No Vacancy at 221c: A BBC Sherlock Fanfic

147

What John and Sherlock saw as opposed to what Celestia felt over the next couple of weeks were three very different opinions indeed.

John saw an abrupt change come over her, her previous nature exposed during his brief encounters with her, easing his prior concerns, causing him to assume that she had somehow gotten over whatever had plagued her mind before. He was, however, still concerned and hoped that Sherlock, with his cold nature and sometimes harsh ways, wouldn't cause her to fall back.

Sherlock saw the Celestia John didn't. She seemed alright, took care of herself and ate more, but she was quiet, extremely quiet. Somehow, whenever John was around she lit up like an electric bulb and seemed almost as on top of things as the day she first appeared on Baker Street. The moment the door closed behind the unsuspecting doctor however, the tables turned. Generally, she would retreat to her room without a word, only to emerge at 1 or 2 in the morning. She claimed she couldn't sleep and would absently flip through the channels on the telly with the volume off. Sherlock frequently left to the chemical laboratory at Bart's to perform various experiments and without fail when he returned (generally late at night), a hot meal would be laid out at the table, the cook nowhere to be seen of course. Though hard pressed to admit it, the detective enjoyed speaking to a living, breathing organism rather then a mass of harden minerals that once protected someone's cranium, or a skull as John so eloquently called it.

But Celeste felt quite differently than both of the previously described individuals. Explaining exactly how she felt would be nearly as difficult as finding a living descendant of William Shakespeare (I shall generously save you the trouble of a google search and tell you that the above task is, well, impossible). She felt alright, she had to admit... when she was awake, that is. At night the constant face of James Welsh loomed over her paralyzed body and she sat silently as he cut lines into her face, following the pattern that he had drawn previously. As the cold metal kissed her skin, a scream started in her chest and began to claw up her throat, choking her due to her inability to release it. Then his knife would find her eyes, their colorless depths severed and left useless. All would go dark and his voice would echo through her mind, its intensity growing and growing until a psychotic laugh filled her head.

Nobody deserves to be perfect, princess.

She would blindly feel his lips against hers and this time she could do nothing to stop him. She was a puppet, painless even though she had been disfigured, and seized with raw terror. And that is when she always woke up, not sweating or panting or with a racing heart as some so dramatically like to describe waking from a nightmare as, but sudden and calm. Every time she fell asleep the dream returned and each time she even so much as closed her eyes the images hung, hovering in the edge of the blackness.

She had managed to make a few phone calls and the sound of pounding hammers and electric tools could be heard from below. The flat was now officially hers and she knew that Sherlock would want her out as soon as possible; well, that was her assumption at least.

Now, November 28th, at 7:08 pm Sherlock knocked loudly at her door and walked in a moment later.

Celestia sat with her back against the headboard of her bed, absently rubbing the angry red skin that was her neck. A book was at her side, turned over to mark a page. It was a law textbook.

Her eyes slowly turned to him blankly, giving him her full attention without a word.

"What are you doing?" The question flew out of his mouth before he could tell her the reason he was here.

She surprised him by answering in complete sentences, no one word replies like usual. "I'm overviewing the possible charges and sentences he could receive. I'm plotting out how I would deal with this particular case to inflict the most severe punishment." She never said James's name, always he or him.

Sherlock paused a moment, deciding if this was a good idea. "I have a case," he said slowly, trying to contain his excitement.

Her face turned upward, her eyes narrowing as her mind spun. "I'm assuming you're offering to let me come?" Sherlock didn't answer, just leaned up against the doorframe.

Celestia sighed, "Yeah I'll go, I have to get out of this flat."

•••••••••••••

An hour later the pair pulled up to a security checkpoint built into a huge stone wall in a private car. The driver flashed an ID and they drove through the opening gate and parked near a cluster of other dark windowed vehicles. They exited the car and were immediately greeted by a tall man with an obvious aura of authority. Sherlock ignored him and turned to Celestia quickly. "First things first. Do you have agoraphobia, necrophobia, nosocomephobia, or dementophobia?"

"Um no, Sherlock. I think I'll be fine underground, in a hospital, with dead things without freaking out over going mentally insane."

He nodded approvingly and turned back to the man, who seemed used to his odd behavior. "This is Mycroft," he explained impatiently. "Also known as the British government, and unfortunately my brother. He's the idiot of the family, obviously." Mycroft pursed his lips in disapproval and shot Sherlock a glance that spoke his disagreement.

"And who is this?" He asked, turning his head to Celestia with a look of mock surprise.

"I'm his current flat mate; just until I can move in downstairs that is," she added quickly.

"Sherlock, now why ever didn't you tell me you replaced John with a much lovelier companion?"

If Celestia were a more sensitive person she probably would have blushed, but she didn't. She pulled the grey scarf that had been wrapped around her neck off, clearly revealing the jagged letters. She stuck her hand out and offered it to a slightly surprised Mycroft.

"Celestia Firethorne. I'm pleased to make your acquaintance."

Mycroft's eyes widened and his handshake was light and distracted. He looked to Sherlock. "You're telling me that the woman from the James Welsh case is the Celestia Firethorne and is currently abiding within the confines of your flat at 221b Baker Street?" His words were heavy and enunciated, disbelief at not knowing something as important as this was quite obvious in his facial expressions.

Sherlock ignored him, "I told you he was the unintelligent one, did I not?" Celestia smirked as she quickly wrapped the scarf back around her neck self-consciously.

"Brother mine, you have been most certainly holding out on your dearest sibling." Mycroft faked a smile and turned around, parting the sea of officers in black until a large circular building came into view.

"Saint Rapheal's," Sherlock stated as they slowly began to approach the foreboding shape. "Infamous mental treatment center, commonly known as 147."

Celeste stopped dead in her tracks. She looked as if she had just seen a ghost. "147," she repeated softly. "It's not running... It was shut down in the 50s; the whole place abandoned!"

Mycroft stopped and turned back, overhearing her protests. He put a finger to his lips. "As far as you know it still is abandoned, understand?"

She stopped abruptly and nodded, obviously disturbed. Mycroft glanced between them and turned back around, the building growing steadily larger as they progressed.

"147," Celeste whispered under her breath. "The number of mentally ill people who were originally taken in for human experimentation." She shuttered. "And they have the nerve to name it after the patron saint of healing?!" she hissed, glaring at Mycroft's back. The man whirled around once more and very politely countered, "Well, we have to put people like James Welsh somewhere." He turned back around, leaving Celestia gaping at the low blow. She felt as if he had punched her in the stomach, and she forced all the images that came through her head to go away; to leave her be and allow her to be free of his terrifying face. His voice, however, would not be so easily wished away. She forced herself forward, not daring to look at Sherlock for fear of breaking down again.

There's no point, Holmes... I promise you; if I die, the girl goes with me.