Book I : Fantàsticque :: The Estranged Trilogie ::: A Sherlock Fanfiction

VI. Don't Have Friends

He was laying on his back on a large, plain rug of a mahogany hue in his study. Black scorch marks decorated the insipidity. His damp, messed up hair, lay limp on the cotton around his head.

The man drummed his silk-gloved fingers against the crown of his top hat, eyes closed, brooding the afternoon's chilling events. A hurricane of cards swirled above him.

Diamonds, hearts, clubs, spades.

And amongst all the cards, were two ebony outcasts, flipping and twising along with their ivory cousins.

Four sharp raps on the door came resonating through the manor. Then another two.

H-I.

Xavier's eyes flew open and all the cards came twirling down to accompany him on the floor. Only the two black cards with the white symbols remained floating above him.

Light footsteps approached the room, and then the door opened... and then closed.

"You usually don't knock, James."

Moriarty chuckled.

"Well it's about time I did." A pair of polished black leather shoes came into Venticelli's peripheral vision. "And I told you to call me Jim."

Venticelli sat up, top hat tumbling to the floor. He made continuous motions with his hand, flicking his wrist forward, repeatedly opening and closing his palm, and the two cards copied, maneuvering themselves, twisting and turning around each other.

"You used our old knock, Jim." Xavier looked distant and forlorn, lost in his own thoughts.

"Morse code. Four dots for an H and two for an I."

"Hi."

"Why hi? It's so childish and ordinary. And to think that we believed Morse code was actually ingenious." Moriarty sneered in a demeaning way at the window. His slicked-back hair was as prudent as ever compared to Venticelli's current nest of curls.

"We were children, puny little insane twats."

Moriarty's eyes hardened. "We were not twats, darling."

He turned his chilling gaze to his company who was still manipulating the black cards.

"No, Xavier. No. We were freaks, FREAKS!" He banged his fist on the window and leaned his head against the glass.

Venticelli felt as if a stake had been driven through his heart. His doe eyes immediately turned into that of a malicious taunter's and he stood up.

"Oh no, James. You may have been an incorrigible little freak, but I, I, was a MONSTER." He choked on his laugh as salty tears pooled up in his eyes. "A monster. You said so yourself. My only friend in the world. Said I was a monster. How could I not have been?"

"How could you not have been, Xavier, exactly. How? I had no friends, and one day you were just gone. Gone. All you had left were ashes and a note. A note. I had no friends, and you were infamous for being unable to control fire. You almost killed yourself once before that. And you left me. HOW COULD YOU NOT HAVE BEEN A MONSTER?" Moriarty was livid. "HOW?!"

Xavier smiled bitterly and swiped at his eyes with his sleeve.

Moriarty was still leaning his head against the window.

"You gave me two cards. Why?"

"You know why," came the answer. Venticelli sighed and put his hands in his trouser pockets and stared at the black rectangles on the floor.

"Pocket aces. Is this a gamble?"

"You remember her."

Xavier glanced at him suspiciously before returning his stare to the floor. He scoffed.

"That wasted bookie? You expect me to gamble with her?"

"And Sherlock Holmes."

Venticelly rolled his head and smiled at the ceiling disbelievingly.

"So you want me to play matchmaker. What the hell, James?"

"No, I want you to break them. Fail, and I will break you. I still haven't forgiven you, Xavier. And you are making up for it."

"Fine," he declared, throwing his hands to the air mockingly. "Whatever you say."

"Don't take me so lightly. It's time to make the first move."

Moriarty strode towards the room exit without a second glance. Before he could close the door, however, he added one more thing."

"This will be our final private session, Venticelli. The next, we will have an audience." The door did not come quietly behind him.

Xavier's cards congregated into a hurricane again and shuffled thenselves into a neat stack in his leather trenchcoat on the coat hook. He stared at his friend's dwindling figure from his second story window.

Venticelli grabbed his coat and shrugged it on, hat on head and crystal staff in his white silken-gloved hand once again.

"You're right, Jim," he said to himself in a whisper.

"I am a monster and..." he hesitated.

"...you, James Moriarty. You. Don't. Have. Friends."