All was silent on Plum Cherry Street, in London. All except for the home of Conley Owen Ráichéal, that is. For in his home, yet again, Aislin had "lost it." Sometimes, even at school, she became someone else. She became almost like a sort of female "Jekyll and Hyde," as one of Conley's friends had aptly called the phenomenon that gripped his sister. Incidentally, this friend was the only person who, in this madness, Aislin would not harm. His name was Caron Haul, and he filmed movies for big-time directors, and always seemed to have the time to zip over to Plum Cherry Street and keep her from totally going over the edge. He had a way with words that somehow made the half-crazed Aislin sit still, and in extreme cases, put down the knife. But Conley was still scared of what would happen if someone found out about Aislin. There had never, not that Conley knew, ever been someone like her. Whatever held his sister, his sweet, sensitive sister, captive in her own head, whatever it was had never occurred in living (or not) memory. If they found her, Conley knew they would take her, test her, and chain her up when she lost it (and it probably would happen more often that way). She most often lost it when she was scared. She was never angry, except when the madness took hold, but Conley supposed that anger would most likely trigger it too. He didn't really care about losing his job. He worked for YouTube, and they didn't care what kind of family you had, as long as you did your job. No, Conley just didn't want anything to hurt his baby sister, ever.

Aislin had long, jet-black hair that went almost to her knees. After Caron snapped her out of the madness, she would huddle, sobbing, wrapped in that blanket-like hair. Then Conley's girlfriend would pick her up like a little girl, sit her on the couch, and braid her hair in many tiny, little braids as Aislin's sobs gradually halted. It was a pitiful sight, and made Conley want to shake her, until whatever held her mind in thrall either left, or maybe give her a concussion. Even though he knew this was not possible, it still seemed like the best course of action to him. It truly seemed as if Aislin had misplaced her marbles. Conley's girlfriend (whose name, by the way, was Emma Kristin Burningway) thought that these marbles might be someplace in France, owing to the fact that, in her madness, Aislin spoke only in French. But Conley's other, slightly younger sibling, Erin, didn't think that Aislin's madness was anything to do with her own brain. No, Erin suspected that it was some sort of conspiracy. Maybe a gas, or something in her pills, or even a brain-scanning device that some evil scientist had cooked up in his secret lab, to aid his plans for world dominion. Naturally, Erin was a conspiracy theorist by nature, and made videos on YouTube that, in all seriousness, showed all the different conspiracy theories that he believed were true with all his heart. He was convinced the end of the world was coming, and that it would bring with it either the end of his little sister's madness, or its complete takeover of her mind and body. He held Caron in high regard, as if Caron could control water, or maybe the weather. But no matter what, Conley was still Erin's idol, though he was only a few years older than him. But all parties involved were starting to worry. Aislin's attacks were becoming more and more frequent, so much so that Conley had pulled her from school, and had gotten everyone to pitch in to help teach her the things she needed to know (and would probably never use). They knew that, with her mind held in the grips of this mystery psychosis, she could never leave the house, much less interact with people. It was hard enough when Conley had first started dating Emma, who still had the scars from the Need-to-Know event, known to all involved as the Bottle Cap Effect. No, if this got any worse, they would find out. And no one who knew Aislin out of her madness would ever let that happen. At least, not consciously. Never consciously.

Inspector Lestrade, of Scotland Yard, was beginning to get irritated. There had been no progress in eight months, on the Lock Shift Case: A series of murders, undoubtedly committed by the same person, possibly a young girl. It was getting to the point where Lestrade was asking his wife for help and ideas as to who it was. Thankfully, none of the news stations, or newspapers, for that matter, had gotten wind of this sensational story just yet. But the case still remained unsolved, so he had been forced to call in the best officer he didn't have: Sherlock Holmes.

