A/N- *In vampire voice* "Good evening! Wait, it is evening, right? What, no?!" *shrivels in sunlight*

Sorry, I meant to have this chapter finished and uploaded a couple of days ago, but something came up. We've recently welcomed a new member into our family: a giant newfoundland pup. We've dubbed her BB (short for Black Beauty), and she certainly is a beauty, and so cuddly and lovable. The thing is, though, she's only ten months old and already weighs over a hundred pounds...and she's just going to get bigger! What have we gotten ourselves into? We didn't get a dog, we got a BEAR!

Nevertheless, I hope the fact that this is the longest chapter yet makes up for my tardiness. Thirteen freaking pages long, and that's not with double spacing, bitches!

TRIGGER WARNING: There be fluff ahead. Tread lightly.

Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the BBC. I only own my OC.

Enjoy!

Harley was so sure that someone would stop them and question them about the not-so-inconspicuous cooler that they were carrying outside in the streets, as well as the cabbie that drove them back to 221 Baker Street. But no one seemed to be all that interested. They managed to make it back to Baker Street with no one bothering them, thank goodness. If someone did, and saw the decapitated head, no doubt they'd get the idea that she and Sherlock were a couple of psychotic cannibals and land them in a prison cell.

Not that she'd blame them; she'd get that idea as well.

It was also lucky of them that Mrs. Hudson was out when they returned to the flat. It wouldn't do for her to get a heart attack from them.

Harley helped Sherlock take the cooler upstairs and into the kitchen, laying it down in front of the refrigerator. Then she left him to put the head in its rightful place and headed to the living room, taking off her coat, scarf and backpack; she was not touching it again, not with her bare hands, at least.

Sherlock joined her a few minutes later. When he entered, she held up a message:

Is Stephano all settled and comfortable?

"Douglas," Sherlock mumbled under his breath before raising his voice back to normal, hanging his coat and scarf on the door hanger, "Yes. Just bear it in mind when you open the fridge to get something."

Right. Open, bid him hello, get food, then close. Also, we should introduce him to Billy sometime.

He smirked in amusement. "Perhaps when they start to look more like each other."

She smirked back. Ohhh, slick, she thought.

Several seconds passed, in which Harley looked out the window absentmindedly, the sky outside slowly beginning to darken into the early evening. When she turned back, intent on asking him what he wanted to do now, she found him moving the coffee table over a bit so that there was more space in the sitting room. Then he took out the case file that he had acquired from Scotland Yard earlier, opening it and spreading the papers and pictures out on the floor.

Harley watched him as he sat down on the floor and spread out the files more into a more organized pattern. Then she hesitantly approached him and sat down cross-legged across from him, looking over the pictures and reports until he was finished consolidating them.

Harley sent him a puzzled look when he lifted his gaze up to meet hers.

"This was the first case your uncle and I took on together," he explained. "I assume he's already told you what he could about it."

She glanced at the pictures once more before taking her notebook to answer:

He wrote it all on his blog. He's titled it, 'A Study in Pink.'

Sherlock's expression suddenly hardened. "Ah, yes. I've recently skimmed over that entry," he said in an annoyed tone, stressing the word "entry" spitefully. "And I'd hardly say that he wrote it all, as you've worded it."

Harley's eyebrows rose into her bangs, wondering why he didn't sound so enthralled by his flatmate's blog regarding their first case.

"What I do is an exact science, and should always be treated as such," he continued, his tone gradually going into rant-mode. "Crime is common, but logic is rare. So it would be more prudent to dwell more on the logic rather than just the crime itself. And John…he's written the experience out not like the sequence of lectures like they're supposed to be, but like some kind of romantic adventure in a children's storybook. There was barely any focus on my analytical reasoning— where all the focus should've been on; the how or the why behind the events."

Whoa, whoa, okay. Calm down there, buddy, Harley thought when it looked like he was finally finished, an astonished expression on her face. This was the first time she's seen him get so riled up about something— something that didn't directly involve a murder. But she didn't think something like a blog would succeed in doing so. She's read her uncle's blog herself, and she didn't think it was that bad. A few grammatical errors here and there, maybe, and perhaps she would've liked for him to go into a little more depth on the cases whereas it focused more on the eccentric nature of Sherlock himself, but she thought it was an interesting enough read.

