A/N- Hello, my sweet, gooey s'mores!

Aw man, you guys still lost your shit from the last chapter?! Sorry about that.

Don't worry. This one's still sad and feelsy in most parts, but it does end on a bit of a sweet note. Hope that tends to the wounds a little bit.

Disclaimer: I only own my OC.

WARNING: Mentions and implications of abuse and neglect.

Songs that inspired this chapter:

"Little Wonders" by Rob Thomas

"To Have A Home" by Darren Criss

Quotes that inspired this chapter:

"At times, the world can seem an unfriendly and sinister place, but believe us when we say that there is much more good in it than bad. All you have to do is look hard enough. And what might seem to be a series of unfortunate events may in fact be the first steps of a journey." ~Mr. and Mrs. Baudelaire; Lemony Snicket's A Series of Unfortunate Events

"When we hit our lowest point, we are open to the greatest change." ~Avatar Aang; The Legend of Korra

Embrace the feels and enjoy!

Harley was in the hospital for a while after the incident, and not just because of her injuries.

Dr. Malone frequently came back and talked to her when it got quiet— asked her a lot of questions. It wasn't easy, but Harley answered them all as best as she could. And Dr. Malone was surprisingly good at helping her in getting her through them, being patient, supportive, and professional about it.

It took a long time, but after going through all the questions and answers between her and Dr. Malone, Harley realized that all of her nightmares— what she saw that ended up involving Clara hurting her and yelling at her— were all true. And after even longer, she started to remember that it happened a lot when she was much younger, while Harry was passed out drunk or busy at work. And the only reason Clara stopped doing it was because she went too far that one time— when she gave her that scar.

That was all it took, though. The one move that went too far that silenced her completely. Harley herself couldn't recall the event exactly, but one thing was for sure, it happened, and Harley just couldn't cope. Over time, she'd forgotten about the times when she was hurt, her memories of it becoming repressed. Dr. Malone said that when it comes to memories too painful and traumatic to keep, the human brain is capable of getting rid of them, thinking it was helping us. Forgetting was always much easier than remembering, after all.

The first couple of weeks in therapy were some of the longest, hardest days in Harley's life.

But to her, the absolute worst day of all was when she sat on her bed quietly— now IV free and wearing casual clothes again— while Dr. Malone told her uncle about what happened; what Clara used to do to her. She had never seen John look so angry, because he didn't know it was happening when it was and he wasn't there to stop it, but he was even angrier that his sister wasn't in her own right mind to put a stop to it when it was happening right under her nose. Seeing him sit there, slowly boiling in his own fury, was horrible to watch.

There were some good days, though.

The days that kept her going were the days when she could have visitors. John came in to see her every chance he got. The first time he visited, right after the talk, he did nothing but hug her tight, muttering how sorry he was over and over between tender kisses on the forehead. It took a few more visits for him to get more comfortable again and not beat himself up so much. He brought Sarah along once, who gave Harley various colored flowers and a get well card. She still acted a little awkward and unsure, but Harley could see that she was at least trying. That was enough, she supposed.

Molly Hooper came up to visit while she was on break from time to time. Even though Harley didn't eat or drink much while she was committed, Molly would always come in with a freshly made cup of tea from the cafeteria and that sweet smile on her face in the hopes that she would.

Mrs. Hudson did the same thing, except with homemade biscuits, covering it up by fussing over how Harley was forced to eat "rubbish hospital food." Harley wouldn't have minded if the landlady didn't always have that sad look whenever she thought she couldn't see her.

Detective Inspector Lestrade visited occasionally too— when he wasn't too busy working mandatory overtime at the Yard. He would ask her how she was doing, then tell her all about work and make jokes, or teach her how to play card games, acting like nothing was wrong. Harley appreciated that sometimes.

The last person Harley ever expected to see was Anthea. The personal assistant simply walked in, holding a rather large vase of yellow flowers, and set it on the table next to the bed. Then Anthea turned to Harley, who just sat there and watched her. "Mr. Holmes sends his regards, and wishes you a successful recovery," she said with a small smile, before she turned and walked out. Just like that.

