Chapter Eighteen.

At precisely 3pm, the front door bell of 221B Baker Street rang out and John Watson went to answer the summons, pretty sure as he hurried down the stairs that he would find Cassia Ingram standing on the doorstep.

Of course, he didn't need to have a massive intellect or even to be a detective to deduce that.

She was expected.

She was also prompt.

When he opened the door, John Watson did indeed find Cassia Ingram waiting patiently to be let in, but found that he had to quickly stop himself from reacting to what he saw before him, for he was shocked by the marked deterioration in her appearance.

She looked like the wild woman of Borneo.

She was pale, hair akimbo, left loose, and messy, but not in an artful, contrived, fashion model way, tangled, as though she probably hadn't even combed it and since rising had constantly been running her fingers through it, her eyes were edged by dark purple circles and her cheeks were starting to look sunken.

She almost looked as exhausted and ill as Holmes had before his nap.

She was also nervous, eyes casting around her as she waited for him to move aside to allow her in, and she was twitchy too.

Was she scared that she was being followed?

She looked like she had the weight of the world on her young shoulders, haggard, her expression solemn.

The weather had broken just after lunch, just as the forecasters had been predicting all morning and the gathering clouds had indicated.

For over an hour a spectacular lightning display had illuminated the darkened, oddly greenish cast skies over London, rain teeming down like a shower running on full blast, a wall of water jet washing the streets and causing drains to overflow, and thunder had rumbled, firstly in the distance, and then crashed directly over head, rattling the windows in their frames.

It was definitely cooler, but not much fresher, the air thick, sticky, humid and still uncomfortable.

As a result of the change in the weather, Cassia Ingram was wearing denim blue jeans and running shoes without socks, and a bright orange shower jacket, left unzipped over a pale blue short sleeved jumper, all of which looked freshly laundered but un-pressed and hastily donned without much thought.

When she slipped off the damp coat, Watson was shocked to see that she had indeed lost weight, the clothes loose on her frame, even more so than on their previous meeting, when she had been wearing a summer dress that was loose and flowing, hiding her true proportions, the jeans cinched with a thin black leather belt, but still they were falling down around her hips.

His concern for her health and well being, as a doctor, grew considerably.

She looked wretched, and he suddenly recalled their conversation of the day before, when she had confessed that physically she could not take much more of this distress because of her horrific dreams.

The physical distress she was suffering was becoming more and more noticeable, and he realized that for Cassia Ingram, this audience with Sherlock Holmes had not come soon enough.

However, she managed to greet him warmly, finding a genuine smile of gratitude and greeting as he took her coat and hung it up, and then showed her up the stairs.

Firstly Sherlock, and now Cassia.

Both of them suffering under the pressure of very genuine physical discomfort, and real time constraints.

Watson knew that he was going to have to be on top of his game during this meeting, keeping a close eye on both of them, because with emotions running high on both sides, it could get damned ugly very quickly.

It all depended on Holmes's attitude and how he chose to deal with Cassia Ingram.

God help us all then!

The first thing that surprised Watson was that Holmes was immediately out of his chair, his expression neutral as he walked slowly and with measured step, to Cassia Ingram and reaching out, took both of her hands gently in his in greeting.

"Cass."

"Sherlock."

They greeted each other like long lost friends.

Watson almost tripped over his own feet as he stopped in the doorway.

He simply could not believe what he was seeing.

Holmes did not let go of her hands, instead he used them to support Cassia and guide her across the room to the chair opposite his own.

For her part, Cassia Ingram gave Holmes a warm, genuine smile, and when he finally released her hands, she reached up to press a soft kiss to his cheek, smiling shyly as she drew away, then lightly trailed her fingers firstly along his brow and then along his strong jaw line, gazing deeply into his pale blue/grey eyes.

Holmes did not react this time.

He did not shy away from her touch, he too looking deeply into her eyes, scrutinizing her face, undoubtedly assessing the change in her physical condition and reading the emotional distress, which she was trying so hard to keep under control, in her deep green eyes.

Cassia smiled gently at Holmes at last, and nodded almost imperceptibly.

Holmes merely nodded back.

They both sat down.

