I'm getting right down to the nitty-gritty, aren't you proud of me? It's occurred to me that my fan-fiction, well, sucks so I'm going to rewrite it. Which will take awhile, but if I don't rush I'm hoping it will be salvageable. So here we go…  

Disclaimer: The Canon is not mine and I'm not making money. Period. As in I'm going thrift shopping today because I have precisely $5.50 to my name.

All original characters ARE MINE, if you ask nicely I will probably let you use them, but why you'd want to is really beyond me. Hi-ho Silver away!

Éstat d'Esprit

~*~

            Moving through the commuter's rush, I uneasily scanned the crowd. Second shift was beginning and the train platform was crammed. Business men and women going their way. No one noticed the paranoid girl standing against the walk by a bench with a holding a violin case with £4 million Stradivarius in it. For which I was grateful, though not really reassured. I took a surreptitious glance at my iron man watch; five minutes until my train arrived. I fought the impulse to unfasten my violin case so I could lean against the wall. Having something solid again my back was sort of a nervous yen of mine. Carefully adjusting my stance for balance, I closed my eyes and drew a deep breath, only to choke on a noxious fume.

            "Le tunnel sous la Manche train, Paris à Londres direct. English Channel train, nonstop Paris to London …" a tedious announcer voice echoed in several languages.

 Coughing, I looked up at the train in confusion; it didn't run on gas. I wiped a rebelliously streaming eye and boarded, leaving the mysterious stench behind. The lights flickered unpleasantly as I stepped in the car. Blinded for a moment I staggered forward, before recovering my vision. I found myself in a completely unexpected hall with old-fashioned boxes.

Must be English design.

All the trains I'd been on in France were nothing like this one. Culture shock, I thought disdainfully. You'd think after touring around most of Europe and living in America, I'd be able to handle trains with boxes. I walked down until I found an empty one and slide the door open. I pulled down the shades, so no one could see in, and un-strapped the violin case. I pulled out my last edition of Le Monde. Well, I could probably get it in London, if I knew where to find it. Now I regretted my nap on the flight earlier, I was wide-awake and probably would be for a while. Just as I settled down into world events, there was a sharp rap and the door slide halfway open.

"Excusez-moi," An attractive guy paused in the doorframe, a confused expression passing over his face, "Mademoiselle, tout le compartments…allez complet."

"Your British," I said, crisply folding my newspaper down.

And dressed the oddest I've seen in awhile, I added silently, taking in his threads.

"Yes," he replied, sagging in relief.

"Well at least you're on the right train." I grinned wryly, hoping he had a sense of humor. He returned with a delightful grin of his own.

"I've been traveling with my friend, he's fluent; in every language known to man, I think sometimes. He should be here any minute, do you mind—"

"It's fine." I said before he could finish.

"Merci."

Je vous en prie," I said flatly, re-captivated by my newspaper, and returning to my anti-social self.

I didn't notice his friend come in; I've a dangerous habit of blotting everything else out while I read. Three sections of Le Monde later nature presented me with a dilemma. Struggling to keep my cheeks from charring, I picked up my violin case and went in search of the washroom. As I walked back through the car the breaks slammed on with a piercing screech; inertia throwing me backwards. A Stradivarius does not travel without its protection however, so I wasn't worried.  Swearing darkly about the train being 'direct', I pushed myself up, only to slide back down.

I was in an entirely different train.

Washroom forgotten, I ran the full length, and not antique box to be found.

~*~

Watson

~*~

I leaned over and picked up the newspaper the girl had left behind.

Le Monde, Mercredi août 5e , 2002.

~*~

By my first rehearsal with the London Philharmonic, I was my composed rational self. The only thing that truly frightened me was that I did not remember getting on the train. Anything could have happened from the point when I was standing on the platform to when I woke up, halfway to Calais.

La Mer, my Stradivarius that is, was fine. The best way to get away with the theft of a priceless violin was to leave an impeccable replica in its place, with a forged tag. If it was a success, the replacement usually went unnoticed until the violinist's death, when the heir had it appraised. I felt anyone who couldn't recognize a charlatan in place of their own violin deserved to be duped. I knew how La Mer felt and unlike her tag, her tone and personality could not be duplicated.

