A/N- 'Eyyyyy! We've reached the twenty-fifth chapter of this insane train! We're half-way to fifty! WOOHOO!

So let's celebrate by continuing onwards with the Great Game. We get to meet up with Molly Hooper once more in this one! *Squees*

Also, Harley gets to meet Jimmy for first time...and I'm sorry to say, not the last time.

Disclaimer: I only own my OC. (You know, in retrospect, this being a fanfiction website and all, it's pretty much a given that I do not in fact own Sherlock. So the whole concept of me adding a disclaimer every chapter is a bit redundant, don't you think? Or am I overthinking it? Whatever).

Enjoy!

One could only imagine a certain amount of tension that can circulate in one room, with only a few select people, and have it feel like time itself has stopped completely— and all because of a simple pair of shoes and a phone call. To Harley, it certainly felt overwhelming at first.

Sherlock was the first to move and speak after the intense silence that followed the crying woman's call, putting the pink phone back in his pocket before bending down to carefully pick up the trainers. Then he said something about taking the shoes to St. Bart's to run some tests over them, but before he could leave, Lestrade stopped him and began to argue that he couldn't just take what was obviously evidence.

But Harley wasn't listening to the two men quarreling with each other. She looked up at her uncle, still holding his hand, and he looked back at her, not paying attention to the other adults talking either.

Then Harley slowly removed her hand from John's, taking her notebook out and writing in it. Looking back up to meet her uncle's concerned gaze, she gave it to him to read:

I imagine you want me to stay here, while you guys try to work this all out.

She waited while he read and thought it over. Even though she was curious about how this all was going to play out and wanted to help however she could, she also would understand if he didn't want her to, especially considering how serious it's gotten, and so quickly.

John looked at the shoes now in Sherlock's hands, then at the rest of the basement flat, a deep frown etched upon his features. Then he closed his eyes and shook his head before turning back to his niece, his frown diminished but the worry lines on his face still clearly visible.

"Some maniac was able to break into this flat undetected— just to leave a pair of shoes," he said evenly. "No. You're staying right by me until I know for sure that it's safe. You understand?"

Harley stared at him in bewilderment, before she quickly snapped out of it and nodded to show that she did understand.

They turned back to Sherlock and Lestrade, who appeared to finally finish up their conversation, Lestrade with a look like he'd given up trying to argue with Sherlock, rubbing his forehead tiredly.

"All right, fine. I'll get back to the station and see if I can find any leads on the hostage. You notify me on anything you find regarding the shoes," he said.

And so with that said and done, they each filed back up the stairs, out of the dirty basement flat, through the hall, and outside into the street. Lestrade flagged down a cab intent on heading back to the Yard. Harley waved goodbye to him before she, John, and Sherlock got a cab of their own and headed toward St. Bart's.

It was unusually quiet between the three of them on the ride to Bart's. Of course, silence was typical coming from Harley, and sometimes even Sherlock when he wasn't explaining something, but John normally would talk to either one of them about anything, but not even he had anything to say at the moment. All of them had too much on their minds to talk or use other means of communication amongst themselves. So instead they simply sat in tense silence until they arrived at the enormous hospital. They went in and ventured through the corridors, headed for the laboratory. On the way, they ran into Molly Hooper, who had just got on her lunch break. Harley smiled and waved hello, pleased to see the pathologist again. Molly waved back with her own smile before Sherlock gave a brief explanation for why they needed the lab. Molly bid him good luck, her smile now bashful, before they parted ways, the consulting detective and the Watsons entering the familiar lab room.

Sherlock put the trainers down on the lab table before going to the cabinets and drawers to get the tools necessary to help further examine them, such as some petri dishes and scalpels and such. Then he replaced his black gloves with nitrile gloves, ready to work.

The next several minutes passed by slowly, with Sherlock studying the trainers intently, untying the laces to observe them more closely, then scraping off any residue from the soles with the scalpel and carefully placing them in a petri dish. Meanwhile, John would frequently wander around the large room, often ending up pacing back and forth in front of the table, as he waited in anxious silence for Sherlock to finish up and find something.

Harley, on the other hand, was sat down on the floor a little ways away from the two of them, her back against the table, her backpack and book lying beside her. She had her head resting back against the side of the table. She could feel her headache gradually filtering its way back. She closed her eyes with a slight frown, trying to block out the mild pain and regather some of her muddled thoughts. She was fortunate that it was relatively quiet in the lab; the only sound that ever occurred was the occasional beep of Sherlock's phone going off, alerting him of a text message. She let out a soft sigh, relishing in this momentary silence during such a desperate time. She began to doze off...until she started to see the exact same image she saw after she'd hit her head the night before: a large, blurred figure, coming right at her. Then she quickly jolted herself awake before it could reach her. Harley stared ahead at the drawers in front of her, taking slow, calming breaths as her tense form shook. Then she peeked around to make sure that neither of the adults had noticed what'd happened. Luckily, Sherlock was too engrossed in what he was looking at in the microscope, occasionally glancing at the computer screen next to him as it scanned for results of the dirt particles found on the shoes; while her uncle was still striding around the room, lost within his own thoughts.

