Anabeth was only gone for a few days, only spending the Thanksgiving holiday with her family and the following day with her sisters shopping for Christmas, which seemed to be rapidly approaching. She returned to England the day after. It was obvious that the short trip to America had re-centered her and in a way fixed her. And she returned to the same Anabeth Quinn she revealed to them just after that first case.
Well, almost.
It was the second day after she returned that John truly noticed the change in attitude. It's was subtle but still noticeable.
It was just a smile; a small tugging of the lips.
It wasn't that she never smiled. In or out of character, there was often a happy look to her mouth, but the always was an aura of falseness hidden behind porcelain teeth. Not that the smile ever looked fake, certainly it held just enough to look real. But this time…
This time it was real. Her eyes shined with the mirth found in a childish glint previously missing. And she'd laughed; something akin to the sound from the palace though more bell like. The smile stayed even long after Sherlock had moved on to another topic. And even as she left them after finishing diner, a smile remained. He didn't blame her.
If Sherlock Holmes had blatantly complimented him, he'd have done the same.
Two brown-paper-wrapped packages sat on the table the next morning. On each a similar-looking note was gracefully inked onto the paper.
John,
There is, in fact, a singular day that which friends and family set aside to celebrate your day of birth. And for every birthday there are exactly 364 (365 on leap years, unless you were born on February 29th then there's always 365) unbirthdays. Who says we can't celebrate those too? Have a very happy unbirthday!
Love, Anabeth
She'd given him a moleskin journal. Sherlock received a copy of Paper Towns by John Green. He'd seen Anabeth reading the same novel a few days before she left for America. There was symbolism there.
That night there were cupcakes with candles that sparked when lit. Red velvet with a raspberry cream cheese icing.
Sherlock found the gift the following morning. It was fairly obvious hanging next to the smiley above the couch. There was a sticky note stuck beneath the oil painting.
I've always found Paris to be the most beautiful in the snow with a broken heart.
Happy unbirthday, boys.
Mrs. Hudson found the next one, as she was "not housekeeping." In the fridge, a pair of hands, small and delicate. Pianist's hands. The girl's nails were still painted.
It's was terribly a Sherlock thing, so she left them alone, knowing how fussy he got when his things were touched. Sherlock passed behind her, on his way to the coffee pot. Her disgruntled sigh made him glance at her and into the fridge to see what experiment disgusted her this time.
The hands came as a shock. He'd never seen them, let alone experimented with them, though he could think of 645 experiments – make that 671 – he could do. A little smile danced across his lips as he reached over Mrs. Hudson and for the note held down by the plate.
Did you know hobbits give presents on their birthdays? The also throw huge parties to which the entirety of the Shire and the surrounding lands are invited. I wonder if Gandalf will bring his fireworks this year…
There's a really crude joke to be made with hands here… I won't though.
There's cake and ice cream and booze downstairs tonight, before I head to work. Molly will be there, and Lestrade, for whatever reason he was invited. And some girls from the Lounge, I did quit. Just by the way. Before I left for America.
You and John are welcome to come. I'd really like it if you did.
Happy birthday to me.
He chuckles and puts the note on the side of the fridge with Anabeth's little pink heart magnet she uses to hold new recipes as she cooks. For John to see of course.
John's gift was a knit jumper he found folded on his chair in his bedroom. Just a generic brown with a hand turkey stitched to the front.
Thanksgiving, the note read, is one of the only times my family gets together, where we all are under one roof. Sometimes I can be so American I annoy myself. Thought of you and your never ending sweater collection when I spied this, hope you like it.
You remind me of a hobbit. Maybe it's just the height, or maybe I just have been watching too much Lord of the Rings… They give things on their birthdays, unlike our world that just takes, takes, takes. Except I never really did. Not since I read The Fellowship of the Ring when I was six? I think. No I gave people things on my birthday, some were past books and toys I was given, and then I bought things for other people. I was always the weird child. I got "unbirthday presents" near my actually birthday. Ces't la vie.
There'll be cake and ice cream at my place tonight. And booze. Ciao.
He shook his head as he tossed the sweater on the bed, it was kinda cute, and again he shook it when he placed the note on his dresser. He'd wear it tonight for cake and ice cream.
"Happy birthday to you," the choir of friends sang and a room lit by two candles. "Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday dear Anabeth. Happy birthday to you."
"Make a wish," someone shouted and Anabeth blew out the 29. There was applause as the room was drenched in darkness for the thirteen seconds it took someone to flip the light switch.
Anabeth smiles at the little group of friends. Most of them were meeting each other for the first time. And most of them had brought gifts that now covered the little sofa table pushed against the back of the couch. Despite what she'd told most of them the table was still full.
Cake was handed out and booze was sipped from, and before long half-drunk and completely intoxicated friends piled out. A few sober ones, namely Mrs. Hudson, John and Molly, stayed behind to help clean up just a bit. They left once the food and trash was dealt with.
Her sofa table was now covered with new novels, some she'd already read, cheap cheesy cards and gift certificates to various London shops. With a solemn grin, she stacks the books and sets them by the ever growing pile that did not get to be put on the full bookshelf next to it. The cards are arranged on the mantle above the fireplace, reminders of her lovely group of friends. The gift certificates and cards are placed in the bottom of an empty wicker basket on her kitchen table.
There's a soft knock on her apartment door before the sound of old hinges reach her ears. She glances over her shoulder to see Sherlock walking into her kitchen. "Hey," she says with a soft smile, "missed the party. Everyone just left."
"Obviously. I'm sure Alfie heard them in Langley."
Her lips twitch. "Did you just make a joke? Not that, you never make jokes. But just not often." She gives a little giggle.
He looks at her curiously. "You've been drinking."
"I did say there was booze. But this," she motions to herself, "is a combination of two glasses of wine, three ibuprofen, an acetaminophen, and anti-depressants. Quite a cocktail. I think."
He pulls a small, round, lavender box from his jacket and sets it on the sofa table. "Happy birthday, Christabella," he says before he turns to leave.
"Don't go," Anabeth calls to him.
He falters only slightly though he still takes to the stairs leading up to her door.
"Please. I don't want to be alone."
"You're never alone," he says cryptically as he disappears up the stairs.
With a heavy sigh, she follows the pitter-patter of Lizzy's paws as she heads to the bedroom.
YOU ARE READING
Why Fireflies Flash
Fiksi Penggemar“Have you slept with everyone in London?” Quinn blinked at the bluntness of Sherlock's question. “I have not slept with you, now have I?”