John Watson was both astounded and impressed by what he was witnessing.

He had never seen Holmes greet anyone like that before.

Not even his closest family members got such a warm welcome.

Gone were the usual haughtiness and disdain.

Good God!

What the hell had she said to him yesterday?

Was she a witch after all?

Had she indeed cast some kind of spell over Holmes?

Well, good for her!

Still, it was so out of character for Holmes that Watson found it most disconcerting.

Was he playing some kind of game? Toying with her?

Drawing Cassia Ingram in, only to pounce on her once more?

Watson fervently hoped not.

Holmes had seemed resigned to hearing her out without any kind of bias or prejudice earlier in the day, but of course, that could have changed.

Like the weather.

Cassia Ingram was already visibly suffering under the weight of the burden that she was carrying. She did not need Holmes taunting her.

Holmes' mood had been very quiet and withdrawn since his nap.

He had slept, fitfully, due to the storm, but he had looked slightly better when Watson went to rouse him at 2pm as he had requested.

He had had a quick wash and changed his shirt, which had been soaked with perspiration, and had silently, and without any kind of fuss, accepted and swallowed down the pain medication that Watson had handed to him with a glass of water.

Mrs Hudson had been nowhere in evidence, much to Holmes relief, but one questioning look at Watson confirmed that his friend had indeed broken the news to their landlady and she had not taken it at all well.

Neither man had spoken of it. Both releasing that now was not the time.

Holmes was still feeling queasy, refusing solid food, but Watson had managed to persuade him to drink a cup of tea and nibble on a Rich Tea biscuit, and he had later admitted that that had helped to settle his stomach a little.

However, Holmes present benign attitude, despite being totally out of character, boded well for a positive and fruitful meeting, and that could only be good for all concerned, Watson decided.

Good for Holmes too, for realizing that he would need to treat Cassia Ingram with kid gloves.

Colour me Mr Sensitive!

It made a refreshing change from the smug, Holier than thou attitude.

Again there was no offer of tea, or even anything stronger.

There was no preamble at all.

There was no need.

Everyone knew what they were here for.

It was going to be straight down to business.

Holmes sat back in his seat, crossed one leg over the other and regarded Cassia Ingram with steady pale eyes, elbow resting on the arm of the chair, his right hand coming up to rest against his chin, fingers splayed out across his cheek.

"There have been more dreams."

It wasn't a question.

It was obvious to him from her manner and her appearance.

He was silently appalled by the marked deterioration in her appearance, but the thing that had touched him most of all was the fear and horror he could see in her eyes and the distinct trembling of her hands.

Cassia Ingram nodded, running her tongue nervously around her lips.

"Not just dreams, Sherlock. It's been happening when I'm awake too. Flashes of visions, much more detailed than before," she confessed in a low, nervous, gravelly voice, further evidence of a very recent heavy bout of weeping.

"Cass, how does this work for you?" Watson interrupted, much to Holmes chagrin, as evidenced by the sharp look he threw at his colleague.

However, Watson was undeterred.

He was interested to know how the psychic gift worked for Cassia Ingram, so that he could better understand, as a doctor, how and why it could have such an obvious physical and emotion effect on her.

"You see and hear ..."

He fished for the right words, but came up blank.

"Yes. I am clairvoyant and clairaudient, John," Cassia explained on a ragged breath. "I have visions and I hear voices. Mostly I have dreams, but there have also been times, like now, when I see and hear things, flashes or images, when I am awake. I also use psychometrics. I hold an object that once belonged to someone who has passed and I am able to pick up vibrations, information about their personality and their life from that object."

"Do you dream in colour?"

He was genuinely interested.

His dreams, or rather his worst nightmares, the ones that he remembered most, had almost always been in colour and had felt so real he could have been back there in the moment.

"Yes. Glorious Technicolor and Dolby surround sound," Cassia bowed her head briefly, wrestling to hold back her emotions. "I can also touch things, taste and smell things some times too, and of course, I feel emotions."

She paused to draw in a slow, refreshing breath.

"Usually, what I see is symbolic, rarely is it as simple as just seeing something and being able to say exactly what it is, or what is happening. Usually I have to try to work out the symbolism, and translate it into something that people can understand, but not this time. This is very specific and vivid. It's like watching a real life horror movie in my head, and I just want it to stop."

