Chapter 11: Vulnerability
"Sherlock, it's two in the morning. Give it up already."
"No," he stubbornly replied.
That was the most John had gotten out of him all night; Sherlock was in one of those taciturn moods that occurred whenever there was a lull in a case. And to keep himself preoccupied, he had taken to pretty much living at St. Bard's, leaving the flat at 7 am and returning at ungodly hours. Even then, he would play the violin until 7 am the next day and simply leave again, maybe mumbling a word to John if he was awake.
That was how it had been for the last four days, and John, as always, was concerned. If it hadn't been for his job at the hospital, he would have accompanied Sherlock every moment. Sure Anna was with him, but John knew Sherlock would be working the girl to death. Aiding the great Sherlock Holmes while being expected to follow Lestrade's search teams had to be exhausting. So instead, he kept in contact with Molly during the day, making sure the eccentric detective had been eating (or, if there was a miracle, sleeping). But Molly, the poor woman, couldn't do much to force Sherlock to eat. At least she did report walking in on Sherlock sleeping in a small chair in the corner of the lab, but that was what had concerned him the most.
Sherlock was vulnerable when he was alone. John knew that statement wasn't entirely true; he was fully capable of fending for himself, but not when he was sleeping alone in a lab. It was the Doll Maker John was worried about: the Doll Maker obviously knew Sherlock was involved in the investigation. The direct message to Sherlock meant he was aware of his presence. There was no telling what he had the ability to do, especially since no one had any idea who he was or where he could possibly be. Despite Sherlock's gruff reassurances that the Doll Maker wouldn't risk anything by revealing his identity or attacking, John simply didn't want to take the risk. So there he was, at 2 in the morning, nodding off in the grim fluorescent lighting of the lab.
Sherlock finally turned off the microscope and tossed the slide into the trash bin, listening to the faint patter of rain outside. The blood of Eric and Jeanine Blackstone told him nothing except that Eric had a genetic disposition to high cholesterol and Jeanine was probably fighting a cold, and neither of that was relevant. He had exhausted all forms of analysis; there was absolutely nothing he could do until he got his hands on the compound. And the only way to do that was to find Clara.
Swiveling around on his stool, Sherlock turned to John only to find that he had fallen asleep with his head and arms on the smooth white lab counter. He gave a small laugh at John's attempts to protect him (despite all of John's protests and claims that he was actually "interested" in the lab work, he knew exactly what the doctor was thinking. Why else would he have shown up at the lab after yet another late shift at the hospital?) Although he knew of John's sentimentality and belief in friendship, there was a devotion that he could not logically comprehend but had come to simply accept. At the same time, he knew he would do anything to help Dr. Watson in return; a feeling that, although foreign at first, had now become second nature.
Irrelevant, he thought. Sherlock hopped up to sit on the lab counter, setting his feet on the stool and placing his elbows on his knees, letting his hands support his chin. He closed his eyes. What's important is predicting what the Doll Maker intends to do with Clara.
The first thing to do: figure out what the Doll Maker will make her. He blanked everything out of his mind, focusing on every popular childhood story. Little girl with dark hair: Snow White- already taken. Adopted: Cinderella- already taken. Shift focus: the parents. Father enjoyed hunting: huntsman from—no, already taken. Both parents had pasts with substance abuse: something with poison or temptations—no, the Doll Maker wouldn't make this that complicated. This had to be something he would have seen the first time he saw the child. Father was abusive: Clara may have had bruises on her at some point. Mother was a housewife: if the Doll Maker saw her in a public place, he would have seen the child with her mother. Mother was a pyromaniac—played with fire. Fire: lighter in back pocket and matches on the coffee table. Matches: The Little Match Girl.
There was a click as the door handle behind him was pushed down and a creak as someone tried to slip into the room unnoticed. "Huntington," he said, opening his eyes. "Tell me the story of the Little Match Girl."
There was a pause, and Anna gave a sigh of fatigue. "So you figured it out too?" she replied quietly, putting her backpack down on a chair.
Sherlock jerked his head up and twisted around. The young girl was drenched, dark hair clinging to a pale face. Her coat had turned a darker shade of blue around her shoulders, and as she slipped it off Sherlock noticed the same sort of color gradient on her black tank. The skin along her shoulders and upper arms was beginning to develop goose bumps, which she immediately covered with her hair when she noticed him watching her.
"He finally contacted you." It wasn't so much a question but a factual statement; Sherlock had expected to hear from the Doll Maker.
"Yeah, here," she pulled out the familiar playing card out of the coat pocket. Her thin arm reached out across the lab table, and he snatched it from her fingers.
"Took him long enough," he muttered before reading the inscription.
You will find her in the home of the homeless, in the place that serves to separate yet joins, where it is dark in the light and light in the dark.
