Three weeks later, she found herself back home. How she had survived that hospital was beyond even her great intelligence. Things were worse, however. She found herself sitting in front of her adoptive parents, who were looking down at her very sternly.

"How could you?" was all her mother said. The words repeated over and over, becoming shriller and shriller as her mother burst into sobs.

The girl sighed. How to explain?

"I get…" she paused, searching for the right word, "… bored." That was all she would say.

"That isn't explanation enough, Georgina Reed!" her father explained. She winced at the use of the name forced upon her. She never asked to be called Reed. She never wanted it. She wouldn't respond to that name, just as she never had done before. She was old enough to be set free, at fifteen years old.

Her parents, thick-willed as they were, sent her to her room. It was messy, full of books and cuddly toys. She considered the books to be hers; the cuddly toys were not. They were meaningless gifts from those adults downstairs, at an attempt to make her normal. Normal? Normal was boring, meaningless. To be normal was to be… abnormal, in her mind. She knew that didn't make sense, but to her it did. What was it like in her parents' funny little brains? It must be so boring.

She packed a bag, slowly, quietly. In the end, she decided to pack a second: one for books; one for clothes and other necessities. Only her darkest clothes – the clothes in blues, blacks and purples – were submitted into the bag for clothes. There wasn't much, only a few shirts and several pairs of jeans, boots and converse. The rest, she discarded. She didn't need, nor did she want, them. She did, however, leave a note:

Dear Mr and Mrs Reed,

I thank you for allowing me to stay within your home. I regret to inform you that I am leaving. Where I will go is none of your concern. I can look after myself.

Sincerely,

Georgina Holmes

Her parents had applied a lock and alarm system to the front door, in a fruitless attempt to keep her in the house at night. The code, as ever with those simpletons, was simple: 564. Not blindingly obvious, but to her, they shone like streetlights on a moonless night.

Slipping out of the door in her warmest clothes, she set off. Away from the place she considered to be her prison. Away from the place her parents wanted her to call home. She knew where she would go. To her father. The address was etched in her mind. She knew the streets, the back-streets, the shortcuts. Yes, some of them took her through unlit alleyways. Some of them took her through unsavoury parts of London. She was not unnerved, however. She knew how to fight, how to defend herself. She knew how to run quickly, how to escape without notice.

Half an hour later, she was standing outside the door of 221B Baker Street. The door opened a fraction of an inch. A pale blue eye, so similar to her own, peered out. The eye flashed with recognition and anger before the door slammed shut.

"No one's gonna take me alive; the time has come to make things right," she whispered into the cold night's air. She would not go to her uncle. She would not become a slave to the bloody svolochs in the government. She was prepared to fight for her rights. She would fight for her freedom.

A/n: Thanks for reading guys. Georgina finally decided to co-operate… at quarter past midnight on Sunday the 10th October. Thanks, Georgina. Anyway, I did use the lyrics to the middle eight of Knights of Cydonia by Muse and referred to the same song in the penultimate sentence. Oh and Georgina's not gonna co-operate anymore until we get reviews! She just said that… after hitting me… Again. ¬¬