As the notes rippled out into Prince Albert hall, I knew my violin had not been nicked. La Mer insinuated the timeless serenity and inert presence of the ocean. She was well named and a superior stress reliever I have yet to find.

She takes it out you, I thought wryly as I kicked back, during our brief break.

"Hello? Emma Kinglars?"

"Yes?"

"I'm Lucia Harbinger, fourth chair violin."

"Delighted," I murmured, glancing up at the woman, or rather girl, disrupting my nap.

A willowy blond, with soft grey eyes stood before me, slim long fingers, to be the envy of any pianist grasped the neck of her violin, tucked beneath her arm. I half expected her to sway in the breeze.

"I was wondering if you could go over measure thirty-four through forty-six in this new piece we've got," she sheepishly hung her head as she spoke in a rich tone of liverpudlian's accent. "I just can't get the lick, and this is a hierarchy…" she hesitated, seeing the comprehension on my face and reluctant to say as much as she had.    

"Sure," I said unfolding my lanky self and following her to the currently empty greenroom. We ran through it until she had the feel, and then rushed back to the rehearsal.

Four hours later, I was utterly drained. I grabbed a cup of coffee and went out a side door to wait for the rental car. My watch went off.

"Oh, shut up," I muttered, heedless of where I was going.

"Careful," someone said, as I promptly smacked into them. Anticipating another unpleasant crash, when two firm hands grasped my elbows, holding me upright I almost unbalanced myself again.

"Terribly sorry," I said. Blinking, at the man I'd run into.

"By Jove!" another voice from beside him exclaimed, dimly familiar to my dazed and tired mind. I turned to see the guy from the train.

Er, what? Train, I was…dreaming. Or sleepwalking…something? I've heard about London fog, but this is a little far.

"Fancy meeting you here," I drawled, taking in the pair's clothing. Not eager to hook up with some bizarre cult, I pulled myself out of the man's grip. Freaking out a little more with each passing second; it could hardly be coincidence in a city this size. Which meant…I had to get out of here. Fast. I nervously wondered if he'd put a tracking chemical[1] on me when I'd bumped into him. 

"If you'll pardon me, I have to be going," I tried to walk, not stumble, past them. The strange man's arms reached out to catch me again. Standing up straight forced me to look directly into his acerbic grey eyes. Like a fog concealing what was within and isolating all it engulfed. I didn't like it at all, uncomfortable, to say the least.

"You are unwell," Monsieur Non-Parle-Français said, pleadingly.

I bit back a retort of: no shit Sherlock, and tried to appear composed.

"Elle s'appelle caféine, mon ami." I downed the last of my coffee and persisted in walking forward to the curb.

"Pardon moi," my friend's friend interjected, "what precisely are you wearing?"

"Clothes," I said, sourly, I was aware that after six hours of rehearsal I was enough to give Vogue a stroke, but there was no need to rub it in.

"I should be asking you that question I believe," I added for measure, looking somewhat franticly for my ride, which was not to be found. In fact, there was no traffic. At six thirty it should have been a regular jam. Nothing. Except for an out of place tourist horse-and-carriage thing.

Shouldn't that be in Regent Park or something?

"I suppose, you do have a point there," a droll note of humor had crept into his tone that I did not like at all, "I already know that, you are a budding virtuoso, political science student at university of Montpellier, on the varsity fencing team—I'm not finished, Mademoiselle Kinglars."

"Whither you are finished yet or not is not my concern. I am finished listening to you, now if you'll excuse me."

Not them, not here, not now.

I whirled around to seek refuge in the hall, all pretense of composure gone.

But so were they.

The traffic was back and my ride was waiting at the curb in front of me. Wordlessly I got in the car.                   

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Vous aimez? Better? I researched! Le Monde is real and not mine!



[1] Certain elements can be traced if you have the equipment. The advantage is that a person may not even notice, while bugs are more difficult to conceal without arousing suspicion. However, if the traces are planted on a piece of clothing, if the clothing is removed and left somewhere or washed they will lose the trace. It all depends on the situation and the quality of your technology.