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

XVI. Rumour's Secrets

"I never agreed to this, Arlington."

Sherlock strode brusquely alongside Francesca, who was walking quickly ahead of him.

"Please, call me by my first name." Sherlock noted that the woman seemed to have an attachment to red lipstick also, not just her black gloves, which were indubitably swinging by her sides as she went along.

There seemed to have been an unspoken agreement that Francesca would have to stay at 221B until this excursion was done with. It couldn't be more than two weeks anyway.

The only communication about the topic of her staying at 221B was an excessive speech insisting that Francesca would not touch his experiments. The very next day, she had transported all her clothing - which unsurprisingly, was not a lot due to her on-the-streets life - and deposited it in a corner.

Sherlock hated the prospect of working with this random Frenchwoman off the street with her grandiloquent speech and constant exhilarated air of having just escaped the casino. Obviously, she hated it too. But just as he could not afford relinquishing the information she possessed, she could not release the power and skill Sherlock held.

It was tension and brief insulting dialogue the whole walk.

"I still never consented to this, Francesca."

"Unfortunately, Sherlock, this is required."

"A gallivant to a rumour mill with a vagabond was not on my schedule."

Francesca scoffed. "You have no schedule. And rumour mills are the best for digging up fresh information. Also, not just fresh news, old relics of secretive and hushed up happenings are constantly alive in those dirty mouths. We can find something there."

"I've been to one before, annoying people."

Francesca scoffed again. “Not like this one, no.”

After several more minutes of jogging and walking, they finally arrived at a dank old pub in an abandoned corner. She had refused to take a cab to this place, it was a low class settlement, after all.

The pungent odor of drunk men and wine and beer, sultry bodies, and so. much. alcohol blasted their noses immediately. Francesca coughed several times as Sherlock scrunched up his nose in disgust.

The Waltzing Lamb was the title graced upon, or not really so much as graced, the wooden sign hung above the creaky door. Age and the bleak London climate had weathered parts of the harshly carved letters away. The holding gave off a generally cryptic and inappropriate air; Sherlock felt as if he was in the alcohol and sex-obsessed slums.

Sure enough, the second they stepped into the pub, Francesca, disgusted but determined, and Sherlock somewhat trepidant, they were not-so-pleasantly greeted by the sight of two people in a sentimental session.

It was truly like walking into a contemporary version of the Middle Ages.

Everything was dimly lit by candles and seemed to be made up of soggy-looking wood. The place was dank and musty, and packed with people that were clearly not accustomed to aristocracy - or even a simple civilian life for that matter. The candles were intelligently placed far away from the wild reach of the drunk and ecstatic people, especially the ones indulging manically in entirely unholy actions.

Sherlock and Francesca were two swans amongst crows.

Sherlock observed the drunkards and their sluggish actions while Francesca looked around for something. He stared straight ahead at a blank area on the wall and asked her:

"How many times have you come here prior to this?"

"Plenty."

Sherlock nodded slowly, deciding against further questioning, still appalled at the all of the wild kissing happening around him.