A/N- Waddup, my smokin' hot tamales!

Apparently, I've made some enemies out of some of you guys from the last couple of chapters.

Can't say I didn't enjoy it.

Don't worry, though. As fun as it was, the time of bombshell cliffhangers has come to an end. The next couple of chapters are just more...well, sad, than anything.

Disclaimer: I only own my OC.

WARNING: Mentions and implications of abuse.

Enjoy, nonetheless.

"God damn it!" John snarled.

Sherlock glanced up at him. "Still went to voicemail?" he asked plainly, knowing full-well the answer to that.

Ignoring him, John furiously muttered obscenities under his breath as he continued to pace the floor in front of Sherlock. Then he pushed the dial number, attempting to phone his sister for the ninth time in a row. Sherlock sighed heavily as he sat back in his chair. He took out his own phone and checked a message recently sent to him by Lestrade, informing him that the pool had been thoroughly searched, cleared out, and the bomb defused. Putting the phone back in his pocket, he rested his steepled hands over his chin as he stared ahead at another row of empty chairs, relieved that he and John were currently the only ones in the relatively quiet waiting room.

They'd had Harley rushed and admitted into St. Bart's hospital over four hours ago. They hadn't seen her since she was wheeled away by the doctors and nurses the second they arrived, but they were given frequent updates on her condition from time to time while they took refuge in the waiting room. The doctors had managed to sustain any of her physical injuries before they could become fatal— most importantly the gash on the back of her head and neck— and gave her a quick blood transfusion, bringing her vitals and blood pressure back up into safe range.

Now she was sleeping it off. At least, that was what John and Sherlock were told. They still weren't permitted to see her yet.

It was driving John mad, but not nearly as much as how Harriet kept on ignoring his many calls and messages. Knowing her, she was most likely passed out and dead to the world at this hour. Not that he gave a damn.

"Harry, your daughter has been attacked and is now in the hospital," he hissed into the phone, leaving a message, "So if you have any sense left in that buzzed brain of yours, you'll call back and haul your arse here."

Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed slightly at this, but otherwise kept his face passive as he stared ahead pensively. He wasn't too worried about Harley's medical injuries— not anymore, at the least. They have already been taken care of, and would eventually scar and heal in time, as all other physical wounds do.

Psychological wounds, on the other hand, were a much different story. The mind can be a far more difficult thing to mend, after all.

And those things Jim Moriarty had said about her…

Sherlock closed his eyes and delved deep into his thoughts. Harley Mabel Watson. Daughter to Harry and surrogate daughter to Clara. Twelve years old. Mute. Inquisitive. Resourceful. Witty. Loyal. Avid Reader. Distrusts authority and other adults she doesn't know. Cares for her uncle. Reserved. Anxiety. Insecure. Broken home. Hurt. Damaged.

Sherlock frowned at those last few deductions before he went even deeper.

It was time to resolve this once and for all.

Because at this point, Harley's life depended on it.

He strung together every piece of information he had gathered on Harley— from the moment she arrived to his flat to here and now, in this hospital. From her mannerisms, to her mental state, to her scar, to everything John had told him regarding her, to her unconscious reactions to even the tiniest of things— the way she drew into herself whenever she was witness to conflict between others, the way she flinched when someone came onto her too strongly, the way she acted toward her uncle's potential dates…the way she would desperately try to get something across but something constantly held her back. Add the consulting criminal's remarks to the board, and he soon came to a conclusion that made him tense, his insides tightening.

He now had an idea as to why Harley was exactly the way she was.

But he needed more data before proceeding. More importantly: he needed proof.

He opened his eyes, bringing himself back into the waiting room. He must've been in his mind palace for quite some time, going by how the sun was just starting to rise outside and John was no longer pacing, and was instead sitting next to him. The ex-army doctor was hunched forward, legs tapping rapidly against the floor— a nervous trait that he and Harley shared.

Sherlock stood and walked across the room. He pulled his mobile out and dialed a familiar, yet rarely used number. After only two rings, the voice of his brother drawled through the other line.

"Sherlock."

"Mycroft."

"This is a surprise. You're actually calling me for a change? To what do I owe this—"

"Cut the banalities, Mycroft. If you're the infuriatingly meddlesome older brother that I know you are, you've already been made aware of the situation we're in," Sherlock cut him off irritably before getting straight to the point, "I need you to do something for me. It's important."

"Oh? And what is that?"

