No Vacancy at 221c: A BBC Sherlock Fanfic

Christmas Catastrophe

"Sherlock!" Celeste's cheerful voice called through the closed door of 221b. She frowned at the impending silence and then slipped quietly into the flat. "Sherlock?" she tried again.

A groan and bang could be heard from the direction of the bedroom and a few moments later, Sherlock was stumbling down the stairs. He rubbed his face and ran his hands through his messy curls. "What is it?" he mumbled, obviously put off by being awoken at 5 am.

"So you do sleep, then?" noted Celestia with a smirk, humored by his sweat pants and bleary eyes.

"Shut up," was the sharp reply she received.

"Don't you want to know what's in here?" The woman waved the box she had retrieved the previous day lightly in the air. It now had a small blue bow perched on it's cardboard surface.

"Why would I?"

"It's Christmas!"

"Is it? Oh, I see, that's the reason you're wearing the ridiculous hat."

Celeste's eyes rolled, her right hand touching the red and white hat lightly. "You are a total killjoy and I'm seriously considering not giving you anything," she replied obstinately.

Slowly Sherlock approached her, pulling the package firmly from her grip. His eyebrows rose as the full weight of the parcel was transferred to his grip.

"Careful with that," Celestia warned as the detective sat down on the couch. She rummaged in one of the kitchen drawers, finally producing a pair of scissors that were then used to cut away the thick layer of tape keeping the cardboard together. Sherlock grunted in surprise as a strong plastic box was found within the initial packaging. The clear top was removed to reveal bottles of thick glass, vials and small boxes with powders and little lumps of metal. All over were labels in bright yellow and red, announcing the toxicity or flammability of certain substances.

The sociopath stared, wide eyed for almost a minute. Finally, without a word, Sherlock reached out to grasp a stout cylindrical container filled with a powder. "Is this mercuric iodide?" he questioned in disbelief. "You've got to be kidding me," he said under his breath as she nodded in excitement. "You really are loaded," Sherlock added with a laugh. His face was now lit with a huge smile as he thumbed through the various chemicals and elements like a child in a candy shop.

"I needed Mycroft's help to get a hold of them, and it took me forever to get him to agree. He apparently thinks you aren't responsible or something. He made me swear I'd keep an eye on you." She slipped onto the couch next to him, nudging his shoulder with a laugh. "He did, however, put his foot down on the liquid plutonium..."

Sherlock chuckled as he moved the box to the coffee table. Then, unexpectedly he pulled her towards him and kissed her, long and hard. "You're brilliant," he stated, as he leaned back, eyes twinkling like a madman. He quite looked the part with his disheveled appearance.

The night before had been long. The identification of Christine had done nothing to advance the case. Other, that is, than the motive behind the attempt on Celestia's life. It also gave the encouraging news that James, well, Sebastian, probably wouldn't give up until she was dead. Wonderful.

"His lover died, simple as that," Sherlock had said. "That was before he met Moriarty, before he learned to kill. He probably wasn't mentally stable before, and then the most dangerous man in the world gets a hold of him and turns him into an assassin. Not a pretty picture. You probably drive him insane, just looking at you could be pushing him over the brink of sanity. So what does he do? Easy: kill you."

That had sent shudders down Celestia's back, but now the joy of a new morning made everything passive. Sherlock's phone began to buzz, vibrating against the tabletop on which it lay. The detective answered it promptly, frowning as Mycroft's voice whined in his ear. Celeste watched as his face lit up after a moment, however, and the speed at which he shot up out of his seat confirmed her thoughts. There was a case.

•••••••••••••

Murder is bad. It's always bad. But there's something about having a world leader dead that makes murder seem even worse. Okay... Well this wasn't exactly a world leader, but he was still in parliament! Celestia did have a way of exaggerating things in her mind. Something about driving up to a manor in the country side of Wales and seeing its inhabitant sitting peacefully in a chair about to take his tea in the parlor, dead mind you, made her quite uncomfortable.

So there they were, the detective and his companion, standing in a room with huge vaulted ceilings, the beginnings of beautiful winter sunrise creeping through the picture windows. Sherlock had already noted that he hadn't been killed here. It was illogical to think he (Gabriel was his name) would be fully dressed and taking tea at 4 am. It was concluded that the victim had been killed in his sleep (knife wound through the brain stem and upper spinal cord) and brought here for some reason. That reason was yet to present itself. No finger prints (traces of latex were found on the doorknobs), no hair, no anything. The staff hadn't heard, seen, or done anything differently, and the sociopath had already deemed them all to be innocent. It seemed like a dead end. Sherlock despised dead ends. A ghost couldn't have murdered someone with less evidence.

"Memorize the room," Sherlock commanded, indicating that Celestia should store the crime scene mentally. She did as she was told, scanning the chamber as Sherlock paced its length. Mycroft looked on with disapproval, perturbed by Sherlock's attire and messy hair.

The detective paid him no heed. He was missing something. Why would anyone bother to murder Gabriel Hill and waste time dressing and positioning him in a completely separate room. And how could they have even gone about doing it? What did it all mean?