A/N- Still sick with a stomach virus, but I'm slowly recovering.

This is the last completed chapter I have so far. The next one is the one I'm still currently working on. That means the chapters aren't going to pop up like breeding rabbits from now on. What? You thought I just wrote inordinarily fast? HAHAHAHAHA you're hilarious!

Disclaimer: I only own my OC. If I owned Sherlock, I'd immediately start filming a SuperWhoLock crossover episode.

Enjoy the craziness!

It took Harley a few days to get used to the usual rituals that went down at her uncle's flat. Well, she wouldn't say "get used to" per se— or even go as far as to call the rituals there "usual." More like, she learned to not be so surprised by the strangeness that was 221B Baker Street.

Harley's sleeping pattern was still running on school-time then, so she awoke earlier than she needed to. She was usually up before her uncle; he claimed he was still looking for a job, knowing he can't live by military pension forever.

However, her getting up so early might be because of a certain flatmate. She swore, the guy never slept. And if he did, it probably wasn't for very long. Every time she went down stairs, he was either in the living room pacing around, mumbling quickly to himself about something she couldn't quite understand, sometimes he'd be looking through many papers, pictures, and files scattered everywhere. She squinted at one of the files once from a safe enough distance. Case files— unsolved ones.

And other times, much like the day she met him, he would just sit there— either on the couch or his leather chair— just staring off into space, not talking for long periods of time. Not that she minded that or anything. It wasn't like she could talk back if he did.

But that wasn't the only place he'd be. She'd often find him in the kitchen peering into his microscope. The kitchen, she realized, was hardly used for its intended purpose. In fact, there was hardly even any food (which explains why they always ordered take-out for meals or Mrs. Hudson occasionally cooked for them). Sherlock dominated it as his own personal chemistry lab, with what equipment and specimens he could get away with having.

And she was surprised at what he got away with having in his kitchen. One morning, she had walked into the kitchen while he was mixing two chemicals together in a beaker, making her way to the bathroom. He suddenly turned to her upon hearing her entrance. "Ah, Harley. Would you mind getting something out of the fridge for me? I'm a bit occupied at the moment. It's in a container on the bottom shelf, just to the left. You can't miss it."

Not thinking much of it, she simply nodded and went to do so— though, she noted the fact that this was the most he'd spoken to her since the first day, let alone requested her assistance for something. When she opened the fridge, however, she was greeted by an odor she only smelt when she had to dissect a frog in school, except this time the smell was way more potent. She coughed a few times, then covered her nose with one arm as she scanned the inside. The dimly lit fridge made everything look shadowy, but if she wasn't mistaken, she was looking at a container full of human fingers.

Well...that explains the smell, she thought before quickly grabbing the Tupperware and closing the door, relieving her of the foul scent. She breathed in relief as she went over and placed the container carefully on the table so as not to spill any of the contents.

"Thank you. I'm trying to see how a certain type of acid effects their decomposition," he said casually, like keeping human body parts in the kitchen was normal.

She raised her eyebrows as he carefully took out one of the fingers and put it on a petri dish. Then she went and got a glass of water, and sat down in the chair across from him to watch.

Sherlock glanced up at her wordlessly, and she gave him a look that said, Do you mind? as she took a sip of water.

He shook his head and leaned down as he slowly poured the chemical onto the finger. At first, nothing happened. Then a moment later there was a sizzling noise. Harley leaned forward to see better. The finger bubbled up a bit until the skin started to peel off and be eaten away, the smell of burning flesh filling the air.

Nasty…but kind of cool, she thought. It was like watching a snake eat a rat; gruesome, but intriguing enough to where you can't take your eyes off it.

"Hmm, interesting," the detective hummed to himself as he wrote down the results. Not wanting to feel like she was hanging over his shoulder, she quietly left the room for him to continue experimenting.

And that was just one of the strange things she's seen him do in the kitchen. She once found a jar of eyeballs in the microwave. She had no idea why, though, and closed the microwave door quickly, feeling like the eyeballs were staring right at her.

Sometimes, though— usually in the early afternoons— he wouldn't be in the flat at all until later that evening. She was surprised when she and John came back from touring central London the second day and he was gone. John told her that he often goes to Scotland Yard to solve cases if they're interesting enough, or go to the morgue at St. Bart's hospital to go over a body— that was also where he got the body parts, she realized. And sometimes, John would help him with his cases too, taking on the unofficial role as his "blogger".

