Why Fireflies Flash
Chapter Twenty-five
"Don't Call This Love"

The descend into insanity, in whatever form it maybe, is dark and lonely. There's nothing surrounding you. Nothing but washed out gray blobs that might be something if the tears didn't sting so badly. They pass by without a care. None stop to see if you're fine. The too salty tears leave behind puffy cheeks, blacked trails and demonic eyes.

Madness isn't just a thing. It's alive. It eats away at the resolve holding you together bit by bit until you stumble and fall into the dark abyss looming ominously below. It takes you then. Slowly wrapping inky tendrils around every bit of you, pulling and tugging and ripping until you drown in the sheer darkness. Innocence and Guilt creep up on you and beat you down until there's nothing left but a bloody mess. Poise comes along then, scoops you up and molds you into something reminiscent of what you once were and tosses you back into the world.

And the process repeats until Depression moves in and then you're stuck in the grasp of those wisps until the end. Seldom is this truly escaped.

In Anabeth's opinion, love is a lot like this. Actually, love is exactly like this. Except, everything is too vibrant. The good outshines the bad, and everything is too innocent. It takes you with its too warm grasp and holds you until you succumb to the numbing brightness you see in that person you've so unluckily fallen in love with. It pulls and it tugs and it rips at your emotions and your heartstrings playing a melody that's hypnotizing to only you. This is the longest part.

This is the part where everything is good. The honeymoon phase is over. Things have gotten into a rhythm you've fallen in love with. Things are great.

And then, your heartstring breaks. And seldom can it be restrung. It's torn forever. And the marks and scars it have left remain healing for an eternity. And by the end of that eternity you've become so numb to the world, it all looks the same. Just grayish blobs.

Every now and then there are splashes of color that pass by and reach for it desperately. But it slips through your fingers and dissipates in to a puff of smoke. You can't catch smoke.

And then, by some miracle, there they are. That one person that can heal your heart and you chase them and you chase them and you chase them but to no avail. But they stay. They stay unlike the last one. Unlike all those little wisps. Here they are solid and real and they're here to stay.

But sometimes they aren't always there forever. Things happen, fate intervenes, life is unfair once again. And there's someone, Pride, or Poise, or Confidence, that come and sweeps you up and tapes you back together.

But only some times, not all the time.

Anabeth can count on one had the number of times she's fallen in love. It's a good thing, considering she's only just past the third decade of her life.

Perhaps she's loathe to say it now, because under no circumstances are her feelings reciprocated. Unrequited love seems to be a theme here.

Before he left, Alfie had stopped by wanting to talk to Sherlock without Anabeth near. And why he was only just thinking about this now, he had no idea, but there was a suspicion that it had something to do with the Claddagh ring now resting on Anabeth's right hand, the tanzanite heart pointing towards her wrist.

Alfie's voice had been gentle, soft, like he was telling a secret that wasn't his to tell. And truthfully it wasn't.

"Ana," he began, with a deep sigh. "About six years ago, something happened. It wasn't anything bad, really. But it's not something Anabeth will ever talk about, she refuses to. Sure she'll talk about Jim and their messed up break up and that whole shebang, but I think deep down she realizes she's truly over it. But six years ago...

"She was finally getting over Payton's death, and yeah I know that's why she didn't sing, that it wasn't anything to do with her being left at the altar. But for the first time in three years, her smile had reached her eyes. There was feeling behind what she said. We were all finally relieved. She still wasn't big on family events, though she attended, albeit from afar. But she was there."

Alfie's blue eyes flicker up to Sherlock, who finally turned from his microscope and looked at the brother.

"We have this huge Fourth of July celebration down in Georgia. It's this big four day ordeal, our Labor Day is just as big. Normally everyone gets in on the last day of June and then just straight party for four days before leaving on the fifth. Anabeth decided that year she was going to be part of the scene again. She got completely wasted that first night, which is incredibly hard to do considering she's a quarter Irish and half..." he shakes his head like he can't recall, "and the second but didn't touch a drop the next day.

"Actually, she didn't do anything the next day. Just sat on the hood of her Camaro and watched us at the picnic in Savannah. Met a guy at said picnic, traveled with him for about a year. She was on shore leave at the time, so it wasn't a big deal. But one day, she showed up on Mom and Dad's doorstep in Georgetown and didn't leave except to go on her, what second tour? And then Dad pulled some stings and she was honorably discharged and the rest you know. Or at least know as much possible without being an enemy of the State.

"I'm not telling you this," Alfie says leaning forward, "because I like you and I think you and Ana would make beautiful babies. God knows neither of you are ready for that kind of relationship. And I'm not telling you to make you jealous. I'm telling you because I can see how much she vexes you, and if you're going to be the one that figures her out and finally puts her together, then you need to know.

"When she was with Dean," the blonde shakes his head, "she was the happiest I'd even seen her like ever. I think it had to with the lack of boundaries she had then, the whole no modesty thing for a while. There was no secrets between them. I don't think I'd ever seen any two people more in love. But they weren't good for each other. Far from it. They kinda just drank from each other, stole the other's happiness, a Thelma and Louise kinda deal. "I'll hold your hand, you hold mine, and we'll drive off the cliff into the sunset."

"She doesn't talk about that year, and I doubt she ever will. But what happened then, is happening again. With you." Alfie sighs deeply again. "I know you care for my sister. Not like she cares for you, and she does care for you. But I can see it in your face that she means something. She relies too much on other people. That's what went wrong five years ago, and nine years prior to that. But I think that if you just pretended you lo-"

"You want me to play your sister?" Sherlock sneered. In his defense, Sherlock had listened to every word that dripped from the American man's mouth trying to figure out where this monologue was heading before it got there. And his heart had been clenched to moment he realized what Alfie was getting at. He wasn't above using a woman to get information, he'd done it plenty of times. But what Alfie was asking... It was like twisting a knife in an old would. Or spreading the wings of an angel only to pluck them one feather at a time.

...Where did that analogy come from?

"No," the brother says, a slight desperation in his voice. "No. I'd never-"

"You're asking me to pretend I have feelings Christabella when in fact I do not."

"When you put it that way..."

"How would you say it then?" Sherlock wonders with contempt weaved into his voice.

"Look, I just want my Ana back. It's been fourtee-"

"How. Would you. Say it?" the detective repeats.

"Just, pretend or rather, just show her more affection than you would normally. You don't have to pretend anything. Please. I just. She needs that push."

"And when she realizes all of it's a lie?" He raises a brow. "What then?"

"I don't know," Alfie says honestly. "I just- she needs it. And you can help her."

"I think, Mr. Browning, it's best if you take your leave now."

Alfie leaves, glancing at the detective before he turned the corner.

Sherlock returned to his experiment. However, he found himself unable to concentrate for any long period of time. His thoughts continually drifted over the conversation, however one-sided it was. It was no illusion, the churning in his stomach. Alfie's words had left a bad taste in his mouth. But in essence he was only looking out for the youngest sibling's welfare.

Maybe that was the reason he found himself standing in front of a jewelry counter admiring the work on a Claddagh ring accented with a tanzanite heart. Probably also the reason he found himself in Tiffany and Co. the night before Christmas Eve.

But then what was to account for the fluttering in his chest when he spotted the ring (right hand, heart pointed toward wrist, "someone's captured her heart") and the fine white gold chain (she was allergic to sterling silver but found yellow gold tacky despite the cross she wore) of the locket he gave her (it replaced the old one, he noted)?

Quite an abstract chapter. And they really sorta all are from here on out. Ana's in a very dark place. Or well, maybe it's a very bright place. Not entirely sure myself at this point about the ratio of light to dark.