Chapter 10: Drawing Blood
"He's made a mistake."
Everyone turned to Sherlock, who could no longer hide that grin. "The Doll Maker made a mistake."
Tracing the cuts with his fingertips, Sherlock was sure of things now. "The varying depths of these words mean he used more than one knife, but they are all the same width, which means they were close to identical. The blade was pushed down and back rather than cutting through an angled-sliding motion, which means the handle was blunter than a regular kitchen knife. This was made by a company-sanctioned box-cutter, which is how he had more than one blade at such convenience.
"The first few cuts, seen in the ad there, have light fibers in them. I am more than willing to bet that those are rope fibers, the type found tying boxes together on shipping boats. In fact, I'm positive; I've seen them before. The first blade he used would most likely be the one he used most recently before the murder and the one he used on his job. The Doll Maker works for a sea-shipping company that is exclusively inter-UK shipping; that explains how he was able to kidnap so many children from so many places so easily."
There was a pause of disbelief: even though Sherlock had spelled everything out for them, it was hard to take in all at once. He stared back at everyone resolutely: how boring their little brains had to be, especially if they couldn't comprehend something that had quite literally been laid out at their feet.
"Amazing," John mumbled; he would never get over the precision or powers of observation his friend exhibited. Anna simply watched him with an intrigued gaze before returning her attention to the corpses on the sofa.
"Alright people," Lestrade announced to his team of detectives, "we are going to do a preliminary search, starting at every dock and shipping port within 20 miles of this house. If you see anything suspicious, report back to me. Get a move on, now!"
The crime scene burst back into life: detectives running out, forensics continuing their search for minute details, photographers running upstairs to record the blood splatters on the walls. Donovan whisked Lestrade away to begin one of the searches, leaving only John, Anna, and Sherlock remaining still.
"Anderson!" Sherlock called out impatiently as Anderson was packing his things up from the kitchen area he had been banished to. "Get me blood samples from these bodies and send them to St. Bard's."
"What?!" Anderson hollered in return; he was quite weary of whatever demands would be made of him next. He was beginning to wonder why he had even shown up at the Blackstone Residence: it was clear that the freak had forensics under control, making him feel more useless than ever. Really, he was still bitter from his banishment.
"I'll do it myself then," he replied under his breath, too bored to deal with the forensic idiot at the moment. Striding into the kitchen to grab needles and vials, Anna and John could hear Anderson's muffled dissent and Sherlock rummaging through the equipment boxes.
John stared at the grisly scene once more; the two bodies had left wide blotches of blood all over the sofa, and the grim phrase on the woman's stomach was unsettling to the army doctor. It wasn't the actual blood and gashes that gave him chills, though (he had seen enough of that in Afghanistan); it was the precision with which it was made. Perfect; every cut was perfect. There had to be an even amount of pressure in each stroke with absolutely no hesitations. It was the work of a cold-blooded killer. Sherlock was right about the Doll Maker: he was a perfectionist.
He turned his gaze to Anna, suddenly remembering the fact that there was an eighteen year old girl standing in the middle of a crime scene probably seeing the most blood she had ever seen in her entire lifetime. He began to feel pity for her, but stopped; there was something wrong. She was perfectly still. The gray light left only dark shadows on her face, which was stolid. She showed no emotions; there was no fear in her brown eyes or look of disgust on her dark lips. She only fixed her concentration on the woman's stomach. It was admirable, John thought to himself, how well she was holding up. He was just about to turn away and join Sherlock in the kitchen when his eyes were suddenly drawn to her hands.
Her left index finger was scratching against her thumb, drawing blood. The dark liquid was beginning to rust against the nail and drip slowly down the finger.
"Huntington, are you—" John began, taking a few steps towards her. As Anna looked up at him, he noticed she clenched her thumb inside a fist, immediately hiding any evidence of her self-mutilation. Her face never changed; it was still blank, but he knew she knew that he saw.
