A/N- Whoa! What the flux capacitor? First chapter and already 1 fave, 2 follows, and a review on top? Dammit, story! I leave you alone for five minutes!

Seriously, though. Thank you so very much for reading, and actually being crazy enough to like it. It means a whole lot, and it gave me the confidence to continue.

This chapter focuses mostly on Sherlock and what he thinks of all of this, and how he and Harley interact with each other (and we get a little more insight to Harley's character). Hopefully, it's not too chaotic. Don't worry, it's still written in third-person point of view, just switched focus on characters. I plan on doing that between chapters every now and then.

Disclaimer: I only own my OC.

Enjoy!

It was an excruciatingly dull day for Sherlock. No clients. No calls from Lestrade informing him of a case even remotely interesting. Nothing. He had no idea what was wrong with the criminal class today. Did they decide to take the day off? He thought for sure he was going to die of boredom.

And then John Watson arrived with his niece.

Harley Watson; uncommon name in this generation. Nickname for Harleen, perhaps? Most likely not, otherwise John would have said so among the other things he's said about her.

John usually only talked about family members of his when it was brought up by accident, a prime example being the first case they went on together, when Sherlock deduced John's relationship with Harry from his hand-me-down phone (of course, he thought Harry was a "he" at the time, but that's not important). And when he did talk of his sister, it was in a strained manner.

But he hardly talked ill of his niece.

The first time he mentioned her, it was during a conversation about his sister's drinking, when he subtly commented, "She's tried to give it up several times for Harley, but in the end, she just goes right back to it."

At first, Sherlock was confused. Who was Harley?

That was when John told him about Harry's daughter; how before she met Clara, she wanted a child and had a sperm donated to her, and eventually gave birth to Harley twelve years ago.

Sherlock had noticed the wistful smile on John's face whenever he talked about Harley. He obviously loved her like she was his own. He talked about how when she was younger and he visited, she was always happy to see him, and drew pictures for him and gave him some of her toys to play with. She had good grades in her school, particularly math, and she loved to read and write. She was a good kid.

Except for one little thing.

She was a mute.

John explained that she's always been a quiet child. Even with her own family, she never talked much. At first, they thought she was just really shy, and she'd grow out of it. But as she got older, it seemed to get worse and worse. Not only would she hardly talk, she became more and more secluded, like she was slowly retreating into herself. Then, one day, she just stopped speaking altogether. She hardly even smiled anymore. Harry sent her to all kinds of doctors, psychiatrists, and speech therapists to see what was wrong with her; they wondered if she had autism, Asperger's, or if it was a medical issue- that something happened to her vocal chords. All results came back negative. It seemed that she just didn't like talking— though a few claimed she had some kind of social anxiety disorder; it seemed the only logical explanation. So Harry and Clara gave up on trying to fix her, and simply let her be (though, in John's opinion, it was because it cost too much money that could've been spent on more alcohol for Harry).

"We still don't know why she's like this," John had said gravely. "It's like she just...drifted away or something."

Odd, was Sherlock's only thought on the matter, and he didn't recall it again. Until about a month into him and John moving in together. Harry had been contacting John for quite some time. Her and Clara's divorce was about to be complete. He didn't know all of the details of their conversations, but from what he understood, it wasn't going over well with them. Sentiment, he suspected.

He didn't expect John to announce that Harley was going to be visiting him while she was on Easter break while things blow over. John seemed a bit hesitant on telling him, unsure exactly what he thought of children in general— considering he hardly even liked adults' company to begin with.

"If you could just try to…you know, not be yourself so much…" John told him.

Sherlock rolled his eyes with indignation. "For God's sakes, John. Just so long as she doesn't get in the way of my work, I couldn't care less," he said indifferently.

"Well, I hardly think that'll be a problem. She, well, she mostly keeps to herself."

"Then there's nothing to worry about. Honestly, John."

It wasn't that he disliked children; he simply didn't care much for them. At least when it came to intelligence, they just didn't know any better. Adults, on the other hand, did, which was far more annoying.

