Why Fireflies Flash
Chapter Twenty-six
"You Give Love A Bad Name"
221c Baker Street
It had been three days after Christmas that Anabeth had first heard of Irene Adler's death. And, well, technically, she hadn't even heard of it, she stumbled upon the phone and deduced. So that was the reason behind the depressing music. Interesting to know.
It was beyond infuriating.
It would take three more days for Anabeth to grab her own violin, stuck in the back of her closet, and head for the flat above hers. The familiar weight of the instrument in her hand, as she climbs the stairs, was comforting.
She needs both hands to count the number of instruments she's classically trained in, the number's closer to fifteen when taken into account the handful of other instruments she's learnt to play over the years. However, the number of instruments Anabeth actually enjoyed playing could be summed up on one, classically trained or not.
On her way up, she passes a frustrated John on his way down.
"You play?" he asks.
She shrugged. "Yeah, classically trained since I was six or so. That and about seven other instruments."
"And you expect him to let you join?"
Anabeth chuckles. "Not at all, I plan on showing him just how annoying a constant stream of sad violin music is. As if I'm not depressed enough."
"Well, good luck with your perpetual duet," John says as he continues down.
"I will, thanks."
Sherlock hadn't noticed her presence as she set about readying her instrument, or maybe he was just ignoring her.
Having heard most of the composition already three or four times that morning alone (the beginning at least), she wasn't hesitant to join in when the detective started up again.
After that, Sherlock just stared at the spook, music frozen, for the first time in six days. His eyes were drawn to his ring - her ring (left hand, toward the wrist, married). Her eyes, which smiled up at him as she slowly transitioned from his piece to something that could only be described as completely Anabeth, were not enhanced by coloured contacts, nor were they hindered by a pair of glasses as he had seen a few times previous.
His stomach tightened for some ungodly reason, feeling like it flipped completely upside-down. Perhaps he was getting sick.
A glance out the window saw his blogger getting into a car with his brother's fetcher.
He doesn't excuse himself before he leaves .
Mrs. Hudson stands in the doorway to the kitchen, pausing in her "not housekeeping", a knowing smirk dancing on her lips. Anabeth only smiles back. She had to work late today.
221b Baker Street
She made dinner that night; pork and sauerkraut, although the meal was hardly touched. No one had proper appetites after what happened with Mrs. Hudson. Anabeth managed to have an hours long conversation with her father about keeping his priorities straight and have his men go after her landlady, to which he promptly replied that they weren't his men but he'd look into it. Miss Adler's lack of death was also jolting to all the in habitants. Hardly surprising though, considering her allegiances.
John made his way to bed shortly after one, leaving the other two completely alone for the first time since perhaps they shared that first kiss. The last of their celebratory bottle of Mercoletti Champagne being passed between them. Eventually the bottle was emptied, and the black haired girl made to leave, the unresolved tension bustling between them proving too much for her to handle in her drunken state.
Yet Sherlock had stopped her with, in hindsight, the very worst thing to ask at that moment. Or any moment he'd eventually realize.
"Who's Dean?"
Anabeth froze, the half empty flute slipping from her hand and shattering by her feet, covering her canvas shoes in the sticky liquid. "Pardon?" she asks. Her voice is hollow and a mere echo of what she had been like a month ago.
"Dean," he repeated, his inhibited mind too drunken to realize he should stop. "Who was he? Alfie had-"
"HE TOLD YOU?!" Her dark hair halos around her as she turns sharply to him and for a split second, it looks as if her eyes glow with a bright grayish light. But he blinks and it's gone. "Imma kill him. I swear to all things good and holy, I will fucking kill that sorry sonovabitch."
She shouts a nondescript shout that echoes through the small flat and causes Sherlock to jump slightly.
Turning her glare to the detective, she aims one perfectly manicured finger at him.
When did she get so close?
"Dean was - is nothing - no one," she growls. "And if you value your life, you will never ever mention him again!" She storms away, the glass crunching under her shoes. "You would be wise as to not listen to my family. They do not know me. They know nothing about anything when it comes to me. And neither will you."
She disappears down the stairs. Actually if he hadn't heard the door slam shut below, he would've sworn she just vanished.
