The Dance of the Moth pt3
Story: The Dance of the Moth
Author:Cincoflex
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes (movies)
Rating: R
Summary: The aftermath of the Peace Summit brings Genevieve St. James to the Continent.
Author's Notes: It helps to have read http://www.fanfiction.net/s/5701596/1/Genevieve first, since that lays the groundwork for what follows here. My love to not only VR_Trakowski who encourages and watches out for me, but also to everyone who let me know they wouldn't mind reading this story. Thank you. There are SPOILERS for the movie, so please keep that in mind.
The trip from Paris to Geneva took five days. Five long and sometimes harrowing days. Genevieve was glad she’d packed her letters of credit, and although money was not an issue, comfort was. The trains jostled her, rattled her and didn’t allow her to sleep very well despite the upholstery and amenities.
Thankfully Alphonse made the travelling a bit easier. He was proving to be a good companion; pleasant and full of interesting stories. Early on they’d begun calling each other ‘cousin’ as camouflage, and after a while it seemed a perfectly natural form of address between them, arousing neither suspicion nor interest from anyone else.
The countryside was pretty enough, but Genevieve was far more interested in her fellow passengers, and soon realized that many of the train employees were tense. She supposed the bombings and border security were the cause of that, and did her best not to demand too much of the porters. On the third day, however, she had an encounter that unsettled her.
She was in the dining car, alone for lunch. Alphonse had pleaded a headache and needed to sleep; Genevieve urged him to do so, and made her way to the car alone. The porter seated her at her usual table, inquiring about her cousin. She explained the situation and gave her order, looking around at the other passengers. Several were new, recent additions from the last stop near the German border. As Genevieve looked around, she felt an unpleasant shiver rush up her spine, and turned to find a man at the table across the aisle staring at her, thin mouth smiling fractionally.
He was gaunt, with bruises along one cheek and a bristly ginger beard that gave him a slightly sinister cast. Genevieve forced herself to look him in the eyes, and found them to be an icy blue. The man held her gaze for a long moment, and then nodded slowly, as if remembering social niceties at the last minute. She watched as he sawed into a rare slice of roast beef, cutting it with deliberation.
Genevieve forced herself not to react, and turned back to the bisque the waiter set in front of her. She had no appetite now, but made herself down a few spoonfuls, and tried to relax. The man had meant no harm, surely; poor manners, but he’d said nothing, done nothing overtly offensive. Nevertheless Genevieve sensed a degree of danger radiating from the quiet figure, and resolved to avoid him for the rest of the trip.
She didn’t share her feelings with Alphonse; there was little he could do, and in truth it was simply a feeling. Genevieve knew full well that women gave more credence to their inner voice than men did, and that to mention it always opened the potential to be mocked.
She’d learned that from bitter experience with her uncle.
At dinner, Alphonse joined her, and this time the stranger was seated one table behind him. Genevieve had trouble avoiding the man’s intense gaze whenever it drifted her way, which was often. He wasn’t flirting, or even leering, both of which Genevieve would have recognized. No, he was watching her as if she was . . . prey. As if he was considering her through a rifle scope. The sensation was unnerving, and for the life of her Genevieve couldn’t figure out why this stranger was doing this.
After the better part of the meal had passed, she realized that she wasn’t alone; the man was looking at other women the same way. He eyed the little blonde mother of two one table over with the same hunter’s intensity, and not even the elderly matron who entered late was spared that coldly assessing gaze.
Genevieve decided he must have some sort of quietly aggressive nature. She’d read through several recently published German books that described both mind and psyche, and the stranger seemed to personify one of the more dangerous types labeled by the authors.
Alphonse seemed to sense her unease, and leaned forward to whisper. “Are you all right mon amie?”
“Yes, I’m simply t-tired of travel,” she told him gently. “Nice as the accommodations are, they’re not easy on the d-digestion.”
Alphonse nodded. “Oui, it’s difficult at times, I agree. By great fortune though, we do not have much further to go; I heard one of the conductors mention that we will reach Geneva by tomorrow morning.”
