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

XX. Way of Perception

Francesca forced open her heavy eyelids and stared up at the dark ceiling. She was surrounded by a sickening smell of bitter-sweetness, like honeysuckle and mildew clashed together in a horrible mixture. It smelled like medicine, blood, dust, and...cologne. And suddenly, with a loud, echoing clap, the blinding lights came on.

A single row of three dangling lamps of an exceptionally bright source lined the strict middle of the ceiling, offering it's power of knowledge only to a specific area in the huge cellar.

Blinding Francesca and waking her up effectively, she jolted up, sending a shock of pain through her and caused for her mugged up head to pulsate.

Struggling up with an increasing migraine, she breathed heavily in protest at the pain and her aching muscles. Francesca closed her eyes again, attempting to recall what had landed her in this room, tied up with twine.

Her eyes widened in shock as the memories of her flashing nightmares came back to surface and she realized where the smell of cologne had come from... Francesca opened her mouth, as if to scream, when suddenly:

"No, no, no, my little pet. We don't scream around here."

The hand released her and pushed her back down on the floor, only heightening the pain in her head even more.

Francesca coughed violently, before hearing a loud moan of pain come from somewhere to her left. Her head spun wildly to the source of the sound, and after adjusting to the degrees of brightness in the room, she saw Sherlock, bound tightly in ropes to a chair.

Sherlock was looking sickly pale, even more pallid than usual at the loss of ability to breathe normally due to chest constriction and blood loss. A dark pool of dried up brown separated him from the grey floors. Barely breathing, Francesca thought, but still alive. They had bled him but not enough to let him die.

His head lolled drowsily. He let out another guttural sound of pain and squirmed uncomfortably in his position.

How long have I been here?

Francesca heard another voice: "I'm sorely disappointed, Holmes, I didn't think my drugs could be that powerful." Francesca stopped fighting against the ropes, and looked up fearfully.

The man followed up his statement with: "He'll live, Chesca. Just maybe not in normal condition." Xavier caught her eye. "So fearful, darling. What's gotten into you? I remember when you wouldn't take no for an answer and-"

"That's enough, Xavier."

Venticelli looked at Moriarty disdainfully and noticed him staring at Sherlock with a gleefully morbid expression. With a grimace, the ropes tightened around Sherlock one last time before falling limp on the floor, creating a sort of stiff mat to cushion his fall from the chair.

Sherlock rolled onto his back and curled into a ball, his arms tucked tightly next to him. He remained in his somewhat comatose state.

"Lift the drug from his brain also." Annoyed aura drifting around Xavier, he made a motion with his hand equivalent to wiping a window and Sherlock's face noticeably relaxed a little, but still contorted in pain. Francesca remained tied up.

"Why am I here, Jim?" Francesca spat at the crackpot in front of her. Moriarty stretched his lips into shark-like grin that distorted his unusually attractive face horrifically.

"Darling, why don't you ask yourself? You know the answer well."

"It all depends on her way of perspective, James." Xavier drawled lazily. He stepped out of the shadow where the light wasn’t reaching. “After all, we all have different views and opinions. That’s the reason why there are people like you, and I.”

“I thought you two hated each other.”

“Us?” said Moriarty incredulously. “We’re best friends, sweetheart. How naïve you’ve been this whole time. And to think, I, thought you were smart. But now I don’t think you are, not really.”

Francesca’s expression betrayed all the horror she had been suppressing the whole time. She was horrified by their collaboration, horrified at their current power. No words came from her, the shock that the fear sent through her was too much already.

"How were your dreams, Arlington?" asked Moriarty.

She choked on a frightened sob and hid her head behind her roped up arms.

“Always the drama queens, you two.” Moriarty raised his eyebrow in interest at the sound of his nemesis’ voice. Sherlock, sitting on the wooden chair, arms crossed, had his gaze trained on Francesca suspiciously.

“Ah. Sherrlock. You're awake.” The nefarious pair turned to see Sherlock. "How's your wound?"

“Very well,” Sherlock bit out icily. “You just wanted to rattle our cages, didn’t you?”

“Good, good, Sherlock. Your brain has improved.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes in hatred. “Oh, don’t look at me that way," said Moriarty. His teasing smile proved great contrast to Venticelli's bored expression.

Sherlock stood up, towering above them all. He swallowed the pain and stared at Venticelli.

"You. You're a murderer. Just like your friend here. You ruined people, their careers, their lives. What happened to their friends? Families? Reputations? That all crashed, Venticelli. Because of you."

He shook his head slowly and shrugged at the detective.

A strange scent wafted in the air, catching Sherlock's attention.

"Chloroform and cologne," Sherlock burst out. He had noticed the smell before, but hadn't realized it's significance until Moriarty moved a little closer. "The cologne. It matches the scent on you, Jim." Sherlock's livid expression mirrored Moriarty's exactly.

"If you're thinking intimacy, no, Sherlock. Don't be so obvious. I only told her some cuddly things, and they seem to have affected her. So can't really blame me, you see. You can only blame the fragility of her mind."

A Scottish voice drifted in the back of his mind: ...way you perceive it...

He jerked his head, trying to clear his head of the voice.

"How do you explain the dreams you so mentioned, then?"

The chilling smile was etched upon his face, never falling for now.

"Perhaps, oh, just perhaps, Sherlock, she's not as unsentimental as you think."

"I...don't understand."

"Brain still muddled up? I'll fix that then."

Moriarty nodded at Venticelli. The ropes at his feet attacked Sherlock, tying him and tossing him onto the floor. His eyes clouded over under the influence of Xavier's drugging technique, and fell still once more.

After Moriarty left the room with a singsong "goodbye children", Xavier knelt next to a fearful Fancesca and whispered into her ear, "Jim and I, we two are mortal enemies in my view. But that all depends on your way of perception."

He pressed a knife into her hands, cutting open her skin a little, and disappeared, but Francesca could still hear his voice in her head, quite literally.

It all depends on your way of perception, darling.