Chapter 29: Lost Boys
"Get out."
"What?" John said at the sudden break of Sherlock's taciturnity. It had been the first thing he had said all morning. When John had woken up around eight, Sherlock was curled up in his reading chair with The Little White Bird; when John returned from the store around nine, Sherlock remained in the exact same chair, only with a different novel. When he had asked about it, Sherlock ignored him entirely, granting him the same silence as before. Now, at ten, Sherlock broke his vow of silence.
"Get out," he repeated coldly, looking up at his flat mate with a dead seriousness.
John shrugged loosely, taking his mug of tea from his laptop and muttering something about Mrs. Hudson. As he shuffled out of the room, Sherlock finally stood up, clearing his thoughts with a simple gesture of his hands to enter the Mind Palace. As he paced up and down the living room of 221B Baker Street, he closed his eyes, allowing his thoughts to consolidate everything he had just read and string the information together. The keywords flew around his mind excitedly:
Fairies…goats…Kensington Gardens…
His mind ticked away, flipping through the pages of the novels and linking everything bit by bit. In a matter of minutes, ideas and characters and words were flung together like pieces of a puzzle. Taking on the mind of the Doll Maker, Sherlock's brain pulsed with a million different distortions, adding more keywords along the way:
Immortality…freedom…Anna Huntington…
Suddenly, his mind stopped still as two words remained. With a singular laugh, he opened his eyes with a growing grin. "Oh, how simple; how utterly simple."
His body sprang into action immediately. "John!" he hollered, "we're leaving." Tearing around the room, he grabbed his coat and scarf and tossed them on. When John reappeared in the doorway, he threw him his coat and scarf, which the army doctor clumsily caught off-guard.
"Now hang on," John cried out as Sherlock shoved him out the door, "what just happened? Did you figure something out?"
"Yes," Sherlock called with exasperation, flying down the stairs and bursting through the front door.
"And?"
"Scotland Yard."
"Scotland Yard?"
"Yes, John; we are going to Scotland Yard. Now."
"How long has this suspect been dead?"
"Ten years," the intern replied, flipping through a mass of papers and pulling out a death certificate. Lestrade glanced over it momentarily before giving a long sigh. The morning had been sluggish, to say the least; the graying sky had covered the city and he could hear the rain's drizzle tapping lightly against the window pane behind him. His office was dark, filled with shadows even under the white artificial lights.
He had only gotten a few hours of sleep the night before. Despite John's orders, he could not bring himself to rest when he got back home. So at one am, while the rest of his family slept peacefully, Lestrade remained wide awake with a strange anxiety. He couldn't shake the feeling that there was something wrong, something terribly wrong, with the Doll Maker case. With this new insomnia, Lestrade found himself running through each fact, each minute detail of the case folder, rereading all of Maynard's old notes and Sherlock's initial observations. How Maynard could ever retire with a case like this unsolved, Lestrade had no idea. Eventually, though, he somehow managed to doze off, awaking to his usual alarm at seven and dragging himself to the intern progress meetings at eight.
Lestrade gazed at the clock in front of him: 11:03. Three hours had stretched on, filled with the insufferable drabble of the trainees. What should have taken them ten minutes to say had somehow been expanded to half an hour presentations, all based off one bloody fingerprint. It was maddening; what was worse was that he had to pretend to care about them. He returned his attention to the intern (whose name was Heartly, or was it Heartson?) sitting in front of him, a well-dressed young man with shaggy hair and a smart trench coat; dressed for the part of detective, totally incapable of detective work.
"Alright," Lestrade sighed, handing the death certificate over to the young man. "Now, let's go over this one more time, just for the sake of detail; what evidence do you have, outside of that one fingerprint, that this Bryans fellow was the one who raped Kelly Everett fifty years ago?"
As Heartly began shuffling through his stack of papers once more, Lestrade heard his secretary's voice from outside his office. Looking up, he saw the poor woman trying to hold back two familiar figures. Sherlock simply ignored her, walking right past her restraining arm with nothing but a shrug. John politely touched the woman's shoulders, replying with a more apologetic gesture and stepping around her patiently.