At the same time, though, she could also somewhat understand where Sherlock was coming from. This was a man who considered his work an art form of some kind, a logical way of thinking and using that gift to solve crimes. She supposed she'd feel disappointed too if her achievements were degraded more into the format of a series of tales.

With a small, but sympathetic smile, she wrote in her notebook before passing it to the detective:

I'm afraid that that's how literature and storytelling works these days. In fact, that's how it's been since practically the beginning of time. People will always romanticize things in order to pull in an audience. If John did post your cases into the way you wanted them to be, do you really think that the general public would wholly understand? The public who couldn't tell whether a man was left-handed by the layout of his apartment, or that a banker has flown around the world twice in a month by his watch? No, they wouldn't be interested in analytical reasoning. They just want an entertaining story about a quirky guy who solves mysteries and catches bad guys with his companion. It's a sad truth, but a truth nonetheless.

Once Sherlock had finished reading her explanation, he looked up at her with that scrutinizing look that she's seen a couple of times before, like he was looking at a puzzle instead of a person. She merely sat there, staring back, waiting for his reply.

After a long moment of silence, he finally spoke up. "You…you think I'm quirky?"

At that question, Harley looked at him in the same way that she always looked at someone who would say something completely idiotic. Really? That's what you got out of all that? REALLY?!

Exhaling through her nose heavily, she took her notebook back only to scribble a quick question: Am I wrong?

"Well, no, but…" Sherlock, for once, seemed at a loss for words.

Harley ran a hand down her face, lifting her head up toward the ceiling tiredly. This. This is why I don't talk to people.

"But yes, unfortunately, I do see your point," Sherlock said, his expression almost pained. "There are only so few people who are genuinely interested in the work." Then he looked at her with a small frown. "That's quite…insightful of you, Harley."

She smiled and shrugged. I'm well-read, remember? In a way, that makes me dangerous, she wrote.

He scoffed at her response, though he was smiling back a bit.

Then Harley lowered her gaze back to the pictures, studying them closely. She noticed the particular photos of a blonde woman lying face-down on a dirty wooden floor, wearing nothing but a pink dress with a pink coat and pink shoes, as well as pictures of a pink mobile phone and a pink suitcase that was open. Now Harley knew how John came up with the title. Scarlet would've been more her color, she mentally observed. Then she returned her gaze to the consulting detective questioningly, pointing at the papers between them.

"Like I said, you've only heard about the case from John's point of view— however limited that is," he muttered that last part, and Harley frowned at him before he continued, "I figured you'd want to know all the details of the case."

Her face brightened as she nodded with eagerness, getting more comfortable as he began, using the papers as a sort of visual aid.

He started off by pointing out that the pink lady, named Jennifer Wilson, wasn't actually the first victim, but the fourth in a string of what looked like serial suicides— all of them found in places they wouldn't normally be found in and having died of poison and asphyxiation. He told her how he was able to tell that Jennifer was a serial adulterer with a media job who had flown in from Cardiff from her wedding band— that it was dirty on the outside but clean on the inside proving she regularly removed it— from her attire, and from the state of her clothes as well with the mud splattered on the back of her legs. He knew about her suitcase, where he found it, and how the murderer had her phone, which was actually planted onto him by the victim and had most of her password scratched into the floorboard at the crime scene: "RACHE", only it was Rachel, the name of her stillborn daughter. He told her about their stakeout at Angelo's, how they chased the taxi across the city, only to find out later that it wasn't the passenger— it was the cabbie himself. He told her about the cabbie killer— how he took Sherlock to a further education college and had him play the same puzzle he made the other victims play: to select one of two bottles of identical pills, one harmless and the other poison, and consume the pills, while he took the other one; or threaten to shoot them (which ended up being a fake novelty lighter). But then Sherlock had deduced that the killer was an estranged father dying of a brain aneurysm.

