Lost at 221c: A BBC Sherlock Fanfic

Aftermath

Celestia remained composed through the arrest. She was cooperative in interrogations. She even seemed to view the trial with flippancy.

All of this was of a chief annoyance to Sherlock and John, the former of which had been thrown into a panicked daze and the latter of which carried the burden of having caused such grief.

People began to speak of the Firethorne heiress who had fallen off the deep end, first in London, then Europe, and finally to Australia. Reporters raved over her fashion choices and jumped at every possible occasion to worm their way into Baker Street (an occurrence that simultaneously stressed and occupied the abandoned detective). 

But the object of such public scrutiny did not sway Celeste. She had killed a man, yes, but she insisted in its necessity, and the jury seemed to agree. Public opinion swayed towards the figure of soft spoken feminine strength. She was beautiful. She was rich and far from home. She was newsworthy. Kate Middleton rather quaked in her heels a moment as the tabloids sensed their audiences jaded appetite for anything but the Aussie who "Dressed to Kill" (a headline that became famous after the tale of her seductive escape became commonplace). One might venture to compare the entire ordeal to that of the Merry Murderesses, but instead of Chicago it was London, and rather than becoming a Vaudeville performer Celeste was sent to therapy.

Settling into the cool leather of a chair, she looked down at her fingernails. They were red. Where had she learned to make them look so neat?

"Ms. Firethorne?" an eager voice from the other side of the room called.

Celeste looked up from her hands, "Please, I hate that name."

The desk did little to shield the doctor from her client's intense, grey gaze. "Celestia, then?"

She ignored the correction. "They sent me here because they think I'm crazy right?"

Glasses were pushed up the bridge of the nose, a placard reading "Dr. Littleton" adjusted. "You were referred to me as a precaution only. Detective Inspector Lestrade seemed to be concerned you might not have a proper outlet to find a fresh start with so much media attention."

Celestia cocked her head, deciding, weighing. 

"It can be difficult for those who have experienced a trauma such as yours to move beyond it, and in your case there is the problem of being in the public eye during such a time."

"Wonderful, fresh start, sounds lovely. Why don't we jump right into the theme. Call me Rachel from now on."

Dr. Littleton hid her piqued interest with a lean forward. "Rebranding yourself can be a healthy way to find who you are without hiding behind a name. What about Rachel appeals to you?"

A thin smile masked a grimace. "It just seemed to fit."

"If you don't mind my saying so, you look quite different today from what I've seen in the press.

She was wearing jeans, her red hair hanging in dull waves around a face free of makeup (Sherlock had questioned her sanity extensively before agreeing to let her leave the building).

"I needed something different," she explained. "I don't know who I am, and I'm not sure all the superfluous nonsense is helping."

"You mean your appearance?"

"I mean my identity." Frustration began to seep into what she had planned to be a useless afternoon. "I am a walking cliche. I say 'mate' and 'g'day' because I just had to fit into some stereotypical box in order to allow every single person in the world to know I'm from kangaroo land."

Littleton nodded, thankful not to have to feign interest for once.

Celestia- or Rachel as I suppose we are to call her for the moment - continued passionately, edging off her seat involuntarily. "I mean, I might as well be a model for all the random bloody knowledge I seem to have collected on makeup and designer brands, not that it seems to matter since I look just the same without it all. Its like someone stuffed a Vogue editor into my mind and forgot to tell me about it."

"I don't understand. Did you feel pressure from your family to be this way? Or do you regret your choices leading up to this?"

"These weren't my choices, Priscilla!" (Rachel had been studying the plaques on the wall following the appointment.) "My name is Celestia freaking Firethorne! I sound like the personification of a five-year-old's My Little Pony fever dream!"

The weight of something, the kidnapping or otherwise, was beginning to be transferred. Rachel could feel it, calling for her to say more, to put words to whatever it was she herself couldn't even understand. Here she didn't have to stand up for what was happening to her, she didn't have a personal connection tying her down.

Priscilla smiled in the way only a middle-aged adult with a unsettling interest in the patterns of human behavior can. "Do you remember much about your childhood?"

"What? This is about me living the life of a poorly-written female character in Hollywood and you want to talk about Virginia?"

Rachel realized what she had done a moment too late.

Priscilla Littleton nodded knowingly, twirling her pen absentmindedly and leaning back in her chair. "I'd love to talk about it."