When her body finally relaxed a little, she brought her knees up to her chest, resting her arms and head on them as she felt her throat beginning to close up. God, what is wrong with me? she thought despairingly.

"So, who do you suppose it was?" she heard John speak up a few minutes later.

"Hmm?" Sherlock grunted.

"The woman on the phone— the crying woman."

"Oh, she doesn't matter. She's just a hostage," Sherlock replied dismissively, adjusting the lens of the microscope. "No lead there."

"For God's sake, I wasn't thinking about leads," John said in exasperation.

"You're not going to be much use to her," Sherlock retorted.

Harley lifted her head from her knees and rubbed her eyes with a tired sigh. Of course, the silence was too good to last. She pulled herself back up to her feet, swinging her bag onto her back, and made her way over to Sherlock's side, peering curiously at the screen as it looked for a match in the residue. She sat down in one of the high stools, placing her notebook in front of her. Sherlock's gaze flicked toward her briefly with an imperceptible frown, before returning to the specimen in the microscope.

"Are- Are they trying to trace it— trace the call?" John asked. It was becoming more evident that he was immensely apprehensive about this entire ordeal.

"The bomber's too smart for that. Pass me my phone," Sherlock said when his phone went off with yet another text alert.

John looked around the room. "Where is it?"

"Jacket."

Harley couldn't stop herself from smiling as she watched her uncle straighten, his face contorting into one of disbelief that translated into something between, "Are you kidding me right now?" or "I'm going to bloody murder you."

He started to march toward them, but Harley held a hand up and shook her head, stopping him, as her way of saying, "Allow me," as she knew that John would be less than gentle in his current state. Remembering which side of the jacket he usually kept his phone in, she carefully reached in and pulled it out without disturbing him too much. Then she handed it over to John.

"Ta," John said to her before turning on the phone to check for messages. "Text from your brother," he told Sherlock.

"Delete it," Sherlock instantly replied.

"Delete it?"

"Missile plans are out of the country. Nothing we can do about it."

Harley peeked over at the message on the screen, which read:

RE: BRUCE-PARTINGTON PLANS

Any progress on Andrew West's death?

Mycroft

"Well, Mycroft think's there is," John said. "He's texted you…eight times. Must be important."

Sherlock raised his head in annoyance. "Then why didn't he cancel his dental appointment?"

Both Watsons looked at him with puzzled expressions. "His what?" John asked.

"Mycroft never texts if he can talk. Look, Andrew West stole the missile plans, tried to sell them, got his head smashed in for his pains. End of story. The only mystery is this: why is my brother so determined to bore me when somebody else is being so delightfully interesting."

John turned the phone off before looking at Sherlock sternly. "Try and remember there's a woman here who might die, Sherlock."

"What for?" Sherlock looked back at him just as sternly. "This hospital's full of people dying, Doctor. Why don't you go and cry by their bedside and see what good it does then?"

Harley closed her eyes and rubbed her temples with her middle and index fingers while they argued over her, exhaling in silent frustration. She was starting to see why people thought they were a couple now, the way they would spat and go at each other. And she most definitely didn't want to be stuck in the middle of it.

Fortunately, before anything else was said, the computer in front of Harley went off, startling her. She reopened her eyes to find the screen flashing SEARCH COMPLETE in bold, red letters.

"Ah!" Sherlock cried triumphantly. At that very same moment, the door burst open and Molly came in with her bright smile.

"Any luck?" she asked.

"Oh, yes!" Sherlock said in delight as Molly approached them and stood next to Harley, who adjusted the position of the screen so that she could see it better.

Then, before the door could close all the way, another person entered the room but then stopped with an apologetic look at all of them. "Oh! Sorry, I didn't…" he said sheepishly.

"Jim! Hi!" Molly said cheerfully upon seeing the man, who still looked unsure if he should be there. "Come in, come in!"

Harley glanced up at the new person who closed the door and started to make his way toward them. A well-groomed man, probably in his early thirties, with short dark hair, dark eyes, and wearing a grey T-shirt and brown slacks, his bright underwear showing itself a little above the waistline.

