A/N: This chapter is quite long, but it's also quite important. I've thought a lot about it, wondering if I'm not being cliche, or... well, too dramatic, but a major part of my character and relationship development is based on that exact breakthrough, as one may call it. Anyway, it's important and I've done my best to make it sound realistic.

ShelBell25: Thank you for taking the time to read this story! I'm super happy that you enjoy it and I hope that this chapter is not going to change that.

And also, to a lovely Guest - You wanted to know more about Victoria... So there you go! Enjoy and thank you for writing a review! :)

This had to be the best day ever. Victoria couldn't stop herself from grinning like a crazy person, when she had heard about the stag night and its hilarious outcome. She couldn't wait for mocking Sherlock and his plan for the ideal stag night, because apparently, all it had managed to do, was to get them into a police holding cell.

When Lestrade approached her, saying that one of the desk sergeants had thrown them both in there, she knew she wouldn't miss it, even if it meant procrastinating on her actual duties. She followed Greg downstairs, with a huge grin on her face. It probably made her look like a bloody lunatic, but she didn't really care.

As soon as Greg had managed to convince the sergeant to let Sherlock and John go, they approached the door. Victoria knew that Lestrade had no intentions of acting pleasant. He opened the door and called out in a cheerful, fake voice:

"Wakey-wakey!"

She could hear a groan, coming out of John Watson's mouth, and she snorted with amusement. Apparently, he had spent all night sitting against the wall, while Sherlock lied on the bench, looking… well, quite dead. If it wasn't for the slight rise of his chest, she'd start worrying if he was even alive.

"Oh my God," John mumbled, a terrible grimace visible on his face. It seemed that he had no recollection of where he even was. "Greg. Is that Greg?"

Victoria giggled cheerfully and bit her lip, trying to stop herself from simply bursting in laughter. Boy, they really got hammered, if even John wasn't sure of Lestrade's name.

"Get up. I'm gonna put you two in a taxi. Managed to square things with the desk sergeant," her boss stated and then smiled mockingly, when John climbed to his feet with such an exertion, that Victoria briefly considered helping him. "What a couple of lightweights! You couldn't even make it to closing time!"

"Can you whisper?" John asked, slowly moving towards them. His gaze rested upon Victoria and he nodded in greeting, only to scowl when pain attacked his head with a doubled force.

"NOT REALLY!" Lestrade yelled with a great pleasure, and Victoria's gaze flicked to Sherlock, who opened his eyes abruptly, trying to sit up on the bench. He looked around the cell, with the same sort of bewilderment that had graced John's features a minute ago.

Greg looked at Sherlock with pity and gestured him to get up.

"Come on," he said and left the cell, following into John's footsteps. Painful and slow footsteps, to be precise. Victoria stayed behind, with her arms crossed on the chest, as she watched Sherlock's progress.

He tried to stand up, but the alcohol remaining in his body forced him to sit down again, giving the impression of someone either very drunk, or currently on a rocking boat. He tried again, putting fingers on his temples and balancing his weight on one foot.

"My God, you're so miserable," she chuckled, and Sherlock scowled, still trying to steady himself and find a way out of the cell.

"Shut up," he mumbled, somewhat slurry. To her surprise, he straightened himself and took a step forward, only to stumble into her.

Acting out of pure instinct, she grabbed his shoulders, trying to stop him from falling. His entire weight rested on her much smaller body, pressing her into the wall and making her very uncomfortable. He still smelled vaguely of his perfume, even if the scent got somewhat subdued by cigarette smoke and stale alcohol.

"Wow," she said and grinned at him, trying to forget about how compromising their position was. "You really are a lightweight, Sherlock."

"Shut. Up." His voice sounded so close to her ear that she could feel his warm breath on her skin, but it was only a moment. He took a step back and left the cell, even if somewhat wobbly. She shook her head and followed him, knowing that she would probably laugh at him for a very long time.

John was already at the front desk, when they'd managed to catch up to him. His complexion was grey, with a tiniest hint of green to it.

