Lestrade came, turned pale and then left again to collect some people from the forensic department.
Sherlock investigated, slicing the dress and cutting hair and nails from the victim, occasionally muttering words to himself in a quick, hurried manner, like always.
John stood, face against the dirty glass, watching the world speed by outside. How odd it was that when one life, one perfect life, bursting with potential and passion and power, stopped, everyone else's continued. Surely there should be something. Someone should have noticed - a dad, wondering where his little girl has vanished too; a neighbour, knocking on the door of an empty flat, desperate for an answer; a friend, coming round with a Chinese, ready for a talk; a teacher, suddenly overcome with a sudden chill. How was it that no one noticed? How was it, that when Rapunzel took her last, shaking breath, she was forgotten?
Of course, John, knew the answer, but it didn't stop him from asking the questions.
After about an hour, John turned around and coughed. "Sherlock. We should go."
Sherlock, who was scraping a sample from under the chair, glanced up, his lips pursed and his brow furrowed. "Go? We've only just got here."
"Lestrade's coming back."
Sherlock straightened up and sauntered to the window. Immediately, his brow smoothed and he whipped round, catching John on the back of the leg with his jacket. "Right then, we should be off. Help me carry down the samples. I need to get part of the broken mirror too."
John picked up a few test-tubes from the floor and waited for Sherlock to finish selecting his chosen shard of glass. He picked one up, and weighing it in his hand, nodded. "Right, ok. Back to Baker Street?"
It was pointless replying - Sherlock had already began to walk to the door, gliding across the floor in his trench. John walked after him, but he couldn't move with the same vim and vigour as Sherlock. The questions, hornets in his head, kept coming back to him, stinging him and injecting poison.
Six months of vanishing, three months of death.
How did no one notice?
John followed Sherlock down the stairs, vaguely aware of Lestrade and his team walking up them. They had been pulling their equipment out when John was staring out the window, and now, they were ready for their investigations.
"Our favourite psychopath."
John stopped just in time to avoid colliding with Sherlock. Even this close up, John could see him bristling, his back tensing and his long nimble fingers moving to invisible music. "Donovan," he said calmly, hiding the obvious rage. "I thought you would have been away with Anderson."
Donovan laughed, her frizzy black hair bouncing off her shoulders. "No. I see you can't get rid of your puppy for a day though. How long has it been? Two months? You might as well get married."
"I'm, eh, not gay," John interjected, "not that anyone cares..."
His voice was drowned by Sherlock's. "It's not my relationships - platonic relationships - you should be worried about, Donovan. Isn't Anderson married? You really should not be sneaking out every weekend - his wife is beginning to notice your hair on his clothes. And your perfume. And the extra...wrappers he has lying around."
Donovan coloured, crimson flowers blossoming on her cheeks. "At least I'm not a virgin."
Sherlock opened his mouth to reply when Lestrade shouted from the bottom. "For God's sake you two, hurry up and stop behaving like school children, or I'll have to sit you on the naughty step."
John couldn't help it - the thought of Sherlock, knees tucked under his chin as he sat on a too small stool, dunces cap on his head, was too much to bear. He let out a small chuckle and Sherlock shot him a glare that could kill small mammals. "Come on, John," he said, pushing past Donovan and striding down the stone steps. John followed and caught a whisper in his ear.
"And he says he's not gay."
John ducked his head and hurried down the stairs and out the door, into the frigid air. It occurred to him that didn't know Donovan's first name, and then he made a decision to never learn it. She didn't deserve that kind of respect.
A cold wind whipped his face and he ran forward to meet Sherlock, who was climbing into a cab. John clambered in and sat beside him, leaning back into the chair. The door slammed shut and Sherlock said, "221B Baker Street, London. I'll give you an extra 10 if you can quick."
The cabbie nodded and with a juddering start, they were off, speeding through the streets. John closed his eyes. Two crimes scenes in a day. Two horrific murders in a day. Great.
"John?"
Peeling his eyelids apart, John glanced ay Sherlock. He was sitting with his hands under his chin, as usual, and his eyes were glowing in a way that could only mean he had an idea. "Yes?"
"Could I use you as a sounding board? I need to talk some things through."
"Yes, sure, go ahead."