The glass door to his office swung open violently as Sherlock strode in, his dark coat flying out behind him. "Get him out, now," he stated, not even looking once at the intern as he went directly to the window behind his desk, watching the clouds settle over the city with a grim disposition. John entered a moment later, standing by the door with a look of uniform confusion spread across his face and a worried expression deep in his eyes.
Heartly looked up at the intruders with surprise. "Excuse me," he cried out, "I was just in the middle of—"
"Get out. Now." Lestrade said harshly with a menacing glare. The man jumped out of his chair, grumbling something towards John as he left. With this new excitement, Lestrade turned towards Sherlock. "Well?" he asked quickly. "Have you figured out anything about the Doll Maker? What's going on?"
"Wendy Darling," was Sherlock's only reply.
There was a pause as John and Lestrade took those two words in. It didn't seem right to either of them, the nature of that name. It wasn't a random name, it couldn't have been. There was something so vaguely reminiscent about the name, a glimmer from the past. From outside the office, the sounds of the bustling detectives and ringing phones seeped into the air, muted by glass walls. While the other detectives were out there dealing with vandalism, theft, murders, they were simply trying to recall a lost memory.
"Why does that sound so familiar?" John asked, his forehead clenching in confusion and deep thought.
"I know why," Lestrade broke out. John watched as he ran one of his hands through his graying hair. He shook his head and gave a small chuckle. "Caroline loves that story."
"What story is it?"
"Peter Pan."
"Precisely," Sherlock finally said, turning away from the window to face them. The expression on his face was grim, but there was a light in his eyes; he had this all figured out. "It took you two long enough to remember that."
"Wait, what?" John asked incredulously.
"You know this story, John!" Sherlock bellowed in exasperation. "Peter Pan, flying boy with a ridiculous fairy following him around, breaks into a house and takes three children to Neverland, a place where kids never grow old. They all live with the Lost Boys, and there are Indians and Pirates and other bits of ridiculous play matter—"
"I know what you're talking about," John broke in.
"Then what's the problem?"
"You're saying that the Doll Maker is modeling Anna Huntington into Wendy Darling. How exactly did you reach that conclusion?" John questioned him.
"With these," Sherlock held up two novels for his two companions to see: one of them being The Little White Bird by J.M Barrie, the other being unfamiliar to John. "The Doll Maker left us plenty of clues; we just had to know what context they were in. The goat and the quote about fairies were the obvious hints; obscure enough to keep us in the dark, but clear indicators nonetheless. Peters figured it out when he heard where Natasha's body and the goat carving had been found: in the Kensington Royal Gardens."
"I don't see the connect—"
"Quiet, Lestrade, I'm getting there. Peters found all these in The Little White Bird. John thought it was a satire piece; he was only partially right. Chapters 13 to 18 contained stories about Peter Pan, a baby boy who flew out of his crib and into the Kensington Gardens when he was only a week old. Peter grew up among the fairies, many of whom tried to trick him into remaining with them forever, hence the reason why Natasha had 'don't let the fairies take me' written onto her wrists.
"Peter met a human girl named Mamie, who was lost in the Gardens for a couple nights. She was deemed his 'friend', but she chose to return to the human world rather than remain in the world of the fairies. However, her parting gift to the lonely boy was an imaginary goat, thus the goat carving on the tree in the Kensington Gardens."
"Okay, fair enough," Lestrade broke in. "But where did Wendy Darling come from?"
"Again, if you remain silent, I will tell you," Sherlock muttered, pulling something from the inside of his coat's pocket. Holding it up in the air between his fingers, John widened his eyes at the familiar sight of the Doll Maker's calling card, the china doll sketch taunting them once more.
"When the hell did he give you that?"
"Mycroft found it last night, which means the Doll Maker was at the flat sometime before 10:00 pm."
"And? What does it say?" Lestrade pressed.
"'The clock is ticking for the darling.'"
"What does that—"
"In case you cannot tell, I am about to explain that, Lestrade. There are two references within that statement; two that fall perfectly in line with this novel." Sherlock held up the second novel, which John strode over and snatched from his hand.
