No Vacancy at 221c: A BBC Sherlock Fanfic

Breaking

Mere days after the capture of Celestia Firethorne, one would marvel at the intricate chaos that was 221b. The single wall that usually contained evidence seemed to have bled into the rest of the flat. Any and all pieces of exposed wall had been filled up with articles, documents, pictures -anything, and all things related to two people: Celestia and Sebastian.

Now if one were to pay close attention, there was in no instance a place where a picture of the two people touched. Anything that even stated either of the individuals' names was in no instance touching the other. Indirect evidence such as pictures of the previous crime scenes acted as a buffer between the two. Celestia could never be even close to Sebastian in Sherlock's mind. His twisted craftiness only tainted her and Sherlock fought to keep his memories of the one woman who had cared fresh and genuine in his mind. He couldn't seem to grasp the true reality of the situation. She couldn't be with Sebastian, period. It was an impossible occurrence to the detective. She was simply on holiday, or lost, and it was his job to find her again. There was no way he would allow the possibility of her hurt or neglected to enter his mind.
But he had seen her shot, watched with his own eyes as she had been taken away, you say?

When you don't want something to be true, your mind has a way of forgetting, reevaluating, lying. So the truth became foggy as he pushed it back, morphing into a myth as genuine as a fairytale.

Day after day he scoured the evidence walls, tore apart the internet, interrogated dozens of people, and instructed his homeless network, never giving up hope. He barely slept, but would doze off accidentally in mid-thought. All was perfectly quiet on Baker Street for a solid week. Thinking is, of course, much more efficient then verbal communication. He worked like a machine, never letting his mind waver, and putting his heart on mute as he had so many times before.

Eight days into the disappearance, a small knock sounded through the flat, breaking the silence and emanating through Sherlock's thoughts. He paused, contemplating whether answering would be in his best interests. After a minute, the door swung open slowly with a soft creak. The figure of John Watson slipped into the freezing flat (Sherlock had forgotten it was January apparently) on silent feet. His face was sorrowful and full of regret. The man stopped to stand behind the chair he had once called his own and looked at his best friend who laid on the couch. John cleared his throat loudly, causing Sherlock to look up at him in surprise. "I'm a doctor, Sherlock."

"Yes, I am aware of that, thank you."

John sighed, rubbing his eyes. "And it's my job to identify and remedy people's ailments."

"Oh, really?!" The sarcasm was thick as Sherlock retorted, "I never would have known!"

"Sherlock, please. I know you, and I knew Celestia, and I know that you aren't alright."

"Knew? You still know her John."

The doctor paused, then sat down in the chair. "That's just it," he replied softly. "You don't get it do you?"

"Get what?" His face was so innocent, so oblivious it nearly broke John's heart.

"What happened to her? Tell me, where is she?"

There was a long pause. "She's lost," Sherlock finally answered. "She's lost, that's all. I'll find her, but there's no eminent danger. She's just lost, just lost... just lost." He shook his head as he spoke, blinking his eyes and avoiding eye contact.

"Sherlock, she was hit by the arrow and taken by Sebastian! I hate to force this on you but-"

"Just-it was just a dream, nothing more!"