They were a few blocks away from the crime scene. Lights, sounds and smells seemed to bombard the cab from every side. John had spent most of the cab ride with his eyes closed and concentrating on breathing in an effort to reduce the external stimulus he took in. Still, he felt overwhelmed by sensation. To help keep him calm, Sherlock had taken his hand. He didn't hold it with light touch, he knew how disturbing that could be, but gripped it firmly. There was nothing romantic about it. The detective was simply providing a physical anchor for John to hold onto as his mother and, yes, his brother had done for him so many times in years past.
As they road, the detective held his phone one handed and read through the details of the case. He also scrolled through every photo the DI had provided, but he simply couldn't see a pattern. Nothing struck him as obvious. He glanced over at John. There was nothing for it. He'd have to intrude upon his friend and ask for his help. "If you feel up to it, would you look over what Lestrade sent us? Especially the photos? Describe what you see?" Sherlock held his breath, waiting for his friend's response. He released it when the doctor took the phone in his large, pale hands.
John read over the notes twice, then looked at the photographs with trepidation. Fortunately, these photos were of the crime scene, not the brutalised girls. He tried to think of the things that his friend routinely looked for - unusual things, items out of place, items that didn't fit. There was no blood, no sign of struggle. "The window, look at it. It's been painted over so many times, I doubt it can be opened." He looked a bit longer. "And where are their plushies? Girls that age would most likely still sleep with dolls or stuffed toys."
Taking the phone, Sherlock looked at the photo and was annoyed that he had missed two things so very obvious, no, he was angry with himself for it. Furious.
The doctor frowned, then started to say something. "If the kidnapper acted alone..." John shook his head full of dark curls. "Nevermind." He wasn't Sherlock, what he was thinking likely didn't matter.
Sherlock looked at him sharply. "What?"
"I could see a kidnapper subduing one child, keeping her quiet, but two? These girls have a reputation for being hard to control. Even if he had threatened to hurt one to control the other..."
"It wouldn't have worked. At least one of them would have screamed and fought." The detective steepled short fingers under his chin. "So it was either someone they trusted or were familiar enough with to have allowed the kidnapper to drug them."
John sighed. "Or both. And he let them take their toys."
"To keep them calm." Sherlock rubbed his temples, fighting down another surge of anger that the girls had most likely been betrayed by someone they knew - a family member or caregiver. He had to think of a way to help them work together once they arrived at the crime scene. "You're seeing things that I miss," he said with frustration.
"Yeah. It's these hyper senses of yours."
"When we get there, play like you're me. Look around at everything. Point out what you see. Ask me what I make of it. We'll talk the case through like we always do. Demand eveyone leave but Lestrade, they'll expect it." He tried to think what else they should do. We'll arrive at a conclusion, then you can explain it to him. If he thinks anything's odd, I'll tell him you have a migraine."
John managed a thin smile. "I think I do. I can't quit thinking and the city is too... much... of everything." There was a pause. "I thought you weren't thinking too well yourself in my slow little brain."
"It's a servicable brain. God, not like Anderson's. I could have done worse." Sherlock watched at the cab pulled up to the kerb. "Alright. Let's go. If it gets to be too much, tell me." As they climbed ftom the cab, he remembered one last thing. "Don't forget to hold the crime tape for me."