Truthfully, Harley was astounded that Mycroft even bothered at all.

And then there was Sherlock Holmes, the younger.

The first time he came in to see her, it was actually a little after visiting hours had ended. Nearly everyone had gone home, and the night shift staff was starting to come in. How Sherlock managed to get past the security was beyond her, but there he was. Harley turned her head slightly from her seated position in front of the window when he entered the room, surprised at first to see him in his signature coat and scarf and holding what looked like a white plastic bag, before she resumed to gazing out at the London skyline that was just beginning to light up the evening sky. She heard him walk across her room, his steps light and calculated, before he sat down next to her.

He was quiet at first, looking like he was searching for the right words to say. Then he began to explain to her all about what happened after the event at the pool— questioning all those doctors who tended to her all those years ago, finding out about the intern, and that Clara had gotten help from the consulting criminal's people to cover up her act of terrible abuse.

It was…eye-opening for Harley, to say the least. All of those things said by Moriarty suddenly made sense.

"Your uncle doesn't think you can handle it, given your current mental state, but I imagine you've had enough of secrets being kept from you— being left in the dark," Sherlock said when he was finished. "I still have Mycroft's people— as well as my own— looking into who else may have been involved. I will assure you, though, that Clara is being taken care of as we speak." He looked at her. "You'll never have to worry about her again. I promise."

Harley only nodded lightly, gazing outside with a neutral expression. She didn't know what he meant by "taken care of", and she didn't want to know.

He fell silent for another moment. Then he picked up the bag he brought in with him only to place it onto her lap. Harley looked down at it blankly.

"I've been constantly informed by John— and many others," he murmured that last part under his breath before continuing, "that gifts are a customary way to wish you to get well soon, or something of that sort. So…here."

Eyebrow raised a fraction, Harley cautiously opened the bag wider, peering in, before pulling out a large, thick, deep blue fabric. She held it up and it unfolded, revealing it to be a jumper— almost exactly like her old one that she had to get rid of, except it was new and didn't have any holes or stains, the color not faded and worn.

"Your uncle recommended this one. You Watsons and your jumpers. Most would consider it a mania, you know," Sherlock said with a smirk.

One corner of Harley's lips gave the lightest twitch. Careful not to make too much movement with her still-healing injuries, she pulled the jumper on over her plain white T-shirt. She felt at the material. It wasn't too tight while still being snug and warm.

"There's one more thing," Sherlock said.

Harley looked up as he pulled something else out of the bag— and she froze in astonishment to find that it was a rather thick book. She numbly took it from him and stared down at it. She rubbed her thumb over the hard, leather-like cover, which had a colorful stained glass window-like scheme, with a sword etched in an anvil at the center of it. The title read, The Complete Tales of King Arthur and his Knights.

"Molly and Mrs. Hudson suggested I give you flowers instead," Sherlock told her with a brief look of disapproval, "but while flowers are nice to smell and look at, they eventually wilt and die. Books and their content, on the other hand, are forever. I figured you'd like this much more than some other plant taking up your space, anyway. Plus, I know that you're a bit of a King Arthur fan, so….Harley?"

He trailed off when he looked back at the girl, his face suddenly taking on a concerned expression when he saw that her head was bowed and turned slightly away from him. But he could still clearly see tears slowly dripping off her chin, her body shaking as she clutched the book tight.

"Harley, what— did I….was that not good?" he asked, looking lost. "I can always return it if you…"

She shook her head before frantically wiping her face dry. She looked up at him with still-shiny eyes in gratitude, holding the book close against her chest, finding it to be the most meaningful gift she's ever been given.

"So, that was good, then?" Sherlock asked to clarify.

Harley let out a light scoff, her lips struggling to curve upwards, before she nodded yes, it was very good. This man, I swear, she thought tiredly.

