Moriarty's Musician

Spider's Play, Part 4

"Byron will be here soon. Are you just going to wait around like a bloody sitting duck?"

Annabelle's eyes flew open. She sat up as straight as she could despite the pull of the handcuff and glared at Sherlock.

"Get me out of here!"

From his perch on the edge of the bed, Sherlock yawned and proceeded to study his cuticle. "I can't you silly girl. I'm not real. Just like that windbag father of yours, I'm in your head."

Annabelle's face dropped. A tear slid down her flushed cheek, and she angrily brushed it away. She had finally lost her mind. Not only was she having conversations with the dead, but she was also now seeing mirages of the living.

"So you're here to gloat. Well, do it someplace else. I'm not in the mood."

Sherlock slowly turned his head to look at her. The boredom on his face made Annabelle shake with anger.

"Leave me alone!"

An infuriating roll of Sherlock's eyes triggered another yawn. "With pleasure, once you get yourself free."

Annabelle gritted her teeth. "Don't you think I've tried? It's impossible!" She yanked her left arm, making the steel handcuff clang against the metal headboard.

Sherlock clicked his tongue several times and resumed his study of his fingernail. "And here I thought you were different from the rest. I should have known better. James will be disappointed when he finds your corpse, Annabelle. I know I already am."

Annabelle squeezed her eyes shut. He was only a dream - he wasn't real! There was zero reason for letting him get under her skin.

Sherlock adjusted his weight on the bed, and Annabelle could almost hear the rusty springs creaking as he moved. She knew he leveled his gaze on her.

"What is real anyway?" he mused. "Pain? Pain's not real. That radial nerve traveling from the tips of your fingers to your shoulder is shooting messages to your brain, making you feel the pain. But what would happen if the pain was eliminated from this equation of ours? What if your brain stopped communicating with your hand?"

Annabelle opened her eyes and stared at her dangling hand. She refused to look at Sherlock, but there was nothing she could do to blot out his condescending voice.

"That's not a rhetorical question, Annabelle."

"What do you want me to say? That my hand doesn't hurt? That I've stopped feeling pain? Well, I don't feel it anymore. I'm too angry for that, okay?"

Sherlock sprang to his feet, making Annabelle's eyes widen as she turned to watch him punch the air.

"Precisely! Oh, this is getting fun. Next, how does one get out of handcuffs? Look at it," he said, the excitement punctuating his words.

Annabelle looked back down at the handcuff she had stared at for hours. She turned her reddened wrist, the cuff sitting below her hand had only a finger-space between the steel and the base of her thumb.

Using her right hand, she pushed the handcuff up to where it met the fleshy part of her hand. It was tight. Too tight. There was no way she could get it off.

"Of course, you can get it off, Annabelle. The thumb is attached to the bone by a ligament. If you tear the ligament, dislocate your thumb and give it a good tug, your hand should pop out nicely.

By tearing the ligament?

Annabelle felt nauseous despite her empty stomach. "I can't do that."

"Can't or won't."

"Can't... won't." Annabelle squeezed her eyes shut and kicked the wall. She was going to die in this disgusting room.

"Oh, don't be so melodramatic. You're a musician, not an actress. Find your mindpalace like you did all those other times when you wanted to escape. Remove the pain, and get that cheap piece of metal off. You know how to do it. So do it!"

With a frustrated scream, Annabelle kicked the wall again, her head swerving to glare at Sherlock... but he was gone.

"Sherlock?" she whispered into the emptiness. Of course, he wasn't there. He was never there. But then again, he was. She could feel his determination infusing her. And as Annabelle closed her eyes and relaxed against the bed frame, she journeyed to that place she knew so well.

She entered the white room of her mindpalace, her violin perched on her shoulder, the bow in her hand, the sweet sounds lifting from her strings as her fingers danced over the violin's stem was nothing short of heavenly.

Her right hand gripped her thumb above the handcuff. And as she pulled the bow across the strings, so did she use all the strength she had to wrench back her own thumb. She cried out in agony, tears streaming from her eyes, the throbbing pain nearly making her faint.

He's coming. Keep going.

Annabelle kept her eyes closed as her sobs melded with the sounds of the violin. Grasping the steel handcuff, she slowly pulled it up, her left arm useless as the pain shot up into her shoulder. The cuff hardly moved over the broken thickness of her thumb. She leaned back, limp against the bed frame, sweat beading over her forehead as the pain from her torn ligament and dislocated thumb made her feel like she was dying. She had failed. She couldn't do it.

And then it happened. The music. Annabelle could hear it.

It was the same soothing melody that coaxed her from her sleep in Moriarty's mansion. The same tune that nudged her from her bed and summoned her down the hallway. The white room became the music room, and as Annabelle entered, she saw the beautiful Lady-in-White sitting at her piano, her gown flared out over the seat, her head and shoulders moving in time with the music she played.

Annabelle couldn't stop her feet from gliding across the length of the room and ending at the piano. The Lady-in-White continued playing, even when she glanced up at Annabelle and gave her an encouraging smile. She motioned with her head to the Stradivarius violin that rested on the piano.

Annabelle's eyes glowed as she lifted the treasure to her shoulder, her fingers shaking as they found the notes to accompany the Lady-in-White's performance of Bach's Sheep May Safely Graze.

Annabelle pulled harder on the steel handcuff.

The bow slid firm across the strings.

The skin of her hand began peeling back.

She gripped the violin's stem, keeping her eyes planted on the Lady-in-White.

The blood lubricated the steel as Annabelle turned the metal cuff and inched it higher.

The music ended. And the Lady-in-White gave Annabelle a gentle smile as she faded into the mist of her mind.

Opening her eyes, Annabelle's breath choked in her throat as she moved off the bed and stared down at her hand. There was blood everywhere, and the trauma done to her hand made her want to gag. Her thumb hung useless, her skin peeled back by the scraping steel.

But she was free.

Cradling her hand against her chest, she tried not to think of the pain as she turned the door handle. To her shock, the door opened. She listened for any movements. Nothing.

Annabelle crept down the hall, peeking into each room as she went until she reached Nicholas's bedroom. She went inside and opened a few drawers, her blood soaking the front of her shirt. Finding a clean hand towel, Annabelle wrapped it quickly around her bloodied hand and headed for the kitchen. She needed to take the gun from the top of the refrigerator and maybe even the emergency medical box to bandage her hand.

And then she heard it.

Annabelle's head shot up as panic swept through her mind. The sound of an approaching car carried through the trees to her sensitive ears.

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As of March 17, 2020, I'm in active writing and editing mode. I'll get the next chapter posted soon. Stay tuned... *hugs*