Down below, a scream of anger and hurt rips through the basement apartment as a priceless antique vase is smashed to the floor. The bouquet of orchids lying in the ruins.
221c Baker Street
After successfully avoiding the whole of Baker Street for a week; which wasn't very hard, since the only three inhabitants had been uncharacteristically frightened by the bout of anger in the early hours of New Years Day; Anabeth had found herself in such a familiar dark place, cocooning herself in her comforter for the majority of the time.
It was that seventh day, it's always the seventh day, that she rose, finally giving into the hunger pinging in her stomach. She only snacked though, just enough to take the edge of pain away before she crawled back into bed hiding under the covers.
The only sound in the apartment was her breathing, making her wish that at least Lizzy was still with her.
She wasn't looking for it. Promise she wasn't. She was looking for something to get a fix. Of course she wasn't leaving the apartment, there was no way she could face the world right now.
But she found it nonetheless.
It wasn't anything spectacular. Just an old scuffed up jewel case with a green CD. There was writing on it, illegible now. But she didn't have to read it to know what it said. She'd long memorized the note taped on the inside.
Her laptop stared mockingly at her from its spot on her bed.
She shouldn't, she really shouldn't.
It was only going to amount in more heartbreak and a deeper depression.
Christbella Anabeth Donatella Wayah Elizabeth Quinn-Moriarty, do NOT under any circumstances play that CD.
"Don't stop believing
Hold on to that feeling
Streetlights, people, oh"
Well, fuck.
First motel off the highway, Truth Or Consequences, NM
5 years ago
"Chris?" a deep voice calls from the main portion of the room. "Why is our bed covered in black feathers?"
"I got in a fight with a raven," came the snarky feminine reply.
Dean chuckled. "And what? You wanted to make a pillow?"
Blue eyes peer out of the bathroom to the slightly older man sitting on the bed. "How the hell should I know? I've been with you the entire time, babe."
"Don't you think it's weird it's just our bed, though?" he wonders as he twirls one perfect charcoal plume between his fingers. "And it's more on your side than mine."
Anabeth smirked. "Oh so, now we have sides."
"Chris seriously. There are feathers on our bed that weren't there this morning," Dean complains.
"Complain to the cleaning lady."
"Chris!"
"Dean!" she shouts back with and exasperated giggle.
"You know-"
"Yeah, yeah," she waves her hand flippantly as she walks out of the bathroom, finally ready for their dinner date that night. "We don't let the cleaning crew in. That just means we're left to something supernatural," she says with a small teasing smile, her eyes going comically wide."
"Don't even joke about shit like that."
"Angel's have feathers," the Marine tells a little too seriously, her hand going to rest where her two necklaces disappeared beneath the neck of her dress.
"Angels don't exist," Dean refutes too harshly.
"Yeah, right." The joy of dating an atheist. "Let's just go to dinner. I'll clean this up after, yeah?"
Dean only nods, his mossy green eyes glancing at the hurt Anabeth was trying to hide.
221c Baker Street, London
Present Day
"Someday love will find you
Break those chains that bind you
One night will remind you
How we touched
And went our separate ways"
Why? Just make it stop.
First motel off the highway, Truth Or Consequences, NM
5 years ago
"There isn't any proof, Chris. You show me proof and I'll believe."
Anabeth only rolled her eyes as she slipped out of her dress and into the bed, ignoring the feathers. They were soft against her skin anyway.
Hours later, both lie awake, facing away from the other. Neither knew the other was awake.
Dean turns over and hugs her close, sighing into her messy black hair.
"I'm sorry, Chris," he says softly. "I hurt you today. But in my defense I realized something today and it concerned me. I wanted to push you away, which is stupid because I don't know what I would do without you. This past year has been amazing with you. I love you, Christabella. It fucking scares me but I really do." He chuckles softly. "You probably won't ever know, cause I'll probably won't ever be able to tell you when you're awake."
Anabeth waited until he was asleep before she left.
Dean,
I love you, too. I can't even face it properly. I'm sorry. I hope you find your angel.
-Chris
221c Baker Street, London
Present Day
"Didn't mean to make you cry,
If I'm not back again this time tomorrow,
Carry on, carry on as if nothing really matters."
A little further into Ana's background with Dean. And her secret love for Classic Rock. Okay not so secret. After all, driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cakehole.