Moriarty's Musician

It's Complicated, Part 4

Sherlock opened the door and with a dramatic sweep of his arm, ushered Annabelle into his domain. She followed him into the sitting room and setting her bag on the floor, she tiredly melted into the small sofa. Sherlock set the phonograph and records on top of a mound of papers that littered his desk and turned to Annabelle. She had already closed her eyes as she leaned her head against the back of the sofa.

He walked over and looked down at his nearly sleeping guest. "Annabelle?" he said quietly. He knelt next to her. "Annabelle?" She opened her eyes slightly to look at him. "You're in luck," he said with a small smile. "Mrs. Hudson washed the sheets for me yesterday, so they only have one night of my deplorable self on them. I want you to take my bed tonight. I'll take the couch."

Annabelle couldn't believe what she was hearing from this man who had been such a bastard to her earlier in the week.

"Sherlock, I can't ask you to do that. I'm fine sleeping here."

Sherlock shook his head. "As much as I would enjoy arguing with you on this, I'm afraid your dear uncle would see to both our hides if I let you win. I just need a moment to tidy it up. I wouldn't want you thinking I'm a slob."

Annabelle chuckled. "Now why would I ever think that? Since when do you care what anyone thinks?"

Sherlock took a deep breath and stood up. "I don't. One moment," he said quickly, embarrassed that he may have unwittingly revealed to her that he did care what she thought. He left the room and came back a few moments later.

"Alright, your highness. Your chamber awaits."

Sherlock picked up the bag and held his hand out for her. Annabelle accepted his offer. Using his strength to pull her exhausted body up from the sofa, he led the way to his bedroom.

Depositing the bag on the bed, he waved his hand around the sparsely decorated space. Annabelle was amazed at how little was in the room. A single bed against one wall, a little nightstand, and lamp beside it, a dresser pressed against another wall and then a door which she assumed led to a closet. There was also a small, overstuffed bookshelf that seemed to be almost buckling from the weight of the books.

"What on earth did you have to tidy up?" she asked as she looked around the room.

Sherlock grimaced as he looked at the bookcase. "I'm afraid you couldn't see the bed for the books. I often fall asleep reading."

Annabelle smiled. "I thought you said Mrs. Hudson just washed your sheets?"

"She did. Actually, I don't spend a lot of time sleeping. I did a lot of reading last night."

"Oh."

Annabelle was surprised he admitted this to her. She immediately felt closer to him. "Thank you, Sherlock."

Before he could respond, Annabelle wrapped her arms around him, closed her eyes and hugged him tightly, snuggling her face against his chest with a smile.

Sherlock was taken aback by Annabelle's show of gratitude. The smell of lilacs filled his nostrils and it was strangely pleasant. Stiffly, he reciprocated and wrapped his arms around her. She smiled and looked up at him, thankful that she had at last found a friend.

Sherlock looked down at her in his dimly lit room. He felt a strange emotion come over him. He wasn't sure what it was but it was unlike anything he had ever experienced before. Whatever it was, it made him very uncomfortable. He released her quickly and moved away, heading for the door without looking back at her.

"The loo is around the corner. Sleep well, Miss Watson." Quickly, he exited the room and shut the door behind him.

What had just happened? Annabelle stood motionless trying to decipher the cause of Sherlock's sudden leave. She shook her head tiredly, reached into her bag to get out her pajamas and slowly changed into them. She took her toothbrush and toothpaste and opened the bedroom door. As she peeked around the corner, she could see a light coming from the sitting room. She quickly did what she needed to do in the washroom and went back to the bedroom, shutting the door behind her.

Annabelle lifted the blanket and slid under the cool covers. Fluffing the pillow a little, she lay her head down and immediately fell asleep, wrapped in the scent of Sherlock Holmes.

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Sherlock brought the phonograph to the sofa and set it on the coffee table. Lifting up the lid, he saw the reason for the jiggling sound he heard as he carried the machine. He studied the broken arm of the phonograph, twisting it this way and that. With a satisfied smile, he retrieved his soldering kit and tiny screwdriver, spending the next hour working on his latest project.

~~~~~~~

Annabelle recited back her lesson to her tutor. He slapped his ruler on the desk whenever she missed even the slightest detail.

"I'm tired of this," she said with conviction when her tutor once again slammed the ruler. "The other kids don't have to know these things. I want to go home." Her tutor didn't say a word, but she knew he was angry.

His face was hidden as he slowly approached her. Annabelle knew he was going to hurt her. Trying to make out his features, she saw a glint of light that reflected off the knife in his hand. She jumped off her chair and ran to the door, but when she got there the doorknob was missing. She screamed and banged on the door for someone to help her. She didn't want to die.

She felt the cold edge of the blade slide down her throat and when she turned to look, the smiling face of her mother stared back at her.

She screamed again, but this time a warmth enveloped her and she could hear the distant sound of a familiar voice calling her name. Her mother started backing away, laughing crazily as the deep, calming voice continued to beckon to her.

In a darkened daze, Annabelle reached out and wrapped her arms around her savior as she cried tears of relief. She nestled her face into his neck as he stroked her hair and whispered soothing words into her ear.

She tried lifting her face in the darkness to see him, but he continued to hold her tight against his chest, his rapid breathing strangely comforting against her cheek. They stayed that way for what seemed like hours when at last he relaxed his arms. She tilted her face slightly, and her lips accidentally touched the skin of his throat.

In the darkness, still feeling like her nightmare had turned into a pleasant dream, she moved across his throat with her lips, enjoying the feel of his skin against her mouth. She heard his sharp inhale as her mouth traced the outline of his jaw. A little voice shouted for her to stop playing with fire, but she didn't want to listen. His mouth hovered over hers as if he was also fighting his own battle for control. Gently, his lips brushed against hers, then traced their own way to her forehead and kissed her tenderly.

Without speaking, he moved off the edge of the bed and nudged her back down to the pillow, tucked the covers around her and left the room, closing the door quietly behind him. Annabelle was once again alone, but this time smiling as she thought about a certain consulting detective.

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Thank you for reading 'Moriarty's Musician'. There's so much more to come so keep reading! I'll update regularly. If you like what you're reading, please give me a vote. :D