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

XIII. Midnight's Reminiscence

Sherlock couldn't figure her out.

The girl was utterly frustratingly unreadable. Preposterous, really. She carried no signs to deduce other than what Sherlock knew already.

She was dextrous with her slender fingers and deft in her motions, agile, a woman that could fight but rarely did so.

Frenchwoman, most likely the northern regions - she didn't have much of a traditional and orthodox stickler quality to her.

And her family must have been rich and pushing too, what with a motto as harsh as theirs and the way Francesca held herself - a stately posture. And something must have happened, no connections anymore -but her family wasn't dead. Otherwise, she would not have reacted when Sherlock implicated family problems at the Yard.

She was Venticelli's assistant, and she obviously hated the magician. But whether she was threatened or seduced into the business though, Sherlock could not be sure.

The other half of her last name, Dela-Cruz. So familiar, but Sherlock could not remember anything to do with the name, the same way he could not remember Graham's name.

And yes, the problem with her chance-taking. Reckless, clueless in her doings and all for a little thrill. It was unfathomable why she would set up such high-stakes just to belittle and humiliate men, and she certainly did not seem an absolute diehard feminist.

Sherlock inhaled deeply and remembered the thrilling rush of calm and soothing peace of the drugs, and just for a moment, one moment, he understood why Francesca did what she did. She, like him, needed a case, brainwork, something interesting to avoid usage of their sedatives - drugs and gambling.

Francesca did not indulge in the ways of poker and roulette, her morphine was the danger in losing her whole identity, a humongous bet above the primitive wagering of money.

That alone, the similarities between them, replulsed Sherlock.

Francesca was standing by the window, staring out at the sky where the hazy outline of the moon was illuminated behind the clouds. John had long retired to his bedroom, for he couldn't stand the absolute quiet between Sherlock and Francesca.

"We need to find him, detective. we need to find him to talk some sense into him, or he will find us first and we will be at disadvantange," said Francesca quickly, the first to break the quiet.

"He will know we're coming."

"So you would prefer to wait?"

Sherlock didn't answer.

Both their breaths hung in abeyance, the tension settled again and Sherlock went back to studying the plans.

"You know, Mr. Holmes, I always thought that his magic was a beautiful thing," Francesca murmured.

"Before he turned mad, you mean?"

"Yes, before he went...insane. The things he could create and do, they were so soothing and could send you into the most entranced rêverie."

"Sentiment is a defect, Arlington."

"I know, I try to detach myself," she said quietly, running a finger over the strings on the violin on its stand. "but sometimes, I just..."

"...can't. Sometimes you just can't detach yourself," Sherlock finished. Francesca smiled and nodded.

"Exactly." She gestured to the violin, "How long have you had this?"

"A long, long time."

"Where did you acquire it?"

"Cardiff."

Francesca pulled on a string and listened to the vibration.

"German vintage?"

"Yes."

She continued to pull at the strings gently, listening to their sounds, and strummed out an off-tune version of "Au Clair de la Lune".

Sentimental towards childhood, or something to do with that song, Sherlock repeated in his mind, taking note of the information.

"Why so uncharacteristically cheerful at this time, Arlington? You always leave me to deduce everything, to ask the questions."

"You love deduction, Holmes. But you just hate having to ask people the questions, don't you?"

"Stop your circumlocution and get to the point, you want to tell me something about this case, hence that excited expression on your face. But you were waiting for the question to be asked."

"Point taken, Sherlock. But I have more than you."

"What is it?"

Francesca grinned slyly and stared back out the window at the moon again.

"I think I know where he might be."

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Come back, come back Divertimento. You've been missed. Sorely, sorely, missed.