I don't own Harry Potter or Sherlock!
Fair warning, I tweaked with the ages and timelines to make more sense in this. Sorry Hermione lovers, I'm with you, but I feel like this would happen under these conditions.
000
What the hell are we doing here? John watched the bustle of travelers hurry off to their destinations. Sherlock had been on edge, only not in his normal irritated way. More anxious, John would even reach as far as excited. He'd been scanning the crowd, searching for God knows what. The ever observant Sherlock Holmes shifted his weight from foot to foot, almost impatiently.
John sighed, "Sherlock, why are we here?"
"I'm waiting for someone."
Not as surprising, "Who?"
A brief twitch of his flatmate's pale wrist, "Someone special. Now quiet, I'm thinking."
It wasn't a question.
Looking around at the chaotic hustle, John wondered when this special someone would show up. Did Sherlock have a fancy for someone? Or was it a contact? But, then why would the world's only consulting detective be reduced to this mess of nerves?
Said lanky detective was, once again, trailing his eyes over each face. Dammit, which one was it? Since he woke up this morning, sprawled across the sofa, he knew that today was the day. He knew exactly where to go, where to find them. Who, though it hurt his pride to admit such a thing to himself, he hadn't the foggiest. From the time that he was a child, he'd known that there was just someone out there, waiting. For him, he assumed. It was the only, and trust him when he said only, conclusion his mind could come up with. Highly illogical, he knew, but it was what, above all else, felt completely and utterly right.
There was a brief flash of bright color from afar. His eyes narrowed.
With all confidence possible, he strode over slowly past John and to the short form of a girl. A young girl, much younger than him. But to ignore this feeling, this great divine pull, was impracticable. Infeasible. Unwanted.
He hardly noticed John slowly tailing behind him.
The girl was pale as alabaster, much like his own skin tone. Doesn't get much sunlight. Dark red locks fell in waves over her slim shoulder, side bangs swept over a clear forehead. No acne marred her attractive face, a feat for someone of her age group. Thin face, small button nose, high cheekbones, and large eyes. He was far enough to the point that he almost couldn't see the eerily glowing green of them.
She was at a side view, reservedly conversing to a young man with flaming auburn hair as he animatedly described something. Both were rolling carts of luggage and a cage away from Platform 9, another girl with bushy brown hair walking substantially faster in front of them with an air of 'superiority' around her. A group of teens with the same flaming red hair was being led by a plump woman through the crowd, most probably the boy's family.
Miss Know-It-All is isolated, separating herself but sticking close enough to be considered with them. What would cause this, jealousy or an awkward situation possibly? The boy is talking comfortably, obviously friends of approximately... 4 years. Seeing as they are about the same age, she must have known the girl for that long as well.
Sherlock slowed enough to be incognito. Now her. She is quiet, only comfortable around those close. In other words she is socially awkward. Paying apt attention to the words being spoken, straightened up to show a desire to please people. Clever and calculated, judging by her pacing of steps and assessment of those around her. Plays an instrument, each step a beat at 4/4 time. Tempo of 104 to be exact. Small and skinny as a rake, almost to the point of malnourishment. A likely cause. Eyes flitting about every few seconds, paranoia or perhaps a deep rooted traumatization. Lightning bolt scar purposefully hidden, relatively fresh, self-conscious. Has tried multiple times to involve the other girl, loyal to a select few. They must have once been close. Attractive, has caught the eyes of suitors and most likely turned them down. Definitely if she has that...
During his musings, a man dressed in neutral had brushed passed Sherlock, hands in his pockets. As he was about to pass the group of teens peacefully carrying on with their day, he pulled his hand out and grabbed the crimson beauty in a choke hold. In his other hand was a semiautomatic handgun.
Sherlock's heart stopped for an agonizing second.
Then raced at an elevated pulse as he thought of scenarios.
"Alright, everyone back away 'fore I blow 'er brains out! Get back, I say!" he hit the gun over her temple, eliciting a whimper. The sound made Sherlock's eyes flash furiously. Adrenaline raced through his veins like molten magma.
People screamed and mothers shielded their children from the man. The girl's friends had backed away as quick as possible, the fear of danger apparent. Only, subconsciously, he realized it was caution of the man and fear for her.
A quick glance at John was all he needed to confirm that this was the bus hijacker from yesterday. Ransacked all valuables from the passengers at gunpoint and made off without a trace. Lestrade had handed them the case. It was interesting, only just, and had satisfied his thirst for reprieve of the boredom.
