No Vacancy at 221c: A BBC Sherlock Fanfic

Encounters

A thorough investigation of the building and its close proximity brought nothing to light that could explain the sudden message from the killer. After scouring the facility and harassing the staff with questions, the pair had gone home, weary with frustration as well as sheer exhaustion. Setting up cameras wired directly to Sherlock's laptop confirmed the theory that the air ducts were being used, but they were shut down before any footage could be taken. And thus, even after all their late nights, brains storms, and pacing, another three inmates were found strung up in the cell with three oblivious guards dead to the world one week later.

They had tried once again to place a small camera in one of the airways and now waited in the flat, fingers crossed that they were a step ahead.

"Sherlock, please stop that! You'll drive me insane." Celeste sat on the couch while the detective paced in front of the coffee table, his eyes never moving from the video feed shown on the screen of his computer. He slammed his hands down on the table with enough force to make Celestia look up in shock as the screen turned to static without so much as a glimpse at who had sabotaged it. He yanked his coat off of the rack, sending the spire of metal plummeting to the ground with a loud clank. Celestia sighed as she jumped over it and retrieved her jacket from the ground. "I suppose you have an idea then?" she asked, questioning not only his behavior, but a strange look that had come over his eyes.

"Yes," he muttered, fumbling with the knob as the gears in his brain began to whir.

••••••••••••

Yet again, they stood in the padded room. It was now void of any bodies and smelling strongly of antiseptic. Celestia clasped her hands together with forced cheerfulness. "Okay! So... What are we doing, exactly?"

"We? Oh no, this is an activity I've selected strictly for you."

Her eyes narrowed as she tried to understand what he meant. "Care to elaborate?" she demanded after a moment.

"I have a hunch," he said vaguely.

Celestia crossed her arms. "Out with it, Holmes."

"Do try to engage the void within your head for a moment," he snapped. "We are several floors beneath the earth, but there aren't any floors above us before the ground level save this room here," he continued, gesturing to the impossibly high ceiling and the glass that contained it. "That leaves us in a sort of self-contained tunnel, and, according to the official building plans, there should be nothing but dirt between here and the surface." Celestia's blank stare made him sigh in exasperation and cut to the chase. "What's to say there aren't hidden tunnels between here and the surface? Ones that could be reached through the air ducts?"

"Sherlock, you can't expect me to crawl up through them."

"Yes, I can, and am," he retorted.

A step ladder and a phone call away, Celestia was hoisted up into a square of metal and crawling slowly through the three feet by three feet of space. "You'll pay for this," she grunted, pushing the Bluetooth back into her ear as it began to slip.

"No, I won't. Now shut up and tell me when you see anything different."

She rounded a corner and scanned the darkness, shuffling forward, silently cursing the youngest Holmes. She passed a few grates, all new and secured tightly, but soon she came upon one that did not seem of the 21st century. Its grates were dirty and covered with dust, but the outer corners were free of pollution. "Bingo." The grate swung down into a dark room as she pushed two false screws at the top. She dropped down silently through the opening, thankful for the soft leather boots that molded perfectly to her feet and kept her tread light.

A small oil lamp was burning brightly, illuminating a wooden table and bench on which it rested. Papers were scattered across the table top and a pair of gold rimmed glasses stood perched on one of the stacks, their lenses thick and covered in layers of undisturbed dust particles. The air held a stale scent to it as Celeste slowly crossed to the room, her eyes falling upon a few of the documents, messy handwriting scrawled across in black ink. She picked one up off of the nearest stack.

• 10/29 Injected patient 67, no initial reaction at injection site.

• 11/8 Ten days after injection the patient is beginning to decline in health rapidly. Symptoms include weight loss, loss of elasticity in skin cells, decrease in the functioning of the major senses and minor brain damage. All signs of a successful contamination.

• 11/15 Patient 67 died today of respiratory failure. This strain of virus was found to take hold too slowly and is being put back into the earlier testing phases to attempt to shorten the incubation period.

Celestia's jaw dropped as she realized what she was reading. A log, a log of the torment people had endured here. St. Rapheal's may have only been a prison at the moment, but the horrific stories were true, if this was to be counted as evidence.

"Awful, isn't it?" a voice from behind called. Celeste spun on her heel, coming face to face with a blonde haired, blue eyed, innocent looking person by the name of Clara Fairworth. "I keep that one right up on top so that no one will ever forget what happened to those who didn't escape. Because the truth is, the tests continued late into the 1960s, and people like my father," she plucked the log out of her hand and looked down at it gently, "didn't survive." Her voice came out as barely a whisper, her eyes glinting with anguish and conflict as they sparkled in the dim light. "This place is a hell. A bloody hell, and I won't rest until everyone has had the chance to escape."