This is the prologue, so it is kind of short. Don't worry, actual chapters will be longer and named.

I needed to run.

That was all I knew; I had to run.

It was dark, so dark. I was barefoot, running through the back streets of the city. My body ached, and I was holding back sobs. I had to keep running.

Because God knows what would've happened if I stopped, if even for a moment-

I gasped as my bloody feet stumbled and I fell onto the hard, cold brick. Get up! You have to move! I thought, struggling to catch my breath. But it was no use.

Suddenly, I felt someone grab my arm and flip me so that I was lying on my back. I gasped in pain.

Looking up at the face of my attacker, all I could do was scream.

I gasped and sat up in my bed, drenched in sweat. Looking around, I tried to calm myself down. It's fine. You're fine. It was just a dream.

I snorted to myself. If only.

I got up and turned on the light, revealing my bedroom. Dark purple walls and a red carpet presented itself. I smiled, admiring my taste.

It had only been six months since I started living here. Well, five months, two weeks and four days. Somehow, it still felt new. I was twenty-eight, but I'd never lived on my own before. Until recently, I'd shared a flat with my older brothers.

But they couldn't stand the screams my nightmares would bring.

So, in a great display of bravery and pride, I packed my bags and got a new place to stay. Granted, the neighborhood could've been better, but the rent was cheap. Besides, it was only temporary. My job as a waitress and my street performances would take care of that.

But I digress.

My name is Violet Crane. Being the youngest of three and the only girl in my house, I didn't really have much of a feminine influence in my life. I had always wrestled with the boys and fought for what I needed. I guess you could call my attitude strong. I call it surviving and thriving.

My mother had left my brothers, father and I when I was four. My brother David was six and my oldest sibling, Keith, was ten. Life was okay for a while, even if we were borderline broke. We always managed to deal with what life had given us.

But that was a hell of a lot harder to do when my father died. I was fifteen.

I would've been put into the foster system if it weren't for Keith. Having just turned twenty-one, he adopted David and I.

From there, life went on. I started working at a restaurant, then a café, following the best wages. I play guitar on the streets for tips. And I resist the urge to take sleeping pills at night, even though I know that the drugs would stop the dreams. But I had an idea on how to make those stop. An idea in the form of a man.A mysterious man called Sherlock Holmes.

This is not my story, mind you, not yet. This is just the introduction. And I do hope that you stick along for the ride.