Only now, it was personal. And that was what scared him the most.
Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock.
His mind zoomed through solutions to this, frantic to retrieve her to safety. For a moment, their eyes met. Icy blue and emerald green. It made his soul soar high, gazing into her eyes like an open book. One he could read and never tire of.
"John." he muttered.
John raised his own gun, "Police! Hand over the girl and drop your weapon now!"
The man, a tall blond with brown eyes, turned and pressed the gun to the redhead's now bleeding head threateningly, "Give me all your money, everyone 'a ya and she goes free."
John's finger tensed on the trigger, "Can't do that. Let her go and we won't have to add murder to the charges."
Sherlock's mind strained with the deductions he forced out. Stress lines on forehead, working class with low wage. Shabby clothes, stubble, eyes bloodshot and foggy, drunk. From the looks of it, a regular. Resorting to frantic mugging, desperate for money. Pay off debts and loans. One thing is for sure: it's useless to talk him out of it. Those levels of intoxication with a No Way Out mentality leaves negotiation out of the picture.
Sherlock stiffly shook his head when John sent him a questioning glance. He sighed, Take the shot.
"I'm warnin' ya! I'll paint the station with-"
He didn't get to finish as John shot him in the forearm, his grasp on the firearm relinquished alongside his freedom. The girl tipped forward with the man's weight suddenly lifting, almost falling to the empty tracks behind had Sherlock not anticipated it. He swooped the girl into his arms and got his first proper look at her up-close.
Green eyes, not a hint or speckle of yellow, blue, or brown. An endless vortex of various shades, all blending to paint the picture of spring and sun and warmth. Her twig like arms had wrapped themselves around his biceps to support her balance, malnourished indeed. The skin was pulled taut over her bones, sharp elbows and knobby knees. More than 30 centimeters under than him, she was short compared to the other two. He towered over her and held her tight as her legs shook from the strain of keeping focus. The blood gushing from her head was worse than he'd originally thought.
She stared at him, drinking in the sight before her. Dark chocolate curls, high cheekbones, and lovely crystal blue eyes that were beyond refreshing, his intelligence shown clearly. It reminded her of winter, snow, and peppermint. So cold that it burns. And she was scorching right now. He was unusually pale and thin, she supposed that he stays inside and doesn't eat much. His fingers were long and artistic, he either played a string instrument or piano. Wide eyes, observant of every detail. He was clad in a long black coat with the collar spiked up, blue scarf, a white dress shirt, and dark trousers. Never had her heart leaped so far passed a beat at the sight of someone. Every fiber of her being brimmed with elation, a sense of completion filled the space left by her separation of the horcrux. Not even the times when she rode her broom or had gotten her first wand had made her feel this way.
In the background, Lestrade, Donovan, and Anderson helped and got witness accounts. Everything sounded as if it was underwater.
A stuttered breath escaped her lips, gently fanning over his face. "Th-Thank you for saving me..."
Those words, that exact phrasing, he knew. Sherlock had memorized them the day he got them, 14 years 10 months 25 days 8 hours 27 minutes and 45 seconds ago. He was ten and had watched as the fluid words swirled over his left elbow to his wrist written in shimmery green ink as though written by a ghost. The emotions he had always found so fickle suddenly seemed so much more important. To his life, his very survival.
"It was my pleasure, miss." Sherlock smirked down at her. A look of comprehension blossomed upon her petite face as she looked up at the tall, dark, and handsome man she was destined for. Those words were scrawled elegantly across her shoulder blade, never seen by anyone other than herself. She shielded the royal blue markings with her very life, never had she allow Aunt Petunia or Madam Pomfrey or even Ron know of their existence.
And here he stood. Finally.
A smile, more beautiful than any angel's, appeared on her porcelain face. Sherlock relished in it, cherished it, and he swore to himself and on all good and bad he had committed that he would protect her with all he had.
Sherlock straightened out of the dip he held her in and helped fix her jacket on her shoulders. Her clothes were large, almost swallowing her whole. This, he would have to fix.
She held her hand out for him, "Harriet Lilith Potter. It's nice to meet you, though I never imagined it would be quite like this."
"Neither had I." He smiled pleasantly as his hand engulfed hers and shook it, "Sherlock Holmes. I must say, there is much I wish to discuss with you, but I believe that family over there happen to be your... foster family." His eyes narrowed as he watched the whale of a man turn an interesting shade of purple at the crime scene that Harriet stood in the middle of.