"Peter and Wendy, by—"
"J.M. Barrie," Sherlock completed. "The clock is ticking: the reference to the alligator with the clock within its stomach that followed the pirate Captain Hook. Obviously I am the antagonist of the Doll Maker's mission; a ticking clock is meant to be a threatening phrase, a warning of imminent failure to me. And 'the darling': an allusion to Wendy Darling, the only Darling that really held any value to Peter Pan. It makes perfect sense; this is how the Doll Maker views his world. The freedom, the immortality; I should have seen this earlier, much earlier. The answer is all in Neverland."
"Hang on, Sherlock," Lestrade said. "Believe me, I know this story pretty well, but I don't see how this is what the Doll Maker sees in Anna."
"I agree with Lestrade," John jumped in, flipping through the pages of Peter and Wendy. "This all seems rather far-fetched. Besides, Wendy Darling was taken to Neverland when she was ten or eleven, not eighteen."
"Expand your dense minds for just a moment and you two simpletons would be able to see that that hardly matters," Sherlock erupted, his voice quickening with a quavering passion. John could see his shoulders shaking with excitement and anticipation. While normally he would take some offense to that remark, he had to admit that he was rather intrigued by the theory Sherlock was offering.
"The Doll Maker justifies paralyzing these children by offering them freedom from the mortal world of adults; he believes he grants them immortality. Don't you remember? Ad immortale facere: to make immortal; that's all he wants for those children. That parallels Peter Pan in Neverland; he takes those children lost in the Kensington Gardens, abandoned by their parents (rightly so if the kids aren't even functioning properly enough to get out of the Gardens to begin with), and puts them in Neverland, where they never grow old. All those children he paralyzed, all those he 'saved' from their parents, they are the Lost Boys.
"There's only one person who voluntarily left Neverland, and that was Wendy Darling. Peter Pan offered her permanent youth and she rejected it. She returned to her home, to her family, to her life, to growing up. That's how the Doll Maker sees Anna Huntington, as the girl who escaped; the girl who ran away from paradise.
"Wendy Darling grew up and moved on with her life. But whereas Peter Pan watched her age from afar, the Doll Maker never let go. He means to 'save' her from the world; he means to return her to Neverland. That is why eighteen year old Anna is such an integral part of the Doll Maker's obsession. If even she can return, than any child can go to Neverland. If he succeeds in killing Anna, his raid will never end. Anna Huntington is only the beginning."
Lestrade and John stared at Sherlock, eyes wide as they absorbed everything they had just heard. It was all there; just about every detail was accounted for. Suddenly Anna's kidnapping had become much more real to them. Knowing what the Doll Maker intended to do with her only made the need to find her more imperative. The shock that the same harmless bedtime story he had been telling Caroline for years now could be used to kill Anna left Lestrade with a cold sweat.
"So what does that tell us about her location?" John said, his voice shaking slightly.
"Plenty," Sherlock began, but he was suddenly interrupted by a harsh metallic chirping. John's coat pocket had begun to vibrate, a pale blue light flashing from under the thin fabric. Just as he reached in to silence the phone, Sherlock held out his hand as a gesture of protest. "Pick it up."
John's forehead clenched slightly as he pulled out the phone, the ringtone still playing. Nobody ever called him: if Lestrade or Sherlock ever needed him, they would text; the hospital's emergency ward only used the pagers; Mycroft chose to shove him into the back of a black limo, and Harry's resentment made the likelihood of her calling beyond miniscule. As he read the name that flashed up with the caller id, he looked up at Sherlock with a glance of confusion.
"It's Mrs. Hudson," he announced quietly as he pressed the accept button and pulled the phone up to his ear. "Hello?"
Sherlock and Lestrade watched silently as they listened to a muffled wail come from the cell phone. "Calm down, Mrs. Hudson," John consoled, but the wailing grew louder. Sherlock held out his hand, but John waved him away.
"To hell I'm giving you the phone," he said, holding a hand over the receiver. "You're only going to say something that makes things worse."
"Have I ever done that?"
"You usually do," John replied cynically, putting the phone back up to his ear. "Are you okay? What happened? Just take a deep breath for me…"
Sherlock turned to Lestrade. "I make things worse?" he asked, lifting an eyebrow in thought. "I make people get to the point quicker. How does that leave them any worse off?"
