Why Fireflies Flash
Chapter Seventeen
"The Worst Things in Life Come Free to Us"

Bank of Thames River

It was less than twelve hours before the next body was found. Sherlock had beaten Quinn there and already had John looking at the body.

"You're a Quinn," he says all-knowingly as he hands her an envelope.

"Pardon?" Anabeth frowns. "The Equerry did introduce me as such, this is not news to you."

"Your family is rather wealthy. No doubt because of the success of the vineyard in rural Virginia. But also because of dealing in the past, not all of them legal. Fourth generation Irish-American on your father's side, one-quarter Cherokee and second generation Italian-American on your mother's side, which is where you get your appearance, though you look nothing like your mother and you have your father's eyes. The color of which is enhanced by colored contacts. You're near sighted, your left eye is worse than your right. You racked up quite a rap sheet as a juvenile. The cause of your sister's losing battle with cancer. Most of it was expunged shortly before your decision to join the US Marine Corps. Before that, however, before your sister's death even, you were engaged. The wedding set for June 10th, 1996. But that was the second time it was postponed. The first date set sometime in February-"

"February 22," Quinn snaps.

"A date you still remember. The very day you met your now ex-fiancé. Your sister's cancer is what postponed it. It went back into remission just a month later and chose the first date available. Should have stuck with February, Miss Quinn. He still loved you then. He left you at the altar."

"Just before he said I do." Her comment is full of snide and anger.

"You're the only Quinn to be left at the altar. Not a good feeling, I imagine. Also not why you chose to lock your feelings away is it? Unlike what your family thinks. It was only a stepping stone to the matter. Your parents sudden dislike for everything you did afterward, more so your sister's disappointment. And let's not forget the brief return trip to Georgia, the one your sister died on. Nothing good comes from visiting Georgia, at least not for you; those brought us even closer to the edge. So what pushed you over?"

"You are wrong. Yes, those things are valid reasons, given my past as," she hold up the letter, "this man has stated. But do not take the word of a murderer as gospel. No good will come of it, I assure you. What pushed me over this metaphysical edge as you called it? Payton called me, just like she did every night. And I, like every night, sang her to sleep. Adult or not, hospitals frightened her, and the only way she could sleep was if I sang to her. Only me. I often am grouped with Alfie and Archie since we are closest in age. And on occasion Fiona is thrown in there too, with me as the centerpiece. But Payton was my twin, though she had two of her own. I was a younger her.

"It was 8:46 when I noticed she had gone asleep. I hung up just a moment later. I received a call the next afternoon, from Alfie… seemed he had drawn the short straw. Ces't la vie. Her time of death was 9:50, take into account the hour time difference, and the fact that it took four minutes for a nurse to reach her room… That is what caused me to fall. That is why I have locked my emotions away."

She looks down to the envelope in her hand, the too elegant script glaring up at her. "To Whom it may Concern" scribbled on the front. Faintly, she can hear the ghost of the sound of her own quill echo down the bank of the Thames.

"This letter was not for me, but you. This clue, this body, this scene; yours. He knows you will share this with me. A "one step back" sort of deal. The information found in this half assed biography, I know. I dictated this to him-"

Sherlock cuts her off with a strange glare/confused look. "You keep saying "him"? Do you know who "he" is?"

"Four years ago, I was on tour in Iraq. And if I remember correctly, yesterday four years ago, we had had a semi-relaxing day, just some off time on base. A couple of guys and I had a little to drink, played some football and chatted about home." She shrugs. It could have been any number of men or woman in her platoon. But there was always that one man, Bryson something, that always struck her as weird and out there. "I have an inkling."

221C Baker Street

Waking up to the incessant tapping at her door at three o'clock the next morning is not how Anabeth planned to start her day. Actually, she really didn't plan anything besides finding another body, making the total to three. But still, three am was pushing it.

On the other side of her bedroom door was none other than the man upstairs. She winced at the wording her sleep deprived brain created and glared at the intruder. Because breaking into someone's apartment was one thing but casually walking through the unlocked bedroom door was another, though later with a rational, fully awake brain, she supposed that his reaction to her in nothing but the black silk robe, which hung open, was enough to explain his reasoning. And forgive him for the breaking and entering in the first place. His reactions to her body will never not send a jolt of pleasure through her.

She does wrap the silk thing around herself. "Sorry. Did you need something?"

Sherlock clears his throat and focuses on something behind her. Most likely Lizzy who remained asleep on the bed. "You didn't respond to any of my texts or Alfie's phone calls."

"Uh, yeah. My phone is off. I enjoy sleeping," her voice holds a disrespectful, condescending tone. "As you know, I have a very difficult schedule to keep up with." She turns and heads back into the bedroom to slip on some clothes.

Alley Behind The Hummingbird Bakery, Soho

Little Charlotte Ames, a fan of Agatha Christie, choked to death on a cupcake. You like to bake, don't you? You're in charge of desserts come Christmas time in the Quinn manner, are you not? Do you know how hard it is to find American's that have crossed your path without recognizing you?

Three bodies on your conscious now... well, four. The old lady during The Great Game, you pulled the trigger did you not? You can stop this. All you need is to find your voice again, mon cher. It's not looking too good for you. Or London. Three bodies...one more and they announce a serial killer...

"I don't understand," Alfie states. "I thought he was supposed to give you clues as to where Emily was hidden?"

"He did." Anabeth says standing in the middle of the alley. "Pay no attention to the letter. Analyze it if you must. It's more like a clue to a clue."

"What-"

Anabeth glares at her brother briefly before returning to her stance. Her fingers laced except her forefingers were pressed together and tapping her nose. Her eyes, though closed, were hidden behind black ovular glasses. In her mind, pinned onto some wall somewhere was a map of London.

The letter and murder, led quite obviously to Agatha Christie's ABC Murders. Charlotte. Choked. Cupcake. It was all there. The only thing that did not fit was the location, which meant the actual clue was in some place that started with a "C".

This far in her head, it's impossible for her to notice the outside world. Not even her brother's worried questions to Sherlock about her health, and sanity. Nor Sherlock's reply of he's not sure, but he doesn't think she's doing well.

"She's using contractions. In and out of character. And even then, it's nearly impossible to tell the two apart. You know her better. You tell me."

"The only person who knows her is her."

Anabeth chuckles darkly as she blinks back into reality. "How fitting."

"Did you figure it out?" Alfie asks as he walks toward her.

"Caroline Castigliano."

"Who?"

"A designer. She has a bridal shop not far from her. Four minutes, give or take, by foot."

So, it's been a while. Sorry. School's been a bitch. And I've been quenching my cravings for Supernatural... And late night lemonade.

I wouldn't consider the monolog in the beginning of this chapter, the full story. Just FYI. Might not get to it in this one. Actually, I know we won't.

Anyway hope you enjoy.