A/N- Hello, my soft, puffy marshmallows!
I'm dreadfully sorry for being away for so long, but I actually do have a legitimate reason for it. You see, I went through a family crisis- a big one, actually. My uncle died recently, in one of the most sudden, terrible ways possible. And it really messed me up- it messed everyone in my family up. My uncle and I were very close; he was an even bigger geek than I was (he was delightfully surprised when he found out I liked Doctor Who), he always talked and made jokes with me at get-togethers when no one else did, and he loved me for who I was. So when I got the news of his passing, it just sent me to a bit of a dark place.
So after several weeks of crying, not talking to anyone, speculating, crying again, and eventually accepting the reality, I finally gathered up the guts to brush myself off and keep going. My family is still pretty torn up about it, and I doubt we'll ever be the same, but we'll manage.
Ah, but I am glad to be back and writing again. I keep forgetting how much writing can often soothe my soul in times of hardship. So...here's chapter twenty-nine, fellow readers and writers!
Disclaimer: I only own my OC.
Enjoy!
True to Mycroft's word, Anthea dropped Harley off at St. Bart's after another long, uncomfortable ride through the city. When they pulled up in front of the hospital, the woman lifted her gaze from her phone to the girl. "Your uncle and Mr. Holmes are inside. I'm sure you already know where they'll be. Have a great afternoon," she said with a smile.
Harley blinked. That was probably the longest she's seen Anthea look up from her phone— and probably the most she's heard her speak at one time.
After a simple nod in acknowledgement, she left the sleek government vehicle and entered the front lobby of Bart's. She only looked back once after she stepped inside, but the car had already disappeared.
She shook her head with a sigh before turning her back on the outside. If that Mycroft never kidnapped her like that again, it would be too soon.
Although, I wouldn't mind visiting the Diogenes Club again, she mused. Hang out with the fellow hermits…
She pulled out her phone and started typing a message to her uncle. Then she hit send:
I'm at Bart's. Are you and Sherlock in the lab? –HW
She stood in the lobby and waited, not wanting to go anywhere until she knew for sure where they were. A couple of minutes later, she got a reply:
Sherlock is, but I'm in the cafeteria getting lunch. Do you know where that is? –JW
Harley's lips twitched up a little. John did mention lunch earlier. She wouldn't mind getting something to eat. That energy bar earlier was filling, but not that satisfying. She could also use a nice hot cup of coffee. After briefly checking the signs and directions on the walls, she texted:
I'll find my way. Is there coffee? –HW
A pause.
You know you have a coffee problem, right? –JW
Harley smirked.
The real problem is I don't have a cup of coffee in my hands right now. –HW
Right. Just get down here. –JW
Roger that, Captain. –HW
She put her phone back in her pocket and, following the signs carefully, she began to make her way for the cafeteria. She managed to find it in only three minutes, not being that far from the entrance. She stepped into the large room to find it mostly empty; she was able to spot her uncle easily, sitting at a table with a tray of food. She hurried over to him. John turned to her as she approached and smiled, looking somewhat relieved.
"Hey, you," he said as they hugged each other. When they pulled apart, John looked her up and down. "Are you all right?"
She nodded lightly.
"Well, you'd better be hungry. I got you some lunch." He gestured to the tray of food, which consisted of a plate of roast pork with mashed potatoes, and another plate of pasta. It all smelled so good, Harley's stomach rumbled.
They sat down and began to dig in to their meals.
"Oh, and here. Since you asked," John said, handing her a small, cardboard cup of coffee with a lid, the steam coming out of the small hole. "You only get this much, okay? I don't want you up all night bouncing the walls."
With a small smile, she wrote in her book and showed him:
Good enough for me. Bless you, Uncle.
He rolled his eyes and grinned. "I know, I'm amazing."
She put the cup to her lips and took a sip— only for her eyes to bulge wide as she made a sort of choking sound. The coffee was God-awful. Christ almighty, what is this?!
John's grin faded. "That bad?"
She quickly shook her head, using all her will-power to swallow down the liquid bile that now contaminated her mouth. Then she managed a strained smile and gave her uncle a shaky thumbs-up.