Also, as it turned out, she did hear a violin in the late hours of her first night, because that was him. He played on his violin when he was thinking, no matter what time of the day it was. It seemed to only happen at night, though, as she's yet to see him playing on it with her own eyes.

But she always heard him. When he played again the second night, she simply lay there in her bed and listened. Sometimes, he would play soft and sweet, other times loud and empowering, but no matter what, he always played beautifully.

Yep, Sherlock Holmes was quite the character.

She didn't think that during her stay, she'd end up getting roped into some of the craziness that surrounded him. But, when you're residing within the same vicinity as him, it's pretty much bound to happen.

And it began on her fourth day at Baker Street.

It started out normal enough. She decided to accompany John to the store for groceries that morning, giving her an excuse to leave the flat and spend time with John. Plus, they needed food…desperately.

Too bad the chip-and-PIN machine had other ideas.

"Unexpected item in bagging area. Please try again," an automated voice droned out of the self-service checkout machine as they tried to check out their items. John cursed under his breath, and Harley was tempted to write down, Language, dear Uncle, but this was John Watson she was writing to.

John picked up lettuce in a plastic bag and slowly ran it over the scanner so it could read the bar code better.

"Item not scanned. Please try again," the automated voice said. Was it just her, or did the machine sound louder and more obnoxious that time?

Apparently, John thought so too.

"Do you think you can keep your voice down?" he growled at the machine, clearly getting more and more agitated as he continued to scan their supplies.

Oh, God, people are staring now, Harley thought with dismay when she noticed the other people in line behind them, as well as a few people passing by, were giving them odd looks. The man directly behind them shuffled his feet with a look that just screamed, Hurry the hell up.

John finally got all the items scanned and put in the bags. He inserted his debit card and typed in his PIN number.

Wait for it…

"Card not authorized. Please use alternative method of payment," said the automated voice in all its obnoxious glory.

This time, John couldn't keep his own voice down. "Yes, all right! I've got it!" he yelled.

Harley was slowly backing away by then.

"Card not authorized. Please use alternative method of payment," the automated voice repeated. If Harley didn't know any better, she'd think the machine was taunting him. The man behind them picked up his carrier basket, knowing full-well that this was going to end soon, while John reached for his back pockets but found he had no other way of paying.

"Got nothing," he grumbled. Then he shook his head in defeat and said, "Right, keep it. Keep that." He pointed at the machine, grabbed Harley's hand, and walked away angrily, leaving behind their shopping and a lot of surprised onlookers.

Needless to say, it was an excruciatingly uncomfortable ride back in silence. And that was saying something.

When they returned to 221B, they found Sherlock in the exact place he was in when they left earlier that morning: in his chair, calmly reading a book.

"You took your time," he said nonchalantly without looking up from the page he was reading.

John stopped in the doorway. Harley, sensing that he was still steaming from his battle against so-called convenient technology, walked away from him and sat down in the other chair by the fireplace— well out of firing range.

"Yeah, we didn't get the shopping," John replied, looking around the flat but not moving.

"What?" Sherlock looked up from his book. "Why not?"

"Because I had a row, in the shop, with a chip-and-PIN machine," he said testily.

"You…you had a row with a machine?" Sherlock's eyes flickered between John and a slightly flustered Harley, as if searching for some clarification.

"Sort of. It sat there and I shouted abuse while Harley watched helplessly. Have you got cash?"

Meanwhile, Harley quietly wrote something in her notebook as John talked. Then, making sure he wasn't looking, she held it up for Sherlock to read, rolling her eyes:

And people say I'm the emotionally disturbed one.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and fought back an amused smile before looking back up at John. "Take my card," he said, inclining his head toward the kitchen table where his wallet lay.

John went to go fetch it, but stopped halfway, turning back towards Sherlock. "You could always go yourself, you know," he ranted, still feeling the need to take out his frustration. "You've been sitting there all morning; you've not even moved since we left."

It only happened for a split second, but Harley caught Sherlock's demeanor change in that instant to a conspiratorial look, like he knew something that they didn't. But it was quickly replaced with his usual bored expression. She raised an eyebrow, wondering what that was about.

"And what about that case you were offered— the Jaria Diamond?" John asked as he picked up the wallet and rummaged through it for a suitable paying card.

