Why Fireflies Flash
Chapter Twenty
"No Longer am I 'Fraid of the Fall Down"

The stinging scent of alcohol and smooth smell of smoke clouded the bar, which was less of a bar and more of a cafe that served alcohol and kicked out kiddies after dark. There were far more business suits and jackets than cocktail dresses and gowns out in the crowd, but Anabeth only felt stuck out because of the American accent she owned. Alfie had gone back to Langley that morning, simply because he could no longer postpone work off, and Hannah was doing god only knows what with in the realms of American politics.

She was left alone. Her only reassurance a former British Army doctor and the world's only consulting detective. She was sure there was a consulting criminal and serial killer in the midst of the crowd somewhere.

This was different than singing a long forgotten lullaby under her breath. How the hell was she supposed to turn a spontaneous humming, because let's face it, it certainly wasn't singing, into a full blown vocalization?

Her heart starts to race again. What if she gets out there and she has a panic attack? Or if she freezes? She forgets a key? A note?

Her breathing speeds up, though she's trying to keep it at a normal pace. The chair she's sitting on surely has dents on the underside from where she's dug her crimson acrylic nails into the wood. Her fingers hurt because of it. Her ankle is killing her as well. The wrap is too tight to begin with plus it's tilted at an awkward angle because of the silver, strappy heel.

"Christabella." The word is right in her ear. She half wants it to be Payton, though the thought puts a sickly twinge in her stomach. "Christabella," he repeats and there's a ghost of a touch to her thigh, "Breathe."

"I cannot do this. Something is going to go wrong. I-I-"

"Calm down, relax," John says close to her other side, not as close as the lips that remained near her ear. "You can do this."

She shakes her head. "No, no, no, no. It is too soon. I cannot."

"Christabella," Sherlock breathes, the name is a hot breath against the shell of her ear.

She snaps her head to look at him fast enough that his lips grace the apple of her cheek before he pulls back, slightly stunned. "Why do you call me that? No one calls me that. The Equerry called me that out of respect. I cannot stand that name."

"Can't you?"

There is a small smirk playing in the corners of his lips and she's about to slap him when the emcee catches her attention.

"With this next act, you're in for a treat. Anabeth Ryder, a sweet Georgia Peach."

Sherlock's smirking when she looks back. "You're up, Quinn."

She rolls her eyes. "I can hear."

Anabeth manages to control her limping to a minimum as she walks to the stage. She takes a seat at the baby grand and begins playing the opening chords for Christina Perri's The Lonely. She gets as far as the second lyric (…cry my face off again…) before her fingers still and she hangs her head.

"Screw this." She shakes her head, her hair falling from where it was delicately placed an hour and a half before. It settles in a messy mix of waves and curls framing her face and cascading down between her shoulder blades. "This is the second time I have sung since my sister died fourteen years ago, and I am on the verge of a major panic attack. And this heart wrenching ballad is not helping things. My god, how much morbid could I get?" She chuckles almost darkly. "Let us find something… happier, yes?"

Nameless patrons stare up at her, and she can almost hear the insulting statements about the strange American. Her fingers take to the keys. "How about sappy and sweet?"

It was a strange feeling, having all those eyes staring at her while adrenaline raced through her veins, getting her high on the attention. She felt normal for once. Like she no longer stuck out. Almost like she was home.

A little smile grew on her lips with every word closer to the chorus.

There was a particular pair of eyes, whose color were flickering between green and blue in tune with the light of the candles on the table before him, which lock gazes with her. The smile on the lips just a nose beneath them is no longer present.

Her fingers moved along to a melody she's never read and her lips walk with words to a song she's long remembered as her eyes dance across an audience that seems to be enjoying her performance, or are at least kind enough to plaster smiles on their face.

"What I'm trying to say
In my own simple way
I want you to be my last first kiss
Oh, I want you to be my last first kiss"

Her eyes lock with those blue-green ones again, and she gives the detective a smile despite the questioning look on his face. She turns the smile to the one beside him before she's glancing around her audience again.

It's obvious she's happy. Every word of her body language Sherlock reads tells him that. He'd broken part of her wall, crumbled it into dust. He knew that the moment she started to sing the night before. But the initial deductions he'd made about her, the ones he made sober, they no longer applied. Add that to her strange behavior as of late… He knew it was nearly impossible to truly know a person in a span of only a few months but still…

"I promise nothing new
Is gonna come around
Making me change my mind
Nothing new, only you on my mind"

There's a new gaze she meets, and it takes everything for her not to jump off the stage and snatch the man right then. She manages to give the man a bright-ish smile and a quick wink. She hopes Sherlock and John are paying attention and caught the hint.

She knows when the song is over; when the standing ovation comes and it will because she can clearly see the anticipation in the crowd, they're eating her up, they love her; the man will be lost in the crowd and any chance of finding Emily this night is gone. And there's naught but four lyrics left.

Three.

There's Sherlock again.

"My heart, yes it's finally found.
My heart, oh yes, it's finally found
Someone I can't live without."

And there's the standing ovation and whatever modest thank-you's Anabeth can come up with while trying to not trip on the hem of her dress as she stands. She's blushing by the time she steps off stage. From her vantage point she can see the man is no longer where he stood just prior.

"You were great, Anabeth," John tells her as she arrives at the table.

She smiles slightly as she continues to look around. "Thanks. Um where's Sher-ahem- Holmes?"

He furrows his brow at the correction, though he doesn't say a word of it. "I dunno. He left as soon as you finished"

Anabeth's face falls slightly but she's too busy looking for that man. He had to have been long gone by now.

"Sonovabitch," she growls.

John frowns because this was definitely not normal. She never cared for Sherlock's opinion or anyone's really. She was always glad that he would leave and not ask her to come along. "You know he won't compliment you no matter how beautiful the performance," he says just to spite himself.

"What?" Her face is blank for a second. "Oh, well, o'vi'sly. He's Sherlock Holmes. He does not care for anyone but himself. What did you expect? He insulted me the moment he met me."

She braces herself on the table to slip off her shoes, which she does quickly and her ankle feels better almost immediately. There's a glass tumbler of double malt scotch setting on the table in front of Sherlock's seat the she grasps and tosses back.

"Do you have change for the cigarette machine?" she asks jabbing her thumb over her shoulder. "I don't have any on my person, but I'll pay you back at the flat."

John nods and pulls out his wallet. "Of course. I didn't know you smoked though?"

Anabeth looks at him curiously as she takes the note he offers. "Since I was eighteen. It's a nasty habit I've been trying to rid myself of for years. Nothing's been working so far." She shrugs. "I can go a couple of months before I give in. It's been seven so far. A record." She gives him a small smile before she leaves the café, with the cigarettes of course, her ankle miraculously healed.