Why Fireflies Flash
Chapter Twenty-seven
"Climbing Out The Back Door"
221b Baker Street
Gratefully, or not so, depending on who you asked, Baker Street had managed to be Anabeth-Free for months. But that also meant there was a lack of a bubbly atmosphere that had permeated the whole of the building and a lack of home cooked meals. No one had noticed.
Actually, maybe John was the only one that really didn't notice Anabeth's absence.
Of course Mrs. Hudson had noticed, being the landlady and all. And Sherlock had, only because after a week or two he'd wandered down to the basement to bounce ideas off of the little brunette that lived there, only to find the apartment completely bare save for the kitchen appliances and the mural painted on the living room wall.
It wasn't until Sherlock complained about the lack of smart in the flat, did John realize just how long it had been since he'd seen their American friend.
Townhouse somewhere in London
The whole flat smelled of cigarette smoke.
Cigarette smoke, cinnamon and cheap red wine.
The air felt nice though.
A biting cold that numbed.
She couldn't even feel the silk of the robe that hung loosely on her all too skinny form.
Music drowned out any thoughts she could possibly have.
Christabella Quinn-Moriarty was depressed.
And her husband, for the first time in fourteen years, if not ever, was genuinely worried for her.
St. Bart's Hospital
"Is that a phone?" Molly wonders as she watches Sherlock work. She was always watching him.
"It's a camera phone," the detective replies.
The pathologist leans against the table. "And you're x-raying it?"
"Yes, I am."
"Whose phone is it?"
"A woman's."
"Your girlfriend's?" Oh, god. I hope not, she thinks. "Anabeth?"
Sherlock picks his gaze up, sneaking a sly glance to his company. "You think she's my girlfriend because I'm x-raying her possessions?"
"Well," she says standing straighter, her face starting to tinge a pale pink. "You've done stranger things."
"Yes," he agrees, and Molly feels her heart drop into her stomach.
"But all people do silly things," she says.
"They do, don't they?" He had that quirky "Yes! If figured it out!" kind of smile as he spins around and retrieves the phone. "She sent this to my address... and she loves to play games."
He makes quick work of typing "221b" into the password entry only to be denied.
"She does?" Molly asks worriedly.
Well, it was Anabeth. There was really no telling what the girl was into. Although she was quite confident in most things, there were times where she seemed quite... well, there was no other way to describe it but submissive.
Sherlock sets the phone on the table with a sharp movement. Well, set was a calm word.
With a heavy sigh, he returns to his seat and continues his analysis.
Townhouse somewhere in London
The music that echoes through the small home was scratchy, a tell that Anabeth had left the current century and started rifling through her record collection. Her voice harmonizes with Denise LaSalle's perfectly and he's struck by an overwhelming sense of nostalgia.
Jim didn't go into the study where he knew she'd be thrown across the wing-back chair, a glass of red wine in one hand and a cigarette. He loathed to think of the mess she'd made of the room no doubt with books strewn about the room and cigarette ash adding to the mess.
There was already a burn mark on the old oak table in the kitchen from when she'd forgotten about her cigarette a moment too long.
He would have already had her killed, Sebastian was just aching to do it himself, but he still needed her, although regrettably not in this perpetual drunken state, and, again regrettably, he might still actually like her.
This was beyond ridiculous.
Text Messages Between Sherlock Holmes and Christabella Quinn
We have a case. SH
You. AQ
What? SH
You. You have a case. I have a bottle of dune calling my name. AQ
Wine** AQ
You're drunk. SH
Very astute deduction, Mr. Holmes. AQ
I'm not helping you witch your little lover. AQ
With** AQ
You've been assigned this case. SH
I'm sorry, who are you again? AQ
Right, not the boss of me. AQ
I'll just be hanging up now. AQ
My brother assigned you to this case. SH
He is the boss of you. He is quite literally your boss. SH
You can't hang up a text message. SH
Watch me. AQ
Must I call Alfie and inform him of your current situation? SH
That fucker doesn't give a shit about me. If he did, he wouldn't have told you about Dean. AQ
I doubt that's true. He's very concerned about you. SH
Besides, he'd probably too busy fucking his husband. AQ
That sounds like fun. AQ
Jim Dear, let's fuck. AQ
Oopsie. XD Wrong number. AQ
Although, I would not mind if you fucked me. AQ
Excuse my French. AQ
Text Messages Between John Watson and Anabeth Ryder
Anabeth, what did you do. JW
Um... no one, yet. I texted the wrong per dim. AQ
Person** AQ
Texting is very hard when drunk. AQ
Oh. Well, that would explain it. JW
Explain what? AQ
Sherlock's poor mood. JW
I'm sorry. I don't mean to upset anybody. AQ
221B Baker Street
"Oh come on!" the exclamation is loud compared to the quite that had settled over the flat. And for that John is grateful, because if he had to endure one more moment of those two eye-fucking each other, he was going to scream.