So he went on a killing spree because he was going to die anyway? Harley questioned.

"No," Sherlock answered. "Remember what I said about him being an estranged father? Even though he couldn't see his children, he still cared for them deeply. It was all revolved around them."

Harley's eyebrows scrunched together, trying to understand what that meant, but drawing up a blank. Why would a taxi driver kill all those people for his children?

"Here's a hint: Taxi drivers don't get an impressive salary for cab fare alone," said Sherlock.

Harley's eyes widened slightly after a moment of thinking. She wrote: Someone was paying him to do it?

Sherlock nodded. "It turned out that he had a sponsor. For every person that he killed, money would go toward his children."

But who would sponsor a serial killer?

Sherlock smirked. "That's exactly what I said. Who, indeed? But apparently, this sponsor of his was also a 'fan' of mine. Warned him about me."

Then Harley recalled one of the final paragraphs of her uncle's entry on the case— about how right before the killer had died, he said a name. A name of someone— or something— that had helped him with his serial killings. With diffident hands, she wrote:

Moriarty?

At first, Sherlock was silent, a somewhat conflicted look on his face. Then, carefully, he replied, "Yes."

What do you think it means?

"Haven't the faintest."

Then he returned his gaze to the photographs, subtly dropping the matter and going back to another topic. "There is one thing regarding the case that, I must admit, still kind of escapes me," he said, picking up two pictures and placing them in front of Harley. They each were of a clear bottle that had a single, large capsule pill in it.

"Two bottles, two pills. Both completely identical so as not to tell which one was harmless and which one would kill you," Sherlock explained.

Harley gazed down at the pictures with a contemplative frown. She had a feeling that she's seen something like this before— the setup Sherlock had been put in— but couldn't quite recall from where.

"I want you to show me which one you think is the good pill, and which one is the bad one."

She glanced up at him skeptically. You want me to what?

"Just out of curiosity. If you were there, which would you have chosen? Or what would you have done?"

She wrote: How do I know these aren't just two pictures of the same pill?

He smiled deviously. "You don't."

Her eyes narrowed. She was beginning to understand why John found him annoying sometimes.

"Whichever one you think is poisonous, move it to the left side. Harmless one to the right. Take your time in figuring it out…but quite quickly," he said.

Why, are you in some sort of hurry? she thought snarkily, but decided against making it known. Instead, she sighed and moved her focus back on the two photos before her. Her eyes moved from picture to picture, studying the two pills closely. If Sherlock couldn't tell the difference, what were the chances she could?

But why does this look so familiar? She kept asking herself. She closed her eyes, thinking long and hard. Two pills, both look the same in every way. The killer had claimed that one was good and one was bad. He'd played the game four times with different people, and somehow, he managed to win every single time. If Harley believed in such a thing as luck, she'd think that he was extremely so. But she didn't, so no. Sherlock had mentioned that the killer thought he was a proper genius, too, that he knew how people thought. Not genius enough to cover his tracks properly, apparently. No, that wasn't it. He was just arrogant. There had to have been some other way he was able to survive all those times, how he could've easily won the battle of wits with not much to it.

Then it hit her. Battle of wits.

She opened her eyes and smiled. Got it.

With determination, she took both of the photographs and placed them to the left, nodding with finality. While Sherlock took in her theory, she wrote down a small explanation and showed it to him when he was ready:

Both of them were bad. The killer had gradually built up immunity to the poison long before. So no matter which pill the victim chose, he would live, and everyone else would die.

There was a long, heavy silence in the entire flat. After a minute or two, it seemed that Sherlock wasn't truly looking at her hypothesis anymore, but was instead absorbed into his own thoughts.

After what felt like eternity, he finally came back to himself. "Brilliant," he breathed, still staring at the pictures and notebook. "Of course. With him, it would've been easy enough to do, with the unlimited supply he was being provided with from his 'sponsor' and the time on his hands, and if it went wrong, he would've had an antidote on the side to help cultivate resistance to the effects."

Harley smiled a little, happy to help him come to terms with the problem.