There was a catch in her voice, and Watson noticed a solitary tear dribbling down her cheek now.

"Tell me," Holmes invited now in a low, gentle voice, unable to hide the fact that he was genuinely moved by her reactions.

No histrionics, just unabashed honesty.

It had more effect on him than screaming and sobbing hysterically.

She was trying to be detached, and Holmes admired that, needed to encourage it, he realized, so that he could get to the truth.

"Tell me everything, but, try to keep the emotion out of it, please," he advised. "I know that won't be easy for you, but it will be helpful, for both of us."

She raised her watery eyes to look at Holmes and nodded, dislodging the tears, which rolled unashamedly down her cheeks to her chin, and she made no effort at all to dash them away.

At that moment she looked like someone who no longer had the strength left to fight and was resigned to her fate.

"Cass, I know the importance of this to you, but you don't need to try to make me feel it," Holmes told her in sincere tones. "And you will find it easier to think more clearly if your thoughts are not clouded by strong emotion."

Cassia Ingram nodded silently in understanding.

She knew that he was right.

She would be eternally grateful that at that moment Holmes had chosen to be patient, tolerant, and to listen, not dismiss her out of hand or go off on a rant.

His negativity and resistance would have made this so much more difficult.

"Just tell me what you see. Everything that you think is important. Give me facts, not supposition, or speculation. Take your time, and tell me everything. Even the smallest detail might prove to be important. You are my eyes and ears in this, Cass, so I need you to be as observant and describe what you see as accurately as you can."

As she regarded him now, Cassia Ingram managed to raise a weak smile.

Finally.

Acceptance.

At last he understood.

She had been sent to him to use as a tool to get to the truth.

Thank you.

Meanwhile, watching in silent admiration, John Watson, pad and pen in hand prepared to take notes.

Down to the nitty gritty at last.

The atmosphere in the tiny living room suddenly changed, somehow charged with a new energy.

Sherlock's energy.

Cassia Ingram dragged in a long, ragged breath and tried to formulate her thoughts as to where to start.

It was no use.

She knew it would have to come to this, but it still terrified her.

The only way she could do as Sherlock was asking was to put herself back into her vision, relax her mental controls and protections and allow the images to bombard and overwhelm her, but this time, she had to try to block out the emotions that went along with the images.

Silently she asked for help from the only ones who could assist her in that, those that she had always placed her trust in on the other side.

Give me the strength to get through this, please.

Don't let me blow it.

This is the only chance I will get to make him understand, so please, help me to get it right.

And please, don't let me lose my mind!

Cassia Ingram closed her eyes and began to try to regulate her breathing.

Almost immediately she let down her mental guard, the images began to assault her, like a physical blow, and she emitted a soft, low moan of anguish.

"Cass," Holmes soft low baritone voice was close to her ear now, for he had slid out of his chair to kneel before her, taking her hand in his gently.

"Tell me what you see," he coaxed gently, and Watson was utterly amazed by the concern and tenderness he could see in Holmes expression.

Never again would his friend be able to convincingly tell him that he had no heart, and no good nature to appeal to.

The big wet Nelly!

"It's dark. Night. No moon. I hear an owl hooting in the distance and a fox barking. Cold..."

She suddenly shivered, and for one crazy moment, Watson could have sworn that the temperature in the room dropped dramatically.

"Wet. There's water dripping from the trees. I think there was snow, but it's been melting during the day. I smell wet earth and vegetation all around and the ground beneath me is sodden, muddy. Woodland I think, dense and dark and very secluded."

Holmes turned his head to watch Watson write down everything that she was saying and nodded approvingly.

"Do you have any sense of the time of the year? The season?"

Holmes probed, hoping for some clue as to a time frame.

"It's cold, very cold, I can see a fine mist and there is frost forming on the trees and on the ground."

Cassia described what she could see, realizing as she did so that this was something that she had not been aware of before.

Holmes had been right.

Putting aside the fear and anxiety she had experienced before was helping her to focus more clearly on the finer details of her vision.