"Best stag night ever, huh?" Victoria said and clapped John on his back, undoubtedly causing him much pain. She couldn't stop herself from having a bit more fun, before she had to get back to her boring police duties.

"It was… interesting," the man answered and smiled weakly, but Victoria still appreciated the effort. He probably didn't want Sherlock to feel bad. Well, worse. John Watson was one of the most caring people on the entire planet, she realised and decided to stop torturing him.

"Good. Although I can't really say that I expected to see you here in such a wonderful state." She glanced at Sherlock, who stood still next to a wall, looking like a statue. Moving probably hurt a lot, but he needed to put on his coat, if he wanted to leave the station. Victoria sighed and took the fabric from the desk, extending her hand towards him. "Need some help?"

"I'm not a child," he spat in response and tore the coat away, making her roll her eyes.

"Yep. You surely don't act like it," she said and shook her head. "Well, gentlemen, I'm glad to know that your day is going to suck more than mine. My duties call, I'm afraid."

John smiled at her, putting an extra effort to make it look genuine, and she really appreciated it.

"Take an aspirin and eat something. You'll be fine. Eventually," she added and turned around to leave.

"Meet me at Baker Street later," Sherlock called after her, but she only smiled to herself and waved him goodbye. She'd never miss such a great chance to tease him. She wouldn't miss it for the world.

Baker Street was completely silent. Victoria thought she could even hear the ticking of a clock somewhere, and it felt weirdly disturbing. For a brief moment, she wondered if anyone was home, but then she realised that Sherlock wouldn't have texted her a million times to come here, if he had no intentions of meeting her. Probably.

She made it up the stairs and entered Sherlock's place, not bothering with knocking. He had the audacity to break into her apartment on more than few occasions, despite her constant pleas to stop. If he'd seen no problem in violating her privacy, she could at least return some of the favour by walking into his place like she bloody owned it.

To her surprise, Sherlock sat at the desk, in front of his laptop. He certainly looked better than he did in the morning, but she could still see dark circles underneath his eyes, as a reminder of last night's activities. Just as she walked into the room, his gaze travelled to her figure, acknowledging her presence.

"What took you so long?" he asked, returning to… whatever he was doing. "I've texted you hours ago. And don't tell me you were busy, because you've texted me back."

"I've texted you back once and it was to tell you to fuck off," she reminded him with a smile and plopped down on the couch, enjoying its soft surface. God, it felt good to sit on something else than a rock-hard chair.

"Don't know, I haven't read it."

Victoria rolled her eyes, sighing deeply. Why was she even surprised? Sherlock Holmes might have been unpredictable in some areas, but definitely not when it came to polite behaviour. Or the lack of it.

"Why am I here?" she asked, closing her eyes and laying down on the couch. Sherlock stopped typing for a moment, probably looking at her cautiously, but she didn't really care.

"Last night, we had a client," Sherlock stated and Victoria snapped her eyes open. She almost started to giggle at the mere mention of John's stag night, but she stopped herself. The man didn't sound as if he was joking. Actually, something in his voice told her that the client might have been interesting.

"Oh. I'm kind of surprised you even remember that," she answered and smiled, earning herself a glare. "Come on, Sherlock. You don't expect me to simply forget about this morning, huh? It was way too hilarious."

"Nothing hilarious about the after-effects of the most terrible and humiliating evening in my life," he stated and frowned.

"If it makes you feel better, we've all had those evenings."

"How is it supposed to make me feel better? Being compared to the rest of the pathetic society feels more like an insult, than anything else."

"I'm going to pretend that you haven't just called me pathetic," she said sweetly, glaring daggers at him.

"Why? That's precisely what I've done."

"Do you want me to kick you in the nuts, because you've offended me? Or would you rather change the subject and pretend that you've kept you mouth shut?"

"Oh," he said and blinked a couple of times. "I see. I don't think you'd be able to harm me, though. I'm an excellent fighter."

"And I have a gun."

"Which doesn't give you an advantage in a fight with someone like me."

"Like you?" Victoria raised her eyebrows, while Sherlock smiled smugly.