This was good news, and Genevieve brightened. “That’s wonderful!”
“Indeed. I have spoken to a few of our fellow passengers and procured a list of hotels and inns,” Alphonse told her. “Geneva should be no problem, but matters may be more difficult in Meiringen.”
Genevieve sighed. “We w-will do what we can. Thank you so much for all y-your help, Alphonse.”
*** *** ***
The little yellow paper was waiting for them at the Meiringen station. Alphonse took it, his face pale as the telegram messenger stood waiting for a reply. He unfolded it and paled, passing the page wordlessly to Genevieve, who scanned it and inhaled a quick breath.
“You must return,” she told him firmly. “Now.”
“Poor Delphine!” Alphonse moaned. “Disastrous enough to break one leg, but both!”
Genevieve helped him compose a quick reply, and then steered Alphonse to the ticket office. In halting German she purchased a return fare to Paris as she soothingly rubbed her friend’s back. Alphonse roused himself enough to accept the tickets, and separate his luggage from hers, babbling all the while. “ . . . I have that list of hostels and hotels right here, and according to the porter there’s a restaurant in the town square that’s not too expensive . . .”
“I’ll manage, Alphonse, I shall. In the m-meantime, you must return to Calais w-without delay; your sister needs you.”
Alphonse nodded, his face a study in misery. “I feel I have failed you,” he confessed. “All this travel and no opportunity to find your gentleman friend! What a waste of a trip!”
“Nonsense,” Genevieve responded stoutly. “You escorted m-me here and k-kept my spirits up. I’m grateful for everything, m-mon ami.”
He gave her a tired smile and a hug, then pulled back and handed Genevieve some papers. “Here-the lists of places, the map, and the addresses of a few bookstores here in town. It’s not much, but it should help a bit. Also, a loan-” and here he pressed a thick billfold into Genevieve’s hand, “Use what you need and you may repay me later. I insist,” Alphonse cut off her protest with a stern smile. “You are in a strange country, and every resource is precious.”
Genevieve felt her eyes water. “Very well, and th-thank you, Alphonse, for your trust in me. I will write you as s-soon as possible.”
They said their goodbyes before he boarded the return train, and Genevieve watched it chug out of sight for the Geneva station, suddenly feeling overwhelmed. She was thousands of miles from home with no sure lead on Holmes, and no guarantee he would be glad to see her should she find him.
For a long moment, she let herself feel scared, tired, and lonely. Then Genevieve St. James lifted her chin.
“When I f-find him,” she told herself firmly, and waved to a porter to assist her with her trunk.
***
Meiringen was a small town, certainly smaller than London or Paris, and within two days, Genevieve had explored most of it by foot or by hansom. She had stopped in at the booksellers (both of whom turned out to be charming and very helpful) had visited the local sites and even taken a few hours to visit the spa, renowned for spring water cures. If she hadn’t been on a quest, she might have enjoyed herself.
As it was, Genevieve knew that the Peace Summit would open at the end of the week, beginning with an official Ball at the Reichenbach Castle. Currently Meiringen was filled with foreign visitors and their retinues; most of them talked of little else. She learned of the exclusive guest list and the security surrounding the entire affair. Genevieve listened carefully and made mental notes, wondering if Holmes would try to bluff his way in, or perhaps disguise himself.
She hoped he wouldn’t do the latter; despite his enthusiasm for costumes, Holmes wasn’t nearly as clever with them as he thought he was. A small blind spot in the man, this vanity for a mediocre skill. Genevieve tried not to laugh at the memory of some of his unconvincing disguises, and a moment later the recollection was swept away by a sigh.
She missed him dreadfully.
By Thursday Genevieve had staked out a position at a café near the railway station, ostensibly to read, but in truth she was keeping an eye on the incoming trains, hoping to spot either Holmes or Watson arriving in Meiringen. It was a chilly day, and Genevieve was glad of her fur shawl as well as the pots of hot tea the waiters kept bringing to her. The little guidebook to Meiringen sat on her table, well-thumbed by this time, along with her journal and a few pencils. The sun was out, but there were clouds hovering over the craggy mountains, and when Genevieve glanced around, she spotted a familiar figure across the street, lounging inside one of the little businesses there. A lean ginger-haired figure who seemed to be watching the train station as well.
