Chapter 7: Blood and Formaldehyde

"What am I missing?"

Sherlock sat in St. Bard's lab, sitting crossed-legged on the cold tile floor, eleven folders surrounding him in a circle. Fifteen rainbow bottles were set in front of him in a row, each labeled with his scrawled scribbles. Chin in hand, he was absorbed in his mind palace, recalling just about every chemical compound known to man, and a few he had developed on his own.

In the three days that followed Anna's initial visit, Sherlock had spent hours in the lab reading over each individual child's biopsies, mixing unbelievable amounts of chemicals, and just thinking. He made no inclination towards Molly as she entered the room with two cups of steaming coffee in her hands.

"Here you go Sherlock," Molly beamed as she set the Styrofoam cup within his little circle. In the few months she had spent with him while he hid from the world, she had grown accustomed to his silence while in the Mind Palace. His silence no longer offended her; it was just a natural part of who he was, and she accepted that. "Two sugars, just as you like it."

When he didn't reply, she smiled quietly to herself and set about organizing some of Sherlock's chaos on the lab counter. Bottles were everywhere and the room smelled heavily of formaldehyde. Slides with stained tissues were under the microscopes. Test tubes and vials of blood littered the white ceramic table, some threatening to roll off the edge and come crashing to the floor.

"He must be testing rigor mortus or tissue preservation," she mumbled under her breath, recognizing some of the chemicals Sherlock was messing around with. It was the first time she had seen him in a few weeks, and it was nice to see that he was adjusting well to his return to society and Scotland Yard after a year. But even in that moment, she really didn't know what Sherlock had been up to.

"Don't touch anything," Sherlock suddenly spoke, making Molly jump ever so slightly. "Everything is in its place." He picked up the Styrofoam cup from the floor and lifted the coffee to his lips. "Thank you," he said before swirling each of the rainbow bottles in front of him.

"Anytime," Molly replied, turning around and looking down at him. She stared at him endearingly, and Sherlock felt that look aimed at the back of his head. It always led to an awkward silence; he would never understand her sentimental feelings for him, but at least he knew not to comment on it now.

"Anyways," she said, breaking the pause, "what are you working on?"

Sherlock grumbled. "I'm trying to figure out what chemical compound the Doll Maker used to paralyze those children. But whoever did the autopsies on these bodies did a bloody terrible job analyzing the blood or tissue samples properly; they couldn't identify any of the chemicals or why there was such a high antibody count in their blood. It's bloody useless and a waste of time. In fact, this is the same caliber of work as Anderson's, and I'm tempted to go to the Yard right now and beat him with his own analysis."

Molly laughed lightly before realizing the connotations of his statement. She was about to ask who the Doll Maker was and why there were paralyzed children involved when John burst in through the lab doors. Molly jumped again before realizing who it was.

"Hello John," she said, her voice wobbling a little. She still felt guilt for lying to John about Sherlock's suicide despite the fact that John had forgiven her the moment she apologized.

"Yes, hello Molly," he replied curtly, his breathing heavy and his shoulders heaving. He knew he shouldn't have replied so harshly to her (especially since Molly was being so careful around him), but he couldn't help it; he was angry. Sherlock didn't even turn around, so John hollered, "Sherlock, we've been trying to reach you all morning. You haven't responded to any of Lestrade's texts, or mine for that matter."

"Yes, well," Sherlock replied calmly, "as you can see, I've been busy."

"You better mean your phone's off."

"If you want a more blunt answer, John, I've simply been ignoring your texts." Sherlock swiveled around himself to face a different file, still not looking up to greet his friend. "Besides, if Lestrade desperately needed me, like he so often does, he would have come to St. Bard's himself rather use you as the messenger. So tell me, what trivial thing did he want to tell me?"

John gave off a frustrated sigh; the worry, the panic, the fear was all pointless. Sherlock was here, sitting in St. Bard's, just like he usually was. And although he had known that, deep down in his heart was the fear that Sherlock had disappeared again. John knew that that panic would eventually dissipate, but until then he tried to keep Sherlock close.

"I wouldn't call it trivial," John replied, trying to keep his curt tone even. "He wanted to tell you about Huntington."

"Oh," Sherlock finally looked up, intently staring back at John. "What about the girl?" he asked, already knowing the vast majority of what John was going to say.

"She's unbelievable," John said, pulling out a folder from inside his jacket. "Lestrade gave me her file, and she's unbelievable. Listen to this: she was adopted by a couple in Essex when she was seven, finished her A-levels when she was fourteen, and spent two years at university. But that's not the most interesting part. She walked into the Police Academy when she was sixteen years old and demanded to take the final exam for the graduating class of detectives. She scored the top mark, and that was without any schooling from the Academy; she beat out the entire graduating class."