"Aislin? Sweetheart, lunch is ready. Soup in a bread bowl, and a Turkey Turtle, too!" Emma Burningway smiled. A Turkey Turtle was Aislin's favorite thing to eat with soup. It was a slice of a Baguette, with a slice of Turkey over it, and with cucumber slices for feet, and mayonnaise and mustard for eyes and features. But Emma's smile started to fade when she realized that Aislin was not coming. She decided to give her the benefit of the doubt and let her come in her own time. After giving Aislin this "Benefit of the Doubt" for over an hour, she picked up her phone, selected Caron Haul's contact, and scaled the grand, marble staircase of the historical house to the too-quiet upstairs bedroom of Aislin Ráichéal, still thinking of the Turkey Turtle. But when she opened the door and saw what was inside, she forgot all about Turkey, and lost what little she ate while on a diet. Not only was Aislin gone, but there was blood everywhere, and a shredded body on the floor. There was curly red hair in a soaking wet halo of blood around the head that hung on the coat hook, sad and alone without shoulders or a neck, on the plum-colored wallpaper. Still retching, Emma screamed, choking on her own vomit. She ran as fast as she could down the stairs, hoping to make it safely to the kitchen so that she could call Caron, Conley, and Erin. But as soon as she saw the soup and happy-faced Turkey Turtle on the counter, something deep inside of her snapped. Her willpower was not her own now that Aislin was not coming down to eat that loving, innocent, Turkey Turtle. Emma's brand new iPhone dropped to the priceless antique Rosewood floor, and was followed soon after by the now prostrate body, heart beating like a caged bird, of the owner of the phone, and daytime caretaker of Aislin Ráichéal. And that selfsame Rosewood was, by the time Conley returned home three and a half hours later, swimming in a liquid that would never run out, and that would never run dry.

Sherlock Holmes was irritated. Yet again, Lestrade had called for him to solve a simple case. An in-and-out murder case, most likely an escaped Asylum inmate. But Lestrade was coming later with the details, so best to reserve judgement till then.

Inspector Lestrade banged on the door of 221 B, Baker Street, in an absolute panic, not to mention two and a half hours early. As Sherlock opened the door, for the first time in his life, he was thoroughly perplexed. As he led a gasping Lestrade into the sitting room, he realized that the poor Inspector had run, all the way from….. Wherever he had come from. Market street, or….. No, Plum Cherry Street. He still had the ticket to a show at the Plum Cherry Theatre clutched in his… Blood-soaked hand? This was becoming more and more bizarre by the minute! "Well, Inspector," he began. He never finished that sentence, however. Because at that precise moment, two things happened. One, the poor Inspector collapsed at his feet. Two, Mycroft Holmes burst in, clutching the arms of a small girl, caked with blood, and a chunk of what looked like (and smelled like) human skin (with some flesh and hair still attached) hanging out of her mouth. "Mycroft! What a despicable way to treat a child! And what did you do to her?! Who's…? Erm… Flesh is hanging out of her…. Erm… mouth?" Mycroft sighed, and answered his younger brother's query with one of his own. "Sherlock, you wouldn't happen to have a skein of good, strong, rope? I would like to have a wash, and maybe sit down, and I cannot do that while holding onto this madwoman here." Sherlock was shocked. "Mycroft! How could you speak of this…..? Ummmmm…." The bloody figure straining against Mycroft's hold suddenly snapped her head up. Spitting out the chunk of whatever it was, she practically snarled the words, "Vous intermitant putride Stinkworm! Comment osez- vous vous adressez à moi !? Même Fils de la saleté, du sperme de l'horreur ! Tu me dégoutes!" Sherlock started back, astonished. "I have never heard such language from one so young-"but Mycroft interrupted him. "I have heard this, and much more, many times while bringing her here. And, Sherlock… this child is not natural. She has killed, many times before, and has no qualms about doing so again. Look at her eyes, Sherlock! My God, have you ever seen such eyes?! It's as though she knows what will become of us all, Sherlock. Like she knows what will happen, and will do anything in her power to ensure that it does. Ah, the rope. Yes, thank you. I was intending to her up myself, but it is a tad inconvenient right now. Yes, do tie her to a chair. My god, I sound like some sort of lunatic myself, with all this talk of tying people up. Imagine what would happen if Mrs. Hudson were to walk in? There would be-"but he was interrupted by a, well, portly woman, most likely in her mid-Sixties, with head full of luxurious silver hair. That, however, may have been caused by her long-time tenant's tendency to involve himself with the most hair-raising schemes and plots. "If I see what, Mycroft? What should I not be worried about now? What HAVE you-Aiiiee! Who is that? Why is she tied to a chair? And-is that BLOOD all over her? Sherlock, what have you done this time?" but Sherlock held up a hand to stop her, in all fairness, slightly hysterical, cries. "Mrs. Hudson, this is not my doing. If anything, it is Mycroft you should blame for not only causing you terror, but also ruining your carpet. I, quite honestly, was a little bit shocked when Mycroft barged in here with… erm….. Her. I really am quite sorry, madam. Very sorry indeed. However, if you would kindly call Scotland Yard and ask for a police armored vehicle, I require transport immediately to attempt to identify this girl." Sherlock gestured grandly at the back of Mycroft's chair. Mrs. Hudson frowned, and queried, "Sherlock, I think you might need to get your eyes checked. That is the back of Mycroft's chair, with some rope tying him to it…" her voice trailed off as she realized what she had just said. Sherlock spun around to see his elder brother tied and gagged to the chair, using the very rope he had just been using to tie up….."That BLOODY GIRL!" For the first time in his life, Sherlock Holmes yelled at no one in particular. There had been a lot of firsts for him in the last half an hour, and Mrs. Hudson was not particularly sure that she liked them.

