A/N- *pops up from under desk* HELLO!

Back for more already, are we? Well, all right then! On to more Sherlock and Harley bonding time! And basically Harley taking her time to meet most, if not all, of the recurring characters along the way.

Disclaimer: I only own my OC.

Enjoy!

Sherlock had been texting on his mobile phone since they rode the lift down to the ground floor of Scotland Yard. Each time his phone bleeped with a new message from whomever he was texting, he would frown in annoyance before texting back. It wasn't until they had stepped outside and reached the street did he finally put his phone away and look up. He met Harley's curious gaze.

"Just texting an…acquaintance of mine," Sherlock explained, choosing his description carefully. "Works at St. Bart's. She's supposed to have something for me by this afternoon, but it's not quite ready yet."

Harley's curiosity rose, wondering what this person was going to have for him. She figured she was going to find out soon enough when they came to it. However, if the clock on her phone was correct, it was already a little past two-thirty in the afternoon. The day was already more than half over.

"It's also occurred to me that you haven't eaten anything all day; let alone not having eaten properly in the past few days. You must be hungry," Sherlock continued, making her look back up, "So I figured in the meantime, we could get something to eat while we wait."

She was just in the process of shaking her head in protest— that she really wasn't that hungry— until her stomach decided that it was the perfect time to make a surprise guest appearance by noisily disagreeing with her. She froze right on the spot, mortified. Then she glanced up to see Sherlock looking at her with that smug face, showing that he'd heard it as well.

"I do believe you're the only person I know whose stomach talks more than your mouth," he said.

She glared at him before looking away with a pout. Oh, shut up.

"Don't be like that. You've lost two pounds in just three days. That's not healthy for someone your age."

Her head swiveled back to look at him, an eyebrow raised, as he proceeded to stop a cab for them. He could also tell someone's weight change just by looking at them? That's….no, that's where it gets too far-fetched.

Still, though, she supposed that it wouldn't hurt to at least try to consume something— at least, try again. She was feeling somewhat better than she has been in the last few days, after all. Hopefully, she'll be more successful this time.

Her expression softening a bit, she sighed in defeat and nodded fine.

They ended up going back in the direction they came from, only instead of returning to Baker Street, they pulled up a few minutes away from there at Northumberland Street. They walked for a minute before approaching a small, but nice-looking restaurant. Harley looked up at the green banner above. Angelo's Italian Restaurant.

Harley smiled. Italian was her favorite type of food.

As soon as they entered the restaurant, she was instantly hit with the heavenly smell of pasta, sauces, bread, and other various foods that wafted around her. Her stomach felt like it was trying to digest itself as it rumbled once more with longing. Shut up, shut up, shut up.

When they stepped in, a server near the door who clearly knew Sherlock hurried to an empty table right at the front window and took the reserved sign off, offering it to them. Sherlock thanked him as they took a seat, shrugging off their coats and scarves. Harley looked around them after settling. The restaurant was darkly lit, warm, and quiet— with only four other tables occupied on the farther side of the long room. It felt inviting, and Harley didn't feel nearly as tense as she'd been at the Yard. She liked it.

Then, hardly a minute later, a stout, middle-aged man with a beard and long hair tied back in a ponytail came over to their table with menus in hand, a huge smile on his face.

"Sherlock! Good to see you again!" he cried joyously, nearly startling Harley straight out of her seat.

"Afternoon, Angelo," Sherlock greeted, shaking hands with him.

"And who's this lovely young lady?" Angelo asked, turning to Harley. He studied her for a moment, then Sherlock with a grin. "You never told me that you had a…"

"This is Harley," Sherlock explained, "John's niece."

Angelo's grin widened. "Ah, that nice young man you were with last time. How are things between you two anyway?"

At that question and its context, Harley briefly looked out the window with a look of mild exasperation. Unbelievable. Does everyone think John and Sherlock are a couple?

And the fact that Sherlock had replied casually that John was busy working at the clinic but doing well, not even denying anything, didn't exactly make it any better.

Angelo put down menus in front of both of them. "Have anything you want, on the house. I still owe you."

When the owner left so that they could decide, Harley turned questioningly to Sherlock, who was staring out the window. She opened up to a fresh page in her book, wrote, and slid it across the table toward him, getting his attention:

He owes you?