"I want Harley Watson's medical records from the past six years— all of them. I want the names of the doctors who treated her for a serious head wound, and I want them all brought in for questioning. Also, I want to ensure that Harley gets the best treatment here— all background checks on anyone who tends to her— and that she's under constant watch and protection."

There was a long pause between the two brothers that set Sherlock on edge.

"My, my, Sherlock," Mycroft finally spoke, "if I didn't know any better, I'd say you were actually concerned for this girl's well-being."

Sherlock gritted his teeth. He could practically feel the smug amusement seeping through the phone. "Are you going to do it or not?" he demanded. "Or is it not within your protocol with your 'minor position'?"

He heard Mycroft sigh heavily. "Very well, I'll do it. And I assume you'll want Detective Inspector Lestrade included on your little investigation?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Obviously."

"Clearing the rest of his schedule right now. I will also send my assistant to give you the records in an hour, tops."

Sherlock scoffed. "A whole hour? You're getting slow at your age, brother dearest."

Mycroft chose not to take the bait. A wise choice. "Everything else will be taken care of straightaway."

"Good to know."

"Yes. And Sherlock?"

Sherlock resisted the urge to hang up on him there and huffed. "What?"

Mycroft's voice lowered into that scathingly scolding tone. "Whatever you're going to find…don't get emotionally involved."

Sherlock's brow furrowed before answering with a curt, "Fine," and quickly pressed the end call button. He turned around to find that John was standing again. Only this time, he wasn't pacing, instead staring at Sherlock with a blank expression.

"You're going to look more into this, aren't you?" John asked, his voice even, almost lifeless. "Going to treat this like a case. Because that's what Harley is now….a case."

"John…" Sherlock began, but stopped when John held a hand up. Then he blinked when his flatmate in question took on a rather severe look.

"What can I do to help?" he asked the detective.

Sherlock regarded him steadily for a moment. "You may not like what we'll find," he warned. "And things will never be the same for Harley, you, and your family."

"I don't care," John insisted, unwavering. "I just want someone to pay for what that girl was put through. Even you understand that, don't you?"

Sherlock stared intently at him before nodding. "All right," he said. "You can start by telling me exactly what happened that night— when you both were taken by General Shan and her men."

"Yes, and thank you for your time," Lestrade bid the surgical assistant farewell before rubbing a hand down his face tiredly. Then he left the interrogation room, down the short, narrow hallway, and found himself in another small room that overlooked the previous room through a one-way, soundproof glass with John and Sherlock, who had been watching intently.

"She's clean…just like the last one," he told them.

"Send in the next one," Sherlock ordered.

Lestrade sighed. "Look," he said, "We've been at this for hours. I'm worried about Harley too, but if we could just get more intel— more information so we know what exactly we're looking for—"

"I'll know when I see it," Sherlock snapped, glaring at the detective inspector irritably. "Now, send in the next one."

John simply watched the exchange between the two detectives until Lestrade left the room, then turned to gaze through the window, clenching and unclenching his fists. Normally, John would've scolded Sherlock for his rudeness, but his mind was far too preoccupied to worry about something that seemed so trivial now.

He'd searched through and studied every file that Anthea had given them as thoroughly as he could, trying to find any sort of inconsistencies in the reports— the fly in the ointment. But no matter how long his eyes burned into the papers, he'd come up short. Now he was almost near the end of his rope.

Keep it together, he told himself. Do it for her. She needs you.

He was pulled out of his thoughts when another officer ushered someone into the interrogation room and had him sit down at the table. It was a young man, perhaps in his late twenties, with short brown hair, fair skin, a freckled face and hazel eyes, and wearing casual street clothes. He was looking around the room nervously with his arms crossed over his chest.

Sherlock stared at the man through the glass with a scrutinizing frown, and didn't take his eyes off him even as Lestrade came back with a file and began to read off of it.

"Branden Tyler. Twenty-nine years old. Started out on an internship at the hospital seven years ago until he was hired on as a nurse almost two years later."

Technically still just a kid in the medical field, John thought with a soft sigh. It sounded like they weren't going to get anything out of him either.

But then Sherlock's eyes widened slightly before he proclaimed in a firm voice, "We're taking this one."

Both John and Lestrade sent him equally surprised looks.

"What, really?" Lestrade asked. "You see something?"

"Observe, Lestrade, not see," Sherlock said before turning to leave the room, grabbing one of the folders. John immediately followed and fell into step with him. As they reached the door, Sherlock muttered to John under his breath, "Be ready."

"Right." John nodded to confirm before schooling his face.

