Why Fireflies Flash

It's too Cold for Angels to Fly

221B Baker Street

"They'll be back in China by tomorrow," John says as he pushes into the flat and pulls his overcoat off.

Sherlock shook his head, glaring at all the evidence and books filling the small sitting room as he too stripped himself of his outerwear. "No. They won't leave without what they came for."

Quinn stalked around them, her movements suddenly a militaristic as John's. "We need to find their hideout. Rendezvous. Somewhere in this message," she brushed her now well-worn manicure of the cypher from the tracks. "Alfie would have known. Oh, what is the damn key?!" She spun on the balls of her feet and started riffling through the books.

"Well, I think perhaps I should leave you to it," Sarah says suddenly.

"Yes, it'd be better for-"

"If you do not mind-"

"No, no, no, no, it's fine.-"

"-if you left now." Sherlock gives her a brief uncommitted smile.

"He's kidding," John rebukes.

Quinn glanced between the two men and shook her head. "No, he was not. Do not lie to the woman." She gave Sarah a once over before continuing her riffling. "Sarah, you do seem like a nice woman. Stay if you would like. I can work around you. John, you best spend some time with her."

"Is it just me or is anyone else starving?" Sarah asked.

"Ooh, god," Sherlock mumbled under his breath.

"Right," John mutters as he goes to the kitchen to look for something to snack on.

Quietness settles between the remaining three. Sherlock takes his seat at the table between the windows to continue his work on the cypher.

"So this is what you do for a living?" Sarah questions the detective as she takes in the plethora of papers covering the mirror. "You- you two and John? You solve puzzles."

"Consulting Detective," he snapped peeved.

Quinn frowned. "And no. I only live in the flat below." A clank in the kitchen draws Quinn's attention from Sarah to her date. Her frown deepens before she swiftly but silently walks out of the flat and to hers. She returned five minutes later with a serving tray (borrowed from Mrs. Hudson, hers were hidden in a box somewhere) with a picture, plate, and three glasses, one of which she took after she set the tray down. John looked over just in time to see her do this.

"Anabeth you are a saint."

Anabeth shrugged. "I couldn't stand to see your date go any farther to the dumps. It's nothing much, just homemade shortbread cookies and gingersnaps and half-n-half, um sweet tea and lemonade. But I'll warn you I am from the Southern States, so everything's really sweet and really fattening. To say we enjoy our butter is a bit of an understatement." She pours herself a glass before joining Sherlock and Sarah.

"And each pair of numbers is a word?" Anabeth hears Sarah ask.

"How did you know that?" Sherlock wonders.

"Well, two words have already been translated. Here." Setting the evidence bag containing the paper on the table, she points to the faint writing of a ballpoint pen.

"John. John!" Sherlock exclaims excitedly as he tears the paper out of the bag. "John look at this. She started to translate the code for us. We didn't see it."

"Frankly, I was more worried about protecting my asset."

Sherlock spared Anabeth a passing glance. "NINE... MILL..."