Why Fireflies Flash

All of London

Scotland Yard

"Brian Lukis, freelance journalist murdered in his flat," Sherlock says while typing away on DI Dimmick's laptop. He turns it around to show the article from earlier. "Doors looked from the inside."

"You've got to admit it's similar," John speaks from beside the consultant. "Both men killed by someone who could walk through solid walls."

"Detective, do you really think this is just another city suicide?" Anabeth asked.

Sherlock sighed. "You have seen the ballistics report, I suppose. And Anabeth was right, was she not? The bullet wasn't fired from his own gun."

"No," the detective answered.

"No. So this investigation might move a bit quicker if you were to take my word as gospel."

At the word gospel, Quinn smacked herself in the forehead. "Yesterday was Wednesday, was it not?" At John's nod she winces "Crap, I promised Momma I would go to Confessional. Gallivanting around with you all, I forgot," she says pointedly.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. He's been doing that a lot since he met Anabeth... Turning back to the task at hand he leans forward, bracing himself on the desk in front of him. "I just handed you a murder inquiry. Five minutes in his flat."

With a sigh, Dimmick gives in.

...

Brian Lukis' Flat

Quinn found herself ogling at the clutter found in the newest victims flat. Research, she told herself, it is all for research. Still, it was a lot of books. She enjoyed reading but not this much.

"Four floors up." Sherlock smiled. "That's why they think their safe. Put a chain across the door, bolt it shut, they think their impregnable. They don't reckon for one second that there's another way in."

"I don't understand," Dimmick states as Sherlock brushes past him.

Quinn rolled her eyes. "Of course you do not. Do try to keep up. Our killer is a climber. A highly skilled one at that."

"What are you doing?" Dimmick asks as Sherlock opens a skylight.

"Clings to the walls like an insect. That's how he got in."

"What?"

"Climbed up the side of the walls, ran along the roof, dropped in through this skylight."

"What? You're not serious. Like Spider-man?"

Quinn shook her head. "He climbed up six stories and jumped a balcony to kill Edward Van Coon."

"Ha ha ha h-hold on-"

"And of course that's how he got into the bank; he ran along the window ledge and onto the terrace," Sherlock continues. He turns around and pauses in doorway leading out. "We've got to find what connects these two men." A bright orange book catches his eye. He opens it briefly before snapping it shut and storming out, leaving his two comrades to follow him.

...

221B Baker Street

Quinn pranced about the kitchen, not having eaten in nearly twenty-four hour, her stilettos tapping a non-rhythmic staccato beat as she gathers the ingredients for a bacon butty, proud of herself for remembering the term. As the bacon sizzled in the pan and the bread toasted, she tuned into the boys' conversation.

"So the killer goes into the back, leaves a threatening cipher for Van Coon, Van Coon panics, returns to his apartment, locks himself in, hours later he dies."