"Not interested," Sherlock replied, closing his book with a loud snap. "I sent them a message."

Harley frowned at the sudden ominousness of his behavior. What was he—

She heard a soft metal clank from underneath Sherlock's chair when he shifted in his seat, pulling her gaze down to catch sight of a…curved sword?

Oh.

She looked back up at him with a blank face as he kicked the sword further underneath the chair. He winked at her and put a finger to his lips.

It was the "be quiet" gesture that drove her to give him her best Seriously? look. Who did he think he was talking to? Sherlock just smirked at her, then looked back up at John, who was running his hand across the surface of the table, noticing a long, thin mark on it that wasn't there before.

"Ugh, Holmes," John grunted. Sherlock just gave him an innocent look as he turned to leave.

"You coming, Harley?" John asked when he saw she hadn't moved from the chair.

Harley stared at him flatly and held up her notebook, her answer already written down in bold letters:

And watch you embarrass us both again? No thank you.

"You could've saved my dignity by just shaking your head, you know," he said drily, but he couldn't help but smile nonetheless. He shook his head before taking off and trudging out of the flat.

As soon as they heard the door close downstairs, Sherlock pulled the sword out from under his chair and got up, heading to his room for safe keeping. Harley watched him go, curious about the story behind his morning while she and John were out. At the same time, though, she didn't want to pry. It seemed it was all taken care of anyway.

While he was in his room, she got up and went to her own room, only to come back with a book she had just finished reading last night to return to the bookshelf in one hand, and in the other an Algebra packet from school that she's wanted to get around to. Sherlock came back in time to see her place the book back on the shelf where she found it.

"Three books in four days," Sherlock mused, mostly to himself. Harley glanced at him. "You're quite persistent."

She only shrugged and went to go sit at the desk, opening up her packet and getting started on the first page— equations with variables.

Sherlock walked around until he was looking over her shoulder, watching as she broke down the first problem until she eventually found the solution with ease and moved on to the second problem.

"They give you homework over the holidays?" he asked.

Harley flinched a little at his voice from right behind her. Recovering a second later, she dragged her notebook over to her and wrote for him to see: Extra credit.

He frowned, still a bit confused. "Why would you need extra credit? You're obviously exceptional at mathematics. That doesn't make sense."

Harley kept her eyes glued to her paper, feeling her cheeks turn pink. Biting her lip, she wrote down: I just like math. It keeps me busy.

He seemed to take that as a suitable excuse, and walked away. She sighed and went back to work. Well, at least he didn't say I was weird or anything like that, she thought with relief. It was bad enough she got it from her classmates and even a few of the adults. It was like, Oh, you're not just a mute and socially awkward? You're also a huge nerd? You are just asking to be made fun of, aren't you!

Harley understood perfectly well why people would give her a hard time about her speech problem, but she didn't understand what was so wrong with getting good grades and— well, actually learning stuff. But nevertheless, the complaints and rumors were heard. Just another one of the many unpleasant things about school. She wouldn't hate it if it wasn't full of ignorant, hormonal lunatics who prey on the small and defenseless for sport.

"I don't suppose you know your uncle's password, do you?" Sherlock's voice snapped her out of her thoughts. She blinked and looked up. He was now sitting across from her with John's sleek, red laptop opened, staring at her expectantly.

What did he want? John's password? She looked away and bit her lip, thinking hard for a minute about what John would most likely use as his passcode. Knowing him, it'd probably be something from his childhood, like a family pet or something.

That struck a chord. Her mother used to say that they had a bulldog growing up. She remembered because it had a rather funny name.

Harley scribbled on her notebook and held it up. There was only one word: Gladstone

Sherlock squinted at her note, then looked at her as if silently asking if she was sure. She nodded, and he typed in the word. The computer made a sound as it unlocked, opening up to the desktop.

Holy crap, that actually worked? she thought, stunned.

Sherlock looked up at her with a scrutinizing frown, as if not entirely sure what to make of her. Harley dropped her gaze to her math homework, finding it uncomfortable to be under his intense gaze.

He spoke up several moments later. "People really say that about you, don't they?" She looked at him in confusion, and he explained, "That you are emotionally disturbed. You weren't making that up, were you?"

She tensed, her face blanching a bit. Oh, geez, why did I even write that? she thought.

