No Vacancy at 221c: A BBC Sherlock Fanfic

Fireside

Brace yourself ;)
Celestia Firethorne was seated comfortably in front of a crackling fire with a mug of coffee held firmly in her hands in the parlor of 221c Baker Street. It was a December night with temperatures of Arctic proportions.

Her long legs were curled up by her side on the plush couch. The room was furnished lavishly, all in a classical style. Intricate woodwork could be found scrolling up the mantle, on the legs of chairs, and running along the floorboards and crown molding. The flame, along with two lamps worthy of Buckingham Palace, lit the detailed rug of golds and reds that covered the floor and send gentle golden light onto the sole occupant. It was dim but peaceful, the shadows just as beautiful as the cheerful blaze. Celestia sighed and sunk deeper into the overstuffed cushions, pulling a throw blanket around her tightly. It had been a few days since the encounter with the Watsons at the restaurant, and since then her contact with Sherlock had been minimal.

After she moved out sounds of frustration and things thrown or pushed over upstairs had alerted Celestia to what she assumed was his anger with an insolvable problem or boredom.

What she didn't know was that Sherlock's confusion wasn't caused by anything she ever would have guessed.

He felt strange. Things that he didn't understand. Not understanding itself was a foreign concept to Sherlock. Why did he care if Celestia had moved out? Good riddance should be what was crossing his mind! He didn't need anyone and no one cared about him. But something pounded through his head, demanding that his reason was flawed. Did she care? Did she genuinely care?

Celestia's phone vibrated, and was answered by yet another exhale.

"Hello?"

"My dear! Oh how I've missed you."

Celestia nearly dropped the device in surprise as her father's voice filtered into her ears from a world away.

"H-hi dad, sorry you surprised me," she stuttered after a moment.

"I won't hold you long, I know my little star is probably busy doing terribly important things."

Celestia rolled her eyes, both at the endearment and his utter naïveté.

"I just wanted to know how you were holding up," William admitted. "Have you seen anyone recently? Treatment might not be so bad-"

"What drugs? Ones that deal with my problems for me? If I've told you once I've told you a million times. No."

"Medication could help you; your mother worries! When will you be back?"

Silence hung between them and time seemed to slow as Celestia chose her words carefully. "I can't go back. I'm an adult now and you can't hold onto me forever. I'm in the UK and I'm perfectly safe. I'm sorry I lied, but this isn't a holiday."

"Alright," a deep voice finally replied. "Just please stay safe, you're the only little star I've got."

Celestia cringed at his words, knowing that she'd never be able to tell him what had already happened.

"I love you, dad," she finally told him.

"I love you too." A deep, sorrowful breath could be heard on the other side before the call ended. Celeste dropped the phone on the floor and stared into the fire blankly.

"Bipolar disorder," a voice at the door stated in realization. "The severe depression, the mania?" Sherlock closed the door behind him and stood behind a chair opposite the couch on which she sat. Celestia blinked twice then struggled to keep the sense of failure down. She squeezed her eyes shut and turned her head.

No one was supposed to know. This was a place where I could start over, be normal.

"Yeah," she whispered finally. The wood crackled and the sweet scent of applewood filled the room.

Now Sherlock understood her efforts. That explained it. That's what she had struggled so hard to hide. She struggled day after day, hiding behind that brilliant smile. She was going through exactly what he did, but she chose to hide it, to bear it alone.

Sherlock slowly travelled the distance between them and sat down beside her lightly. His heart and mind were at war as he reached out hesitantly, his arm trembling, and put his hand over hers. "You handle it a lot better than I do," he admitted, looking up into her eyes.
"You..."

"Yep, type 1."

Then her luminous eyes were inches from his and for one split second Sherlock thought she might kiss him. Instead, her eyes narrowed. "If you want me to do something for you just ask. You don't need to be like this," she told him softly, sorrow clouding her irises. Sherlock cocked his head in confusion. "Oh don't look so surprised. I've done my research on you. A certain Janine Hawkins comes to mind," she added sharply.

And then Celestia Firethorne decided to do something she had always wanted to, but didn't dare. She looked Sherlock dead in the eyes and braced herself as an avalanche of memories of a ridiculed little broken hearted boy and his dog flooded her mind, memories of murders and kidnappers and bombings and guns. But all she cared about was the feeling that washed over her, replacing her tired reflection into a beehive of emotion.

And then Celestia Firethorne decided to yet again do something she had never dared. She closed the gap between her and Sherlock and kissed him.