"How long ago are we talking, Cass? Is this recent, or a while ago?"

"Recent. It feels very recent. Months, not years."

"Good. Late Winter, perhaps early Spring then. Winter was long and Spring late this year. We had snow well into March, so we could be looking at some time around April or May," Holmes deduced aloud. "Make a note of that, please, John."

Watson nodded silently and carried on scribbling.

"Alright Cass, carry on please."

"I can hear the wind in the trees, only a slight breeze, and animals moving around, but no sign of traffic or other human activity close by."

"Where are you?"

"Woods," she repeated.

"No."

There was a hint of frustration in Holmes voice now.

"I need you to be more specific. A place name, perhaps?"

"I'm sorry, Sherlock, it doesn't work quite like that. All I can tell you is what I see, and all I see is a kind of copse or clearing," she let out a ragged breath and suddenly gave a start.

"Cass?"

Holmes' voice was edged with concern now.

"I'm standing over a grave, small, freshly dug, but it's not in a cemetery, and this is not a funeral service, there are no mourners, and no coffin, just the body of a small child."

Her voice was very small and she made a small whimpering sound, then caught herself up and paused to draw in a refreshing breath before continuing, eyes still clamped shut, her body tense and swaying slightly in the chair, although Sherlock suspected that she was so deep in concentration now she no longer had any idea of what was happening around her or to her physically.

She was not in a trance, but she had surrendered herself completely to the vision.

So far she was doing exactly as he had asked of her, describing what she saw, in detail, stoic and trying desperately to keep the powerful, negative emotions out of her voice.

"It's the body of a little girl. She is blonde, and her blue eyes are open in death. She is very small, like a china doll, her body frail, almost emaciated. Her clothes are nothing but filthy rags. She doesn't look to have been very well looked after in life," her voice suddenly caught in her throat, but Sherlock understood that it was a reasonable reaction.

It could also prove to be a helpful observation.

"What is she wearing?" Holmes quizzed, altering his position slightly as his knees where starting to ache. "I'm sorry to press you, Cass, but it could be important, if a body is ever found."

"She's naked," Cassie shuddered. "Poor angel."

Damn, that wasn't much help! Holmes thought sourly.

"In your other dreams, visions, have you ever seen her clothed?" he pressed.

Cassie paused, forcing her mind to push the shocking image to one side so that she could go back to the other dreams and visions she had been subjected to in recent days.

It didn't take long.

Suddenly the scene shifted, and she saw the child as she had been in the last moments of her life and she recoiled in her seat.

Fortunately Sherlock's hands were once again there to steady her.

"Cass?"

"I see her. She's wearing denim dungarees, you know the kind, bottom half jeans top half a bib with straps and buttons at the shoulders."

Holmes didn't know the kind because he had never paid that much attention to children's attire, never having had any of his own and had spent very little time with children at all.

"They're old. Knees so thin they are worn almost in hole, and the hems undone and frayed. She's wearing a plain long sleeve sky blue jumper under it. The elbows are patched and the cuffs are frayed too."

Suddenly her expression changed, as though she suddenly caught a whiff of something pungent and unpleasant.

"Her clothes are stained, food and vomit. Poor mite, she soiled herself too."

A frown suddenly drew down her brow, as she concentrated on focusing on some other detail so as not to be overwhelmed by her emotions, as she realized that even before her abduction and murder the poor child had been neglected and abused.

"There's some kind of motif on the bib of the dungarees, but I can't make it out because it's faded, like it's been laundered so often the colours have been washed out, and she is covered with a layer of leaves and soil," Cassia explained, a pained expression on her face, her eyelids tightly screwed as she concentrated even harder.

"It could be a Teddy Bear, Winnie the Pooh or perhaps Paddington Bear, something like that, but I really can't be sure."

There was frustration in both her face and her voice now as she strained to see more detail.

"That's fine, Cass. You're doing fine. What else do you see?" Holmes encouraged in soft tones, patting her hand gently.

"She has no shoes on. No socks either. Her legs and feet are cut and bruised. Her hair is long, and braided, you know, a plait down her back, but it's filthy, unwashed. Sherlock, I really think this child was neglected before she was taken," she tried valiantly to stifle a sob, but was unsuccessful.

