A/N- Who has two thumbs and just finished the sixth chapter earlier than she thought she would? This girl! To quote Sherlock, "I'm on FIRE!" That's what I get for having nothing else to do on Sunday. And bonus, this chapter is focused mostly on Sherlock again. So there you go.

Also, I meant to say this earlier. I'm sure most of you figured this out by now, but the title for this story was inspired by one of my favorite songs, "Brave" by Sara Bareilles, which is pretty much the theme song for this entire story. If you haven't heard that song yet, go check it out. It's an awesome, uplifting song. One of Sara's best.

Quote that inspired this chapter (and perhaps more chapters to come): "Kids are strong. You'd be surprised what they can deal with." ~Dean Winchester; Supernatural

Enjoy!

The second both Sherlock and Harley saw the body — Edward Van Coon's body — lying there on the bed with a bullet in his brain, the entire situation had changed in that instant.

Sherlock turned to look at Harley, who just stood there, staring at the body. Her face was devoid of any kind of emotion, so it was difficult to tell what was going through her mind at that moment. It was as though she was still trying to grasp the notion that there was a dead person in front of her, while also trying to decide how she was supposed to feel about it. Eventually, depending on how she took it, she might go into shock.

Sherlock sighed, then walked over to her until he was directly in front of her, placing his hands on her shoulders. She didn't react.

"Harley. Harley, look at me," he said, his voice somewhere between stern and gentle. He had never really had experience comforting a child before, but if he was ever going to learn, now was as a good time as any.

She slowly lifted her gaze up to meet his, still expressionless.

"It's just a body. It's not going to hurt you," he assured her. When she made no attempt to respond, he thought for a moment and tried a new tact. "You remember all those experiments you've watched me perform in the kitchen?"

At this, she nodded once.

"Well, this is no different from all those times. Only now, all of the parts are still attached together."

Surprisingly, she seemed to consider that concept for a moment. Then she swallowed, and nodded in confirmation. She took her notebook and started to write, her hand shaking slightly:

We should call the police.

He stared at the note, almost astounded at how she still had enough sense to think logically, despite her discomfort. "Yes, of course," he said. He straightened and backed away to give her some space, taking out his mobile phone and typing out a text to Lestrade.

Come to Edward Van Coon's flat at once. He's dead. –SH

He added the address to the message and sent it on its way to the Detective Inspector. Then he turned back to Harley. "We can go let John in now. You may stay in the living room if it starts to get too much for you. I just ask you again to not touch anything, as Scotland Yard will be here shortly to look for evidence."

Her face hardened, and she shook her head before writing:

I'll be fine.

"I'm not saying you won't be, but good luck getting that past John, if his overprotectiveness has any say in it."

She made a face that would match perfectly with a groan, and then turned to go get her uncle. Sherlock spun a full three-sixty, doing another quick sweep of the room to make sure he had what he needed to confirm his theory on how Van Coon died, along with observations he made all through the other parts of the flat. Then Harley hurried back into the room, John's footsteps not far behind her. He could see her bracing herself for the oncoming storm.

"Sherlock? Sherlock are you—"

John stopped a few paces into the room, his eyes widening in horror at the sight of a corpse lying in the room…with his niece.

"Wha— Sherlock!" John yelled, his shock blooming into anger as he grabbed Harley and started to pull her behind him, trying to hide the body from her view. "What the hell?!"

"This is our man, Van Coon. I've just contacted Lestrade. He should be sending a team over," Sherlock said calmly — too calmly.

"Not that!" John was fuming. "I mean, what the hell are you doing letting Harley in the same room as a dead body!"

"Oh, do relax, John. Besides, I didn't know Van Coon was dead until we came in here. So I hardly find this to be my fault."

"Relax?! Sherlock, she's twelve! Seeing a body is not exactly a healthy image for someone her age!"

"She's fine, John. She told me herself."

"Well, you…wait, what?!" He turned to look at Harley, dumbfounded. Harley nodded lightly, as if saying, He's right, I did.