Harriet turned to see her mother's sister staring at her with scorn, waiting a fair distance away. "Oh... Um, they're not my foster family. They're, er, my aunt, uncle, and cousin... I think I should-"
There's always something!
"No." Sherlock answered immediately at her train of thought. "The paramedics will take you to the hospital and stitch up your wound while I have a... discussion with Inspector Lestrade pertaining to your current guardians."
A faint blush took up her cheeks as Harriet ducked her head. He knew, how he did was a mystery, but it had to do with those ever-observant eyes of his. But - what would happen if they took her away? The protection, the wards, they wouldn't work!
"There's no need, really! And, I don't think I need stitches, there's been worse! I'm fine!" she nervously went to brush the cut, missing the look of anger that took over his face.
He caught her hand, "Don't be ridiculous. I will not stand by as the family of my other half abuses and mistreats her." He took note of her startled face and pulled on a cool smirk, "What? Surprised? You shouldn't be, it's very obvious. To me, at least. Too small and skinny, hand-me-down clothes from your pig of a cousin. I'd guess they didn't feed you on a regular basis, somehow stunted your growth, and shrunk the clothing to save on money. Though, there is no need for that, as your lovely aunt has loads of jewels and your uncle has a tailored suit. The fact that your cousin is fatter than a baby hippo also shows me they do this out of the findings of freakishness in you. Why, I have absolutely no idea for I cannot find a single gram of imperfection."
The blush grew darker for every sentence he deduced. It was all true, other than the abnormality he overlooked. She wasn't normal, even by wizard standards. And the fact that he noticed so quickly blew her mind out of the water. He's amazing...! His superiority and expertise made her feel guilty. Sherlock is extraordinary, while she was bleak and plain talentless. Nothing much to show for intellect, Hermione was supposed to be the smart one in the group. Ron was strategic, so what did that leave for her?
Nothing, that's what.
Sherlock grabbed her by the shoulders and led her passed the Weasleys (all of which were trying to get to her behind the muggle Scotland Yard) and out to the ambulance. He sat her down on the floor in the back of one and had an EMT clean her head, placing his coat over her shoulders to chase off the unexpected summer cold. Harriet frowned when she noticed the blood stain on his otherwise pristine shirt, only to be waved off when he saw her eying it. Her head started rolling off until Sherlock asked her math question. It kept her awake and helped him understand her academic level, which was in his terms incredible for her age.
It was only then that John had found them, the other three not far behind. "Sherlock, where the bloody hell did you go-" He stopped before finishing, finally seeing how his friend looked at the girl. The green writing on his exposed arm explained everything. The other three hadn't seen it, figuring he was getting part of the story from her. John knew, though he'd lived with the younger man for months before he caught sight of it.
"Uh, Sherlock, the verdict?" Lestrade gained some composure after he had openly gawked at the two that were off in their own little world. He was wary of the situation, you couldn't tell much from Sherlock's thought process.
The detective threw him a wallet, "Sean Bagstan, low class worker in the assembly line. Low pay and his son is in the hospital for cancer treatment. His wife left him, he was an abusive drunk and had been finding a way to pay for the treatments. He also had a gambling problem, owing large debts. Didn't touch the child, but has made the mistake of coming here. He needed more money than just a bus jacking and decided the train station would be fine, in the least secure area. Ought to tighten it up for next time."
The wallet he had pickpocketed held a few notes, many credit cards, a picture of his son with the ex-wife torn off, and his key card for work. Sherlock had known he would come here, the very next day to collect more cash from a larger herd. His son needed the operation now, or he'd never be saved.
"And how'd you figure that out from just his wallet?" Anderson asked indignantly, causing Sherlock to roll his eyes at the idiot.
"Well, it's obvious, isn't it?" their attention was drawn to the girl hidden among his coat. Harriet blushed but continued, "There's a picture of his family, but he tore it down the middle. I think he didn't care for his wife, only his kid. His breath smelled like whiskey and he looked sort of deranged but steady enough to stand, showing he wasn't stranger to intoxication. He has too many cards from different unions, so he's been deep in debt, for chemotherapy most likely. There were poker chips in his pocket too, dunno why. He works for the Funtom Toys assembly line judging by the access key. And, um..." She bit her lip at the stares she received.
"Go on." Sherlock encouraged. Pride swelled in his chest, she took adequate observations. Just not very sure of herself. That would also have to change.