Then Sherlock raised his head back up, looking at her. "How did you come to that conclusion?"

Her smile widening a bit, she took her book back and wrote: Everyone knows that you never go in against a Sicilian when death is on the line.

Then, after a brief pause, she added underneath: And also to never get involved in a land war in Asia.

Sherlock frowned, obviously confused. "What does a war in Asia have to do with— with anything?" he asked incredulously. "And he wasn't even close to being of Sicilian origin. If anything, he was cockney."

Harley stared at him, her smile fading. He doesn't know, she realized. Oh, my God, he doesn't know. No wonder he almost died.

Without a single response or sign, Harley stood up and went over to the table. Sherlock followed her with his eyes, still confused. She opened up John's laptop, logged in (poor guy still hasn't changed the password), and instantly went online to YouTube.

After finding a video of the right scene she had in mind, she beckoned for Sherlock come over and see. Wordlessly, Sherlock complied. She played the clip— the battle of wits scene from the film, The Princess Bride.

When the video ended a few minutes later, Sherlock said nothing at first, not looking as amused as Harley thought he would. "Why does it not surprise me that you got it from a fantasy comedy?" he said.

So you have heard of this movie? She wrote.

"I am aware of it, yes."

Right, then. Sometime soon, you, John, and I are sitting down to watch this. All of it.

Sherlock sighed. "First John with those Bond movies. Now you."

Harley half-smiled. John trying to get Sherlock to watch James Bond wasn't a surprise to her either. Her uncle was crazy about those movies. She, on the other hand, was personally more of the Indiana Jones type.

They returned to the case file on the floor. So, after you discovered the killer's true motives, someone shot him and killed him? she enquired.

"Yes. Of course, a man like him, he'd be bound to have enemies. Not much of a surprise."

Did you or the Yard ever find the person who did it?

"No. Vanished without a trace. Could be anywhere by now."

There was something about the way he answered so quickly and with barely a hint of disappointment that Harley found a bit suspicious, but decided not to go any further into it, believing it was probably nothing.

Oh, well. At least you still stopped a serial killer. And you've definitely given me more insight about the case; very intriguing and thought-provoking. Thank you, she wrote.

Sherlock smiled— not his smug one, but a pure, genuine smile. "You're welcome."

She smiled back. Then she helped him gather up the papers and photographs from the floor and put them back in the folder.

"Have you read any of your uncle's more recent posts on his blog?" Sherlock asked her after they stood from the floor.

She shook her head no. She honestly hadn't. Not that she didn't want to; she just didn't have the time— not with all the other things going on that's kept her occupied lately.

"His latest one is about the smuggling case. He's titled it, 'The Blind Banker', if you can believe that." He rolled his eyes a little with a, Yeah-I-know-it's-ridiculous, expression. "And before you ask, yes, it's written horrendously like the killer cabbie case."

Harley tilted her head slightly before sitting down into the red plaid chair. Blind Banker? She mused, trying to find the meaning behind the title. Perhaps John was referring to Sebastian being the banker, or Van Coon? And that they were metaphorically blind enough not to see the smugglers coming.

"You probably wouldn't want to read it, regardless," Sherlock said, turning her attention back to him as he sat in his chair across from her. "It seems that John went out of his way to not mention you in it whatsoever."

At first, Harley wasn't sure how to feel about that news. However, after some deliberation, she wrote:

That's probably for the best. My mother reads his blog, too, and I don't know how she'd react if she found out about my involvement.

"I highly doubt she'd react as strongly as a proper mother would. That is, if she stops drinking long enough to react at all, if the fact that she hasn't even contacted you since you arrived has anything to do with it."

Harley blinked, her face going completely blank. She didn't know what threw her off guard the most: what he'd said, or the blunt, direct way that he said it. Either way, the comment left her floored for a good moment or two. She wasn't hurt or upset— at first, at least— just, well, surprised.

"Oh," Sherlock said, snapping her out of it and making her look up at him again. He had a somewhat confused frown etched on his face. "Was that not good?"

