Why Fireflies Flash
Chapter Twenty-eight
"It's No Longer Inside Of Me"
Despite the soft lighting in the study, Anabeth still had a pair of dark sunglasses perched on her nose trying and failing to shield her from a migraine. This is why she didn't drink. This is why she didn't get high. Because the end result was never as good as the route there.
Anymore should be added. She didn't get high anymore.
John had abruptly demanded she sober up earlier, shortly after she finished that second glass of wine. Anabeth hadn't quite agreed, that is until they'd somehow managed to handcuff her to the table with nothing but a glass of water within her reach. Sure she could easily break free but there was that tiny little part of her brain that agreed with them. So she just gave a cocky smirk and called Sherlock a "kinky sonovabitch" as he slipped the key into his breast pocket.
She'd woke up in his bed once again to find one of Mycroft's minions ready to bring her to the plane.
Although she promptly fell back asleep as soon as she hit the back seat. Her head might have ended up in Sherlock's lap the whole ride.
Faintly she can hear an exasperate Mycroft in the background talking to a fairly confident Irene Adler about the stupid picture phone.
And then Sherlock's speaking, his closer presence causes her to wince at his voice.
Never again, she tells herself. But that was the very same thing she says all the time.
"Can't take all the credit," Adler says, and Ana's ears perk up at that. "Had a bit of help. Uh, Jim Moriarty sends his love."
Ana groans. "Of, course he does. It was you on the phone, wasn't it?" she sneers. "You were the one that made him change his mind that day in the pool. Don't you feel special?" She stands, her migraine forgotten for the moment, replaced by a sudden misplaced fury. "You have all this stuff - this talent - at your disposal. And he'll bring it to your attention make it feel like you're the only one he needs to get the job done. Give you advice on what to do, how to do it. Told you how to play them. The Ice Man, he calls you," she tells the older Holmes. "And The Virgin, despite my arguments. The Consultant Criminal." Slowly she walks towards the table where Adler and Mycroft remain sitting. "Doesn't ask for anything in return. Doesn't need to. He gets off on seeing the trouble, the mayhem, the chaos. And now look at you; a dominatrix. The dominatrix. The one who brought an entire country to its knees. You think you're clever, don't you. You out smarted the Holmes boys. And all it took was a phone call. "Please Jim, help me."
"But there's one thing I guarantee never crossed your mind. He probably never even mentioned it. His first obsession. The first thing that could keep up with him. An easy enough kill, but he didn't count on a naive fifteen-year-old girl. She was innocent when they met. He couldn't kill her, it's quite impossible to. So he corrupted her. Made her the princess of his rapidly expanding reign. His Princess Annie-belle."
She smirks, for once proud to hold the title again. Somewhere along the way she'd lost her sunglasses.
"Not as smart, as either Holmes. Or maybe I am. Just not in the same way." She shrugs. "Doesn't matter much. Nicely played, although no cigar. I wish I could say I figured you out the moment I laid eyes on you. But it really wasn't until you handcuffed me to the table did I realize just how alike we are."
She give Adler a gentle smile, innocent, something reminiscent of her forgotten childhood.
"I mean, it's easy to see. I was drunk, not stupid. It's got everything to do with power. Jim, after all, has a power complex. Wait for it." She hold up her hand, three fingers held up, counting down. Three, two, one.
"Oh," comes Sherlock's realization.
"I'm a Quinn. I'm a Mercoletti." She pouts briefly. "I'm a Moriarty. One glance at my family tree and you see just how much power I have at my finger tips. Plus, I'm the baby. I get whatever I want. It's resulted in Younger Sibling Syndrome, but it's worth it. And you Miss Adler, you have your body. And your picture phone. And a power that I'll never have. Naive and innocent, remember.
"It's was fun, the game he introduced. But you got carried away. And I'll admit, I did too. Which is why I know you far more intimately then these two ever will."
Anabeth drops her gaze to the camera phone.
"May I?" she asks motioning to the device.
"Be my guest," Adler responds.
"You see, I find myself in a very similar... position, shall we say," the American says as she picks the phone up.
"And what is that?"
"They will tell you sentiment is a chemical defect found only in the losing side."
"Sentiment? I don't understand."
S
"But they're sociopaths, and I mean that in the best of ways. Incapable of truly expressing how they feel. Trust me, I've learnt the hard way. Falling in love with two such beings. In my opinion, sentiment is an advantage."
H
"It means I can fully sympathize, empathize with you."
"Oh dear god, look at you," Adler says as she stands. "You don't actually think I was interested in him? Why? Because he's the great Sherlock Holmes? The clever detective in the funny hat?"
E
"No, because-"
"Because I took your pulse," Sherlock interrupts.
Anabeth whips around furious. "No," she lashes. "William Sherlock Scott Holmes, you will sit your ass down and you will keep your mouth shut. Because I am Christabella Moriarty and you do not want to be in my path when I am angry. I'd tell you to ask about it, but I'm pretty I leave no survivors."
She turns back to see Adler, taken aback by the lashing out.
"You paint a self-portrait, when in disguise, no matter how hard you try to hide your true self. Trust me, I spy on people for a living, hide who I am constantly. Sometimes you just break."
She sighs.
"John told me once, that Sherlock doesn't understand love. But that's not quite true. Of course he understands the science side of it, but that's, of course, not what he meant. The emotional part he understands too, but it confuses him. I know this, because I've seen it in his eyes. Brief flickers here and there. And well, if you knew my past, I should be the last person speaking of love. But I married my high school sweetheart so maybe I didn't screw up too much.
"My heart was my sister. I don't know why, it just seemed right to push my feelings into another vessel. I died when she did. But this," she holds up the phone, "is yours. It's your protection, protected itself with countermeasures upon countermeasures. Only God and yourself are able to get in. Well... I might not be God, but I'm pretty damn close."
She chuckles.
R
"You see, Miss Adler, the reason I know all this, the reason I figured this out within a drunken half hour of knowing you is because I find myself... Sherlocked as well." She sets the phone gently back on the table in front of Mycroft. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a plane to catch. It appears I have been emotionally compromised and am no longer assigned to this operation. Good evening."
And with that she leaves the stone silent room with nothing but the soft echo of her heels on the carpeted floor.
Well, damn, Ana, just rant, why dontcha? And to your left you see a pissed off Anabeth.