After a while, Inspector Lestrade revived, but no one was listening much to his frantic, pleading exclamations. They were all far too worried with finding that damned slip of devil child. Mycroft was also occupied with untying the knots with which he had been tied. They were not any identifiable type, as far as he knew. They seemed to simply be the kind of impossible knot that small children used, which was exactly why Mycroft did not have children. But these knots seemed to be even more impossible, and unless the great Mycroft Holmes had lost his marbles, they seemed to have a more malicious feel to them. It was as if they were meant to injure, to torture, as well as to bind and imprison. But Mycroft noticed something about those knots. Not only did that notice tell him how to get out of them easily, it also told him where to find what he was to find the girl he was beginning to refer to, in his own mind, as "the Little Red-Haired Girl." For though her hair was Deepest black, it was soaked in blood, and had a red sheen when light hit it."Sherlock? I know where to find her."

Inspector Lestrade returned to Scotland Yard, thoroughly perplexed. But he still went through with following up on the location the Holmes' brothers had given him. He warned his men to have extreme caution, and one of them jokingly suggested the go in full Riot gear. The Inspector fixed him with a withering glare, and said, "Yes, that may just be what stands between you and death by psychotic child."

But even though those words may have been a joke, there was none of the usual laughter in the Inspectors eyes. If anything, there was Terror, and the determination to put a stop to the cause of that terror. And for once, his men were scared of Inspector Lestrade. They were downright terrified of failing this job.

The Holmes' brothers arrived at the station just in time to leave with the task force Lestrade had sent. And as they approached the Plum and Cherry Market (which, by the way, sells only Plums and Cherries for unknown reasons), no one in the white armored, unmarked white Police van, not a single soul knew what to expect.

