Why Fireflies Flash
Chapter Twelve
"Forgive and Forget"

St. Bart's Hospital

"This hospital's full of people dying, doctor. Why don't you go and cry by their bedside? See what good it does then"

Anabeth rolls her eyes from her spot in front of the computer screen, where she's been sitting for the last hour or so. She hadn't met with them immediately, choosing to go to her hair appointment first, so now in addition to her straight, high pony tail, she also had a full fringe of bangs covering her forehead, and was put in charge of watching the program for the mass spectrometer run through results.

"Just because you or I don't, doesn't mean others don't have feelings Holmes."

He doesn't answer. Just pushes Anabeth out of the way as the computer alerts them to a result.

"Any luck?" Miss Hooper says as she cheerfully bursts through the doors. She bounces past Anabeth to stand between her and Sherlock.

"Oh, sorry, I didn't..."

Anabeth freezes at the voice and dares not turn. Despite closing her eyes tightly, she still knows Sherlock is eying her curious.

"Jim! Hi! Come in! Come in," Molly repeats. Once he's standing behind her, she motions to her other guests. "Jim, this is Sherlock Holmes."

"Ah," Jim says like he recognizes the name from one of many stories told to him.

She looks to John. "And uhh, sorry..."

"John Watson, hi."

Molly smiles apologetically and spins around like she's forgotten something. "And Anabeth Ryder."

Anabeth has never been more happy for Mycroft's persistence as she is then. She doesn't even glance from her phone with her short, southern "Heya."

"Hi," Jim says noncommittal. "So you're Sherlock Holmes. Molly's told me all about you. Are you on one of your cases?"

Anabeth looks up and squints at her lover.

"Jim works in IT upstairs," Molly tells the group. "That's how we met. Office romance." She says it with a certain feel of "Ha! I don't need to love you!"

Anabeth would have filed it a way for later, but she's too distracted by the way Sherlock sneaks a glance at Jim.

"Gay," he mumbles.

Molly stops mid giggle. "Sorry, what?"

"Nothing," Sherlock lies, shaking his head. "Um, hey."

"Hi," Jim breathes. He swings his hand slightly in a faux nervous tick and knocks something to the floor. He scrambles to pick it up and lay it back in it's original spot. "Well, I best be off. I'll see you tonight at the Fox?" he asks of Molly. "At six-ish?"

Molly nods eagerly. And that she does store for later.

"Bye, it was nice to meet you." Although his hand is at the top of Molly's back, Jim's looking at Sherlock almost longingly. Anabeth can taste blood, as it fills her mouth from where she's bitten her tongue.

"You too," John says after an awkward moment.

He smiles halfheartedly. He leaves then, shooting Anabeth a cursory glance. Their gaze locks briefly before he's behind her and gone.

"What do you mean gay?" Molly asks as soon as the door is shut. "We're together."

"And domestic bliss must suit you, Molly. You've put on three pounds since I last saw you."

"Two and a half," she nearly growls.

"Ehr, three."

"He's not gay," and this time she does growl. "Why do you have to spoil- He's not."

"With that level of personal grooming?"

"Because he puts a little product in his hair?" John asks. "I put product in my hair."

"You wash your hair, there's a difference. No, no-"

"Holmes," Anabeth snaps, cutting him off. She stands and places a reassuring hand on Molly's arm. "Molly, sweetheart, I hate to break it to you but Holmes is right. Now I could list all the reasons as to why I know he is, and Holmes could as well, albeit more harshly, but the main reason, the biggest one, he left his number for Holmes beneath that dish."

"What?" Molly questions, tears nearly falling from her eyes.

Sherlock pulls the small piece of paper from it's hiding spot. "I'd say you better break it off now and save yourself a bit of pain."

Heartbroken and pissed off, Molly stomps from the room.

"Charming." John says sarcastically. "Well done."

"Just saving her time. Isn't that kinder?"

"Kinder?" Anabeth gapes. "Kinder? Holmes, you're lucky I was here, since John is so privy to watch your deductions. At least Molly will still speak to you now."

Sherlock sighs and tosses the paper away. He nods for her and John to both look at the shoes. "Go on then. Hmm? You know what I do. Off you go."

John glances at his watch. "Haha no."

"Go on."

"I'm not going to stand here so you can humiliate me while I try and dissimulate-"

"An outside eye, a second opinion. It's very useful to me." He glances over at his flatmate. "Really."

John stares back in challenge before giving in and picking up the shoe. "They're just a pair of shoes, trainers."

"Good."