That question was almost enough to make her smile again— almost. If there was one thing she'd learned about the consulting detective since she met him, it was that when it came to social interaction and consideration for other people's feelings, he was…not very tactical.

Not that Harley had any room to judge in that department; she wasn't exactly what one would call a smooth talker either.

With a soft sigh, she wrote down for him: It's okay. It's not like you're wrong, after all.

Sherlock's frown only deepened when he read her reply. "Hmm, that's not how people normally react."

Harley raised an eyebrow.

"They reply with something more along the lines of, 'piss off.'"

Now both eyebrows were raised. She wrote: Why?

He shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe people just don't like someone revealing their stories and problems so easily. I believe your uncle calls it 'brute honesty'…" he stared ahead with a frown and added, "…though, most times he calls it me being a show-off."

Harley's lips twitched at the comment. After a moment of thinking, she wrote down and showed him: Sometimes, we all need a little brute honesty.

"Is that so…" he said distantly, not speaking it in the form of a question, but more of an afterthought.

Harley looked away, rubbing her arm as she bit the inside of her lip. Yes, what he had said may have been true— in fact, she was actually impressed by it. No one has ever been that straightforward with her before; they usually tried to sugarcoat touchy subjects for her in order to "protect her feelings" or to keep her from getting distraught to the point that she was unstable— not that it's ever happened, they were just being cautious. But not Sherlock; he told things like they were, or like he thought they were, and didn't care what anyone else thought. She couldn't help but respect him for that.

Of course, that didn't mean that she had to like it one-hundred percent of the time.

"So your mother really hasn't messaged you since your first day here at all," Sherlock said.

Her eyes went back to him and nodded lightly.

His eyebrows furrowed together slightly. "And Clara?"

Harley wasn't all that surprised that he knew her name. She tentatively shook her head before explaining:

I don't see or hear much from Clara anymore— not since she moved out last October.

Which, now that she thought about it, was borderline devastating. She's known Clara for as long as she could remember; her mother and Clara had known each other long before and then got married by the time she was born. They may not have been thick as thieves, but at least Clara took care of her when her mother was otherwise engaged (meaning she was too busy with work, passed out or hungover).

She supposed that in the end, they just weren't close enough to keep a relationship once they had no other reason to. That's a rather crushing blow to your self-worth.

As if she didn't already have problems in that department.

"So, then, um…how are you holding up, then?" Sherlock asked, looking uncomfortable. "With the divorce and such."

A blind person could tell that this was definitely not his area of expertise.

You don't have to ask me that, you know, she wrote.

"Yes, I know. I am curious, though. Studies show that most children with divorced parents often think they're to blame for the cause."

She couldn't argue with that; she's read about those statistics somewhere as well. And yes, sometimes, she did feel responsible for their separation. After all, she was…well, she was her. After all, why else would Clara not contact her anymore? But then she would try to convince herself that no, that wasn't it. They just grew apart and disagreed on things. That's what people do sometimes, right? It did hurt when her mother and Clara parted ways. At the same time, though, there was a part of Harley that was relieved that she didn't have to endure all the shouting and arguing and throwing things at each other anymore— extremely relieved, in fact. She didn't know if that made her selfish or not, but that was how she felt.

Coming out of her state of thought, she wrote: I'll be fine. After all, I've been in much worse situations as of late.

He had the decency to look at least a little bit sheepish at what she was implying. "Ah, yes. Well, I suppose I owe you some sort of apology for that."

Not your fault.

"Even so, I figured after all that…you might've changed your mind about going home early."

Harley stared at him in astonishment before writing straight away:

Are you kidding? This is the most exciting holiday that I've ever been on! Why would anyone ever want to cut it short? I wouldn't miss anything like this for the world.

Sherlock blinked, looking at a loss for words for the second time that evening. A moment later, he leaned back in his chair breathed out steadily— almost as if in relief— making Harley realize just how tense he was before she answered him. Then he smiled. "Well, then, perhaps if you're lucky, we'll be saddled with another exciting case before you have to go home."

She allowed herself to smile back. Can't come too soon, she thought.

