221b Baker Street
Gratefully, or not so, depending on who you asked, Baker Street had managed to be Anabeth-Free for months. But that also meant there was a lack of a bubbly atmosphere that had permeated the whole of the building and a lack of home cooked meals. No one had noticed.
Actually, maybe John was the only one that really didn't notice Anabeth's absence.
Of course Mrs. Hudson had noticed, being the landlady and all. And Sherlock had, only because after a week or two he'd wandered down to the basement to bounce ideas off of the little brunette that lived there, only to find the apartment completely bare save for the kitchen appliances and the mural painted on the living room wall.
It wasn't until Sherlock complained about the lack of smart in the flat, did John realize just how long it had been since he'd seen their American friend.
Townhouse somewhere in London
The whole flat smelled of cigarette smoke.
Cigarette smoke, cinnamon and cheap red wine.
The air felt nice though.
A biting cold that numbed.
She couldn't even feel the silk of the robe that hung loosely on her all too skinny form.
Music drowned out any thoughts she could possibly have.
Christabella Quinn-Moriarty was depressed.
And her husband, for the first time in fourteen years, if not ever, was genuinely worried for her.
St. Bart's Hospital
"Is that a phone?" Molly wonders as she watches Sherlock work. She was always watching him.
"It's a camera phone," the detective replies.
The pathologist leans against the table. "And you're x-raying it?"
"Yes, I am."
"Whose phone is it?"
"A woman's."
"Your girlfriend's?" Oh, god. I hope not, she thinks. "Anabeth?"
Sherlock picks his gaze up, sneaking a sly glance to his company. "You think she's my girlfriend because I'm x-raying her possessions?"
"Well," she says standing straighter, her face starting to tinge a pale pink. "You've done stranger things."
"Yes," he agrees, and Molly feels her heart drop into her stomach.
"But all people do silly things," she says.
"They do, don't they?" He had that quirky "Yes! If figured it out!" kind of smile as he spins around and retrieves the phone. "She sent this to my address... and she loves to play games."
He makes quick work of typing "221b" into the password entry only to be denied.
"She does?" Molly asks worriedly.
Well, it was Anabeth. There was really no telling what the girl was into. Although she was quite confident in most things, there were times where she seemed quite... well, there was no other way to describe it but submissive.
Sherlock sets the phone on the table with a sharp movement. Well, set was a calm word.
With a heavy sigh, he returns to his seat and continues his analysis.
Townhouse somewhere in London
The music that echoes through the small home was scratchy, a tell that Anabeth had left the current century and started rifling through her record collection. Her voice harmonizes with Denise LaSalle's perfectly and he's struck by an overwhelming sense of nostalgia.
YOU ARE READING
Why Fireflies Flash
أدب الهواة“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?”
