Why Fireflies Flash

Beautiful Things Never Last

Kitty Riley's Home

"You boys certainly know how to rile people up," Anabeth says as she uncuffs the blogger and detective. "I had to dodge quite a few people to get away silently. Those assassins mostly."

"You didn't have to come," Sherlock says.

"Yeah well," she sticks the cuffs into her coat pocket. "Just because one of us is going to end up dead doesn't mean it has to be you."

No one says anything into response to that. John only flips the light off when prompted.

When the light is flipped on again, it's by Kitty. Anabeth is no longer sitting on the floor but on the armrest of the loveseat her back facing the lamp, feet bare and crammed beneath Sherlock's legs. Her shoes are toppled over on the ground, and his arm is around her waist, to make sure she doesn't topple over herself. Still, it has Ana's stomach doing flips.

"Too late to go on record?" the detective asks.

Anabeth's silent again though watchful as a hawk, which Sherlock is beginning to equate it with Christabella and not Anabeth, as Sherlock questions Kitty doesn't move from her position on the couch until the door is opened once more.

"Darlin', they didn't have any ground coffee so I just got you-"

And she's off the couch and protectively in front of Sherlock in the blink of an eye.

"Y-you said they wouldn't find me here," Moriarty said as he pushed himself against the wall. Fear riddled his eyes as he took in the unexpected trio. "You said I was safe."

"You are safe," Kitty counters. "I'm a witness. He won't harm you when there are witnesses."

"So that's your source?" John surges forward. "Moriarty is Richard Brook?" he asks. His voice breaks on the last syllable.

"Of course he's Richard Brook. There is no Moriarty. There never has been."

"What are you talking about?"

"Look him up. Rich Brook, an actor Sherlock Holmes hired to be Moriarty."

"Doctor Watson," Moriarty says, wearily. "I know you're a good man. Don't - heh - don't hurt me."

"No, you're Moriarty. He's Moriarty!" John shouts. "We met. Remember? You were going to blow me up."

Moriarty covered his face. "I'm sorry," he breathes. "I'm sorry. But," he motions to Sherlock, "h-he paid me, I needed the work. I'm an actor. I was out of work."

"Sherlo-"

"NO!"

Four pairs of eyes land on the little olive-skinned woman, stunned by her outburst. Moriarty jumps and stumbles backward, realistically frightened by her.

"No. Not this time James. I will not let you stand around and do this to them. I won't let it happen again. Poor Kitty has the wool pulled so far over her eyes. Just like you did to me. You are a bastard."

"I'm sorry," Kitty says sounding actually apologetic. "But there's no such person as James Moriarty. He's Richard Brooke. Here," she hands John a folder filled with papers and articles on Richard Brook spanning back years.

"I am sorry. Really I am. She's an actress too," Moriarty says pointing to Anabeth. "An amazing one, she's been in plays at the West End. It was a few years ago. She mostly just dances now."

Anabeth takes a step forward, a growl ripping through her throat that has Moriarty scrambles away. "You may not be on the side of the angels, James, but never forget that I am one of them." She goes to grab him but he slips away and Sherlock and John chase after him up the stairs. Well, John chases after Sherlock.