Sherlock was out the door and on the street in the time it took Celestia to pull some decent clothing on and wrestle a jacket over her arms. Did that man sleep in his clothes? She sprinted down the stairs and slipped into a waiting cab just as the door was being pulled shut.
"You were going to leave without me!" she accused breathlessly as the car merged into the flow of traffic.
"I knew you'd be here in time," he replied nonchalantly.
"So where are we going?" Celeste demanded next, turning in her seat to face Sherlock.
"St. James the Less, a church." His hands were clasped, held under his chin and his eyes were shut tightly.
"Wait, isn't that where the whole bonfire thing happened? Something came up over dinner about that."
"It did? I must not have been distracting myself with social frivolities," he mumbled, opening one eye to glance at his companion.
"But it's the same place? I guess that explains the whole 'seared' and 'better hurry' thing. Mary was saying that you were moments from not being able to save him." Celestia shuddered at the thought of being buried under a pile of wood, powerless to prevent your own death by either suffocation or burning to a crisp, whichever came first.
Neither sounded very pleasant. "We have to make it this time."
Determination and fear mingled together on her face. Sherlock didn't appear to be in any hurry to answer any of her questions or comment on any of her irrelevant statements.
A few minutes passed and she was about to ask something else when the car stopped. In front of them, a sea of cars seemed to be suspended in time, held at a standstill. Apparently the Monday before Christmas held a lot of shopping opportunities. The sky was dark and dismal, making it seem much later than 10 o'clock in the morning. It shrouded pedestrians and motorists alike in a gloom of grey. Celestia's anxiety mounted as they crawled forward. Traveling on foot wasn't an option; all they could do was hope that the jam didn't extend past this street.
It took a half hour down several blocks of crowded streets and past a funeral procession until the cab was cruising towards the original destination at more than a snail's pace. Sherlock himself had aroused from his reflective state and was now just as anxious as Celestia. "I forgot to ask before, but uh how did the girl die?" she inquired to distract from the huge task ahead.
"Poisoning," Sherlock answered quickly.
"Wait," a horrible thought began to form in Celestia's mind. "That's how the businesswoman in pink died, the poisonous pill!"
"Just a coincidence probably," Sherlock replied, but Celestia noticed a slight hesitation.
"Sherlock you don't think... The riddles only tell you where the murder will be... right?"
He wouldn't answer. A moment later the detective received a text.
Better hurry, wouldn't want her to be seared! - JW
"Sherlock," Celestia shook his arm, then grabbed the phone and scanned the message.
"Oh. Oh my." She shut her mouth quickly, fighting to retain control. "Please tell me they won't be setting anyone on fire." Her voice was low and deadly, laced with hidden ferocity.
Sherlock simply shook his head, a curl falling over his temple. "We'll find out soon enough."
The cab turned, only a street or two off from the church. Celestia leaned in and urged the cabbie forward. As the building came into sight Sherlock tensed at the pile of wood positioned in the greyness. "Stop the car!" He flung the door open and began to dash down the street, the church still hundreds of yards away, with Celestia hot on his heels. Time seemed to slow as a blaze erupted suddenly, though no one was around, and a shrill scream echoed down the empty street.
Celeste felt her knees get weak and stumbled to keep up as Sherlock bolted into action. Frantically they scanned the yard looking for something, anything. Celeste's eyes finally came to rest on a pump, for watering the gardens she assumed, next to a small shed. Sherlock was soon by her side and breaking the door down by ramming his shoulder into the entrance. Rummaging through the mess of gardening tools and equipment, Celestia finally came upon two large buckets. She shoved one in the detective's direction and bolted toward the pump with a heavy heart and labored breathing.
Bucket after bucket of liquid they poured over the huge flame, finally reducing it to steaming ash and charred wood after a good 45 minutes. Celestia fought tears as Sherlock began to pull the planks away to reveal a figure of blackened skin, singed hair, and a face frozen in an expression of sheer terror. She would be unable to be identified by her physical appearance.
Her whole life had burned away with her. She would be missed, mourned, but she would never again have a chance to walk the earth, to know what it truly is to be human. She was probably no more than 25. As the police cars came wailing down the street, the lights flashing in the half-light, Celestia buried her face in Sherlock's shoulder as he gazed sorrowfully, angrily, at the smoking remains.
YOU ARE READING
No Vacancy at 221c: A BBC Sherlock Fanfic
Fanfiction*As featured on the official Sherlock reading list* The daughter of a wealthy Australian diplomat, Celestia Firethorne has fled to London to avoid her family's high expectations and a client turned stalker. When she comes across the long empty 221c...
