Moriarty's Musician

Chapter 2: Falling for a Sociopath, Part 1

"What the hell are you doing, Anderson!"

Sherlock grabbed the jar with the shrunken head out of Anderson's hands and placed it back on the kitchen table beside the amputated foot. Beyond frustrated, he ran his hands through his dark, curly hair as he watched London's finest once again rifling through his belongings.

"Ok, Sherlock, we're done,"  Detective Lestrade said as he shooed the others out the door.

"And what, may I ask, did you hope to find?" Sherlock glared at Lestrade who was now shifting back and forth under the scrutiny of the unofficial detective.

Sergeant Donovan slid up to Sherlock and smiled bitterly at him. "There was a murder, freak. And here we thought you knew everything." Donovan rolled her eyes. "Correction. You thought you knew everything." She smiled with triumph as she applauded herself for her ability to shame the nosy, nobody detective.

Sherlock chuckled as he looked down his nose at the woman. "Fortunately for you, Donovan, I do know everything," he paused for emphasis, "except for the exact number it takes for you to screw up another case that will finally send you and your bedmate Anderson to the mail room."

Sherlock made sure he had Anderson's attention. "After all, you two are brilliant at investigating nonsense. Why not add 'sorting junk mail' to your list of accomplishments? It's just a matter of time, Sergeant."

Donovan gave him a wicked glare. "I'm watching you, freak!" She angrily flounced from the room with Anderson close on her heels.

Turning to Lestrade, Sherlock's distaste was evident. "What? Tell me," he demanded.

"There was a death. We don't know for sure if it was a murder." Lestrade looked at the floor as he weighed how much to tell Sherlock. "Right below you in 221C."

Sherlock weighed this news. "That little, bulbous man with the limp? What was the cause?"

"Hanging. He was found dangling from his ceiling fan by an electrical cord. A chair was laying sideways on the floor. We're investigating whether he kicked it out or if someone did it for him." Lestrade ran his fingers through his hair, knowing he had already told Sherlock too much.

Sherlock's eyes glittered. "Let me see it."

Lestrade shook his head, "No, Sherlock. You know I'm facing disciplinary action for letting you get as close as you have on my other cases."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and pranced past Lestrade, not giving the detective another thought. On his way down the stairs, he nearly collided with John.

"Sherlock? Where are you going in such a hurry?"

Sherlock paused for a moment to look at his friend and then continued on down the stairs, without a word. Annabelle, who was following a few steps behind John, bore the brunt of the tall, wiry man's flight. Sherlock's arms came around her as he steadied her, stopping her from a sure tumble down the stairs. He looked down at her with obvious distaste that she was in the way of his progress.

With relief that Annabelle was alright, John tried to break his friend's sour mood. "Sherlock Holmes, I'd like to introduce you to my niece, Annabelle Watson."

Sherlock frowned then released her so quickly that Annabelle had to grip the railing beside her. Momentarily diverted from his mission, Sherlock studied her. "You only had a sister."

"No, you assumed I only had a sister. This is Harriet's daughter. Can you say hello, Sherlock?" John prodded, uncomfortable with his friend's rudeness.

Sherlock ignored acknowledging Annabelle except to continue to peruse her from head to toe as if she was one of his specimens. Then suddenly remembering his original goal, he headed down the stairs, calling over his shoulder. "She looks nothing like you."

Annabelle was stunned by his obvious dismissal of her. She had never in her life met anyone so callous and rude! He was positively boorish. What in heaven's name did her dear uncle see in him?

John turned to Annabelle and sighed. "I'm sorry, Annie. That's Sherlock." John shrugged as he guided her back down the stairs, curious to see for himself what all the commotion was about.

John had often seen the police vehicles around their flat before, whenever Lestrade stopped by to pick Sherlock's brain about the latest case. John didn't realise the gravity of this latest mystery until he saw Mrs. Hudson crying into her handkerchief.

When she saw him, Mrs. Hudson sobbed louder and hurried to his side. "Oh, John, it's terrible!" She blew her nose into her handkerchief. "Poor, poor Mr. Blackstone. He was such a nice man. He had that one bad leg, you know, but I never thought it would come to this!"

John grasped Mrs. Hudson's shoulders. "What happened, Mrs. Hudson? Please try and tell me from the beginning."

John and Annabelle listened as Mrs. Hudson recounted the story of knocking on the man's door, discovering it unlocked and finding Mr. Blackstone dangling from the ceiling fan.

"I can't believe he's gone, John. I only wanted to know why he paid me his entire year's rent up front yesterday." She dabbed at her eyes as she continued, "I feel absolutely horrid for depositing the cheque this morning. I don't even know if he has any family that I can refund it to. He was such a private man. Hardly spoke to anyone." She shook her head and sniffed as she composed herself.

For the first time, she saw the lovely woman standing quietly beside John. Mrs. Hudson, always ready to meet a new face, smiled at Annabelle. "Well, who might you be, dear? I don't believe we've met." Almost miraculously, Mrs. Hudson's misery was replaced by curiosity for John's companion.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, Mrs. Hudson. This is my niece, Annabelle." John was grateful for Mrs. Hudson's welcoming, outstretched hands to Annabelle after Sherlock's rebuff.

"John, my goodness. Why didn't you tell me you had a niece? And such a lovely thing you are, my dear," she said. She smiled as she took Annabelle's hands in hers.

Annabelle felt immediately better as she smiled shyly back at Mrs. Hudson. She knew they would be fast friends– and she desperately needed a friend.

Mrs. Hudson threaded her arm through Annabelle's. "Now come and let me make you some tea. This has been a dreadful day and I so need someone to talk to," she said excitedly.

She nudged Annabelle away from the crowds that were growing on the sidewalk. Annabelle looked back at her uncle. This time he shrugged, but with a smile on his face knowing she was in good hands.

Across the street, Moriarty watched as Mrs. Hudson took Annabelle back into her flat. This was turning out nicely. "Take care of my darlin, Mrs. Hudson. I'll be coming for her soon," he said quietly.

He watched John make his way, through the crowds to where Sherlock stood listening to Lestrade. Then, almost as if he could feel his adversary's eyes upon him, Sherlock looked up and directly at Moriarty. Their eyes met for the briefest of seconds. Moriarty smiled and saluted Sherlock. Angrily, Sherlock darted towards Moriarty but the throngs of people barred his way. Sherlock looked again to where Moriarty had been, but of course, he was gone.

Sherlock growled in frustration. John reached his friend. "Sherlock? Who was it? Who did you see?"

"Moriarty. It was Moriarty. He obviously had something to do with the fat man's death."

John didn't even cringe this time at Sherlock's critique of the dead man. He had a sickening feeling come over him and he looked to the flat the women had departed to.

"Sherlock," John took a deep breath, "that may not be the reason Moriarty was here."

Sherlock studied his friend. "What are you talking about? Spit it out, John. I haven't got all day!"

"Sherlock," John said simply. "We have to talk."

~~~~~
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