No Vacancy at 221c: A BBC Sherlock Fanfic

Pertaining to Confessions

There was one feeling Sherlock had never been able to shake. Even the feeling of Celestia's warm figure radiating against his side did nothing to tame the sinking stone of failure that burrowed itself in his gut.

A life that could have been saved by him had been lost. Though few knew it, Sherlock did feel for the victims of the cases he worked in. Once the excitement of the chase wore off and his work was done, they came back and he allowed his mind to mourn them if only for a second.

Sometimes as he lay awake for hours on end he would wonder why he was still alive. The odds were so heavily in favor of his death, and yet he had survived. When he was feeling especially horrid he'd almost wish it was him and not the others that had died. No one wanted him. They needed him, yes, but want? He had always answered that question in a split second with a definite "no", but as Sherlock looked down at the top of Celestia's head he wondered if perhaps the answer to that question had changed. Slowly he reached his arm around her back and pulled her in closer, rubbing her shoulder gently. He felt her arms wrap around his stomach, holding on for dear life as she shut her eyes tightly. Her heart was racing and her breaths were shallow as silent tears ran down her cheeks, chilling her skin as a cold wind began to blow.

The world held a surreal sorrow that any artist would beg to recreate. Lights flashed and sirens wailed as the wind began to pick up the coat of a detective who held a woman in a gesture of comfort and togetherness and quiet sadness.

The outline of a stone building could be seen behind, skirted with trees all bare and scrawny, snaking against the cloud cover in cracks of black and brown. A cold drizzle began to fall from the darkened sky, dotting the road with dark blotches of precipitation. An ambulance could be seen approaching to retrieve the body. And through it all the world seemed to hold a silence. The sirens and the rain seemed irrelevant. The world appeared still though the wind whipped furiously. In that warm embrace time stopped and everything was alright. The artist would marvel as the scene itself, in it's ominous beauty, seemed to revolve around the inseparable duo. Power seemed to emanate from them, power that had been humbled. Nothing in the world existed except for them. Such a painting or picture will unfortunately never be taken, though it's dark majesty is something that longs to be remembered.

The chaos of the world around them broke like a wave as the two parted and were approached by Lestrade.

"Got a call last night from your partner here," the man told Sherlock, gesturing to Celestia with one hand. "We found the corpse right where she said it would be, and now we have another murder less than twenty-four hours later. What's going on, Holmes?"

"Murders. None of your concern. Just take care of the bodies, I'll take care of this."

"Sherlock, we're the police! I can't just leave you with-"

"Do you trust me?" Sherlock questioned in a low voice.

"Well, I-"

"Do you trust me?" the detective demanded.

Greg gave in, knowing full well that Sherlock was the best man for the job.

"Okay," he answered in a hushed tone, looking over his shoulder. "But if anyone asks, you're just helping us out."

And with that, the sociopath, with his arm on Celestia's shoulder, was gone in a flutter of coat tails and scarf ends.
Greg sighed. Classic Sherlock. But who was that girl?

•••••••••••••••••

Celestia mounted the steps in anticipation. Both of them expected another note to be waiting, but after a thorough sweep of the flats no message emerged. Silently they now sat, facing each other with cup of tea in hand in the living room of 221b. "So... murder, mystery, intrigue." She laughed lightly as her voice slipped into the dreaded Mycroft impersonation. Why was she acting so stupid? Everything that came out of her mouth was so different when she was around Sherlock. But she was also braver. How else could she have kissed him?

Sherlock simply nodded, obviously preoccupied. The room was quiet and Celeste got up slowly, shivering as she did. "I'm going to make a fire," she announced in the direction of her distracted companion. As she crouched down to grasp a piece of wood from the small stack, she felt a hand come over hers. A warmth broke the chill of the air as she realized Sherlock was hovering over her. She forced her breaths to remain constant as she looked upward quickly, startled to see his face once again inches from hers. Sherlock's eyes danced in reaction to the alarm in Celeste's face. Leaning in he kissed the unprepared girl lightly on the nose before grabbing another log quickly and setting to work starting a fire.

He wouldn't meet her gaze but Celestia remained crouched next to him, her face spattered with emotions mixing like paint on an artist's palette.
She had decided, in the last moments as she had walked downstairs the previous night and fallen into slumber, that this would be over and answered today. So when the blaze sprung forth from the wood, a cheery flame in the cold, she scraped up the courage to go through with her plan.

"Sherlock?"

He turned to her slowly, curls hovering oh so temptingly over his alabaster forehead.

"I love you."

There, she had done it. Dropped the bomb, thrown it all in, risked everything. There was no going back.

"You probably already knew for all I know, but it's no use hiding anything from you. It's stupid and it's wrong. I'm just putting it out there because its the honest truth and I think you deserve the truth. I'm sorry if I've put you in an awkward position, but it felt wrong keeping it from you. Say what you must, I'm stronger than I look." Her voice sounded feeble, losing it's intensity rather than gaining it. "I- I understand if I was just being dumb or whatever, I just-" she took a deep breath standing up as she did, not ready for the current of emotions that would probably sweep her away. "You know what? Forget I ever said that. Goodbye, Sherlock." Celestia stepped toward the door, just about to grasp it's cool handle when the floorboards creaked.

"You never let me respond," a deep voice beckoned from behind.

She turned slowly, surprised to see his mask of stone replaced with a disappointed expression.

"Go ahead," she whispered, bracing herself.

"I-" he cleared his throat. "I have reason to believe that I may reciprocate that sentiment."