Hello, hello! This is my newest fanfiction: Rebel :) I've been working on this since the summer (when I first watched Sherlock Holmes). The reason it's taken so long for the first chappie to get up is because Amanda is probably the hardest character I've ever worked with... ever. And thus it's been hard. Not to mention, the chappie is insanely long. Also, Sherlock Holmes hasn't been able to capture as well. But give me some rope. Some chapters he may be based off the movie version, and others he'll be like the Holmes in the books. This particular chappie he's a mix of both. As you can tell, it has some references to the first movie, and the release of the second one has sparked my interest in the story once again. So, expect some references from that in the next few chapters, but I most likely won't give away anything. Alright, enough of my rambling, enjoy my story ;) Buon divertimento!

Disclaimer: I don't own anything you recognize, although I wish I did... I'd love to meet Sherlock Holmes

Characters are barely AU

~Bandit (I will most likely change this to Detective Bandit, or Inspector Bandit, but considering this is the first of this subject, I'll just keep it at plain ol' Bandit). :D

Rebel

Chapter I: Words and Games

"You're saying you don't want to help me? You know what? Don't answer that. I don't trust your answer. You will somehow take some line of words I said and turn it against me. You and your logic. I should have never come to you. I should have listened to Watson. He warned me about you. You know what? I didn't even come to you! You had to find me on the street and suddenly turn all compassionate! Why are you so compassionate? I will never know. Because I'm leaving. Why do you even care about my parents? They died in a house fire. End of story. You had to see me shivering in the bloody rain, and you had to care, and you had to bring me to your bloody house, and you had to get me to talk. What's it to you if someone had murdered my parents? I don't care. And I certainly don't care if they come after me. Only you seem to care."

One known as Sherlock Holmes stared calmly into the girl's face, having no intention of speaking. She intrigued him. She was an interesting person. She seemed to like to refuse help. He watched her with deep interest as she closed her eyes in frustration, brushed a strand of hair out of her face, and snorted. "Why won't you talk? Say something!"

Her eyebrows furrowed as she sat forward in the study chair Holmes had made her sit in. And now she was handcuffed to it. "What is wrong with you?" she muttered, shaking her head and leaning back, "Are you going to let me go anytime soon? Or would you rather I just sneeze all over you?"

She glanced around the room once again, slightly admiring the way it was set. Well actually, you couldn't see the way it was set. Mostly because random objects were strewn across the room. She scoffed, noticing a violin. She played the violin. She used the play the violin, until it became too boring, and she decided she had to stop. She noticed his eyes following her gaze, and a slight smirk slid across his face, "What have you done to your dog?" she gestured at the poor bulldog, without even looking at it. Holmes gave a slight chuckle.

"It's like I'm talking to myself," she muttered, before cursing silently under her breath. She watched intently as Holmes stood suddenly, met her eyes for a second, before leaving the room rather hurriedly. She growled in frustration, yanked at the handcuffs once more, and did what any trapped thirteen year old would have done. She screamed.

It was a loud scream. She could hear it echo through the house. She smiled, pleased. That would have annoyed someone. She bit her lip, and cocked her head, listening carefully for something. Yes, in the next room, she could people talking. Arguing. Two people arguing. She could only guess it was Holmes and Watson. Their voices were starting to rise slightly. They were angry at someone. She could hear little bits of words, mostly "Amanda". She scowled. Neither of them had the right to call her Amanda. They should call her Miss if anything at all. It

wasn't like she was staying. Though, it did comfort her a little that she was the cause of all this. A smile slid across her face for only a second, before realizing the state she was in.

She really didn't hate Holmes. It was just that her parents had just been killed. Though that didn't give her the right. He wasn't that bad of a person. When she was younger, he had been her role model. Sherlock Holmes. Her parents would always read about him, and occasionally, read about him out loud to her. She thought he was a genius. She used to try to solve cases. Small ones, like where her mom's necklace had gone. Or her dad's chicken. She mostly solved them. With a little help from her brother. But, it had faded. She still read the papers, though, hoping for some kind of article about him. She always figured him of a sort of attention-seeker. But mostly the cases he solved on a regular basis didn't make the papers.