"Someone brilliant."

God, he was so full of himself. She couldn't decide if it was more pathetic or annoying. She generally held no respect for people, who loved themselves more than anything else, but in Sherlock's case, things were different. That bloody man had every right to feel superior to everyone. Not that it justified his behaviour, but still… It made her want to grit her teeth.

"Right. Well, Mr Brilliant," she started in a mocking tone. "Why don't you tell me about that client?"

"It was a woman. She had dinner with a ghost."

Victoria blinked, completely dumbfounded and then she burst into laughter. Was he still hammered? Because he sounded completely ridiculous and he had to know that. Her joyous outburst intensified, when she recalled a different case that John described on his blog. The Hollow Client. Sherlock was convinced that the empty suit lying on the armchair had been the outcome of combining a complex set of mirrors. Or that it was ninjas' doing. He failed to see the obvious, though; the suit was meant to be a prank.

"Can you stop laughing?" Sherlock asked in annoyed voice, and she forced herself to calm down. "The client obviously didn't have a dinner with a ghost. Only someone clever enough to steal the identities of recently deceased people."

Okay, so he wasn't still drunk. Even if that ghost had been clever, Victoria couldn't see the reason for Sherlock's interest in that case. Having dinner with someone was hardly a crime, even if he had gone to extraordinary measures to hide his true identity.

"Has he hurt her?" she asked, frowning slightly, while Sherlock shook his head.

"My client is only one of the women he's chosen. I can't find a decent connection between them, though."

"You? Don't tell me there's something that Sherlock Holmes failed to do," she answered and grinned at him playfully, making him roll his eyes. "Fine, tell me everything. Maybe I'll manage to shed some light on that case."

Sherlock started to explain, and Victoria closed her eyes, focusing solely on the words coming out of his mouth. Apparently, it had always looked the same. He asked them out and then offered them a wonderful evening, although it didn't necessarily mean having sex with them. Each of those women described him differently, but they all claimed to have found someone special. Special enough to look for him, even after he had failed to contact them again.

"What does John think?" she asked, after Sherlock had finished sharing details of the case with her, and the man snorted mockingly.

"He thinks that our ghost was only looking for a one-night stand," he said and rolled his eyes. He clearly despised the idea of someone acting out of lust, or something relatively primitive. Victoria knew that such an event was entirely possible, but in this case, it didn't make much sense to her either.

Why would anyone go to such effort, only to get laid? Not mentioning the fact that he hadn't had sex with each of those woman. He made them feel special, appreciated. He spoke to their wants and needs, gaining their trust. Why? And, more importantly, what for?

"It doesn't seem right, does it?" she said and Sherlock snorted.

"Preposterous idea. It could be, of course, plausible, if one could ignore every single detail of this case. Which is, I believe, precisely what John did. He'll probably even blog about it."

Victoria chuckled lightly, hearing Sherlock's outraged tone full contempt.

"Our ghost must have a reason to do all this. Sooner or later, that reason will become clear and John will see his mistake," Victoria shrugged and sat up abruptly. "Do you have any theories?"

"No."

"No?" she said with surprise. "You're Sherlock Holmes."

"Yes, I'm well aware of that, thank you." He smiled falsely and turned around, walking towards his armchair. He moved swiftly, with no residual signs of his hangover.

"Without knowing his true identity, there is no way of telling what he is up to. The only clue we have, is the connection between those women."

"I take they don't look similar," she said, but Sherlock shook his head. "That would make things easier… If he had a fixation on a certain type of women, he'd become predictable."

"I presume that his fixation would manifest itself in something much more vile than just taking those women to dinners," Sherlock stated and scowled. Victoria agreed with him quietly, ignoring goose bumps pricking her skin. She had a pretty good idea of what those manifestations could look like. She worked homicides, for fuck's sake. "He was clearly searching for something…"

"But what for?" she muttered.

"Mm." Sherlock mumbled, and she knew that he had already sunk into his own mind. He stared into the empty space, his eyes occasionally flickering from side to side.