"Jim, this is Sherlock Holmes," Molly introduced, rather proudly, as Jim stood beside her.

"Ah!" Jim exclaimed in realization.

"And this is Harley," Molly gestured to the girl with a smile.

"Hello," Jim greeted her, grinning friendlily. Harley locked eyes with him momentarily before she nodded once and turned back to the computer, ignoring the mild yet sudden sense of unease that rose in her stomach.

"And, uh…sorry," Molly said to John, obviously not having been properly acquainted with the ex-army doctor beforehand.

"John Watson. Hi," John said monotonously.

"Hi," said Jim, staring right at Sherlock. "So you're Sherlock Holmes. Molly's told me all about you. You on one of your cases?"

At the incredibly dreamy tone in his voice, Harley glimpsed back at Jim with a small frown as he made his way around them until he was standing at Sherlock's other side. She noticed his admiring, almost worshipping expression as he gazed at the consulting detective.

My gay-dar sense is tingling, she mused.

"Jim works in IT upstairs," said Molly. "That's how we met— office romance." She and Jim giggled.

Harley's frown deepened. Wait, so he's not gay? And Molly doesn't like Sherlock that way after all?

Then Sherlock glanced round at Jim briefly before returning to the microscope. "Gay," he said bluntly.

Harley looked at him, an eyebrow raised. Meanwhile, Molly's smile faded. "Sorry, what?" she asked.

"Nothing, um…hey," Sherlock said, smiling falsely at Jim.

"Hey," the man said with a grin, seemingly ignorant of Sherlock's previous statement. It may have just been Harley's imagination, but she thought she saw Jim's eyes flicker between Sherlock and her for the briefest of moments. He lowered his hand toward the table, intent on leaning against it, but instead his hand made contact with the metal dish and accidently knocked it over. It fell to the floor with a loud clash, which did nothing to help Harley's growing headache. She winced before glaring at Jim irritably as he scrambled to pick it up.

"Sorry! Sorry!" Jim said with a nervous laugh as he straightened and placed the dish back on the table. Then he lifted his head and met Harley's gaze. Schooling her face so that she didn't look as annoyed, she turned away with a sigh and opened up her notebook to a random page, hoping to distract her mind from the pain.

"Well, I'd better be off," she heard Jim mutter, followed by him walking around her until he was by Molly again. "I'll see at the Fox, about six-ish?" he asked her.

"Yeah," Molly replied excitedly.

"Bye," Jim said.

"Bye," Molly whispered.

"It was nice to meet you."

There was a long, awkward silence that followed. Harley kept her head down toward her notebook. You know, usually, that's an obvious cue for you to scram, she thought drily, flipping a page.

Thankfully, John broke the silence by saying, "You, too," speaking for Sherlock and her.

A couple of seconds later, she heard him finally making his leave. She dared a glance up at him as he walked around the table toward the door, and she had to fight down the flinch that threatened to surface, because he was glancing at her as well. When they locked eyes with each other, he gave her what she supposed was a big, reassuring smile.

Which, call her crazy, didn't feel very reassuring.

She quickly averted her gaze, peering intently at her notebook with a frown. It wasn't until she heard the door shut across the room did she lift her head back up, her muscles loosening.

What was that all about? she wondered.

"What do you mean gay? We're together," Molly said after another moment of silence, her smile now tight.

"And domestic bliss must suit you, Molly. You've put on three pounds since I last saw you," said Sherlock, looking at her.

Now Molly's smile was gone completely. "Two and a half."

"No, three."

"Sherlock…" John said in a warning tone.

But Molly had cut him off angrily. "He's not gay! Why do you have to spoil…he's not!"

Harley looked at the pathologist with a soft gaze, feeling sorry for her.

Sherlock snorted. "With that level of personal grooming?"

"Because he puts a bit of product in his hair? I put product in my hair!" John argued incredulously.

Harley shot him a look. What are you implying there, Uncle?

"No, you wash your hair. There's a difference," Sherlock countered, shaking his head. "No, no. Tinted eyelashes— clear signs of taurine cream around the frown lines; those tired clubber's eyes. Then there's his underwear."

"His underwear?" Molly asked in confusion.

"Visible above the waistline— very visible. Very particular brand. That, plus the extremely suggestive fact that he just left his number under this dish here…" he lifted the dish and showed Molly the small card with the phone number on it, and Harley closed her eyes in dismay. Oh, no. "…and I'd say you better break it off now and save yourself the pain."

Molly said nothing, her lips pursing. Her eyes flicked from John back to Sherlock, before she spun around and ran out of the room.

Harley made a quick decision then.

