Here's chapter two! Hope you enjoy! :)

The child woke up gently, rubbing the blurriness out of her eyes. A groan of pain involuntarily escaped her lips as she tried to lift her head. Her head felt heavier than her body, and ached terribly. Once she could finally see through the blur in her eyes, she blinked rapidly in shock. Where was she? The surroundings were uncomfortably different, and she could hardly remember a thing. As she looked around, her eyes darted from one thing to another. The house felt warm and homely, but it was filled with strange things; a skull sat upon the wooden mantle place above the fire place, newspapers and other documents covered chairs and desks, and finally her eyes fell upon the kitchen, which was filled with science equipment, and odd experiments. She furrowed her eyebrows. She was lying upon a beige coloured sofa in the corner of the living room, a thin blanket laid on top of her. Finally managing to sit up, she began to remember things. Thing she didn't want to remember... or ever forget. She was running...from...no. No. No...

"Ah, you're awake," She jumped at the sound of a voice, and breathed a short gasp. The voice came from the kitchen, where a tall man sat, looking into a silver microscope. He was wearing a blue, silk dressing gown, and he had short, dark, curls. His voice seemed calm, and soft, and he hardly acknowledged her presence at all. He continued to stare down his microscope intently, as she pushed herself up from the sofa, but fell back again weakly.

"Where am I? Who.." she muttered quietly, resting her painful head in her hands, and squinting her eyes shut tightly, as if trying wake up from a nightmare.

A thought suddenly struck her mind. It took over her, filling her up with a coldness she couldn't control. Her stomach churned, and there was a distinctive tremor in her voice as she finally spoke again. "Where is he?"

"Hmm?" the man hummed quietly, without a trace of interest in his tone.

"Who are you?" she asked instead, in desperate hope for some sort of answer, her voice still trembling.

"Sherlock Holmes," he stated, plainly.

The young girl looked down again in thought, and confusion. Long lost words began to whisper softly in her ears. Sherlock Holmes. Holmes. Where had she heard that familiar name before?

Breaking her train of thoughts like a knife, her mobile, which lay upon the coffee table in front of her, began frantically buzzing. Oh God. No. She cautiously picked up the phone, the cold metal numbing her fingers. The text read:

Sherlock Holmes? You're practically asking to be found. -JM

She could feel the blood draining from her hands and her pale face. Her heart was pounding in her head, and she fell back into sofa again in fear and defeat. Tears began flooding her eyes involuntarily, but she wouldn't let them fall any further.

"Problem?" Sherlock asked.

She was speechless, but the silence was screaming the dark, painful truth.

"You...You know him. I mean..I-I...Who are you?" she stuttered uncontrollably.

Like a ghost, Sherlock swiftly looked up from whatever he was transfixed on in his microscope, and stared at the girl. His eyes pierced through her soul. She felt exposed; as if he suddenly knew everything about her. He pushed back his chair, and keeping his eyes glued to hers, he swiftly moved towards her, and sat down on an armchair across from her.

"What about you?" he returned her previous question.

She breathed a shaky sigh. "I don't know," She shook her head at him in disbelief. She didn't know where she was, who he was, and what was even happening. "Where am I? Why am I here?"

"221b Baker Street. You're here because my flatmate found you outside," Sherlock began.

"You've been living in London all your life, although you've never been happy. Possibly because you don't like the city, more likely because of your family. You've been home schooled, and you have no siblings, and no mother. She was possibly killed, suggested by the scar across your face. You've run away from home and you do not wish to return," He stated, rushing his words, each one colliding into the next.

She sub-consciously pulled her hand up to her face, tracing along the long, red scar which started at her forehead, and traveled down her face, just touching the corner of her eye, and ending just below her ear. She stared at him, lost for words, and trapped in his trance.

"Ah, good morning, John," Sherlock said, turning his head up towards the man who had silently entered the room.

She couldn't move her body at all. She was lost deep inside herself; falling into a different world; falling into confusion. The tears she could no longer suppress were staining her face, but she didn't have the strength to wipe them away.

"Sherlock!" She could faintly hear the other man scold, and footsteps rushing to her side. But the loudest sound, the sound which filled her head, her mind, and her body, was the sound of herself, silently screaming to escape. Unanswered questions and meaningless words she couldn't understand overwhelmed her. She wasn't used to this, but she was used to the pain. She always has been; and she always will be. After thirteen years of it, it can be hard to erase.