"Hmm, I'll take that as a yes," he said when she didn't even nod. "I assume the doctors diagnosed you with that— the ones your mother took you to when you were younger, the psychiatrists and therapists."

She looked away. This was not the conversation she wanted to have— at least not anymore— and especially not with someone like Sherlock. The past few days, they hardly ever bothered each other, only interacting a couple of times. She'd read or do something with John, and he'd do whatever, and stayed out of each other's way. But now, it was like all his attention was suddenly on her. She wasn't sure if she liked that or not.

But, she supposed it couldn't be avoided forever. With a deep sigh, she wrote on her notebook and tentatively slid it across the desk toward him before she could change her mind. He picked it up and read:

Actually, they mostly said I had some sort of rare, early onset of anxiety disorder, or something along those lines. It was my teachers and school counselor who said I had an emotional issue. Since I don't speak, I don't participate, and that means I'm an "unstable" student who must be watched at all times.

Sherlock scoffed when he finished reading. "Idiots. As if they know the first thing about emotional disorders. They see a child who doesn't act like all the others, and they instantly label and alienate them. Just because you're mute, it doesn't mean you're unstable. That's ridiculous."

Harley stared in shock. Did he just…disagree with her teachers? That was definitely a first. Well, John always said she was fine, but she could still see the pity in his eyes whenever he told her, like he only said it to make her feel better. But when Sherlock said so, he was saying it like it was a simple truth, a fact that everyone should know.

"Don't look so surprised, Harley," said Sherlock, passing her notebook back to her. "You know it's not true either."

She shook her head, and hastily wrote: It's just that no one's ever believed otherwise.

He stared a minute then looked up. "Well, you have one who does now."

A look of uncertainty crossed her face, and he smirked knowingly. "You're conversing with me, aren't you? That's participation."

She blinked, her face turning expressionless, not giving him a response that time. She lowered her head and delved back into her Algebra homework. A short time later she heard the sound of Sherlock's fingers typing away on her uncle's laptop. She dared a glimpse up to see him gazing intently at the screen, then back down at her paper. She tried to come off it as no big deal, but the truth was, deep down, what he said had hit pretty close to home. All her life, she was like this. She's had to learn to live with it— most of the time on her own. And chances were, that wasn't going to change. People have constantly tried to tell her what was wrong with her, but it was hard to take them seriously, when she herself didn't know why she was the way she was. Perhaps she did have an anxiety or emotional issue; that she was afraid she'd say the wrong thing or something. But it's not like she didn't want to talk. She literally couldn't. No matter how hard she tried— no matter how many times people tried to coax her into making even the slightest of sounds with her nonexistent voice— her tongue seemed to want to curl up into her mouth, refusing to cooperate with her. She even found it hard to smile sometimes, or to show a strong emotion.

Wow, when she really thought about it, was there anything about her face that she did have control over?

In the end, she simply stopped trying, and it took a lot longer for everyone else to do the same.

It was a real shame, too. She usually had a lot on her mind that she wanted to express. If only.

But to sit here, in this room, with someone whom she's only met recently, who told her that she wasn't unstable or a "problem child" just because if her inability to speak. It was…refreshing, to say the least. But at the same time, it was a little scary. She was truthful to him earlier: no one's ever believed otherwise before. She just wasn't sure how to feel about it at the moment. She needed more time to think about it, and if she even trusted Sherlock enough to believe him.

A while later, the door downstairs opened, followed by footsteps coming up the staircase, the owner sounding like he was struggling. Sure enough, it was John, arms full to the brim with groceries.

"Don't worry about me, I can manage," he called out sarcastically as he tried to make his way into the kitchen.

And that, my friends, is where I get my sass, Harley thought with amusement as she stood up to go help him. Sherlock remained in his seat, unmoving. As she and John placed the bags carefully on the table, something caught John's eye, and he turned to the living room. "Is that my computer?"

Harley froze. Oh, oops.

"Of course," Sherlock replied, still typing.

"What?"

"Mine was in the bedroom."

"What, and you couldn't be bothered to get up?" John asked incredulously. Then he looked at Harley. "Did you know?"

She put her hands up in an innocent gesture. She wasn't about to tell him that not only did she know, she pretty much gave him the password. Though, in her defense, she didn't think it would work.

"It's password protected!" John said crossly, his attention back on Sherlock.

Harley looked away.