Although he began ignoring her, Victoria felt weirdly satisfied. Sherlock preferred loneliness, especially when he was trying to solve a case. He often required absolute silence and focus, and people tended to distract him. There weren't many people, who could say that Sherlock Holmes tolerated their presence, but apparently, she was one of them.

Maybe it was because she really knew how to be silent, or maybe it was just because they got comfortable around each other. Either way, knowing that out of all people, she was the one to get so close to him, made her feel somewhat proud. Like she accomplished something great. It was ridiculous in a way, but she couldn't help it.

Victoria got up, knowing that it was time to leave Baker Street. Sherlock became unresponsive, and staying here would only be a waste of her time. There was also no point in trying to tell him that she intended to leave, so she opened her bag and took out a pen with a piece of paper. Let me know if you solved it. -VR, she wrote and put it on his laptop. With a smile, she left the place and headed home to get some well-deserved rest.

"I still haven't finished it."

A voice sounded in her bedroom, making her jump up and reach for her gun instantly. Her sleepy brain was incapable of recognizing it at first, which was perfectly understandable, considering the late -or early- hour. The sun wasn't about to rise for another hour or two, and the only source of light was the moon, which rays pooled into the room through the curtains.

She pointed her gun at a mysterious silhouette, standing at the threshold of her bedroom, only to realise that it was very familiar. Tall, lean, with a very impressive mop of hair –it had to be Sherlock Holmes. Who else could have broken into her apartment again, in the middle of the night, without absolutely no remorse?

"You have three seconds to explain yourself, before I shoot you," she stated, her voice croaky from not being used for some time.

"I still haven't finished my Best Man's speech," Sherlock answered, completely untouched by her threat. Victoria opened her mouth in disbelief and slowly lowered the gun. Her heart was still racing, while she struggled to slow down her breathing, but the words that came out of Sherlock's mouth did not make things easier.

"Do you have any idea what time it is?"

"Yes, of course. It's three in the morning," he answered calmly, making her exhale sharply.

"I was sleeping, Sherlock. That's what normal people do at such an hour. They're not waiting for you to show up, just so they could help you write a fucking speech," Victoria informed him and rubbed her eyes. They were stinging, probably from the abrupt awakening.

"Which is why I woke you up. Hurry, there's no time to waste," he stated and turned around, leaving her bedroom. Victoria clenched her gun tightly, briefly considering shooting him anyway, but she decided against it. She didn't fancy going to prison, not even because of someone so bloody annoying.

"Victoria!" he yelled from her living room, when she failed to follow him. She gritted her teeth and rolled out of bed, feeling chilled to the bone. Thank God, she never slept naked, cause things would get very awkward. Not that her short bottoms and a flimsy t-shirt made situation much better, but it was still better than nothing. Victoria grabbed an oversized jumper from her wardrobe, put it on, and left her bedroom.

To her surprise, Holmes wasn't in the living room, making her fuzzy brain positively confused. It took her a minute to notice the light, pooling into the room from the kitchen. What on Earth was he doing there? Slowly, she walked into the kitchen and found him making tea.

"What are you doing?" she asked, quite stupidly at that, which became obvious when Sherlock offered her a pitiful glance.

"Tea, obviously."

"I'm fairly surprised that you know how to do that," she mumbled and sat at the kitchen table, rubbing her eyes again. They simply wouldn't stop stinging.

"I've managed to master a wide variety of difficult skills. Making tea is quite simple in comparison."

Victoria looked at him, as he poured the steaming liquid into two cups. He must have left his coat in the living room, because he was now standing only in his shirt and slacks. No jacket, she noticed, realising that she now had an unobstructed view of his bottom. A very nice looking bottom.

She stopped leaning on her elbow, suddenly very much awake. Her brain really needed to wake up, because those thoughts were becoming dangerous very quickly. It was one thing to notice his brilliance and be enthralled by it, but admitting to find him physically attractive was completely out of question.

"Why couldn't it wait till morning?" Victoria mumbled, desperate to take her mind off of… well, his ass.

"Sleep is a massive waste of time." Sherlock's reply made her roll her eyes with annoyance.