Without looking back at the two men, Harley shoved her stool away from the table, grabbing her notebook, and hurried over to the door. She hardly registered her uncle say sarcastically to the consulting detective, "Charming! Well done," before she ran out of the lab and into the corridor.

Looking up and down the hallway for a moment, she started heading toward the nearest bathroom— the universal sanctuary for all females when in need of a good cry.

She slowly opened the door and stepped in, feeling like she was walking into a lion's den. She could hear some sniffling from one of the stalls. Swallowing hard, she approached the stall, noticing that Molly didn't even bother to lock the door during her flight. Poor woman.

She opened the door and saw Molly with her back facing her, her shoulders shaking as she sobbed. When the door creaked, however, Molly quickly turned around. Upon seeing Harley, she quickly wiped her tear-filled face, but she was still shaking, tears still pouring from her eyes.

"H-H-Harley!" Molly sputtered, trying to look composed, but failing miserably. "I-I'm fine. You…you…" she gave up trying to speak, her crying preventing her from forming a proper sentence.

Harley just stood there, staring at her sympathetically. She didn't know what to do at first, not having any experience in comforting someone before. But this was Molly Hooper. She was just too nice to leave well enough alone, and she didn't deserve what happened.

She tentatively reached out and gave gentle pats on the woman's shoulder. That seemed to work, apparently. After a short while, Molly's sobs died down a little.

"Sherlock can be such an idiot!" Molly cried, "I mean, I like him and all. He's brilliant and I'll do anything for him, but sometimes he's just so…urgh!"

Harley had flinched away when the woman yelled, but then she came right back and nodded lightly. She didn't know Sherlock as well as Molly did, but she did understand where she was coming from. Harley had come to learn over the years, that it is often hard to admit that someone you've grown to admire or even love is not perfect, or to consider aspects of a person that are less than ideal. A prime example of hers was her mother. She loved her, no doubt, but that didn't mean that she didn't acknowledge the many flaws she had that weren't what one could deem admirable.

Finally, Molly's shaking and weeping went away altogether, and she wiped her face dry once more.

When Molly met Harley's gaze, the girl took her notebook, wrote in it, and showed her:

Would you like me to prep the morgue for an autopsy while you go finish him off?

Molly laughed weakly, and Harley smiled, glad that she could make her feel better, if only a little. "No, that's all right, sweetie. I'm…I'm okay now." She looked toward the door sadly. "He was right, anyway. With the phone number and all. And I did think it as rather odd, the way Jim would occasionally flirt with some of the other guys in the cafeteria when he thought I wasn't looking."

At that new information, Harley looked away, a tight-lipped frown forming on her face as she grew angry. But she wasn't angry at Sherlock, nor was she at Molly.

It was Jim her fury was directed toward.

Could he BE any more obvious?! How could he do that to her— leading her on and then pulling a stunt like that?! And right in front of her, no less!

"I guess, in a way, Sherlock was helping me save myself from any further pain," Molly said.

Shaking her head, Harley turned back to Molly, her scowl softening.

I may not know Sherlock very well, she wrote to her, but I do know that underneath that calloused bravado is someone who truly does care— in his twisted, absurd way that doesn't exactly come to light all that well. And if there's one thing I do agree with him on, it's that you should definitely break it off with Jim entirely. You deserve someone much better, Molly Hooper. Someone who will like you for you and make you happy, and nothing less than that.

Molly sniffled. Then she looked up from the notebook to Harley with shiny eyes and a crooked smile on her face. Then she suddenly threw her arms around the girl and hugged her tightly. Harley gasped, tensing up at the unexpected contact. But then she relaxed and wrapped her arms around Molly as well, returning the hug. She smiled a little.

"Thank you, Harley," Molly whispered. They pulled apart, and Molly grinned down at her. "You certainly have a way with words for someone who doesn't talk."

Well, it's good to know that someone thinks so, Harley thought, smiling back.

"You should go back to Sherlock and your uncle. I bet they're wondering where you are right now," Molly said. "Don't worry about me. I'll be fine now."

After looking her over one last time, Harley started to walk toward the door.

"Oh, and Harley?" Molly called.

Harley turned her head and glanced back curiously.

Molly smiled. "I, for one, think you know Sherlock quite well."

Harley blinked, not sure what to think or how to respond to that statement. Instead, she just smiled back and left the bathroom. She made her way back to the laboratory door, but before she could open it, the sound of another door opening from across the corridor caught her attention. She looked over and saw Jim just leaving the room he was in. He was about to walk the other way until he spotted Harley. He smiled and waved.

Harley didn't wave back.

