Why Fireflies Flash
Chapter One
"Hush, Hush"
"She's a quiet one, that girl Anabeth, the one renting the other flat," Mrs Hudson says to Sherlock one morning. "Though, I suppose most artists are. And she keeps the strangest hours. Staying home all day, only to be out all night. An American too. Maybe you should introduce yourself?"
Sherlock ignored her, continuing to stare into the microscope placed in front of him.
"We're in the middle of a case at the moment, he's not going to answer," John speaks up from his spot in front of his laptop.
"The end of a case," Sherlock says flippantly as he pulled his phone from his pocket. "We're meeting Lestrade at Bart's."
John rolls his eyes, stands to follow his best friend, and plants a friendly kiss on Mrs. Hudson's temple. "Tomorrow," he promises. "I'll even drag Sherlock with me."
"Coming, John?"
"Be careful, you two."
"Always am!" Sherlock calls up the stairwell.
They didn't return until late that night, Sherlock stumbling around still drugged by the bartender, who was, of course, the murderer. While John was left behind to deal with the cabbie (who'd become irate after Sherlock's very thorough, very correct, deduction of his twelve year marriage ending in a long drawn out divorce, in which he lost visiting rights for his children, after not one but five very bad affairs on her account) Sherlock stumbled up the door of 221B Baker Street. However, when he went to open the door, the handle was wrenched out of his hand.
"Oh Lord!" the woman said, hand over her heart. She gave a half giggle half snort sort of laugh at her own embarrassment. "You nearly scared me half to death! You must be one of the boys upstairs. I'm Anabeth Ryder."
He didn't bother paying any attention to what she said, instead choosing to unravel her by what she wore; an off-white coloured ruffled blouse tucked into a black pencil skirt that was just above the length deemed appropriate for professional use. Well... it really depended on the profession.
Her hair, a natural jet black, was straightened and pulled into a high pony (practical). And speaking of high, the spikes on her feet had to be six inches at least (impractical and further proves his theory of her profession) and pale blue that, unsurprisingly, matched her eye colour, pocketbook, and near perfect manicure (there were a few chips and paint under her nails, an artist indeed). Her makeup was light and natural; opting for just a swipe or two of mascara and a pinkish shimmer that complimented her olive skin tone quite nicely (spends a lot of time tanning). She held herself like a woman in charge (she enjoyed power) but she tried desperately to hide it (doesn't want to stand out too much). The only jewelry she wore were hoop earrings and a pair of diamond studs in her ears and two gold chains around her neck, one older and obviously less cared for than the other (possibly a family heirloom, most likely a locket given to her as an unwelcome gift, she wears it in spite of her dislike of the person, it is an antique after all).
As for her voice and what she said, a Southeast American accent probably Virginian, North Carolinian or Tennessean, possibly a mixture of all three (with a hint of Georgian, specifically Savannah probably sent to finishing school). She threw her hand over her heart or rather her chest where the necklaces resting. The exclamation of "Oh Lord" combined with the aforementioned fact, the other necklace is probably a cross given to her at her baptism, suggesting she's highly religious (Baptist or Presbyterian, given where she's from).
"Conclusion: Anabeth Ryder is a high class prostitute, one willing to play the part of dominatrix easily, probably against her parents' wishes. What whore didn't? Probably why she moved across an entire ocean. Phone calls and text messages are easy enough to ignore. Although, going by the emotionless look in her eyes, she's hiding something. Something serious, more likely the reason she moved to London."
A raised eyebrow and a breathy "Ah," from Anabeth in addition to a highly upset "Sherlock!" from John told the detective that the last part, if not all of it, was spoken aloud.
"You," Anabeth said looking down at her shoes briefly, "must be Sherlock Holmes. Which means," she smiled at John, "you are Dr. Watson. Anabeth Ryder. Pleased to meet you."
"You as well. And please call me John."
Anabeth's grin seemed to grow. "John then. I must say, Holmes, I'm impressed. Mrs. Hudson warned me about your interesting...hobby. And as I hate to admit, you're right on most accounts. I am a Southern Belle. Virginian, born and raised, though I did spend my junior high years with my grandparents in Savannah. I do come from a church-goin' family, Roman Catholic though. Baptized in the Vatican of all places, where I received this," she held up the golden cross hidden in her bosom. "I did move here partially because of my family and partially because I'm hiding something. Good eyes, by the way. Pun not intended."
"You had to humor him," John mumbled.
"What did I miss?" Sherlock questions. "I always miss something."
She gives a shrug. "Think about it, it'll come to you. As for me," she points to something over their shoulders, "that's my ride. Best not upset the boss-man. See y'all later, yes?" She slips by and saunters towards the shiny black sedan waiting at the curb. "Oh, and Holmes?" she says at the door is opened.
Sherlock turned around, nearly losing the remainder of his balance.
"I prefer the term 'call girl.' It's a bit more professional, don'tcha think?" With a wink she disappeared into the dark of the car, shutting the door behind her.
