passing day, the hatred that burns in my breast for you grows ever hotter and my need to bring about your death grows ever more intense. However, more than your death, I want your suffering. Soon, all too soon for you, the withdrawal will begin, and you will suffer, Holmes, you will suffer terribly. And the mental suffering - the knowledge of what is happening and that I have caused it - will far outweigh the physical torment. Eventually, Holmes, even your iron will begin to erode and crumble before the onslaught, and you will seek the only relief this life might still offer you - oblivion. Thus I win at last. The hand that takes your life will be your own, Holmes, not mine so the foul Fate which denies me taking your life is satisfied. Live long and suffer terribly, Holmes, and in the end, endure the total ignominy of your final, greatest failure even as you end your own pathetic existence. We could have been great together had you but chosen to follow me as I offered all those many years ago. Now, I alone will live and, finally freed of your meddlesome presence, will achieve my great destiny. At last. M. Rage burned at the back of Holmes' tightly shut eyelids, but all to soon his fury gave way to a rush of despair. He'd lost. Even if the chemist actually had the herbs, Holmes did not know what those were or where they were kept. Nor did he know how to prepare the infusion. All he had between him and Moriarty's promised torment was three days supply. Perhaps he should just give up now. Hadn't he already intended - ATTEMPTED - to end his life? Why not simply do the deed and be done with it? "Because Moriarty is alive," Holmes growled, "And so long as there is breath in his body and mine, and so long as I have the slightest grip on my mental faculties, I will oppose Moriarty in every way, in any way available to me." Holmes carefully smoothed the now-crumpled piece of foolscap paper in his hand and quickly reread the letter. "Moriarty has the right of it in at least one area. I am still Holmes and he is still Moriarty. There will yet be a reckoning. Somehow, there will be a final reckoning between us." Holmes made a quick survey of the room, looking for any clues. A sulphurous black smudge on a nearby wall pointed to the likely position of the murderer when the fatal shot was fired. Muddy boot prints indicated that the killer's point of entry was also from the rear of the building. Holmes examined those prints and was surprised to find they did not match with the fashionable footwear favored by Professor Moriarty. The prints were larger, and their wear pattern was uneven. The left foot print was fully formed whereas the right seemed somewhat elongated in the toe. Another anomaly was that the right heel did not fully contact the floor except for the prints closest to the powder mark, facing the counter where the chemist met his end. All of which seeded to indicate a murderer with a distinctly uneven gait - like a limp. But Moriarty, bent with age though he'd obviously been, had not limped. Holmes stood idly considering those facts when his eyes strayed to the apothecary's wall of bottles behind the counter. Suddenly, his mind slipped back to the last day he'd seen the chemist alive. Holmes famous eidetic memory vividly reconstructed the picture of the shop owner reaching up to . . "That very bottle!" Holmes cheered. Scrambling up onto the counter, Holmes reached up and pulled down a large, nearly empty amber bottle. The handwritten label read "Mr. Holmes Cocaine Solution" The preparation date was a mere two days before Holmes had arrived for his final, supposedly fatal package. Holmes removed the stopper and sniffed delicately at the open bottle. The slightly acrid scent of cocaine was not evident. In fact, what little odor that was in evidence was very subtle, almost undetectable and unlike anything in Holmes' long years of investigative experience. "Herbs," Holmes muttered, "Moriarty said it was brewed from herbs." Carefully, Holmes restoppered the bottle and slipped down from the counter. *Amazing,* he thought, *to be so nimble again. If I successfully discover a means to blunt the final agonies of this withdrawal, this youthful suppleness may provide me some small, as yet undetermined advantages. However, I have not lost all my masculine strength yet, either. One cannot expect a female to be this strong or supple.* Holmes pulled the door behind him as he left, remembering that while closed, the door had not been locked when he entered. However, there was no way he could have realized it had previously been closed with delicate precision. The pressure he used to ensure the door was seated properly was enough to crush a tiny ball of acid lodged in the doorframe. That acid, though minuscule in itself, started a chain of events that had most dramatic results. A deafening explosion shattered the pre-noon bustle of the block as the front of the chemist shop went up in a huge fireball that rapidly enveloped the two stores immediately on either side. The concussion's impact threw the unprepared Holmes to the ground where only blind fate had prevented him from landing on and shattering the precious apothecary bottle. "And so the game is once more afoot," Holmes said as he watched the flames spread up and down the square. Dispassionately, he watched as men and women who'd been caught in the blast rolled upon the muddy street to quench flames that licked at their clothing. Other bodies simply lay where they'd fallen, their motionless grim testimony to the fury of the initial explosion. Holmes felt something burn at his eye, and he raised his free hand to bat away the tears that began to flow. "He must be stopped," Holmes whispered in an oddly ragged voice, "and in all of his infernal career, only I have ever succeeded in that endeavor. So be it." Holmes resolutely turned his back on the now fully developed conflagration. There was nothing more he could accomplish here, but there was a great deal he could accomplish elsewhere. These men and women would have justice, he swore to himself, even if they never knew the how or why of it. In the confusion and tumult of the out of control blaze, no one noticed one ill- clothed boy disappearing into the shadows. Holmes was nearly to the back door of his Baker Street