No Vacancy at 221c: A BBC Sherlock Fanfic

Escape

Sherlock struggled underneath the barrel that was pinning his legs to the floor. He rubbed his neck in pain. His tall figure had been pushed down onto the ground and slid until his neck was forced forward with a snap as it made contact with the wall. Now he sat upright and tried to make out any sound or shape in the blackness. With a grunt of effort, the detective heaved the barrel off of his legs and groped around in his pocket a moment for his torch. As his fingers grasped the cylinder, the overhead lights flickered back on, stronger than before, blinding Sherlock momentarily.

He squinted his eyes shut and dropped the torch blindly back into his pocket; it was no longer needed. Forcing his eyelids to open again took a moment, but soon his eyes were scanning the mess of wood and metal that was now the once clean room.

Celestia.

The thought hit him and he was up on his feet in a moment, winding his way through the mess, his eyes peeled. Suddenly he caught a flash of black in the far corner, dark against the sea of brown wood. As he climbed over the barrels he saw that it was her hand, limp and still gloved in soft leather. Her body was completely buried under two of the huge vessels. Sherlock rolled them off of her quickly and knelt down beside her.

Celestia's temple was cut and blood trickled down the side of her face in a stream of crimson. Sherlock's face twisted into a scowl. Whoever had done this wanted to scare them and obviously didn't care if Celestia was hurt in the process. Or perhaps that was the whole point.

Something nagged the detective. Something about her fearless face now pale and bruised was wrong. This feeling of course would have paled in comparison to how the man would feel if John Watson were injured, but a great sense of unfairness still hung over the situation, though Sherlock knew logically that fair was only an illusion. Just... Strength was not meant to be weakened, beauty was not meant to fade, not before it's time came. No one should have the right to rush the decay of these things.

Sherlock shook his head in disgust. Where did these ideas come from? John's sentimentality must have begun to grow on his mind like unwanted mold on bread.

"Celeste!" he called sharply, shaking her shoulder.

Grey eyes opened after a minute, and dainty hands flew to a pale temple with a groan. Celestia's eyes drank in her surroundings as the events of the past hour came flooding back to her. She pushed Sherlock aside and hugged the wall as she tried to stand.

"Can you walk?"

"Of course I can walk," she snapped back, pausing a minute as a haze came over her vision. She closed her eyes and waited for the fog to pass. "Let's get out of here."

Why am I angry? I chose this path for myself. Calm down, it doesn't matter.

Fighting the protests of her bruised body and throbbing temple, Celestia pushed past Sherlock and nearly twisted her ankle with a misplaced step. He reached to help her, but she pulled away from his touch as if his hand was on fire.

She didn't need help.

She wasn't weak.

Forcing her spine back into it's normal rigidity and walking with her long stride to the stairs, Celestia freshened the aches in her muscles with every step. The letter was still held tightly in her hands as though it had been glued in place. To look back at Sherlock as she walked to the door would have been unbearable. He had seen her weak, seen her in a state she could not accept as her own. Reluctantly she eventually waited for him to catch up, seeing as though he had a light and they would be plunging back into the darkness once again.

This was different, the detective noted. Her behavior bespoke a personality quite unlike that which she had previously exhibited. With the thought tucked neatly into his mind's library, Sherlock moved on. He looked at her with uncertainty as he opened the door and they both sprinted through it, unconsciously agreeing to get out as soon as possible. They dashed through the darkness, treading on the trail of liquid they had so willingly followed only minutes before. Their footfalls echoed throughout the enclosure and seemed to echo around them, amplified and too closely resembling the sounds of a dreaded pursuit for Celestia's comfort.

The uncertainty in Celeste's heart didn't even begin to ease until they were safely in a cab on the return trip to Baker Street. She had draped her hair over her face to hide the gash and dark purple bruise that was beginning to form on her cheek. Her head was positively throbbing and her eyes stared blankly down at the envelope that was held between her delicate hands.

"What's inside?" Sherlock finally asked. He sensed she was unwell and didn't want to press too hard, but curiosity was getting the better of him. Also the fact that he was Sherlock Holmes did nothing to aid his sensitivity.

Slowly, without moving her downcast face, or the hair that hung around it, she opened the cream colored envelope and pulled out a sheet of paper and a small rectangle of plastic.

"Oh wonderful," she remarked sarcastically.

"What is it?"

"The key to my hotel room."

Sherlock glanced at her with a look of mixed horror and bewilderment, but the expression lasted but a moment, replaced with a solid scowl. She looked up at him with her large grey eyes and he quickly cleared his throat, his face resuming it's neutral look of indifference.

"And what of the note?"

Celeste unfolded it slowly and handed it to Sherlock. She sighed and raised her head, no longer given the luxury of an excuse to keep her face down.

Sherlock's eyes quickly skimmed the simple message:

Vaults in again abduce hungry the at art czar that I'd

and then below it in neat cursive letters

Come alone

Celeste looked over as Sherlock read the note. "That first line doesn't make a bit of sense."

"It's a cipher of some kind," he murmured in reply. Then as if he had been pulled out of his thoughts, he handed the note back to her abruptly.

"Let's get you home, shall we?"