She fought a flinch. Whoever the man was, that faint sense of menace still lingered in his wake even at a distance. Genevieve wondered if he was after Holmes. It was possible, she knew-Holmes tended to make enemies, and any number of them might be coming to this summit besides Moriarity. Not a cheery thought at all.
Genevieve watched the ginger-haired man. He checked his watch periodically, fishing it out of his vest pocket, and stood quietly, no nervousness, no fidgeting. When the long whistle of the incoming train cut through the air, she saw him relax a bit and step to the curb, preparing to walk toward the main doors of the station. Unexpectedly though, he suddenly gazed in her direction and she felt a surge of panic when those cold blue eyes locked with hers.
A tall cab passed between them on the street, breaking the contact, and Genevieve quickly looked down, aware that her heart was racing now, quick with fearful trepidation. Out of the corner of her gaze she noted that the ginger-haired man was heading off, giving her no further consideration. He unnerved her, and she wished she could order something stronger than tea to settle her wits. Still, it wouldn’t do to draw attention to herself, so Genevieve forced herself to relax and sip more of the hot Darjeeling.
She let her gaze follow the man, and noted he didn’t go for the main doors of the station. Instead, he went off to a door marked ‘private’, and as he did so, someone stepped out to greet him.
Genevieve stared. The new man was stocky, and red-haired as well, with a heavier beard and impeccable sense of dress. She’d seen his features only once before--in a tintype pinned to the wall of 221 B Baker Street-but even at this distance he was unmistakable.
Professor James Moriarity.
Genevieve rose and began to pick up her things from the table, feeling a fresh rush of anxiety as she realized the danger had just doubled, and Holmes was still nowhere to be found. She left the café and strode back towards her hotel, chiding herself for coming to Switzerland and hoping against hope to find her lover before he did something rash.
Author:Cincoflex
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes (movies)
Rating: R
Summary: The aftermath of the Peace Summit brings Genevieve St. James to the Continent.
Author's Notes: It helps to have read http://www.fanfiction.net/s/5701596/1/Genevieve first, since that lays the groundwork for what follows here. My love to not only VR_Trakowski who encourages and watches out for me, but also to everyone who let me know they wouldn't mind reading this story. Thank you. There are SPOILERS for the movie, so please keep that in mind.
The trip from Paris to Geneva took five days. Five long and sometimes harrowing days. Genevieve was glad she’d packed her letters of credit, and although money was not an issue, comfort was. The trains jostled her, rattled her and didn’t allow her to sleep very well despite the upholstery and amenities.
Thankfully Alphonse made the travelling a bit easier. He was proving to be a good companion; pleasant and full of interesting stories. Early on they’d begun calling each other ‘cousin’ as camouflage, and after a while it seemed a perfectly natural form of address between them, arousing neither suspicion nor interest from anyone else.
The countryside was pretty enough, but Genevieve was far more interested in her fellow passengers, and soon realized that many of the train employees were tense. She supposed the bombings and border security were the cause of that, and did her best not to demand too much of the porters. On the third day, however, she had an encounter that unsettled her.
She was in the dining car, alone for lunch. Alphonse had pleaded a headache and needed to sleep; Genevieve urged him to do so, and made her way to the car alone. The porter seated her at her usual table, inquiring about her cousin. She explained the situation and gave her order, looking around at the other passengers. Several were new, recent additions from the last stop near the German border. As Genevieve looked around, she felt an unpleasant shiver rush up her spine, and turned to find a man at the table across the aisle staring at her, thin mouth smiling fractionally.
He was gaunt, with bruises along one cheek and a bristly ginger beard that gave him a slightly sinister cast. Genevieve forced herself to look him in the eyes, and found them to be an icy blue. The man held her gaze for a long moment, and then nodded slowly, as if remembering social niceties at the last minute. She watched as he sawed into a rare slice of roast beef, cutting it with deliberation.