The second Conley Owen Ráichéal saw Emma Burningway prostate on the Antique Rosewood floor, staining it anew, he assumes the worst. However, in this case, the worst he could assume was also what was actually happening, more or less. He dropped his bag, fumbled with his phone for a minute, and finally dialed Caron Haul's number. After only getting through to Caron's voicemail, he left a hurried, panicked message. After a moment, he walked over to Emma, who looked up, only to burst into a fresh round of dry, heaving, tearless sobs. Conley followed her shaking pointed finger to the stairs, then up them. After entering the bedroom that belonged to his newly AWOL sister, he, too, retched, and ran down the stairs. After catching his breath, getting Emma several glasses of water, and spending some time getting personal with the puke bucket, he sighed, and sat down with his phone. With shaking fingers, he dialed 999, and told the dispatcher that his little sister, who wasn't registered as a resident anywhere in the world, was missing, not to mention a murdering psychopath. The dispatcher promptly referred him to Inspector Lestrade, who was conducting a search for a girl covered in blood, answering Aislin's description. At that, Emma gasped, and Conley remembered that he had Speakerphone turned on.

Caron Haul was filming at the time that Conley called. And when his phone rang, the director was not happy, especially because his ringtone was turned up to its loudest, and it ruined the otherwise perfect Cut Scene. So, in short, either he kept his job, or he answered the phone. But an hour and a half after Conley called him, Caron finally was able to answer his phone. And when he heard the message he had received, he was very much not happy. Not to mention the fact that the park he was filming in was a block away from the Plum and Cherry market. That made him very not happy.

Aislin Ráichéal, trapped inside her brain, was both amazed and horrified. Amazed, at the beauty of the world she'd never been allowed into, and horrified at the thing she had turned into. She knew she needed serious help, but she also knew that the kind of help she needed probably didn't exist. Seriously, what kind of shrink is equipped to help a psychopath that, when she gets even the least bit emotional, turns into some sort of "Jekyll and Hyde" extreme case? No one, that's who. She just hoped that Scotland Yard arrived, before she did anything serious. Before anyone else got hurt.

Sherlock Holmes was in a panic state, which was yet another first for him. Why, in less than three hours, he had had at least three first-time experiences. It was an interesting sensation, that. You know, doing something for the first time. It has an ethereal quality- but his thoughts were interrupted by three things happening at almost the same precise moment. The first thing was that the van swerved suddenly, to avoid hitting a toddler child running in the parking lot. The second was that one of the techies screeched," I've got visuals on her! She's…. she's….. She's holding a shredded mass of meat with brown hair,

and she's biting into it. Or, at least, she was an hour ago." He grimaced. "The cameras I'm using feed from are a little off on timing." This particular techie had always had a flair for the dramatic. The third thing happening, occurred a few minutes afterwards, as they were slowing down near where Aislin had last been sighted (because Conley's call had been forwarded to Inspector Lestrade, they now knew who she was, and why she was the way she was). What happened was, that Aislin herself came barreling towards the police van. What was even more incredible was the fact that, the van was going slow enough, and she was going fast enough, that she was able to slam into the van, get everyone's attention, then proceed to wrench open the doors, vault gracefully inside, and drop into a fighter's-crouch-meets-angry-panther pose. It was made even more terrifying by the fact that, in her hands, was the head of the body they had seen her with, not five minutes. One of the younger male techies gave a little shriek, and his slightly older, more mature colleagues gave him a sharp jab in the solar plexus, leaving him winded, collapsed in his seat. Probably not the best idea, considering what was hanging in Aislin's demonized hands, but logical enough in any other scenario.

Aislin, deep in the dark recesses of her mind, was practically screaming at herself. No, no, no, no, no! Why did she have to be stuck with this?! Why were silly people in the van all acting like this was her, like this was really her? How stupid could they get- Aislin's mind recoiled at this thought. God, the insanity was beginning to penetrate the last madness-free sanctum of her brain. When that was gone, what would happen? Would she lose the little bit of control that she had? The little bit of control that she had used up to get herself into the police van? God, it seemed like an apocalypse, like in Erin's favorite movie series. If she were in one of those movies, she would start infecting other people with the "superpower" of becoming a Jekyll and Hyde, on steroids. Why did these thoughts all have to go through her brain? For crying out loud, she's only twelve!

