Why Fireflies Flash
Chapter Twenty-one
"I See the Stars in Black and White"

Anabeth never smoked a single cigarette from that brand new pack. She had walked home barefoot and shivering the entire way there. It would almost be time for Thanksgiving in America if she were there. Speaking of, she'll have to ask for three days off of work so she could go celebrate with her family. Maybe she should just wait for Christmas.

The flat was empty when she arrived, both hers and the boys'. She stayed upstairs, forever fond of the kitchen. Hunger had crept up on her while she walked, and she decided to make a pot of something. She wasn't sure what it was quite yet. She just threw some things in a pot and brought it to a boil. It turned out to be similar to a Cream of Mushroom soup that she poured over the leftover risotto she made the other night.

After the rumbles were sated with an impromptu supper and a bottle of red wine she had stashed in the back of a cabinet, she lays down on the couch with the knit throw she's long left there. It was strange, she never brought it up there but it certainly was hers. And while she did sleepwalk on occasion she was never known to carry things while doing so. It had appeared after she fallen asleep in Sherlock's chair while she played ping pong with theories. She'd woken up on the couch the next morning with the soft red blanket draped over her. John had been at Sarah's that night.

It wasn't the first time something had happened like this. There was a few times when she'd fallen asleep at the desk or on one of the chairs and she woke up on the couch more often than not with Sherlock's comforter covering her and a pillow that smelled like him beneath her head. Sherlock always blamed John's wanting to tick him off since he just left her to lie wherever she was. Sometimes it was plausible. And then sometimes John was at a girlfriend's or Dublin with Harriet.

Anabeth promised herself that she'd never let herself read too much into to it. But now with her head cloudy with booze and nicotine (she had opted for a couple of patches instead and had hidden the cigarettes under the skull) she'd long forgotten the promise. Because what the hell? John was almost always gone. And those times he wasn't she'd thanked him or whatever and he'd stared at her like she was speaking Swahili and that first time she might have been…

She couldn't have done it in her sleep, well, she could, but it made much more sense for her to just climb into Sherlock's bed. Which she might have done and Sherlock just carried her from his bed and to the couch.

The thought was still swirling in her head as she fell asleep, long before anyone else arrived at the flat. She had sleepwalked too, into Sherlock's bedroom and climbed into the fresh sheets, and had she woken up she would've solved her mystery.

It was strange for her in the morning, to wake up in a stranger's bed with the sunlight from a window beating down on her eyelids making her headache spike. The hangover she possessed irked her, it'd been so long since she'd lost herself. And now she was impeded to small movements and little whispers.

She wasn't quite ready to face the day, and turned over to face the other body in the bed. She fell asleep before she even registered it. She did however register the absence of it the next time she woke a couple hours later. She also registered the fact that she'd slept in Sherlock's bed and that the body she'd been missing as she woke this morning was not the furry one of Blizzard at her feet but most likely the owner of the bed. Her head hurt a little less, but the hangover wasn't gone yet. She was able to open her eyes without the pain of her headache heightening.

She faintly wondered why she hadn't been moved like all those other nights. Or if she crawled in after the detective had fallen asleep.

The sound of a shower shut off behind the door she'd been staring at she had a moment of panic where she thought she might be called out in a less than pleasing way. But her fears (the word was strange to think) were put to rest when Sherlock walked out of the steamy bathroom in nothing but a fluffy white terrycloth towel and ignored her as he went to his closet.

Blizzard lifted her head and watched the man as her returned to the bathroom with a quick stop at his dresser. When the door was shut behind him Lizzy moved so she could stare at her companion and watch as the many faces of a confused Anabeth ghosted. The dog was still staring at the girl who herself was staring at the white door leading to the bathroom, when Sherlock returned to the bedroom.

There was a tiny smirk playing on his lips as he rounded the bed and made for the door leading to the hallway.

"I wouldn't spend all day in bed, Anabeth," he says pausing at the door. "Miss Becker-Hills is probably expecting a visit from you, John did say you would. And Madam Kiki from the lounge called, she expects you to be in early tonight. With the case over, there'll be a grand re-opening later this month. Though, I'd quit if I was you. Now she's just using you. You'll probably be the star of the show."

Anabeth blinks and she attempts to meet her fuzzy gaze with his. "What?"

"Lestrade phoned just before I showered. He has a case for us, apparently." His smirk became a touch more evil. "I'd love for you to join me, honey, sweetheart, darling, love of my life."

Anabeth rolled her eyes. "Okay, I deserved that."

"Damn skippy." He winks and snicks before he leaves and closes the door behind him.

"That's my line!" she calls after him.

There's a faint chuckle in response.

When she emerged a few moments later, Sherlock was already gone. Likely he'd just left, but the cup of coffee that sat on the counter told otherwise.

"The song you sang last night…"

She spun around to spy who she hoped was Sherlock; he was too far away for her to view him clearly. She didn't remember every taking her contacts out last night.

""Last First Kiss" Ron Pope, what of it?"

"The same song that played as you sang that dreadful lullaby the night prior."

"Oh? I did not notice." She moves to the counter to take up her mug before going to sit on the couch. "Did you not have a case to get to?"

"Only a six. John's on it."

Anabeth rolled her eyes. "I'm going home." She stands and takes to the kitchen again leaving the un-sipped coffee where she found it.

"You broke that night," he calls to her.

"I fell into your embrace and cried, yes I know." She gives him a smile that's too fake even for her. "Sentiment. I know. It is stupid. Good luck with your life, Mr. Holmes."

He tilts his head in confusion as she leaves down the stairwell.