Disclaimer: all characters belong to their rightful owners.

A glimpse of kid!lock in this one, a bit of angst too. Actually, this chapter and the next are my favorite part of the story. Hope you'll like it!

I do realize that some of medical points may be inaccurate, but I'm not an expert.

ElectricAnya : Sorry for the cliffhanger ^^

Reviews would be lovely =)

Thanks for reading!

Chapter 8. Victoria

Night fell on London. It was around midnight when Watson showed up at home. Sherlock was lying on the couch, eyes closed, three nicotine patches on his forearm. A pack of old faded photos was scattered over the coffee table. Since his flat mate wasn't reacting to his presence, John examined some of those pictures. They dated early-90's judging by everybody's outfits. It staged three kids, one clearly older than two others. To his own surprise, John recognized Mycroft Holmes being the teen. He considered more carefully two kids who were appearing in Mycroft's company. Those were a dark-haired boy, always displaying a know-it-all expression, and a braided little girl, looking admiringly at her companions. Watson frowned, and then faintly grinned…

"The boy IS me." Sherlock cut short to his reasoning. Noticing his friends' doubtful expression, he added: "I was thirteen."

"Seriously?" John said, reexamining photos with a fresh look.

"That's not relevant. Look at the girl. Does she remind you someone?"

Clueless, Watson obediently observed the little girl on captured images. She looked younger than the little Sherlock, as thin as him, but clearly not as showy as him. Her braided hair was raven black and smooth. She'd always be either clinging to Sherlock or looking up to Mycroft.

"She looks close to you and your brother. A childhood friend?"

"This one." Sherlock stood up and handed him a portrait of the girl. "What would she look like today?"

Dr Watson frowned, analyzing details as a medic. Child growth isn't an easy thing to predict, but the more he looked at her, the more she reminded him of a woman met recently…

"It can't be… Rita Sorrel?" He asked hesitantly.

"So I'm not the only one seeing this." Holmes was relieved and troubled in the same time. "She is Victoria."

"Victoria?..."

"It's a long story." The Great Detective hid his eyes by walking through the living room. John had rarely seen him so anxious. The usual Sherlock wouldn't display any other emotion than interest, excitement, boredom and irritation. But then, by the looks of it, it wasn't an ordinary situation, and John wished he could be of any help to his friend.

"Why don't you tell me? Maybe we can figure out something."

Sherlock went to the window and glanced over at the desert street. He hesitated. Maybe never talking about this matter was not a wise choice. He can't pick right words. But John will understand. John may be the only one able to understand what he was feeling, even if he would never admit having sentiments. "Victoria is my younger sister."

For a moment, Watson choked back his surprise: "Your sister. Right."

"What's so surprising?" Sherlock pouted. "You have a sister too!"

"I do, sure… You never talked about having a younger sibling!"

"Well, there's not so much to say. She went missing fifteen years ago."

"Oh God. Sorry." John was aghast at the news.

"And now, she comes back as a French detective, says nothing and gets herself kidnapped right in front of me! This idiot, is she trying to play me?!" The burst of anger was so unusual and unexpected that Watson didn't know how to react. Sherlock was deadly worried, he realized. He was worried about the girl and powerless to reach her. Meanwhile, Sherlock continued more calmly: "When I analyzed her current handwriting, I knew she had an identity problem, a doubt about her own personality. That and circumstances of her disappearance, she's probably suffering from amnesia."

"Ok, hold on, how can you say this? Except severe disorders, amnesia can't be detected" Watson objected.

"Look at this!" Sherlock pulled a piece of paper from the police file they left on the chair before leaving. "She wrote this. Those lines, there and there, it's as if two different persons were writing it – one is strong-willed, determined, the other is shy and insecure. I don't think this girl has a personality disorder, but her made-up character is surely battling with her previous dispositions and education. As a child, she used to always imitate me. A stubborn one."

While he was talking, Watson examined carefully the handwriting. He wasn't as accurate as Sherlock in this kind of thing, but at least he was able to see the difference between paragraphs. "Ok, right, even I could see that her personality bounces from child to adult."

"Amnesia is the only possible explanation of her behavior."

"Is it?" A calm and haughty voice spoke behind their backs.

Both friends turned towards the door. Mycroft Holmes was standing there, gravely staring at his younger brother: "This woman is not Victoria."

Sherlock just ignored the remark. "How did you get in? Mrs Hudson is at her sister's for two days."

"I have my ways."

John interfered before those two siblings could start their typical 'exchange of courtesies': "Why are you here? At this time of night, I mean?" In fact, he already knew the answer – Sherlock might had called his ubiquitous brother and asked for data on Rita's life. Actually, it was exactly the case, since Mycroft was holding to an official-looking folder.

"I was worried about Sherlock being carried away by improbable assumptions" Mycroft answered. Sometimes he would seem to consider only John as an adult, and then to speak only to him.

"Improbable assumptions?!" Sherlock was boiling inside.

"French colleagues send me Rita Sorrel's file. You should take a look at this."

Sherlock grabbed the documents his brother held out to him.

"What's the more, you need to accept already Victoria's death."

A/N Please don't hate me for keeping you in suspense! I'll make up for it by updating quickly!