"No, Cass. Just the facts, not speculation or supposition, remember?" Holmes reminded softly, deciding that that was more than enough detail for now and so steered the conversation in a new direction.

"Look at the body Cass," he directed, knowing that it was not going to be easy for her, but he needed to know as much as he could.

"Are you able to see if she has any injuries? Can you tell how she died?" he coaxed gently, knowing that he was putting pressure on her, forcing her closer to the limits of her emotional control, and was concerned about how much more she could tolerate before she reached the limit of her endurance.

It was frustrating for Holmes that he could not see the scene for himself, so he needed her to describe everything that she could see as clearly and concisely as she could.

A shudder ran down Cassia Ingram's entire body.

"Oh God, Oh God ... He cut her throat!" she choked out, her body convulsing forward violently, and Holmes had to use his other hand to support her shoulder or she would have fallen out of the chair and on top of him.

"Alright Cass, take a step back for a moment," Holmes instructed as he helped her to sit back in her seat. "Give yourself a moment to compose yourself."

"No. I want to go on."

She was adamant now, her voice tight, her breathing shallow and rapid.

"He cut her throat, and the end was quick, but he took his time with the rest of it."

She spoke more rapidly now, as though if she didn't get the words out, she would choke on them, revulsion in her voice now.

Another shudder ran down her body and again Sherlock squeezed her hand reassuringly.

John Watson, scribbling notes, could not help but admire Holmes for his patience, and his empathy with Cass Ingram.

He would never have guessed that Holmes had it in him.

He found himself wondering if Holmes had ever thought himself capable of such tenderness and understanding either.

"He assaulted her," Cassia whispered in a low, disgusted voice now, tears slipping from between her closed eyelids. "Repeatedly, almost strangling her, then letting her breathe once more, only to assault her again ..."

She didn't need to go into detail.

Holmes understood perfectly well what she was telling him.

The poor child had been defiled.

The thought both appalled and disgusted him.

"Christ, how can anyone do that to a baby! He's a beast, Sherlock, an animal!"

"Cass, please, no emotion," Holmes reminded her, but not unkindly, and Cassia Ingram made a visible effort to draw back, sitting up straighter in her chair and taking in several long, deep breaths.

However, it did not help.

"Oh f ..." she groaned in anguish. "I can't! I can't do this! Don't make me do this!

"Cass!"

Holmes voice was sharper now, and he squeezed her hand, hard.

He did not know if she was talking to him, the spirits or herself, but he needed her to focus once more.

He did not want to hurt her, but he needed to snap her out of this emotional state she was slipping into, before she became completely hysterical, and totally useless to him.

Pain usually centred the mind.

He knew that better than anyone at the present time.

He would slap her if he had to, but decided to squeeze her hand hard, once more, and this time it seemed to do the trick

"I'm sorry ... I'm sorry ..." she made a visible effort to pull herself together now, gulping in air and swallowing down ragged sobs.

"It's alright, Cass. I know how difficult this must be for you ..."

Holmes really did.

The emotions that she was experiencing were very real, and all the more painful because they were the uncontrolled, unfiltered emotions of a terrified, dying child.

"He tortured her."

The words were uttered in a low, breathy voice now, so low that Watson almost didn't hear them.

Even Holmes, although he was up close to her, seemed to be struggling to make out what she was saying because he was having to lean in closer to Cassia Ingram.

"He kept her locked away in the dark somewhere. He gagged her. Tied her up, even though she was no threat to him and could not have escaped anyway. There was nowhere for her to run."

There was no more emotion in Cassia Ingram's voice now, her expression blank, she was numb, but tears streamed silently down her white face which splashed onto the back of Holmes hand.

Watson suddenly wanted to demand that Holmes stop this, but he knew that it would be pointless.

It was cruel, but, unfortunately, it was necessary, and Holmes was doing his best to try make it less traumatic for her by talking her through it and encouraging her to step back from the emotion.

The information that Cassia Ingram was providing could prove to be extremely important.

No wonder the poor woman looked so ill, Watson thought. She had been forced to live through that nightmare, time after time after time, night after night.