"No, it isn't, Holmes. Humans need sleep to function. The fact that you don't need it, only proves that you're not human."

He turned around with two cups in his hands and a fake smile plastered to his face.

"Oh, but I've made you tea, Vicky," he said sweetly and stopped smiling abruptly, returning to his normal bored expression.

"You're such a sweetheart, Sherl," she replied in similar manner and watched disgust show up on his face.

"Don't ever call me that, it's truly appalling."

"You deserve it, mister. I do not like to be dragged out of bed in the middle of the night. Especially not by someone, who broke into my apartment. Again," she sighed and shook her head. "How many times do I have to tell you to stop doing that?"

"Considering that it doesn't really work, you could probably just stop it altogether," he said and took a sip of his tea.

To think that she could have shot him… What a missed opportunity.

"Why did you even come here?" Victoria mumbled and placed her hands on the cup, trying to warm them up. "I'm probably the worst person to help you with that damned speech."

Sherlock put his tea down and looked at her intently.

"You seem to be perfectly able to grasp the idea of a wedding. You even participated in planning several aspects of that truly horrible event."

"Only because you wouldn't stop bugging me," she explained and sighed once again. "Look, do you know how many weddings I've attended? None. I hate those things."

"I was under the impression that you rather supported marriage." He blinked, clearly surprised, and Victoria snorted in amusement.

"Marriage? Yeah. Weddings? Not so much," she said and frowned. "They cost a lot of money, you're supposed to invite people you mostly dislike, just because they're your family, and most importantly, you constantly worry about everything, instead of enjoying that special day. Where's the fun in that?"

"So you dislike your family?" he asked, ignoring everything else she'd just said, and she looked at him with disbelief.

"I've never seen most of those people anyway. How can I like them?"

"What about your parents?"

Victoria looked away instantly and clenched her teeth. Sherlock must have noticed her reaction, but she simply couldn't control it. Some things were just too difficult to hide.

"It's safe to say that I have no feelings for them," she said quietly. "I haven't spoken to them in years."

"Are they dead?" Sherlock asked again, forcing Victoria to face him. He looked interested, maybe a bit agitated even, but for some reason, he tried to refrain from a pronounced reaction. Did he think it would scare her away?

"They are alive. I think. Well, my mother most definitely is. I couldn't care less for my father."

"Why?"

"Because he was a terrible father and a terrible human being. Was, is… I guess it doesn't even matter."

"Has he hurt you?"

Victoria bit her bottom lip, as memories flooded her mind, increasing her heart rate and making her palms sweaty, all of a sudden. She didn't want to think about him. She didn't want to talk about him. Her entire life would be better if she could just erase those memories completely. But she couldn't, and a part of her knew that Sherlock deserved to know the truth, that he somehow earned the right, when he chose not to pester her about everything. Maybe he didn't know why he had made such a decision, but she still appreciated it.

"No," she answered and ruffled her hair. "No, it was never me."

"Who then?"

"My brother. He was the only one to protect me." Victoria smiled weakly and started to fidget with her fingers.

"Your mother?"

"Did absolutely nothing. She was probably too afraid."

"Is that why you hate women?" he asked and Victoria sighed with annoyance.

"For the last time, I don't hate them! I just wish we could be stronger. I wish we could protect our loved ones, without the fear of getting hurt. It has nothing to do with hatred."

"But you resent…"

"The only thing I resent is that some of us prefer to watch their loved ones getting hurt, because of fear," she interrupted and shook her head. "I can't stand the idea of letting anyone harm your family, because of your selfishness and cowardice."

Sherlock didn't answer and took another sip of his tea. It had probably gone cold now, but the conversation proved to be stimulating enough to make them forget about it. Victoria didn't know, if she wanted to continue talking about her past though. She didn't know if she even could do it, so she simply waited for Sherlock to ask another question.

"Why are you afraid of darkness?" he finally said and she smiled bitterly. Out of all the questions, he chose the perfect one. She shouldn't have been surprised, not really, but a part of her wished he could make a mistake, just this once.