"Um, they're in good nick. I'd say they were fairly new, except the soles are well warn, so the owner must've had them for a while. Very eighties, probably one of those retro designs."

"You're in sparkling form. What else?"

"Well, they're quite big, so a man's."

"But..?"

John turns the shoe over a couple of times and glances in the other one. "But there's traces of a name inside. In felt tip. Adults don't write their name inside shoes, so these belong to a kid."

"Excellent," Sherlock compliments. "What else?"

"Uhh, I dunno. That's it."

"That's it?

John nods. "How did I do?"

"Well, John. Really well," Sherlock repeats. "You missed almost everything of importance. But, um, good. Anabeth? Have a go."

The black haired girl smiles and takes the shoe from John. "The owner loved them, whitened them when they became discolored. Changed the laces multiple times. I want to say five? No, only four. He suffered from eczema, the owner did; there is traces of skin where his fingers came into contact." She flips the shoe upside down and studies the bottom close up. "Well-worn sole on the inside, weak arches; not unlike me as a child. British made, twenty years old."

"Twenty?" John wonders.

"They're not retro," Sherlock says, pulling up a photo on his phone. "They're original. Limited edition, two blue stripes, 1989."

"But there's still mud on them, they look new," argues John.

"Someone's kept them that way. Quite a bit of mud caked on the bottom."

Anabeth's phone vibrates. "Mass spect says it's from Sussex with a touch of London," she tells as she reads the text. "Excuse me boys. I must go."

Texts between John Watson and Anabeth Ryder

You ran off quite fast. Everything alright? JW

I'm all right. No worries. AR

You haven't been around much. Are you sure? JW

I was only around because of the case, John. If you remember I never was beforehand. AR

Sorry. You just seem off lately. JW

I assure you I'm fine. AR

Good. JW

Sherlock had a break through on the case. JW

Good for him. I need to concentrate. L8r. AW

Texts Between Sherlock Holmes and Anabeth Quinn

Carl Powers (1976-1989) murdered by botulinum toxin. SH

What? AR

The case. The trainers. It all led to Carl Powers. SH

A kid that was murdered by botox? AR

Easy enough to slip it in his medicine. Applies the cream, a few hours later arrives in London and dies in the pool. Undetectable because no one would ever look

for it. SH

No one except you. AR

Another puzzle. SH

I have a feeling you're enjoying this too much. AR

Janus Cars. 2 hours. SH

Busy. AR

It'll only take 15. SH

What did you do before you met me? Honestly, I am not a doll to be carried around. AR

Ian Mumford faked his own death. SH

What part of busy do you not understand? AR

He's living in Columbia now. Thanks to Janus Cars. SH

Your brother will not stop texting me. AR

What do you want me to do? He's bored. SH

Get him to stop. AR

Connie Prince is the next puzzle. SH

Twelve hours to solve it. SH

Could use your help. SH

Time was just cut by five hours. SH

The hell am I supposed to do about that? AR

Could use your opinion. SH

Holy fuck. BUSY! AR

The explosion. That was you, was it not? AR

Solved the case with hours to spare. The woman started to tell me about him. SH

Texts between John Watson and Anabeth Ryder

Sherlock's being a bloody wanker. JW

And you just now noticed. Do not pull me into your domestic disputes. AR

Texts between Sherlock Holmes and Anabeth Quinn

The painting's a fake. SH

Yes, yes it is. AR

A paining known to have been destroyed ages ago suddenly appears. Obviously it's forged. AR

But how? SH

I suppose it's a bad time to not know the solar system. AR

What do you mean? SH

Van Buren Supernova. SH

Very good, Holmes. AR

How did you know? SH

I have my sources. AR

What do you know of a man named Moriarty? SH

Just whispers. AR

Keep an eye on your friends AR

What? SH

Why? SH

Anabeth? SH

The Pool

In the empty pool area, doors echo loudly. Footsteps too. And voices.

"Brought you a little getting to know you present. Oh, it's what it's all been for isn't it? All your little puzzles making me dance. All to distract me from this."

Some doors are louder than others. Footsteps lost in the echo. But not the voices.

"Evening. This is a turn up, isn't Sherlock?"

"John? What the hell?"

"Bet you never saw this coming. What... would you like me... to make him say... next?"

Desperately slow footsteps are the loudest when you're being hunted.

"Gotlogeer. Gotlogeer. Gotlogeer."

"Stop it."

"Nice touch this, the pool. Where little Carl died. I stopped him... I can stop John Watson, too... stop his heart."

"Who are you?"

Some doors are silent.

"I gave you my number."