And besides, she can't even speak. So that marks off chances of her engaging in any meaningless chatter of the sort. She was already off to a good start.

Mrs. Hudson was up in the sitting room with him when John returned with his niece from the train station. She saw them pulling up at 221B through the window.

"Oh, they're here!" she exclaimed before heading out of the room to meet them, closing the door in the process.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at his landlady's overexcitement. He didn't understand what all the fuss was about. She was only visiting for the holiday.

Although, a small part of him was curious about her. He mostly wondered if she was like John, in some ways.

Letting his curiosity get the best of him for the moment, he got up from his chair and went to the window, looking down in time to see his flatmate getting a suitcase out of the trunk of the cab, assisted by a head of short, dirty blond hair with a black headband in it— the same hair color as John's. Most of her body was blocked by John, so Sherlock couldn't get a proper reading off of her from where he was seeing her. He turned away from the window just as she was about to look up at him, and he went to lie down on the couch in his usual thinking position. He closed his eyes as he heard the door downstairs open. He strained his ears, trying to listen. There was a short, muffled conversation between John and Mrs. Hudson. No new voice. And then there was the sound of John coming up the stairs, followed by a new pair of footsteps. They were unlike John's, which were heavy from his boots. No, the other footsteps were lighter. Trainers.

They continued up the stairs until they stopped at the bedrooms. John's voice spoke to the girl, and then his footsteps were heard coming back down the steps. Then he entered the living room.

"What took you so long?" Sherlock asked, not looking at him.

John glared at him. "Do you have any idea how long it is from here to the train station?"

"Irrelevant."

John rolled his eyes, but didn't argue about it anymore, seeing as it was pointless. "So, Harley's just unpacking, and will be down soon. And when she does…" he trailed off in a warning tone.

"Yes, yes," Sherlock drawled. "You told me yesterday. No need to repeat it."

"Are you sure?"

Sherlock only groaned in response. Luckily, John left to the kitchen area to make some tea, leaving him alone to listen to the sound of the girl's small footsteps pattering across the room above him while she unpacked. Several minutes later the pattering stopped, followed instead by the faint sound of bed springs— she had sat down on the bed. She was finished.

That was when Sherlock jumped off the couch, snuck his way out of the room, and up the stairs. He'd much rather meet her and make his observations without John hovering around both of them, thank you very much. He stalked towards the open doorway and looked in to see the young girl wearing jeans, black converse shoes, and a blue jumper at least one size too large for her. Sherlock couldn't help but smirk at the sight; of course, a relative of John would wear a jumper. However, he noticed that not only was her jumper too big, it was old and worn, with a few small holes here and there. Probably a favorite of hers that she refused to get rid of. Her jeans were worn and faded as well.

She was sitting on the bed, as he had suspected. She was looking down at her phone with a rather conflicted expression. She was anticipating a message, most likely from her mother. But she hasn't gotten one yet. Obviously.

The girl must've sensed his presence, because as she stood up and put down her phone, her body suddenly stiffened. She turned to face him and her eyes widened, startled. He smirked slightly and apologized as he entered the room. She said nothing, watching him as he approached her with round eyes. They weren't blue like John's, so she must've inherited them from her mother, or perhaps her unidentified father. They were gray, but not the dull kind, more like storm clouds; filled with weariness from the long ride here. He could see how if she got angry, they would come across as intimidating to some people, but her expression at the moment ruined that image. She looked…scared? Nervous? Of him? John must have told her about him on the way over.

He made a comment about her jumper, hoping to break the ice a bit, and it worked, but just a little bit. She shrugged lightly. The corner of her lips twitched up into a tentative smile, like she had to put actual effort into it even though she really wanted to. Interesting, he mused before introducing himself and shaking her hand. Her grip was surprisingly firm. She was taught to always have a strong grip when shaking hands, despite her uneasiness.

When she didn't respond again, he used that as a chance to observe her. Words spilled off of her as he studied her in his mind. The most obvious deductions came first.

