Why Fireflies Flash
Chapter Thirty-one
"That's Why Fireflies Flash"

"I am not going to be back until late. Do not wait up for me." Anabeth, who'd managed to make yesterday's skirt and Sherlock's button up into a decent looking outfit, stood at the doorway between the kitchen and the lounge. She'd only towel dried her hair from her shower this morning and her face was devoid of any beauty product, but she still looked the best she had since her return to London.

"Where are you going?" John asks as he peers over the back of his chair.

"Out, with friends. I still have a social life here, believe it or not."

"You'll call me if you get into trouble, right?"

John glanced at Sherlock at the question, his brows furrowed together. Maybe his first thought this morning was true.

"Of course," Anabeth replies half a beat later.

"Good."

"Have you heard from Christabella?"

John looks up from his laptop, his brow furrowed at the name. "Anabeth, you mean?"

"Obviously, John."

"No, I haven't." He frowns. "Didn't she say not to wait up, that she'd call you if she was in trouble?"

"She's not responding to my texts."

"I'm sure she's fine."

It wasn't Molly in the morgue when they arrived. To be honest, John had no idea who the kid was. Someone new?

He couldn't really concentrate on that at the moment because it hurt too much. Maybe not nearly as much as it hurt Sherlock.

It was different this time. Unlike Adler's deaths, the pain was actually visible.

Or maybe it's just him projecting his emotions. He never realized how much Anabeth truly meant to them.

They just took her presence for granted. Never even asked her favorite color, they just assumed.

John's jolted awake by the shrill sound of his mobile phone.

Sherlock's staring out into space thinking. That's all he's done since, well since Moriarty took away Anabeth.

He doesn't even pay attention to a frantic John on the phone. His word are just a hollow echo.

"Yes, speaking... Er, what? ... What happened? Is she okay? ... Oh my god. Right, yes, I'm coming."

By the time he's off the phone, the detective's realized something's wrong. "What is it?"

"Paramedics. Mrs. Hudson - she's been shot."

"What? How?" But he doesn't sound too worried.

"Well, probably one of the killers you managed to attra-" he takes a deep breath like it's suddenly hit him that there's a band of serial killers after them. "Jesus. Jesus. She's dying, Sherlock. Let's go."

He turns to leave, anxious to see if his landlady is okay.

"You go. I'm busy." He really isn't all to worried and maybe that should've clued John in.

The doctor turns around and stomps back towards his best friend. "Busy?"

"Thinking," Sherlock replies pointedly. "I need to think."

"You need to ...? That's all you've done since Anabeth was killed! I'm sorry your girlfriend's dead; I cared for her too!" That was cold, considering the poor girl had only died two days ago. "But Mrs Hudson needs us. Doesn't she mean anything to you? You once half killed a man because he laid a finger on her."

Sherlock shrugged. "She's my landlady."

"She's dying..." He flails a hand in front of himself in utter disbelief at Sherlock's attitude. "You machine." He shakes his head. "Sod this. Sod this. You stay here if you want, on your own."

"Alone is what I have." He watches as John angrily walks back to the door. "Alone protects me."

John pauses glancing back, his eyes going distant. "No. Friends protect people."

John,

I'm going to be completely honest with you. I'm only writing this because I felt bad that I didn't give you an explanation. I wrote Sherlock's months ago, before I went on my six month long binge.

Holy fuck, it's been almost a year.

Tomorrow, I'm going to do something incredibly stupid. Actually, if you're reading this note, I've already done it.

I'm doing it for you. For everyone whose every fallen prey to Jim's schemes. For me, who leads that list. And for Sherlock, because I owe him so much.

You've done so much for him. Given him hope that there's someone who will always believe in him. Don't ever lose faith in him, it's not misplaced.

Mycroft really should learn to not boast about his brother.

I loved him you know. Fancy writing it in a letter to his best friend when I couldn't admit it to myself until Moriarty walked into Kitty Riley's apartment.

You've been a great friend John. You and Sherlock, and Mrs. Hudson.

I might actually like you more than I do my own family. Though, that's not really that hard. There's one person I despise more than them, and he's trying to tear the fabric of reality as we know it.

Going after Moriarty... Definitely not the brightest idea I've ever had. Then again, I'm routinely called a dumb ass.

I prefer the term protective. Less dumb. Less ass. A bit more professional, don't ya think?

I'm not doing this as Agent Quinn. I'm doing this as a friend. As Anabeth. As Christabella.

Thanks for everything, John.

