Chapter 14: A Broken Doll

"We cut it extremely close. She started taking to the blood, but she just—she just didn't make it."

Watson stood by the little girl's hospital bed, slightly adjusting the transfusion tube in her arm. Not that it mattered anymore. He couldn't look at his two companions waiting by the foot of the bed. He had just failed to save the little girl's life; he had been so close, so unbelievably close. It had been a grueling ambulance ride. Her heart almost stopped twice, but she held on long enough to get into the hospital. Halfway through the transfusion, though, her body just failed.

"We had gotten most of her old blood out, but whatever chemical was in her fluids had been absorbed by her muscles and organs," John continued. "The transfusion had been going pretty well; her body was accepting the blood, so that was a good start. But her major muscles and organs, heart and lungs and liver and kidneys, just froze up. I don't know what he put in her, but it works fast in the body. I'd say it's been in her for 24 hours at the most."

Clara's body lay limp on the white hospital bed. Long dark hair was strewn across the pillow. Her eyes had been closed. At first glance, she could have been a sleeping little girl. But she wasn't; the transfusion tubes in each arm served as a grim reminder of what she had gone through. The rags she wore seemed grimier against the white sheets, and the dirt that had stuck to her skin still clung to her. She was dead, now preserved as the Little Match Girl for the rest of eternity. She was dead.

John couldn't look at her any longer, so he closed his eyes. He had Clara's hand in his own. If only they had known where she was maybe an hour earlier, he thought but suddenly dashed it: the chemical had been absorbed in her muscles. She was probably doomed from five hours ago. Still, he felt the guilt that every doctor feels as they see their patient dead on the bed. So he inwardly grieved, grieved in his own doctorly way.

Anna held her blue coat in her arms, gazing at the girl with sympathy. She remembered lying on a hospital bed twelve years ago, and she especially remembered waking up to having no recollection as to what had happened and to the fact that both her parents were dead. But while that was hard enough, she wouldn't wish that on any other child. In that sense, perhaps it was better that Clara had died; she only suffered once. Although she knew that was the Doll Maker's justifications, it was his fault that she was even in that predicament. But it wasn't just his fault; it was her own as well.

"What were the preliminary findings on her body?" Anna asked, looking up at Watson with sad eyes. John was caught off-guard by the softness in her voice. "Did he do anything to her?" she pressured.

"There were some old bruises and some old burns on her arms that correspond to the faults of her parents, but outside of that there was nothing done to her in the past week." John shook his head. "There was nothing really…"

Sherlock blocked out John's voice. Of course the Doll Maker didn't do anything to the girl, he thought to himself. He needed her in almost perfect condition; he wouldn't dream of damaging her body. Brushing past Anna, he began to analyze Clara's body, mentally taking notes.

Grime in the hair: bits of dust and dirt stuck to hairspray. Dirt most likely came from whatever was in the alley way, but the dust is in larger particles: most likely from an unused warehouse, which means the Doll Maker preset her hair and makeup before staging the body; meticulous as usual.

Deeper shades of skin up and down along the arm: healing bruises and burns, but most likely from her parents. However, there is one lighter shade of skin along her upper right arm the size of a bandage: probably where he injected the first part of some chemical in her. The only way to get a five year old girl to comply with this would be to play the role of doctor. Looking at her fingernails, there are no skin cells: she didn't struggle against him. He was able to gain her trust, but how?

Breath smells like…sugar. Her tongue has been dyed a slightly red color: probably a cherry-flavor sucker. That's how he gains their trust: candy. How utterly simple-minded children can be.

Feet: covered in the same sort of dust particles as in her hair. She was allowed to walk around the warehouse. At first glance, there are about five different types of particles: indicates more than one warehouse has had contact with her feet. The Doll Maker has been moving locations frequently. Indicates that she was never bound and she was able to move the majority of the locations: the paralysis compound was not put in her until the very last location.