"In a manner of speaking," Sherlock said, turning his head slightly to look at the both of them. "Took me less than a minute to guess yours. Not exactly Fort Knox."

"Right, thank you," John grumbled. He stalked over and slammed his laptop closed, Sherlock pulling his fingers out of the way in time. As John walked across the room to set his computer on the floor by his chair and sat down, Sherlock sent a look Harley's way as he clasped his hands over his chin: You owe me. Then he turned his gaze to the wall in front of him, looking thoughtful, resting his elbows on the table.

Harley frowned, then shook her head as she walked back into the living room. She was just about to go back to doing her Algebra packet, but the sound of police sirens wailing in the distance outside caught her attention. Curious, she went over to the window, gently pulling the curtain away to look outside better. They were in a prime spot in London, so it was only natural that it was constantly buzzing with life and noise out there— even on so-called quiet days. But that siren seemed to sound pretty close.

Meanwhile, John picked up a small pile of letters from the side table. "Oh," he said as he flicked through the letters before sighing in resignation, "Need to get a job."

"Oh, dull," Sherlock drawled.

Harley glanced at the two of them, the police sirens fading away outside. Sherlock seemed to be lost in thought. John put the bills back on the table. Then he awkwardly sat forward with his hands folded.

"Listen, um…" he started, licking his lips nervously, his eyes shifting to Harley before landing back on Sherlock, as if he were embarrassed he was bringing it up in front of her, "if you'd be able to lend me some…" he trailed off, just now realizing that Sherlock was in a world of his own. "Sherlock, are you listening?"

Harley had stopped listening as well; the police sirens were back, louder than last time. She looked out the window again, not noticing Sherlock finally come out of his thoughts.

"I need to go to the bank," he proclaimed, not looking at either of them as he shot up and headed for the stairs, taking his black Belstaff coat from the hook on the door.

John seemed surprised by the unexpected action, but nonetheless got up and retrieved his coat. Then he turned to his niece. "Harley, you don't mind if we pop out for a bit, do you—"

"Aren't you coming, Harley?"

She and John turned to Sherlock, both taken aback.

"What?" John stammered. "You…you want her to come along?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes impatiently. "I believe that was the point I was getting across, yes."

"I— I don't know if that's—"

"What do you think, Harley?" Sherlock cut him off once more, eyes back on Harley as he tied his blue scarf around his neck. When the girl still looked doubtful, he offered, "You could stay here in this congested flat, with nothing to do but read and wallow in your own thoughts, or…you could come along, where the real excitement happens out there. What do you say?"

She looked back out the window, the police sirens fading away again, but the city still hummed with various sounds out there, where anything could happen, just waiting for her.

Well, when you put it into a perspective like that… she mused.

That settled it. Faster than John's ever seen her move, she swiped her notebook and marker from the desk and ran past them, flashing them the universal "Just a moment" sign with her index finger before she scrambled up to her room. Sherlock smirked as she went, and John had a look like, What just happened? In no time, she was back with her olive green windbreaker jacket on, black and grey-striped scarf tied around her neck, and her blue knapsack in tow— ready to go.

"Come along then, Watsons," said Sherlock, flipping his coat collar up and bounding down the stairs, them following closely behind him.

"Um, we are just going to the bank, right?" John asked warily.

"Of course," Sherlock called back. Then he glanced back at Harley and added in a low, smug voice so only she could hear, "for now."

Harley felt her lips twitch up into a small smile as they stepped out into the brisk, London air, feeling like she had just agreed to go on one of the biggest adventures of a lifetime— like Bilbo Baggins from The Hobbit, almost, only without all the magic, dragons and dwarves. But still…this was going to be whole different ball game for her.

A/N- AND WE'RE OFF! Now things are beginning to get exciting. The Blind Banker seemed like a good place for Harley to get started case-wise. I love that episode, even though it seems to be everyone else's least favorite, but whatevs. Plus, it took place around the end of March, according to John's blog. So the fact that it's taking place when schools are usually on their breaks just seemed to fit perfectly for this.

Fun Fact: Gladstone is the name of Dr. Watson's bulldog from the Sherlock Holmes movies directed by Guy Ritchie. So it's basically a Sherlock reference within a Sherlock fic...SHERLOCK-CEPTION! *Dubstep sound effect*

And yes, I also get the irony of the Hobbit reference. Now sit down.