Why Fireflies Flash

Hush, Hush

“She's a quiet one, that girl Anabeth, the one renting the other flat,” Mrs Hudson says to Sherlock one morning. “Though, I suppose most artists are. And she keeps the strangest hours. Staying home all day, only to be out all night. An American too. Maybe you should introduce yourself?”

Sherlock ignored her, continuing to stare into the microscope placed in front of him.

“We're in the middle of a case at the moment, he's not going to answer,” John speaks up from his spot in front of his laptop.

“The end of a case,” Sherlock says flippantly as he pulled his phone from his pocket. “We're meeting Lestrade at Bart's.”

John rolls his eyes, stands to follow his best friend, and plants a friendly kiss on Mrs. Hudson's temple. “Tomorrow,” he promises. “I'll even drag Sherlock with me.”

“Coming, John?”

“Be careful, you two.”

“Always am!” Sherlock calls up the stairwell.

...

They didn't return until late that night, Sherlock stumbling around still drugged by the bartender, who was, of course, the murderer. While John was left behind to deal with the cabbie (who'd become irate after Sherlock's very thorough, very correct, deduction of his twelve year marriage ending in a long drawn out divorce, in which he lost visiting rights for his children, after not one but five very bad affairs on her account) Sherlock stumbled up the door of 221B Baker Street. However, when he went to open the door, the handle was wrenched out of his hand.

“Oh Lord!” the woman said, hand over her heart. She gave a half giggle half snort sort of laugh at her own embarrassment. “You nearly scared me half to death! You must be one of the boys upstairs. I'm Anabeth Ryder.”

He didn't bother paying any attention to what she said, instead choosing to unravel her by what she wore; an off-white coloured ruffled blouse tucked into a black pencil skirt that was just above the length deemed appropriate for professional use. Well... it really depended on the profession.

Her hair, a natural jet black, was straightened and pulled into a high pony (practical). And speaking of high, the spikes on her feet had to be six inches at least (impractical and further proves his theory of her profession) and pale blue that, unsurprisingly, matched her eye colour, pocketbook, and near perfect manicure (there were a few chips and paint under her nails, an artist indeed). Her makeup was light and natural; opting for just a swipe or two of mascara and a pinkish shimmer that complimented her olive skin tone quite nicely (spends a lot of time tanning). She held herself like a woman in charge (she enjoyed power) but she tried desperately to hide it (doesn't want to stand out too much). The only jewelry she wore were hoop earrings and a pair of diamond studs in her ears and two gold chains around her neck, one older and obviously less cared for than the other (possibly a family heirloom, most likely a locket given to her as an unwelcome gift, she wears it in spite of her dislike of the person, it is an antique after all).

As for her voice and what she said, a Southeast American accent probably Virginian, North Carolinian or Tennessean, possibly a mixture of all three (with a hint of Georgian, specifically Savannah probably sent to finishing school). She threw her hand over her heart or rather her chest where the necklaces resting. The exclamation of “Oh Lord” combined with the aforementioned fact, the other necklace is probably a cross given to her at her baptism, suggesting she's highly religious (Baptist or Presbyterian, given where she's from).

“Conclusion: Anabeth Ryder is a high class prostitute, one willing to play the part of dominatrix easily, probably against her parents’ wishes. What whore didn't? Probably why she moved across an entire ocean. Phone calls and text messages are easy enough to ignore. Although, going by the emotionless look in her eyes, she's hiding something. Something serious, more likely the reason she moved to London.”