Watson was amazed that she hadn't gone completely out of her mind, and he thought that she was incredibly brave to put herself through this.

"He starved her, but she was used to that. He beat her, punched her, slapped her. He used her as an ash tray, stubbing out his cigarettes on the delicate flesh of her thighs and upper arms. He did it all, over and over and over again until finally, when he had no more strength and she was almost dead anyway, he took out a small knife and cut her throat."

"He's a smoker, good. Can you tell what brand?"

"Marlboro Lights."

Cassia responded without thought or hesitation as she watched a hand pull out a packet of cigarettes and take one out to light it.

Holmes glanced at Watson who was scribbling madly and gave him a look that told his friend that that could be important, so he underlined it, twice.

If they ever found the crime scene or grave site, there could be discarded cigarette butts and ash, an analysis of which would prove which brand, and possible DNA too.

"Good. Good."

Holmes spoke in a low, soothing voice now.

"It was brutal, relentless, and manic and he revelled in it!"

A sob caught in her throat now, her control slipping once more, and Watson saw Holmes close his eyes and rock back on his heels, briefly, as though he too suddenly felt the wave of emotions coursing through Cassia Ingram at that moment.

"Then he threw her into the hole he had already dug and covered her over with earth and twigs and foliage."

"So, it was planned, not an accident or a spur of the moment flash of uncontrolled anger? And she died where she is buried?"

Holmes found his voice now, needing to regain his usual detachment.

"He brought her to that place and killed her there?" He clarified, needing to be sure that that was what she was telling him.

"Yes. But he kept her somewhere close by. Somewhere underground I think."

"Do you have any idea where this place is Cass?"

"No. I already told you ..."

"Look around you," Holmes directed sharply.

"There's nothing. Nothing but darkness, and trees and the night. Oh God ..."

Suddenly her control was gone and she slumped forward, burying her face in Holmes bony shoulder, almost knocking him backwards on to his backside, as sobs overwhelmed her body.

Holmes absorbed her weight with some difficulty, feeling fragile as he was, his usual strength eluding him, and allowed her a moment to vent her emotions, and then carefully he used both hands to push her shoulders back, moving her away from him, her head coming up as he guided her back into her seat.

"I'm sorry,"

Her face was awash with tears and she croaked out in a voice thick with raw emotion, her eyes open now, welling with fresh tears and imploring him to forgive her this lapse in self control.

"No Cass, I'm sorry."

Holmes let out a shuddering breath and rose slowly, carefully stretching his legs and his aching knees, more disturbed by what she had told him, and what he was feeling as a consequence than he cared to admit, before sitting down opposite Cassia Ingram.

"I shouldn't have put you through that."

"You didn't." Cass smiled weakly as fresh tears welled in her eyes. "They did, and it will be worth it if you can find the man responsible for this and stop him before he kills again."

Cassia blinked away her tears, this time using the back of her hand to blot them away as she fixed her green eyes on Holmes.

"Now you know why I wouldn't give up. He needs to be stopped."

"Cass, do you have any sense as to how he came upon the child?"

"He was kind to her. I think he lured her away with sweets, perhaps a new toy, or even a kitten or a puppy ... "

She paused, momentarily.

"How does any adult gain the trust of a child? With treats and promises of something better than they have and she was ripe for the picking. He offered her love and affection, the things that she had been starved of for most her young life. He didn't seem threatening. He was nice to her. She was confused when he changed, when he locked her away in the dark and she thought he didn't like her anymore, but she wasn't afraid of him, until it was too late."

Holmes nodded.

It was a story as old as time its self.

Like a lamb to the slaughter.

"You keep saying he. You're absolutely sure it was a man?"

"Yes. No woman could do the physical things he did to that child."

She shuddered in revulsion now.

"You're sure he works alone?" Holmes pressed, knowing that if the killer had a female partner working with him that would also have helped to put the child at ease with him and helped to gain her trust.

"Yes. I don't get any sense that he has help. He's selfish. He wants the thrill all to himself."

"Can you describe him?" Holmes asked hopefully.

She had already given him much more than he could have hoped for, but it still wasn't enough.

With a physical description, he could go to Scotland Yard and ask LeStrade to let him see their mug shots of known child killers and paedophiles.

