Why Fireflies Flash
Chapter Twenty-three
"Everything Seemed Make-believe"

221c Baker Street

"Innocence didn't mean
We're immune to these things
Let's blame the passage of time
Love and loss
Truth, it costs
More than I can spare right now
Maybe it's simpler to lie"

Anabeth's voice echoes up the stairs and to the open doorway. More often than not, this was the scene that greeted Sherlock; a drunken Anabeth that sang at the top of her lungs dancing with an invisible partner. It didn't suit her. She held more class than this. Though he would admit, he did like the personality of drunken Anabeth. She was much bubblier, not unlike the façade of Miss Ryder, just much more real.

The thought processes behind drinking always confounded Sherlock. There were a few that always came up. Obviously there's the addiction, the one who thinks they can't function properly without a pint or seven. Then there was the socialite who only drank a glass of wine or two at parties and gathering. And then there was the one who drank to forget why they were drinking and then suddenly they forget and then they drink to remember and the cycle just goes on and on and on.

And then there were the depressed, which Anabeth seemed to fit in quite nicely with, who drank to rid themselves of their depression. That fact alone was stupid. Alcohol was a depressant and only depressed the consumer further.

Though Anabeth was seemingly the opposite. Though she reeked of alcohol, had an impaired sense of judgment and balance, and slurred speech, as well as dilated pupils and a lack of coordination, all proof of her sudden vice for drinking, she was almost always cheery.

And he'd find her clinging to a bottle in her flat, singing most of the time, and dancing, sometimes he watches her paint. And he watched as her paintings went from some of the most photorealistic work even seen to a very whimsical rococo feel. And he thought that maybe he'd truly broken her, that their moment with her covered in naught but a fluffy white terrycloth towel and him pushing her far past her breaking point trying to get a few notes from her had possibly pushed her too far over the metaphysical edge. They were far past theoreticals and hypotheticals.

It sort of pained him, though he'd never admit to it, that he was the cause for this. Although, it was for naught. If he had been paying more attention to Anabeth and less attention to John and Mycroft and The Woman (who still held those photos), he would realize that the cause for Anabeth sudden demise was not of that night, though it certainly was a key player. But in fact, again had he paid her more attention; Sherlock would realize that his opposite was to blame. With her quitting her job at the burlesque lounge, she had more time to work her mark. She would often only be on Baker Street at nights, long enough to grab a few hours of sleep before she was off working little jobs for the Consulting Criminal.

When confronted she would blame herself, and she wouldn't be wrong, but it was the constant presence of an entity long forgotten, well entities, that brought her to this point. Emotions. Those little buggers locked so far away had gotten loose. At least that's what she'd say, what everyone would say.

And he saw her now. For what she really was. The puzzle had finally come together, the last piece laid down.

Christabella was just a broken girl forced to fix herself too quick. She was too strong, too independent to allow anyone to help her. And now, she hid behind tragedy and masks, built walls to keep everyone out. The world of espionage was the perfect place for her after all. There was plenty of practice for her acting both on and off cases. Eventually she would've broke, almost everyone does, albeit differently. She knew this before applying. But it would only add to the charm. And everyone would blame the CIA and her superiors, not the already cracked vessel.

She had finally broken. It wasn't like anyone expected. Maybe they all thought her to go rogue and double cross everyone. Or maybe she'd become an assassin; she had no qualms when she had to pull the trigger.

But she wouldn't, she couldn't. She wasn't a monster.

She was just a broken girl with a mask…

"Sherlock," Anabeth calls up to him, having watched the inner monologue pass over his face. "Come 'n' dance with me. I need a partner."

"You're drunk," he states. That's always his excuse. Never anything else.

She holds up her thumb and forefinger with only a little space between them. "I can still dance. With you," she adds.

"Anabeth," but he doesn't have an argument.

She climbs the stairs, stumbling only once, and takes his hand. Her fingers laced automatically in the spaces made for them. "Then just come 'n' talk with me. We never talk."

He tilts his head slightly, "We talk every morning."

"We say 'Good Mornin''every mornin'. But we never just talk." She frowns and tugs on his hand slightly, "Please? Even if it's just 'bout the case you're workin' on."

His resolve dissipates and he relents. Her opinion always helped him more than John's did.