With that, Sherlock opened the door, and they both stepped in. Branden turned around, staring at them suspiciously as the door closed and locked behind them.

"So," Branden started with a raised eyebrow, sitting back in his seat as he looked between the two of them, "which one of you is the bad cop? Just checking."

Sherlock's face was a cold, indifferent mask as he answered, "Both."

Branden looked taken aback, but his insolent manner quickly returned. "Is this going to take long? I already told those guys from earlier, I haven't done nothin'."

"Anything."

Branden turned to Sherlock in confusion. "What?"

"'I haven't done anything,' is what you meant to say."

Not wanting to waste any more time or for Sherlock to start a meaningless quarrel, John cut in, "We're just going to ask you a few questions."

Branden rolled his eyes and sat back in his chair. "Fine."

John took the folder from Sherlock and opened it up before placing it down in front of the man in question. "Do you recognize this girl?" he asked, referring to a photograph of a younger-looking Harley clipped over a stack of documents.

Brandon looked at the picture. John could've sworn he saw the man's eyes flicker in surprise before he quickly covered it up with a shrug. "Nope. Don't know her."

"Are you sure?" John asked. "You were registered on the clock at the community hospital where she was admitted six years ago. She was treated for a head injury; she was six years old at the time."

Branden blinked, silent, until he spoke up a few seconds later, "Oh…yeah. That kinda rings a bell. She came in with a gash from some accident. I was only an intern then. I just made sure she got the proper dosage of medicine from time to time. Nothin' too fancy."

"Exactly," Sherlock said, glaring at him.

Brandon flinched under the detective's stare. "W— what?"

Sherlock leaned forward, hands on the edge of the table. "You were just an ordinary intern. Fresh out of university. Who would've suspected someone like you? No doubt you had debts; payments you wanted to be rid of as well as be promoted to a job with a steady salary, and not do all the hard work to make it so. So when opportunity came along, you decided it was best to do some dirty work."

"What?!" Branden demanded incredulously. "What the hell are you talking about?!"

"How much were you paid? Enough to have you get by comfortably?" Sherlock said icily, ignoring him. "Who was it, and what did they have you do to her?"

Branden sputtered before going off angrily, "This is bullshit! I don't know where you get off with accusing me, you bastard! I have no idea what you're going on about!"

Perhaps it was just months of living with Sherlock taking their toll on him, but John could easily tell that this young man was nothing but a liar trying to save his own skin. It made his blood boil. He and Sherlock glanced sideways at each other, and Sherlock wordlessly gave him permission with the faintest of nods, while Branden continued to rant at them.

"Your people drag me out of my house, bring me all the way here, then dump all this shit on me?! I don't have to put up with this! I'll sue your arses so hard you'll—"

That was as far as he got before John came up behind him and promptly slammed his head down onto the steel table.

WHAM!

Branden cursed loudly as John yanked him back up by his hair. He clutched his nose in pain, which instantly gushed blood.

"What the hell?!" he moaned, his voice muffled.

Sherlock folded his arms impassively. "Ready to talk now?"

"I told you! I don't know what you're—"

John punched him across the face. Over the man's cry in pain, the door across the room swung open and Lestrade ran in. "John, Sherlock! Stop!" he exclaimed, but Sherlock held a hand up to stop him from advancing further.

"I'm willing to believe you any second," Sherlock said lowly. "But he's not." He gestured to John, who was glowering at Branden with a righteous rage. "He is that little girl's esteemed uncle, after all. So I suggest you say something else to appease him."

Branden cowered in his seat as much as he could when John began to close in on him again, still holding his nose. "Okay, okay!" he groaned pitifully. "It…it was her!"

"Her, who?" John growled dangerously.

"The— the woman who brought the girl in! Clara, Clara Banes. I think that was her name! She did it!"

The three men exchanged a look before turning back to Branden.

"Keep talking," Sherlock pressed.

Branden wiped the blood from his nose. "She…she brought her in. Said the girl was her and her wife's daughter, and claimed that it was an accident to the ones tending to her. But later, while I was alone, she came to me. Told me she was the one who caused it, and offered me money to help cover it up.

"She said she got in touch with someone…and their people. They gave her something as well as some cash, told her to give them to me, and the rest would be taken care of."

Lestrade walked up to stand next to Sherlock, frowning. "What did she give you?"

"A drug of some kind— a memory inhibiting drug, made by the person that woman went to. She paid me to induce it into the girl's system while she slept. It was easy to do— I just added it into her saline drip while I was making my rounds. Then she had me write up the report that the girl got the injury from some accident at her school. She might've gotten others to help back up the claim too. I— I swear, that's all I know!"

