The wind outside burned John's cheeks and, not for the first time, he wished he had the foresight to bring a scarf. Sherlock and he were striding through the woods, following a GPS trail Lestrade had sent them. The trees around them, their branches skeletal and covered in a thin layer of frost, quivered and shook in the cold air, and the grass crunched under John's feet. Ahead of him, Sherlock ducked and pirouetted through the low hanging branches and sharp spears of thorns that fenced them in on either side. John, neither having the grace nor body shape to move so elegantly, felt yet another nettle prick him thigh, and yet another leaf tickle his nose. He sighed, and pushed the branch out of the way, hurrying to meet Sherlock.

"How much further?"

"Not far," Sherlock replied, not looking up from his phone. The collar was turned up on his trench and his cheekbones looked sharper and more defined than ever. "A few more metres, a left turn, then a right and then a clearing. A minute or so should suffice."

John nodded, even though he knew Sherlock wasn't watching him. His face was still pale and his clothes still seemed baggier than usual, but his eyes gleamed and sparkled in the morning light. He turned into a cluster of trees, and then into another and, suddenly, they were in a clearing that danced with light.

The first thing John thought of was a fairytale. The trees, though bare, danced with light, and the dewy grass sparkled. Red berries, speckled with water droplets, scattered the ground and hidden under a bush, a tiny blackbird pecked at a piece of dropped fruit. It was perfect, in the way only fairytales could be.

It took a moment for the magic to vanish, and for John to see the body lying on the grass in front of him.

A fence of crime tape surrounded it in a circle, hemming it in and protecting it from straying feet. It was a girl, obviously, with raven hair and pale, frosted skin. Her lips were blue, and her bare feet sparkled in the light, coated in ice. A long, blue dress was bunched around her knees. She was beautiful - the perfect princess for this fairytale wood. The thought made John sick, and vomit rose up his throat, a wave of hatred and disgust for this stupid, dangerous world he lived in.

A noise made John jump and he turned round in time to see Lestrade saunter up to Sherlock, his hands curled around a thermos cup of coffee. "Good to see you made it," he said, taking a sip. He seemed as unaffected by girl as Sherlock did and John couldn't help but widen his eyes and let his mouth drop open. Was he the only sane person here? Was he the only one who could see the girl in front of them? The dead girl, frozen solid and murdered? Was he the only one who cared?

"The ice was treacherous on the way up. Is Anderson here?" Sherlock glanced behind him and Lestrade shook his head.

"No - he took a week off, seeing as it was so close to Christmas."

John saw Sherlock visibly relax, his tense shoulders dropping and the tiny wrinkles around his eyes smoothing out. "Good. I cannot work with that cretin hanging around."

"I know, Sherlock, that's why he's not here. So, what do you think?"

Sherlock glanced at the girl on the ground, his sharp eyes flickering over her body. "I will need a few minutes alone with Doctor Watson, but it appears everything you've deduced so far is correct. Give yourself a cookie as a reward and come back here in a few minutes. Thank you, Lestrade."

Before Lestrade could say anything, Sherlock waved him away and motioned for John to come closer. John obeyed, silently cursing himself for doing so. He had been called Sherlock's lapdog so many times now, and he had vowed long ago not to obey his every command, but God damn it, it was so hard to. John was fascinated in cases and fascinated by his roommate's techniques, and so, everything motion, every word, every look, John obeyed, a slave to his own curiosity. It annoyed the bloody hell out of him.

"So, Doctor, what is your prognosis?"

John looked at the girl again. "Death by poisoning - there are no external marks, and nothing suggesting suicide. She's been preserved by the frost, so it's hard to tell how long she's been out here, but I'd hazard a guess at a few days, judging by insects in her hair." John pointed at a small brown beetle, one he had long ago identified with death.

"I agree with everything. Shall we take a closer look?"

Without a beat, John stepped over the line of crime tape and bent down beside the body. She looked more like a corpse at this level - it was easier to see the blood stopped in the veins, the set of her slack jaw, the frozen capillaries, snaking over her eyelids...

"Wait," John said as Sherlock knelt beside him, "her eyes are closed."

"You only just noticed?" Sherlock mused. "The person who killed her cared about her enough to close her eyes and make sure the dress was reasonable..."

"But it's hitched around her thighs, Sherlock. Barely what you'd call reasonable."