Anabeth

Sherlock doesn't see where the shot came from. Didn't even hear the shot either.

He only watched with surprise as Moriarty's lifeless body fell to the side, scarlet spattered across the previously gray rooftop.

"Hello?'

"John."

"Sherlock, you okay?"

"Turn around and walk back the way you came now."

"No, I'm coming in."

"Just do as I ask. Please."

"Where?"

"Stop there."

"Sherlock?"

"Okay, look up. I'm on the rooftop."

"Oh, god."

"I-I-I can't come down, so we'll ... we'll just have to do it like this."

"What's going on?"

"An apology. It's all true."

"Wh-what?"

"Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty."

"Why are you saying this?"

"I'm a fake."

"Sherlock..."

"The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade; I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson, and Molly... in fact, tell anyone who listen to you that I created Moriarty for my own purposes. Chris- I only regret that Christabella was pulled into the mess as well."

"Okay, shut up, Sherlock, shut up. The first time we met... The first time we met, you knew all about my sister, right?"

"Nobody could be that clever."

"You could."

"...I researched you... Before we met I discovered everything that I could impress you... It's a trick. Just a magic trick."

"No. All right, stop it now."

"No, stay exactly where you are. Don't move."

"All right."

"Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me?"

"Do what?"

"This phone call - it's, er... it's my note. It's what people do, don't they - leave a note?"

"...Leave a note when?"

"Goodbye, John."

"No. Don't."

This couldn't be happening.

He can't lose both his best friends in three days.

"No. SHERLOCK!"

John and Mrs Hudson are sitting in the back of a cab as it drives into a graveyard. Mrs Hudson is holding two bunches of flowers. One a bright gathering of lilies, the other a bouquet of purple orchids.

"What are those?"

"Purple dendrobium orchid."

"That's quite specific."

"Chirstabella was very specific in her likings."

Not long afterwards, they stand beside each other in front of a black marble headstone, the name Sherlock Holmes engraved into it. The yellow flowers are now resting at the base.

There's a soft silence between them, after John reassures Mrs. Hudson that he's not actually that angry but before she murmurs she'll leave them alone to talk.

"I'll go give these to Ana."

And with that she leaves John alone.

It was curious, the way Anabeth's body was dealt with. The thought surely her body would be brought back to America, to buried on the family plot in Virginia. But after less than twenty-four hours, a gentle older Cherokee woman shows up and starts planning the funeral.

"Sylvia Mercoletti, Christie's nema."

"Sherlock Holme-"

The woman smiled brightly. Something comforting in her eyes. "Oh, she's told me much about, a-yo-li. You're her heart."

It's hard for John to say it. Whatever it is that he needed to say. The words are choppy and rushed. And maybe it would have been better to visit Ana's grave first.

The marble is cold against his finger tips.

"There's just one more thing, mate, one more thing: one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't... be..." His voice is rough and the tears are obvious. "...dead. Would you do... ? Just for me, just stop it. Stop this."

He sighs and lowers his head. The wind blows gently, and the rustle of fabric is heard behind him. For a moment he thinks it's Mrs. Hudson, until the speak.

"I... I know I'm not Sherlock but..."

John spins around with his eyes wide. "H-how? I saw-"

Anabeth shrugged. "Sorry about that. I needed you both to completely believe I was dead. It was the only way I could get away with it. If it helps, Moriarty thought me dead as well."

"It doesn't." But he hugs her anyway, because yes, she's actually here. They could mourn together. "I still don't understand..." he says pulling back. "You were shot in the chest."

She smiles. "I told you. In Kitty Riley's apartment. Well, I shouted it at Moriarty. I'm an angel. John. It's quite impossible to kill me."

Yeah, okay, she's said that before. It was plausible, as long as the bullet had missed any vital organs.

As they walk back to the taxi ("No, I won't be joining you home, I don't think Mrs. Hudson could handle that. I'll stop by in the morning."), John speaks up.

"He's really gone, isn't he?"

"I dunno, John," she breathes looking away into the tree line, ignoring the gaze that met hers. "I don't think even Sherlock Holmes could pull that off."

It wasn't until John had called her name did she realize she'd been staring.

"What is it?"

"Sorry, nothing. Must have been a bird."

"Alright."

They continue, although Ana's a step or two behind John.

"You promise to tell Mrs. Hudson tomorrow?" John asks as a small breeze blows and rustles the fabric of Ana's dress again. "I don't think-" but when he turns to glance at her she's already gone.