Hey. So. Yeah. Theres not much to say other than I HAVE NO IDEA HOW TO POST A NEW CHAPTER. But now I know so it's all cool.

XxXxXxX

It was the first week of June and Sherlock had finally finished his senior year and was spending his last summer before Uni at the Holmes' manor in the country. He had just gotten into a row with Mycroft, who was also staying for the summer, and had stormed out the house with steam practically pouring of his ears. He no longer remembers what the argument was. He was just happy it happened.

He had trudged to the downtown area of the small village and was heading to his usual alley where he went to if he needed to smoke a forbidden cigarette. When he got nearer his secret hiding place, he heard voices and quickly drew back and leaned against the wall to listen to the seemingly innocent conversation.

"I told you, no", this voice was obviously female and over the age of 14 and under the age of 25. It was stern and almost threatening. Maybe even a bit annoyed.

"Come on, doll. Gimme a kiss, wontcha?" Male and middle aged. Drunk, possibly 4-5 pints.

"Get off me, you bastard!" Sherlock heard the woman push him away, but by the sound of the footsteps, he was around 5'9" and 193 lb and she was 5'4" and 122 lb. He would easily be able to hurt her and have his way. Sherlock slowly peeked around the corner.

The man was, indeed a middle aged man. Nice pale yellow button down and black trousers suggest he works somewhere high class, so the city seemed most probable and the gut suggests a sedative job, so office worker. His clothes were wrinkled and stained with beer and grease. He had a white strip around his left ring finger. Divorce. At the bar drinking and now making a pass on a young woman? She left him. He looked over at the young woman, who was around 17. She was wearing a jacket much too heavy for the weather and run-down hiking boots (Odd. The area was pretty flat with not much forest and the nearest nature preserve was 10 miles away). She also had a backpack slung over her right shoulder and her ponytail up in a baseball cap and sunglasses. The sun had set an hour ago.

"What did you call me!", the man picked her up by the collar of her coat so she was on her tip-toes and her backpack slipped off her shoulder. She spit in his face and glared. This made the drunkard very angry. The man growled and violently threw the girl at the wall. Sherlock sprang into action. Right hook, uppercut, kick in between the legs. Quickly shove him down while he was disoriented and pressure point at the base of his neck. An easy kill. Didn't even fight back. Shame, he was hoping for something more exciting. Sherlock got off the unconscious man and looked at the once angry woman. She laid crumpled against a garbage can with a pool of blood forming around her head. The drunkard had thrown her against the wall with much force. The young Holmes ran over to check for a pulse and once he made sure she was still alive, he sent a text to Mycroft to come help. This girl need medical attention now. She had a deep cut on the side of her head cause by when she hit the tin garbage can and was bleeding profusely. He wrapped her head in his scarf to try and stop the bleeding. Sherlock checked her pockets for an identity, but when he found none, he turned to her backpack. He ripped it open and found something strange. Extra clothes, perishables, protein bars, bundles of money, fake ID (Sherlock could spot a fake one from a mile away), blonde hair dye, swiss army knife, and a hat. Putting 2 and 2 together he came to a conclusion. She was a runaway. And judging by the mud on her boots and state of her face, she was a runaway for 3 days now. He found the name "Rosie" scribbled on the inside of the ancient backpack, but found no last name.

Holmes took a good look at "Rosie". She had dark hair that was neither straight nor curly, as if it couldn't decide. She had warm skin and full pink lips. He opened one of her eyes and saw that they were an incredible amber color with hints of hazel. Her hands were long and thin, much like his. Though hers were calloused, unlike his which were littered with scars and splotched with chemical burns from past experiments. His eye wandered to her neck and other open skin. Multiple bruises, minimum one week old. Interesting. He had 6 ideas. 3 were not so good.