Then Sherlock stood from his chair, walking past her and into the kitchen, intent on checking on Stephano-Douglas to see if there was any progress with the saliva experiment. Shaking her head fondly after watching him, she stood up only to go to the shelf to get a book. Picking a large volume that was actually one of her uncle's old books from the top shelves, In the Cockpit: Inside History-making Aircrafts Volumes I & II, she went back to the chair, curling up in it, and started to read.

She barely registered Sherlock returning to the living room, only to sit at the table and start typing on John's still-open laptop, instantly opening up to the first tab that was still bookmarked: John's blog.

After a merely a few minutes of silence between them, Sherlock broke it by speaking up. "'Dr. John H. Watson,'" he read aloud to before directing himself to Harley. "What does the H stand for in his middle name? I've asked John, but he refuses to tell me."

Harley's head snapped up, and she gazed at him with a look of indignation, much to Sherlock's confusion. After an excruciatingly long moment of nothing but Harley staring him down, she shook her head, took her notebook, and wrote:

I wouldn't touch that with a twenty-foot pole if I were you.

There were three consecutive things in this world that Harley had learned to never, ever, try to discuss with anyone without physically and mentally preparing yourself for an all-out war: religion, politics, and John's middle name.

Sherlock frowned, realizing that he wasn't going to get the answer out of her either. "Then tell me this: is Harley your real name? Or is it a nickname, for Harleen or something?"

It's just Harley, she answered.

"Is it really, or are you just hiding the truth like your uncle is with his name?"

Her eyebrow lifted lazily, taking in his marginally concealed curiosity and eagerness, making her gather that the whole name-thing was concerning him more than it probably should.

With a pointed look, she tapped on her notebook paper once more, letting him know that that was her answer, and that was that.

Then, before Sherlock could open his mouth, she swiftly jotted down underneath: And just to get it out of the way, my middle name is Mabel.

That seemed to satisfy him for the most part for the time being, and they went back to reading and searching the internet in companionable silence for the rest of the evening. Occasionally, Sherlock would get up and move around, whether it was to check on the head, peer into his microscope on the kitchen counter, or just stand by the window quietly, gazing out into the busy streets. He even started a fire in the fireplace to warm the room up some more. Harley stayed where she was the entire time, engrossed in her book. As the evening drew into the night, she would oftentimes yawn and rub her eyes, her exhaustion steadily catching up with her.

"John should've been back from the surgery hours ago," Sherlock muttered, staring out the now darkened window. However, he turned back when he heard the scratches of Harley's handwriting:

He's probably out with Sarah. He said that he would be back late.

"They're still together?" he asked with slight incredulousness.

Harley smiled in amusement, deciding not to respond to that. She returned her gaze to her book, blinking a few times to clear her vision.

"Aren't you going to bed?" Sherlock asked her. "This is usually about the time you turn in."

You mean, when my nights don't consist of criminal chasing, code-searching, and kidnappings? she thought. But that wasn't it. The truth was, she didn't want to go to bed— not as long as she could help it— because she was afraid that if she fell asleep, she'd have another one of those nightmares. She couldn't go through that again. She just couldn't.

She shook her head in response to Sherlock's question, and he shrugged dismissively. "Suit yourself."

She returned to the book, though she wasn't paying much attention to what she was reading anymore, her face hardened by the reminder of what's been causing her such stress and sleepless nights lately. She let out a quiet, yet discouraged huff.

Merely a few minutes later, however, a high-pitched, yet very melodious sound from somewhere close by suddenly ripped through her plagued thoughts. With a small gasp and her hold on the book tightening a little, she looked over at the source of the sound. What she saw was Sherlock, standing by the window. His violin was tucked underneath his chin as he held it, an earnest look on his face as he dragged the bow across the strings skillfully, and making the most beautiful music from it. The tune was unfamiliar to Harley; it was airy, but it also had a bit of a dark and mysterious twist to it— a strange-yet-fitting combination.

And Harley loved it.