John raised an eyebrow before going back to eating his food. The second he looked away, Harley shivered and grimaced. She glared at the cup in disgust before setting it down as far away from her as possible.
It's a disgrace to coffee brewers everywhere, she thought bitterly. I ought to send a complaint to whoever's in charge around here.
She grabbed John's water bottle from across the table and gulped some of it down, hoping to wash away the unholy taste. John didn't seem to mind, though, as he continued to eat without even looking up.
After a few minutes of eating together in silence, he asked, "So, how was your visit with Mycroft?"
Harley swallowed her mashed potatoes and looked away, almost dreading the question. She wiped her lower lip with her sleeve and wrote:
A bit emotionally damaging, but other than that, it went fine.
John stared blankly at the notebook before raising his head again. "He asked you to spy on Sherlock for him, didn't he?" he deadpanned.
She nodded.
John rubbed his eyes tiredly. "You'd think a guy like him, with access to CCTV cameras and surveillance, he wouldn't have to ask us to watch his brother for him," he muttered.
CCTV cameras? Harley thought. But then she remembered Mycroft's comment about her and Sherlock at the park— and the other things he'd mentioned regarding her relationship with the detective. So that was how he knew.
God, the more I learn about him, the creepier he sounds.
Wanting to change the subject, she wrote:
What did you and Sherlock do while I was gone?
It worked. Instantly, John began to tell her about their little adventure; that after she left, they visited Janus Cars and talked with the man who rented the car to Ian Monkford, a Mr. Ewert. John didn't think that they got much out of Mr. Ewert, but Sherlock didn't seem to agree. The only thing he'd told John was that Mr. Ewert was lying.
Lying? Harley pondered. So he knows something about Mr. Monkford's disappearance?
"Sherlock's in the lab right now looking at a blood sample from the car," John finished. "Once he's done, we'll meet back up with Lestrade."
Then, before Harley could respond, a loud voice from across the room caught their attention, "Hey, John!" They both looked up to see a plump, bespectacled man with short brown hair, waving at them with a broad smile as he approached.
"Oh, hey, Mike. How are you?" John greeted him politely.
"You know, the usual— still teaching a bunch of ungrateful smart-alecks here," The man named Mike replied good-naturedly, which caused both men to laugh.
Harley just looked at them both questioningly.
John, finally noticing her expression, stopped laughing and explained, "Harley, this is Mike Stamford. We went to Bart's together. Mike, this is my niece, Harley."
Mike, who had been staring at Harley throughout John's introductions, suddenly lit up in recognition. He grinned. "Oh, Harley! I thought you looked familiar. You're Harry's kid! You were barely up to my knees last time I saw you!"
Harley could only manage a slight smile as she tried to recall ever meeting him when she was younger, but was drawing up a blank.
Mike didn't seem all that offended that she didn't answer him. In fact, he simply laughed once more. Then he said, "Still a girl of few words, are you?"
Her smile vanished, staring expressionlessly at him as he turned back to her uncle and began to converse with him again, not grasping the impact of what he'd said to her. Harley looked down at her food with a frown, having lost her appetite.
After a couple of minutes of listening to them talk— both of them appearing to have forgotten her presence— she ripped off a small portion of her notebook paper, wrote a note in it saying that she was going down to the lab, and left it in front of her uncle for him to read whenever he was finished. Then she stood up, taking her plate with her to put away.
As she disposed of her uneaten food, she saw Molly Hooper getting in the line for lunch. She smiled as she caught the pathologist's eye and waved. Molly grinned and waved back, pleased to see her. Harley noticed that Molly looked a lot happier than the last time she saw her. That was good. She must've done what Harley had suggested, and cut off all ties with that Jim fellow from IT. Speaking of, Harley hasn't seen him around— not yet anyway. Hopefully, it would stay that way. From the other day, she thought that he was almost as creepy as Mycroft.
Oh, how that opinion would soon change.
Harley was about to leave the cafeteria, but something else caught her eye. Nailed to the wall on the other side of the room was a small, wooden Suggestion Box, with yellow slips of paper and pens next to it.
Harley's eyes narrowed. Oh, I've got a suggestion, all right.
