Thank you sooooo much for your favs/follows:

CyanideAndRazorblades (sorry, it wouldn't write it out in full with the periods)

Eleshey,

Jisselle Says Hi,

The-Blind-Otaku,

coeurdetenebre, and

Thetroublewithexes!

It means so much to me (seriously)! To be clear, 'Q' is one of a few of Adele's voices and tends to be the most 'vocal' and violent and hostile. It is also perceived as a 'He'. The other 'voices' or 'people' will come in later on. On another note, to maintain her 'normalcy' Adele has to take her meds every day. Some of them make her drowsy, and in a combo kind of loopy if she wakes up. Without her medication her schizophrenia slowly starts to act up and gets worse. Occasionally certain things will set her off into an episode regardless of meds but that's rare.

If you haven't guessed, Adele has a deep seeded paranoia of electrical (among other things which comes later) things like tv, cellphones, refrigerators, and even toasters. I was going to do lights as well and basically have her live by candlelight, but decided against it. She's trying to keep it secret, and I think the candles would be a red flag. To anyone really. So for the sake of the story, she's okay with lights. now, ONNNNNNWAAARD!

A Smile with Death

"That Adele is such a nice young lady." Mrs. Hudson cooed, placing a tea tray in front of John who gave a quiet nod, nurturing the piping hot liquid.

"Mm-hm, a bit of a shut in though." He said, recalling how Adele rehearsed every day exactly alike. She got up at exactly five every morning, had coffee, read the funnies –John had personally sifted his newspapers for them to give to her, and at six o'clock sharp left for work with a small loaf of bread to feed the ducks. Once home she'd sit outside for an hour, smoke a pack and then headed inside quietly for the rest of the evening.

"Well, yes. But there's nothing wrong with that. She's just a quiet girl who enjoys simple things." Mrs. Hudson replied. John nodded, recalling when he had first learned of Adele feeding the ducks at the pond. Most people didn't go out of their way to feed ducks anymore, if at all.

"I like to feed them." Adele said one morning, "It doesn't seem like anyone else does during the week. It's like a nice treat."

"I am thinking!" Sherlock grumbled from the sofa, "Shut it."

"What're you thinking about?" John asked from across the room, his flatmate laid out board straight on the sofa, hands pressed together while the tips of his fingers rested on his mouth. Not a single muscle twitching.

"Suicides." The detective grunted, looking as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "You mean the ones on the telly?"

Sherlock threw his hands up in aggravation, causing Mrs. Hudson to jump a little, tea sloshing on her cream colored blouse.

"Of course the ones on the bloody television!" Sherlock crossed the room, pacing all frantic like.

"It's a shame that they're dead, yes. But I didn't think you'd be that upset about it." John replied looking up at the lean man quizzically.

"Who cares that they're expired? They're dead for Pete's sake! It's how they died that interests me."

"They committed suicide."

"Wrong! It was murder!" John glanced at Mrs. Hudson, who'd been dabbing at her shirt for a good long while, she was more loss than he was.

"Dear God. What is it like in your funny little brains? It must be so boring." John resisted the urge to slap the consulting detective. He really could be an aggravating prick. Without waiting for an answer Sherlock turned on his heel, grabbed his jacket and scarf, and made for a dramatic exit.

Adele Banks

I slowly turned the 'invite' card in my hand. John had come by to invite me to dinner in his apartment with himself, Mrs. Hudson, and Sherlock.

"Mrs. Hudson usually puts on a great show. Think of it as a welcoming party Sunday is fine yeah?" He said to me kindly, the edges of his eyes creasing with friendliness. It was exciting to go to a party I'd actually been invited to. Your brother and sister's birthdays didn't count. Nor did Christmas or Thanksgiving count either. Those were sort of mandatory if you lived at the place the party was taking place. I decided that I'd get some wine and maybe a cheesecake or something. I couldn't cook worth my life for two reasons:

One: My stove was electric range. I just couldn't for the life of me use an electric range stove. What if it sent communications to the government about what I was doing?

Two: Even if my stove was gas, I learned early on that cooking wasn't my thing. I burned half of my mom's kitchen down-Ramen is not 'instant' ready by the way. Those instructions are lies. Regardless, I raised her insurance, and for a good few months we cooked off of a tiny camping gas stove. Cooking was just a firm 'NO' when it came to me.

I slunk onto the streets, making sure I had a good string of hours left for daylight and happily walked to the store. As the usual it was cloudy out, but I didn't mind. It made me feel like I was blending in. Here I could prowl the streets without the anxious stares, I was actually normal here. It was awesome.

Skipping happily I teetered into the small grocery store. Cautiously avoiding the freezer isle with all the cold fridges and the bright gauging lights. I was afraid of falling in. I quickly grabbed the cake, hoping it was enough for everyone and then the wine, as well as some rice cakes and two gallons of bottled water. It was a lot to carry, but I'd manage.

Of course I hadn't counted on it raining. In fact during my short time in the store it had started down pouring.

"What a dilemma." I muttered, staying safe under the tilted roof. "I should have brought an umbrella." Mentally I scolded myself. That would only making carrying the flimsy plastic bags that much harder. As I pondered on what to do a cab pulled over to the side slowly. An older man, maybe in his late-fiftes to mid-sixties hobbled out, flapping open an umbrella.

"Evenin'." He said, golden round glasses tilted on the bridge of his nose. "Where you off to?" I didn't particularly like cars, but I didn't have much of a choice. "221B Baker Street." I replied, gratefully handing the man my bags.