Genevieve forced herself not to react, and turned back to the bisque the waiter set in front of her. She had no appetite now, but made herself down a few spoonfuls, and tried to relax. The man had meant no harm, surely; poor manners, but he’d said nothing, done nothing overtly offensive. Nevertheless Genevieve sensed a degree of danger radiating from the quiet figure, and resolved to avoid him for the rest of the trip.
She didn’t share her feelings with Alphonse; there was little he could do, and in truth it was simply a feeling. Genevieve knew full well that women gave more credence to their inner voice than men did, and that to mention it always opened the potential to be mocked.
She’d learned that from bitter experience with her uncle.
At dinner, Alphonse joined her, and this time the stranger was seated one table behind him. Genevieve had trouble avoiding the man’s intense gaze whenever it drifted her way, which was often. He wasn’t flirting, or even leering, both of which Genevieve would have recognized. No, he was watching her as if she was . . . prey. As if he was considering her through a rifle scope. The sensation was unnerving, and for the life of her Genevieve couldn’t figure out why this stranger was doing this.
After the better part of the meal had passed, she realized that she wasn’t alone; the man was looking at other women the same way. He eyed the little blonde mother of two one table over with the same hunter’s intensity, and not even the elderly matron who entered late was spared that coldly assessing gaze.
Genevieve decided he must have some sort of quietly aggressive nature. She’d read through several recently published German books that described both mind and psyche, and the stranger seemed to personify one of the more dangerous types labeled by the authors.
Alphonse seemed to sense her unease, and leaned forward to whisper. “Are you all right mon amie?”
“Yes, I’m simply t-tired of travel,” she told him gently. “Nice as the accommodations are, they’re not easy on the d-digestion.”
Alphonse nodded. “Oui, it’s difficult at times, I agree. By great fortune though, we do not have much further to go; I heard one of the conductors mention that we will reach Geneva by tomorrow morning.”
This was good news, and Genevieve brightened. “That’s wonderful!”
“Indeed. I have spoken to a few of our fellow passengers and procured a list of hotels and inns,” Alphonse told her. “Geneva should be no problem, but matters may be more difficult in Meiringen.”
Genevieve sighed. “We w-will do what we can. Thank you so much for all y-your help, Alphonse.”
*** *** ***
The little yellow paper was waiting for them at the Meiringen station. Alphonse took it, his face pale as the telegram messenger stood waiting for a reply. He unfolded it and paled, passing the page wordlessly to Genevieve, who scanned it and inhaled a quick breath.
“You must return,” she told him firmly. “Now.”
“Poor Delphine!” Alphonse moaned. “Disastrous enough to break one leg, but both!”
Genevieve helped him compose a quick reply, and then steered Alphonse to the ticket office. In halting German she purchased a return fare to Paris as she soothingly rubbed her friend’s back. Alphonse roused himself enough to accept the tickets, and separate his luggage from hers, babbling all the while. “ . . . I have that list of hostels and hotels right here, and according to the porter there’s a restaurant in the town square that’s not too expensive . . .”
“I’ll manage, Alphonse, I shall. In the m-meantime, you must return to Calais w-without delay; your sister needs you.”
Alphonse nodded, his face a study in misery. “I feel I have failed you,” he confessed. “All this travel and no opportunity to find your gentleman friend! What a waste of a trip!”
“Nonsense,” Genevieve responded stoutly. “You escorted m-me here and k-kept my spirits up. I’m grateful for everything, m-mon ami.”
He gave her a tired smile and a hug, then pulled back and handed Genevieve some papers. “Here-the lists of places, the map, and the addresses of a few bookstores here in town. It’s not much, but it should help a bit. Also, a loan-” and here he pressed a thick billfold into Genevieve’s hand, “Use what you need and you may repay me later. I insist,” Alphonse cut off her protest with a stern smile. “You are in a strange country, and every resource is precious.”