Conley was in a full-blown state of panic. Scotland Yard had sent an unmarked vehicle to pick up him, Emma, Erin, and Caron, and take them to Headquarters. From there, they were able to view live feed from the cameras inside and outside the armored van, and the scenes the cameras gave them were not nice. At the point at which Aislin entered the vehicle, Emma collapsed, sobbing anew. One of the Junior Officers brought her some water, and an anxiety pill-an Extreme Stress anxiety pill, no less. After that, she huddled up against Conley, staring at the screens surrounding them, in the Operations Room.

Inspector Lestrade was calm, cool, collected, determined, even cold-on the outside only. On the inside, he was in a state of panic, similar to Conley's. But his was induced by the fact that, not only would he probably die if this went wrong, but he would also lose his job. And his wife was angry at him, anyways. He had been on his way to the Plum Cherry Theatre, to see a film for their Two-Year anniversary, when something had ambushed him….. God, he had almost been the things-no. Aislin's next victim. And now, instead of a quick, and painful death, his wife was going to subject him to a life of torture. She had vowed that if he missed this, the seventh date in two months he had to skip because of work, she would file for Divorce. Some of his friends at Scotland Yard said that was blackmail, not to mention ILLEGAL, but the woman was a marvel when she was in a good mood. Otherwise, Lestrade tended to stay away. However, that tended to make her bad moods last, with the knowledge that her husband was avoiding her. Lestrade's friends still thought that Carli Anna Manorae (she had elected to keep her maiden name, her reasoning being that her husband's last name made her feel like a fool behind her own name) was taking

advantage of him. Still, there was a job to do, and the Holmes brothers had already come up with a plan to, well, trap, the snarling child-like murderess in death stare crouch, seven feet away from him at the front of the van.

Sherlock Holmes was acting like he was cowering in the corner, but he was actually setting up a sedative dart gun. And…. CLICK! It was ready. Under the little table, he had a clear line to Aislin. He raised the gun, with Mycroft providing cover with his immense girth, primed, aimed, and fired.

Deep in a deep, cold, dark, corner in her mind, Aislin heard something. A click. From what, though…. Her madness-controlled body turned just in time to see the reed-like one, with the funny look in his eyes, covered by the one with the droopy stomach, holding a dart rifle, loaded with ammunition, aimed at her. And in that instant, she saw something whiz towards her. She felt, even her crazed self, the pain as the dart penetrated the flimsy fabric of her best shirt. And she watched as, that "best shirt" was slowly soaked with the same sticky, red iron-smelling substance that had come out of the one in her bedroom. Absently, forgetting her pain, for a moment, both parts of her collided, to think," how will I ever get this out? They ruined my best shirt! They…."

For a moment after he fired the dart, Sherlock Holmes experienced a moment of doubt, which he quickly dismissed. He did what had to be done. She wouldn't die, anyways. But all of those reassurances ran away and never came back, when on that small face, there came a moment of pain. The wildness passed, and he saw, for yet another First Time, the girl that her family saw. Sweet, small, quiet, shocked, and in that moment, weak, afraid, and in pain. It was that pain that drove him out from under the table, to hold her head and remove any risk of paralysis.

That pain in her eyes shocked Mycroft, too. He hadn't expected her to be even slightly human. He had expected her to turn out to always be some wild, blood-thirsty animal. They all had, he thought. But these expectations were washed even farther downstream, as her head drooped back, and the hypodermic dart, loaded with heavy sedative, worked its chemical magic on her poor, tired, wilting body. And in a millisecond of time, as she dropped into a void, Mycroft could have sworn that she smiled, if only for the briefest of moments. She was happy, happy at the pain, at the sedative seeping into her veins, at the unknown men and women around her, staring as if she were feral. Happy at all of it, and maybe a bit regretful at what she had done, that she had done so much, and to so many. She was watching him, as her eyes dropped to her cheekbones, with a sort of thanks.