"More or less," he answered. "Three years ago, he was accused of triple homicide. I was able to help out by proving to Lestrade that Angelo was in a completely different part of town at the time…house-breaking."

Harley couldn't help but smile. So he still went to prison, she scribbled.

"Yes, but at least it wasn't for something he didn't commit."

After a few minutes of silence, looking over the menu, a server came to their table and asked what they wanted. When he looked at Harley expectantly, waiting for her to order, she was at a loss at first, unsure what to do. But then Sherlock spoke up, saying that she'd have the chicken parmesan with pasta, knowing that was what she wanted because he noticed her eyes lingering on that order the longest. Harley flashed him a quick, grateful smile when the server left them alone again, before lowering her gaze to the table, feeling her cheeks grow warm. That was one of the huge setbacks of being mute: being in public places like restaurants, stores, etcetera, and trying to get your point across with people who aren't used to those who don't speak. When she was with John or her mother, it wasn't so bad, because at least they understood how she communicated. But still, it was a little embarrassing when others had to talk on her behalf.

The two of them sat in silence, Sherlock going back to staring contemplatively out the window, and Harley at her notebook in front of her. After only a little while, though, Sherlock turned back to her. "That wasn't the first time someone referred to you as a sociopath, wasn't it?"

Harley blinked and looked up at him in surprise.

"Back at the Yard, with Sergeant Donovan," Sherlock clarified. "I saw the way you reacted when she called you a sociopath."

When he said it that way, it seemed somewhat obvious; she didn't exactly try to hide it when it occurred, but that still didn't stop her heart from lurching painfully in her chest from the reminder. Swallowing, she nodded tightly.

"Psychiatrists?"

She nodded again, lowering her gaze again with a scowl. She really didn't want to get into this— not again.

"And your teachers and counselor?"

Her scowl deepened. She didn't bother to respond, though he might've taken that as a yes.

"You don't agree with any of them, though."

She pressed her lips into a thin line, hands clenching together.

"Why?"

Her hands began to shake.

"Harley…"

In that moment, it felt like something inside her had snapped. Drawing in a deep breath, she quickly scrawled in her book, pressing the pencil lead against the paper with a little too much force than necessary. Then she shoved it across to him:

Do you really want to know why? It's because contrary to what other people think, I do have a conscience. But I also don't like putting myself out for everyone to see. They think that just because I don't talk to anyone, or laugh, or cry, or show ANY of my emotions as much as the other kids, that I'm some kind of mental case that doesn't feel anything— a sociopath, sometimes even a psychopath. But I'm neither of those things. I'm just not like them.

She may have gone a little overboard when she wrote that— may have let her frustration get the better of her— but if she was being perfectly honest with herself, it felt quite good to have that out. After years of constantly being told what she was, who she was, it was nice to let her own opinion be known— relieving, even. She braced herself for whatever the consulting detective had to say about it.

Surprisingly, though, he was quiet for a long time, moving his gaze from her notebook to the window, his face expressionless yet intense at the same time, if that was possible. When he didn't respond, Harley exhaled heavily, finally feeling the weight of her actions; that she had just revealed something extremely personal to her uncle's flatmate— someone she's only known for a week. She leaned forward and rested her elbows on the table, burying her face in her hands. What did I just do?

"You're right."

Harley slowly lifted her head from her hands, gazing up at Sherlock, who had turned back to her. "You're right, you're not. As a high-functioning sociopath myself, I would know." He lightly frowned for a second. "Of course, Donovan, Anderson, and most of the other Yarders take pride into diagnosing me as a psychopath. Then again…" his lips gradually turned up into a smile, "…they're all idiots. What do they know?"

Her face softening, Harley took her notebook back and hesitantly wrote: Absolutely nothing?

He threw his head back and laughed deeply. "Obviously."

She struggled to smile along with him, then looked away and sniffed, rubbing the long sleeve of her jumper across her eyes. For a brief second, Sherlock's eyes flashed with concern, but as soon as it appeared, it vanished, replaced with pensiveness. A moment later, he asked, "Would you like to know how I was able to prove Angelo's sort-of innocence?"

Harley looked at him for a moment, until she nodded lightly, a small smile on her lips.

