Why Fireflies Flash

Everything Seemed Make-Believe

221c Baker Street

"Innocence didn't mean
We're immune to these things
Let's blame the passage of time
Love and loss
Truth, it costs
More than I can spare right now
Maybe it's simpler to lie"

Anabeth's voice echoes up the stairs and to the open doorway. More often than not, this was the scene that greeted Sherlock; a drunken Anabeth that sang at the top of her lungs dancing with an invisible partner. It didn't suit her. She held more class than this. Though he would admit, he did like the personality of drunken Anabeth. She was much bubblier, not unlike the façade of Miss Ryder, just much more real.

The thought processes behind drinking always confounded Sherlock. There were a few that always came up. Obviously there's the addiction, the one who thinks they can't function properly without a pint or seven. Then there was the socialite who only drank a glass of wine or two at parties and gathering. And then there was the one who drank to forget why they were drinking and then suddenly they forget and then they drink to remember and the cycle just goes on and on and on.

And then there were the depressed, which Anabeth seemed to fit in quite nicely with, who drank to rid themselves of their depression. That fact alone was stupid. Alcohol was a depressant and only depressed the consumer further.

Though Anabeth was seemingly the opposite. Though she reeked of alcohol, had an impaired sense of judgment and balance, and slurred speech, as well as dilated pupils and a lack of coordination, all proof of her sudden vice for drinking, she was almost always cheery.

And he'd find her clinging to a bottle in her flat, singing most of the time, and dancing, sometimes he watches her paint. And he watched as her paintings went from some of the most photorealistic work even seen to a very whimsical rococo feel. And he thought that maybe he'd truly broken her, that their moment with her covered in naught but a fluffy white terrycloth towel and him pushing her far past her breaking point trying to get a few notes from her had possibly pushed her too far over the metaphysical edge. They were far past theoreticals and hypotheticals.

It sort of pained him, though he'd never admit to it, that he was the cause for this. Although, it was for naught. If he had been paying more attention to Anabeth and less attention to John and Mycroft and The Woman (who still held those photos), he would realize that the cause for Anabeth sudden demise was not of that night, though it certainly was a key player. But in fact, again had he paid her more attention; Sherlock would realize that his opposite was to blame. With her quitting her job at the burlesque lounge, she had more time to work her mark. She would often only be on Baker Street at nights, long enough to grab a few hours of sleep before she was off working little jobs for the Consulting Criminal.

When confronted she would blame herself, and she wouldn't be wrong, but it was the constant presence of an entity long forgotten, well entities, that brought her to this point. Emotions. Those little buggers locked so far away had gotten loose. At least that's what she'd say, what everyone would say.

And he saw her now. For what she really was. The puzzle had finally come together, the last piece laid down.

Christabella was just a broken girl forced to fix herself too quick. She was too strong, too independent to allow anyone to help her. And now, she hid behind tragedy and masks, built walls to keep everyone out. The world of espionage was the perfect place for her after all. There was plenty of practice for her acting both on and off cases. Eventually she would've broke, almost everyone does, albeit differently. She knew this before applying. But it would only add to the charm. And everyone would blame the CIA and her superiors, not the already cracked vessel.

She had finally broken. It wasn't like anyone expected. Maybe they all thought her to go rogue and double cross everyone. Or maybe she'd become an assassin; she had no qualms when she had to pull the trigger.