The words were already spoken, though, and Victoria knew she couldn't lie. He would see through it in a heartbeat. She would describe herself as a pretty good liar, but in such a moment, her skills didn't matter. The walls, which normally protected her from everyone, disappeared, leaving her completely vulnerable. She couldn't hide anymore.

"Do you know that eliminating one sense, strengthens the remaining ones? When you cannot see a thing, your hearing catches up on things it normally wouldn't," she started and closed her eyes, letting her memories take over. She could even smell the mothballs and the scent of old clothes. "My father never wanted me. It was a weird sensation to grow up, feeling as if your father disliked you, hated you even. I was just a kid, so I couldn't understand anything, but he loved to punish me for things that were seemingly innocent. The older I got, the more violent he became. And when he hit me for the first time… My brother told me to hide, whenever he would try to do that again. So I did. I ran away and hid in the wardrobe."

She glanced at Sherlock, only to find him studying her face cautiously. For once, he didn't look smug, or bored, and it somehow gave her strength to continue.

"My brother distracted him whenever he could. He took a beating after beating, and I sat in my wardrobe, listening to his cries and screams. There was a time, when I could hear those sounds, whenever I closed my eyes. I couldn't sleep with my lights off…"

"You still can't, can you?" Sherlock asked and she felt her cheeks warming up. "The lamp in your bedroom has a timer. It switches off after an hour, if I'm correct."

"Yes. I… It's easier that way," she admitted reluctantly and frowned.

"What happened to your brother?"

Victoria took a deep breath and tried to hold back the tears, that had started to form in her eyes, but it was literally impossible. She hated crying in general, but she hated it even more, when it happened in company of others. Sherlock's especially.

"Well. He's dead, so nothing good," Victoria said and hid her face in her hands. "Turns out, there's only so much that you can take…"

"Your father killed him?"

"It was a combination of things actually. My father and drugs."

Sherlock shifted slightly and Victoria looked at him with a mocking smile. She wasn't dumb. Figuring out that someone as brilliant as him would venture towards the only substances that could either dampen his senses, or heighten them, was a child's play. It was still weird to see him anxious.

"My brother started using to escape from that fucked up reality we had to live in. I can't really blame him. I'd probably do the same thing, if I was older. I used to be angry with him for getting himself in that mess, but not anymore… No one helped him. No one even believed that our father was hurting him."

"No one noticed?"

"My father was a doctor. It's pretty easy to hurt someone, when you know so much about human body," she explained and scowled. "It took a lot of time for him to just stop caring, whether someone would notice. My brother already started doing drugs by then, so no one really paid attention to his words anymore."

Sherlock noticed that she wasn't going to continue on her own, so he shifted in his chair and said:

"So what happened?"

"My brother came back home so high, that he could barely talk. Father was furious, so he started to beat him. Except he didn't stop. I heard screams, cries, and then nothing… Complete silence," she answered and clenched her fists. "It was never like that. Usually, he would stop hitting him, but he never stopped yelling. The pattern was suddenly broken, so I ran downstairs and found my father standing over my brother's body, completely motionless. He noticed me after a second, and must have realised that I already knew what happened. I wasn't that little. He wanted to make sure I wasn't going to tell a soul about what really took place. So I did what my brother told me to do, if my father ever found me in that wardrobe. I grabbed something sharp and stabbed him."

"I don't even remember all of it. I acted on impulse. Maybe it was the adrenaline, maybe it was fear. I don't know what it was, but it gave me the chance to run away and hide. When I came back, there was no sign of my father anywhere. All that was left, was my brother's body; bloodied and cold. I remember hugging him, I remember crying for hours, until my mother returned home from work and found me on the floor, covered in blood and tears."

Sherlock stayed silent, but she could sense his tension and eagerness to ask questions. His eyes shone bright with excitement, as he undoubtedly managed to connect the missing dots already.

"I take it they have never found your father," he said after a while and she shook her head.

"No. They haven't. Not that they were looking too hard. All they had was a statement of a little girl, and her mother, who knew nothing about the events of that night. She wasn't even aware of half of the beating my brother went through. Father was careful not to do that in front of her."