A honk pulled him away from his thoughts as sleek black car rolled up and Mycroft jumped out of the drivers seat (No surprise there. It was almost 1am. The chauffeur must be sleeping). He came over and grabbed her legs while Sherlock slung the backpack over his shoulder and put his arms under her armpits. They smoothly maneuvered around the large sleeping man and put her in the backseat. Sherlock also climbed in the back and Mycroft got behind the wheel.

"What did you do this time, brother dear?" Mycroft sounded unamused.

"Nothing. A man tried to harm her. I helped before it got worse."

"Ah. Shall we get her to the hospital then?" inquired Mycroft.

"No."

"What?"

"This girl is a runaway and taking her to the hospital would give away her location. She has been gone for 3 days and it would be a shame for all her hard work to go to waste. Also, I believe she has a good reason to run away but I'm not 100% sure of it so it must wait until she wakes," Sherlock stated as if it was common knowledge. Mycroft simply nodded and started to drive back to the manor.

It was all a bit of a blur after that. Returning home, carrying her in. Opening the door to his mother who looked not the least bit surprised and murmuring something about bringing home strays . The two maids with medical backgrounds lead us up to a guest room telling us to put her on the bed and to leave so they could tend the girl. Returning to his bedroom and thinking about the events that just happened. He then thought of Rosie and the way she talked and held herself with such confidence and bravado. It was not something you found everyday. He then suddenly realized that he never took his smoke, and was no longer needing it.

XxXxXxX

Around 6:30 am, Sherlock gave up thinking, he grabbed his violin and headed to the balcony at the end of the hallway. Outside was warm and the air smelled like dew. The sun was rising the the sky was set ablaze with great strokes of orange and gold. Sherlock took a deep breath in and led his instrument up to his chin and began to play. It was one of his own compositions. It starts out slow and sweet then steadily becomes quicker and more frantic. He had closed his eyes to focus on the piece and had not noticed the drowsy girl, who had heard the beautiful music and had followed it, stumble through the doors of the balcony and now leaning on the doorframe.

After what seemed like eternity, Sherlock dramatically ended his song by sticking his bow upright and the peaceful moment was interrupted by soft clapping. Sherlock, who had his back turned towards the door, spun around and met the amber eyes, now practically glowing in the morning light, of the one and only Rosie, whose head was wrapped in white bandages and was wearing baby pink flannel pajamas.

"You should be resting", stated Sherlock. His voice had not even the slightest bit of actual concern.

"You should respect other's sleep", her voice was rough and a bit agitated. "That was a lovely piece."

Sherlock noted her faint scottish accent , "Thank you. Composed it myself. By the way the name is Sherlock. Would you like to hear another one, Rosie?"

She cocked her head to the side and contorted her face with sudden confusion, "Who?"

"Rosie. Is that not your name?"

She was showing genuine confusion. Sherlock thought about when the man had thrown her against the wall and recalled the horrific sounds it made when it hit the wall. And the trash can. And the ground. Plus the trauma of running away and being threaten by the drunkard, that ought to cause some mental damage.

She must of came to the same conclusion as I did because we said "Amnesia" at the same time. An awkward silence followed to realization.

"Well, damn," the amnesic girl exclaimed, breaking the silence. "I'm a total stranger to everyone, including myself. Ain't that just grand." She seated herself in a nearby lawn chair and rested her head in her hand and let out a sigh.

"I wouldn't say you're a complete stranger," mumbled Sherlock, who was still standing in the same spot and carefully hold his violin as if it was a baby.

That caught her attention. She straightened her back and her warm eyes sparked with a flame of sudden excitement. "What do you know?"

Sherlock scoffed, "I don't know. I observe," he walked over to the chair parallel to Rosie's and folded his hands under his chin. Her fiery eyes never lost contact with his cool mercury ones.

"Well, go at it", the amnesic girl reclines and stares intently at Sherlock, her eyes full of hunger for answers.