From past articles, she'd noticed something. He had something for children. He disguised it as the same hunger and determination as adult cases, but she saw through the act. A couple of months ago, she read something about a missing eight-year-old, named Sophia. Holmes had solved the case in two days. This was incredible. On usual missing adult cases, which he got most often, it took him from three to seven days to solve it. The man was a genius, none-the-less. But he certainly cared for children more than anything else. Most people would find this surprising, considering most people consider him a heartless wretch. She had other opinions. He was careless, arrogant, rude, but most certainly not heartless. She was observant, she saw. In the few seconds when she'd first met him, when he found her alone, drenched, cowering in an alleyway in the pouring rain, she'd noticed things others wouldn't. However her investigating skills came near to nothing compared to Holmes's.

He'd been boxing, judging by the slightly faded red mark on his left cheek, and the way he walked, with a slight swagger, suggested he was drunk. But not enough to trip and stumble. He'd won, she could tell, or else he'd have more injuries, but he wasn't celebrating like a victor usually would. Something had been on his mind. His eyes flashed as he walked by, and heard her coughs, he'd turned, favoring his left leg as he pivoted, meaning he'd injured it from the fight, it seemed too tender to be from something older, and instantly frowned as he saw her. His frown had quickly faded, he wasn't heartless, and it was replaced with a stoic expression, she figured it was because he didn't want anyone to know he actually cared about people. He'd then stepped towards her, quite calmly, and knelt by her. She knew it was uncharacteristic of him to be so gentle. He was usually blunt. He'd asked her something, she could smell the whiskey on his breath, confirming her suspicions. She'd answered, but didn't accept his offer to help her up, and instead used the wall for support. She'd eyed him warily. This was not how she expected to be meeting him. She then refused his offer for her to come with him, and then he grabbed her wrist, being careful not to hurt her, and led her across the streets to his house, meaning he was stubborn, something that wasn't new to her, she'd learned that much from the articles on him.

She protested the whole way, but he was stronger than her, not surprising at all. He did box often. The first thing he did once he'd arrived in the house, was take her to be checked by Watson, something she'd found quite surprising. The doctor said she just had a slight cold, nothing to be surprised by, and said she was fine. And then Holmes had led her to the room she sat handcuffed in now. He'd offered her tea, which she had none-too-politely refused and had gotten her to talk. She didn't know how. He was just cunning; he'd simply said a couple of things to her. Polite, civilized things, and then she'd just blabbed. She loved to talk, and she guessed he'd used that against her in this case. And then she'd told him about the person that had tried to kill her parents before, and asked for his help. But she couldn't make up her mind. She didn't want him to help her. And then she did. And then she didn't. And right now, she really hated his guts.

Before she knew it, she was staring at the door, waiting for Holmes to come and get her. She'd survived a whole week before he'd found her. A whole week. She didn't need their help. Or at least, she didn't think she needed their help. Watson was a doctor. He'd checked her to see if she was okay. He'd played his part. Holmes was a detective. She'd asked him for help. He'd refused. Well, he hadn't actually refused, he hadn't said anything, so she took that as a no. He'd played his part. They were done. She just wanted to get out of the handcuffs keeping her from running from the house and back into the pouring rain, and into the tiny, grubby, most certainly not sanitary alleyway, which was the only place she trusted sleeping at this point.

She looked around the room with another sigh, which resulted in a feeble sneeze, before closing her eyes to try to calm the spiking headache. Maybe Watson said she was fine, but her body most certainly said she was not.

"Amanda!"

She woke with a start at the sound of her name, which unfortunately caused her head to start to pound again, and a small yelp. She leaned back in her chair, before looking in front of her, "Oh God, Watson."

"Sorry," she shot a nasty look at Holmes, who was snickering like a child in the background.

"Its okay doctor, just not exactly what I needed," she held her painful head, as if this was going to sooth the pounding. She sat forward and rubbed her temples, "What did you want?" How had she fallen asleep in the chair? She barely trusted the two.

She started again, noticing that a jacket was placed on her shoulder. It was the same one that Holmes had worn when he found her in the rain, and it smelled like whiskey and some odd, foreign spice. She scrunched up her nose, and threw it off her, looking intently at Holmes.

He shrugged and avoided her eyes, turning his head towards Watson, before shooting a fleeting glance, "Alright, I'll take your case."

Amanda grinned smugly at Holmes, "Ah, so the detective speaks."