The room was silent. Sherlock and John looked at each other for a moment before Sherlock turned to Lestrade. "I believe you can take care of rest for this one here, Inspector?" he asked.

Lestrade nodded before turning back to Branden with a scowl. The man's face contorted into fear, and opened his mouth to protest and beg, but it got lost on the way past his lips as the detective inspector roughly pulled him out of the seat and began to cuff his hands behind his back. Meanwhile, Sherlock and John left the room.

Back in the observation room, the two men were quiet at first, mulling over what had just transpired.

"You didn't contact Clara, did you? Just your sister?" Sherlock asked.

John looked at Sherlock, his expression unreadable. "No, I didn't call her," he said evenly.

"Good," Sherlock said. "It wouldn't do well for us if she was alerted of the situation and given plenty of time to run for it." He then pulled out his mobile, beginning to type into it. "I'll notify Mycroft; have him take her into custody and be…taken care of. I don't see why we need to put her through the trouble of court trial and imprisonment— that'd be far too kind."

John clenched his hands into fists at his sides. "There's just one thing I don't understand…" he muttered. "…why did she do it?"

Sherlock stopped his typing and looked up at his flatmate and friend, his dispassionate face softening ever so slightly. He considered his answer for a moment, before replying with, "I'm afraid you and Harry didn't know her as well as you thought you did."

When Harley woke up, she felt warm, dry, and safe.

It nearly scared her to death.

She opened her eyes and found herself staring straight up at a plain, white ceiling with bright lights. Blinking hazily, she looked around. She was in a single hospital room with tan walls, a television hung on the wall across from her propped up bed, a couple of chairs, and a large window that allowed the daylight to come through and onto the flowers sitting on the window still.

She moved her head tentatively, staring down at herself. Her clothes were gone, replaced with a bright blue hospital gown under the bed covers. She could feel bandages wrapped around her midsection and her right shoulder. She wore a brace on her right hand. Scattered over her arms, under her nose, and the back of her hand were taped, clear tubes— some that attached to a heart monitor which beeped a constant, steady beep. The tube on the back of her hand led up to an IV drip propped next to her bed that pumped a clear liquid into her system. That might've explained how she wasn't feeling a whole lot of physical pain.

She shifted uncomfortably, feeling a certain rigidity under her as she moved her head. Careful not to displace any of the tubes, she slowly lifted a hand, reached behind her, and felt around the back of her head and neck, her fingers gingerly brushing over a big, stiff patch of fabric, the area around it shaved clear of excess hair that was in the way.

That was when it all came back to her, why she was here…and not just the recent events that she was forced into enduring.

Her hand fell back to her side as she flopped her head against the pillow. Her throat closed up, her lips trembling, as a stinging sensation began to build up in her eyes. She closed them, and tears instantly flowed down her face. She sniffed.

The sound of the heart monitor briefly slipping away, images flashed across her vision. Scenes unfolded and voices yelling— the same ones that she frequently dreamed about, ever since her encounter with the Black Lotus. Except this time, it all came in more clearly. A familiar figure with a familiar face coming at her, hurting her, saying such horrible things to her. No one ever came to help her even as she screamed, only to be rewarded with even more pain. And when all of the hurting died down, the voice came back in a low tone.

"Don't tell anyone."

"It's our little secret".

Harley opened her eyes again, and suddenly, a barrier inside Harley broke free like a dam— a barrier she didn't even know was there, as it all came crashing down on her. Her face crumbled, more tears spilling down, as she broke out into choking sobs.

She wasn't sure how long she lay there in that room alone and cried, but it felt like hours. Eventually, her sobs gave away to shuddering breaths, and finally, she was spent. She wiped her raw face dry with her blanket, feeling like a complete, miserable wreck. She let out a heavy, shaky breath as she laid back and simply stared at the blank wall.

Sometime later, the door across the room opened, and every muscle in Harley's body stiffened.

A middle-aged woman came into the room. She wore a black skirt and a frilly maroon blouse underneath a white coat, and small, square glasses over her green eyes. Her dark but greying red hair was neatly tied up into a bun. She sent Harley a warm smile as she quietly closed the door behind her with one hand, the other holding a large note pad and a ball-point pen between her fingers.

"Hello, Harley," she greeted in a smooth, pleasant voice. "I'm Dr. Malone."

Harley just watched her as she strolled toward her. She waited for the woman to ask her how she was feeling and to check her vitals, but instead, she simply took a seat in the chair next to the bed.

