Why Fireflies Flash

That's Why Fireflies Flash

"I am not going to be back until late. Do not wait up for me." Anabeth, who'd managed to make yesterday's skirt and Sherlock's button up into a decent looking outfit, stood at the doorway between the kitchen and the lounge. She'd only towel dried her hair from her shower this morning and her face was devoid of any beauty product, but she still looked the best she had since her return to London.

"Where are you going?" John asks as he peers over the back of his chair.

"Out, with friends. I still have a social life here, believe it or not."

"You'll call me if you get into trouble, right?"

John glanced at Sherlock at the question, his brows furrowed together. Maybe his first thought this morning was true.

"Of course," Anabeth replies half a beat later.

"Good."

"Have you heard from Christabella?"

John looks up from his laptop, his brow furrowed at the name. "Anabeth, you mean?"

"Obviously, John."

"No, I haven't." He frowns. "Didn't she say not to wait up, that she'd call you if she was in trouble?"

"She's not responding to my texts."

"I'm sure she's fine."

It wasn't Molly in the morgue when they arrived. To be honest, John had no idea who the kid was. Someone new?

He couldn't really concentrate on that at the moment because it hurt too much. Maybe not nearly as much as it hurt Sherlock.

It was different this time. Unlike Adler's deaths, the pain was actually visible.

Or maybe it's just him projecting his emotions. He never realized how much Anabeth truly meant to them.

They just took her presence for granted. Never even asked her favorite color, they just assumed.

John's jolted awake by the shrill sound of his mobile phone.

Sherlock's staring out into space thinking. That's all he's done since, well since Moriarty took away Anabeth.

He doesn't even pay attention to a frantic John on the phone. His word are just a hollow echo.

"Yes, speaking... Er, what? ... What happened? Is she okay? ... Oh my god. Right, yes, I'm coming."

By the time he's off the phone, the detective's realized something's wrong. "What is it?"

"Paramedics. Mrs. Hudson - she's been shot."

"What? How?" But he doesn't sound too worried.

"Well, probably one of the killers you managed to attra-" he takes a deep breath like it's suddenly hit him that there's a band of serial killers after them. "Jesus. Jesus. She's dying, Sherlock. Let's go."

He turns to leave, anxious to see if his landlady is okay.

"You go. I'm busy." He really isn't all to worried and maybe that should've clued John in.

The doctor turns around and stomps back towards his best friend. "Busy?"

"Thinking," Sherlock replies pointedly. "I need to think."

"You need to ...? That's all you've done since Anabeth was killed! I'm sorry your girlfriend's dead; I cared for her too!" That was cold, considering the poor girl had only died two days ago. "But Mrs Hudson needs us. Doesn't she mean anything to you? You once half killed a man because he laid a finger on her."