rooms when a large hand locked onto his thin shoulder. "'ere now, and where do ye think yer goin', me fine lad?" The powerful hand spun his thin frame and Holmes found himself facing a huge, filthy man clad in the rough clothes of a London dockworker. His face had seen rough handling - several scars and missing teeth attested to years of hard living and fighting. A nearly overwhelming stench of human waste, bad rum and cooked onions emanated from man, nearly causing Holmes to wretch. "Oi think Oi asked ye a question, runt." Swallowing hard and trying to look frightened. "I'm runnin' errands for the housekeeper here," he gasped out. "She sent me to the doctor's for some potion for her master." He held up the bottle, but then became afraid the bounder might think it something that might fetch him a copper or two. "She tells me tis a frightful wicked physic, as the old man she works for can't seem to do it fer 'imself natural anymore." "Well, ye listen ter me, youngin', and ye might manage ter grow into a man someday. I'm here for a fine young gennulman." "Ye wants to talk ter this gennulman, sa'ar?" Holmes asked, very deferentially. "No, runt, Oi want's ter grab 'im. Mother Hell over on the docks will pay five guineas in silver for such a fine, tender little pullet for her whorehouse as some of her customers like it that way, ya see? Oi been told there'd be jest such a one for the 'avin' at this 'ere place if'n Oi was to wait real patient-like - nice an' skinny, with pretty skin and hair." "I ain't seen the like of that, sa'ar." Holmes quavered. "Well, ye'll keep yer eyes open and yer mouth shut, lessen ye wants me to close both for yer real permanent like. Ya got that, boy?" Holmes swallowed hard to keep from vomiting in the man's pockmarked face and managed to nod his acquiescence. "Good. Oi'll be around, laddie. Yer see anythin', ye'll be tellin' Old Ned, and Oi might just give ye a coin for it. 'Course, ye don't tell me, and Oi find out?" He shoved Holmes to the ground and turned back to leave the alley. "But then, ye'll be tellin' me so there's no need to go into that." Holmes watched the man walk away. Only later, back in the relative safety of his room, did the great detective recall that his assailant had walked with a pronounced limp that forced him to drag his right foot. Chapter 6. Experiments in Time Shivering uncontrollably, Holmes repeatedly thrust the heavy black iron poker into the dancing flames, attempting to coax more heat from the burning coals. He was so bloody cold. He felt as if his internal organs had been somehow transmuted into ice. Nothing he'd done since his headlong flight into the house following his unexpected confrontation with the villain calling himself "Old Ned" had in any way relieved the fierce bone chilling cold. "Is this yet another of those side effects of Moriarty's damnable brew?" Holmes asked himself through chattering teeth when another more ominous thought occurred to him. "Or is this the onset of withdrawal?" Holmes wrapped a blanket about his body and moved over to his worktable where the two apothecary bottles stood side by side. Taking a deep breath in an effort to control his still shivering hands, Holmes carefully removed the stoppers from each bottle. He waved a hand over the top of one bottle towards his nose. Delicately, he sniffed at each bottle, but was unable to discern any significant scent. Emboldened by that, Holmes brought each bottle to his nose and carefully inhaled. There was just a hint of scent from the original bottle, and a stronger scent from the new one. *I think these are the same concoctions,* Holmes thought, *But I cannot be certain of that. The scent is simply too subtle.* Holmes re-stoppered both bottles, and set them in the center of the large table for safety. He began to pace the room, considering his options. Slowly, a plan started to take shape in his mind. Holmes retreated to his bed chamber and returned with his medical kit from which he removed two hypodermic needles. These were thoroughly sanitized using the latest methods of sterilization approved by the British Journal of Medicine. Once the needles had cooled, Holmes meticulously filled each needle, one from each of the two amber bottles, and the set the needle in front of the bottle from which it had been filled. His preparations complete, Holmes picked up his experimental journal, a pen and ink, and then strode back to his favorite chair. Holmes reconsidered his planned course of action as he settled himself in the chair's comfortable depths. *If I am to live with this withdrawal curse, I must first understand it in the fullness of its effects," he said aloud, "The only way to do so is to permit its onset and then study it for as long as I can endure it. Only then will I administer the potion from the new bottle. If that eases the symptoms, then I can be relatively assured that it is the same as the potion the chemist dispensed for me earlier in the week. If it does not ease the symptoms, I will use the other needle and the time it gains to decide upon my course of action.* That certainly appeared to be the best option available to Holmes for, at the very least, it would provide him with a more complete understanding of his current circumstance. Holmes tried one last time to think of some way by which his plan might be improved, but could not. All that could be done was being done, so Holmes stretched and settled himself to wait. Holmes hated waiting. In his line of work, patience was necessary, even vital to the execution of a successful investigation, but waiting implied idleness which was something Holmes' great mind could ill abide. In the old days, it had been the genial Dr. John Watson with his usually incorrect suppositions and hypotheses about the case at hand, or his endless, overly simplistic questions for his historical compilations, who had distracted Holmes during such periods of enforced inactivity. In more recent times, such inactivity had driven Holmes back to the cocaine habit that had ultimately resulted in this current sad state of affairs. *Bloody hell*, he thought sadly, *but I do miss Watson. Quite painfully, if I am being completely honest about the whole damned situation.* Only then did Holmes realize that the cold and the shivering ha