"That's not even remotely fun... I dunno, carvin' my heart out with a spoon would be more fun... We all remember the last time I went to Savannah, as you've so kindly reminded. I'm not goin' again, least of all because Grandpa Quinn wants to take me huntin' for old time's sake. It's not gunna to happen," Anabeth sneers although with a slight slur as she walks into the lounge. "Alfie, I love ya 'n' all but I'm not goin' onna hunt. So, you and gramps can take it and shove where the sun don't shine."
She angrily mashes the button on the screen ending the call before looking up at the trio staring at her.
She raises on perfectly groomed brow. "What? Take a picture, it'll last longer."
"I thought you were too drunk to help with my case," Sherlock says pointedly.
Anabeth shrugs. "I was - I am. My husband kicked me out until I sobered up. At least that's what he said. Pretty sure he just wants to bring his boyfriend over. Seb and I don't really get along."
"The wife rarely does get on with the mistress."
"There was a man," Adler says with disdain trying to get the attention back to her, "an MOD official, I knew, well, I-"
"Knew what he liked? Yes we've heard," Anabeth says snidely glaring at the other woman.
"One of the things he liked was showing off," The Woman continues as if the American hadn't spoken. "He told me this email was going to save the world. He didn't know it, but I photographed it."
Sherlock takes the phone Adler handed to him.
"He was a bit tied up at the time."
Anabeth snorted. "Tied up, right."
"It's a bit small on that screen. Can you read it?"
"Yes," Sherlock says as he sits.
"Code obviously. I had one of the best cryptographers in the country look at it, though he was mostly upside down, as I recall."
John's head snaps to Irene in surprise.
Anabeth snorted once more. "And you thought I was a prostitute. I'm pretty vanilla in bed." She glances at Sherlock who was staring at the phone intently. Her inhibited brain doesn't quite catch what Irene says when she's not paying attention. She does notice how the woman is leaning on the back of the detective's chair and leaning into Sherlock's space to press a kiss to his cheek.
She feels herself frown and she's suddenly warmer than the wine had made her. She right about to ask if she had any wine left here when Sherlock speaks.
"There's a margin for error. But I'm pretty sure there's a 747 leaving Heathrow tomorrow at 6:30 in the evening for Baltimore. Apparently it's going to save the world. Not sure how that can be true but give me a moment..." His voice drifts off into a mumbling that Anabeth can't understand as she stumbles into the kitchen looking to see if there was any alcohol there at all.
Luckily, for her at least, she found a bottle of white zinfandel from her family's vineyard, only a glass of the pinkish liquid missing. Her wine glass, her favorite one with Mercoletti Vigneti printed on the front and her first name hand painted on the back, is still pushed to the way back of one of the cupboards. She retrieves and fills it as full as she thinks she can get away with without spilling and returns to the lounge to find Adler slowly rising to meet a standing Sherlock's eyes.
"I would have you right her on this table until you begged for mercy twice."
"Oh, yeah, good luck, honey," Anabeth scoffs. "Sherly's not into that kinda thing. Actually, I'm not sure he's into any kinda thing at all."
"Twice," Adler growls though it's more towards Anabeth than Sherlock.
"He's right, by the way." Ana motions to the detective with her glass before sipping from it. "Flight double-o-seven from Heathrow, leaves tomorrow at half past six in the afternoon."
"What did you say?" Sherlock says suddenly.
"Oh, come on Sherly, I know how egotistical and narcissistic you are, but I'm pretty sure we all heard me."
"Double-o seven, Annie-belle. You said double-o seven."
"Don't call me that!" Anabeth shouts. "Do not ever call me that. I'm not some stupid, naïve fifteen-year-old girl anymore!"
Sherlock winces. Or maybe it's just her imagination. "Don't call me Sherly," he says simply before going into a mantra of "Double-o seven" at John's questioning of it.
Anabeth's just content on drinking until she's passed out drunk. It's the only way she could cope with the darkness slowly creeping up on her again.
I'm excited. Prom is Saturday. I'm updating daily now. Since two weeks was ridiculous a time to wait. We'll be finished Sunday at this rate.