She watched him play with awe, wonder, and fascination. She knew that he could play the violin; she had heard him the first few nights from upstairs in her bedroom. But she had never actually seen him play in person and up close until now. And she must confess, it was certainly a sight to behold. Sherlock looked like he was just lost in his own little world, not aware of anything that was going on around him, as he brought music to life in high and low pitches on his instrument. In other words: he looked like he was at home— probably the most "at home" Harley's ever seen him, not including him enjoying the thrill of a mystery.

Harley felt her lips naturally curve up into a small, yet genuine smile. She sat back in her chair once more, her hold on her book loosening as she let the music calm her, relieving her of any stress that she had.

When he brought the number to a close with a sharp, high note, Harley clapped, letting him know that she enjoyed it. Sherlock looked over at her, almost like he had forgotten that she was even there for a moment, before he half smiled at her show of support. He bowed his head lightly in appreciation.

Then Harley stifled a yawn as she rubbed her eyes tiredly, her weariness creeping back up on her. Sherlock noticed this, and, after staring at her thoughtfully for a moment, he raised the bow to his violin again and started to play a new song. This time, though, he played more slowly and softly; the tune eerie and almost dream-like. As Harley watched him stroke the strings with delicate fingers, she vaguely recognized the melody. He was playing Schubert's Serenade, a piece that she had heard once before, a long time ago. She was surprised Sherlock even knew it, but nonetheless, he played with as much talent and grace as the first time. He really was so full of surprises.

Harley observed him as he played his second piece for one more moment, watching each rise and fall of his bow, every sway in his gaunt limbs. Then she moved her dreary gaze back to her book, deciding to read and listen to the music at the same time. The former action was getting harder to do so, though. Her eyes grew heavier and heavier the more she tried to read, her mind growing foggier with drowsiness, but it was a pleasant sort of drowsiness, completely unlike the lousy way she felt after suffering a restless night. Her hold on the book gradually lowered into her lap.

After a while, she gave up trying to read altogether and slowly rested her head on the arm of the chair, her face buried into the crook of her arm. She closed her eyes, too tired to keep them open anymore, and instead took solace in simply listening to the soothing music as she relaxed into the softness of the chair along with the warmth radiating from the fireplace, beginning to doze off.

If there's one thing I'm allowed to miss when I return home, it would be this, she thought with a soft sigh.

And that was the last coherent thought she had that night before she was swept away by the music and eventually drifted into a much needed sleep.

Upon seeing that her breathing had grown slow, long, and heavy, Sherlock smiled at the now slumbering girl in the armchair as he continued to play, bringing the number to a close. He finished off the piece with a soft, yet profound flourish. Then he carefully set his violin aside, having completed his purpose with it in lulling her to sleep. He was honestly surprised that it worked, especially after seeing the flicker of fear that flashed in her eyes after he suggested she turn in earlier. No doubt that she's still been suffering a case of insomnia lately, and if not that, bad dreams— of what, he was still unsure about. Therefore, he figured that the best way was to soothe her into a more calming state just before falling asleep through music— something he suspected she's never had the luxury of experiencing before as an aid. He's tested that theory before more than once, with her uncle. Very rarely now, John would still suffer night terrors regarding the war in Afghanistan. And on those rare nights, Sherlock would play softly on his violin, and it would eventually help calm John down. Neither of them talked about those nights, though, and that was most likely for the best. With John, though, it took much longer for it to take effect, unlike his niece. Harley must really enjoy his playing. And he knew that, of course. He always knew, ever since her first night in 221B.

He approached the desk soundlessly, where John's computer still lay open. He exited out of the few tabs he left open before quietly closing the laptop— those tabs being John's blog, his forum on his website, The Science of Deduction, and a site for purchasing an aeroplane ticket to Minsk. He had just recently received a message on both his and John's website from a man named Barry Berwick, requesting his help in an urgent matter. Apparently, he's been arrested for murder in Belarus. Probably nothing extremely illuminating, but nonetheless worth checking out. Any case was better than no case at all; especially considering how long he's gone without one (he knew that it's not even been a day since the last one, but still…).

A soft exhale and the sound of Harley lightly shifting in the chair brought him out of his reverie.