"He has a visitor's pass to the psychiatric ward at St. Bart's Hospital, so I guess he has some kind of behavioral or mental illness. Maybe sociopathic? He didn't care if he hurt anyone, so no empathy. Only to his son. Also explains him not caring for his ex. There wasn't a phone on him, so no connection to social media." Harriet kept her eyes on the horizon, not wanting to acknowledge the looks she'd get for showing off her oddity.
He smirked, "A sound deduction, Miss Harri."
Harriet averted her gaze to the other side so he wouldn't catch the pleased smile she wore.
"Another freak, eh? Seems they just multiply-" Donovan started.
Harriet's violent flinch and burrowing into the lent coat did not go unnoticed by the investigators. She squeezed her eyes shut in shame and hung her head in submission, her hands tightening on the lapels. Sherlock brought her closer and asked more math questions - he was on quadratics now - to which she would murmur the answers. John hovered nearby and watched the adulterer in disappointment.
"Donovan! Get your ass to the station. If I hear-" Lestrade had gone off, only for a hoarse yell to stop him.
"GIRL! What the hell did you do this time!?" The enormous man from before in the station that ignored the officials waddled over in a fury, his bony wife and rather large son left to toddle after him.
The next flinch had Harriet closing herself in the coat entirely as a whimper escaped. Uncle Vernon is not happy! What... what's he gonna do when we get home? The thought made her sob in fear.
Sherlock straightened and stood in front of her, his presence intimidating the fat man. Lestrade tensed next to Anderson, who finally understood the situation.
"Sir, what is your name?" John moved to calm the man down. He looked ready to have a heart attack at anytime now. Thee man stopped waving his meaty fists and fixated his beady eyes on John.
"Vernon Dursely. What the blazes is going on!?" he grunted out.
"I am Director Inspector Lestrade, this is my squad. And they are your wife and son?" Lestrade asked, motioning to Donovan not to say a word. She stood off to the side of the ambulance and watched.
Vernon's eyes narrowed at him, "Yes, what about it?"
"And Harriet here wouldn't also happen to live with you three?" Anderson finished the confirmation of this being Harriet's "family."
A reluctant pause approached in which Harriet retreated farther into her den that Sherlock now held in his arms. The murmurings stopped to listen, only for him to continue in her ear.
Vernon's face started turning purple again, "If she did something, keep her! Have her, she won't be part of our home anymore! We took her in out of- '
"The kindness of your hearts? Is that what you call it?" Sherlock interrupted. He stared down at Vernon, "Starving, beating, and neglecting a child, while encouraging the other to do the same, is kindness?"
Petunia gaped at the man while her husband stuttered, "I beg your pardon? We took her in when she had no one else to do such! She is nothing! No less a freak than my sister!"
Deep rooted anger, childhood rivalry. Jealous of the younger sister causes her to direct her hatred toward her niece, possibly accelerated by similarities. Sister is no longer around, left Harriet an orphan from something. I need the files!
"A freak, you say? How long have you referred to her as such? And when you had first addressed her as 'girl' and not her name, do you call her that instead? You are sickly average, other than your impressionism of farm animals. Even a whisper out of the ordinary has you closing the curtains. How many neighbors did you manage to convince? That your son is a little angel and your niece a troublemaking liar?" he turned to look at Anderson, "Apparently there are people more stupid than you, consider yourself promoted."
Sherlock stepped into the back of the ambulance, scooped up the shaking girl, and turned to look at the officers cuffing the family, "John? Find every file you can find on Miss Harriet. We need to know as much as possible to help. I'll have Molly take a look at her, gather any information you can!"
John watch him set the now limp girl on the gurney, "Wha- Why?"
"It looks like Miss Harriet chose a very convenient time to fall unconscious."
000
Molly drank her coffee in the office, thinking of a certain dark haired someone. Oh, how she wished to have a soulmark, then it would prove that they would be perfect for each other. She didn't actually know if he had one, but assumed not if he acted the way he did. Like he didn't care when he did, or when he was sad when he thought no one was looking. She wanted to help him, if not as romantically as she hoped then as a friend. He was so apathetic and said the most rude things sometimes, but Molly couldn't help her attraction to him. She was with the majority, without a mark to show when she'd find 'the one.'
She thought it would be him. Maybe she could change him.
