No Vacancy at 221c: A BBC Sherlock Fanfic

A Choice

Sherlock looked down at Celestia: the woman who trusted him wholeheartedly, the person who entrusted him with her life so willingly. His heart skipped a beat as his eyes came to rest on the mark James had branded her with. That wouldn't go away, ever. Scar tissue would form and a part of Welsh would be there forever; that is if she didn't bleed to death first.

The detective was unable to keep his eyes off of her bloodied throat as he swept the scarf off from around his neck and handed it distractedly to John. Celestia's eyelids drooped slightly, dimming her luminous irises.

The bruises from the previous day's incident shown purple and blue in the bright artificial light and her stitches were stretched, strained by the stress put upon them. It seemed as if ages had past since the unfortunate encounter in the warehouse, but her wounds spoke otherwise.

John took the scarf without a word and set to work staunching the flow of blood onto the cold floor. The fabric was soon stained and soaked, causing a worried expression to alight on the doctor's face.

Police were beginning to swarm to the scene like flies to a rotting carcass. The sound of two way radios and pounding boots against stone rang out through the echoing chamber, ricocheting off of the arched ceilings.

Celestia fought to keep her eyes open, but her vision swam before her, two Johns appearing in her sight. Finally she surrendered and her eyes fell closed despite John's constant urging to do otherwise. Her skull felt as if it had been filled with rocks, weighing her down painfully. She was vaguely aware of the blood being wiped away from her neck and a soft fabric being wrapped around the wound tightly. It smelled familiar and oddly comforting. Celestia turned her head downward and buried it in the excess fabric, breathing deeply and trying to bring her mind into focus.

"Sherlock," John said quietly, standing up and turning to the detective. "People... Like this..." he paused, trying to piece together the words that would somehow make him understand. "Normally people who go through a traumatic experience of this caliber are never the same."

Sherlock forced his eyes away from Celeste and looked to John, the muscles in his face tightening.

"Those are the kinds of people you find in mental institutions, the ones who end up scarred for life, tainted with extreme phobias and conditions that can drive them to the point of insanity. Now, I know she's stronger then most, but you can't immediately write her off as untouchable. She is a person, and while something like this might intrigue you, you have to remember that the people in your cases are real, their lives are real, their pain is real. They aren't just names in a file. Celeste isn't accustomed to death, and she grew up in one of the most privileged families in the world! Now please try to show a little bit of understanding." His whisper was a desperate plea for his emotionless companion to see reason.

Sherlock swallowed. He felt like a pang of something ran through his heart every time John mentioned something that could very well happen if Celestia wasn't such a tough nut to crack. If he was honest with himself he realized he didn't want her to leave. Her new ability had him captivated and his cold nature didn't seem to put her off as it did to so many people. He hated to admit it, but John was drifting away; he was there for less of the cases, away more of the time, and more interested in work then a good murder. "I know, John," he replied simply.

John put his hand to his head, "I wouldn't be surprised if she's on the first flight to Australia the moment they release her from the hospital."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and watched Celestia as John said this. "I wouldn't be so sure..." Sherlock said weakly. "She is awake you know," he said suddenly.

Before John could pry any deeper the long awaited paramedics arrived, carefully lifting Celestia's limp form out of the deep pit. Sherlock and John followed, climbing up a set of notches set in the walls.

••••••••••••••••••••

Celestia's eyes flew open as a small penlight was flashed in front of her eyes. She groaned and batted it away, squinting her eyes shut. The light blinked out, and the small hospital room was once again dark and dismal. Lights blinked and machines hummed softly and all was quiet in the nighttime world of Bart's. The dark figure of Sherlock Holmes was beside the bed, and he slipped the light back into his pocket. "I've managed to keep the story from the media; John and I agreed that it should be your choice," he stated quietly. Obviously, he wasn't supposed to be there. He reached into an inside pocket of his long coat and pulled out two things.

Her gaze fell upon his outstretched hands. In one he held a small golden key with '221c' engraved into the flat portion and in the other a single plane ticket to Australia was grasped loosely. Celeste stared at them for a moment, her weary eyes having difficulty focusing from exhaustion. Her small hand trembled ever so slightly as her hand came to rest against his own, pulling the key out of his grasp and balling her hand into a fist as she held it close to her body and dropped back into a dreamless sleep.