"I can talk," Holmes pulled out his pipe, Amanda resisted the urge to squeal in delight, and turned towards her.

"So," she placed a hand under her chin, "Can you unlock me so I can go sleep in my cardboard box? I'm surprised to find actually quite miss it, and I'd like to return, thank you very much."

"You're staying here," Holmes replied tartly. On second glance, Holmes had a rather childish air about him, and he gave a one sided grin with giddiness. She couldn't help but smile along.

Amanda cocked an eyebrow at the duo, "Hmm? Since when has this arrangement been made?"

"It's still raining outside, it's only for your health," Watson explained gently.

She groaned in protest, and raised one pale hand, the one that wasn't locked to the arm of the chair, incredously and shot them both deathly glares. Holmes backed off, waving a hand at Watson as he puffed a ring of smoke from the pipe.

"I'm afraid your cold will turn into pneumonia if you stay in the rain any longer," Watson sighed.

Amanda glowered in disbelief, "But why at your house? It's not even an official case!"

"Why do you always whine?" Holmes muttered under his breath from the shadowy corner.

"Because I'm a thirteen-year-old, and I'm way too stressed out," she snapped at him.

"Stop it, then."

"You're not my mother, so stop acting like her," Amanda huffed, crossing her arms, and snarled at the detective.

"Alright!" Watson sighed, "Both of you, stop bickering like siblings!"

Amanda glowered, but shut her mouth none-the-less; Holmes sneered at her in a mocking way, but he shut up too.

"Did you just compare us to siblings, Watson?" Holmes turned towards his friend.

"Yes, Holmes, I did," he snapped.

"I am so sick and tired of you two!" Amanda glowered at them both, "Can I get some peace and quiet for once? I have a horrible headache, and I've been handcuffed to a chair all night, while your idiotic dog has been farting the whole time!"

The two exchanged looks as the young girl fumed. She poked her bottom lip out in a pout, her green eyes flashing with anger, before she snorted, and adverted her gaze, glancing shiftily around the disorganized room. Holmes shifted uncomfortably, lighting his pipe and training his eyes on the girl.

"Do you always keep your room so disgusting?" she picked up a book, and saw Holmes flinch.

"It is not disgusting—I'd rather you not touch that. Everything is in it's place," he replied through grated teeth, taking the pipe from his mouth.

Amanda reluctantly set the cracked volume back on the worn table next to her, making sure it was in the same position it was before she'd taken an interest in it. Biting her bottom lip, and peering up at Holmes to make sure he wasn't looking anymore, she slipped a folded, water stained piece of parchment into her pocket, and looked up innocently at Holmes. Perhaps she'd sneak away in the dead of night, back to her box, and no one would know until the morning, when she'd be long gone. The problem was Gladstone, who'd taken a liking to her. She'd never personally had a dog before, but she'd heard they always barked at their owners, or people trying to break in. Perhaps he'd howl when she tried to make a run for it. She'd take care of him when she got there. And then there was the very big possibility he might handcuff her. Well she'd plead. Yes, it would all work out so very well.

It wasn't until Watson cleared his throat that Amanda realized there were things happening in the real world. They both looked at her expectantly. "I'm sorry, but did you ask me something?"

She thought she saw Holmes scoff from the corner of her eye, but she was sure he was too mature to do such a thing. "Yes, I was wondering if you were tired," Watson explained patiently.

"No, why?" she was sure the doctor wasn't usually as composed as he was now. She was a child, and a stubborn one at that. They thought by being agreeable, they'd win her over. Amanda almost smiled at the prospect of their beliefs. There was near no way they'd ever gain her trust. Unless they were to do something heroic. And now way they would do something heroic. Of course her definition of heroic was different than others.

"You keep gazing off into the distance," he replied with a meaningful look.

Well that's because I can't help but let my mind wander, she thought, a sneer playing on her lips. Ah, there she was doing it again. Perhaps she'd read too much about Holmes. She almost grinned at the prospect of being nearly as genius as Holmes. Compared to his brilliance, even she had to admit, she was an imbecile. However, she was very good at finding clues. Perhaps once this whole ordeal was over, she'd work harder on the inspecting skill. She'd saved the day more than once in her household. That didn't make her family like her any better. She gave a soft, lilting sigh, and glanced up at the two.

"I'm just thinking."

"About what?" Holmes stepped forward, abruptly fascinated in the conversation.