And so Sherlock launched into the story of when the restaurant owner had called upon him in his hour of desperate need, having heard of his line of work from a mutual acquaintance. After hearing his defense, Sherlock could infer that Angelo wasn't being entirely honest and not giving the whole story, so he went digging around and found that the shoeprint left behind at the crime scene, while the same size as Angelo's, did not quite match his gait (very much like what they'd talked about with the woman at Regent's Park earlier), and had residue in the soil from the area that Angelo had never been anywhere near at the time of the murders. Furthermore, Sherlock had found the tools that the man had used to break into six different homes, as well as some of the stolen property. A good alibi against the triple murder, but a bad one for the house-breaking. It was just enough for Sherlock to get on the chase for the real murderer, which he managed to find within the same day.

Harley listened intently throughout his story, taking in all the details. Sometimes, when he allowed it, she would write down questions regarding the case about something she didn't quite understand, and he would answer her.

So now he gives you free food for life? Harley wrote when he was finished. That's awesome.

Sherlock smirked a little. "I suppose so."

Shortly afterwards, the server came back with their steaming hot meals. "Enjoy," he said before leaving them to it. Harley stared down at her food, taking in its enticing scent and appearance. Well, stomach's not turning so far. That's good, she mused. She took her fork, got a small piece of her chicken and pasta, and, closing her eyes, she took a cautious bite. Three seconds later, she reopened her eyes wide.

Oh, my God.

She proceeded to eat her meal, only this time much more heartily, her worn-down body finally catching up to her need for energy— and also because the food tasted like heaven. Not that she really knew what heaven tasted like, but if it did have a flavor, it'd be Angelo's food.

For a while, there was silence between the two save for the clatter of forks against their plates. Until sometime later, Sherlock's phone bleeped from his pocket, notifying him of a new message. He took it out, read it for a few seconds, then looked up with an excited glint in his eyes. "Are you finished?" he asked her, already picking up his coat and scarf.

She nodded yes. She'd managed to eat more than half of her meal, but she was already full and satisfied that she couldn't eat another bite, plus she didn't want to keep from whatever else he had planned. And so they got up, put their coats back on and made to head out.

But not before Harley quickly pulled out a ten-pound note from her bag and slipped it under the salt-shaker, feeling like she had to at least give the kind restaurant owner some compensation for the delicious meal, despite the favor he owed.

After about ten minutes of riding in a cab, they arrived at St. Bartholomew's Hospital. Harley stared up at the vast, concrete building before her. Then she took a deep breath and reluctantly followed Sherlock inside.

Harley wasn't a huge fan of hospitals— particularly, the psych ward part of them. She's been to a few in the past six years of her life, when her mother could afford to take her to one, and especially when other adults grew annoyingly concerned. Not to say that they made her feel utterly miserable or like she was a prisoner or anything like that. Depressed, maybe, but not miserable. They weren't like those dirty insane asylums in the movies where the doctors end up crazier than the patients themselves. They actually weren't that bad, and the majority of the time she was there, they were more like short "observational periods". Most of the people she's met over the years were actually okay and nice— whether they were other fellow patients or doctors— and were merely doing their jobs. In fact, they found her quite fascinating. In other words, they observed her. Of course, they tried to figure out why she didn't talk, but mostly they were just making sure that she wasn't going to hurt herself in any way.

Still, that didn't stop her from feeling depressed by the mere fact that she was committed at all. To her, it was just a reminder that she had a problem— that she was a problem. A problem that even she had yet to solve for herself.

When they stepped into the hospital, Harley looked around them as she tried to keep up, taking in her surroundings with the familiar antiseptic-like smell and bright setting. Harley knew quite a bit about St. Bart's hospital, and not just informational things, like how it was the oldest hospital in Europe being almost nine-hundred years old. She also knew that it was her uncle's alma mater where he studied medicine before transferring to King's College and then the Royal Army Medical Corps, and that it was where he first met Sherlock months prior to the present. It seemed that even though this was only her first visit, it was like the place had already held some sort of sentimentality toward her— or at least, the people she was acquainted with.

She followed Sherlock for what seemed like ages until they finally turned a corner and entered what looked like a large, chemical laboratory that was empty except for a petite woman wearing a white lab coat over a colorful striped jumper and trousers; her long, brunette hair tied back into a high ponytail. She was startled by their entrance, her head snapping up from the clipboard she was writing on. But upon seeing Sherlock, she instantly put on a friendly smile.

