No Vacancy at 221c: A BBC Sherlock Fanfic

Of Interrogations

"I want answers and I want them now, Mr. Welsh. I'm not in the mood for games and it would be in your best interests to tell me the truth, as I have enough reasons to dislike you as it is." Sherlock smiled coldly at the man who was handcuffed to a table in front of him. James seemed oddly calm and even bored as he examined the back of his hand thoughtfully, ignoring the detective.

He took his time in answering, obviously trying to put Sherlock off. "You're called brilliant, a genius, a miracle worker, but we know the truth, don't we Holmes?" He looked up slowly, a smile creeping across his face. "You're an idiot; couldn't even solve the excruciatingly easy plan I set into motion," he taunted lightly, looking up slowly to meet Sherlock's stare.

"Tell me how many more," Sherlock demanded.

"How many more what?" James countered in confusion.

"Victims!" Sherlock roared, failing in his attempt to remain calm and separated from the case that now seemed strangely personal. There was a moment of silence in the small, grey room. Then James Welsh began to laugh, a deep, rich, heartfelt laugh as he stared up a Sherlock's enraged features in sheer amusement.

"What? What is it?" he growled.

"None! There were no more 'victims' as you call them," James exclaimed with a smile. "You really are stupid aren't you?"

"Well then somehow my utterly inferior mind must have managed to foil your excruciatingly simple plan with its ignorance," Sherlock remarked sharply.

"The ignorant are always the most dangerous," James admitted softly, his laughter slowing.

"Now, I demand information. If there were no other victims, then why Clara? Why was she different?"

"I said there weren't any more victims yet. But Clara wasn't a victim, obviously. She was my informant."

Sherlock shifted on the balls of his feet anxiously. "What did she do for you, and why would you mark her? Wouldn't that simply give you away, putting your initials on everything you touched?" Sherlock's words were cold as ice and as sharp as daggers.

"Ah, I may have gone wrong on that part, but I couldn't resist marking her. I owned her, helped her avenge her father, and she found everything there was to know about a certain Celestia Firethorne." The man seemed almost... excited.

Sherlock's muscles clenched by his side as he fought to remain an impassive expression. This was a bad time for his heart to start giving his mind input.

"But it doesn't matter anyway, does it? I'm safely tucked away in here and Clara is gone. Of course it's highly unlikely I'll receive a death sentence for attempted murder, but to be honest it's not so bad in here. Nice and cozy you know, lots of attention and confined spaces. Not such a bad place. It would be a shame if the judge were to decide I wouldn't be staying very long." An odd look came over his eyes that made Sherlock second guess labeling him as a lower class criminal... Wait, he had forgotten something. He would have killed Celestia if she hadn't spoken up. Something about...

"Who's Christine?"

James lowered his burning eyes slowly, and refused to acknowledge Sherlock's presence for the next five minutes. Finally, the sociopath gave up and left the unresponsive criminal. He was immediately met by Detective Inspector Lestrade, who was waiting at the other end of the door.

"Find anything else?" he inquired, one eyebrow raised in question.

"I want information on any and all Christines that he's been in contact with." Sherlock commanded, ignoring the officer's previous question.

Greg sighed, "Sure, why not?" He threw his hands up as he turned back down the hall.

A dark haired individual passed Lestrade on the opposite side of the hall and stopped in front of Sherlock. She smiled mockingly and crossed her arms. "Morning, freak. You're needed in court tomorrow for that one." She jerked her thumb in the direction of the interrogation room. "Guess it takes one to know one." She turned to leave when she remembered something. "Oh, and someone named Celestial or something?" She rolled her eyes, "I don't even know, stupid name, whatever. 2 o'clock; don't be late."

Sherlock fought an impulse to slap her as she walked down the hall. He restrained himself; however, and immediately set to exiting the massive building that was Scotland Yard and was soon in a cab on his way back to Baker Street.

He knocked on Celestia's door (a practice he rarely engaged in) and she let him in, quickly setting to work making tea. "Find anything?" she asked cautiously, when they were seated at a large oak table in the dining room. Quickly Sherlock proceeded to recount his conversation with James, noting Celeste's relief when he informed her that there had been no others. He hesitated, wishing he didn't have to be the bearer of bad news. "The trial is tomorrow."

Celestia grew silent, setting her tea down quickly. "I didn't think it would be so soon." She dug her nails into her palms to keep them from shaking.

Tomorrow she would face the man of her nightmares.

She reached across the table and grasped Sherlock's hand tightly, offering him a weak smile.

But at least she'd be with the man of her dreams.