"That might be the problem," Lestrade replied with a huff.
"What?" John finally cried out, the skin on his face turning extremely pale. After some more wailing from the other end he simply said, "Is that all it said? Are you sure? Okay, I have to go, Mrs. Hudson. I'll have Lestrade send some officers to the flat. Don't worry, you are perfectly safe," and hung up quickly.
"Lestrade," he ordered, "have some of your officers stop by 221A Baker Street."
"Will do. Why?" Lestrade asked as he picked up the phone and dialed in some numbers.
"The Doll Maker was just there; he gave Mrs. Hudson a calling card and asked her to give it to us."
"And?" Sherlock jumped up, eyes bright.
"It said: Her heart stops at five o'clock." John went another shade paler. "We have six hours to find where Anna is. Sherlock, you said you knew where he could be keeping her, right?"
"Correct," Sherlock's eyes gleamed. "Lestrade, have all your men search any warehouse in Bloomsbury."
"Why Bloomsbury?"
"Anna's map put indicators around certain warehouses in that area. And the Darlings lived in Bloomsbury."
"Just relax."
Anna winced slightly as the Doll Maker carefully pressed the first needle into her arm. She sat on the sofa, heavily breathing in the dense air coming in from the open window, no doubt thickening with the light drizzle still falling. A heavy vibration rang through the air as the bell of the clock tower struck twelve times: five more hours.
When the Doll Maker had returned from Sherlock's flat, Anna had been waiting for him. A quick shower and the makeup he had supplied brightened her complexion immensely, and she sat on the sofa in the long white nightgown he had left for her. Heart pounding, she listened as the key ground into the lock and the old door swung open. A tall shadow filled the doorway, a menacing reminder of what was coming. The Doll Maker slowly walked over to her, taking off his black coat and brushing his hand over her cheek endearingly.
"You're going to be alright," he said quietly, looking straight into her eyes. "You will be free, I promise Elise."
Anna only nodded at him, staring with a cool face and cold eyes. He turned away, stalking over to the dresser in the main room and kneeling onto one knee. Slowly, he pulled out the bottom drawer and lifted out the white box. Anna's pulse quickened momentarily at the familiar sight. Removing the top, the Doll Maker pulled out one of the syringes.
"What are those injections?" she asked, hoping for some sort of information before she would plunge into darkness.
"Nothing you need to worry about, my doll," he replied, standing up and returning to her body on the sofa. "This will make you sleep. You won't even feel the one after that. Just relax."
Five hours, she thought as the needle pierced her skin.
Anna took a few deep breaths with one last look into the Doll Maker's dark eyes, the madness screaming through them. With a long sigh, she let her eyelids shut and fell back against the sofa, feigning unconsciousness. He paused for a few moments, waiting to see if she was truly out. She let her body go limp, falling further back onto the sofa.
He tapped her arm twice, waiting to see if there was any reaction, any indication that she maintained consciousness. While she remained lifeless, she listened as he rummaged through the box once more, and the same piercing sensation bit into her arm: the paralysis solution.
The needle pulled away from her skin and sofa shifted as the Doll Maker walked away into the kitchen. Anna remained still, her arm numb around the second shot.
Five h—
An excruciating pulse ran along her arm and down her spine, cutting off her own thought. She fought back the desire to scream as the solution ran through her veins, burning the muscles under her skin. It was an electric shock to her system, a bolt of fire that made her entire body want to collapse within itself. Each nerve shook violently, trembling under extreme agony. So there was a reason to render the children unconscious outside of simple compliance: to spare them from the pain, a pain that she and Sherlock had not accounted for.
It took everything within her not scream as she felt the almost immediate effects of the injection: her muscles had begun to seize up slightly, the feeling of liquid pooling within them. While she twitched her foot to test the symptoms, her toes were already starting to lose sensation. Dr. Watson had been right; the paralysis compound did work fast.
Somebody help me, she screamed through the darkness.
[A/N: The final product of this "short story" is actually somewhere between 35-37 chapters total. Forgive me; I know this is really starting to drag on…]
The Final Encounter begins June 20th.