Sherlock took a deep breath. He was going to need it. "Your accent is mixed. I'd say scottish, but it's too faint and it's got a bit of cockney. I believe that you spent part of your childhood in Scotland, but then moved and lived in London for 6 years. That enough time to affect your speech. Although your physical appearance does not match. Your skin is too naturally tan to be a native. Either one of your parents is of spanish descent, or you moved to Scotland as a babe. Moving along. Your family is not financially sound. Your clothing were at least 3 years old and they were constantly repaired and stitched up. By you, I believe. The stitches were made by a seamstress without much experience and you have small punctures on your hand, presumably made from a sewing needle slipping and stabbing yourself. Also on your hands, there are callouses made from holding a pencil. (by now he had taken one of her hands to examine more closely) Drawing. There are lead stains on the side hand, obviously from constantly swiping your hand along a freshly drawn on paper to remove eraser shavings and there is also different kinds of lead, so, drawing it is." Sherlock dropped her hand and felt a bit disappointed. He wished there was more to tell, but this girl was an absolute mystery other than what he had just said. Not very impressive on his part.

"Wow. Thats… fantastic. Absolutely incredible. I may have amnesia, but I know people aren't so… wow."

Sherlock looked at her with shock. "You really think so?"

"Totally. It's amazing."

"Well, that's not what people usually say."

"What do they usually say?"

"Piss off."

Rosie went into a giggle fit. Sherlock couldn't help but start chuckling. It went for a couple minutes until their sides hurt and a cough interrupted there nice moment. Mycroft was standing behind Rosie with an unamused look on his face. He looked impeccable, he practically was the British government and must always look his best.

"Good morning. I am pleased to see you are well, Miss…"

"Mycroft, she has amnesia due to the traumatic events that have recently happened, so don't try to get any information from her," he snapped.

Rosie glared at him, "Sherlock don't be rude to the man. He was just trying to be polite." She got up to formally greet Mycroft. "It's a pleasure to meet you Mycroft. I do know my name, thanks to Sherlock. My name is apparently Rosie."

"Oh no, the pleasure is mine. I am Sherlock's older brother," Mycroft clapped his hand together and smiled a host like smile, " Now, may we go to the dining room for breakfast? There are things to sort out."

It was the first week of June and Sherlock had finally finished his senior year and was spending his last summer before Uni at the Holmes' manor in the country. He had just gotten into a row with Mycroft, who was also staying for the summer, and had stormed out the house with steam practically pouring of his ears. He no longer remembers what the argument was. He was just happy it happened.

He had trudged to the downtown area of the small village and was heading to his usual alley where he went to if he needed to smoke a forbidden cigarette. When he got nearer his secret hiding place, he heard voices and quickly drew back and leaned against the wall to listen to the seemingly innocent conversation.

"I told you, no", this voice was obviously female and over the age of 14 and under the age of 25. It was stern and almost threatening. Maybe even a bit annoyed.

"Come on, doll. Gimme a kiss, wontcha?" Male and middle aged. Drunk, possibly 4-5 pints.

"Get off me, you bastard!" Sherlock heard the woman push him away, but by the sound of the footsteps, he was around 5'9" and 193 lb and she was 5'4" and 122 lb. He would easily be able to hurt her and have his way. Sherlock slowly peeked around the corner.

The man was, indeed a middle aged man. Nice pale yellow button down and black trousers suggest he works somewhere high class, so the city seemed most probable and the gut suggests a sedative job, so office worker. His clothes were wrinkled and stained with beer and grease. He had a white strip around his left ring finger. Divorce. At the bar drinking and now making a pass on a young woman? She left him. He looked over at the young woman, who was around 17. She was wearing a jacket much too heavy for the weather and run-down hiking boots (Odd. The area was pretty flat with not much forest and the nearest nature preserve was 10 miles away). She also had a backpack slung over her right shoulder and her ponytail up in a baseball cap and sunglasses. The sun had set an hour ago.

