No Vacancy at 221c: A BBC Sherlock Fanfic

Apologies

As the door shut with a distinct click, the room fell silent. Sherlock lay back in the chair, staring up at the ceiling. Celestia quietly put the cushion back on the couch and sat down, avoiding even looking at the deathly quiet detective.

Mrs. Hudson looked nervously back and forth between the two, taking small hasty sips of tea.

It was Celestia's calm, collected nature that eventually broke the silence. "So that was John? He seemed lovely. Very kind man, must be patient too, to be friends with someone - well someone like you." She spoke the last part quietly. It held no hint of mockery or rudeness, just pure, simple honesty.

"He is," Sherlock admitted distractedly, his gaze still trained upward.

Celestia took a deep breath and opened her mouth once again to break the silence when Sherlock spoke, turning to look at her.

"How did you find it, and why on earth did you pull it out?" He said, stressing the 't' in 'it'.

She blinked once, twice. "I just felt something dig into my back and I, I was just curious-" she stopped abruptly. Her hasty excuses were far from proper. She cleared her throat, realizing her mishap.

Sherlock could physically see the difference in her face. He watched intently, ignoring her stuttered reply, as the mask she had been hiding behind fell for just a moment and just as quickly was slipped back on.

"Sherlock?" Celeste called.

"Hm what?" he asked, being pulled out of his thoughts.

"I said I'm sorry for putting you on the spot like that."

"What?" he asked in disbelief, his head cocked to the side. "Why are you apologizing?"

"Well..." She took as sip of tea, organizing her thoughts. "I can't say that I see eye to eye with you on this matter, but it's your body, your life, your friends," she waved her hand aimlessly in the air, "and quite frankly I have no right to mess about in your world."

Sherlock's face softened into a look of mild bewilderment, bordering on admiration.

"I don't belong here," she continued with a sigh. "I'm dreadfully sorry for upsetting you." She grabbed her jacket and pulled it on with a shrug of her shoulders as she stood up. She walked half way to the door, her boots clicking yet again.

She paused and turned around. "It has been a pleasure meeting you Mrs. Hudson. I will make sure to send the papers over, but I have a feeling I'll need to find another place temporarily," she said, referring to Sherlock's almost inevitable protests if she were to move in, if only for a few weeks. She flashed a perfect smile towards the woman. Mrs. Hudson began to protest, but was promptly cut off.

"And Sherlock, it has been... simply delightful."

She turned to the door and grasped the handle hesitantly.

What was she doing? If the man knew she was here, surely he'd be able to find her somewhere else, and no one there would know.

Her mind was clouded with confusion and, yes, panic. These were the only people who knew her situation.

But she needed help.

The thought dawned on her like a weight tied around her neck. Sherlock was a detective, right? She couldn't exactly get help from the authorities, they'd find out who she was for sure... But no, she couldn't think like that. Not now, not ever.

This was her problem, not that of some stranger who she'd met an hour ago.

Why couldn't she make up her mind??? Minutes ago, her entire story had been placed before these strangers and now every single mental barrier of hers was being used to push anything, any scrap of hope out mercilessly.

She pulled the door open with a forceful yank and stepped over the entryway before she could change her mind. But another realization came crashing over her like a wave, causing her to pause, just another moment... She would be alone. Alone in this fight with only herself and someone who wanted her dead.

You can't think like that. This problem is yours. Deal with it like you deal with everything else: single handedly. The thought echoed forever.

A deep, oddly disappointed, voice pulled her back to reality; or more specifically, the door of 221b Baker Street.

"Does that mean I can't take the case?"

Celestia whirled around, both exuberant and horrified at the excuse to stay just a bit longer.

"Please, Sherlock," her luminous grey eyes begged him to let her go, to not make this harder than it already was.

You idiot! A tiny, drowned out, sensible voice screamed in her mind.

"That's very kind of you, but I can't burden you with my problems." Sorrow shot through her face like a seam of gold though rock. She was screaming out for help, help that she knew she couldn't accept. She turned to go once more, her head down.

"He's still here, and you know it."

She stopped dead in her tracks.

"Please, please, I'm begging you, let me take the case."