Sherlock let out a steady breath, almost in relief. "That's…good." He then met her gaze, his own softening. "And I know it doesn't mean much at this point, but I truly am sorry— for everything."

Harley didn't respond to that, as that was far from the first apology she's gotten since the incident, and it most likely won't be the last. But even though it hardly came close to fixing what happened, it was still a comfort to hear sometimes— especially from the people she had grown to care for. Dr. Malone told her that it there was nothing wrong with feeling terrible about things, but we shouldn't dwell so much on them that they shape us into what we'll eventually become in a negative way. What she went through, while tragic, was important, and she needed to remember it. If she didn't, she probably would've been the way she was for the rest of her life: a broken girl, unwanted, too afraid to even let a single word fall out. Now, though, she had a chance to change things for herself, and for the better. She was tired of being afraid.

She still wasn't even close to feeling okay at this point, but for the first time in a long, long time, she desperately wanted to try. And hopefully, it wasn't too late.

Harley looked down at the book given to her, running her fingers absently over the edges of the pages as she thought for a moment. Then she opened up the book, turning to the prologue page, and hesitantly offered it to Sherlock, who immediately understood what she was silently asking of him. A soft chuckle escaped his lips.

"Oh, all right. If I must," he muttered, taking it from her.

She nodded, only this time, with a great amount of effort, the smallest hum made it out of her.

Sherlock blinked, caught off guard at first by the barely audible sound. Then he turned his head to focus back onto the book.

However, Harley could've sworn that he was trying to fight back a smile before he cleared his throat and began to read in his rich, baritone voice, "In ancient days there lived a very noble king, named Uther Pendragon, and he became Overlord of all of Britain…"

That was how some of the visits between Sherlock and Harley were, when it was just the two of them. He didn't see her as much as her uncle did, as he was often busy with going back to solving cases, whether private ones or whenever the police were out of their depth. But that was okay. Just being able to see him again was enough, at least for her.

And much like after the events of The Blind Banker, Harley was amazed at how even after all that they went through, he was strong enough to easily pick himself back up and persevere with his life's work. That was something that she hoped to strive for someday. She wrote this to Dr. Malone during one of their sessions, and the woman grinned.

"That is a very good mindset, Harley," Dr. Malone had told her in reply.

Some of the times when Sherlock visited, usually when accompanied by John, he would tell her about some of the cases he was working on. One case she took interest to in particular had to do with a murder on a cruise line. However, since that case was still ongoing and because of certain legal matters that she didn't quite understand, John had Sherlock censor some things out for her. She was disappointed at first, but in the end, she was just pleased that she was able to spend some time with her uncle and the consulting detective together again.

The only time visiting hours became bad was when her mother tried to see her.

She was reaching her third week into her stay at the hospital, one afternoon. And, coincidently, Sherlock and John were both with her at the time— which made her wonder long afterwards if they knew what was coming beforehand.

All she knew was that they were watching a rerun of that trivia game show that John got Sherlock addicted to on the television, when John's phone bleeped, alerting him of a text message. Harley glanced over at him when he pulled it out of his pocket and looked at it, and she was about to turn her attention back to a laughably outraged Sherlock. But before she could do so, it was like John's entirety just…darkened. She tensed, knowing that something was wrong. Even Sherlock, after looking John's way, had completely lost interest in the show.

John only looked at the phone screen for two more seconds before he stood from the chair next to her. "I'll be right back," he said as he sent her a smile, but she could tell that it was forced. He headed for the door in swift strides, which, when Harley strained her ears to listen over the television, she realized that she could faintly hear voices outside the room— one louder than the others, and it sounded very familiar.

John quickly closed the door on his way out. Harley frowned as she tried to hear what was going on out there as John's voice joined in. Their voices weren't loud enough to pick up coherent words at first. But after a few more seconds, the first voice got even louder to the point where it was practically screaming. Harley blanched, recognizing the voice:

"I'm her mother! I have a right to see her!"

"Right, after shipping her away and not seeing or contacting her for over four bloody weeks you have the gall to say that!" John's voice bellowed right back. "You don't get to choose when you want to be her mother, Harry! Not when it doesn't happen to inconvenience you!"