"What did you call me!", the man picked her up by the collar of her coat so she was on her tip-toes and her backpack slipped off her shoulder. She spit in his face and glared. This made the drunkard very angry. The man growled and violently threw the girl at the wall. Sherlock sprang into action. Right hook, uppercut, kick in between the legs. Quickly shove him down while he was disoriented and pressure point at the base of his neck. An easy kill. Didn't even fight back. Shame, he was hoping for something more exciting. Sherlock got off the unconscious man and looked at the once angry woman. She laid crumpled against a garbage can with a pool of blood forming around her head. The drunkard had thrown her against the wall with much force. The young Holmes ran over to check for a pulse and once he made sure she was still alive, he sent a text to Mycroft to come help. This girl need medical attention now. She had a deep cut on the side of her head cause by when she hit the tin garbage can and was bleeding profusely. He wrapped her head in his scarf to try and stop the bleeding. Sherlock checked her pockets for an identity, but when he found none, he turned to her backpack. He ripped it open and found something strange. Extra clothes, perishables, protein bars, bundles of money, fake ID (Sherlock could spot a fake one from a mile away), blonde hair dye, swiss army knife, and a hat. Putting 2 and 2 together he came to a conclusion. She was a runaway. And judging by the mud on her boots and state of her face, she was a runaway for 3 days now. He found the name "Rosie" scribbled on the inside of the ancient backpack, but found no last name.

Holmes took a good look at "Rosie". She had dark hair that was neither straight nor curly, as if it couldn't decide. She had warm skin and full pink lips. He opened one of her eyes and saw that they were an incredible amber color with hints of hazel. Her hands were long and thin, much like his. Though hers were calloused, unlike his which were littered with scars and splotched with chemical burns from past experiments. His eye wandered to her neck and other open skin. Multiple bruises, minimum one week old. Interesting. He had 6 ideas. 3 were not so good.

A honk pulled him away from his thoughts as sleek black car rolled up and Mycroft jumped out of the drivers seat (No surprise there. It was almost 1am. The chauffeur must be sleeping). He came over and grabbed her legs while Sherlock slung the backpack over his shoulder and put his arms under her armpits. They smoothly maneuvered around the large sleeping man and put her in the backseat. Sherlock also climbed in the back and Mycroft got behind the wheel.

"What did you do this time, brother dear?" Mycroft sounded unamused.

"Nothing. A man tried to harm her. I helped before it got worse."

"Ah. Shall we get her to the hospital then?" inquired Mycroft.

"No."

"What?"

"This girl is a runaway and taking her to the hospital would give away her location. She has been gone for 3 days and it would be a shame for all her hard work to go to waste. Also, I believe she has a good reason to run away but I'm not 100% sure of it so it must wait until she wakes," Sherlock stated as if it was common knowledge. Mycroft simply nodded and started to drive back to the manor.

It was all a bit of a blur after that. Returning home, carrying her in. Opening the door to his mother who looked not the least bit surprised and murmuring something about bringing home strays . The two maids with medical backgrounds lead us up to a guest room telling us to put her on the bed and to leave so they could tend the girl. Returning to his bedroom and thinking about the events that just happened. He then thought of Rosie and the way she talked and held herself with such confidence and bravado. It was not something you found everyday. He then suddenly realized that he never took his smoke, and was no longer needing it.

XxXxXxX

Around 6:30 am, Sherlock gave up thinking, he grabbed his violin and headed to the balcony at the end of the hallway. Outside was warm and the air smelled like dew. The sun was rising the the sky was set ablaze with great strokes of orange and gold. Sherlock took a deep breath in and led his instrument up to his chin and began to play. It was one of his own compositions. It starts out slow and sweet then steadily becomes quicker and more frantic. He had closed his eyes to focus on the piece and had not noticed the drowsy girl, who had heard the beautiful music and had followed it, stumble through the doors of the balcony and now leaning on the doorframe.

After what seemed like eternity, Sherlock dramatically ended his song by sticking his bow upright and the peaceful moment was interrupted by soft clapping. Sherlock, who had his back turned towards the door, spun around and met the amber eyes, now practically glowing in the morning light, of the one and only Rosie, whose head was wrapped in white bandages and was wearing baby pink flannel pajamas.