"Thank you." Sherlock leaned back and took a deep breath, centring his thoughts. "Right, two murders. Both committed by the same person due to the continuation of a fairytale theme. One Snow White, the other...What was it?"
"Rapunzel."
"Yes, Rapunzel. Both brutally murdered - one poisoned, one starved, both in the way of their characters, more or less. However, there's a problem. Rapunzel had been dead for over three months, but only committed the Snow White murder a few days ago, wanting us to find the latter first. That means planning, time lining, plotting, which means a methodical killer, which means dangerous. There was a clue concealed in the Snow White, and I'm going to say that our next clue is hidden in Rapunzel." Sherlock looked at John, the sharp streets of the city reflected in his eyes. "Correct so far?"
John nodded. "I think so."
"So, our killer," Sherlock continued, arching his fingers. "Obviously insane-"
"Obviously?"
Shooting John yet another withering look, Sherlock said, "Well, John, he is murdering people using children's stories as his base. I think that is a pretty good indicator."
"Fair enough." John gestured forward with his hand. "Continue."
"He's mad, but what made him that way? Death of a child, I think. Children's stories, and those dresses, especially Rapunzel's. Did you check the label? Of course not, only I do that. Perhaps he mummified her to make it fit, but the dress is an age 10-11. A middle-aged man would not have that lying around his house, and it would be too conspicuous to buy one without a child there. Also, it was slightly worn. Therefore, he knew someone of that age, most likely a daughter. So a daughter obsessed with fairytales ends up dead and he goes insane, deciding to murder. There is a fine line between suicide and homicide, John. Very fine line.
"Ah, but I just said he was methodical, didn't I? A man racked with grief is not logical about things, and he doesn't plan murders months in advance. So, there are two killers, one planning, the other one doing. Which one is in control, we can only guess at. Now, though, we need investigate the evidence to find the next clue. I think it'll be on the mirror, in invisible ink perhaps."
"The mirror?" John looked at Sherlock. "Out of all the evidence in the tower, you choose the mirror?"
"Well, yes, John. Isn't it obvious?"
John winced inside. He hated that phrase - it made him feel like such an idiot. "No, it's not. Not to me anyway."
"Everything in that room had a purpose - the chair, the dress, the window. The mirror was simply...there. It had no place in that room. There was no dresser and the girl had no personal belongings with her, so it couldn't have been her. The mirror was left for a reason - for me to find it, just like the other clues."
Nodding, John turned his head and stared out the window, if only to hide his utter amazement. He had seen Sherlock's mind working so many times before, but the leaps, the bounds, the unfathomable, brilliant conclusions he came to always surprised him. John tried to concentrate on the speeding map of grey streets and blue sky. "Sounds plausible," he said at last.
"It does. Anyway, I need to pour over evidence, so forgive me if I tell you go away when we get home. I may have to visit Molly as well, borrow one of her mass-spectrometers."
"You mean the hospitals mass-spectrometers."
Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. "Same thing. Ah, here already?"
The taxi slowed to a stop and Sherlock checked his watch. "Perfect. A journey that should have taken twenty minutes took ten. You deserve the tip." Pulling some crisp notes from his pocket, Sherlock handed them to the driver and opened the door. "Carry some things, will you John?"
"It's not as though I have much choice," John muttered, half hoping Sherlock would hear. He didn't - but the cabbie did.
"When did you two meet?"
John blinked and glanced at the man, at his squat frame and rounded belly. "Eh, two months ago."
The man smiled. "I met my Phillip three years ago, and we're still working out kinks. You make a good couple, you just need to stick to it."
"I'm not gay."
The man nodded and rolled his fingers off the steering wheel. He was smiling - that stupid knowing smile people gave him all the time. It was 'you-keep-telling-yourself-that' smile, the 'I'll-take-your-word-for-it-but-you're-wrong' smile.
John scrabbled for the test tube and beakers and then slowly, carefully pulled the door open. "Bye," he said, hopping out into the freezing air. Sherlock was standing by the front door, pushing the key into the lock. The door clicked open and the pair stepped into the warmth and sanctuary that was 221B Baker Street. No dead bodies here. No starved girls, no poisoned apples, no cryptic clues. Just a skull, a violin and a battered old laptop.
And that was all they needed.