Genevieve felt her eyes water. “Very well, and th-thank you, Alphonse, for your trust in me. I will write you as s-soon as possible.”
They said their goodbyes before he boarded the return train, and Genevieve watched it chug out of sight for the Geneva station, suddenly feeling overwhelmed. She was thousands of miles from home with no sure lead on Holmes, and no guarantee he would be glad to see her should she find him.
For a long moment, she let herself feel scared, tired, and lonely. Then Genevieve St. James lifted her chin.
“When I f-find him,” she told herself firmly, and waved to a porter to assist her with her trunk.
***
Meiringen was a small town, certainly smaller than London or Paris, and within two days, Genevieve had explored most of it by foot or by hansom. She had stopped in at the booksellers (both of whom turned out to be charming and very helpful) had visited the local sites and even taken a few hours to visit the spa, renowned for spring water cures. If she hadn’t been on a quest, she might have enjoyed herself.
As it was, Genevieve knew that the Peace Summit would open at the end of the week, beginning with an official Ball at the Reichenbach Castle. Currently Meiringen was filled with foreign visitors and their retinues; most of them talked of little else. She learned of the exclusive guest list and the security surrounding the entire affair. Genevieve listened carefully and made mental notes, wondering if Holmes would try to bluff his way in, or perhaps disguise himself.
She hoped he wouldn’t do the latter; despite his enthusiasm for costumes, Holmes wasn’t nearly as clever with them as he thought he was. A small blind spot in the man, this vanity for a mediocre skill. Genevieve tried not to laugh at the memory of some of his unconvincing disguises, and a moment later the recollection was swept away by a sigh.
She missed him dreadfully.
By Thursday Genevieve had staked out a position at a café near the railway station, ostensibly to read, but in truth she was keeping an eye on the incoming trains, hoping to spot either Holmes or Watson arriving in Meiringen. It was a chilly day, and Genevieve was glad of her fur shawl as well as the pots of hot tea the waiters kept bringing to her. The little guidebook to Meiringen sat on her table, well-thumbed by this time, along with her journal and a few pencils. The sun was out, but there were clouds hovering over the craggy mountains, and when Genevieve glanced around, she spotted a familiar figure across the street, lounging inside one of the little businesses there. A lean ginger-haired figure who seemed to be watching the train station as well.
She fought a flinch. Whoever the man was, that faint sense of menace still lingered in his wake even at a distance. Genevieve wondered if he was after Holmes. It was possible, she knew-Holmes tended to make enemies, and any number of them might be coming to this summit besides Moriarity. Not a cheery thought at all.
Genevieve watched the ginger-haired man. He checked his watch periodically, fishing it out of his vest pocket, and stood quietly, no nervousness, no fidgeting. When the long whistle of the incoming train cut through the air, she saw him relax a bit and step to the curb, preparing to walk toward the main doors of the station. Unexpectedly though, he suddenly gazed in her direction and she felt a surge of panic when those cold blue eyes locked with hers.
A tall cab passed between them on the street, breaking the contact, and Genevieve quickly looked down, aware that her heart was racing now, quick with fearful trepidation. Out of the corner of her gaze she noted that the ginger-haired man was heading off, giving her no further consideration. He unnerved her, and she wished she could order something stronger than tea to settle her wits. Still, it wouldn’t do to draw attention to herself, so Genevieve forced herself to relax and sip more of the hot Darjeeling.
She let her gaze follow the man, and noted he didn’t go for the main doors of the station. Instead, he went off to a door marked ‘private’, and as he did so, someone stepped out to greet him.
Genevieve stared. The new man was stocky, and red-haired as well, with a heavier beard and impeccable sense of dress. She’d seen his features only once before--in a tintype pinned to the wall of 221 B Baker Street-but even at this distance he was unmistakable.
Professor James Moriarity.
Genevieve rose and began to pick up her things from the table, feeling a fresh rush of anxiety as she realized the danger had just doubled, and Holmes was still nowhere to be found. She left the café and strode back towards her hotel, chiding herself for coming to Switzerland and hoping against hope to find her lover before he did something rash.