After doing her business with that, she left the cafeteria for good and made her way for the laboratory, recalling the directions from the last couple of times she'd visited. She opened the door and looked up to find the consulting detective at the table, naturally. He was holding up a petri dish to peer more closely at it, a smile forming on his face.
Guess he's coming along nicely, she thought.
Sherlock acknowledged her as she walked up and promptly sat herself down onto the stool next to him, his smile gone. "So, you're back. How did it go?" he asked nonchalantly, setting down the dish— which Harley saw now had a drop of blood in it that was fizzing and changing into a more rust-like color.
There were three seconds of total silence throughout the room before Harley dramatically dropped her head down onto the table face-first.
She heard Sherlock let out a light chuckle from above her. "That doesn't surprise me."
She swiftly lifted herself back up, no doubt leaving a red mark on her forehead. Turning back to Sherlock with a pouty look, she took her notebook and wrote:
Has your brother always been that uptight?
"Afraid so. The Christmas dinners were always something left to the imagination."
Harley stared at him, wide eyed, before hastily writing down:
How are both of you still alive?!
He smirked. "With experience and constantly digging down deep for any sort of tolerance for each other's existence," he answered.
She shook her head wearily and rubbed the back of her neck with a sigh. Sherlock's right. I'm grateful I'm an only child.
Then she glanced up and caught Sherlock staring at her, his face pensive as he watched her actions. Her brows furrowed as she removed her hand from her neck. What?
However, the second he noticed her looking back, like a light switch his face became devoid of any emotion as he turned away.
"Tell me," he began coolly as he put his equipment away, "Does the word Janus mean anything to you?"
After a moment of staring suspiciously at him, she bit her lower lip and wrote in her book:
The two-faced, Roman god of doorways and transitions (among a lot of other things). And by two-faced, I mean that literally.
He nodded in confirmation. "Exactly. With Janus Cars, though, it's not literal. But with that knowledge in mind, it only makes it even more obvious."
Harley raised an eyebrow questioningly. What do you mean? She wrote.
"Our bomber called not too long ago. He said that the clue's in the name."
Harley was surprised at this news. The bomber gave him a clue? Why would he do that?
Snapping out of her stupor, she wrote:
John told me what happened when you two went to Janus Cars. You think they could be involved with Mr. Monkford's disappearance?
"Oh, I don't think, I know they're involved," he answered. Then he carefully slid the petri dish of the blood sample across the counter toward her. "See this? After running a simple test on it, I've concluded that it's indeed Ian Monkford's blood, but it wasn't drawn from his body recently. There are several particles in that one drop alone that tell us that not only was it donated some time ago, but it's been frozen— just waiting to be used. There's also the fact that there was exactly one pint of it in the car, on the dot. No one loses a perfect pint of blood. And that's what Janus Cars did: they took Ian's blood and spread it in the car to make it look like he'd been murdered to throw us off his track."
Harley frowned at the dish, trying to piece together what he'd said with any and all information she'd learned throughout this case. A long moment later, she hesitantly began to write:
The wife did say that he's been depressed for months. And he's a banker, so maybe he got himself into some financial trouble and couldn't see a way out, and he got desperate? So Janus Cars helped him fake his death somehow?
Sherlock read her theory, and for a moment he was silent, eyes widened slightly. Then he met Harley's gaze and, to her surprise, he smiled. "Yes. That's exactly what happened."
Although glad that she was on the right track, she couldn't help but make a face at the revelation.
That seems a little drastic, though— just to get out of paying your debts, she wrote.
"Oh, you'd be surprised with the lengths people will go to escape debt."
Harley's lips twitched upwards in elation before she continued:
And Janus also means the god of beginnings. So to the outside world, they're just a simple car rental, but if you get into some kind of trouble and want to disappear, to start a new life for yourself…Janus Cars will help you do it.
Sherlock's smile spread into a grin, that excited gleam back in his eyes. "Precisely!"
His grin, as well as his growing enthusiasm, was contagious. Harley's lips curled up even more as she remembered their encounter with Mrs. Monkford earlier that day. And Ian's wife is in on it, too, she added, not a question this time. A certain declaration.