"Interesting," Sherlock mumbled under his breath. While he had hoped John or Lestrade had figured out who she really was, he conceded to the fact that neither of them were particularly intelligent enough to be able to piece together her real past. No doubt she had taken great pains to hide that from her files and records.

"Of course," John continued, "the Academy forced her to take one year before allowing her to join the Yard for on-site training, but still—"he paused "she's a genius. She's only eighteen, for Christ sake, and she's almost a detective."

"Yes," Sherlock commented, somewhat bored, "yes, that is interesting, but that doesn't help me whatsoever with this blood analysis, so go tell Lestrade not to bother me with anymore trivial comments."

"You could tell him yourself," John parleyed. As he looked down at the files, he saw the names of the eleven children and was suddenly reminded of the case he had been thrust into, evoking the natural comment, "where is Huntington anyways?"

Just before Molly could ask who Huntington was, another figure burst through the door. Molly's mouth hung slightly as she saw a young girl gaping at her through the doorway, a burst of blue popping against the gray and white colors of the lab. John nodded politely, and Sherlock popped up from the floor to stare at her.

Anna simply stared back at the lot of them, her eyes wide like a doe and her dark hair pulled into a side braid. Molly was shocked by how young she seemed to be; far too young to be carrying a stack of papers and fifteen vials of blood. John had never gotten over that initial shock and shared Molly's silence.

"Hello," Anna nodded at John, giving off a small smile before turning to Sherlock. "I got more blood and some information on the victims' genetics." She set her papers down and passed the blood to Sherlock, who picked his bottles off the floor and instantly began to add drops of them into each vial.

He sat down on a stool and watched each vial intently, waiting for a reaction. Anna looked over at Molly and reached out to shake her hand, John gazing as they introduced themselves to each other. Anna smiled at John, reaching out to shake his hand and make a general remark about the weather. There was something so intriguing about her, the child genius, and John could not figure it out.

"It's so nice to meet you, Miss Huntington," Molly stuttered, somewhat intimidated by the child-genius who stood in front of her.

"Please, call me Anna." John noted the intentional coldness in her voice. No, it wasn't coldness; it was formality, professionalism, detachment. The light smile seemed heavy on her face; her actions trying to exceed her age. Although she succeeded in acted older, John could only wonder what had possessed her to be so much more mature than she really was.

"How have you been, Dr. Watson?" John shook out of his reverie when she had turned to him and asked. Dark jeans and gray tank top, she looked thin. Although she was eighteen, he could see the slight contours of bones along her clavicle, giving her a more ethereal look that worried him.

"I've been good," he replied, vaguely nodding his head. "What have you been doing?"

"I've been here for the last couple days helping Holmes. It's still my case, remember," she fingered the files on the counter lightly. "Well, it seems like I've been running around more than actually helping."

"Any breakthroughs yet?"

"Damn it!" Sherlock yelled out, breaking the general air of camaraderie. "Nothing's happening."

"What do you mean nothing's happening?" Anna pushed herself the around table and met Sherlock outside his circle of papers. "We've tried every sort of soluble man-made paralysis compound here. Something has to be happening."

"This won't work; I need the actual compound. I can't just keep guessing around; I need solid data, not the hypothetical blunderings of a forensics team!"

"We don't have anything better," Anna argued calmly. She never seemed to blow off her cool. "This is all we have; I've searched through all the evidence files. There has got to be something here that can give us a hint as to where the Doll Maker came from. He can't just use a different compound every time he works."

"Get me something better!" Sherlock countered. "Get me something better, Anna."

"I can't." she stated, leaving a chill in Molly's skin. Sherlock glared at her, contemplating what deduction to spew out at her.

Extra concealer under her eyes trying to hide the purple circles. Her lack of sleep: the nightmares have come back, haven't they Anna? Sherlock thought to himself. The smudged makeup on her left cheek that proved she had been spending more time on her phone than usual (she was right handed, but held the phone in her left): probably talking to her psychologist judging by the bloody state of her right hand. The right pocket of her coat was lifting up slightly more than the left: she played with the card whenever she thought about the Doll Maker, which evidently seems to be a lot. In short, she's a wreck.

He had never spent so long in the lab without solid evidence, and the lack of accomplishments left him infuriated with himself. But she glared back at him with the same defiance, withstanding the intimidation.

Molly was just about to reach out towards Sherlock when the cacophony of three different phones rang simultaneously in the room. Anna, John, and Sherlock each pulled out their cells and Molly watched as two faces grew pale and one excited.

Get to the Yard now; the Doll Maker is back.- Lestrade