Their shouting match went on for about a minute, consisting of Harry saying that she just needed some time to herself after the divorce and all the stress of trying to take care of Harley, only to have John reproach her for that "piss poor excuse" and that it wasn't Harley's fault. Someone must've come out and told them that they were being too disruptive, because their voices soon lowered to the point where Harley couldn't understand them. Then their voices drifted down the hallway— meaning they were walking away— until she couldn't hear them entirely anymore.

But she'd heard enough. She gazed down at her clenched fists in her lap, fighting back tears.

Then a hand was placed on her shoulder. Flinching, she looked up at Sherlock, who came to sit down beside her. He didn't say anything, his face completely passive. She sniffed and wiped her nose with her sleeve. Then she took the remote and turned the volume up on the television some. Sherlock glanced at her, still silent, his emotionless expression not breaking, before he returned his attention to the telly.

He didn't spout anymore insults at the screen, which alarmed Harley a little.

It was almost an hour later until John rejoined them in the room. He stood at the doorway for about a minute, looking both conflicted and sad at the same time.

"John," Sherlock said, making the ex-army doctor look up. They locked eyes for an instant, an unspoken agreement and understanding forming between them, before John walked over and sat down by Harley's bedside. He twiddled his thumbs for a moment, trying to figure out the best way to explain to her.

"Harley," he began hesitantly, "about your mother…"

Harley sat very still.

"You see…Dr. Malone informed me about some of the things you told her— not just about Clara—" his tone turned bitter at that name, like the very word was poison to his mouth, "—but just about the way you were living at home, with…with Harry. And…well…to put it shortly, Social Services was brought in, and was told about the situation. She just has too many allegations against her— just from her drinking addiction alone. And they— they decided that…well…" And John was holding her hand now, squeezing lightly and gazing intently at her with those sympathetic eyes. "It's…not quite final yet, but from now on, you're going to stay with me…" his eyes flickered to Sherlock briefly, "…with us."

To Harley, time seemed to stop. Everything became deathly silent. Even the obnoxious noises from the television in the background had become stagnant. She didn't show any emotion, but her face paled. Somehow, she knew that this was coming— she always knew, deep down, that it would happen one of these days, if Harry didn't get her act together. But to hear it being said out loud, for it to actually, finally happen; it left her feeling numb all over, not knowing what to feel at all.

She guessed that John was worried about how unresponsive she was to the news, because the very next day, Dr. Malone came in and asked her about it— how she felt.

She answered as bluntly as she could. I don't know, she wrote on the notepad.

Dr. Malone hummed. "I figured as such. That's perfectly all right, though," she assured her. "Your life is going through this drastic change, and change is hard for everybody, regardless how much of it there is. If anyone were to expect you to jump for joy, I'd call them an idiot."

Harley smirked in amusement. That statement sounded very Sherlock-like.

"You are entitled to feel sad and unsure about things, Harley. It's not a mental illness," Dr. Malone said. She adjusted her glasses on her nose. "However, what you do onwards that affects not just you, but the ones around you is a different story, I'm afraid. Remember what I said about our pasts shaping our future?"

Harley nodded.

Dr. Malone leaned forward and rested her chin in her hand, smiling gently. "So…what are you going to do about it?"

Harley turned to stare out the window at the grey sky over London, getting herself lost in her thoughts for a moment. She thought about all that she's seen and been through since her first arrival in this city. She thought of all the people she's met, how much they've grown to mean to her over time— and vice versa, as she'd gradually come to accept. Then she thought of her small moment of clarity back when Sherlock first visited her, how she wanted to make things better for herself.

She knew now that there were some things you just couldn't change. She couldn't change what happened to her. She couldn't change her mother. The only thing she could change was herself. And that might just be the hardest thing she was going to have to do.

But it was a start.

Taking her pen, she began to write:

I want to get better…

She paused, her hand only slightly shaking, before she gathered up her courage and finished off her answer with:

I want to be able to speak again.

