Chapter 25: I Know Everything

…where am I?

When Anna woke up, she was in darkness. In the silence, there was a hallow echo of still air. Her head spun in five different directions at once, a familiar nausea swirling around her. Giving off a small groan of stiffness, she took in a deep breath of stuffy air before hacking heavily. She grasped at her chest and throat, trying to subside the coughing, but it persisted with incredible force; she could barely breathe. Suddenly she stopped, instead covering her face with her hands and breathing through her fingers. She needed to think; she needed to remain calm, remember who she was. Mentally assessing her physical state, she came down to a solution that didn't surprise her at all.

The Doll Maker—chloroform again.

Closing her eyes, she thought back to the last thing she could remember through the discombobulating sensation. I had just stashed the map away in the back of the warehouse. He came in:

"We're leaving. Come on now."

"Where's Natasha?"

"Out there for the world to see. Don't worry about her anymore; she's free. Not even your detective and his friend can claim her now."

Oh god, Natasha. She's dead, I couldn't—stop. You don't know that; you don't know anything. Maybe Sherlock got to her first. Regardless, you of all people know she is better off dead than alive. There is nothing you can do to help her; stay calm, and think. Stay calm, or he wins. What happened?

I had just put my coat on; we were walking towards the door, and—that's it. He got behind me; probably drugged me then. So, where am I now?

Opening her eyes, she remained in pitch black. Pulling her arms up in front of her, she felt cool concrete against her hands. A cold sweat broke out as she pressed her hands all along the surface surrounding her; it was almost all concrete. Still turning, she felt a change in texture; a smoother surface ringed with the light that seeped into the box she appeared to be in. Her hands immediately grasped around for a door handle; while she felt screws in a rectangular shape, there was no handle. She was locked in from the outside. The cold sweat changed into a trembling panic as she pushed against the door; it wasn't even shifting against her weight. The door wouldn't budge.

"No…no, no, no, no," she mumbled under her breath in a low whisper. Her breathing quickened again, making her even dizzier than before. Falling backwards to lean on her lower spine, she felt the walls closing in on her in the darkness. It was her worst nightmare; she was back in a god-forsaken closet. Only in the nightmare, the Doll Maker would come and pull her out and she would wake up. This time, though, she couldn't wake up.

She heard heavy echoing footsteps approach the door. She closed her eyes and waited for the click of a lock, but there was none. Only the creak of the door hinges, and a bright streak of light flowed in, leaving a deep red against her eyelids.

"Oh, sorry about that," a masculine voice said quietly. "I thought there was a door handle on this side; I didn't mean to lock you in. Come on now, let's get you up."

Anna opened her eyes, straining to see against the glaring artificial lights hanging from the ceiling as two shadowy arms pulled her out of the closet. For a moment, she thought she had heard John's voice; there was a familiar kindness, a comforting ease in the words. In that moment, she desperately wished it was him or Sherlock or Lestrade; that everything that had happened was really only a nightmare. It only took her a second to realize she was wrong.

She shook the helping hands off of her, looking defiantly into the eyes of the Doll Maker. In his beige shipping uniform, he too looked uncommonly thin. She made a quick scan of his outfit, but there was nothing to tell her about who exactly he worked for; she could only verify that he was a sea-shipping worker. His skin sagged slightly around his eyes and cheeks, plagued with the natural crow's feet and smile lines of any normal adult. The dark eyes looked her over with curiosity and excitement, or was it insanity?

Anna regained control of herself and her emotions. "I can walk," she said coldly, lying through her teeth. Her head still swam violently against the environment of the room; the chloroform was still taking its effects. He motioned to a table in the center of the room, and Anna momentarily averted her gaze from his face. It was another rickety table, where food awaited them.

"You haven't eaten; please," he motioned again, "join me. We can continue our conversation." When she only stared at him suspiciously, he took the initiative and strode over to the table himself. She watched his every move, noticing only one thing: he was limping. It was a slight limp, barely noticeable unless one was looking directly at his ankle. His shoulders bared themselves straight; his weight never shifted, even with the change in step. Sherlock was right; this had to be a recurring limp. But what was causing it?

Anna straightened her back and gracefully made her way to the table, surveying the new environment. Smaller warehouse with no windows this time; probably a more personal warehouse for urbanites to put furniture in, meaning I'm closer to the city. Boxes still everywhere; same set up, same gray color, same situation. I still can't escape unless I break through the doors. Doors are made with metal; there's no chance of me breaking them down myself. In short, I'm still stuck. I'll have to think of something, and soon. Taking the seat across from the Doll Maker, the two of them simply stared at each other in silence. He watched as she finally picked up a fork and took a bite of the pasta in front of her.

"I take it you're hungry," he commented as he picked up his own food. "You haven't eaten in two days, Elise."