John shook his head, turning back to Sherlock. "Well, I don't care if she thinks she's fine or not. I don't want her in here."

"I don't see what the problem is. As far as dead victims go, this is minor."

"Minor?" John said, his voice dangerously soft. "How could this be minor?"

"For starters, Van Coon's entrails could've been scattered all over this room, with the bodily fluids…" Sherlock trailed off when he saw Harley frantically wave her hands and shake her head from behind a red-faced John — a gesture that universally meant, Stop! You're making it worse!

"…Not good?" Sherlock asked.

"Very not good," John said tetchily.

Harley rubbed a hand down her face, as if thinking, What am I going to do with these two? Then she walked up and gently tugged on her uncle's jacket, getting his attention. She very gingerly held up her notebook that said in her best handwriting:

Please?

Then, before John had a chance to protest even more, her face changed. Her gray eyes suddenly grew bigger, rounder, shinier. Her bottom lip quivered.

Sherlock had no idea why she was pulling such an expression, but whatever she was doing, it was causing her uncle's resolve to crumble piece by piece.

Until finally…

John cursed under his breath in defeat. "Oh, alright! Fine….but you're staying over there, as far away from the bed as possible….and try not to look this way too much!" He turned and walked away in a huff, while Harley strode over to a corner by the right of the doorway, her face back to its usual neutral self. Then she looked over at Sherlock and winked at him.

What sorcery did she just do? Sherlock thought incredulously.

"Bambi eyes," John grumbled to himself as he went to stand next to Sherlock, pacing a bit. "I don't believe it. She pulled the bloody Bambi eyes on me over this."

Sherlock stared at Harley, who had now taken interest into gently dragging the toe of her shoe across the carpet, her hands behind her back. She had just used a single look to manipulate her uncle, not a spoken word involved. How did she do that? This definitely required more study.

They didn't have to wait very long for the police to finally arrive. Soon the whole flat was swarming with forensics officers and photographers in blue jumpsuits. Sherlock exited the bedroom once to remove his coat and scarf in the living room and then returned with latex gloves. A photographer took a few pictures of Van Coon's body and then left. Just outside the door, a forensics officer was dusting for fingerprints on the mirror.

"Do you think he lost a lot of money? I mean, suicide is pretty common among city boys," John suggested once it was just the three of them again in the room.

"We don't know that it was suicide," Sherlock stated, walking over to the corner of the room where Harley resided nearby, which also happened to be where Van Coon's suitcase was.

"Come on," John argued. "The door was locked from the inside; you two had to climb down a balcony — which, by the way, I also didn't approve of."

Sherlock ignored him as he squatted down and opened up the case, looking over its contents. He became aware of another presence crouching down next to him while he did so. He glanced sideways and saw Harley, her eyes narrowed as she looked, before he returned his gaze to the suitcase.

"Been away three days, judging by the laundry," he deduced. He stood up, followed by Harley. "Look at the case; there was something tightly packed inside it."

John turned to him, arms crossed over his chest. "Thanks, I'll take your word for it."

Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows. "Problem?"

"Yeah, I'm not desperate to root around some bloke's dirty underwear."

Sherlock heard scribbling next to him, and looked over in time to see Harley hold up a note for him:

Don't mind him. He's squeamish.

He smirked at her, then turned back and approached Van Coon's body at the foot of the bed. "Those symbols at the bank — the graffiti — why were they put there?" he asked no one in particular.

"What, some sort of code?" John guessed. Unbeknownst to him, Harley had snuck up and stood beside him by the bed, overlooking the victim warily, seeming to have fully calmed down now that she had grown used to the sight of the crime scene.

"Obviously," Sherlock muttered as he started to inspect Van Coon, starting from his shoes all the way up until he was carefully searching his jacket pockets. "Why were they painted? If you want to communicate, why not use email?"

"Well, maybe he wasn't answering," John said, sounding like he was half-joking.

"Oh, good. You follow."

"Uh, nope."

Sherlock gave him a look before turning back to inspect Van Coon's hand. "What kind of message would everyone try to avoid?" he asked. "What about this morning — those letters you were looking at?"