"You should be resting", stated Sherlock. His voice had not even the slightest bit of actual concern.

"You should respect other's sleep", her voice was rough and a bit agitated. "That was a lovely piece."

Sherlock noted her faint scottish accent , "Thank you. Composed it myself. By the way the name is Sherlock. Would you like to hear another one, Rosie?"

She cocked her head to the side and contorted her face with sudden confusion, "Who?"

"Rosie. Is that not your name?"

She was showing genuine confusion. Sherlock thought about when the man had thrown her against the wall and recalled the horrific sounds it made when it hit the wall. And the trash can. And the ground. Plus the trauma of running away and being threaten by the drunkard, that ought to cause some mental damage.

She must of came to the same conclusion as I did because we said "Amnesia" at the same time. An awkward silence followed to realization.

"Well, damn," the amnesic girl exclaimed, breaking the silence. "I'm a total stranger to everyone, including myself. Ain't that just grand." She seated herself in a nearby lawn chair and rested her head in her hand and let out a sigh.

"I wouldn't say you're a complete stranger," mumbled Sherlock, who was still standing in the same spot and carefully hold his violin as if it was a baby.

That caught her attention. She straightened her back and her warm eyes sparked with a flame of sudden excitement. "What do you know?"

Sherlock scoffed, "I don't know. I observe," he walked over to the chair parallel to Rosie's and folded his hands under his chin. Her fiery eyes never lost contact with his cool mercury ones.

"Well, go at it", the amnesic girl reclines and stares intently at Sherlock, her eyes full of hunger for answers.

Sherlock took a deep breath. He was going to need it. "Your accent is mixed. I'd say scottish, but it's too faint and it's got a bit of cockney. I believe that you spent part of your childhood in Scotland, but then moved and lived in London for 6 years. That enough time to affect your speech. Although your physical appearance does not match. Your skin is too naturally tan to be a native. Either one of your parents is of spanish descent, or you moved to Scotland as a babe. Moving along. Your family is not financially sound. Your clothing were at least 3 years old and they were constantly repaired and stitched up. By you, I believe. The stitches were made by a seamstress without much experience and you have small punctures on your hand, presumably made from a sewing needle slipping and stabbing yourself. Also on your hands, there are callouses made from holding a pencil. (by now he had taken one of her hands to examine more closely) Drawing. There are lead stains on the side hand, obviously from constantly swiping your hand along a freshly drawn on paper to remove eraser shavings and there is also different kinds of lead, so, drawing it is." Sherlock dropped her hand and felt a bit disappointed. He wished there was more to tell, but this girl was an absolute mystery other than what he had just said. Not very impressive on his part.

"Wow. Thats… fantastic. Absolutely incredible. I may have amnesia, but I know people aren't so… wow."

Sherlock looked at her with shock. "You really think so?"

"Totally. It's amazing."

"Well, that's not what people usually say."

"What do they usually say?"

"Piss off."

Rosie went into a giggle fit. Sherlock couldn't help but start chuckling. It went for a couple minutes until their sides hurt and a cough interrupted there nice moment. Mycroft was standing behind Rosie with an unamused look on his face. He looked impeccable, he practically was the British government and must always look his best.

"Good morning. I am pleased to see you are well, Miss…"

"Mycroft, she has amnesia due to the traumatic events that have recently happened, so don't try to get any information from her," he snapped.

Rosie glared at him, "Sherlock don't be rude to the man. He was just trying to be polite." She got up to formally greet Mycroft. "It's a pleasure to meet you Mycroft. I do know my name, thanks to Sherlock. My name is apparently Rosie."

"Oh no, the pleasure is mine. I am Sherlock's older brother," Mycroft clapped his hand together and smiled a host like smile, " Now, may we go to the dining room for breakfast? There are things to sort out."

XxXxXxX

Please give me advice 'cause I feel like I'm doing this completely wrong. Okay. Umm... bye.

(can't you tell I'm horrible at one-way conversations?)