While she was stuck in her musings, her pager went off. The sudden beep scared her enough to jolt her out of her deep thoughts, only to spill her coffee down her front. The blouse was soaked in, thankfully, room temperature macchiato. She cursed before grabbing a rag and pulling on the lab coat as she rushed to the correct room. Why they would need her out of the morgue, she had no idea.
And she certainly wasn't expecting a tiny unconscious girl to be laying in the sterilized room, covered with Sherlock's coat, with the man himself hovering possessively over her bed with a suspiciously red stain on his shirt and DI Lestrade guarding the door.
Sherlock glanced up as the door opened, "Ah, Molly. We-"
"You mean you." Lestrade said. He was ignored.
"-need a favor. Miss Harriet Potter is in need of an x-ray, and I trust you much more than those bumbling dunderheads that can't even find the difference between a rash and an ebola outbreak." Sherlock stated.
Lost for words, Molly just nodded and ordered them out of the room. She snipped the clothes off and took note of the bruises and scrapes accumulated on the skin. There was no idea as to how Miss Potter had gotten these injuries, she had to have just gotten out of school. There were signs of malnutrition, but she had been eating these past months well enough to not show her ribs too hospital gown was placed on her skinny frame, but Molly found that it didn't quite tie all the way. She huffed, some were luckier than others. Not able too help herself, she glanced down at the teen. Much more lucky.
With a larger gown tied around the back over her undergarments, Miss Potter laid on the table under the machine. Though she didn't know the specific parts, she knew how to operate one efficiently. She scanned and took photographs of any breaks, fracture, bruising, and possible re-breaks. After the grueling work, Molly took the copies and put them up on the display board. Looking back, she saw the pale girl on the slab.
Then it hit her. This wasn't a corpse. This was a teen, a living and breathing girl.
She put her hand to her mouth with a strangled sob. A girl, one that has hardly lived her life, had been hurt this much. Broken ribs, wrists, ankles, toes, shoulders, a collar bone fracture, and the webbing in the skull all showed her the story. Years upon fucking years of dealing with the agony of broken bones. The pain of putting pressure on one is excruciating, let alone for however long it would take to heal. None had been clean breaks, and poor Harriet's knee needed to be re-broken. The hate towards her had to be immense for anyone to do this.
A realization hit her. No one had noticed. No one cared.
It felt hot now, her face red. Molly's eyes were raw from crying, the tears falling in large globs to the floor. It was closer than she remembered, and she didn't know when exactly she had slid to the ground. This was why she dealt with the dead ones, Molly couldn't handle knowing that a person was still healing as she assessed them. The fear of breaking or damaging them even more haunted her every time she stepped into a patient's room.
Her brown hair had fallen out of her bun and floated around her head. Through the gaps, she could see the waterfall of red rustle before laying still. A groan sounded, but nothing more. Quickly, Molly hopped up and swatted her hair from her face. Looking over the x-rays, finally seeing a recent breakage of ribs and briskly rushed to find any other wounds. The pale skin was warm to the touch as Molly took her pulsed. When her hand retracted, she looked down to see a large, jagged line from wrist to elbow.
The tears fell again.
000
The chair had too much cushion in Sherlock's opinion. Lestrade was on the phone, gathering intell on the family he had just caught, the boy was at the station. It's been a while since she started.
His mind was solely focused on one thing. No stray idea or thought on the case they had finished. The wondrous thing was that the thoughts weren't screaming for his attention, just there. In a state of being. And he was strangely fine with it.
His cellphone rang from his pocket and he fished it out, knowing the only person with purpose of talking to him was John. "What did you find?"
"Nothing. Just a Birth Certificate with her parents and which school she went to for the first 10 years she stayed with the Durselys. No doctor check-ups, no vaccines, no dentist visits. Not even a trace of a Facebook page. There's no record of her anywhere after she turned 11. She didn't go to the school the aunt and uncle say she does, not registered." John's voice said over the connection.
Clear blue eyes narrowed, Hell...
"Have you found anything else? Grades, pictures, anything?" Nothing there pertaining to her health, she could be sick without even knowing it.
"Not until we go over the house. Vernon Dursely lives at 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging in Surrey. We'll have to go there first, with a warrant. These people are still alive, mind you. They have rights." John reminded the genius.
Sherlock sighed, "Unfortunately. Get a computer ready, we'll use the video chat."
"And, tell Lestrade not to let them go. Something doesn't seem right with this."
"Will do." The phone hung up and was placed into his pocket. Then, he put his head in his hands. Lestrade plopped down next to him as they both waited for Molly.
