"It's the same as all the others," Detective Inspector Maynard told Sherlock as they walked through the drizzling rain into the bustling house "parents moved to the living room after being shot and the child missing. The neighbor heard gunshots and called the police after threatening the kidnapper with calling us. Claimed he saw a man run out the back door. Forensics is testing everything in the house for fingerprints or contamination, but—"

"There's no need," Sherlock grunted as he pushed his way through the Forensics team examining the entrance hall. "He wears gloves. He always has. If anything, look for footprints. Except your team has ruined any chance of finding them by drudging their wet shoes across this wooden floor. Congratulations, evidence ruined. Does Forensics always try to destroy the evidence before they analyze it?"

"Sherlock," Maynard admonished, "you are a guest at this crime scene. You will show my Forensics team, and every other member of my staff, respect. This is your first case with the Scotland Yard; I recommend you at least try to cooperate, or it may be your last."

"Ha, I doubt that," Sherlock whispered under his breath as he entered the living room. Although he was only twenty, he had finally convinced Detective Inspector Maynard to let him act as the "consulting" agent. It wasn't that Maynard had ever doubted him (he knew Holmes was a genius the moment he told him his wife was cheating on him; and was right), but Scotland Yard had never had such a high-publicity case that was so hopelessly above their heads. In short, they were desperate.

Slipping on a pair of gloves, Sherlock noticed the lack of blood on the floor; all of it had pooled on the sofa itself. The heavy crimson color was already beginning to darken into the brown stain against the pale fabric, something he had only seen through pictures. It was exhilarating, the mystery and the death surrounding him. It was all a puzzle; a game he played against the killer. There had to be something connecting this family murder and the recent murder/kidnapping cases all across the UK. He stared at the two bodies strewn on top of the sofa and began to analyze.

First the man: business card in his front left shirt pocket says he is an insurance agent. Use of the left shirt pocket and the right pants pocket shown through greater wear of the fabric: right-handed. Nails bitten and cuticles picked at: stress, but from what? Not stress; other symptoms would have shown. In the moment adrenaline: most likely gambling. Only twenty-seven, but has wrinkles around the eyes: card player, poker. Judging by fresh state of picked skin around the nails: losing streak. Five one-hundred pound slips in his wallet: lost about 10,000 pounds in the past two months, has yet to tell wife.

Woman: Wallet in her back pants pocket also filled with 500 pounds: knows about husband's addiction. Tear-stains around eyes: contemplating leaving, but only threatens. Outside of obvious sentiment and obligation to child, she has no other options as she is a housewife judging by the rough state of her hands. Last thing she did was wash dishes: dish soap dried out her hands; proves heavy obligation to house, as the dishes were done around 4:00 pm, too early for any working woman. Long dark strands of hair along her upper thighs: five or six year old daughter. Strand caught in fingers: holding the daughter as the kidnapper entered. Neither of these two have any significance in this: where was the girl?

"The husband is a gambler, and the wife is a regular housewife," Sherlock stated abruptly to Maynard. "The kidnapper is male, late twenties-early thirties, at least 200 lbs. and used to lifting heavy loads."

Maynard started to interrupt, but Sherlock interrupted the interruption: "He had to be strong enough to pick up a 180 lbs. man and carry him down the stairs. He had to have enough stamina to pick up the wife as well. They were shot upstairs, yet he carried, not dragged but carried, them down the stairs over his shoulder, judging by the expansion of the blood stain on their shirts but not on the sofa and the fact that there is no blood anywhere else but on their bedroom wall. Their placement on the sofa inclined towards each other shows a psychological issue from parenting in the killer and the need to create a sense of family. But none of that matters; where is the girl?"

"What?" Maynard asked after a pause. Sherlock made complete sense, but he needed a second to comprehend it all. "What are you talking about? She can't be here. He took her, just like the rest of them."

"Are you and your team really that blind?" Sherlock scoffed, before crossing his arms. "You there," he called out to one of the inspectors behind Maynard, "tell me the facts one more time."

"Uh, um," the man stuttered. This was his first case as the Assistant Detective Inspector, and he himself was puzzled by the strange man Maynard had invited out of the blue to join the Doll Maker case. He had no idea what credentials or capabilities this man had, but everything he said was so eerily logical that he could not help but feel intimidated. If he weren't such an arse about everything, he would have easily respected Sherlock.

"Go ahead Lestrade," Maynard coaxed, "Sherlock Holmes is here with my approval. You can tell him everything."

"The couple was killed with identical gunshots to the abdomen; both died of blood loss. Forensics have yet to trace potential gun-matches for the bullet. There are blood splatters in the bedrooms above that match the gun shots, placing the victims in two separate rooms when they died. They were brought down here and left. There is no evidence as to where the little girl is; we've searched the entire house, and she's missing."

"Go on," Sherlock spoke as he saw the miserable look on Lestrade's face. "Remind us how this kidnapper works." Lestrade could only stare back in horror; Sherlock had to know the fate of those children, yet he wanted them spoken aloud. The room had grown silent; everyone was equally distraught by the serial kidnappings that followed the murders.