"I'm fine," she said quietly, making to walk away before Watson grabbed her left wrist.
"Hey, let me see," he said, the doctor-tone now in his voice. The first thing he noticed was how cold her hand was, as if she had been standing out in the fall air for too long. She slowly unclenched her fist and unfurled her fingers, never looking back at him. It was a minor cut that only left a brown stain against the palm of her hand and the index fingernail, but it was still alarming. There were scabs along the sides of some of the other fingers: recent scabs, but no long-term scars.
"It just needs a tissue." Anna was emotionless, seemingly unbothered by the state of her fingers. She pulled her hand out of his grasp and once again wrapped her thumb in a fist. "It'll be fine."
"It's stress, isn't it?" John asked patiently. He had seen this sort of thing in some of the soldiers he had come home with. It was a reaction to anxiety; it provided a release for anxiety. He had seen it manifested in many other ways, but there was no mistaking it; something was bothering her, and a lot by the look of the other scabs.
"I've had worse." Her voice refused to betray anything, her guard up as always. John almost laughed as he remembered the conversation he had had with this therapist so long ago: trust-issues. She had trust-issues, and he knew exactly how she felt. But there was something under that; she was hiding something. Something that Sherlock knew.
"Look," John began in a softer tone that made Anna glance at him suspiciously. "At least make sure you put antiseptic on that."
She pushed out a small laugh, trying to brush the comment off; she knew what he was trying to get across, even if it were only through medical terms. But comfort and support was not something she was interested in attaining from John.
"John," Sherlock demanded as he strode back into the kitchen, tossing a needle and a vial at Watson, "get a sample from the other body."
"Um, okay," he replied, pausing momentarily to process the demand before getting down on his knees and rolling up Eric Blackstone's sleeve. He had never taken blood from a dead man, but when it came to being friends with Sherlock, he had done a lot of things thought he would never do. "What exactly are we doing this for?"
"Blood analysis," Sherlock replied bluntly. "I need an uncontaminated sample to compare with later."
"What do you mean 'later'?" Watson asked.
"Clara," Anna spoke up. "He means when we find her body."
The grim nature of the situation returned as John remembered the stakes of the case; Clara was still missing. "Sherlock, Lestrade will find her. He has to."
"No, he won't," Sherlock replied, jerking the needle out of Jeanine's arm and twisting the cap on the dark vial. "The Doll Maker's too careful; wherever he's hiding, he won't be there long."
"But don't the children's bodies appear two weeks after their kidnapping? We have two weeks to find her."
"Normally, but he's not on that schedule anymore."
"What does that mean?" John asked, knowing he was obviously missing something. Sherlock gave a glance at Anna.
"It doesn't matter," Anna said, returning the look, "The Doll Maker said two more. He's never made direct contact before, much less with any detective on his case. The fact that he called Sherlock right out means he knows what he's doing this time. He wants to play a game with Sherlock. He's taunting us; he wants to watch us squirm, which means he won't wait to put that girl's body out."
"Sherlock," John pleaded as he finished taking Eric's blood, "is there nothing we can do for her? I mean, she's just a child."
"Unless he leaves us a hint, there's nothing we can do," Anna pointed out. "You saw the file; he never leaves anything behind. All we can do is wait and try to figure out where he'll stage her body."
Sherlock remained uncharacteristically silent, pausing to look at Jeanine's stomach one more time. Abruptly, he got up to leave, turning his back on the crime scene and making his way through the narrow entrance hall. John couldn't help but give out a sigh; if Sherlock couldn't say anything on the subject, there was no hope for Clara. It was a grim prospect indeed. As he shifted his weight back to get up, a hand came into his peripheral.
"Thanks," Watson said, taking Anna's right hand.
"No problem," she said simply before turning to follow Sherlock. John laughed quietly to himself; that girl was a puzzle in herself.
What neither of them could see as they left the house and the crime scene behind them was the grim smile on Sherlock's face. He knew: the Doll Maker would be in his reach soon. He only had to wait.