Moriarty's Musician

It's Complicated, Part 3

Annabelle fumbled with her keys as she tried to steady her hand to unlock the door of her flat. Finally accomplishing her task, she slammed the door behind her and leaned against it, relieved to shut out the chaos that had become her world.

She thought about all that had just transpired at the cafe; Moriarty's presence, Sherlock's gun drawn... Moriarty's presence. Annabelle's heart started to race. She was so close to kissing Moriarty again. Had Sherlock not come in when he had... Annabelle shivered at the thought of Moriarty's lips sliding over her fingers and his warm breath on her cheeks as his mouth inched closer to hers.

She acted like she was completely smitten by him, and she hated herself for it. She needed to stop being such a swooning sop and smarten up! She needed to focus on how to get him out of her life, but how?

Annabelle walked over to the light switch and as she flicked it on, she gasped in horror as she looked around her small sitting room.

Everything was in disarray. The books that lined the two small shelves lay scattered on the floor; her plants, so carefully tended, were now toppled over, the dirt ground into the carpet. She bent down and picked up a sofa cushion that looked as if a knife had been taken to it, the stuffing littering the floor.

Her eyes fell on her precious phonograph that now lay upside down on the ground, the records strewn everywhere. Annabelle kneeled down and almost reverently, turned the machine over as tears welled in her eyes. The delicate arm of the phonograph dangled uselessly to the side. Carefully, she closed the lid and held it tight to her chest and cried.

"Annabelle, open up," Sherlock banged the door several times. Annabelle didn't move as she continued to cry.

More banging. "Annabelle, are you alright?" Sherlock's voice became more anxious as his calls continued to be unanswered. "Dammit, Annabelle, open the bloody door!"

Sherlock was beyond worried, ready to break the door down when it slowly opened.

He wasn't prepared for the sight of Annabelle, red-faced, eyes downcast, clutching the phonograph in her arms. He studied her for a moment, then uninvited, gently moved passed Annabelle to enter her flat. He looked around, surveying the shambles that had been left by the intruder. Every room had been violated from the kitchen to the bedroom.

Sherlock was used to this happening in his own apartment by both criminals and police, but he was surprised such a thing could happen to Annabelle. He cursed himself for not taking that open window and fingerprints more seriously. The mystery surrounding this girl was becoming all the more dangerous.

Annabelle leaned against the wall, still holding her phonograph. Finished with his surveillance for now, Sherlock looked at Annabelle.

She glanced up at him, tears in her eyes. "Why did he do this to me?" she said quietly.

Sherlock had always hated tears and now was no exception. "This wasn't Moriarty."

Annabelle looked at him in disbelief. "Of course it was. Who else would do this?" she said angrily.

Sherlock shook his head, happy she was quickly turning to an emotion he could better deal with. "Moriarty and his goons would never stoop to entering through a window, Annabelle," he said with certainty. "They always use the door."

Annabelle placed one of the damaged cushions back on the sofa and slowly sat down, still holding her phonograph. "Then who did this?"