Dr. Malone read Harley's reply carefully, her smile growing wider as she did so, until she looked up at the girl. "I think that's a great idea. I agree."

Three days later, Harley was finally released from the hospital.

"There she is," Dr. Malone said with a light air of cheerfulness, as Harley closed the door to her hospital room for the final time. Turning, she walked up and stood before the doctor, her uncle, and the consulting detective in the middle of the hallway. John smiled at her, while Sherlock simply nodded his head at her in acknowledgement.

"You got everything?" John asked her.

Harley glanced down at the red backpack she was holding, generously provided to her by the hospital to replace the one she lost, before nodding yes.

"Oh! Before you go, I have something to give you," Dr. Malone said. She reached into her handbag, ruffling a few things around for a moment. Harley watched her, curious, until Dr. Malone finally pulled something out and held it in front of her.

Harley blinked. It was a journal— a red, softbound leather journal that opened and closed with a flap over the cover, and bound together with a thick, black thread.

"This isn't for conversing or giving short replies," Dr. Malone said as Harley gingerly took the journal and stared at it. "This is for you, and you alone. You don't need to do it every day, but I recommend you start keeping a journal for your own personal thoughts and musings. It's been proven to help a lot of people with healing and self-discovery. And with your skills at writing, I doubt you'll be an exception."

"Thank you," John said for his niece, breaking the temporary silence.

Harley carefully tucked the journal in the front pocket of her backpack and slung it over her shoulder.

"So, I'll see you next Tuesday at five, then?" Dr. Malone asked.

Harley nodded in confirmation.

Dr. Malone smiled. "Okay, then. You take care now, Harley."

And so, with a gentle hand on her back, John began to lead Harley down the hallway, with Sherlock walking silently beside them. Before they rounded a corner, Harley spared one last look behind her, sending her doctor a small wave, which was returned in kind.

Outside, it was significantly warmer than what Harley was used to, the first real heat of late April overtaking London. Harley breathed in the fresh air as Sherlock flagged down a cab for them. A month. It was month ago when she inhaled her first breath of London air. It was almost hard to grasp.

After a quiet ride through the city, they finally arrived at Baker Street, pulling up in front of the black door with the flat number 221B bolted onto it. After paying the cabbie, they stepped inside.

The instant they did, the door to 221A bust open, and Mrs. Hudson came out.

"Oh, Harley!" she exclaimed with the biggest smile, her eyes tear-filled, as she bounded over toward her. And before Harley knew it, she was swiftly pulled into the landlady's tight embrace.

"Welcome home, sweetheart," Mrs. Hudson whispered to her.

Home.

It was funny how easily that little word could get Harley so choked up. She quickly fought it down before anyone could notice.

After letting her go, Mrs. Hudson went on about making them tea and biscuits for later, before she excused herself back into her flat to get to it, leaving the three of them free to proceed with their trek upstairs. Once there, Sherlock went into the living room, taking off his coat and scarf casually, while John and Harley kept ascending until they reached the rooms the next floor up.

They stepped into the guest room— her room. Harley looked around, taking it in. There were a few changes since the last time she saw it. The closet was full of some of her clothes from back in Bristol, and she assumed that the chest of drawers held some of her clothes as well. Her old homework desk was placed in at the corner by the window, some of her old books on the small shelf next to it. She was already informed beforehand by John that he had some people he knew receive her things from her old room and had started to set them up in here. To see it, though…

"Will you be all right unpacking?" John asked, uncertain.

Harley nodded faintly.

"Okay." He wavered for a moment, before he gently reached out and brushed a strand of hair out of her face. "I love you, Harley."

She was starting to get pretty good at holding back her crying now— for someone who had an emotional breakdown not too long ago, that is.

John, with still-hesitant footsteps, exited the room, leaving her to settle back in. She didn't start right away, though. She approached one of the walls of her room, reaching out and placing a hand over the dull green, mildly rough texture of it. She closed her eyes and sighed. To think…her uncle had this room painted just so she would stay temporarily.