Harley realized that Dr. Malone wasn't the medical kind of doctor. She swallowed.

"I know you must have so many questions," Dr. Malone said. "I'll answer as much of them as I can. You're at St. Bartholomew's Hospital. You've been here the past few days. Your uncle is just fine, and Sherlock, too." Her smile then softened in understanding. "And I am well aware of your condition."

With that, she gently slid the notepad and pen across the bedside table toward Harley, offering her to use it. "Whenever you're ready."

Harley stared at Dr. Malone in surprise, comparing her to all the other child psychologists she's had over the years, and how they'd never done what she just did right-out. Either she trusted her, or has simply dealt with much worse patients than her— most likely the latter. In the end, Harley decided to briefly return the trust. She reached a shaking hand out and took notepad and pen, dragging them into her lap. For a long moment, she stared down at the blank paper in front of her, before she pressed the pen into the yellow sheet and slowly wrote, her handwriting coming out more sloppy than normal, before showing the doctor:

I can't be here anymore.

Dr. Malone's smile faltered a little when she read it. "Why do you think that, Harley?" she asked as Harley started to write her reply:

My mum can't afford it. Neither can my uncle.

Something flashed through Dr. Malone's eyes before her smile returned. "Oh, Harley, you don't need to worry about that. That's all being well taken care of," she assured the girl. "You have a lot of people who care a great deal about you."

Harley looked away, pressing her lips together. Dr. Malone instantly picked up on that.

"What's wrong, Harley?" the doctor asked. "Do you not believe that?"

Harley breathed heavily through her mouth, hating the feeling of her throat closing up again. Shaking her head, she struggled to write:

I want to believe it.

"Then what's stopping you?"

Harley lowered the pen, not answering. Instead she quickly wiped her watering eyes with her arm, feeling ashamed. She thought she was all cried out from earlier, but it seemed she was wrong.

"Does it have anything to do with your home life? With your mother?"

Harley looked back at her, her face grim.

"I understand that your mother, Harriet, has a long history of alcoholism. Is that right?"

She nodded solemnly.

Dr. Malone leaned forward, her expression turning into something Harley couldn't quite read, as she asked carefully, "Harley, is she the one who made you think that way? Did she ever say or do anything that hurt you?"

Harley sniffled, trying to pull herself together, before weakly shaking her head. She wrote:

She drinks and sleeps a lot, but she never hurt me.

Dr. Malone considered this answer for a moment. "And what about Clara? She used to live with you two until several months ago, yes?" she asked. "She took care of you while your mother was otherwise indisposed?"

Harley swallowed thickly, feeling bile rise up into her throat. I thought she did, was what she wanted to write, but it was as if something was holding her writing hand back, dragging her back. She shut her eyes tight.

"Don't tell anyone…"

"Harley?"

She flinched and reopened her eyes, finding herself back in the hospital room. Dr. Malone stared at her in concern. "Are you back with us, Harley?" she asked calmly. "What's hurting you right now?"

Harley breathed deeply, not meeting the woman's eyes in humiliation.

"Are you going to let me help you?"

She shook her head timidly, looking down at her trembling fingers.

Dr. Malone was silent. Harley snuck a glance up at her, meeting her soft, sympathetic eyes. "I know you're in a lot of pain right now, Harley," she said gently, "but if you want to get better…you're going to have to."

Harley raised her head back up, fully meeting the doctor's gaze, which was naturally inquisitive, but also warm and kind, not at all as if Harley was just a mental case for her to dissect and unravel. She truly did just want to help her.

It was such a breath of fresh air to see from a specialist that it almost made Harley break down again.

With effort, Harley nodded.

Taking that as the initiative, Dr. Malone asked her, "Do you remember anything from that night before you blacked out? Even the smallest things?"

Harley looked down at the paper, which now had a couple of droplets of tears that managed to drip off her chin, as she thought long and hard.

I remember leaving my uncle's flat, she began, I was walking down the street with him, and…

A/N- And thus begins the process of Harley's slow healing. Can't say it's going to be easy for her. It's like I said once: it always gets worse before it gets better.

Thank you to everyone who's still reading along after all this time! I appreciate all the support and help that I get.

Also, to the awesometacular reviewer known as WizardingWhovian: My deepest apologies. I usually like to PM back with messages in case you didn't want anyone else reading it, but since you posted it as a guest, I was unable to. I will say this, though: you got me stumped bad. You should be proud of yourself. *gives high five in respect*