No Vacancy at 221c: A BBC Sherlock Fanfic

The Heart of a Psychopath

Clara stepped closer into the pool of light. Celestia's grey eyes searched Clara's, the light catching the tiny rim of gold that bordered the inside of Clara's iris. The woman was slim, but not small. She had broad shoulders and strong legs, most likely from constantly staying on the run. Her hair was long, brushing her arms in straight locks as she stepped closer. Her clothing was practical and fit her tall figure snugly. Celestia felt her heart sink as she realized that she wouldn't have much chance if she tried to detain her. Sherlock had given her a gun, but she was hesitant to use it. Especially on another person. As she watched the storminess of Clara's blue eyes, she took in her emotions and let the images come.

A little girl and her father laughing, that same girl older and crying at some unknown terror in the dark, a gun pointed at a person, and another, and another until so many faces filled her vision that Celeste began to feel dizzy. She was responsible for so many deaths, so much hurt and anguish, and all to try and piece together the brokenness inside her with the sweet taste of revenge. But what Celestia felt confirmed that revenge wasn't enough.

This woman wasn't satisfied and probably never would be. There would always be another person whose uncle's grandmother's cousin's niece was somehow related to one of the staff and she would have to kill them, or another inmate that she wanted to help 'escape'. The satisfaction Clara so obviously sought would never come to her. Celestia could see that plainly. The desire and hurt and longing were written as plainly in her eyes as the pangs of emotion that clutched Celeste's heart. As she slipped out of her strange state, Celeste saw Clara holding her gun out in front of her; but her hands trembled, her eyes could not retain contact. None of this was planned; Clara was quite obviously was just riding each wave of emotion as it came, and Celestia could tell that was a very, very bad thing indeed. She lowered her hands and held them out at her sides, indicating that they were empty. The murderer took a step back, as if reconsidering, but then held her ground where she stood, about 10 feet from Celestia. "I know that you must have been through a lot," Celeste started off slowly. "Nothing will ever make what they did to your father, or anyone else for that matter, right. There is no way it will be justified, not by killing more people, not by ruining your own life. But don't you see? What they did to you so mercilessly is what you're passing on to the victims you kill. You of all people know what it's like to have to live with the death of your father constantly looming over your shoulder, but please listen! That's exactly what you've done to all the children of the people you killed in your rage-"

The sharp sound of flesh against flesh rung through the tunnel and echoed off into the darkness as Clara's hand connected with Celestia's cheek. Her face burned with the contact and tears welled up, blurring her colorless eyes. Celestia blinked quickly, pushing back the tears and ignoring her stinging skin.

"You're so naïve," Clara hissed, the gold in her eyes glinting. She laughed harshly. "You think you can tell me what to do? You have absolutely no idea what you're talking about." Clara shook her head indignantly. Her hand had steadied and the gun's barrel stared Celestia in the face. Slowly, she reached up and pulled the grey scarf off her neck and threw it to the ground. The red letters contrasted brilliantly with her porcelain skin and looked almost black in the dim light. "We've both been hurt, but that doesn't mean we have to make others feel our pain," she whispered desperately.

A look crossed Clara's face as she saw the scars: recognition and almost, Celeste thought, a shadow of fear. But it was gone in an instant, and Clara's gaze turned to Celeste, drilling into her with her stare.

Celeste's eyes were drawn away by a flickering of movement behind the immediate threat before her. From what she gathered, a grate identical to the entrance she had used was opening on silent hinges. Sure enough, a moment later, a dark figure dropped through the ceiling causing Celeste to mentally sigh in relief. Sherlock began to slowly make his way behind Clara with care, his gun held tightly in his right hand.

"You know what, you're right," Celeste said, a tad loud to cover the sound of Sherlock's footsteps. "But why not just break the inmates out instead of helping them kill themselves? You're living proof that a break out is possible," she rambled, hoping to distract her.

"You idiot; you think I haven't tried? It's a miracle I've been able to infiltrate their defenses alone, but a mass breakout would be bloody impossible. Plus, life out there isn't exactly pleasant for us," she replied unforgivingly with a scowl.

Sherlock was about a yard away from them when Clara's face twitched and she whirled around, her gun now trained on the detective who mirrored her stance. Celestia took advantage of the moment and ripped her gun out and fumbled with the safety. She saw Clara's shoulders tighten in a prepared motion and lunged at her feet to attempt to damper her aim. Celestia made contact with Clara a moment too late.

A single gunshot rang through the chamber.