Info and Part 1

Name: Chelsea Cavendish, according to the label on her coat

Age: 18-years-old, according to the label on her coat

Height: 5'9"

Looks: Shoulder-length, dirty blond hair with chin length bangs. Grey eyes. Pale skin. Plump lips, curvy figure

Personality: Somber, anti-social, haunted, and easily afraid. Basically, she is lost.

Background: You'll notice in other parts of the bio, the facts are "according to the label on her coat". This is because she is an amnesiac. She was found some where out in the English country side, unconscious, and was, immediately, check into a hospital. She can remember nothing of who she was. All she really knows about herself, besides her name, age and appearance, is that she is and American and a Northern Dweller, based off of her accent. Even one has searched for records of a "Chelsea Cavendish" but nothing has been found. The only other thing that Chelsea can draw from her past is a nightmare that keeps recurring. We'll get to that in the story…

And now we begin…

…

Darkness.

Impenetrable darkness.

It was happening again.

I knew what was coming next.

Echoing footfalls.

And Laughing.

Not a good laugh. Not like a baby's first laugh. Not like a laugh you would share with your friends and family.

This was laugh to send shivers down your spine.

And kept getting louder.

And crazier.

It was hurting my head.

Flash. His laughing face was there for a brief second.

Again. His evil, stubled grin burned my brain.

One more time. His eyes digging deep into my soul and tearing me limb from limb.

I screamed.

I shot up.

I was back in my room. The room of my pitiful, dark, lonely, depressing apartment. Or flat, as I've heard for the last month or so.

I was drench. Covered in my own liquid of panic and stress.

I flopped back onto my bed, flinging my arm over my eyes to shield the from the 11 a.m. sun. That sun always hurt after that nightmare. It did nothing for my headache.

'Another day.'

…

It was my forth meeting with my therapist.

I started seeing him at the beginning of the month, when I was found.

I hated the meetings. They were pointless. Nothing ever helped. All the meetings were a waste of time. It took all my strength not to scream and yell and run out of the office like a lunatic.

"Have you remembered anything, Chelsea?"

I shook my head, stiffly.

"Are you still having that dream? The dream of the man who frightens you?"

I nodded, even more stiffly.

"Have there been any other dreams?"

I shook my head again.

He sighed, clearly unhappy with my continuing lack of progress, cooperation and repressiveness.

"Well, now we have to start treatment. The first step is Psychoanalysis. I'm going to put you in touch with-"

"I don't want another therapist."

He looked at me surprised; that was the first time I had said more than two words to him. All other communication between us was with written notes when the question needed more than a nod or shake of the head.

"I don't want another therapist." This one was robbing me and annoying me enough as it was.

"He's not a therapist. I'm sending you to him because his profession can help with the psychoanalysis… Do you know what psychoanalysis means?"

"You're the expert." It was only with him that I got that kind of attitude.

He ignored my mouth and explained. "Psychoanalysis is when you use dream analysis and interpretation techniques to recall memories."

"We've already tried to analyze my dream and you said there wasn't enough to go on to draw a conclusion."

"You're right. However, we have not tried putting you in dangerous situations to see if the overwhelming emotions force you to recall anything. That's were this contact can help."

"You're putting me in the care of a dangerous man?"

"I'm putting you in the care of a great man who lives a dangerous life with a dangerous career. Plus, he may not have to put you in danger to tell you who you are."

I was, clearly, confused but my therapist said that he wanted me to meet the man for myself instead of describing him to me.

It was worth a shot.

…

221B Baker Street.

I knocked on the door and was greeted by a little old lady. I told her I was looking for Sherlock Holmes and she, immediately, smile and let me in.

She lead my up the stairs to the top floor apartment.

That was strange.

The door was wide open.

Not exactly safe. But then again, I wasn't there to meet a man who never left his apartment.

The lady knocked on the open door, telling "Sherlock" that I had a visitor. She seemed to suggest that, since I was a young lady, I was the date of this stranger.

I slowly walked into the apartment, getting a look at my surroundings.

Boxes were scattered. Books and magazines flung about the place if they didn't fit in the books shelf or the laundry hamper by the window. A skull over the fire place. Random, unconnected items scattered abound the room. Who ever this man was, he didn't care much for keeping a tidy house.

Two men were in the room. One sat in a black leather chair in a blue under shirt, pajama pants, slippers and a robe. A violin was cradled in his arms and he was plucking away at the strings, not even bothering to look up at me. All I could really see of him was his black curly hair. . The other one came from, what I assumed was the kitchen, sipping a cup of coffee and looking at me, curiously. He was tan, short and had cropped hair.

At that point, the elderly lady decided to leave us alone to talk.

I felt awkward in this room with two strangers, not knowing which one I had to ask for help.

"Um… Sherlock…"

The man sipping the tea inclined his head towards the man with the violin, signaling that that was the man I was looking for.

I stepped farther into the room, trying to gain the man's attention before continuing to speak.

"Um… hi…" Didn't even look up. "Um… I know this is weird but… uh…" No response. "Chelsea. My names Chelsea. Cavendish."

"No it's not."

"I'm sorry."

Finally, Sherlock Holmes looked up at me and showed me his blue eyes and angular face as he said, "Your name is not 'Chelsea Cavendish'. Cavendish is a purely British name and, obviously from your accent, you're from the North Part of America, most likely North Dakota, which is an area that was mainly populated by Scandinavians, Norwegians mostly. Also, your blonde hair, blue eyes and fair skin also suggest Norwegian heritage. So your name should be of Norwegian origins with Americanized changes.

I was silenced, briefly, silenced but then started to ask, "How did you-"

He cut me off before I could finish. "How did I know that you weren't telling us your real name? How did I know that your heritage was Scandinavian and completely lack any English lineage, there for you couldn't possibly have an English name? The same way that I know that you're only 18-years old, you dropped out of school at the age of 10 right after you were orphaned, you've been working for somebody as computer programmer, and your favorite past time is shooting off rifles at a practice range."

That time, I didn't recover from my shocked silence so easily. We had never spoken about anything and yet, he already knew things that I still didn't know. How could he know after a minute of seeing me for the first time?

The only thing that knocked me out of my shock was him asking me, "Well? Did I get anything wrong?"

"… I… I don't know…"

Both the men were confused, obviously.

"My therapist… John Sutherland sent me…"

Finally, he understood. "You're an amnesiac."