No Vacancy at 221c: A BBC Sherlock Fanfic

And All This Time

Time is a powerful thing. Healing, hatred, hope, forgetfulness - they all brew beneath its sleepy surface. It can fly, stand still, or simply exist, but all within reality are inevitably bound by it. For Sherlock and Celestia time was two excruciatingly different things.

Celeste's times are not things meant to be recounted. They are not pleasurable or worthwhile, but completely inhumane to be revisited. They are secrets that I sincerely hope shall not be revisited for the sake of our dear protagonist. But while Celestia's seconds held the weight of hours, Sherlock's time is almost unexplainable.

It just was.

Moments were hours in and of themselves and hours were moments in retrospect.

A year is a very long time when days are filled of empty hope and fruitless labor. 365 meaningless days. 8,760 terribly lengthy hours. 525,600 tiring minutes. 31,536,000 miserable seconds. As time dragged on like an anchor upon the shore, Sherlock's efforts weakened and though he would never admit it, a numbness began to slowly overcome the detective. But late in the night, in the scenes of his vivid dreams or in the most mundane things, Celestia would come to mind and a fresh shot of pain would strike his chest, where before no emotion at all had nestled. He saw her in the flowers that began to bloom in the spring and the hot sun that could scarcely be viewed and appreciated without consequence in the summer. The leaves of autumn fell gracefully to the ground, as silently and beautifully as she had always moved. And the snow, the fresh, lovely, innocent snowflake, was almost as unique and meaningful as she.

Sherlock's eyes were indeed opened. The world around him was no longer only important for solving crimes. It told a story, a story of beauty and strength and of its death into wintry cold, a story that was now all too familiar. A story Sherlock was beginning to doubt would ever have a triumphant spring.

A whole year of searching.

Can you imagine that?

Can you really? Loving someone so much that when all logic is defied you would still diligently search for them an entire year? Truly now! I cannot.

Such a love few shall ever know.

But on he searched, looking for a ghost, hunting an apparition. For indeed, Sebastian Moran was unable to be found. The detective's brain was searching too hard too fast, and his efforts were tainted with unconfessed panic and emotional trauma, but unbeknownst to Sherlock, he was indeed, as John had said, not "the only one in this fight."

Mycroft had received a call one morning from the very capable former army doctor who proved himself quite determined to begin a investigation.

Mary herself helped much in the detailed search, doing things at home when her pregnancy began to require it. John only ever stopped his frantic search to meet with Sherlock once a week, and to welcome his son, Marcus Daniel, into the world on August 4th. Mary constantly pleaded with her husband in the months that followed to come home more often, to abandon the cause that held no hope of success, but John was insistent. In the following January, he felt as if they were close, so very close to finding this Sebastian and finding out the truth once and for all.
Sherlock had become more and more quiet, finally abandoning any form of communication to simply stare vacantly into space when John made his weekly visit.

Mary felt pity for Sherlock and even brought Marcus to Baker Street when he was a few months old, but found that the child's presence seemed to disturb the detective even more for some unknown reason. Sherlock's once neat and tidy mind palace had been turned upside down, all the information processed in a flash without heed to organization or orderliness. His thoughts were as scattered as his sporadic bursts of painful emotion.

••••••••••••••••

On one particular frigid January day, two very different scenes were taking place. In a brightly lit office on one side of London, Mycroft Holmes and John Watson sat opposite each other. A perfectly polished cherry wood desk sat between them, its contents nice and neat. The room itself was symmetrical, from the way the chairs were arranged to the categorized and visually balanced books upon the shelves. A hard expression was fighting for dominion on the elder Holmes' face, attempting to keep the sliver of hope from blowing itself out of proportion.

"This isn't like the others. This isn't another dud, I can just feel it."

"And how do we know that?" demanded Mycroft.

"We've found someone who isn't supposed to exist. That's the man's trademark. All the others we suspected had some correlation with Sebastian had identities!"

"Are you referring to suspect C? We had eliminated him early in this process."

"Yeah... well I kept his file... Anyway, false identity, much like Mary's. Working at Speedy's was the perfect cover, much too obvious to be the work of a genius and thus, a foolproof camouflage! He goes by the name Andrew Jones." John was begging Mycroft with his eyes to understand. For months the man had threatened to shut off the doctor's resources, forcing him to accept reality. Now was his chance to prove to Mycroft that his efforts weren't for nothing.

"So," Mycroft began tentatively, "what information have you recovered? Do you know where they are?"

"Well... not yet, but something's definitely up. Someone wants a constant stream of information on Sherlock, that much is for sure."

"Any proof?"

"We have been unable to track him thus far, even after bugging his uniform. Apparently he knows we're onto him."

"How do you know this isn't just some other criminal? John, I hope you understand how feeble your argument sounds-"

"Please-please, I just know this is it! We can't give up. Just allow me time to follow him home!"

Mycroft sighed and rubbed his eyes tiredly.

••••••••••••••••

Sherlock walked down the deserted street for the first time in over a year. The warehouse he had visited the first day he had met Celestia soon loomed ahead and swallowed him whole as he entered through the side entrance. His footsteps echoed in the vast chamber and every few feet his shoes would crunch over broken wine bottles and glass shards shattered beyond recognition. Slowly he made his way through the towering barrels and down into the room where many of their adventures had begun.

Groping in the dark, he finally made contact with the switch, turning on lights that still functioned.

The room was still a wreck, and barrels covered the hard floor. Silently, he made his way to the opposite wall and slid down it, letting the cold envelop him. He closed his eyes with a sigh and turned his head. As he did so, a sob caught in his throat. The floor was still stained with blood from the impact the barrel had made with Celeste's temple.

The little speckles brought on a wave of emotion that had been buried deep, deep inside. Sherlock released all the grief and frustration that had built up inside him, his chest shaking with feeling. Twisting his body, he thrust his fist with extreme force against the metal rim of a nearby barrel. Over and over he struck it until the skin on his knuckles was broken and bloody. His tears gradually began to grow silent and a deep sorrow replaced the temporary rage. Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall.

"You-you were right. You reminded me right before we went into that bloody theater that it could be dangerous, and I brushed it off as nonsense. If I had just listened! You would be alive and breathing and-" his voice tapered off, lowering to a choked whisper, "you would be mine. I wanted that you know. I never thought I'd say that, but I mean it." There was a moment of silence. "Mary brought her baby to see me one day and all I could see-all I could think about," he swallowed and covered his mouth with his hand in an act of sheer emotion.

When he lowered it many minutes later his eyes had hardened, the world behind them suddenly shut off. Mechanically he stood, stuffing his hands in his pockets and making his way back through the maze of a building. Sherlock finally appeared back on his doorstep as the sun began to set.