Moriarty's Musician

Chapter 7: Siding with the Angels, Part 1

Annabelle pulled away from him, a spark lighting her eyes. "I told you, I'm done with your games. If you have something to tell me, just say it."

They both stared at each other, neither backing down until Moriarty shook his head and laughed. He turned and walked into the study ahead of her. Annabelle followed and looked around.

Heavy curtains hanging over large windows were pulled shut so only a small crack of light broke through. A large mahogany desk stood in front of the window, and various pieces of antique furniture were positioned around the room as a fire roared in the fireplace. But it was the expanse of books lining almost every wall from ceiling to floor that made Annabelle smile. She walked over to a wall and ran her hand over the books carefully placed on the shelves.

"My mother loved reading," Moriarty said, nodding to one of two wing chairs facing the fireplace. "She would sit in one of those chairs and read to me until I fell asleep."

Annabelle looked at the chairs. She could almost see a little boy with dark brown hair curled up in one of them.

Walking over to a little stand against the wall, he pulled off the stopper from a glass decanter and poured himself a drink.

Annabelle frowned as she watched him. "Do you always drink before noon?"

"Always." Moriarty poured another glass and brought it over to her. "Here darlin'. It'll take the edge off." He held it out to her and Annabelle shook her head.

"No, thank you, I'm not a lush."

The corners of his mouth turned up. "Oh, but you are luscious, sweetheart."

Annabelle's cheeks turned pink as she defiantly grabbed the glass from his outstretched hand. She took a gulp and then looked at him in wonder. "This is only water."

Moriarty shook his head, sat down in a winged chair, and stared into the fire. "You're always thinking the worst of me, aren't you? Tell me, what did Sherlock say to convince you to hate me so much?"

Annabelle took a sip from her glass and sat in the opposite chair to his. She sighed, remembering her conversation with Sherlock. 

"He said you had Mr. Blackstone killed so you could move me into his flat." Annabelle glanced at him. "Did you kill him?"

Moriarty laughed. "What Sherlock calls killed, I call convinced. Your Mr. Blackstone was actually Edward Foxworthy who changed his name because he had beaten his wife and small son almost to death. I believe his child is still in a coma. It didn't take much encouragement from me for him to hang himself. I guarantee Sherlock already knew his cause of death was suicide. Strange how he left that part out."

"So this didn't have anything to do with you wanting me around Sherlock?"

"Of course it did. It had everything to do with it."

Annabelle rubbed her forehead. "Why would you do that?"

Moriarty laughed as he looked at her.

Annabelle glared back. "What's so funny?"

"Sherlock and I dance together. He moves one way and I move another. But now that you're here, dearest, the steps have gotten much more complicated." Moriarty licked his lips. "I wanted to introduce Sherlock to my new dance partner."