Moriarty's Musician

Knowledge Is Power, Part 7

Moriarty kept moving through the sopping wet ground, and every step he took was more painful than the last. He wasn't used to this – any of it. He had people to do his dirty work for him. Why should he be so concerned with one young woman who didn't care if he lived or died? All Annabelle wanted to do was leave anyway.

He rested his good shoulder on a tree, his fingers clinging to the bark as he closed his eyes. He was alone, always alone. But wasn't that the way it should be for someone like him? Evil didn't need company. And Annabelle... Annabelle was anything but evil. She was goodness, purity, raw innocence and compassion. And he should be revolted by all those things radiating from her.

The sound of an owl reminded him to keep going. He propelled himself off the tree and walked, smacking his skin every now and then as the black flies stalked him.

What the hell was he doing out in the middle of nowhere? Drink... he needed some good whiskey, a hot bath, and his bed. Megan would be there with open arms, smiling ear to ear when he came home. The mansion would smell of bread, maybe even cinnamon rolls.

William would be stationed at the front door, his chin lifted as if he were standing at attention, ready for inspection. Those few times Moriarty had talked with him, he saw something in the old man's eyes. Whatever it was, it was a look Moriarty couldn't understand.

And of course, Jack would be rambling on about whatever it was the minute he came through the door. How many times had he looked down at his ten-year-old face and saw admiration in his eyes... and something more.

Moriarty tripped on a fallen branch and jerked his shoulder, his body stiffening. What an idiotic plan to send Sebastian away. He should have waited until morning and then sent his men in with machine guns to every house in the area. He wouldn't have had to lift a finger. He could be sitting in his leather office chair sipping whiskey, eating warm cinnamon rolls, and watching his monitors from the comfort of his mansion.

So why was he there in the middle of an Irish woods with no tracker, no food or water, and no idea which way to go? He smacked his neck as another black fly nipped at his skin. Annabelle had done this, turned his plans, his life, upside down. He was sacrificing everything he had worked so hard for on account of one woman. He couldn't do this.

Maybe his stepfather was right. He was nothing. Sacrificing everything for someone who couldn't wait to get away from him was madness — weakness! He should have tortured Annabelle a long time ago to jog her memory. That's what he would have done to anyone else.

Then maybe Sherlock Holmes wouldn't have had that look on his face. Like he could 'read' his motives and see what propelled him to take care of the girl. Moriarty grimaced. Sherlock would have plenty to chat with John about.

Moriarty sat down on a fallen tree stump and looked up into the black sky. The crescent moon was bright when it managed to escape the cover of clouds that grazed its face.

How often had Annabelle fought him, and rather than locking her in a cage until she told him everything, he gave her the best room in his house? If she were anyone else, the torture for the contents of her mind would have been swift and ruthless.

But he couldn't do that to her.

That night in his study... the way she so eagerly delved through his book collection, the way she cuddled up to him in the darkness of his room, the way she played his violin. Something had changed in him, a connection, a shared misery that he had buried long ago in hate and resentment.

Moriarty's hand went up to his shoulder to adjust the bandage. When he pulled his hand away, he held his fingers to the moonlight and saw the shadow of blood coating his fingers. He sighed deeply. What if he never saw Annabelle again?