Twelve years old. Four foot eleven inches. Raised by two mothers. No father figure in the picture save John. No pets. Middle class family that looks for cheap commendations, explaining her worn-down clothes and scent of cheap shampoo in her hair. Secondary school. Reader. Writer. Left handed. Intelligent. Resourceful. Introvert. Misanthropic. No friends. Bullied. No trace of make-up; no desire to please or make an impression.

And finally: Selective mutism.

He snapped out of his thoughts to see that she had grown tense again. She must be aware of what he was doing. When he opened his mouth to speak, she visibly braced herself. What all did John tell her about him?

Instead, he merely told her to come down when she was ready, then turned to leave. Why didn't he tell her everything he knew about her then, like almost every other time he met someone? He wasn't so sure himself at the time. Perhaps because he didn't want to scare off the only family member that John actually liked. Yes, that had to be it.

However, he just couldn't resist walking away leaving some kind of impression. He turned back and assured her about her mother contacting her, then properly made his leave, not sticking around in time to see her reaction.

Sherlock lay back on the couch, his eyes closed and his hands up in a prayer-like position— his usual thinking pose. John was still in the kitchen, making tea.

Shortly after returning, his ears picked up the faint sound of footsteps coming down the stairs. The steps made it into the sitting room, but Sherlock didn't open his eyes, awaiting a reaction. The steps paused for a just a moment a few feet into the room, until they continued cautiously across the room, past him, and toward the other side. At this, he cracked one eye open and shifted quietly to get a better look. Then he remained still, hoping to examine her without her noticing.

Harley was standing at the window, looking out at the view of Baker Street to the London skyline and then down at the people passing below. She had a spiral-bound, wide-ruled notebook tucked under one arm with a black marker and a mechanical pencil clipped on the cover.

Used to communicate when she needs to, he deduced.

Her gaze moved to his violin on the cluttered desk next to her. She stared at it inquisitively but didn't make a move to touch it.

Has a clear respect for personal belongings and space.

She soon moved from the window area to the opposite side of the room from him. Her eyes lingered on the many books on the ceiling-high bookshelf, as though wondering how many of them she's already read, and if she had the time to read all of the ones she hasn't read if she could. Then she made her way to the fireplace where she saw the pile of bills stabbed with a Swiss-army knife in the wood of the mantel, an eyebrow slightly raised in question.

Sherlock held his breath when she caught sight of his skull resting in its usual place on the mantel. She stepped closer, not taking her eyes off it. Her head tilted to the side a bit as she studied it curiously, but other than that didn't react at all.

"You don't seem disturbed by the skull," he spoke his observation aloud.

Her eyes flickered to him, as if surprised that he was talking to her, then back at the skull. After an awkward pause, to which she seemed to consider something and then decided to take a chance, she opened her notebook and scribbled quickly on the first page with her marker. Then she held it up for him to read:

Why would I be?

He immediately answered, "It's the common response amongst most people. They find skulls unsettling for some reason."

She frowned at this, then flipped over a clean page and wrote down something else:

That sounds rather silly, if you ask me. After all, we all have at least one.

Sherlock blinked at the message, then looked up at her with an amused smirk. "Well, you're not wrong there. But apparently, one is their only limit." He found it quite easy to converse with her even though she didn't talk. She wrote fast. Her grammar was also very good, he noticed. It had to be, of course, since it was her only way of expressing herself.

The sides of her mouth twitched a little— another attempt at smiling— and she went to sit down across from him, seeming to have loosened up a little more now that she and he were talking— in a sense, that is. She wrote some more, gesturing back to the skull:

Does he/she have a name? If so, what is it?

"Billy," he answered. "His name is Billy. An old friend of mine. Well, I say friend…"

She looked back at the skull, Billy, and narrowed her eyes, thinking hard about something. Then she shook her head.

"What?"

It took her a little longer to write down her response:

Sorry. It's just that 'Alas, poor Billy! I knew him well,' doesn't sound quite as poetic as I thought.

"No, no it doesn't," he said with a small chuckle. For a mute, she had quite a sense of humor.