Anna held back a distraught sigh; two days had already passed. Had Sherlock even found the map at all? She visually imagined the inlet she had marked for the consulting detective, trying to predict where the Doll Maker had moved her now; she could only think of two possibilities that were farther towards the city, neither of them anywhere someone would spontaneously find her. If she were going to escape, it would have to be by her own means.

All she could do now was bide time; keep the Doll Maker distracted enough to give Sherlock a fighting chance. That was all she could ever do; it was what she and Sherlock had discussed as they attempted to plan the future. As she watched him eat from across from her, she tried to deduce his character; but the chloroform fogged her thoughts, blurring the fine details around him. Everything seemed duller, faded with some sort of gloss, making it almost impossible to think straight. Never had she felt so mentally vulnerable, so unable, under his wild gaze.

Breaking the echoing, empty silence that reverberated across the warehouse walls, she tested her voice. It was weak at first, shaky with sudden usage, but she spoke loud enough for him to hear. "Where are we?"

She got no answer from the tall man sitting across from her. "What happened to Natasha?"

"You already know the answer to that," he said boldly, still not looking up from his plate. "I placed her in the Kensington Palace Gardens. But you already knew that."

She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. "Why do you keep drugging me? You never drugged the other children."

"Well, most of my children are pretty obedient. I've never had to drug them; they wanted to come with me. They trust me."

"They followed you because you bribe them. Giving them candy is not a form of 'trust'," she scoffed.

"No, I only reward them with candy. They trust me because I offer them protection from the dark, dark world. Their parents abandoned them—"

"You killed them."

"—and I'm their guardian. Their parents were incompetent fools who put their own vices before the virtues of their children; they are the same dead or alive. But the children…I keep them safe, comfortable, alive; how could they argue with that? You, however, you don't trust me. I don't understand why; I'm protecting you from the evils of the world, yet you refuse to go along with it. You don't listen to me, you don't believe in my ideals; drugging you is the only way to keep you safe."

"How long have you been following me?" she asked, putting down her fork and letting her right hand rest on the table. "How long have you known where I was?"

"Oh, my dear," the Doll Maker said between bites. "You have no idea how long it took me to find you; especially when they tried so hard to hide you away from me. That was disappointing though, I must admit; no matter how hard a bureaucracy tries, they can't hide paper trails from the public."

Thoughts racing, she mentally paused as she pieced together what that meant. "The break in at Sussex Orphanage was you, wasn't it?" Anna's right hand reached farther out slightly, careful not to make too much of a sound as she slowly pulled back the cold handle of the dinner knife. Its metallic weight fell heavily into her lap with a muted thump.

"Of course, who else would it be? I lost you after that; I kept looking and looking, but they hid you well. How was I supposed to know they would just stick you in the Essex Orphanage? I would have come for you much sooner if I had known they stuck you in such a god forsaken place."

"How did you know I was in the Essex Orphanage?"

"Orphanages: they are the absolute worst, aren't they?" he continued, ignoring her question. "But they tell us a lot about our society; we place children, children who have done nothing wrong, children who have done nothing but lived momentarily, in these sickening wards because no one else has use for them. Their parents leave them—they steal, they do drugs, they murder, they simply die—and nobody wants them. It's a terrible feeling, being unwanted. And these children, these innocent children, are left alone to rot in solitude. And our government condones that? The government sponsors that? It's sickening; it really is. These kids are left alone, left to pay the price for their parents' mistakes, the mistakes of the adults. They are left to sit in the grime and dirt of being society's unwanted pests; and as the children grow up, they simply become these adults that pour the same burden on their own kids. It's a cycle; it's a disgusting cycle. It never ends."

"Why do you limp?" she tried again, trying to regain control. She should have been much more careful with what questions she asked, and she should have avoided the topic of children altogether (much less herself). There was something wrong, though; there was something bothering the Doll Maker. He was a meticulous character, and the fact that he was ranting was not a good sign. Something had happened; something that made him nervous.

"But what if I could stop that cycle? Let the children leave the world as pure as they came; immortalize them in the clean flesh of innocence and youth. They remain as they should: perfect—"

"Who are you?" she cried desperately, grasping the cool knife in her lap with her left hand. The knowledge of that knife was the only thing that kept her from showing any fear in her eyes.

"I am the Doll Maker," he replied, his deep voice echoing as it reverberated across the warehouse walls.

"That's not what I meant."

"I know what you meant, my dear," he paused and looked up at her from his food. "But I'm not as foolish as I look."

"What do you mean?" she asked coldly. Anna's heart stopped at the wild look in his eyes; there was definitely something wrong with him. She gripped the knife tightly in her hand, feeling the cool metal slide slightly against a sweaty palm. She nudged her foot slightly, testing her physical condition. She knew that it wouldn't be long until she would regain enough bodily control to make a run for the door, but then what? It didn't matter what; there would be no point if she didn't try. The longer she stayed with the Doll Maker in this condition, the sooner she figured she would die.

