No Vacancy at 221c: A BBC Sherlock Fanfic

Stunned

Celestia hadn't said a word since the incident with James Welsh. Now, a week later, she was being discharged. John had come a few times to update her on the movements of her stalker and to inform her that he was safely tucked away, awaiting his trial. These visits, however, quickly lapsed into a heavy silence and John would leave a non-responsive Celestia to revel in her thoughts. She hadn't seen Sherlock since the first night, but she kept the key close by, staring at it blankly for long periods of time.

It wasn't her injuries that had warranted such an extended stay, it was her behavior, well lack thereof. She seemed shellshocked. She didn't breathe a word of her situation to anyone, and almost never seemed to hear what anyone said when they attempted to speak to her. She slept little and ate less, only eating when the constant urging of the medical staff became worse than the alternative.

Now, she stared at the neatly folded pile of clothes that had been put at the end of her bed and slowly got up. She put the jeans and yellow top on reluctantly and pulled her flats on with a sigh. She slipped the key into the pocket of her light brown leather jacket and quickly put her hair into a braided pile on top of her head. On second thought, she pulled the updo down with a sharp yank and let her hair fall around her shoulders. Her bruises had faded considerably and the stitches had been removed from her temple, but her neck was still jagged with stitching and red from the nervous habit she had developed of rubbing the sensitive patch of skin. She pushed her waves forward to cover the wound; not self conscious, but sorrowful, bitter, confused. Before her rolling tide of emotions could carry her somewhere that would grant another night in the tiny room (and quite possibly a trip to a counselor), Celeste walked to the door and threw it open to find John and Sherlock, the former man's hand raised as if he were about to knock. John glanced at Sherlock as if in warning and brought his gaze back to Celeste with concern. She averted her eyes and stared down at the floor in front of them.

"Ready to go?" John inquired softly, cautiously. She nodded and stole a quick look at Sherlock as they led her out.

Sherlock bit his lower lip in thought and surprise. In front of him was a shell of a person. Her hair was strategically arranged to hide the marks, and although the bruises on her face had faded and the stitches removed she looked somehow worse. Her cheeks were hollow, and her complexion even more pale. Shadows hung under her eyes from sleep deprivation and her shoulders were held in a slight slouch. As they exited the building he fell behind, climbing in last as John hailed a cab. Celeste's slight frame was positioned in the middle seat and though the space was small she barely touched either of them.

Silence reigned throughout the trip and Celestia's eyes remained fixed ahead.
When they had paid the driver they rushed inside to escape the cold air that had taken over after the previous week's warm spell. Correction: John and Sherlock rushed inside to escape the cold air. Celeste walked at a normal pace behind. Sherlock convinced John to come upstairs and wait for her there, 'giving her space' he said.

Celestia mounted the steps slowly, literally blinded by her thoughts, different feelings were attacking her from different ends of the emotional spectrum and each came with such an intensity that it made her want to laugh one minute and burst into tears the next.

She opened the door to 221b slowly, the hinges creaking lightly and pausing the two men's conversation. They stood a couple yards away from the door, but turned the moment she entered. She looked them in the eyes now, taking deep breaths as she approached them. Sherlock looked as if he were about to say something when he stopped abruptly, taken completely by surprise.

Celeste had wrapped her arms around his abdomen and held him tightly. "Thank you so much," she gasped with a sob, her voice muffled against his jacket that had yet to be removed.
Sherlock's entire body tensed at the embrace and he forced himself not to push her away. Her face was pressed against his chest and hot tears fell onto his woolen coat as she shook.

John was dumbfounded; thankful that she had finally spoken, but bewildered at how she had opened up.

Sherlock on the other hand looked as if he had been hit by a car.

Celestia pried herself off of him quickly and wiped madly at her tear stained cheeks.

"I'm so sorry."

"You're welcome."

They both seemed to find their voice at the same time and John smiled sadly between the two of them.

Celeste buried her head in her hands and tried to stop the sobs that were racking her small frame, but only succeeded in giving herself a case of the hiccups.

"Why don't you go get some rest?" John suggested gently.

"No!" She recoiled as he reached out, trying to help her with her jacket.

"Well, why not?" John questioned.

"I-I can't!" Her words were cut off by hiccups and choked with raw emotion.

"All I see... I-I can't get h-him out of my head!" New tears fell in torrents down her pale skin, the drops sparkling as they caught the lamplight.

"When someone talks," a cough, "all I h-" a sob erupted, "hear is him!" she cried. "It's like his picture is printed on the inside of my eyelids," she whispered, another wave of terror overwhelming her as she thought of the dreams that had begun to plague her and the tortures that had ensued.

John shook his head slowly and carefully reached out and grasped her arm. He led her to the couch and sat her down before retreating to the kitchen with the promise of a hot drink.
Sherlock sat down in an armchair opposite her and put his hands on the arms, tapping lightly with his fingers.
"I'm sorry," Celestia repeated softly, nervously rubbing her aching neck.

"That was uncalled for."

"Did it help?" Sherlock asked seriously, after a moment. The prospect of human touch was a daunting and mysterious topic to the detective, but John claimed that it could be comforting. He wasn't about to let the only person who could even begin to understand anything that came out of his mouth fall through his fingers so easily.

Celestia seemed to understand what he meant and looked down quietly into her lap before nodding slightly.

••••••••••••••

John arrived several minutes later, three mugs of hot apple cider balanced on a tray in his hands. He froze when the living room came into view and he caught sight of a sleeping Celeste, slumped against Sherlock's shoulder, peaceful in her slumber.