Dress is made out of cotton. The dirt stains follow a pattern: he most likely twisted the cotton and rolled it around in dirt to get the "ragged" look. Cloth made in the United States: probably imported in through one of the shipping boats he worked at. A common enough fabric that means it is untraceable. It's baggy around the body: probably a pre-meditated choice. However, there is a strange angular shape along the right breast…

Sherlock reached out and brushed the edge of the shape, deepening a crease along it. There was something thin underneath the fabric. Anna and John watched in wonder as Sherlock nimbly unpinned a playing card from the inside of the dark tunic. He stared at it for a moment, than let out a single sound.

"Sherlock," John quietly commented, "What does it say?"

"Look for yourself," he replied, passing the card to Anna. John read it over her shoulder.

You have what you need: now come find me. One to go: can you save Her, Holmes?

Anna glanced up at Sherlock, who was watching her with a dark look in his eyes. They both knew what the Doll Maker meant by "Her." Everything had become a game, and it was Anna's life that was being wagered.

"I get what he means by 'what you need.'" John said. "You've got the blood compound you've been waiting for now. But I don't understand that last part. Who does he mean by 'Her'?"

"That is irrelevant right now," Sherlock said bluntly as Anna tore her eye contact away from him. "When can I have the blood?"

"What do you mean that's 'irrelevant'?" John asked incredulously. "Sherlock, this is insinuating he already has the next child. This needs to be addressed now."

"No, it doesn't, John. Think about it; there haven't been any double murders recently. The Doll Maker won't grab another child for paralysis until he goes through the ritual. We'll get more done if we find out what he's been pumping through Clara's veins."

"But if he already knows who he's going to kidnap, there has got to be a way to stop him. If we can prevent the next kidnapping and catch him, we can—"

"We can what?" Sherlock spat. "He will kill again; we can't stop him."

"Isn't there anything on Clara's body that tells us anything about him?"

"No, John, he is much too careful for that," Sherlock put the card in his pocket and stared hard at Anna and Watson. "He will tell us when he's got the next child. Until then, we have no choice but to wait. But this blood; this blood will tell us everything. This is what's important right now; this is what will save that next child."

Watson was about to continue arguing, but Anna's voice stopped him. "John," she said absently; her mind was somewhere else, deep in thought. She simply watched Clara as she said, "He's right; there's nothing else we can do right now. Obviously a simple blood transfusion won't work; I'm sure he planned it that way, timed it out so we wouldn't be able to save her so easily. Still, the Doll Maker left us with something huge. If we can identify what he's put in Clara's blood, we might be able to combat it for the next child."

John looked at her; she looked so tired, so incredibly tired. He wanted to reach out and simply hold her, but she looked up with that hard look in her eyes. That strength, that defiance that always was there continued on, and that gave John hope.

Sherlock walked towards the door. "Send the blood to the lab when it's ready," he called out.

"It's already there," John said, following Sherlock out. "I had a bag sent down ten minutes ago."

But Sherlock was already striding down the hall, his coat flowing out behind him. "Anna," he paused and turned around, "go to my flat and grab my medical volumes on blood and muscular tissue." He tossed her a silver key. "You know where they are."

She nodded and slipped her blue coat on before turning around to make her own exit.

"Come, Watson," Sherlock called. Leaving John lagging slightly behind him, a look of stolid determination flashed across his face. This was what he had been waiting for; this was the missing piece of the puzzle. He was about to figure out what the Doll Maker's process was all about.

"Sherlock," John said, somewhat confused, "you don't need those volumes; you practically have them memorized."

"Of course," he replied. "But of course." And with that, he went silent, leaving John to only imagine what he had really intended for Anna to do. Whatever it was, it was obviously a private matter; something that was only meant to between Sherlock and the girl or else he would have sent John to fetch those volumes. A look of deep thought filled John's face, but Sherlock didn't seem to notice, too enveloped in thoughts of his own.

I will find you, Sherlock thought to himself. I'll win your silly little game, Doll Maker.