Moriarty's Musician

Home is Where the Hell is, Part 7

Annabelle's eyes widened as anger swept over her. "You're lying!"

She got up to leave, but Moriarty quickly reached over the table and grasped her hand. "I've never lied to you, Annabelle." His mouth was set in a tight line as he stared intently into her flushed face. "Why would I lie to you?"

"You hate Sherlock and you're trying to make me hate him too. What other reason would there be?"

His jaw tensed. "I don't hate Sherlock. I hate what he represents. There's a difference."

Annabelle rolled her eyes. "Oh, please." She pulled her hand from his and clenched her fists at her sides. "I'm sick of being lied to... by you... by Sherlock. I'm done with your mind games, James. I'm not your puppet."

Moriarty shook his head. "Oh, sweetheart, of course you're not my puppet and neither would I want you to be. You're much more to me than that, Annabelle. I know who you are, better than you know yourself."

Annabelle lowered her head and took a deep breath. When she finally lifted her head, Moriarty could see the questions in her eyes.

"Who am I then?" she whispered.

His eyes softened, and he moved around the table to stand next to her. He jammed his hands in his pockets to keep from reaching for her. He nodded to the doorway. "Walk with me and I'll show you."

Annabelle hesitated. How could she trust him?

He watched her patiently, waiting for her to decide. His brow creased as he contemplated what he would do if she refused. He tried to remain unaffected as she studied him, pressing his lips together as he took a deep breath.

He was the foremost criminal mind in all of Europe, with a network of dealings around the world. Why the hell was he waiting for her to decide anyway?

"Alright." Annabelle lifted her chin. "Show me."

Moriarty lifted an eyebrow, then smiled slowly and led the way. As Annabelle followed him out of the kitchen, she saw a movement out of the corner of her eye. She looked toward the staircase but she didn't see anyone.

"Are you coming?"

Annabelle nodded to him and glanced over again to the little alcove under the stairs. She swore she had seen someone. She thought about the woman in white and how she had mysteriously disappeared. Maybe her eyes were playing tricks on her again.

Moriarty walked back and stood beside her. "What is it?"

Annabelle looked at him and shook her head. "Nothing. It's nothing."

Moriarty looked toward the staircase and his eyes narrowed. "Alright, this way."

Annabelle followed him into the long hallway.

"You asked me last night about these paintings."

They walked past a picture showing a soldier with his sword drawn, ready to strike a woman crying for mercy.

"You're partly right." Moriarty glanced up at the image and kept walking. "They're from different periods. Neoclassical, Renaissance, Impressionism and a couple of Baroque."

Annabelle shivered as she looked at the macabre scenes lining the walls. "And did you put them here?"

Moriarty clenched his teeth. "No, my stepfather did. He was fascinated by war," he paused as he stopped in front of one painting, "and death."