"The children," Lestrade spoke quietly, "are kidnapped after their parents are shot in the abdomen. This is a serial kidnapper. He takes the children, and they go missing for two weeks. After two weeks, they reappear in public venues dressed up as characters from fairytales. So far, we have found Cinderella, Snow White, Hansel and Gretel, Little Bo Peep, the Pied Piper, and five others. We have them by Buckingham Palace, Big Ben, the local parks, one in Scotland, two in Wales. They are staged there by the kidnapper, their bodies petrified by some sort of chemical substance that serves to freeze the muscles and tissues in the bodies. In short, they are dead. They're placed about like, like"

"Like dolls," Sherlock finished. The house was absolutely silent as the investigating team listened, intrigued by what he was about to offer. "But there are no scars on the children's bodies. No scratches or damages. The kidnapper needs the child to leave willingly with him; if they fight, they're more likely to hurt themselves. If he drugs them, there's the chance that they slide around and get scrapes. No, they need to consciously leave with him. The kidnapper is obsessed with his 'Fairytale' Collection; he will stop at nothing to complete his set. But he's also a perfectionist: the detail he puts into the murder of the parents alone is genius. What he does, he considers art. He needs the children in perfect condition. So where is the little girl?"

The investigative team stared straight at him. "How stupid can you all be?" Sherlock taunted, "How stupid can you all be? The neighbor saw the kidnapper leave the house, but he didn't see a little girl with him. The kidnapper had already gone through the murder ritual: he had already killed the parents and staged their bodies. He wouldn't just leave the girl unless he intended to come back for her." Sherlock began to pace up and down the living room, his eyes tracing the wooden panels on the floor.

"If she were willing to leave, he would have just walked out with her. The neighbor would have seen her then. But, no," Sherlock lifted his head up, his eyes widening as a smile crept across his lips, "oh, how did I miss that?"

"What?" Maynard asked.

Sherlock gave a laugh. "You all missed the one thing staring at you in the face," he called out to the Forensics team. "The footprints; his footprints are smudged. It's slight, so the weight couldn't have been that much. He dragged the little girl across the floor behind him, smudging his own footprints as he went. She fought back. She was fighting back, and he couldn't just grab her. How far could she get until the kidnapper simply ran out of time?" Following the smudges, Sherlock traced them down the entrance hall to a small closet. Opening the door slowly, there was nothing but coats on the hangers. And a shelf above the hangers, covered by a strange white tarp.

"Strange how we miss the most obvious of things," he said as pulled the cloth off the shelf, revealing the little girl. Her dark hair framed her face as she lay on her sides, blue eyes piercing into Sherlock's. Her breathing was faint, as if she were afraid to make a sound; they could barely see her chest move under the white nightgown she wore. "The most obvious of things," he repeated

Maynard reached out to pull the girl down, but Sherlock grabbed his wrist. "Don't."

"Why?" Lestrade demanded. "We just found her; she needs to go to a hospital, she needs a doctor—"

"There's a reason why she's not moving. Hasn't it occurred to you that a normal five year old girl would have cried out by now, or that any captive would have tried to escape? Touch her now and she dies."

"What in God's name are you talking about, Holmes?" Maynard demanded.

"Call bomb squad, now" Sherlock countermanded, as he reached behind the girl's head and pulled out a small, ticking metal box, wires extending to bracelets around her wrists. The little girl looked up at Sherlock; she was beginning to fall in and out of consciousness. He could tell by the bloodshot nature of her eyes that she hadn't slept at all that night.

As Lestrade ran out to the squad car, Sherlock traced his fingers along the first bracelet. "This is a frequency-based one. If she talks, it'll set off the box. Is that what he told you?"

The little girl nodded, the vision around her getting faint.

"And the second one goes off if you move, right?"

Again, she nodded, being very careful not to move her wrist.

Giving off a sigh, Sherlock tugged at the wires.

"What the hell are you doing?" Maynard hollered as he kept pulling. "You're going to kill her."

"You're as gullible as the little girl. Of course this won't do anything; he wouldn't have time to set it up properly. If he had tried, it would have blown up in our faces by now. But it was a convincing show." The wires came off the bracelets, with no bombs exploding in their faces. Sherlock pulled the girl out of the closet and into his arms.

"Get her to a doctor, now," he sternly said to Maynard as Lestrade came running back in. "And tell the Bomb Squad they are no longer needed." Sherlock huffed disappointedly; part of him wished that the contraption had been a real bomb; it certainly would have made the case much more interesting. He handed the girl off to Lestrade, who awkwardly held her in his arms. She had passed out, her pale blue eyes finally closing as her breathing deepened.

Sherlock went back to the living room, plopping down on the small chair next to the dead couple. Again, he was disappointed. Thoroughly disappointed. The case was a dead end; there was nothing that could be found if there wasn't another body to be found. Sherlock knew the Doll Maker would not risk getting caught again; outside of the hurt ego, the he wouldn't attempt another kidnapping until he was guaranteed a chance at perfection. And that could take forever.

As he leaned his head back in thought, his fingertips pressing against each other, he caught a small card poking out from the bottom of the sofa; something he had failed to notice two seconds before.

He pulled it out, the bright colors of a china doll in a pink dress on the first side, his calling on the other: Another Work by the Doll Maker. The exact same card found at each crime scene and on each petrified child.

The Doll Maker, Sherlock thought to himself before slipping the card into his coat pocket, The Doll Maker.