Her eyes narrowed at him, still infuriated at the display he did earlier. Then, without another response or even a second glance, she opened the door and swiftly strode back into the lab.

Jerk, she thought.

But then she closed her eyes and reached out to the wall to keep her balance, rubbing her temple with her other hand gingerly as she felt her headache coming back on. She faintly heard John and Sherlock busily talking amongst themselves. Shaking her head furiously and thinking Damn it! over and over, she willed away the pain and continued on, approaching the two men.

"Ah, there you are, Harley. Your turn," Sherlock said upon seeing her come up. He slid the shoes her way.

Her eyebrow lifted in confusion. My turn to what?

"Oh, no," John said indignantly. "You had your fun humiliating me. You are not doing it to a little girl!"

Aww, and I missed it? Harley thought sadly.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Like I said, an outside eye helps. And you'd be surprised what your niece can find." He turned back to Harley. "Now, tell me what you can conclude from observing these shoes. Remember what I told you, now."

Looking between the consulting detective and her uncle nervously, she took a deep breath and stepped up to the table. Trying to block out the two adults and clear her mind, she picked up one of the shoes and looked it over, studying it closely and trying to find each and every detail like Sherlock had advised, even down to the tiniest spot. She turned the shoe around a few times, then looked inside it, and then felt along the laces. She did the same thing with the other shoe.

After a couple of more minutes, she put down the shoes with final nod. She opened her notebook, scrawled down her findings, and shifted it toward Sherlock:

Clean, old shoes— owner kept them in good shape but wore them a lot, with very faint traces of a name inside of it. Eighties style shoes. White splotches where they've been cleaned. The holes where the laces go through are stretched out, so the laces have been replaced a few times. Flakes of skin on the laces where they're usually tied, so the owner had some kind of rash or skin disorder.

A smile spread across Sherlock's face as he read her conclusions, and when he was finished, her turned to her. "Good. Very good, Harley. You got almost everything."

While relieved that she got at least some things right, she raised an eyebrow and wrote: Almost?

In answer, Sherlock picked up one of the shoes and began to spout out his own deductions. "The owner loved these shoes. Scrubbed them clean— whitened where they got discolored. Changed the laces three…no, four times. And even so, there are indeed traces of flaky skin where his fingers have come into contact with them. He didn't just have a rash, though. He suffered from eczema."

Harley nodded in understanding. Ah, okay. That makes more sense.

"The shoes are well-worn, more so on the inner side, which means the owner had weak arches," Sherlock finished off. "British-made. Twenty years old."

"Twenty years?" John asked.

"They're not retro; they're original," Sherlock explained as he pulled up an image of the shoes on his phone and showed them. "Limited edition, two blue stripes, 1989."

"But there's still mud on them. They look new," John said in disbelief.

"Someone's kept them that way. Quite a bit of mud caked on the soles. Analysis shows it's from Sussex with London mud overlaying it."

"How do you know?"

"Pollen." Sherlock inclined his head to the computer screen, which showed a map of Britain with two little dots blinking just around the borders of Sussex. "Clear as a map reference to me. South of the river, too. So, the kid who wore these trainers came to London from Sussex twenty years ago and left them behind."

"So what happened to him?"

"Something bad."

Harley brows furrowed in puzzlement. So why has this come back up now, twenty years later? What does the bomber have to do with it?

"He loved those shoes, remember," Sherlock continued. "He'd never leave them filthy. Wouldn't let them go unless he had to. So, a child with big feet gets…"

Harley looked at him when he trailed off, only to find him staring distantly ahead, as though something had occurred to him.

"Oh," he said softly.

John glanced in the direction he was staring, then back at him. "What?"

"Carl Powers," Sherlock whispered.

"Sorry, who?"

"Carl Powers," he repeated, a little louder so that they could hear.

"What is it?"

He didn't look at them, still gazing ahead, almost in shock. Harley stared at him in concern, wondering what could've possibly happened related to Carl Powers that would have him make that face. Until finally, Sherlock answered with, "It's where I began."

A/N- When I first watched The Great Game, I thought it was a teeny bit off-putting that Sherlock thought he could deduce someone's sexuality just by the way they dress or clean themselves. It's a little more complex than that, Sherl, honey. I mean, I don't go out of my way to dress up like an asexual. Hell, I don't even know what the stereotypical appearance for Aces looks like, if we even have one. That's why I didn't have Harley assume Jim was gay until after she saw him making googily eyes at Sherlock.

And oh, man, I felt soooooo bad for Molly in this episode. She unintentionally became Jimmy's beard. I just had to let her be comforted. She's a delicate, precious rosebud who truly does deserve better and must be protected.

Thanks for reading!