"Everything," she retorted harshly, "What's it matter to you?"

"You're my client," he wasn't fooled by her fabrication, "What are you really thinking about?"

"My parents, that's all," she grimaced, "I suppose you're going to eventually solve this case?"

"You're always think about your former life," he breathed.

"I'm an angsty girl, what of it?" he sat down, and Amanda noticed his eyes were twinkling with a childlike recklessness. She couldn't help but smile.

"It's not good for your health, you need to get over things," he propped an arm on his need, and rested his chin in it.

"It's not easy. I'm out of practice of whisking my life away," she responded lightly.

"I never dwell on things," he met her gaze confidently, "Not even for a second."

"No one is that inhuman, Detective Holmes," she leaned back in the chair, taking some pity on the man.

He nodded his head slightly, as if in silent agreement. He looked away, scrutinizing the wall across the room, before glancing back at Watson, who was watching heedfully from the corner. Amanda ran a hand through her disheveled dark hair, and gazed heatedly up at the two. She finally gave in, slumped down in her chair and let her mask fade away. She closed her eyes, and felt them water up. Oh what a mess she was in. And how she missed her parents.

She sensed Holmes shift as her nose began to run, probably to look back at Watson once again. She felt her lips tremble, before she snapped her eyes open, glaring at Holmes. "Are you alright, my dear?" His voice was delicate, and actually tinged with genuine concern.

She stared up at the detective in disbelief. Had he just called her dear? "Yes, I'm quite fine, thank you. It's just all this," she waved a frantic hand around the room, "suddenly hit."

"And it hadn't the week before?" Holmes raised an eyebrow, still being cautious with her.

"What makes you say—," Amanda cut herself off, squinting skeptically, before realizing that Mr. Holmes was a famous detective, and had every right to be so, "No, it hadn't hit the week before. I was kind of too busy trying to survive among the packs of vermin people call beggars."

"And yet you don't want to accept our help," an amused, lopsided smirk slid onto his weathered face.

They were playing games at this point.

"The thing is, I don't exactly trust you, no matter how much each of you have done. And this thing isn't helping," she tugged at the handcuff.

"Don't expect us to unlock you. I know you'll just run off as soon as you can," Holmes chuckled.

"You're going to have to unlock me sometime."

"I'm afraid, my dear, this key," he dangled it in front of her face, "won't be in any way necessary."

"What of Lestrade? He'll have to come by the house sometime. He'll see me locked up, and he'll think something of it," she tried desperately to get him to give her the key.

"Lestrade won't come within ten yards of my house if he can help it," Holmes countered, playing absentmindedly with the key

"Ah, but how do you know he won't come this time?" Amanda bit her lip, and tried not to complain as the detective continued to torture the girl.

"I'm not opening the case as public. There's no need for him to help," he jested as he grinned up at the girl.

Amanda cursed under her breath, she hadn't thought of that.

"What?" Holmes chimed innocently, "Something got you stumped?"

The girl hissed at him playfully, "More like I decided to stop carrying on with your ludicrous aberration."

"That's an awful lot for big words for such a little girl as you," he flashed her a cocky sneer.

"Arrogant bastard," she spat in return.

He raised an eyebrow at her, before he erupted in chuckles, making her sound as if she were ridiculous. He looked back at Watson, still laughing, and caused a smile to spread across the doctor's face as well. Amanda sat back, annoyed, and feeling terribly left out, as the two continued their raucous chortles. What was she missing? What did they know that she didn't? Perhaps they knew nothing about her. Perhaps they thought she knew nothing about them. But that would be near impossible. Holmes would've at least deducted that she knew enough about crime to be playing pretend in their eyes. He would've figured that she was a big fan of his by the way she turned into giddy fangirl whenever he did something important. And he would've at least reasoned that she really did want to help them, but was a little too stubborn to do anything about it. She snorted, and waited for the two dolts to gather their wits.

"Chuckleheads," she muttered nastily when they finally did look back at her, "What have you done, and why do I have the feeling that I should be regretting your mistake?"

"Ah, nothing," Holmes said coolly, waving a nonchalant hand about as he placed his feet up on the coffee table separating the two chairs in which they sat. "I've just discovered a big breakthrough in our case."

"Have you now?" she said dryly, forcing herself to remain calm for the time being, "How exciting. Does it happen to involve me?"

