Pain was something that Holmes was familiar with; almost an old friend given the number of times he'd been injured throughout his life. Some doses of it—bruises and concussions- were from easily recognized causes, like boxing, and others like bullet holes and stabbings were received in the pursuit of justice.

It was irritating therefore, not to know precisely how and why he was now on his back in a Swiss Abbey, talking aloud to a Saint Bernard.

"I accept that a certain amount of injury is from falling along the cascade of the Aar," he murmured to Rolf, who lay on the rug beside the bed, "but given the distance and speed, my survival of such an accident is miraculous. Do I believe in miracles? I do not," Holmes pointed a finger at the dog. "My faith lies in calculation of risk and result. If I felt going over the falls was worth the risk, then it stands to reason that I planned for the result. But how?"

At that moment the door opened, and Holmes watched as the barber, Brother David, and the young woman named Genevieve came in, holding clothing. Holmes noted it was tattered and while dry, clearly not fit for wear. He sat up, looking at it with concentration. "Formalwear. Mine?"

"What's l-left of it," Genevieve murmured. "Along with one shoe, and this." She held out a small device of polished brass, now slightly dented. "Is it a w-weapon?"

Her question made the brother pull back, but Holmes took it from her and gave it a cursory glance.

"I think not; there is a mouthpiece here, and a cartridge there, which means it was made to deliver something into a user's mouth—I suspect the contents to be either compressed air or oxygen," Holmes murmured, gently turning the apparatus over in his hands. It was definitely a little marvel of engineering. "A breathing device of some sort. That would certainly give an advantage to anyone under water."

"A breathing m-machine?"

Holmes hummed a little sound of affirmation and looked up at the brother. "This was with me?"

"Ja, clutched in your hand," he agreed. "It took us three people to tug it free from you, even battered as you were."

"It probably saved my life," Holmes admitted, and set it on the table. "Come, let me examine the clothing . . ." He held out his hands expectantly, and Genevieve gave them over, watching him.

He found he liked that; enjoyed knowing that her green eyes were studying him so closely. There was something in her quiet attention that he found comforting. Perhaps even more than comforting.

"Tailored, which means money," Holmes murmured, looking over the damaged clothing. "Excellent cut but not well-worn, meaning I didn't attend many formal functions. The wool is merino hogget, twice dyed, and the lining indicates that the suit was created in Savile Row. Davies and Son, London," Holmes nodded. "That, I remember."

Brother David looked a little surprised, and handed over the one boot without saying a word. Holmes took it and gave a brief smile. "Churches. Full-grain leather, with more wear than the suit. We do not have a magnifying glass, do we?"

He saw Genevieve shake her head, and sighed. "Very well. There seem to be fragments of railway coal and brick embedded in the soles. Had I a microscope and time, I am sure I would learn where I have been recently."

"All that from rags and a boot?" the brother wondered aloud.

Holmes pursed his lips. "It's not as much as it might be. I wore the boots for my trip, but not the suit, and my travels took me by rail. None of that is remarkable or unusual, although the brick is intriguing. It's not the usual red clay, but something rather more stone in nature."

"B-Be that as it may," Genevieve told him quietly, "I am more c-concerned with making sure you have s-something to wear on the way home."

Holmes nodded, aware of the need to move on from the hospitality of the Abbey. He fought a sneeze as Brother David gave him a mug of tea and left. Genevieve perched herself on the edge of the bed and studied him in a way he found slightly . . . arousing.

"How did y-you sleep?" she asked.

"Fitfully," he confessed. "Although I do remember a few things this morning. Watson, for instance. John Hamish Watson, surgeon, flat-mate and friend. Five nine, mustached, overly fond of cricket, cards, Mary Morstan and the bulldog whose name escapes me. I seem to recall he married Mary only recently."

When Genevieve nodded, Holmes felt a moment of satisfaction at her confirmation of these facts. She reached for the flannels on the bedside table and began to apply the mustard poultice on them, gesturing to Holmes to untie his nightshirt. He did, trying not to let his embarrassment bother him.

His body continued to respond to the touch of this woman, and he wished heartily he would either remember her and thus have permission to be so . . . enthusiastic, or that he had better control over his reactions and could suppress them.

She seemed unperturbed, and Holmes surmised that Genevieve either did not notice, or did not wish to humiliate him by commenting on it. He hoped it was the latter.

"As s-soon as I can procure suitable clothing f-for you we shall leave," Genevieve told him as she lightly pressed the plaster onto his chest. The fumes rose, making their eyes water for a moment as the pungency of the mustard made itself known. Holmes felt the heat sink into his skin, the warmth welcome.

"Agreed. Why isn't Watson here?" Holmes asked. "Surely he must have spent time looking for me."

"I'm sure h-he did," Genevieve replied slowly. "But given the ferocity of the w-waterfall and the drift of the c-current, he did not find you." She looked unhappy for a moment and leaned closer, her expression clouded. "I have b-been in contact with your brother. He has f-forbidden me to tell Watson that you are alive."

