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

XII. The Magician's Assistant

And the cards stopped in their movements, then fell to the ground.

Francesca looked up, eyes shining with an eager twinkle, and lips curving into a small smile.

"I would be delighted, Monsieur."

Sherlock smirked in triumph.

"Excellent." He drew out the petite drawstring pouch and tossed it at Francesca, who caught it deftly.

"What's in it, Arlington?" Francesca threw the pouch back at Sherlock.

"A clue, and I advise you find out yourself."

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow and felt the bag for any signs of potential danger. He then loosened the strings with his spidery fingers, and tugged out a thick square of parchment.

Francesca nodded her head as if to say, Go on.

Sherlock unfolded the paper quickly, to reveal lines and lines of flowing cursive with the occasional diagram or chart.

He looked up at her inquisitively.

"Stage plans?"

"I used to be his assistant, until he turned mad, and then I left. But I kept these." She hesitated before flicking one of the two cards at Sherlock. "This is the silver card he gave me, the one asking me to assist him." She sighed angrily, shaking her head. "The magic, it was so alluring - my choice was inevitable."

Sherlock studied the card closely. He had no suspicion whatsoever when he saw her with the two cards. They had not looked silver at all under the candlelight.

A black heart, and on the back, instead of his usual insignia, it said: Come join me.

Sherlock handed the card back to her.

"These stage plans are strange, Arlington."

"They were magic show plans. He lingered in the populous streets, and played with his cards. And I always followed, not asking questions. I should have, though. Because that's what sent me to the streets, doing what I do now." Francesca's voice was so bitter, so harsh, and just so resentful, that Sherlock had no doubt that she regretted her choices.

Time passed, as John sat typing away at his laptop and Sherlock pored over the magic show plans while Francesca loitered around the flat, observing everything.

And all the while, Sherlock would stare at Francesca from time to time, and wonder if he could trust her.

But most of all, exactly what sort of a person she was before she became this.

Why she gambled, why she clenched her jaw so fiercely and tossed everyone out of the way.

He swore to himself that he would find out.

Oh, he swore.