Conley was sitting in the Control Room, at Scotland Yard Headquarters, he guessed it was called, holding Emma, and trying not to shake the pale, sweaty youth, frantically puffing at his inhaler. Conley was scared, scared at what that freelance detective had done to his little sister. Was he shooting to kill, or just to stun? What was in that loaded dart? And what were they going to do to his sweet, scared, dual-personality, and now freshly unconscious, little sister? Study her? Hook her up to computers, and examine her brain? Or would they maybe leave her alone? None of those happened, or even close. Well, they did examine her, but that was to help her. For they discovered, as soon as her consciousness ran

away, that she was allergic to that particular sedative used in the dart. Seriously allergic, as it would turn out. Deathly allergic, potentially. So they called an Ambulance, as soon as her cheeks began to puff, and swell, and her breathing started to sound like Darth Vader got a chest cold, and her arms began to give out a flood of hives, a few of which popped, and gave forth a yellowish, pus-like substance. She started out of that unconsciousness, and coughed a red, shining, glob, right onto Sherlock's starched, white, pressed cotton shirt. By the time the actual driver of the white van called the ambulance, and the Paramedics arrived, she was convulsing. And all as Conley, Emma, Erin, and the out-of-breath, newly arrived Caron Haul watched. The pale youth manning the screens called someone to escort the quartet to the ER where Aislin was about to be checked in.

THREE YEARS LATER

Hey, Aislin! How you doing, sweetie?" Conley walked into Room 22347, in the Residential Care unit, to find his little sister sitting on her bed, playing on her computer. She gave it a level of focus that was almost terrifying, but it was nothing, compared to three years ago, today. That was a face that could beat a basilisk at its own game. But ever since the reaction caused by the sedative, Aislin had changed. She didn't talk anymore, and she didn't recognize anyone anymore, except for Emma, sometimes. She couldn't walk on her own, and she got scared to easily. But ever since that freak allergic reaction, she didn't lose it anymore. She never got angry, not to mention that since then, no one had ever seen her smile. She only ever really was scared, or maybe panicked, and once or twice, peaceful. But she looked up, this time, when he entered the room, and her gaze went from daggers-in-your-guts, to I-don't-really-care-anymore-because-I-don't-know-you. But quite frankly, Conley preferred it when she was staring into your soul, because then she looked a bit like her old self. But Conley shook those thoughts out of his head, and instead did as he had been since The Incident." Are you going to tell me what you want for Christmas this year, Aislin? You didn't tell anyone last year, and Emma was really sad. She told me to tell you that she has lunch ready for you, anytime you come home. She says that she's got all the stuff for Turkey Turtles, and that she always will. Soup in a bread bowl, and Turkey Turtles, and Pineapple Soda. She misses you, okay baby girl? Okay? Erin say hello, too. He wants you to know that the world hasn't ended, and that when it does, he going to swoop in here, and spirit us all away to his hidden bunker in the hills, and that it's gonna make you better. And Caron wants to know if you want to come to the premiere of his new movie. Did you know he wrote and directed his own movie? He said that he made it just for you, baby girl. And the Holmes brothers are coming over later, to help you decorate for Christmas with me. Mycroft told me that his daughter baked you some Christmas cookies. She's also your new Nurse, sweetie. Her name's Lydia, and she's one of the nicest people you're ever gonna meet, Aislin. Aislin? Can you hear me, baby girl? I love you, and I miss you, too. Are you gonna pull it together and come home for Christmas? Oh sweetie. Oh, sweetie girl." Conley realized that he was crying, the tears not unlike those that Emma had let forth, on the December Fourteenth, and Three years ago today. There was still a dark spot on the floor, and almost every guest who walked near to that spot, tripped, fell, and ended up staring at that spot on the floor, where there was a liquid that would never fun dry, and that would never run out. And for the first time since she lost it for the last time, she burst into tears. Sobbing, she melted onto him, lying across his lap. And into his fuzzy sweater, she sobbed, "I want sanity, Conley. From Emma and Erin, from Caron, and from you. For Christmas, all I want is my Sanity. I'm NOT INSANE! I'M NOT INSANE!"