No Vacancy at 221c: A BBC Sherlock Fanfic

Fallen Angel

The kiss was soft, sweet, just a gentle brushing of skin against skin that sent Sherlock's brain into red alert. He found himself leaning in subconsciously. What was he of all people doing, thinking he deserved a woman like Celestia? When had he even begun to be attracted to anyone?? Why did his chest feel like it might burst??? For quite the first time in his immediate memory Sherlock Holmes could not think properly. Instead of the rational voice in his head commanding his every move with efficiency and precision, he was now receiving feelings erupting from his heart that he thought had long since been banished.

The indifference that had shielded him for so long now hung dangerously in the balance, threatening to leave him vulnerable. The love and tenderness that he had long since abandoned now rushed back.

But this was dangerous. There was a reason these things were hidden. All they did was bring him hurt and distraction when he was a child. But still he lingered, not wanting to leave the moment. Even as he leaned back slowly he simply stared into the clear glassy grey pools of Celestia's eyes, cool and clear as a winter twilight. His hand still rested on hers, and Sherlock silently cursed the tremor that had overtaken his fingers.

All of this was hidden from Celeste of course. She felt as though she had done something wrong. Sherlock was too brilliant, too incomparable. Could he even feel emotions? Celestia wasn't quite sure, but she couldn't help but reach her free hand up and gently push a stray curl out of his eyes. His face was as solid as stone and as perfect as carved marble. His hand still trembled, but he was perfectly still under her touch. His hair was a rich black, silky and shining in the firelight. Shadows hung under his eyes from the dimness and it gave him a sort of dangerous beauty, mirroring Celestia's thoughts exactly.

"I want to stay," Celestia confessed, her hand absently lingering on his temple before dropping back to her lap. "I want to help you. I know I'm not John, but I can do my best." She offered him a hopeful smile, slightly weak in her insecurity of her ability to perform to Sherlock's desired level.

"I-I would like that," Sherlock said slowly. He jammed his fingers to his temple in frustration, trying to banish the fog that seemed to hover over his mind.

Celestia twisted her hand around and her palm met his. She squeezed her dainty fingers against his reassuringly, comfortingly. "Are you okay?" she inquired with a note of concern. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have done that-"
"No, no it's not you," Sherlock growled. "It's my head. I can't bloody think straight." His eyes were wide, all green and blue and grey and wild, wild like a wild animal, confused and dangerous. A fallen angel of sorts.

"Why don't you at least try to get some rest. It hasn't sounded like you've been getting much sleep with all the banging up there," Celeste suggested gently.

Normally, Sherlock would have refused, deeming sleep a waste of valuable time, but something made him think twice. He couldn't think anyway, and maybe he would be able to function better on a few hours of sleep. So Sherlock nodded slowly in compliance. A brief pause ensued, neither wanted to leave the beautiful moment on that December day in the warmth of the fire, surrounded by the sweet fragrance of its wood.

Finally, Sherlock's fingers disentangled themselves from Celestia's, reluctant to let go of their warmth.

As the door clicked shut and the detective's footsteps disappeared up the stairs, Celeste fell back onto the couch with a contented sigh. Part of her wanted to laugh with joy as she clutched a pillow to her chest and smiled to herself. The blanket had become intertwined with her long legs, leaving her feet warm and toasty, a reflection of how she felt inside, although warm and fuzzy may have been a better way to describe it. Celestia could hardly believe her elementary reaction. She had honestly never acknowledged that she had had any interest in Sherlock at all, but as she looked back she realized it may have been evident all along. It was ridiculous to even imagine that they could end up anything more than friends, but she never would have guessed that what had just happened would.

Celestia closed her eyes, turning her face to the warmth of the blaze that was now beginning to die down. It was useless to speculate how Sherlock felt.
Not consciously at least.

So for the first time in too long, Celestia Firethorne had dreams not haunted by a killer, but a fallen angel.