"I said I'm not as foolish as I look," he replied as he leaned forward slightly in his chair. "You don't think I know you've been communicating with Sherlock?" Fighting not to visibly react, Anna's face paled slightly; did the Doll Maker know about the map? Her mind raced as every potential outcome ran through her mind; if Sherlock didn't find the map, there was absolutely no hope of reaching him again.

The Doll Maker's hand reached down to the chest pocket of his uniform. There was a slight jingle, and Anna's ears perked up at that faint sound. Her eyes traced the outline of that pocket: there can't be more than two or three bits of metal change in there. But that sound wasn't just made by loose change alone; there's something heavier in there. Most likely…a key. As the change shifted, an angular piece poked out, confirming her suspicion. Anna knew what she had to do. She eyed the pocket curiously, watching his hand come out holding up a rectangular bit of paper.

"Obviously Sherlock Holmes, your 'savior,' has no regard about whether you live or not," he said, sliding the card across the cheap plastic table. She recognized the messy scrawl immediately.

This is my move, Doll Maker. Don't keep me waiting—SH

Anna's forehead clenched in confusion; what exactly was that supposed to do to help her? She found herself slightly relieved that Sherlock had gotten hold of her map and had been able to interpret it, but of all the possible recourses he had chosen to send a message; a non-descript, vague message. She laughed uncertainly, trying to appear in control. "Well, he certainly has a thing for flourishes."

"How did you do it?" the Doll Maker suddenly shouted furiously. "How did you do it, Elise?" Anna pulled back against her chair, preparing for the reaction; he had snapped. The rage blinded his eyes, and the veins in his neck tightened. Anna saw his fists clench around his side, and he thrust himself up from his seat, knocking the chair over. He paced back and forth along his side of the warehouse, the limp still there.

Suddenly, everything made sense to Anna: Sherlock knew the Doll Maker would react this way. That was his motive: to threaten the Doll Maker, to ruin his sense of security, to make him afraid. Because if he was afraid, he would become desperate; if he was desperate, he would make mistakes. Sherlock had begun to play the game with a new advantage, and he was certainly having fun with it. Anna saw her chance; and it was now or never. She tensed her muscles in her chair, preparing for what would happen next. She gave a dark grin at the scene in front of her, staring right at the madman across from her, provoking him with a light laughter that echoed through the warehouse.

"How the hell did Sherlock know you would be here?" the Doll Maker hollered, this time making his way down the table to Anna's chair. "How did you tell him?"

As his body towered over her, she kicked her right leg out, instantly hitting his limping leg. While the limp itself never affected his movement, it was still a pivotal weak point of his body; there was a deep cry as he fell onto one knee, ankle throbbing in pain and head spinning from the sudden fall. Anna's hair flew around her as she leapt out of the chair and wrapped the table knife around his neck, placing the cool metal against his main artery. Although she knew the knife itself was too dull to be able to make any sort of cut, it would certainly act as a threatening component to the discombobulated madman. She quickly reached into his chest pocket, swirling around some change before grasping the key shape and running.

She stumbled to the door, still affected by the chloroform that kept her in a deep dizzying haze. Fumbling to fit the key in the lock as fast as she could, her hands trembled and her heart pounded in her chest. Yet every thrust, every aim towards the lock missed. "Come on," she muttered, trying to jam the key in.

The Doll Maker tackled her, wrestling her thin body down onto the ground. She fought back, flailing her arms and feet around him with what little strength she had left. "Get off of me," she screamed as he eventually straddled her legs and pinned her arms above her head with one hand. His heavy panting matched hers; neither of them were in very good shape. Anger and hatred burned in her eyes, all her defiance glowering about her. She would fight; she would fight to the bitter end. With his free hand, he held a bit of cloth to her mouth, and Anna watched the world around her begin to go fuzzy.

"Why?" she mumbled as the bright artificial lights of the warehouse began to overtake her vision, leaving the Doll Maker as a fuzzy outline.

"Because you're the one that got away. But not for long; I know exactly what I'm going to do with you. Just be patient."

With that, the Doll Maker released her arms. He was still breathing heavily, groaning at the movement of his body; he was in pain for some reason, but it wasn't because of his ankle. She watched as his outline reached into his side pocket and pulled out a syringe. Her heart stopped momentarily; she hadn't had the chance to take the antidote yet. It was still in the bottom of her backpack. But he rolled up his own sleeve, giving a sigh of relief as he injected some of compound into his arm. Finally he stood up and moved away from her body. She turned her head to the side and watched him walk away, his limp slowly meshing into a regular motion.

Chronic but inconsistent limping…calcium overdoses…muscle paralysis…Anna's thoughts were fleeting as the chloroform began to take its effect. The warehouse was being overtaken by the brightness of the lights above her; she couldn't fight it anymore. Sherlock, I know what it's for; I know what the compound is for. It's