Why Fireflies Flash
Chapter Thirty
"Beautiful Things Never Last"

Kitty Riley's Home

"You boys certainly know how to rile people up," Anabeth says as she uncuffs the blogger and detective. "I had to dodge quite a few people to get away silently. Those assassins mostly."

"You didn't have to come," Sherlock says.

"Yeah well," she sticks the cuffs into her coat pocket. "Just because one of us is going to end up dead doesn't mean it has to be you."

No one says anything into response to that. John only flips the light off when prompted.

When the light is flipped on again, it's by Kitty. Anabeth is no longer sitting on the floor but on the armrest of the loveseat her back facing the lamp, feet bare and crammed beneath Sherlock's legs. Her shoes are toppled over on the ground, and his arm is around her waist, to make sure she doesn't topple over herself. Still, it has Ana's stomach doing flips.

"Too late to go on record?" the detective asks.

Anabeth's silent again though watchful as a hawk, which Sherlock is beginning to equate it with Christabella and not Anabeth, as Sherlock questions Kitty doesn't move from her position on the couch until the door is opened once more.

"Darlin', they didn't have any ground coffee so I just got you-"

And she's off the couch and protectively in front of Sherlock in the blink of an eye.

"Y-you said they wouldn't find me here," Moriarty said as he pushed himself against the wall. Fear riddled his eyes as he took in the unexpected trio. "You said I was safe."

"You are safe," Kitty counters. "I'm a witness. He won't harm you when there are witnesses."

"So that's your source?" John surges forward. "Moriarty is Richard Brook?" he asks. His voice breaks on the last syllable.

"Of course he's Richard Brook. There is no Moriarty. There never has been."

"What are you talking about?"

"Look him up. Rich Brook, an actor Sherlock Holmes hired to be Moriarty."

"Doctor Watson," Moriarty says, wearily. "I know you're a good man. Don't - heh - don't hurt me."

"No, you're Moriarty. He's Moriarty!" John shouts. "We met. Remember? You were going to blow me up."

Moriarty covered his face. "I'm sorry," he breathes. "I'm sorry. But," he motions to Sherlock, "h-he paid me, I needed the work. I'm an actor. I was out of work."

"Sherlo-"

"NO!"

Four pairs of eyes land on the little olive-skinned woman, stunned by her outburst. Moriarty jumps and stumbles backward, realistically frightened by her.

"No. Not this time James. I will not let you stand around and do this to them. I won't let it happen again. Poor Kitty has the wool pulled so far over her eyes. Just like you did to me. You are a bastard."

"I'm sorry," Kitty says sounding actually apologetic. "But there's no such person as James Moriarty. He's Richard Brooke. Here," she hands John a folder filled with papers and articles on Richard Brook spanning back years.

"I am sorry. Really I am. She's an actress too," Moriarty says pointing to Anabeth. "An amazing one, she's been in plays at the West End. It was a few years ago. She mostly just dances now."

Anabeth takes a step forward, a growl ripping through her throat that has Moriarty scrambles away. "You may not be on the side of the angels, James, but never forget that I am one of them." She goes to grab him but he slips away and Sherlock and John chase after him up the stairs. Well, John chases after Sherlock.

"I will smite you!" Christabella calls after her husband. "I will burn you from the inside out!"

She doesn't wait for the boys to return, already figuring Moriarty has escaped, simply grabs her heels and leaves. She's gone by the time Sherlock and John make it outside.

221b Baker Street

Anabeth is pacing his bedroom when he returns to the flat alone. John hasn't been back yet either.

Her hair is a mess, all tangled and twisted and filled with silky black feathers. Her dress is torn, from something earlier in the night. All the makeup on her face has been removed, and for once it's easy to see how tired and sick she is.

She doesn't say anything when Sherlock comes into the room. She pauses in her movement and looks relieved for the time being.

Until Sherlock says what they both have been dreading to hear.

"I think I'm going to die."

"I think I am too."

If the kiss Christabella stole lead to other things that night, they don't talk about it. Sherlock certainly doesn't question the black feathers in the bed in the morning.

If John realizes anything when he sees Sherlock wrapped in his sheet and Anabeth in nothing but the man's button up at the table with breakfast the next morning, he doesn't show it.

If Moriarty suspects anything when Anabeth confronts him later that day, he doesn't say anything.

He doesn't have to.

The gunshot to the chest said enough.

"Sherlock?"

The timid voice of Mrs Hudson draw Sherlock from his thoughtful reverie as her stared out the window, but he doesn't turn.

"Ana-" The older lady had to clear her throat. "She left this for you. When she first moved out, told me I'd know when the right time to give it to you was."

She doesn't elaborate any further. The envelope, same as those letters to her before, is set on the coffee table before she leaves.

It isn't until John's left for the day, and Mrs. Hudson had gone on a grocery run, that he picks up the letter and breaks the red wax seal. There was an angel on it.

Sherlock, the letter read.

One of two things has happened for you to get this letter. Either Moriarty is dead or I am.

Of course if Moriarty is dead, then that means I'm back in America for the time being. Don't count on me being gone for too long. I'm only there to debrief and quit before I return. I quite like being a piano teacher. You can probably stop reading and send me a text about sentiment.

If I'm dead, I'm sorry. Of course, I know you don't really care for me. I don't count. Sort of like Molly but different. Perhaps I should have said 'love' instead of 'care'.

I knew it was coming. I knew the moment that I accepted the case in Langley that it was going to end one of two ways.

I didn't realize how much I would change on the way.

That's how it goes, isn't it?

I assume that if I'm alive then you've stopped reading by now and that the rest of this is futile. I really hope that's the case.

When I was younger, my sister Payton, my heart and soul... We used to lie in this meadow we found just past the line of trees bordering the vineyard in Virginia at night and look up at the stars and watch fireflies. Sometimes we'd catch them and squish them on our bellies and draw glow-in-the-dark smiley faces on ourselves.

I'd almost always ask her why they flashed. And she'd tell me that biologically it was for attracting a mate. Which I never liked, mainly because I was eight and boys still had cooties. And not the cute kind you make with the children's game.

But then she said that, abstractly, she liked to think that God used it to symbolize the fleetingness of beauty in nature. In life. That it's here one moment and gone the next. But never for long.

I guess that always stuck with me.

Even long after the cancer stole Payton from us. I'd always tell myself that it's only dark now. It'll be bright soon. The firefly of life will flash.

And it did. When my siblings married. Or my nieces and nephews were born.

When I met Dean.

When I met you and John. Mainly you.

I guess this is it then. I think I'll get this before I leave if I'm not dead. I mean, I'm sure I can handle unrequited feelings, but knowing that you know is a different story. So yeah, if you've read this, this is it.

My last goodbye.

Yours truly,
Christabella

Okay, Okay. Last one for today. I was supposed to do a double yesterday for my friend's birthday. But I ended up having to work on my Dad's brakes. Tomorrow will be a double as well since I have Prom on Saturday, and then that's it. It's over. Only two chapters left.