Before anything else was said or written, John came in from the kitchen. "What'd you say, Sherlock?" Then he started at the sight of Harley— sitting with Sherlock, mind. "Oh, Harley…you've come down. Um, settled in well, then?"

She nodded once.

"Good." His eyes flicked between her and Sherlock. "I see you two have already met."

"Brilliant observation, John. You're getting better," Sherlock said sardonically.

John shot him an annoyed look, then back at Harley in concern. But when he saw that she wasn't bothered one bit, he relaxed a little. "I'm about to order take away. Come look at the menu, so you can show me what you want. Same order as last time for you, Sherlock?"

"Very well," he replied offhandedly, watching Harley get up and follow John into the kitchen.

While they were gone, he took the chance to get out his pack of nicotine patches. He only settled for one this time, though, and pressed it to his right arm. Harley returned once he pulled down his sleeve, concealing it. She sat down in the chair John usually sat in, taking the Union Jack flag and placing it on her lap. Sherlock decided to sit in his own chair straight across from her this time.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The only sound that could be heard was John ordering the food over the phone. Harley was too busy staring at the bookshelf again to notice, her gray eyes clouded with hidden longing.

"You may read those books if you like," Sherlock spoke up, bringing her attention back to him. "They're not off limits, you know."

She gave him a look that clearly said, Really?!

"You're obviously an avid reader. It's your way of coping with your problems— your way of escape— despite not having as many opportunities to read the books you want to as much as you'd like. And you know how to properly care for them. I don't mind, as long as you put them back in the same condition you found them."

At first she just looked at him in awe, like she almost couldn't believe he knew that, but she soon snapped out of it and nodded eagerly in promise and thanks. Then she scrawled:

Uncle John told me that you are a consulting detective.

"Yes, the only one in the world, actually; I invented the job. Has he told you what that is?"

The police come to you when they need help with a crime?

He didn't miss the question mark at the end. "Precisely. And they always need my help."

So...it's like freelancing, only more frequently?

He snorted at her description. "You could say that, yes."

What about private cases? Do people who are not in the police force come to you?

"On occasion; I only take cases if they're interesting enough. That goes for police investigations as well."

After pausing a moment, she wrote with a diffident hand:

That's amazing, how you have your own, unique job with your own rules; one that you like to do AND that you're good at. I hope my career is like that one day.

Sherlock read it slowly, then reread it to make sure he didn't misinterpret it. He looked up at her, taken aback. "You…you think so?"

She only nodded in response that time with an unsure expression— that perhaps she had been wrong to express that from the way he was looking at her.

Sherlock didn't say anything else about it. He rested his hands under his chin in his usual thinking manner, getting lost in his own thoughts. This quiet girl had just praised him and his work. She wasn't even appalled or offended when he voiced his presumption regarding her fascination of books— whereas most other people would've told him to piss off and mind his own business. In fact, she almost said— well, wrote— the same thing John had said when they first met. Amazing. That was the word they used.

Interesting, he thought, not for the first time, about the young Watson.

A/N- Second chapter finished! *sings along to chorus of "Girl on Fire"*

I once read somewhere that Gordon Ramsay, despite his bat-shit crazy reputation, actually gets along really well with kids. Because even he understands that when kids make a mistake, they are willing to learn from it, and thus can be taught for improvement. I'm not sure if this is 100% accurate (I'm sure as hell not gonna ask him), but I really like that idea. It got me wondering if Sherlock was the same way in a sense. He got along good with Archie in "The Sign of Three", for example. (It's also one of the reasons I'm excited to see his reaction to Baby Girl Watson in series 4)

That's basically what I'm trying to do here with Sherlock. I hope I'm doing okay. Sorry if he comes across as OOC to anyone. But let's be honest, do any of us REALLY have a perfect understanding of what goes on inside that head of his? We fanfic writers pretty much just have to do the best we can.

So yeah, headcanon that Sherlock gets on better with kids than adults (even though he won't admit it): ACCEPTED AND LOGGED INTO MIND PALACE.