"She's not a 'call girl'," Sherlock says as the car pulls away.
John shakes his head, a grimace on his face.
"Not good?"
"A lot not good, Sherlock," John snaps. "You can't just go around accusing our neighbors of being call girls."
"Why not? Mrs. Hudson does it."
"Well, Mrs. Hudson's...Mrs. Hudson," he decided.
"I wonder if she's gotten to the wife in Doncaster yet..." Sherlock mumbles. "Doesn't matter. Anabeth's not a call girl, as it were."
"Then what is she?"
"I don't know."
Inside The Car
"So, I see you've met my brother. Finally."
Quinn rolled her eyes. "Oh yes. He does seem to be quite the piece of work."
"Does he suspect anything?" Mycroft wonders.
"Of me?" With pursed lips she shook her head. "Not yet. But he was drugged. Fully functioning, but his inhibitions and morals severely lowered, GHB is my guess. The date rape drug. He will not remember me in the morning. But with the right... stimulation, his memory will be jogged. Considering he nearly figured me out on the stoop, he will probably figure me out sooner rather than later. I would expect a phone call in a week or so. Now, I really do need to get to work. So if you could just drop me off at the club, I would appreciate it."
221B Baker Street
The Next Morning
"Sleeping Beauty's finally made it up, I see."
John smiled at the new neighbor. "Woke up about three hours after you left."
"So a full eight hours then? Good. The drugs have worn off then. How are you feeling?"
The brief conversation left the detective slightly confused.
"Of course," Anabeth says. "You probably don't remember me. I'm Anabeth Ryder. We met last night, during your drug induced state. You deduced me in less than a minute. I was impressed."
Sherlock squinted slightly as something jogged his memory.
"I prefer the term 'call girl.' It's a bit more professional, don'tcha think?"
Anabeth was dressed more conservative this morning, in a mint wrap dress that went just past her knees, black and mint platform sandals (only four inches this time), her hair was still pulled into that ponytail. There was something familiar looking about her. No doubt because of the meeting last night.
"You're not a call girl."
She smirked. "Oh? Am I not?"
"No."
"Hmm. Interesting. Anyway, just came up here to see if either of you wanted to join me for tea. Today's my day off and I thought I'd spend some time with my neighbors. Mrs. Hudson's next door at the bakery. She'll get somewhere, but bless her heart, he's got two wives already."
Sherlock squinted his eyes at her. "How did you know that?"
"I just observed. Like you, I guess. I suppose my eidetic memory helps in some ways."
"Eidetic?" John asks.
"Photograpic, in layman's terms," Anabeth says. "She's a sweet old lady. Shame about her husband really. Almost married a guy like that once. Left me at the altar. Thank God he did too. I ran into him about four months back. Not exactly where I saw myself headed sixteen years ago. Sorry, I'm ramblin' again, ain't I?"
"Aren't," Sherlock corrected.
"Hmm? Oh yes. Sorry. I'm normally a lot more formal than this. Must be me missing home. Anywho, tea? If now's not a good time, it's understandable. We'll get to know each other eventually. I do live just downstairs. I know it's a basement apartm – no, I'm in the UK it's flat – a basement flat, but with the right paint job and furnishings, it'll be ju... Sorry, I'm rambling again. So, tea?"
"We were just leaving," the detective states grabbing his coat off the back of the door.
Clearly this message wasn't passed along to John, for he continued to sit in his chair looking like a deer in the headlights. "We were?"
"Yes, John. I need to go to the bank. Anabeth, you're welcome to join us."
"Well, I have been holed up here for the most part. I think a trip out is just what the doctor ordered."
Shad Sanderson Investment Bank
Anabeth glanced around. She'd been in here before, a few times actually. Not for years, of course. Something to do with a past file. She couldn't be bothered to remember. It was a dreadfully dull mission, one that even her handler thought would've lasted longer. And Alfie knew her potential.
"When you said we were going to the bank," John begins.
Anabeth has to stifle a true eye roll. "I might have only know him for just over twelve hours but from what I read on your blog, Holmes doesn't seem to be the type to run petty errands like this. My guess is he's got a case."
John chooses to ignore her reasoning as they hop on the escalator to the reception desk. It seemed the detective's name really could get him into places.
"Sherlock Holmes."
Anabeth looked up from her visual perusing. The office hadn't changed much in the two years she hadn't been here. The only thing really missing was the picture of his wife. Well, ex-wife now, the ring is missing too. Serves him right.
"Sebastian," Sherlock announces as shakes the man's hand.
"Hiya Buddy. How long's it been? Eight years since I last clapped eyes on you?" He smiled the closed mouth smile that annoyed the hell out of Anabeth.
"These are my friends, John Watson and-"
"Anabeth Ryder. Been a while hasn't it?"
"Two years actually."
Sherlock stared at her emotionless. "You know him?"
"Of course," Anabeth says with a knowing smirk. "I know him a bit more...intimately...than you, though. Let's hope this meeting doesn't end up like last time, yes? Wouldn't want to embarrass you like that again."