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

XI. Balance

John was shocked to see a woman clad in black satin at the doorway when expecting Sherlock. She smiled cattishly, drumming her unvarnished nails on the door frame.

"C- come on in," John stammered. Francesca drifted in, closing the door behind her. The black silk swam behind her. He noticed how she was two inches taller than him, making her even more intimidating then she would otherwise.

"Thank you, Doctor. I was afraid you would stand there mouth hanging open like a fish all day."

John cleared his throat in an attempt to regain his dignity.

"Woud you like some tea? Or coffee? Water if you want, uh we have beverages aplenty so uh-"

"Tea is fine, thank you Doctor," she interjected. Francesca felt the irrevocable need to save him further embarrassment from his inane babble.

John ambled off to the kitchen, mentally berating himself for being so idiotic in front of such a beautiful woman, not to mention one with the potential to turn a man into a laughingstock with her sharp mouth.

While John was fumbling with the teabags (there was a constant sound of sacks dropping coming from the kitchen), Francesca drew her blazer closer around her and slipped her pins into her pockets. She didn't need to look like Buckingham Palace material for the rest of the night.

John came back from the kitchen, eyes concentrated on the tea stiffly, as if not daring to make eye contact with Francesca, which probably was the case.

"Here you go, Miss, our best porcelain for you." John handed the full cup to her and she reached out to accept it but just then, the door banged onto the adjacent wall and slammed, Sherlock coming in after it. John jolted and accidentally emptied the scorching contents of the cup onto Francesca's lap. Francesca winced quietly and gripped the warm fabric.

"Oh bloody hell, I'm so sorry, Miss. Arlington. Is your dress ruined? I'll pay to have it replaced, uh here have this towel...thing and um do you need to go to the lavatory-" Francesca pressed the cloth to her leg and waved her hand dismissively.

"No need, you've done your best."

Sherlock tugged his scarf off and slung it over a coat-laden chair.

"You arrived before me, Arlington. But you left after," he asked as he slumped down into his sofa, inquisitive eyes on the lady.

"There was traffic your way, my cabby took the detour." Francesca was uninterested in the topic and not paying attention, rather, Francesca was more absorbed in the two playing cards she was observing with her hands.

Sherlock took note of her actions. "Ah, I see," he replied in a slow tone.

Night had long blanketed over the city and the room was dim, nothing could be seen very well.

Francesca got up from the armchair and pulled a lighter from her pocket, setting a small blue flame upon each of the two candles set upon the fireplace mantel. Her dress seemed to have somewhat dried by now, but a darkened splotch was still present. John's face was still contorted with guilt.

Francesca lingered at the fireplace for a while, swaying ever so slightly, staring at the lighter in her hand. Sherlock noted that the lighter was not a normal, cheap coloured plastic one that came in sets of ten for five pounds at the market. It was a heavyweight, silver one with engravings he could not make out from his position. The absence of dark grey tarnishing upon the silver would have led Sherlock to assume that the lighter was considerably new, if not for the way Francesca drew out a handkerchief and rubbed it against the object in such a habitual way but still exemplified the care and meticulosity she showed towards the object.