"Bills," John answered.

That wasn't a good enough answer. As he started to examine the mouth, he looked up at John's niece. "Harley," he said, making her look at him. John sent her a disapproving glare that she wasn't where she was supposed to be, but said nothing. "What sort of message would you try to avoid, one you hope to never receive?"

Sherlock could practically see the gears turning in her head as she stared at the window ahead with a frown, searching for the right answer. Hardly a few seconds later, a look of realization crossed her face as she wrote her answer and showed it to him:

Threat.

He grinned. "Precisely," he said before he dropped his gaze again and pried the mouth open. He pulled out what looked like a small, black origami flower, the movement causing the air to hiss out of Van Coon's lungs now that there was no blockage.

"Yes, he was being threatened," Sherlock concluded.

Meanwhile, outside the room, a man's voice said to someone, "Bag this up, will you…"

John and Harley leaned over to get a closer look at the paper flower, hands on their knees. "Not by the gas board," murmured John.

Sherlock carefully placed the flower in an evidence bag. Then the man's voice from earlier spoke again, sounding closer, "…and see if you can get prints off this glass."

All three of them straightened as a young police officer walked into the room, wearing a tie and black overcoat. John backed away a bit, and Harley moved to stand behind him. Sherlock turned and made to approach the man, hand out to shake. "Ah, Sergeant, we haven't met."

The man didn't accept his handshake, instead placing his hands on his hips as he glared at him. "Yeah, I know who you are, and I'd prefer if you didn't tamper with any of the evidence," he snapped.

Sherlock slowly lowered his hand, his face hardening into a perverse expression as he handed over the evidence bag. "I've phoned Lestrade. Is he on his way?" he asked, his voice even.

"He's busy. I'm in charge," the man said with a hint of arrogance. "And it's not Sergeant; it's Detective Inspector. Dimmock."

Sherlock and John shared a look of mutual surprise, hardly believing a man as young as him could be a DI.

But then Dimmock turned and noticed Harley, who had been standing slightly behind John, for the first time. "And who is she?! What's she doing here?" he demanded forcefully, pointing at her. "How old is she? Underage? She can't be in here!"

Harley instinctively reached out and grabbed John's hand as if afraid she was going to be taken away from him, her jaw clenched tight.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him. It was bad enough that this man had waltzed into the room as if he was his boss. He was not going to rid him of his silent companion as well.

"She's with me," Sherlock said coolly.

"You can't just—"

"I said…" Sherlock moved to stand in between him and the Watsons, looking down at him with a hard, intimidating glare, "She's…with…me."

Dimmock's face turned red with outrage, breathing heavily, but his authorative stature deflated under the detective's penetrating stare. He obviously wasn't used to being talked to like so. After five seconds of intense silence, Dimmock turned and stormed out of the room in a huff.

"Jesus, Sherlock," John said after a moment's pause, "Did you have to make him wet his pants?"

Sherlock shot him a look, but then he caught Harley's gaze, which was filled with a new form of respect towards him. Silently, she nodded her head in thanks. His face softened for only a second before he looked back at John. "Come on, we're done in here." He started walking out of the room, the Watsons following suit.

They met back up with Dimmock, who was still irritated from earlier as he gave the evidence bag to one of the forensics officers. "We're obviously looking at a suicide," he said.

"That does seem the only explanation of all the facts," said John.

"Wrong," Sherlock said sharply, "It's one possible solution of some of the facts." He turned to Dimmock. "You've got a solution that you like, but you're choosing to ignore anything you see that doesn't comply with it."

John looked away with a look like, Here we go again.

"Like?" Dimmock asked challengingly.

"The wound was on the right side of his head," Sherlock said.

"And?"

"Van Coon was left-handed." To prove his point, he pretended to try to point a gun to his right temple with his left hand, reaching over and under his head. "Requires quite a bit of contortion."

Harley looked away, trying to hide her smile of amusement from the ridiculous gesture.

"Left-handed?" Dimmock asked in disbelief.