It happened after Anabeth had rambled on about how poisoning was more common with female killers than male and it was most often a woman when poison was used, it was the most passive was to kill someone, but most men often forgot that because of some stupid power complex-

He wasn't above physically shutting her up, not that he'd ever hit her, but he had on occasion or two placed his hand over her mouth gently when his usual shouting of her name didn't work. Maybe it was their close proximity, or maybe it was because one of them was drunk, or maybe it was because of the "obvious sexual tension" (John's words) between them, or maybe it was just his elation at his case-solving epiphany, but none of his normal shutting-up methods came to mind as he shouted "Thank-you, Anabeth."

He did physically silence her, just with a kiss. Nothing too extreme. It was naught but a simple pressing of lips to lips and it was over as soon as it was started. There was a short brief moment in which blue-green met icy blue while time caught up with them before lips met once again.

This interlocking of lips lasted only long enough for Sherlock to come completely to himself and shove Anabeth away from him.

"You're drunk," he says.

She nods, her eyes closed against the tears that were already welling. "I know," she says and repeats it like a mantra. "I know. You can't… Emotions…" Her eyelids open to reveal pastel colored, contact-less, nearly blinded eyes.

Sherlock doesn't say anything else as he stands and gathers his coat and scarf.

"Shallow at best," Anabeth breathes as she watches him leave.

221b Baker Street

She's completely sober, unlike the night before, the next night as she slaves over a pot of red sauce. There's a pot of salted water beside the one she's stirring that's almost to boiling.

"So she lives," John states behind her.

She smiles and turns around. "Yeah, sorry. New job, new schedule. Needed a little bit to myself as well."

"Can't blame you there." He sighs and grabs a couple of plates from the cabinet. "Sherlock's been a leech as of late."

"Moriarty," Anabeth says as an explanation, emptying a box of pasta into the pot of water, "Mycroft has me doing all sorts of surveillance and I am sure Sherlock has caught on to his brother's antics."

John nods. He can see the tensing of Anabeth's shoulders as she mentions his flatmate. "What did he do?"

"Who?" Anabeth asks with a faux curious tone to her voice.

John shakes his head. "You know who."

"Mycroft?"

He rolls his eyes. "Anabeth, avoidance does not work for you."

"He did not do anything."

"You called him Sherlock," He points out. "I might not be the world's only consulting detective, but I'm around you enough to know you only call him Sherlock when your annoyed by him-"

"I am not annoyed by him. I do not get annoyed."

"-or when you two have a moment."

"We do not have 'moments'."

"Yes you do," John argues. "When you say the same thing at the same time, you share this little moment. I never know if you're going to strangle each other or if you're going to- you know, snog the other."

Anabeth gives a heartless chuckle. "I can assure you it will never be the latter. He has made it clear."

John smirks. "So you did have a moment!"

"You sound so proud of yourself," she says with heavy sarcasm.

"That's not a denial."

She sighs heavily and slams her wooden spoon on the counter. "Okay, fine. Yes, we had a 'moment'. He came to my flat last night. I was on a sugar and caffeine high. Sherlock thought I was drunk and I played along. I wanted him to dance with me but he wouldn't so I talked him into talking and it got awkward at one point so I started rambling like I do. Apparently he had an epiphany and in order to shut me up he kissed me. And it wasn't just a peck on the lips. I mean it was. At first. But then it wasn't."

"Sherlock kissed you?" John questioned with a layer of confusion and disbelief. "Our Sherlock?"

"Is there any other?"

"Seriously?"

Anabeth nods, a crease between her brows. "Yeah, and then he just pushed me away and told me I was drunk. And I sort of had this emotional attack and just… He's a sociopath. He doesn't have feelings like you. Or me," she admits. "His are shallow at best. But I could've sworn I saw something as he pushed me away. But I dunno."

John gives a small smile. It's a smile that says "Sorry my flatmate's an ass" and "Finally!"

"He thought you were drunk," he repeats to her. "He might have shallow emotions, but he's not going to use you like that. I don't think he knows what to do if you weren't."

Anabeth shakes her head. "He's not as naive as you think with romance. He just doesn't do it. There's no pleasure in it for him. He understands love. Perhaps too much."

"How do you know that?" John asks with a hint of cynicism.

She shrugs. "I am the same way."

It's been far too long between updates. I think I'm a week or two behind. Apologies. Also in other news... Apparently I skipped posting chapter 12... I'm sorry. You might want to go back and read that. It wasn't anything too important, nothing that you don't already know now. But it does cover The Great Game.