"But she knew."

"Yeah. She did," Victoria nodded and smiled bitterly. "It was easier to pretend, though. Easier to do nothing. Like I said, she was probably afraid that this horror would extend to her."

Sherlock looked at her with a puzzled expression. She knew that it had nothing to do with compassion, or even tiniest bit of empathy. No… The question that was about to leave his mouth, would be dry and professional. Victoria may have started talking to another human being, but now… Now she was looking at world's only consulting detective.

"Why weren't you looking for him? Unlike some other policemen I've had the displeasure to work with, you're quite competent."

She sighed and sent him a bitter gaze.

"I was a kid. If it wasn't for years of therapy, I'd probably become a fucked-up weirdo. After years of trying to deal with all this, of trying to put it behind me… I just don't want to find him."

"He's a killer."

"He's also my biggest fear, Sherlock," Victoria said and clenched her fists.

"All the more reason to face him."

He clearly had already set his mind on something. Talking to him and trying to influence his way of thinking, was utterly pointless, even if a part of her wanted him to understand.

"It's called the past for a reason, Holmes," she finally said, surprised at how cold her voice sounded. "I don't want to go back."

"Why?" he asked, completely bewildered. She could tell by the pink hue on his cheeks that he was excited. Sherlock looked like someone had just offered him an early Christmas gift, and she wanted nothing else than just to end this conversation.

He might have deserved to know all this, after he'd protected her from Mycroft, but… She also deserved something; she deserved to be treated like a human being, with the ability to actually feel. She wasn't another one of his clients. It wasn't a game. It was her life and it should have had a bigger meaning.

"Because my childhood was hell. You may be surprised to hear that, but I'm not a sociopath, or worse, a psychopath. I don't consider sentiment a weakness, just as I'm not ashamed of feeling," she said angrily and frowned. "I choose my sanity, over solving a mystery."

"What kind of a police officer chooses to let a killer run around, possibly hurting other people?" Sherlock asked and stood up, beginning to pace. "He committed a crime and he needs to be punished for it."

"Don't pretend that you care so much for the law," she mocked him. "It's never about that, not with you."

"Of course it isn't!" He yelled, stopping abruptly. His eyes were wild, just like his grin. "There are so many unanswered questions! How did he manage to escape? How did he manage to blend in? How…"

"Stop!" Victoria stood up and slammed her hands against the table. "He's killed my brother, you fucking prick! He ruined my childhood, he was a monster and he deserves to rot in hell! We're not talking about fucking weather. I won't let you get off on something that has left me traumatised and broken! I don't want to find him, because I'm afraid I'd kill him with my bare hands, after days of torturing him with the most vile methods the humanity has ever created! And he's not worth it. I won't let him ruin the rest of my life!"

Sherlock looked at her for a moment, slowly getting back to his normal, emotionless self. She tried to calm her own breath, but it was hard to stop her hands from shaking. God, she needed a cigarette. She really fucking needed one.

"Don't look for him, Sherlock," Victoria asked quietly, studying his face. "I mean it."

"You know that I can't do such thing," he answered calmly, making her smile bitterly.

"Then I guess you can rot in hell as well."

She turned around and left, slamming the door behind her. Looking at him was too much right now. Even being in his vicinity made her want to scream. Victoria felt so stupid for even allowing herself to think that maybe, just maybe, he was capable of being human. She was proud of getting close to him. For fuck's sake, she'd even begun to think that his social awkwardness was amusing sometimes.

It wasn't. In everyday life, it might have been tolerable, but it was times like this, when one could see his sociopathic nature. Sherlock Holmes was an addict, getting off on every single mystery he could find. He didn't care about anything, apart from getting his fix. Even if it meant hurting someone else in the process. Even if it meant throwing them back into hell they've barely managed to escape.

Victoria Radcliffe could do a lot of things, but she'd never allow someone else to break her again. Not even if that person was Sherlock Holmes –the most brilliant and mesmerising man she'd ever met.