There, she will see her desires. There, she will be freed.
"Of course," Sherlock mumbled under his breath.
"It's an alley," Anna vaguely remarked, justifying her own thoughts aloud. "Home of the homeless: obviously a place where the homeless will be found, but a place that even the cops can't bother them. Separates, yet joins: it separates different buildings, but can join parallel streets depending on where it is. Dark in the light and light in the dark: in the day, the buildings shadow the alley ways, but at night they are purposely the best lit by street lamps."
"Exactly," he replied. "Continue."
"There is only one fairy tale that involves an alley way and matches the second part of the riddle: the Little Match Girl, by Hans Christian Anderson.
"A little girl wasn't able to sell all the matches her fearsome father told her to, so she hid away in an alley and tried to warm herself with them. Each match she lit, she saw a vision of some grand wish or comfort, like a New Year's Feast or her dead grandmother. By the end, she froze to death, supposedly allowing her soul to be free."
"An abusive father and a pyromaniac mother, it all makes sense," Sherlock said as he stood up. He began to pace back and forth. "Now we just have to figure out where he'll put the body and when."
"How exactly are we supposed to do that?" she asked, slowly pulling a stool closer to her and finally sitting down after a long day. It wasn't that she was whining; she just had no idea how to go about searching every alley way in London.
"I have my network," he replied bluntly, only pausing for a second mentally to calculate how much he would have to pay to get them to talk. "As to when… How is Lestrade's search going?"
"He hasn't found much yet; most of the warehouses by docks were empty. The Doll Maker's probably not staying in one place too long if he knows you're part of the investigation; he can't be too careful. In short, we haven't found anything and we won't find anything for a while."
"If that's the case, he's not going to wait much longer. I give him two days at best."
"Two days; that's not enough time," Anna began.
"It's not soon enough," Sherlock interrupted. He stopped pacing and stared at her. "Clara will give us the key to the paralysis; if we have any chance of understanding him, we need that compound in her blood."
"A little girl's life is at stake, and that's all you care about?" Anna was getting tired, exhausted even, and Sherlock knew it. The strength that normally lay behind her eyes was fading.
"Stop arguing off your emotions," Sherlock admonished. "You of all people know what the stakes are, and you know that there must be a trade off if we are to catch him."
Anna's eyelids fluttered slightly. He was right, she knew he was right. His logic was the same argument she had made in her own mind for the last ten years. It was the fatigue talking for her, so she nodded at him once in agreement.
"What happened, Anna?" he asked, holding up the card. "It's two in the morning; the rain started at one, an hour ago, and you're soaking wet, beyond the point of a simple walk from your own flat, which means you've been wandering around for a while now. What happened?"
Anna remained silent for a while with the mixture of fatigue and sullenness. "I left you around two this afternoon to go help Lestrade with the searches; I'm still part of Scotland Yard's internship, remember. I got back to my own flat around midnight, and the card was already there on my doorstep."
"That was midnight; it shouldn't have taken you two hours to get to St. Bard's."
"I saw a shadow around the corner in the stairwell," she continued, "so I chased after it. I mean, who else could it be? I kept running for about twenty minutes before I lost him. Before I realized it, he had led me straight to your flat."
"Did you see what he looked like?" Sherlock asked.
"He purposely kept away from any source of light. All I can tell you is that he was about six-foot."
"Any signs of Clara?"
"No,"
"What are you doubting, Huntington?"
"Nothing."
"Come on."
"Sherlock," Anna said, "he knows where you live. He knows where I live. He knows everything about us, yet we know absolutely nothing about him."
"Are you saying you're scared of him?" It wasn't meant to be a mocking question, and Anna knew that.
"No," she replied with her usual defiance. "Not at all; he won't take me until he's dealt with the other children. He's a perfectionist; he's not going to stray from his schedule. He won't even try to touch me until the time is right. So until then, I have nothing to worry about. Once I realized where I was, I just needed to think. So I walked around the city a bit."
"No, you walked through the alley ways in the city. You were trying to see if he would pull anything on you," Sherlock pressed her.
"The grime on my boots?"
"You should have cleaned them off before you walked in if you didn't want me to notice."
"You're right; I guess I should have. I wanted to see if he was that desperate; I guess he's not. Taunting me around dark corners is enough for him right now. But really, it did give me some time to think a bit."
"And?" Sherlock asked, waiting to hear her conclusions.
"It's just that, I guess, um…" Sherlock looked up; it was the only time he had ever heard the girl falter or stutter.
Anna went silent, trying to formulate her ideas properly. Her eyes drifted down to the cool ceramic countertop. Sherlock stared at her, but she made her face blank so he couldn't read anything but fatigue.
"Sherlock," she whispered after a while, never looking up. "Don't lose."