Why Fireflies Flash

You Give Love a Bad Name

221c Baker Street

It had been three days after Christmas that Anabeth had first heard of Irene Adler's death. And, well, technically, she hadn't even heard of it, she stumbled upon the phone and deduced. So that was the reason behind the depressing music. Interesting to know.

It was beyond infuriating.

It would take three more days for Anabeth to grab her own violin, stuck in the back of her closet, and head for the flat above hers. The familiar weight of the instrument in her hand, as she climbs the stairs, was comforting.

She needs both hands to count the number of instruments she's classically trained in, the number's closer to fifteen when taken into account the handful of other instruments she's learnt to play over the years. However, the number of instruments Anabeth actually enjoyed playing could be summed up on one, classically trained or not.

On her way up, she passes a frustrated John on his way down.

"You play?" he asks.

She shrugged. "Yeah, classically trained since I was six or so. That and about seven other instruments."

"And you expect him to let you join?"

Anabeth chuckles. "Not at all, I plan on showing him just how annoying a constant stream of sad violin music is. As if I'm not depressed enough."

"Well, good luck with your perpetual duet," John says as he continues down.

"I will, thanks."

Sherlock hadn't noticed her presence as she set about readying her instrument, or maybe he was just ignoring her.

Having heard most of the composition already three or four times that morning alone (the beginning at least), she wasn't hesitant to join in when the detective started up again.

After that, Sherlock just stared at the spook, music frozen, for the first time in six days. His eyes were drawn to his ring - her ring (left hand, toward the wrist, married). Her eyes, which smiled up at him as she slowly transitioned from his piece to something that could only be described as completely Anabeth, were not enhanced by coloured contacts, nor were they hindered by a pair of glasses as he had seen a few times previous.

His stomach tightened for some ungodly reason, feeling like it flipped completely upside-down. Perhaps he was getting sick.

A glance out the window saw his blogger getting into a car with his brother's fetcher.

He doesn't excuse himself before he leaves .

Mrs. Hudson stands in the doorway to the kitchen, pausing in her "not housekeeping", a knowing smirk dancing on her lips. Anabeth only smiles back. She had to work late today.

221b Baker Street

She made dinner that night; pork and sauerkraut, although the meal was hardly touched. No one had proper appetites after what happened with Mrs. Hudson. Anabeth managed to have an hours long conversation with her father about keeping his priorities straight and have his men go after her landlady, to which he promptly replied that they weren't his men but he'd look into it. Miss Adler's lack of death was also jolting to all the in habitants. Hardly surprising though, considering her allegiances.

John made his way to bed shortly after one, leaving the other two completely alone for the first time since perhaps they shared that first kiss. The last of their celebratory bottle of Mercoletti Champagne being passed between them. Eventually the bottle was emptied, and the black haired girl made to leave, the unresolved tension bustling between them proving too much for her to handle in her drunken state.