It would be somewhere to start.

He could put that together with the Modus Operandi and then they might actually begin to make some progress.

"No."

"You don't see him? Cass, she must have seen his face?"

"I know, that Sherlock, but I can't see him."

"Cass?"

Holmes pressed, frowning deeply, suddenly getting the sense that she was holding something back from him.

"If I knew, don't you think that I would tell you!" Cassia snapped angrily now.

She had held nothing back from him up to this point, Holmes was sure, and she had no logical reason to withhold details of this man's physical description from him, if she was aware of those details.

"I told you everything, just as you asked. Everything!"

"Alright, alright." Holmes soothed, letting out a deep sigh. "Perhaps that will come later."

Perhaps the child was too traumatized to think about the man who had taken her life.

Perhaps she was so young she did not have the words to describe him and could not bring herself to conjure up his image for Cassia to see.

Holmes let out another deep sigh.

Damn.

That was disappointing.

"This isn't the first time he's done this, Sherlock."

There was certainty in Cassia Ingram's voice and in her eyes now.

She was finally getting her emotions back under control, producing a tissue out of her pocket to dab at her tears.

"It doesn't feel like it anyway. It doesn't frighten him, taking a life. He doesn't hesitate and he doesn't rush into it. He's patient. He plans it ahead of time, knows what he wants and how to get it. He's too sure of himself, too confident that he will get away with it. That is the sense I am getting."

She paused for a moment to organize her thoughts before continuing.

"He may have done this before, a long time ago and got away with it. Perhaps he was shocked then, disgusted by what he did and tried to control the urges, promising himself that he would never do it again, but it was too hard for him, soon it was all he could think about and he couldn't control the need any longer, and now he's started again."

"Tell me more about the child," Holmes invited.

He had been curious from the start to know how a child could simply disappear without anyone reporting it missing.

It would help him to know about her background, where she came from, and why no-one seemed to have missed her.

"I can't. I don't know anything more about her than I told you. I can only tell you what I saw."

"You don't feel any of her emotions then?" Holmes was frowning deeply now. "I thought she was the one who came to you to ask for your help."

"I didn't say that, Sherlock. You did," Cassia hung her head briefly.

"So you're dreams and visions are not coming from the child's perspective?"

Holmes persisted, surprise and confusion in his voice now.

"No, Sherlock," Cassia confessed raggedly.

Watson watched the exchange, scratching his head and frowning now.

Had he missed something?

All this time, everything that she had been describing, everything that she had been feeling, surely that had come from the child's point of view.

That had certainly been the impression that she had been giving to Watson.

That all that she had seen and felt had come from the victim.

Holmes had got that impression too, if the look of confusion on his face was anything to go by.

"You remember the first time we met and you asked me if I had witnessed the murder, or perhaps I had carried out the murder myself?"

Holmes nodded, and he also remembered her odd reaction to his accusation.

"I told you I hadn't murdered anyone, that I hadn't seen it and I didn't know who it was," she paused to drag in a cleansing breath. "That was all true, as far as it went."

"I don't understand," Watson interjected now, although he could see from Holmes' expression that the penny had already dropped for him, as he turned his head slightly to regard Cassia Ingram with a new kind of respect.

"You're not getting these impressions from the child herself, are you."

Holms spoke softly now.

It wasn't a question, but a statement.

"You're getting them from the killer."

"Yes," Cassia whimpered, a look of utter shame and embarrassment on her face.

"It's always his perspective, his feelings, his thoughts, the absolute elation he gets in the grooming, the building of trust and the befriending, all the time knowing what he is going to do to them, then the satisfaction he gets in gaining trust and then luring them away, and the thrill he gets from the torture, and the overwhelming relief and joy he gets from the killing," Cassia confirmed in a very shaky voice. "I feel it all, Sherlock, and I see it all, as though I am him."

She swallowed hard and closed her eyes, slumping back in her chair.

"That is how I know he's done it before, and that is also how I know he is building up to doing it again. That feeling of relief, it never lasts long, Sherlock, and he's hungry again. He may already have found his next victim, and you have to stop him, Sherlock. You have to."