Fingers brushing over the wall, she removed her hand and went to sit on the edge of her bed, leaning down for her bag. She took out the journal given to her by Dr. Malone. She unwound the thread and opened it up, half-heartedly flipping through the many blank pages of the cream-colored parchment.

A personal journal, huh? she thought as she closed the book and tied it back up. Then she opened the small drawer in her bedside table and slipped the journal inside, keeping it there for the time being. She slid the drawer shut and went back to her bag. Just as she was taking out her new, regular notebook and pencil case from the top of her pile of clothes, there came a knock on her door. She glanced up to see Sherlock standing in her doorway. She immediately straightened.

"Just thought you should know that John's going to order take out for dinner. Chinese," Sherlock told her. "He wanted me to ask you if you wanted what you ordered last time."

Chinese again. I wonder if Uncle knows that there other kinds of food to get for take-out, she thought before nodding offhandedly.

"Very well. I'll…let him know," Sherlock said.

Harley regarded Sherlock, taking in his signature straight, stiff posture and facial expression. Then, briefly looking down at her notebook, she stood up and walked toward him before he himself could walk away, opening up the book. Sherlock stopped short, raising an eyebrow as she took a pen and wrote on the first page, then showed him:

After dinner, do you think you could tell me more about what really happened on the Tilly Briggs cruise?

Sherlock said nothing for a long moment, his intense blue-green eyes moving from the message to Harley's grey eyes…

…until he smirked that devious smirk that only Sherlock Holmes could do so well.

"Only if you promise not to let your uncle know that I told you," he replied.

Harley managed to form a small smile. She glimpsed back at her backpack for an instant, thinking she could always unpack later, before she left the room, joining Sherlock in returning downstairs.

"But first, let me get you up to speed about this rather intriguing case I was recently given," Sherlock began, "It all started two days ago, when my client came in with his laptop completely melted through…"

Harley's slight smile gradually grew— her first proper smile in a long time— as she listened to him talk, his tone gaining more and more of that excitement that he only reserved for an interesting puzzle. Yes, she could worry about unpacking, or doing anything else for that matter, later. Right now, she just wanted to be with her uncle and flatmate.

Because it was when she was with them, was when she truly felt like she wasn't alone and that she was wanted.

That she felt like she was home.

A/N- I feel that I need to get something across here for a moment, mostly regarding abuse- physical and emotional. It's no secret that it can be one of the ugliest aspects of humanity, no matter what shape and form it comes in. It can be unreasonable. It can be a terrible, terrible thing to live with. And neglect? That can be just as horrible and damaging.

So it's with this in mind that I hope you will understand why I chose not to go into too much detail regarding what happened with Harley and Clara. I feared that I'd be digging too deep into something that I could hardly fathom if I did. That's why I only gave away just enough information, leaving all those clues throughout the story, and leave the rest to your imagination as a reader. If not, then...well, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.

And, wow. I didn't realize until I started uploading this that I made the end of the chapter seem so...I don't know. Final?

But this isn't the end of Harley's story. Oh, no.

We're just getting started, y'all.

Also, now that we've reached this turning point in the story, I'd like to announce that not only am I continuing this story, but I'm also planning on writing a couple of companion fics to this.

One of them is a series consisting of nothing but journal entries that Harley writes in the journal that Dr. Malone gave her, as she continues to heal. Because the good doctor is right, you guys: journaling is good for healing and self-discovery. I was recommended it over a year ago while I was in my darkest place- when my uncle died- and not only has it truly helped me get through that darkness, but it made me discover some things about myself that I never even knew about. If you don't journal, I highly suggest it. You might surprise yourself.

Another companion fic I got on my mind is the basic "series of one-shots." You know the drill; written scenes that didn't quite make it into the main story (like some moments when everyone visited her while in the hospital), moments in-between, cases, prompts, and many others. I've got loads of ideas, and I'm not letting them go to waste, dammit!