Lestrade turned to him, "Find something?"
"No. There is absolutely nothing on her. No medical files, no photographs, no social media that we know of, and no schooling records past 11. What teen doesn't have a social media page? Her relatives had definitely kept her from any internet usage as much as possible. Now, either she doesn't have the means of getting onto one, or she has no interest in anything of the sort. It's likely neither." Sherlock disliked the fact that there was very little on Harriet Potter. Whether it was because he couldn't get a clear read on her story or the fact that she was his soulmate, Sherlock couldn't tell.
He'd known that he had a soulmate, one that was much younger than himself. He'd thought he'd be like the other ordinary people, that in his adolescent mind he was just a normal, mundane human. Then, on the 31st of July, a warm feeling overcame his arm and the emerald green swoops wrote themselves across his arm. The feeling that there was something missing remained with him till 2 and a half hours ago. Every thought had filled that empty space, screaming for his attention, each louder than the last until he could find something to occupy it. Now though...
Now Harriet exists. Sherlock had lost hope in ever meeting that other part of him. And frankly, he'd been mad at her. At the world. It wasn't fair, he wanted to be selfish and just cut the skin off his arm if only to alleviate the burden of knowing. Knowing that they're out there, they're somewhere, and they're not with you. Bitter jealousy enveloped his heart and turned it to stone. Was she with someone better than he?
And here she is. A poor, battered, and broken teenager with no one to turn to.
And what had he been doing?
Bored, came a small voice that sounded quite guilty.
The precise clacking of Molly's rubber soled heels down the corridor turned his head. She had been crying, her skin was splotchy with the sclera of her eyes being red. Sniffles were muffled into a damp tissue, it had been going on for a while. There was obvious damage, Molly wouldn't be upset about just anything.
"I... think you both should see this for yourselves. I can't-" Molly cut herself off with a gulp of air.
Both men looked to each other before following their way to the room.
000
At first, Lestrade had no idea what he was looking at. Everything was connected, all one piece. It took a second, one that Sherlock had gone over the edge with. The bang on the wall vibrated in the air when he'd punched it, his pale fist oozing the smallest bit of blood. While Sherlock was shaking like a kettle about to burst, Lestrade looked about to vomit.
Fissures in the majority of Harriet's bones were showcased above the lit table. Even if they were simple, they were not treated for however long it had been since she got them. Sadly, those weren't what his eyes had been attracted to. On a larger scale, the girl's skull was shown. Lestrade had to look away to steel himself before glancing back.
A large collection of fractures webbed down from top to bottom of her head. It originated around the back, no definite point to be located. Some sort of brain injury as a result is almost a 100% positive.
Sherlock quickly memorized each and every splinter of bone. All were marvelously healed and wouldn't cause much contortion, but her left knee had to have a rebreak. His fist tightened and he glared disdainfully at the x-rays, as if they were the assailants. Yes, what had I been doing.
Molly breathed deeply before gathering them up and putting them in a file before tucking it away in a cabinet. The data had already been entered into the system, safe where only authorized personal could get it.
The silent walk back to the patient room was tense. No talk was made while they wallowed in the sorrow of the last remaining Potter. When the door was opened, an empty bed greeted them.
"Where the bloo-" Lestrade began before he walked out to get a look at the video cameras.
Molly started looking around wildly, "Where's she gone? Sherlock, I-"
Sherlock simply held a finger to his lips and pointed down. The bed skirt was ruffled a bit, Harriet's soft exhales heard. Sherlock crouched down and lifted it slightly, "... Harriet?"
She was scrunched up on her side, a pair of shiny scissors held tightly in her hand. The other was wrapped around her torso for comfort. As soon as Sherlock's icy blue orbs came into view, she stilled and dropped them. His hand was out for her to take.
The scale difference between the two was significant. Larger, paler, and longer gently folded around the smaller, daintier hands. The subtle squeeze around his fingers did not go unreciprocated.
Her green eyes looked up to his, catching the light. "... You weren't here when I woke up. Other people started coming by. I hid." Harriet looked down embarrassed.
She was pulled off the ground and sat on the bed. Sherlock held her hands just a bit tighter. Very seriously, he looked straight at her. "You mustn't stray too far."
The reluctant smile was all he needed.
...
Molly's cheeks grew warm at the two off in their other dimension. It was like a one-way glass separated them from her. Green and blue writing. Emerald green and icy blue.
There was no way now.