No Vacancy at 221c: A BBC Sherlock Fanfic

Firethorne?

Sherlock looked up in shock, first to Celestia and then to John. If he was looking for any kind of recognition in the man's face he was disappointed. The only emotion John's face held was confusion. "I knew it!" Sherlock cried suddenly, snapping his fingers, before jabbing a finger in Celeste's direction with a slight chuckle. "Oh I knew you weren't English! Oh you're..." He shook his finger. "You're covering it up," he said, shaking his head in dismay. "Now it makes sense!"

Celestia bit her blood red lip nervously, put back by the recollection.

"What makes sense Sherlock? Because at the moment you are making none," John countered bluntly, bewilderment splayed across his face.

"Celestia Firethorne... Really John?" he looked at him in disbelief. "William Firethorne?" he tried again. Still no light of understanding lit in his companion's eyes.

"Allow me to elaborate for those who have been utterly in the dark for the past decade." He rolled his eyes.

His hand flew out again, gesturing towards Celeste. "Her father, previously named," he said pointedly, "is quite possibly the wealthiest man in all of Australia."

John raised an eyebrow. Suddenly realization dawned on him. "Oh! That William Firethorne! The one who advises the prime minister?" He asked, his eyes suddenly wide and engaged.

"Yes, John, of course that William Firethorne!" Sherlock cried in exasperation.

Mrs. Hudson, who had been making tea, bustled in. "What's with all the racket, Sherlock? The poor dear looks as though you've been deducting her or whatever it is you do to upset people!"

"She wasn't that lucky," John replied sarcastically.

"And it's deducing, Mrs. Hudson, please."

All three of them turned to Celeste who had been ignored for the moment. Her perfectly contoured cheekbones were raised as she squinted her eyes shut for a moment and exhaled heavily. This strange newcomer now looked as though she wished she could disappear, to leave Baker Street with a wave of her tiny perfect hand. But disappearing was now quite impossible, and the stranger now had the terrible misfortune of being stuck between a rock and a hard place, or a detective and a wall, to be precise. The very air around him suggested that lying to Sherlock could end badly.

"If I were you," John began, choosing his words carefully, "I would tell us what we need to know before he tells us what you don't want us to hear... because he will." He looked over at Sherlock who was staring at the wall, still only feet from her, muttering something under his breath, lost to the world.

"He's right," Celestia confessed quietly.

"Oh!" Mrs. Hudson fussed, drawing out the word. "Come sit down, and then you can tell us why you're so far from home." She pushed past Sherlock and pried Celestia off of the wall she had been pushed into and then sat her down on the couch.

When everyone but Sherlock was seated, cup of tea in hand, Celestia began to speak. Her voice had regained its formal air, but her accent had slipped ever so slightly, its Australian nature more evident.

She had slipped out of her coat and draped it over the edge of the couch. Her ankles were crossed out of habit, and her hands were folded in her lap. She wore a dark purple sweater that would have made cotton feel like sandpaper.

Sherlock had turned around and was looking her over again, redefining his view on her now that his suspicions had been confirmed. Her brown hair held a reddish glow and fell to her shoulder blades, neither straight nor curly. Her makeup was obvious, but stunning, making her face look as though it were naturally flawless in its dark, neutral tones. Her posture was perfect, but she wasn't graceful in a delicate way. Every movement she made spoke of power, strength, spirit; traits probably frowned upon in such a formal family as the Firethorne's, who may as well have been royals.