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

VII. Phantom

Sherlock had not spoken a single word since coming back from the Yard, and it was getting on John's nerves.

The detective had hailed a cab and almost left without John, as he was lost in his own thoughts and oblivious to the outer world. John had plonked down into the seat with a huff and Sherlock continued to stare forward, brow furrowed and fingertips to his lips.

And still, when they returned to the flat, Sherlock had not even removed his Belstaff and scarf and already sprawled himself over the sofa. Sherlock hadn't reacted when John said he was going to the store for milk or when John came home without milk an hour later and instead was carrying an order of fish and chips that certainly was not a food product sold at that particular store.

No response came when John offered him some food or when John gave a loud yell and string of curse words when when he found another 'experiment' laying around.

Three hours had gone and passed and it was already five o'clock before Sherlock finally made a movement, at which John jolted and sprang from his chair to see what was attacking his friend.

"Sherlock, you have not done a bloody thing except think since we got back from that incident and it's rather a curious thing that it's rattled you so," John enquired.

Sherlock stared at him for a while before taking a sharp breath and asking, "If you knew that Moriarty were to spring back from the dead anytime at all, and you know that he will hurt people, anyone at all, and that one thought will haunt your every. breathing. moment. until he actually makes a move, then how would you feel?"

"Terrified. Like I'm back at Afghan."

"Exactly."

"Why are you asking? Is Moriarty actually alive and coming back and you haven't told me? Did that woman tell you about him through that card or in some ingenious way during that little talk you two had? What's going on, Sherlock?"

"John, remember what she said?"

"You bloody well know that I don't." Sherlock sighed at his friend's incompetence.

"Think, John, think. The one piece of conversation in the whole encounter that struck you the most - the most enigmatic and confusing phrase she uttered."

"You mean that one about Fantàsticque? I thought that was just her French accent."

"Fantàsticque, John, is most likely the most dangerous word you could have uttered in your life so far."

"Actually I think saying 'Vatican Cameos' in a crowd of military enemies in Afghanistan that understood the meaning was my worst phrase utt-"

"Shut up, John, you know what I mean."

"No, no I don't, actually."

"Remember that first day we talked properly in this flat? Before Moriarty ever happened? I told you that Mycroft was the most dangerous man you will ever meet."

"Mn hmn."

"John, I was lying."

"I'm sorry?"

"Mycroft is nothing - nothing -  compared to Fantasticque. Fantasticque, he is fire and ice, and raging storm, pure danger, compacted into a bottle that will blow any second. He is the worst nightmare of them all, John."

"Even more than Magnussen?"

"We killed him, didn't we? Fantasticque cannot be so easily killed. To cross negative paths with him would be the most idiotic and irrational idea one could ever get."

"Moriarty?"

"Just as insane, maybe even more."

"Who is this person?"

"Xavier Venticelli, native Scot - a lot of time spent in Italy. That's where he got his nickname and replaced surname. No one knows his true last name. Age thirty now. And John, just know that if Francesca's message was honest and true, we are in a perilous situation."

"Why Fantasticque then? He does not sound fantastic at all."

"Venticelli is a magician, an illusion caster, hypnosis expert. The most powerful illusionist of all, and few know him actually."

John snorted loudly.

"A bloody magician? Are. You. Kidding me? What's so dangerous about a magician?"

Sherlock pushed John down into the chair opposite to him and leaned forward, forcing him to listen closely.

"Imagine yourself in the streets of Italy, John. You're a prestigious, intelligent man whose coworkers look up to and you're walking in an abandoned alleyway, endeavouring to find a shortcut to some place you need to get to, fast. And recently you've been hearing of this Il Evocatore della Fantasia - the Conjurer of Fantasy. Suddenly you hear footsteps near you, and you startle a bit before seeing a swish of pitch-black tailcoats and a black top hat. The faceless man performs tricks, unthinkable ones, tricks of bending light and vanishing cards and flame and ice, and just like that, he's gone. You feel something in your hair and pull out a silver card - ace of spades, glowing like moonlight and there is black cursive type on the back, Intelligence is the illusion cast by God and true intellect belongs to only those who see the truth. You later cancel all meetings you had and you gather whatever acquaintances you have to tell them this story because you can prove that you've met the Conjurer. And not one believes you. You are no longer thought of as intelligent. People avoid you like the plague. Because Fantasticque is a myth, in Italy, a myth. An urban legend there no one realizes is true. All people that see him and receive the card, are considered dead men walking and some have even dubbed the illusionist as Il Fantasma di Rovina, the Ghost of Ruination. He is real, John and we need to watch out because my last encounter with him was horrid and he could very likely be back once again."

"M- magic is real?"

"Do you know why I was so spooked when I saw that hound in Baskerville? I wasn't doubtful of my senses, no no no, I was doubtful of might have been true. That hound could have been another brilliant illusion of Venticelli's and Henry Knight could have simply been another hypnotized subject of his. I was truly scared, John that he could have been back."

John had been staring in confoundedness the whole time, beriddled with questions.

At last, he stammered out the most pressing question on his mind and Sherlock's.

"H- how do we avoid him then?" Sherlock stared back at John and shook his head. He grabbed his mobile and the card and began dialing a number.

"I don't know, John, I don't know."

He hesitated a little before clicking CALL.

"That's why we need Arlington."