But that can wait for a little longer.

He looked over at Harley, who was still fast asleep and curled up in the chair, her head resting on the arm, the book she'd been reading barely within the grasp of her other hand and lying on the edge of her lap.

With a small but amused smile, he carefully took the book from her before it could fall to the floor and placed it back on the shelf. He turned back to the girl, but then his attention was caught by her notebook on the side table next to her. Recalling their time in Scotland Yard earlier that day when she was busily writing in it without a care in the world (after successfully scaring off Anderson with her stare), he approached her and took her notebook, curious about what she was writing down. Of course, if John were present, he'd scold Sherlock about there being a fine line between boundaries and respect for privacy…something Sherlock never really cared for and probably never will in the near future. Besides, he remembered when they were in the Chinese café, when she lent him her pen and notebook to write in when he needed them, so it must not be that big of a deal for her.

Recalling the exact page length of the book she was writing in, he flipped it open, where he found, to his surprise, several notes jotted down on what he had told her about the science of deduction when they were at the park— word for word. He skimmed through the pages, his emotions torn between astounded that she even remembered all of what he'd said, and touched that she was interested enough in his work to take notes on them to keep for herself.

She has an eidetic memory, he concluded. That would explain why she's exceptional when it comes to doing research.

He smiled once more before quietly closing the notebook. Then he moved his gaze back onto Harley, noticing how relaxed she looked, her muscles loose, not one limb making even the tiniest twitch. It made him realize that this was the first time he had seen her look so at peace— even in her sleep. Today certainly has helped relieve her of some of the stress, he thought. And, to his surprise, he found that he quite enjoyed the day as well. Not that he would ever admit that to anyone, of course.

Coming out of his state of thought, he sighed. He stared at the sleeping girl for another second before glancing through the doorway, checking to make sure they wouldn't be disturbed. When he was certain, he turned back with a more soft expression. Then, in a manner that was more practiced from the last time she'd fallen asleep in his presence, he gently picked her up from the chair. She hardly even stirred before settling in his arms. She must've been more exhausted than she let on, he observed. That being the case, he decided to take the chance, and carefully made his way upstairs and into the guest bedroom. He laid her down on the bed before gently tugging the blankets out and draping them over her. To his amusement, Harley burrowed her head further into the pillow at the sudden warmth that surrounded her, drawing in a long breath before letting it out into what sounded from her like a content sigh.

But then he started, almost taking a step back in shock.

Because with that sigh, another sound came out of her.

It was so soft, but he was still close enough to catch it. A small noise— like a whimper— reverberated from the pit of her throat, and just barely escaped her mouth. After blinking and staring for the longest time, he pulled away from her. He shut off the light and quietly left the room. Closing the door gently behind him, he leaned against it, contemplating with a scrutinizing frown. Then, shaking his head, he retreated back downstairs to get ready for his trip to Belarus and started packing. Though, his thoughts still somehow went back to that one sliver of a moment in her room.

Selective mutism.

For some reason, that deduction didn't sound right anymore for Harley Watson. He had his suspicions before, but now he was more certain.

Because after tonight, he was starting to become convinced that somewhere deep inside her…there was still a voice, just waiting to come out and be heard.

A/N- And so ends the fluffy filler chapters and thus beginning our way into The Great Game storyline. Oooh, boy, this is gonna be so much fun! *breaks into maniacal laughter*

I'm pretty sure I'm not the only one who's made the connection between A Study in Pink and The Princess Bride, and I certainly won't be the last. It would've been hilarious if the episode played out that way, though, with Sherlock overthinking it waaayyy too much, and the cabbie just sitting there with that dumb smile.

Thanks again to all you phenomenal readers! And especially to all you who have reviewed, faved, and/or followed! I greatly appreciate the feedback and the love!

P.S.- I'm sure you're all aware by now that I changed the story rating from K+ to T. Sorry, kiddos, but you have to be this tall to ride now. Just kidding, I don't care. Go nuts. I promise I won't tell your parents (That's a lie, of course. Your mother and I are very disappointed in you).