"Yes! Isn't it brilliant?" he exclaimed. "Now, we just need to let Lestrade know, then the bomber. It only took five hours to solve this one!"
He continued to clear away the table. Harley watched him with a smile before she busied herself by washing out the petri dish and putting it away for him. By the time she was done, John came into the room and joined them.
"Hey. Find anything?" John asked. He wrapped an arm around Harley's shoulders when she came up to him.
"Oh, yes," Sherlock answered with the same air of excitement lingering in his voice. He took his coat and scarf from the back of the chair as he started to lead them out of the lab. When he didn't elaborate more on the subject, John simply shook his head and followed suit with Harley, eventually catching up with the detective.
Then John turned to his niece with a glare as they walked. "By the way, Mike saw the little note you put in the suggestion box back in the cafeteria."
Harley looked away and bit the inside of her mouth, trying not to smile, as Sherlock looked at them both curiously. "Suggestion?"
John rolled his eyes before he replied, "From the ever poetic mind of Harley Watson: 'Your coffee is shite. Stop it from being shite.'"
While Sherlock snorted with laughter, Harley shrugged lazily with a crooked smile. Just sayin'.
"Gotta watch your language, young lady," John admonished, though it was clear it was only half-heartedly.
I take after you and Mum. I wouldn't talk, she thought, sending him one last smug smile before leaning more into his side as they walked on together, holding onto his arm around her shoulders, earning a chuckle out of him.
Sometime later, they arrived at the police car pound and met up with Detective Inspector Lestrade, all of them standing around Monkford's car. Sherlock explained to Lestrade what he and Harley had discussed in the lab— about Janus Cars having a second business in helping people disappear when they are in trouble, and how they helped Ian Monkford do so by taking a pint of his blood and spreading it in the car. Lestrade and John listened intently, surprised by the revelation but also taking Sherlock's word for it. Harley watched him with a small smile, glad that this case was coming to a close.
"So where is he?" John asked, referring to Ian Monkford.
"Columbia," Sherlock answered simply as he closed the car's driver door and walked away.
"Columbia?" Lestrade exclaimed in disbelief, following him.
"Mr. Ewert of Janus Cars had a twenty-thousand Columbian peso note in his wallet. Quite a bit of change, too," Sherlock elaborated. "He told us he hadn't been abroad recently, but when I asked him about the cars, I could see the tan line clearly. No one wears a shirt on a sun bed."
Harley made a face. No kidding. You'd just look like an idiot tourist.
"That, plus his arm," he continued.
"His arm?" asked Lestrade.
"He kept scratching it— obviously irritating him and bleeding. Why? Because he'd recently had a booster jab. Hep-B, probably. Difficult to tell at that distance. Conclusion: he'd just come back from settling Ian Monkford into his new life in Columbia, Mrs. Monkford cashes in on the life insurance, and she splits it with Janus Cars."
"Mrs. Monkford?" John questioned.
"Oh, yes. She's in on it too," Sherlock replied, shooting Harley a quick smirk.
Yeah, and she was probably planning on joining her husband later in Columbia. Who knows now, she pondered, smiling back.
"Now go and arrest them, Inspector. That's what you do best," Sherlock told Lestrade before turning back to the Watsons. "As for us, we need to let our friendly bomber know that the case is solved."
Harley waved goodbye to Lestrade, who simply shook his head tiredly as he watched them leave with a faint smile growing on his face, before she jogged to catch up to the two men— just in time for Sherlock to pump his fists with the zealous, triumphant exclamation of, "I am on FIRE!"
Harley grinned with silent laughter, and when Sherlock met her gaze, she held out her fist for him. Sherlock simply stared at her confusion, but Harley inched her fist closer, raising her eyebrows. Come ooon, she mentally prodded. Then, slowly, reluctantly, Sherlock obliged by lightly tapping his fist against hers.
Yesss!
John looked away, trying not to break out into laughter, while Sherlock turned to stare straight ahead with the blankest face Harley's ever seen. She smiled with satisfaction as the three of them walked out of the garage, the lights overhead flickering off one by one behind them.
