No Vacancy at 221c: A BBC Sherlock Fanfic

The Blind Detective

"The National Antiquities Museum? You were left in a dark alley beside the National Antiquities Museum?" John Watson had been awoken from his rather lengthy nap and was now refreshed and shocked. "That's a strange place to be left I'd say, but I swear when Sherlock finds out-"

"When I find out what?" The detective's voice echoed down the hall, footsteps heard steadily approaching. As his head of unruly curls, still dotted with silvery snow, popped around the doorframe, Celestia's anger bristled. Not towards him of course, but wouldn't you be a bit angry if you'd been drugged and left in random places twice in one day?

"I woke up in another alleyway," she snapped. "I go out for ten seconds and I wind up in the dark in front of some random museum." Sherlock scowled, his jaw tightening. "What, is this some practical joke? Because it isn't funny. It's too passive for Sebastian, so that means I've got two people on my heels. Just great!" She threw her hands up in exasperation. "I hate this, I can't even look after myself anymore," mumbled Celeste, sinking back into the chair she presided in.

"Wait, Sherlock, isn't that the museum Soo Lin worked at?"

"Indeed it is," Sherlock confirmed, standing up straight, abandoning the door frame's support. "And the Lucky Cat was present in that case as well, if I remember correctly," he paused, "and my recollection is impeccable," he added quickly.

"You don't think the Black Lotus is back-"

"Oh, no of course not, don't be absurd, John!" The detective seemed to struggle with a thought as the doctor closed his mouth with a glare.

"Did you um, find anything while you were away?" Celeste's small voice asked, veering the conversation away from herself. She seldom lost her temper anymore, and she was feeling horrible about yelling at Sherlock.

"No," answered Sherlock exasperatedly, "nothing to suggest anything but a random and extremely well thought out act of violence."

"Almost like this weird kidnapping nonsense," interjected the doctor.

"No suspect, no clue, no motive," murmured Sherlock under his breath.

"Is it impossible to consider they may be related in any way?" suggested John hesitantly.

"Improbable, yes. Impossible? Of course not." Here he paused, eyes half closed as he shut the door and walked deeper into the room, pacing with his hand running across the shining, perfectly dust-free mantle.

"Celeste?" he said suddenly, "I assume you have the room still memorized, as I instructed you to?

"From the murder? On Christmas? Yeah, of course." At this the detective whipped out his phone, pressing a few buttons before handing the device to Celestia. The screen displayed pictures of the room as he had seen it a few hours earlier.

"Do you see anything different, anything at all?" he questioned, after a moment. He sat close beside her, ignoring the heavy beating of his heart and the huge relief that had been constantly washing over him in place of the uncertainty her absence had brought him.

"Yeah, I'll say. It looks like a few things are missing..."

"Missing?" John repeated, obviously perplexed.

"Yes, the coffee table's contents for one thing."

"Tell me," demanded Sherlock, turning his body to face hers.

"There was a teapot. Kind of brownish ceramic. It looked old, and something about it seemed Asian to me," Celestia answered, closing her eyes. "And, there was a black flower in it. I don't think I really noticed it before, but it's quite pretty."

"It isn't a lotus is it?"

She considered the possibility. "I think you're right, John, I couldn't think of the name." She opened her eyes to see Mr. Watson furrowing his brow in thought. Flipping through the pictures, Celestia came across an image of the bookcase, tall, broad, and solid. After careful examination it was concluded that something was amiss. "There was a book right here." She pointed a dainty finger at a shelf about five feet off the ground. "Wait," she closed her eyes, "China: An Exhaustive History of an Ancient People. It was pretty huge, some four inches thick. It was obviously meant to be seen, gold lettering, leather, you name it."

John was confused. "What's with all the oriental influences?"

"Yeah, Sherlock, all the elements missing and the locations I've been left in all point to the same thing! And, not to change the subject or anything, but where's James Welsh? No more notes, no riddles, no texts, no anything. For all we know he could be the one responsible for all this nonsense!"

Sherlock's eyes lit up, burning with increased intensity as she spoke. "Oh, but he is," he whispered. Leaning back, his pupils began flicking this way and that, as if reading an invisible document. "We haven't gotten a riddle, because the message has already been delivered."

Someone spoke up. John Watson. "Excuse me?"

"The riddles, John! Every one could be traced back to one of our cases. The murder wasn't pointless; the kidnappings weren't void of meaning! They are the message-" he groaned, "how could I have been so blind!"

"The Blind Banker! That's what I named the case on the blog, the Blind Banker!"

"So where do we go and what's he going to do next?" Celestia asked, jumping into the escalating conversation once again.

"The circus, it has to be. As for what he's doing, I don't know. A glorified riddle calls for a glorified crime. This won't be an ordinary murder. We'd better be fast. Sebastian Moran is getting creative."

His eyes burned, reflecting the newly built up fire in the hearth as he stood up, his coat falling magnificently around him, a fallen angel in all his splendor.

"The East Wind is coming."