"Oh, I'm amazed you didn't notice. All you have to go is look around this flat," Sherlock said with a roll of his eyes before pointing out his deductions, "Coffee table on the left-hand side; coffee mug handle pointing to the left. Power sockets; habitually used the ones on the left. Pen and paper on the left-hand side of the phone because he picked it up with his right hand and then took down messages with his left. Do you want me to go on?"

"No, I think you've covered it," John deadpanned.

"Oh, I might as well. I'm almost at the bottom of the list." Then, getting an idea, he suddenly rounded on Harley, pointing at her. "You. You're left-handed, are you not?"

Harley flinched from the unexpected attention, then nodded after recovering. He silently took note not to startle her so much. "Good. Then this should be easy for you. Take a look around this flat closely, find the last clue."

"Sherlock!" John scolded. "You can't just put her on the spot like that! Just say it yourself!"

But Sherlock ignored him as he watched the young girl's eyes start to move around the room, scanning any detail. Then she stopped and blinked, finally spotting something. She looked back at him and pointed hesitantly at the table— more specifically, the knife on the breadboard.

He felt a twinge of excitement rise in his chest. "Yes. Now explain."

She bit her lip before taking her notebook. She wrote something down, and slowly held it up:

Butter on right side of the knife.

Sherlock smirked with satisfaction. "Yes, because he used it with his left hand. Very good, Harley."

Her shoulders slumped with relief, while John stared at her in fascination, putting a hand on her shoulder.

He turned back to face Dimmock, who looked confused as to why Harley had written down her answer instead of just speaking it. "You see that? Even a child can see the signs. It's highly unlikely that a left-handed man would shoot himself in the right side of his head. Conclusion: someone broke in here and murdered him. Only explanation of all the facts."

"But…but the gun, why…" Dimmock began, but Sherlock cut him off.

"He was waiting for the killer. He'd been threatened." He walked away, grabbed his coat and scarf, and started putting them on.

"What?" Dimmock asked, looking between all three of them.

"Today at the bank. Sort of a warning," John told him.

"He fired a shot when the attacker came in," Sherlock added, tying his scarf around his neck.

"And the bullet?"

"Went through the open window."

Dimmock laughed in disbelief. "Oh, come on! What are the chances of that?"

"Wait until you get the ballistics report. The bullet in his brain wasn't fired from his gun. I guarantee it."

"But if the door was locked from the inside…how did the killer get in?"

"Good," Sherlock said condescendingly, pulling on his gloves, "You're finally asking the right questions." He turned to leave the flat, the Watsons catching up a few seconds later.

"So where are we going now?" John asked Sherlock when they had taken the lift down to the ground floor, exiting the apartment complex. Sherlock had been texting on his phone the whole way down.

"To see Sebastian— let him know what happened, and get more information on Van Coon."

John sighed and shook his head. "Okay, but after that, we're going straight home."

Sherlock looked up at him. "What? Why?"

John gave him his famous, You are kidding, right? look. "Sherlock, my twelve-year-old niece just saw a body today. I think that's more than enough excitement in one day, let alone her lifetime, don't you think?"

"I told you, she's fine. In fact, she did a lot better than I anticipated."

"That's not the point, Sherlock. I need to think of what's best for her. I'm sure even you understand that."

Sherlock glanced over from John to Harley. She was looking at her uncle with confliction, her lips scrunching up— like she was trying with all her might to say something in her defense…but something was holding her back. Then she caught Sherlock's gaze, her eyes widening slightly, and she looked away, her face blushing.

Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed. She really can't speak for herself, can she?

After a long pause, he let out a deep breath and replied, "Very well."

A/N- Sorry if this ending seems a bit abrupt. It just seemed like the best place to stop for a moment, give y'all time to breathe.

Again, I want to thank all who are liking the story so far and have left their review. They really lift my heart and give me the confidence to keep going. A lot of you really seem to like the relationship I'm building up between Harley and Sherlock. I'm touched. :)

I'll try to write up the next chapter as fast as I can!

Have a lovely day! Or night...whatever.