Harley was happy to be back at the flat after a long day out— especially when one of the things that happened to her was get kidnapped by a government official, but hey, she wasn't pointing fingers. It had gotten considerably freezing in the flat due to the still boarded up windows and the heating going out, and even worse now that it was evening. Luckily for her, not only did she and her uncle come from a long line of ashen blond hair and old family middle names that they weren't too proud to have, but also the primal instinct to keep more jumpers and cardigans than they actually needed— a quirk that Sherlock had amusedly pointed out to her the day they met.
But who was laughing now?
Not her, because she physically couldn't, but still...
John instantly went to work with preparing hot tea for all of them, while Harley went upstairs to get every long-sleeved piece of clothing she'd brought with her as well as her uncle's from his room, and Sherlock went straight to John's laptop and logged in to his website, keeping his coat and scarf on. Harley returned downstairs with a large pile of jumpers in her arms— as well as her fuzzy socks.
However, she stopped at the bottom of the stairs when she heard the pink phone ringing from the table. It only rang once before Sherlock answered it, and instantly she could hear a young man's terrified voice filter through.
"He says you can come and fetch me," he said, his voice faltering until it turned into sputtering sobs. "Help. Help me, please!"
Harley closed her eyes and sighed, the dread she'd been feeling every time someone called from that phone so far growing inside her. She shifted her hold on the clothes only to rub the back of her neck. When will it stop?
She stood there in the middle of the hallway, waiting as she listened to the hostage tell them his location and John call Lestrade and relay the information. The water in the kettle was beginning to whistle by the time all of that was taken care of, and John went into the kitchen to finish making the tea. Harley took that as her cue to rejoin him.
Harley could easily tell that John was as stressed about the ordeal as she was, but when she approached him and offered him some of her jumpers, his face lost all of its concern, replaced with a thankful grin as he took half of them from her. "Very considerate of you. Ta."
She smiled back before putting on the jumpers she had, leaving her in several layers of clothing.
John frowned at her as she put on the last jumper— a largely oversized, deep green one. "I think that one's mine."
She pretended not to hear him as she fixed her hair and made a dash for the living room.
"Oi, I said that's my—"
But she was already gone.
John rubbed his eyes and groaned.
Harley saw that Sherlock had moved from the table to his usual armchair, his hands steepled over his chin in thought. Sherlock spared a quick glance at her when she entered the room. "You look ridiculous," he said plainly before returning his gaze to nothingness.
I'm sorry, I can't hear you over the deafening sound of how snug I am, she thought, readjusting her jumpers.
John came back and gave each of them a hot mug of tea. Just what they all needed. And after reheating some leftover takeout from the night before, they were all settled in— except Sherlock chose not to eat his still-untouched food, so John simply helped himself to it. Harley looked over at the detective from her spot on the couch next to her uncle, a small smile on her face as she remembered Mrs. Hudson's comment about his eating habits some time ago. Gangly scarecrow, indeed.
She turned her focus back to the television channel that they settled on watching, which was playing some weird, old, black-and-white sci-fi monster film.
And cue the yelling and insults from Sherlock.
"I'm quite sure that if there was enough formic acid in that body to kill twenty men, there wouldn't be much of it left, especially when most of it is already physically broken down!"
Harley and John looked at each other and rolled their eyes as Sherlock continued to yell at the screen, "And everyone knows that natural formic acid comes from ants! Why would they think it was some homicidal maniac? They're all idiots!"
These movies are a lot less scary after seeing real carcasses, Harley thought, criticizing the movie for herself as she watched the giant ant on the screen disembowel an unfortunate victim. Then she blinked, her brows furrowing. Normal twelve-year-old girls never even considered concepts like that, she realized— not to mention, they never got excited whenever they figured out a man had faked his death and immigrated, she recalled from back in the lab with Sherlock earlier.
Man, this holiday is really doing a number on me, she mused. She looked over at her uncle beside her, who was watching the telly and laughing with amusement, then at Sherlock, who was still making judgmental comments about the logic of the film.
Shaking her head, she went back to picking at her food and watching television silently until it was time to turn in to her room for the night.
