No Vacancy at 221c: A BBC Sherlock Fanfic

Reality Check

"John, I need you here now. This is imperative!" Sherlock turned his back to the door that led to his room.

Celestia wouldn't let him get near her again. She had woken up with the new found notion that she was simply imagining this. Apparently the previous night had been a dream.

"Why, Sherlock?" he responded tiredly. John had been working on the lead he had mentioned to Mycroft since their meeting, but overnight everything seemed to have fallen apart. The suspect was gone and his records with him. What would he tell Mycroft?

"It's Celeste. She's back."

"What?" The doctor froze, his annoyance ebbing away.

"I don't know what happened, but at about three, she showed up."

"Why do you need me? She isn't hurt, is she?"

"Well... That's what I need your help with. I honestly have no clue."

Something in his voice stopped John from asking any further questions. No clue? That didn't sound like an expression Sherlock Holmes would use.
"I'll be there as quickly as possible," he promised.

Sherlock dropped the phone from his ear and rubbed his face tiredly. He slid down the door to sit on the floor, listening to the muffled sob from the other side.

This wasn't how it was supposed to be.
She was obviously sick; extremely traumatized and who knows what else. Seeing her so small and frail had broken his heart. Why she failed to recognize him was a mystery to him, and it tore him apart every time she had pushed him away.

But, Sherlock thought, that's how life goes. Since when has any event been as expected? Human nature almost requires assumptions and hopes to be made, when in reality the truth is so different. All my life my existence has been dictated by unforeseen occurrences, though I suppose that's true for everyone.

"Maybe," he whispered, barely audibly, "maybe that's why I have to know the raw truth all the time."

The clock seemed to slow with his breathing, dragging by and eventually bringing the sound of someone entering the flat. John impatiently waited for Sherlock to move away from the door before opening it and slipping inside on silent feet.

Celeste was sitting at the edge of the bed, her shoulders slumped forward and her eyes closed. Upon hearing John enter, she turned towards him blindly for a moment, then lay back onto the bed and curled up protectively. She flinched as he sat down gently beside her. "Celestia Firethrone, one of the strongest and most put together people I had ever met." She sat up slightly, her face twisting slightly in recognition as she tried to decide whether this could be real or fictional. John's voice softened. "But I guess we both know that there's no such thing as a put together person." Celeste's face lit up with even more confusion as she sat up further and slowly reached a trembling, minuscule hand out to him. The doctor felt all the guilt multiplied within him as he saw this fractured soul grasp his hand. "Why aren't you happy? Sherlock's been torn apart waiting for you, what's holding you back?"

Celeste was silent for several moments, then answered quickly as if she'd forgotten that he had spoken,"I don't know! I'm just so confused." Gripping her hair in her hands, silent tears began to fall from her tightly shut eyes. "This can't be real, but I want it to be so badly."

"If you're so sure, then why are you confused?" John pried gently, squeezing her hand.

"I never would have imagined you," her hallow voice answered. "Sherlock has been everywhere, but why would I imagine anyone else coming to me?" The blunt emptiness of her reply shocked John, but he saw logic somewhere in the statement. She lowered her voice. "But for all I know my bloody mind could be changing Sebastian into Sherlock." Celestia sighed, "Not that I mind," she muttered. She laughed lightly, "That happens sometimes. I'd get so tired of hearing his voice that I'd pretend I was listening to someone else, or simply step away in my mind and leave the world behind!" She giggled, then resumed her sorrowful silence.

"What would it take to convince you that I'm real?" John asked, wanting to start somewhere (and more than a bit concerned). Sherlock watched quietly through the crack in the door, not that Celeste's eyes were open to see him.

"What do you think?" was the ragged reply. "Tell me what you've wanted to say since I left, only John would do that, in the special, awkward, charming way only he can."

Mr. Watson found himself smiling a small, sad smile. "I'm sorry," he finally answered. "I'm sorry and guilt ridden and foolish and-and stupid, and I fought to get you back, just to try and make myself feel better... See? Even my motives were all messed up."

"John?" Her voice seemed to have lightened. "I'm so sorry, I didn't know it was actually you and I forgive you and-" she fell back onto the bed, with a sob, releasing his hand, "I'm just so tired!"

"Shhh," gently John moved the hair from her eyes and put a pillow under her head. As she wrapped her arms around it and began to quiet again, John decided to ask her one more thing, "What would it take for me to convince you that Sherlock is real?" There was silence a moment as she contemplated his words. "Just your word," John could just make out. "Just tell me honestly, John, I know you'd never lie to someone in such a sorry state," Celeste added, a bit stronger.

"I assure you that Sherlock is as real as I am," the doctor promised.

Sherlock slipped inside, unable to wait any longer. John moved over a bit to allow Sherlock to take one of her hands in both of his and look her straight in the face. "I'm real as can be, please believe that." Tenderly, he stroked Celeste's cheek as lightly as a breeze. "If you'd just open your eyes you'd know, and you'd see that you're home and safe." She froze at the comment.

John shot him a warning glance as if to say "let's not push things".

"Look at me, look me in the eye and tell me I'm not real."

"Sherlock-" she protested.

"Sherlock I'm not sure this is a good-" John blurted.

"I-I think you're real, but I really can't-"

"You're perfectly safe, I promise there's nothing to hide from anymore!"

"It's not that, it's just-"

"Just what?" Sherlock demanded in dismay, fighting the emotion that was clawing at his throat.

"Sherlock-" Celestia whispered in sorrow as she turned to him.

Her eyelids finally opened in the morning light, revealing clouded irises and slashed eyes.

"I'm blind," she choked.