~Two weeks later~

Harlequin was surprised it had taken her this long to assemble a plan to finish what her father had started. She already knew who to target, it was easy enough. The detective inspector, the housekeeper, the woman whom her father "dated", the one who worked in the morgue, all were not important. Only the army doctor was.

She'd followed him, unnoticed. She'd even tailed him all the way to the grave of the consulting detective. And now, she knew his schedule by heart. The taxi slowed, stopped at the end of Baker Street, she paid the driver, and hopped out.

Just a few doors down, in the flat, John Watson would be eating breakfast.

Breakfast. The word itself made her stomach rumble, loudly. She hadn't eaten properly ever since her meeting with Sebastian. A bite of sandwich here, a sip of soup there. She'd been drinking though. Jim always had a no-alcohol rule, but it had hurt so badly that it had to be an exception. Petals of pain blossomed in her head as she staggered towards the flat.

Okay, maybe raiding Sebastian's secret stash of liquor in the kitchen was a bad idea.

Harlequin barely made it to the door of 221B before her knees gave way and she collapsed on the steps.

Fuck. Get up, Quin, you can't show weakness now. Not when you have things to do.

Getting on her hands and knees, she pushed herself up, and turned the doorknob. It was open. She focused on the task ahead, the task of climbing the stairs that now lay before her. Don't throw up. Don't fucking throw up. Stepping into the flat, she closed the door as quietly as she could, walked towards the stairs and placed a hand on the wall. No wonder her father had a no-alcohol rule. Tasted good, in a bitter sort of way, but the aftermath was pure hell.

Careful not to drag her feet, Harlequin ascended the stairs to the second floor, and paused at the doorway. Taking a deep breath, she calmly walked in. Or tried to. More like she fell through the doorway and landed sprawled on the floor. There was a man sitting at a desk in front of her, by the window, typing on his laptop. He hadn't appeared to notice her. Gun… Got to use a gun, right? Won't die if I don't…

Scrambling to her feet, she swayed on the spot for a moment. That was when John Watson noticed her, stood and stared. "Do you have a case to be solved? I'm afraid you'll-"

His eyes widened a little more when she lunged at him, but the world suddenly tilted as she did, and Harlequin missed him completely, crashing into the desk. The air went out of her lungs, she took a few steps back. Her head was spinning. Spinning, spinning, like a top. Thoughts, emotions rushed to her head, and the girl let their chaotic melody fill her ears.

Have to kill him, make Jim proud, make Seb proud, send him to hell, why to hell, why not to heaven, wait, why would I want to, I want to watch him suffer, make his death painfully slow, where is my gun, shit, I feel funny, damn it, Seb, knew it was a bad call to drink, need my wits and now I'm a teen drunk, real nice, Quin, real nice.

"Hey, easy now," the doctor was saying, soothingly, hands out, treating her like a spooked horse.

"Go to hell!" she screamed, trying to shake her sleeve so that the knife hidden up it would land neatly in her palm. The knife slid out messily, she caught it as it fell, fumbled, then dropped it. Cold anger somehow jumped out of the tangled ball her emotions were, and she managed to fix John with a steely-eyed stare.

Bending down, Harlequin made to pick up the knife, but as soon as her fingers sought cold metal, her knees buckled, causing her to get down on all fours. Her stomach heaved, she retched, but didn't vomit, and that made her feel even worst. With a final glare up at her target, a blurry figure in a jumper, towering over her, saying words that didn't make sense, she let herself finally collapse, sinking into a black abyss of disappointment and utter outrage.

~ An unidentified amount of time later~

She woke up in bed. Her bed back in her flat. How did she get there was a mystery to her. Harlequin sat up, with a sigh, and clamped her hands over her mouth as she gave a sudden scream.

Standing by the door was Jim Moriarty. Arms folded, smiling that damnable smile of his, he watched her stare at him. "Morning, Quin. Did you miss me?" he asked.

"You're dead. Seb said you shot yourself in the head," she said, going pale. "You're fucking dead!"

"As you can clearly see, I'm not."

He looked as he always did, with his immaculately kept Westwood. Only thing was that there was something wrong. No, nothing wrong with him, but she had that gut feeling that something wasn't right. "Okay, I want to know how I got from 221B all the way back here," she demanded.

His eyes flickered, becoming obsidian for a brief moment. Another, and it was back to normal. And that was when Harlequin knew. She stood, and pulled out her gun. "Okay, Jim, I really don't want to do this, but I will if you make me." She couldn't really. She couldn't pull the trigger on her own goddamn father, even if she was a trained assassin. It was different than killing her mother. For starters, she never even loved her.

"So overeager to kill, that's solid proof you're my daughter," he commented, looking at her, with a smile. The moment the words were out, his face darkened, his eyes went obsidian. "Now," he continued, voice becoming a growl. "Get Johnny boy."

Harlequin woke. For real, this time, since she was a strange sofa, in a strange flat, covered by a blanket that obviously wasn't hers. Memories rushed back, and she sat up, engulfed in supernovas of pain that exploded in her mind. The sound of footsteps, and her vision cleared enough so that she could see who was standing there. "No, we can't have any of that here, can we?" Strong, firm hands pulled her to her feet and steadied her, leading her… Somewhere? Harlequin knew that- at any moment- John could simply lead her out a window or whip out a gun and shoot her at point-blank range. Yet he didn't. She suspected that he hadn't seen her dog tags, assuming her to be some kind of bipolar, or maybe a fearful client was a case.

Okay, maybe not the latter.

She was brought to a white room with a shower head, a toilet. Aha. The bathroom. Should've guessed. Her stomach heaved, and she dropped to her knees in front of the toilet bowl, violently throwing up the remains of her almost non-existent breakfast.

I'm such a failure.

Leaning back, she wiped her mouth on her sleeve, and stood up, shakily. The world was back to normal, thankfully. "So…" the doctor said, casually, as she wandered over to the sink and began to wash her mouth and face. "Who exactly are you?" Turning the tap off, the girl's mind flooded itself with millions of fake identities, backstories, ways to turn this setback into something that would've made her father proud to have created his spawn.

"I'm Quin," she decided, glancing at John. "Uh… Sorry about coming in drunk and all…"

"It's okay. Do you want to –uh- phone someone to pick you up?"

"Actually, no, I have a case for you to solve."

That mere sentence, those ten words, caused a flurry of emotion to flicker across his face: Excitement, confusion, panic, resignation. "Haven't you read the papers? Sherlock is… dead. If you have a case, take it to Scotland Yard," he muttered, walking out. She followed him.

"But you're the next best thing!" she blurted out, a sudden spark of inspiration flaring in her brain. "Your blog is brilliant, it is, and you're smart, too."

"No."

She stared at him as they went from the kitchen to the living room. "You'll be doing him proud, then."

"No."

A rush of anger. She hated the man who stood before her, for his utter stupidity, for not playing the game. But she's change that soon…

"Aren't ordinary people adorable?" The line –one of Jim's favorites- echoed in her head. He had forgotten to add sometimes annoying.

She rolled her eyes. "Fine. I'll go to the Yard, get their second-rate detectives on this," Harlequin said. "Thank you for your time." Bowing stiffly, she left the flat, inwardly smirking.

Exiting the flat, she stepped into the street and took a deep breath.

I'll just create a case then.

It was that fucking easy. She walked away, took out her phone and speed-dialed a number. "Hello, Seb? There are a few things you and I need to do…"