But when she went to bed later that evening, she found herself having trouble falling asleep. Not because she didn't want to. She just couldn't, and it was taking more of a toll on her than the already nagging stress that had been causing her to have some sleepless nights lately in the first place. Laying in her bed all alone in the dark, her eyes glued to ceiling, her thoughts reeled with things that have been concerning her the past several days. The explosion across the street, the bomber, her nightmares, her meeting with Sherlock's brother earlier that day— and she didn't know why, but her mind kept replaying what that Mike Stamford had said to her earlier at Bart's. It wasn't even that big of a deal, really, and she knew he didn't mean anything by it, but…it still kind of hurt.
It didn't hurt nearly as bad as what Donovan had said, though, because that was actually intentional.
She sighed forlornly.
After what felt like hours of tossing and turning with no success of falling asleep, Harley decided to give up trying to sleep and, with a huff, she quickly shifted out of bed and left her room. She shuffled down the hallway until she stopped in front of John's room. Quietly cracking the door open, she peeked into the room to find her uncle sleeping soundly on his side, his body moving up and down in time to his breathing. His back was turned to her and he was wearing a sleeveless shirt, so she was able to see some of the red scar tissue behind his shoulder where he had been shot in Afghanistan. Harley winced, as that was the first time she's ever actually seen the result of his injury. Ouch.
Deciding not to wake and disturb him a long moment later, she slowly backed away and closed the door before she trekked downstairs. Perhaps she could just stay in the living room— maybe read a book or something— until the sun came up. Hopefully, Sherlock wouldn't mind, on the likely chance he was still up and about.
She made her way downstairs and saw that, sure enough, Sherlock was still wide awake, typing away on John's computer at the table in the living room.
He stopped upon hearing Harley enter the room. His eyes flitted over to her, not surprised to see her.
"Can't sleep, I see. Mutant insects plaguing your thoughts?" he asked drily, turning back to the laptop.
I wish, she thought.
For a moment, she just stood in the doorway warily. When he didn't tell her to go back to bed, she took a steady breath and continued, approaching him. She looked over his shoulder to see several tabs open on the computer; the one Sherlock was currently on looked like what appeared to be old yearbook photos. Very old yearbook photos.
Harley tilted her head curiously, observing the many young faces on the page, until she came across the picture of a boy with the name Carl Powers.
After catching Sherlock's gaze with a questioning look, he told her, "Just looking for any leads on who our bomber might me. It's a stretch, but it's possible that he's a fellow student of Powers."
Oh… Harley slowly sat down into the chair next to him, thoughts about the bomber coming back into light. She glared at the laptop, feeling troubled.
"What is it?"
She blinked and looked up at Sherlock, who stared expectantly at her.
She shook her head, but when he merely intensified his gaze, wordlessly pressing her, she knew it was no use. She spotted the notepad on the table and reached for it, along with a pen, opening it to an empty page, and wrote:
Nothing, really. Just a strong feeling that the bomber is the one who's been posting all those anonymous comments on your website as well as on John's blog. The one who sent you those codes a while back.
"Ah, yes. I can see why you'd think that. While the messages the person sent would indeed appear off-putting to some, I doubt that he would actually be…" he suddenly trailed off, a thought occurring to him. "Hang on…" he turned to her, his expression betraying a hint of astonishment, "You've been on my website?"
Her eyes flicking to the left, then back to him, she nodded slowly in confusion.
His face then seemed to take on a look somewhere between hopefulness and pride. "Well, what did you think?" he asked, his tone calm but with an edge of eagerness.
Uhhh…
Not entirely sure what answer he was anticipating to get out of her, she cautiously wrote down the first thing that came to mind:
I had no idea there were so many types of tobacco ash.
That was apparently good enough for him. He smirked. "Yes. No one ever thinks something such as tobacco ash could be essential to criminal investigation, but quite the contrary. It's helped me solve many cases, including the murder of a man who had died of asphyxiation. He had poison mixed into the tobacco he'd usually put in his smoking pipe."
Her lips twitched up, finding it kind of endearing to see him so proud of something like that. Then she wrote down and showed him:
I think my favorite case of yours has to be The Green Ladder— how a man's simple superstition led to his demise. That was amazing.
His smirk spread into a smile as he reminisced. "That one was difficult at first. If the wife hadn't thrown salt over her shoulder when I spoke with her, I probably wouldn't have considered he was superstitious. But when she did, the rest came easily."
