A/N:
I own nothing but a heap of debt so these characters are clearly not mine. I just like to play with them.

So I'm not sure where this little nugget came from. I just happened to wonder what Sherlock would make of Hermione, if the magic would throw him off. Here is their brief meeting.
Also- Sherlock contemplates that she may have been abused, he does it in just as callous a manner as you'd expect- please accept my apologies on his behalf for treating so sensitive a subject with no sympathy.

John had hidden the gun again. He must've taken it with him; John was incapable of hiding something in the flat if Sherlock actually wanted to find it. He'd spent an entire twenty minutes searching and had found nothing of interest.

What was he supposed to do now? The tongue needed two more days before the desired level of decomposition was reached and he'd just finished with his sulfuric acid experiment. Perhaps he should make an effort to not be in the flat when John returned from the clinic… he would undoubtedly complain about the smell. Sherlock rolled his eyes as he popped up from the sofa and fetched his jacket from the back of his chair. The smell was quite bad though. Perhaps he should open a window? He nodded in self-appreciation, proud of the fact that he'd actually thought of something considerate to do for John. He opened the window above the sink and after another bit of inspiration crossed to open a second window next to his music stand. There. Cross-ventilation should reduce the sulfur odor to reasonable levels by the time John returned to Baker Street. Even the damp London air would be better than the stench, he could admit to himself. He reached for his scarf and Belstaff as he debated on where to go to evade John's probable and tedious wrath.

He could always go see if Molly had anything interesting in that he could liberate from her lab… he could also check in with some of his homeless network and get an update on the word on the street. He needed to make sure that his key man had whatever he deemed necessary; he hadn't seen him in over a week. The Network was an invaluable resource to him and if he had to part with a few pounds here and there to feed and clothe those who couldn't fend for themselves it was no great hardship. He probably should not let John know just how expensive the Network was, however. John was forever griping at him for not charging higher fees.

Mind made up to see his man, he flipped up his collar and trotted down the stairs. His exit was impeded, however, by a young woman carrying a large box. The box must contain something light, because it was cumbersomely large yet she bore its weight with ease.

She appeared to not yet notice him on the dimly lit stairs as she set the box down and turned to lock the door behind her. He came down the final steps as she turned back and finally caught sight of him. She started in surprise, her hand darted to the pocket of her trousers, then she froze.

He made his usual quick study of her. Unstyled hair, casually sturdy clothes, and lack of cosmetics aside from mascara suggested she was not overly concerned with appearance and likely kept mostly male friends for her close relationships. Females tended to dress for each other, always in competition. Fine lines between her eyes: marks of perpetual concentration or possibly grumpiness; her general demeanor screamed bookish though, so it concentration it was.

The cut of her clothing and hair, coupled with aforementioned fine lines said mid-twenties but her facial expression said older. As did the way she carried herself. The latter two were reminiscent of John, to be perfectly honest. Why? She clearly wasn't a doctor: no pens in her pocket, no haggard expression. Soldier? No tan, no combat training-toned muscles, posture not rigid enough. A violent past then? With her seen-too-much eyes... yes, certainly.

He moved on to the box. No written address, little tape: not a delivery. Quite large but not heavy: clothing or linens perhaps. She'd locked the door behind her. She was clearly the new tenant in flat C making her first trip with her belongings. Mrs. Hudson must be well pleased. He was glad his not-your-housekeeper-dear was now earning some income off of that flat. Not that he'd admit having any concern or affection for the silly woman.

He stepped to the side to observe her from a slightly different angle, narrowing his eyes as he got into his rhythm of deductions. She watched him only slightly warily but he hardly cared.

No ring or tan line: unmarried. No one helping her move: unattached, no close friends in town. Callus on fourth finger of her right hand: wrote longhand more often than used a computer. Very small handbag, slightly tatty and renting a one-room basement flat: tight on funds. No job? No, didn't fit the studiousness. Just finished school? Likely.

A young woman, likely a student or very recent graduate, and likely in possession of a violent past. Interesting. Was it interesting? Why was it interesting? He cocked his head and narrowed his eyes as he met her gaze. She watched him stoically but for one raised eyebrow. Mrs. Hudson must've prepared her. People who weren't expecting him got defensive and uncomfortable when he studied them this way. She appeared to be neither.

"You're Sherlock, then?" She broke the silence with a wry smile. He hummed an affirmative as he puzzled her out. "I'm Hermione, I'm-"

"Moving into C, yes. Obvious." He cut her off, why did people insist on incessantly stating what he could plainly see? He was stuck on her violent past; she met his gaze easily. Most people didn't care to do so, but other than slightly pink cheeks she appeared to have no trouble with it. Most abuse survivors tended to duck their heads and drop their gazes down, generally to the right, or look at a spot just behind the person to whom they were speaking. Not an abusive parent then? She appeared to be completely comfortable in a small, dimly lit space with a perfect stranger- a man of fairly large stature no less. Not a domestic abuse victim then… nor was it a sexual assault. What was it?

She made to twist her fingers together but aborted the movement as though unwilling to give evidence of unease. Not completely comfortable then. Hm. Perhaps it was emotional abuse and not physical….but her confidence appeared undamaged... "Well, if you're finished analyzing me I'll be going in." Her voice was quietly amused.

He blinked, grudgingly surprised that she had neither challenged him in an attempt to see if his deductions were correct nor been irritated at his scrutiny. No reaction at all? Was this building completely infested with nice people? He shuddered mentally. Boring! It made him contemplate going back upstairs and shutting the windows to trap the fumes just to make someone properly angry. But no, he had things to do afterall.

"Quite." He said with a nod and abruptly brushed passed her, his thoughts moving on to the likely location of the head of his Network. The girl with the questionable past and wise eyes forgotten before he hit the kerb.

A/N: I have to get props to Sherlock writers, y'all. Writing a full length fic with deductions must be hard AF. Seriously. Y'all are amazing.