Moriarty's Musician

Falling for a Sociopath, Part 5

Annabelle opened her eyes. She was struck by the blackness as she tried to scan the bedroom. What had awakened her? Why was the lamplight not on? Dread started taking hold of her. Ever since she was a child, she had left the lamplight on. It was set for the lowest light so she could sleep, but illuminating enough that she could see the room in case she did wake.

Slowly, she reached to her nightstand and felt the familiar hilt of her small knife. She grasped it to her chest, remained still and listened.

She could hear the rhythmic pellets of rain hitting her window and what sounded like scratching. Annabelle tried to still her heart. She got out of her bed and walked over to the window, still gripping her knife.

Hesitantly, she lifted the curtain and braced herself. The street was empty save a parked car here and there. Annabelle sighed with relief, dropped the curtain and turned to the darkened room. She carefully made her way back to her little side table and fumbled for the lamp switch. She twisted the switch several times in frustration.

"Damn light," she murmured.

She shuffled to the bedroom door and down the short hallway, touching the wall for guidance as she moved. When at last she found the sitting room's wall switch, she flicked it on. Annabelle screamed in horror at the sight of the man dangling from the room's chandelier. She turned to run back to her room but the dead man now stood in front of her, eyes bulging, blocking her way. She screamed again as his white hand grabbed her bare arm in a death grip. She tried desperately to break loose but her legs refused to move. His other hand snaked out and grabbed a bunch of her hair that had now come free from her braid. The dead man yanked her head towards him and in a flash, his face turned into a demon from her past.

The banging jolted Annabelle awake. She could hardly catch her breath as she looked around the room, seeing the lamplight shining from her nightstand. She touched her brow and could feel the perspiration wetting her fingers. Her bed sheets were twisted around her legs and her hair, so neatly braided before bed, was in complete disarray.

The banging continued. Annabelle donned her robe and looked hesitantly down the short hallway to the sitting room. She could see the room from the street light's glow and everything looked undisturbed. The banging became louder and she hurried to the flat's door, making sure the chain lock was in place, she opened the door a crack.

An extremely worried Sherlock stood on the other side of the door. "Are you alright? What the hell's going on?"

Annabelle closed her eyes. She couldn't remember when she had been so happy to see anyone. She closed the door, removed the chain and opened it fully.

"I'm so sorry I disturbed you. I... I had a nightmare."

"You were screaming the bloody place down. I wouldn't be surprised if the whole neighborhood heard you."

Annabelle closed her eyes again and took a deep breath to calm herself. She always had a difficult time forgetting anything and this nightmare would be no exception. The prospect of getting any sleep tonight would be impossible. She could still see the haunting images in her mind's eye. Her fear was not lost on Sherlock as he watched her.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, looking up at him. "Would you come in and talk to me?"

Sherlock sighed and ran his fingers through his dark, wavy hair. "What do I look like, a therapist?"

Annabelle's nightmare was temporarily forgotten as she stared at him. What an arrogant man!

"No," she managed, "I thought I was looking at my uncle's best friend. Someone who may have an ounce of compassion left in his selfish, little heart!"