And was it just Harley, or was she also blushing?

"Hi, Sherlock," the woman greeted him with a sweet, but nervous-sounding voice. Then she noticed Harley and somehow became even more nervous, though she kept her bright smile. "Um, who's this?"

"Harley, my flatmate's niece. He's busy, so she's with me for the day," Sherlock replied as they approached her. "She's a mute, and a huge cynic, but she's endurable enough."

Rolling her eyes, but smirking nonetheless, Harley wrote in her notebook and showed it to the woman— who, according to her ID tag, was Dr. Molly Hooper:

I'd resent that if it wasn't so true. Nice to meet you.

Her message only seemed to confuse Molly more. She looked over to Sherlock in disbelief. "So, technically you're…babysitting?"

"Don't be absurd, Molly. If anything, I'm educating," Sherlock said.

Whatever you say, Holmes-Senpai, Harley thought sarcastically.

"So, have you got it?" Sherlock asked, quickly changing the subject.

Molly nodded, quickly walking over to a large, stainless steel freezer. She reached out, but stopped suddenly, her hand on the handle. She turned to the two of them uncertainly. "Um…are you sure it's all right, you know…with her here? How old is she?"

"She's fine. She's already seen two fresh cadavers in the last week alone."

Harley stared ahead awkwardly. I've…got nothing for that.

At first, Molly looked horrified for the girl, but when Harley smiled softly in reassurance, she relaxed a little, though she still came off as nervous and unsure. She hesitantly opened the freezer, and Harley and Sherlock stepped closer to see something Harley wasn't really expecting, though she suspected it was going to be something along the lines. It was a head— an actual, human head perched on a tray in the freezer, severed from its body from the bottom of the neck up; eyes closed, lips slightly parted, skin white and a bit frosted from the low temperature. His dark grey hair was combed back neatly, though.

It took Harley more than a moment to get used to what she was looking at, while also swallowing down the chicken parmesan that threatened to come back up.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed at the head, his nose sniffing sharply. "How fresh?"

"Just in," replied Molly. "Fifty-nine, natural causes."

Harley stared at the head curiously, then tugged on Molly's lab coat to get her attention.

Where's the rest of him? I'm just wondering, she wrote.

"Oh— well, usually, in these cases, they get cremated," Molly explained. "So his head may be a bit chilly now, but don't worry, the rest of him is quite toasty." She laughed lightly.

"Don't make jokes, Molly," Sherlock drawled, but before he could finish his sentence, Harley let out a soft snort as she grinned, shoulders shaking a little. She was liking this woman more and more. She wrote: Good one.

Molly smiled back, her expression a mixture of embarrassment at Sherlock's comment, but also relief that Harley wasn't put off by her quip. Meanwhile, Sherlock glanced over and quirked an eyebrow at the girl's reaction, but then shook his head before he carefully took the head out, still on the tray, placing it on one of the lab tables.

"So, what's the experiment this time?" Molly asked.

"Measuring the coagulation of saliva after death," he answered offhandedly, already taking out latex gloves from a drawer, throwing a pair to an unsuspecting Harley, and then getting out a pair of pliers. Glancing from Sherlock to Molly, Harley hesitantly put on the gloves and came up next to the detective, sitting on the high stool beside him.

Then Sherlock handed her the pliers. "Open his mouth. Make sure you have a firm grip on his cranium so he doesn't fall over."

Oh, great.

Rolling up her sleeves and doing what he said to keep the head upright, she slowly and gradually pried open the lips. She and Sherlock leaned closer to get a better look inside the mouth, Harley trying to block out the already decaying smell.

"Excellent! Saliva is still in full liquid form," Sherlock said with way too much enthusiasm for a man examining a disembodied head. He pulled out his own notepad and immediately started jotting down notes. Harley didn't see what he was writing down though— too busy trying to keep her distance from the head while still keeping her hold on it. John would definitely kill me if he knew what I was doing right now. Probably mount my head right next to it.

It wasn't until a minute later (it felt like an hour) that Sherlock finally let her release the head. "Best results are to check for any changes every two hours, at the minimum. Molly, the cooler?" He turned toward the doctor expectantly.

"Oh, um, just over there. You can't miss it. It's already prepared," Molly informed, smiling, and he went to fetch it.

