Why Fireflies Flash
Chapter Nineteen
"No, I Won't Fight"

It happened at the next crime scene. One last clue before the big ordeal, just in case. The letter left on the body was worthless, having spent the night in the rain beforehand.

Lestrade and his team had already worked the scene like any other before the letter was even found. When it was found nearly down the drainage grate, and Sherlock, John and Anabeth were called, the team was told to wrap it up. The crime scene was only two blocks from Baker Street and the trio, with the addition of Blizzard, were there in no more than four minutes, partially because Anabeth sprinted.

In fact she sprinted all the way to the body of a young girl, lying in the grass.

"Kyra Devore," Lestrade tells as John analyzes the body and Sherlock scopes the scene, "seventeen-"

"Repeat the name," Anabeth asks softly, almost distracted.

"What?"

"The name," Sherlock snaps. "Repeat the name."

"Kyra Devore? Did you know her?"

Anabeth shakes her head and turns to the large tree not too far away. "Does that tree look like a woman to you?"

"What?"

She waves her hand to dismiss the question and walks toward the tree. Something hidden the grass, and upon further inspection something belonging to Forensics, Anderson in particular, doesn't hit the stiletto of Anabeth's shoe quite right, or rather vise versa, and she trips.

Well, the heel of her shoe snaps and she twists her ankle and rather than fight it she just went with it, her hands out stretched to catch herself. She never needed to, for Sherlock managed to catch her before she hit the ground.

"Alright?" he asks as they sit in the wet grass together.

"Fine," she breathes. "Just twisted my ankle is all."

"Let me see," he says getting to his knees.

She chuckled and toes her shoes off. "Never thought I'd see you on your knees for me."

"Don't get used to it. Your ankle is starting to swell."

She rolls her eyes. "That tends to happen with a sprain. It just needs to be wrapped and iced. I sprained a lot of things growing up. Dancing is hard." She rolls her ankle with a small hiss of pain that she tries hiding behind clenched teeth. "I can move it. It's not broken."

"Has anyone seen-"

Sherlock turns toward the specialist snatching whatever it was from the grass and tossed it harshly at him. "Pick up after yourself, Anderson. People could get hurt."

"People did get hurt," Anabeth pipes up. "If you worked for me, you'd have been fired for being incompetent." She puts her good foot flat to the ground in preparation to stand. "And you've broken my favorite heels. That's $684, American of course. Give me a moment and I can convert it."

"Something akin to 500 quid," Sherlock says as he pulls at Anabeth's ankle to rest beside the other and waves Anderson off. "Anabeth sit down."

"With the current exchange rate, it's more akin to 424 quid, not 500. That's nearly 200 more American dollars than these shoes are worth." She pulls her ankle out of his gloved hand. "Stop mother-henning and help me stand. I twisted my ankle, I didn't break it."

Sherlock simply glared at her.

"The clue is buried beneath that tree," she sighs. "Sherlock-"

"Christabella."

"Fine," she sighs after a short staring contest. "At least go get the clue. It's hidden beneath a patch of sod easily lifted and in a sandwich bag probably," she tells him as he stands and walks away. "Maybe a shoe box, he likes giving me things. Don't fall in the hole! We don't need the both of us crippled."

She sighs heavily and lies back in the grass, the rain water soaking through the rest of her dress and her hair. John leans over her a minute later.

"You alright?" he wonders.

She shrugs and sits up. "Anderson left something behind, I tripped and sprained my ankle, Holmes is treating me like an invalid, and my ass is wet." She chuckles. "Oh and my favorite shoes are ruined. So, yeah, I'm all right." Her sassy, sarcastic tone brings a smile to John's face as he kneels down to check out the now bruising ankle.

He states the fact to her and receives an eye roll in return. It shocks him to some extent, the amount of emotion and sass coming from her today, but then he thinks better of it and keeps his mouth shut while he helps her up.

"Don't put any weight on it," Sherlock says as he comes bearing what once was a silver shoe box.

"No shit, Sherlock." Anabeth wraps her arm around John, who helps her hobble to the street. An affair made slightly awkward by the four inch height difference, Anabeth being the taller, and John's decision to touch her as little as possible.

"Oh for god's sake," Sherlock mumbles, thrusting the muddy shoe box into John's hands, "hold this." In the next second, Anabeth is swept off her feet and into Sherlock's arms.

"Fu- Holmes! Put me down! I can walk!"

"Not without help," he tells as he shifts her weight so she leaning into him and she has to wrap her arm around his neck to remain comfortable. "John would be good and fine, but he won't touch you. I am too tall to effectively have your arm on my shoulder. Did you really expect to hop the whole four blocks back?"

"I don't like being babied."

"Just so."

"Look, honey, sweetheart, darling, love of my life," Anabeth says with a mock sweetness that the detective raises a brow at, "I know we were lookin' at weddin' dresses and all yesterday, but I'm fairly sure this is part of the honeymoon."

"Shoes," John says from slightly behind them. "Silver strappy shoes, a note and a blue gift bag. That's what's in the box."

"From Tiffany's no doubt," Quinn calls back. "Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany's is my favorite movie."

221b Baker Street

"You carried her four blocks because of a sprained ankle?" Hannah asked incredulous as she watched John wrap her ankle.

"I am not exactly light either," Quinn quips. "Ow, a little more loose, please."

"You're not exactly heavy either. I'd say 120 maybe 121," comes Sherlock's answer.

Anabeth has to smile. Because if he could tell Molly had gained three pounds by looking at her, then he certainly could tell how much she weighed whilst she was in his arms. And she definitely wasn't 121 on a good day. Not that she was fat, or even "big boned." She wasn't. She just happened to be bigger than most. Still there wasn't an ounce of fat on her body anywhere. In fact, most of her weight came from her more than ample bosom and muscular dancer's legs. Muscle was heavier than fat. That still didn't mean she didn't wear a size 14 pant and a 16 dress. It had to go over her bosom after all.

"Still did not need to carry me all the way back," she mumbles. "How am I supposed to wear the shoes with a twisted ankle? I cannot vary from his instructions the slightest bit. I cannot risk Emily's life like that."

Hannah shrugs. "Denver '94."

"What of it?"

"The competition. You twisted your ankle right before your performance."

"I came in fourth that year because of it."

"Yet you still performed."

"Yeah, and ending up breaking my ankle completely. That is why it is in the shape it is now." Anabeth rolls her eyes and hisses when a cold compress is placed on top of her foot. "And then I was in ballet slippers not six inch spikes."

"Play an accompaniment," Hannah suggests. "Sit at the piano, don't stand the whole time. Why are you complicating it?"

Quinn sighs softly and shifts to get more comfortable. "What the hell do I sing?" It's breathless like she's trying to keep her breathing rate normal.

Really enjoyed writing this chapter. Almost as much as I enjoy chapter 21. You guys are almost caught up to me and I haven't even reached Bond Air.