This news made him draw in a deep breath, and that in turn set off a coughing fit not helped by the mustard fumes. While Genevieve wiped his lips with a handkerchief, Holmes thought furiously about what she'd told him.

Brother. A tall and urbane figure came to mind at that. Deep-set eyes, insufferably superior attitude and quick intellect.

Holmes worked his jaw for a moment and spoke absently. "Mycroft. Infuriatingly correct as usual." When Genevieve looked at him in surprise, He added, "Watson is incapable of true guile; Mycroft is protecting him by keeping my survival a secret. That implies that the situation is still both dangerous and unresolved. This complicates matters."

"Your b-brother didn't seem surprised to hear from me," she told him, her mouth twisting in a wry smile.

"I'm certain he's known about my private affairs for a while," Holmes sighed. "Not that they are of any genuine interest to him. Mycroft deals in strategies, not data."

"So I am d-data?" she seemed miffed at the thought, and Holmes shook his head impatiently.

"Not to me, to him. You are far more than a collection of facts and numbers and I am grateful for your timely presence here. I assume I left you a missive forbidding you to come?"

At this, Genevieve arched an elegant eyebrow and Holmes felt a quick pulse of amusement at this confirmation of his suspicions.

"You did not f-forbid me to come," Genevieve murmured, patting the poultice on his wounded chest more firmly. "I chose n-not to accept that you were d-dead without the evidence of m-my own eyes. Clearly I made the correct d-decision."

The sting of the poultice helped to clear his sinuses, and Holmes blew his nose into the handkerchief before speaking. "Clearly. So you undertook an unescorted journey to the Continent to find me. This speaks volumes about the degree of intimacy between us."

This made her blush, Holmes noted, and the light rose flush along her cheekbones pleased him, but not her next words. "I w-was not unescorted; that would have r-raised questions. My friend Alphonse c-came with me."

"Alphonse?" it came out sharper than he intended, but Holmes blamed the mustard, which was becoming exceedingly uncomfortable.

"Alphonse Lavelle, p-proprietor of a bookstore in Calais," Genevieve told him as she draped a cool cloth across his forehead. "He was a p-perfect gentleman and helped me r-reach Switzerland."

Holmes fought the urge to grumble, and lost. "Altruistic of him. Is he . . . older?"

Genevieve paused and bent down to look into his eyes, her own holding a hint of something he couldn't identify. "Oh no—Alphonse is about m-my age. He insisted on c-coming with me and m-made for a delightful companion on the trip."

"Is that a fact?" Holmes replied shortly, wanting the conversation to end. "I trust you followed all appropriate proprieties then."

"How v-very sweet of you," she murmured dryly, "w-worrying about my reputation at th-this late date. I assure you Alphonse and I m-managed very well and had he not n-needed to return and attend to his injured s-sister he would be here t-too."

Holmes lay quiet for a while, aware that he had overstepped a line, but unsure which one and by how much. Genevieve took the time to unpack a razor and soap from her basket, whipping up a froth in one of the water bowls, using, Holmes noted, more ferocity than warranted. "I apologize for my lack of . . . tact," he finally offered. "Given how nebulous my memory is, I am unsure of the precise nature of our relationship, and the boundaries it entails."

She turned to look at him. Genevieve smiled, the corners of her lips turning up, soft dimples bracketing her mouth and in that forgiving smile, Holmes felt an urge to kiss her.

-oo00oo-

Genevieve was pleased that the tailor was a calm and cheerful man who seemed to understand the urgency of the job. He had studied the ruined formal dress and from it was able to alter a few ready-made garments to fit Holmes. A few trousers, some shirts, a coat and overcoat—all of it promised within the next two days without fail.

She paid him handsomely, relieved that Holmes would at the very least have something more to wear than robes. Boots were the next order of business, and Genevieve stepped out, concentrating on the directions given to her by the tailor. She shifted the tattered remains of Holmes' formalwear and as she turned to look up the street, she caught sight of an unwelcome face. The gaunt man had just stepped out of a store and caught sight of her.

The man who had met Moriarity at the train station.

Genevieve turned, but in her haste the red sash Holmes had worn fluttered to the ground, a gaudy flag against the melting snow and dark flagstones. She scooped it up, feeling her heartbeat accelerate, not daring to look over her shoulder as she abandoned thoughts of buying boots in favor of retreat. Moving as quickly as she could, Genevieve wove through the people moving along the sidewalks, and detoured through a small park, walking briskly until she reached her hotel. Once there, she shoved the rags at the concierge. "Please dispose of these immediately, merci."

"Of course Madam," the slightly startled man replied. "immediately."

Genevieve nodded, and moved to the restaurant, ordering tea and trying to relax. When the Darjeeling came, she sipped it.

Still, it was a long time until she felt calm again.