"Dear, it's your case, the whole thing's going to involve you," he said this as if it were bluntly obvious, "If you haven't noticed."

Amanda twitched with frustration, "There's a reason you keep saying that. Do you expect me to notice everything?"

"It would be nice," Watson muttered under his breath from the corner. She shot him an exasperated look, before returning her attention to Holmes.

"The fact is, detective, I am not you. I cannot see everything, I cannot notice everything. But I do, in fact, notice the things you expect me to, and therefore I would highly appreciate if you stopped being so conceited when it comes to my knowledge," by the last sentence, the volume of her voice had raised considerably, so that she was almost shouting, and her eyes were flashing dangerously.

Holmes had nothing to say to this, and she sat quietly, studying her. Amanda shifted uncomfortably, and knew the silence wouldn't last long, so she took it in, happy for its peacefulness, "Hmm," his eyes wondered to her own.

She swallowed, and folded her hands in her lap, slightly to the right hand, for the chain of the handcuffs didn't go that long. Another few minutes passed, and then more and more, and Holmes seemed to be considering retorting, but he must've known that would result in another long argument, and he didn't seem in the mood.

"Well," he jumped up from his chair, "It's getting pretty late, it's best to go to bed."

Watson nodded his agreement, and collected the key from Holmes, before unlocking her from the chair, and taking her hand gently, keeping a cautious eye on her. As she shuffled along, she couldn't help but snicker as Watson's gaze intensified, "You can keep your gaze away, dear man, I'm not going to run away," More like I'm not going run away yet, "Go about your usual gait, it's not as if you can't trust. I'd rather die than slit your throats in the middle of the night."

Holmes turned around, and flashed the girl a smile at her comparison, before rotation back and continuing to lead the way. Amanda reluctantly followed him down the creaky, musty hallway towards what was likely to be her bedroom, Watson coming up behind her, making sure she didn't actually slash Holmes's gullet. She sneezed several times as the dust settled in her nose and throat. She couldn't help but smile sheepishly at the back of Holmes's head when she did.

"So, Holmes, where's your landlady… Mrs. Hudson, isn't it?" Amanda was swinging her arms carelessly about as she walked, attempting to stop her boredom from going too far.

Holmes turned slightly to meet her gaze, "Away. How'd you know about nanny?"

She snickered, raising her eyebrows at Holmes, "Nanny?" she broke out in laughter, doubling over, "Sorry, sorry. I came upon an article that mentioned her once when I was reading the paper."

The detective stopped, "You read the paper?"

Amanda pursed her lips, "Oh yeah, daily. Always intrigues me," At least the intriguing part was accurate. The truth was, she only read the papers when her brother told her there was an article on the detective. The lie tingled on her lips as she mouthed it, and she smiled at her quick wittedness.

Holmes considered her gently, before turning around, and opening the old door for her. He gestured her inside, and at once she studied the room. It wasn't all that special. There was a grime-covered bed, and a bookcase filled with books that looked incredibly boring. A lamp rested in the corner, and a dresser was wedged in the opposite crook. Everything was draped with spider webs, and the window that was on the wall was smeared with dirt and was opaque. All in all, it wasn't that different from the room she had at home. She folded her arms and looked back at the two, before holding her left wrist out for them. Watson stepped forward from a look from Holmes and clasped one of them on, before ushering her to the bed. She climbed in, and allowed them to lock the other onto the post of the bed, before Watson bode her goodnight. He put out the light, and she was engulfed in darkness.

As she lay alone, Amanda could feel herself being succumbed by sleep. Before she was carried away by slumber, she wondered what she was doing. She was trusted the detective and doctor enough to sleep in their house, after they practically kidnapped her and handcuffed her to everything in sight. And yet she didn't mind much. She'd read enough about Holmes for her to feel like she knew everything about him. Well, everything about his methods. She gave a small sigh, before rolling onto her side, gazing at the shadows, before allowing her hazel eyes to close slowly, the last thought in her head ringing. She would escape.

A/N: Alright, what do you think? What are your thoughts on Amanda? Is she too much? Or maybe to annoying? Or perhaps you love her to death? Please share in a review! It'd make me so much more happier... and I'll probably start chapter 2 earlier than I usually would. Anyways, thanks! Love you all, and please review! :D