After Harley carefully removed her gloves and disposed of them, she approached Molly with her notebook in tow.

If you don't mind my asking, what exactly do you do? She had written down, staring at the woman with interest.

"Well, I'm a pathologist," Molly answered. "Pathology is the study of human diseases, and identifying them through examining tissue, organs, and other bodily fluids."

Harley smiled. She knew what pathology was, having read about it, but she had never met an expert on the subject before— not that she had many opportunities to meet one before now, of course. She quickly scrawled:

So you basically look at a dead body, and you're able to know the cause of its death. That's amazing.

Molly beamed coyly. "Pretty much, yes. The best part, in my opinion, is that my patients never complain at all."

Harley's smile spread into an amused grin before writing: Stop, you're killing me. I might end up being your next patient.

Molly giggled, to Harley's pleasure. Harley really liked Molly Hooper. She was sweet and nice, but also had a morbid sense of humor— one that showed that she's worked around dead people long enough to make jokes out of it. Harley found that quite comical. That, and she was a pathologist— a difficult field in science and biology that Harley didn't think a lot of women would even be expected to be interested in. Lovely and intelligent. I wouldn't be surprised if men were flocking toward her daily, Harley mused. Though, she couldn't help but notice that Molly seemed to only have eyes for the consulting detective, based on how the woman would often times glance toward him with a somewhat dreamy smile, her cheeks flushed a shade of pink.

Harley smirked knowingly. I may be a nutcase, but I know a crush when I see one.

And the only one who didn't seem to notice it was Sherlock himself. Some master of observation he was.

After thanking the pathologist via her notebook, she went back to where Sherlock was, who just finished up placing the head in the cooler.

So, we're taking it back to the flat? She enquired once she had his attention.

"Unless you'd rather spend the next twenty-four hours or more here," he said. "You don't mind, do you?"

She only needed to think about it for a second before she shrugged. She wrote: If the Disney Company can keep Walt's head in their freezer, I'm sure you can keep Stephano in yours, too.

Sherlock stared at her message blankly for five whole seconds after reading. "That's a myth," he deadpanned.

How would you know?

Sherlock didn't bother to answer that. Instead, he changed the subject by questioning, "Also, who's Stephano?"

She inclined her head toward the cooler.

"Why?"

He just looks like a Stephano.

Sherlock shook his head disdainfully. "Preposterous." He turned to pick up the cooler, but Harley could've sworn she heard him mutter under his breath, "He clearly looks more like a Douglas."

She smirked. Then she grabbed onto the other end of the cooler's handle so that he wouldn't have to carry it by himself, both of them holding it between them. Sherlock looked at her, and upon seeing her small smile, the corner of his lips twitched up for a mere second before looking away, clearing his throat. They started to walk toward the exit with the cooler in tow. Harley waved goodbye to Molly, who waved back before gazing at Sherlock.

"Bye, Sherlock," she said sweetly.

Oh, man, she's got it bad, Harley thought, ducking her head to hide her smile.

Sherlock, on the other hand, merely hummed in response, hardly sparing her a glimpse as they left the lab and started down the hall toward the exit.

Harley forced down her growing grin with difficulty. And he hasn't got it at all. Maybe if I…

She mentally shook the mere thought out of her head. Nah, I'm not going anywhere near this one. They're on their own here.

And she had a feeling that it was probably better that way.

A/N- Harley: 'Does everyone think John and Sherlock are a couple?!'

Me: "Yes. Yes, they do."

Harley: *Internal screaming*

I believe that for the sake of whatever's left of Harley's sanity, we steer her clear from the Johnlock side of the internet. What say you?

I've always wondered what the scene with Sherlock getting that severed head at the beginning of The Great Game would be like. So I decided to come up with my own bit with Harley. It basically ended up being filled with jokes about death (shut up, they're hilarious!)

Also, have I ever mentioned how much I freaking adore Molly Hooper? No? Well, then. I love her, I love her, I LOVE HER! She's a badass, and no one can tell me otherwise! She knows crap about dead people, she helped fake Sherlock's death, and, AND: she dated the world's most dangerous criminal mastermind, got him to watch Glee, dumped his ass, and lived to tell the tale! If that's not badass, I don't know what is!

And yes, often times, you can find me onboard the occasional Sherlolly ship. It ain't here, though. Sorry.