The lounge shone bright in the afternoon sun, as Mary brought a jug of water into the room. Sherlock and John were sat next to each other on one sofa, and one of the two dogs was sat on the other. Mary set down the jug, before moving the dog off of her sofa.
"Help yourselves, boys." Mary gestured to its contents. "Where is Harriet?" She looked around the room, frantically looking for her child.
"She's in the playroom," Sherlock said, pouring himself some water.
"Playing with the dog," John added. "She seemed pretty happy when I left her five minutes ago-"
A blood-curdling howl erupted from the direction of the playroom, along with distinctive child's laughter. Sherlock was the first to his feet, jumping over the sofa in his attempt to get to Harriet.
She was standing in a pool of red, thick, liquid covering the carpet. With smudged blood on her face and a smile, she turned her head to face them. The dog was dead. A knife in Harriet's hand. A smile on her face as if it was her birthday.
"Look, Daddy." Blood dripped from the knife as she uttered her first words. "I killed the dog for you! Aren't I clever? You must be so proud of me!"