Sherlock shot him a withering look. "Animals. Don't' tell me you didn't see the squirrel prints on the silk? I thought you were observant, John."

John scowled and quickly looked away from Sherlock. Brilliant, yes, nice, no. His cutting tongue was made of snakes, and the worst part was, he didn't understand what he was doing wrong. It was that that killed John the most - the cluelessness, the tattered sheet that was Sherlock's social history and the fact that it would be the only knowledge he could never glean.

"No abrasions...hasn't been moved...although the thread..." Sherlock muttered, moving to the girl's feet, inspecting them. "No puncture wounds...ingested then..." Pulling a pen from his pocket, he lifted the girl's top lip and nodded, dropping the grey skin before John could see what he was examining. Sherlock stood up and furrowed his brow, his hands forced into his pockets and his head raised slightly. "No...not right..." He froze and his eyes caught on John's. "Red."

"What?"

"Red. Did you see any red fruit? Anything?"

Puzzled, John nodded. "Yes. A bush to your left."

A swivel to the right and a frown. "No, no, not right - Juniper berries. Not poisonous...anything else? Anything?"

"Eh, no, I don't think so." John suddenly remembered the blackbird, pecking away at something hidden in the undergrowth. He jabbed a finger at the spot and said, "There was a bird there, eating something. I didn't see what-"

"Good, good, great even." Hopping over the body, Sherlock crouched and peered under the bush. John watched him for a moment and caught a glimpse of a smile flourishing over his face. Within a second it was gone, replaced with a satisfied, smug look of contentment. He stood up, and apple in his hands.

"It's been two minutes, Sherlock, what do you have for me?" John swivelled on his heels, and then, mildly embarrassed, stood up straight and gave Lestrade a little nod. Ignoring him, Lestrade walked towards Sherlock and tapped him on the shoulder. "Sherlock, what do you have for me?"

"Girl was lured here by a man, possibly middle aged, perhaps younger and was tricked into eating an apple. A poisoned apple. She died almost instantly and the man dressed her in the gown, possibly to make her seem more beautiful or princess like, it doesn't matter. He wanted us to find her, or more specifically, wanted a skilled detective to work out the clues he had hidden. We have someone who's insane, pedantic and meticulous and if that's all you would like to know, I have somewhere else to go."

John could do nothing but stare. There were times when Sherlock was a pain, but then, with a flourish of his amazing brain, he would shock John into standing agape at his genius. "Amazing," he said, not even noticing Sherlock's sideways smile at him. His brain was in overdrive, racing like an engine in an attempt to catch up with his. "How did you-how...?"

"Observation. You see, but you do not observe, John - the distinction is clear."

"Sherlock, give me a straight answer now." Lestrade's voice made Sherlock's smile vanish and with a raise of the eyebrows he stepped forward and bent towards the body.

"She hadn't been dragged or carried as you had already pointed out, so she must have came here of her own free will. A girl like her - dyed black hair, the remnants of a tongue piercing, must have been lured here with drugs or money. She arrives and is tricked into eating an apple - there is red peel in her teeth. I thought it was a berry at first, but those berries aren't poisonous and it would be highly unlikely for the man to carry deadly berries around with him. So another, fruit then. John said a blackbird had been eating something over there, so I investigated. A red apple, with the smell of bitter almonds. Filled with enough cyanide to kill anyone. After she died, he wiped the spittle from her mouth - there are flecks of dried water on the ground beside her, despite the fact that it hasn't rained in over a week - and there is a thread, a purple thread from a jumper on her left sleeve, showing that she was wearing another pair of clothes previously. Discarding the evidence, he left, but not before carving a clue into the apple that had killed her."

Carefully, Sherlock moved the red apple round, showing John and Lestrade the shocking white flesh hidden underneath that crimson skin. "A single bite would have been enough to kill her, and if you look carefully, there are two words just above the bite. Can you read them? Can you?"

John squinted and slowly read out the words written on the apple: "Golden hair." He glanced at Sherlock and Lestrade. "What does it mean?"

Sherlock shrugged and threw the apple at Lestrade, who caught it and quickly sealed it in a plastic bag he had magicked from his pocket. "I have no idea, but I have the feeling this is not an isolated case. There'll be another murder, somewhere. Keep an eye out, Lestrade, and I'll be waiting if you need help. I have research to do." With a nod and a skip, Sherlock bounced under a branch and waltzed away, leaving John to shrug and run after him.