Once inside the warm cab or as the locals called them 'cabbie', The man rolled the car forward, taking off at a slow pace to match the traffic. It was quiet for some time, giving me space to take him in more thoroughly. His hair was white underneath a checkered plaid cap, his chin perhaps had a scar but I wasn't too sure. However the cabbie must have sensed me staring because he glanced back at me, causing me to flush.

"Sorry. I don't mean to stare." I muttered, turning to glance out the window. "It's alright, I've had worse as a cabbie. You American?" I smiled over at him and nodded, not paying much attention to where we were going.

"Yes. I just moved here not that long ago…I'm Adele by the way." He was quiet, like he was debating if he should tell me his name. Which was okay. What was the point of telling a total stranger your name?

"Jeff Hope." He finally said, English accent thick as honey. "What are you doing way over here? A bit far for a young lady to be away from her family." It was polite conversation, and a common one too. But nobody had ever asked me it before. What should I tell him? What could I tell him?

"Well…" I struggled to find my words, absently thinking that the drive seemed longer than the walk. Unbeknownst to me the cabbie was having his own dilemma, clutching a tiny vile of suspicious looking pills.

"…I'm sick." I admitted, causing Jeff to glance at me in the rearview mirror.

"And I wanted to be in a place where people didn't look at me like I'm a ticking time bomb. I wanted to make friends who know me for me and not for the things I carry. I had a twin, Rachel, who was just like me. She killed herself because she was sick, the medicine didn't help her like it helped me. Maybe people expect me to do the same, to dive off the deep end. Sometimes I think they want me to so I don't burden them anymore. But I don't. I want to live. To see the places of the world, to be loved, to love, and most of all to be given a chance as if I were normal. "

A long drawn silence carried on before the driver spoke, and he chose his words carefully. Honestly I wasn't sure why I had told him that. He was just a cab driver, who'd probably forget my face because he'd seen so many others before me.

"What keeps you going then? If you have no one?" I leaned forward, elbows resting on my knees.

"Hope. A lot of hope." At the red light Jeff turned in his seat to hold me in his gaze. He reminded me of my Grandpa. Who I missed so dearly. "Me too." He said finally, and then we smiled at each other, laughing a little. London was certainly a place to be. The light fluttered green, and the cab revved forward.

"Whoops!" Jeff grunted, pulling into the roundabout. "You'll have to forgive this old man in his age. It appears I got off track talking to you." He made an apologetic face in the mirror.

"It's okay, I'm in no hurry." I replied, letting the scenes pass me by.

I arrived at 221B Baker Street. John was outside, umbrella in hand. He looked relieved to see me.

"Here's your fare." I said pulling the money from my pocket. Jeff held his hand up,

"No worries. I took you way off track anyway. Keep it." Hesitating I slowly nodded, thanking him for the ride and hopped out, John having retrieved my things from the trunk already.

"Oh by the way…" The cabbie called from the window. "I hope you find what you're looking for." With a final goodbye I waved watching the driver pull away hastily.

"What was that about?" John asked, glancing over at me curiously.

"Just a friendly conversation with the cab driver."

"Right. Well, we were worried about you. Turns out those suicides were murders. All of them." I had no clue what he was talking about since I didn't watch TV, but maybe I should read the paper instead of just reading the comics.

"Really?" He nodded anxiously, setting my bags on my beat up table. "Yes, don't go wandering around by yourself. Maybe you should stay with Mrs. Hudson for a bit? I have to go out, Sherlock needed me. Said it was urgent." Before I could say anything he dashed out of the room, feet tromping up the steps.

Bet he's the murderer. -Q

No he isn't. -Adele

How would you know? Did you ask? - Q

No, I don't need to. -Adele

I'm going to scratch out your brains. *scratch* *scratch* -Q

I reached up, scratching my head roughly, clawing at the back of my neck and then hastily forced my hand down. There was nothing there.

You're not real. -Adele

But maybe you're not either. *scratch* *scratch*-Q

I rushed to the cabinet, filled to the brim with non-perishables and took a small black box out of hiding. I chanted my mother's mantra under my breath, filing each pill in orderly fashion before shoving them all into my mouth. Before I forgot I smashed the pager's button, tossing it carelessly back into the wooden draw before teetering off to my 'room'.

The only thing that made it a bedroom was the bed pushed into the far corner, the rest was a painting station where I could 'mindlessly' –as mom put it- doodle for hours on end if I had the time. Canvas upon canvas were stacked against each other, some peaked out from under the bed, others were casted out of view in the closet. I was a total stranger to these paintings, because I don't remember when I painted them or why. I just did.

Hours later I could hear quiet footsteps, John quietly murmuring to who I assumed to be Sherlock. The medicine had lulled me to sleep and I clumsily sat up, dizzy from it's effects. Normally I just stayed asleep once my medicine kicked in, so it was odd that I was awake. I avoided looking at the freshly painted canvas, too ashamed to actually see what I had created. Mostly because I didn't want to see what my jumbled mind was like before my meds kicked in.

I slowly inched towards my front door –that I had left open. Peeking out I could see John who spotted me instantly.

"Oh, sorry Ad-are you okay?" I shuffled, trying to inch one foot at a time, but the ground moved underneath me causing me to grasp at the wall with both hands.

"I'm…oooooookay." I flopped face first into the ground, groaning in pain. Wood flooring was so hard.

"Jesus!" John exclaimed, his heavy feet stomping over. "Help me get her up Sherlock."

"I don't think we should leave her alone." Mrs. Hudson chirped fearfully, "Bring her upstairs."

"There are birds everywhere!" I snorted, falling into darkness.