She smiled back. Of course it did.
"And you've seen the codes on my site too," he said. "Did you try solving them?"
She nodded before writing:
The second one took me a while to solve, though.
She didn't bother pointing out how creepy the actual messages were. She doubted he even cared about them anyway.
Sherlock snorted. "Consider yourself lucky to have solved them at all."
She shrugged.
Both of them fell silent, and for a while they were like that, Sherlock going back to studying the websites he was on (though she could somewhat tell that his heart wasn't quite in it), and Harley taking a sudden interest in picking at the seams of her jumper. But she wasn't as uncomfortable as she was earlier. In fact, engaging a small conversation with Sherlock had calmed her down some, even taking her mind off of some of the things that have been bothering her— enough for some of the drowsiness to return to her, at least.
Eventually coming to a conclusion, Harley took the notepad back and started writing again. In her peripheral vision, she could see Sherlock stop, as if waiting. She showed him when she was finished:
Do you mind if I sleep down here for the rest of the night?
His eyebrow raised a fraction before turning back to the laptop screen and saying offhandedly, "Do what you like. What do I care?"
She bit her lip before pushing her chair back. However, just as she stood up, Sherlock turned back to her. "Harley?" he said.
She looked back at him expectantly.
His mouth opened to say something, but a few seconds later, he closed it, as though reconsidering something. Analyzing her briefly for one last time, he turned away, frowning at the computer screen. "Never mind. Good night, Harley."
She stared at him in confusion, but he refused to meet her gaze again, so instead she shrugged it off, figuring it was probably nothing.
A corner of her mouth curving up into a serene smile, she leaned in and kissed him lightly on the cheek goodnight. She couldn't help but smile even more when he tensed up in his seat, eyes widening, before he quickly reverted back to his stony expression like nothing had happened.
Sighing tiredly, she took the Union Jack pillow and afghan blanket from the red chair and went to lie down on the couch, her back facing the rest of the room.
As she closed her eyes and relaxed, listening to nothing but the sound of Sherlock quietly typing behind her, her thoughts drifted back to her visit with Mycroft, recollecting all of the things he'd said regarding her and Sherlock. She remembered Mycroft's request for her to spy on Sherlock for him. And after some deliberation, she decided not to do that. Whatever Sherlock's done in the past, it was in the past— and all his business. She was no one's messenger girl, and certainly no one's snitch.
Especially not the government's snitch.
(And furthermore, why did Mycroft even need her to spy on his brother for him if he had the entire nation's security at his disposal? Was he really that lazy?)
She also remembered Mycroft asking her something about perhaps keeping in touch with Sherlock even when she left and returned home. She never really considered that before, but now that she'd been asked, it kind of sounded like a good idea. Of course, she and John texted and emailed each other all the time, but with Sherlock….she didn't know. Maybe he could send her messages, telling her about some of the future cases or experiments he'd work on. Perhaps they'd send theories and notes back and forth with each other.
She knew that it all sounded like wishful thinking and that she probably shouldn't consider it, but to her, the idea sounded and felt so…comforting. She didn't know why, but it did.
Maybe it was because, like what she told Mycroft, Sherlock listened to her. And even when she went home, it'd be nice to know that there was someone out there who still did.
And besides, there are more holidays from school for her to come back.
Smiling a little at that idea, she slowly dozed off into an easy sleep, thoughts of a promising future after this whole ordeal was over with giving her a little peace of mind…
…until it would all come crashing down.
A/N- Man, have I ever mentioned how much I love writing the interactions between John, Sherlock, and Harley- whether all together or one-on-one? HHHHNNNGGG! God, I can't with these three! And hey, this chapter was a bit longer than the recent ones, so...*COUGH*Happy now, Lady Artimes Blaine?*COUGH*
Also, if anyone's curious, the movie they were watching was the 1954 American film, "Them!"
Neat title, don't you think?
Again, sorry for the wait. I had some adjusting and healing to go through before I was able to even look at my computer again. Believe me, if I ever stopped writing a story entirely, I'd let you guys know. I may be an asshole, but I'm an asshole who cares.
