Hermione picked up a book off the desk and turned it over in her hand to look at the back, noting the wear on it, and setting it back down. There were all sorts of books scattered about, but with some sort of system to it; papers, files, and maps as well. She could feel John watching her in amusement as she walked around aimlessly, taking in everything and categorizing it in her mind. She realized this was probably how her work areas looked like. It was what the tent had looked like during the Horcrux Hunt.

"Are you sure this is going to be alright?" She asked, glancing at his reflection on a glass. He made a face that told her he wasn't actually sure. She already knew that her other prospective flat mate didn't know about her coming.

"Yeah, yeah," he nodded noncommittally, "sure it's alright. Trust me when I say you might be the only person that might not dream of killing him. You might find him right up your alley."

Hermione turned on her heel to face him in a fluid movement born from war. "Are you implying that I have troublesome friends, John? I've heard what you say about him. I've read your blog."

"Troublesome?" He echoed. "Why would I think your friends troublesome? There was only your trip to Sweden with- Luna, was it?- looking for-"

"Crumple-Horned Snorkacks," she supplied, going back to her studying of the room.

"Ah, yes, those. Where the two of you were somehow lead to Egypt and attacked by a sphinx. Then Neville, with whom you ended up entangled in a plant of his own making-"

"It really was quite brilliant," she said with pride, not glancing away from the skull on the mantle.

"Speaking of brilliant, how many times did Ron and Harry-"

"John!" She scolded, turning to face him again with a hard look that spoke of heartbreak.

He jumped at her volume and realized where he had been going with the conversation. "Forgive me, Hermione," he said. "I didn't mean to."

Hermione nodded, finally taking a seat in the armchair that faced the front door. "Yes, well. Some things are meant to be left in the past, aren't they? Now, you say he's difficult to live with? How so?"

"Difficult is putting it mildly," he told her flatly. "He is up at all hours, generally influencing anyone in his vicinity to do the same. I'm having a hell of a time trying to keep a steady job with him dragging me to crime scenes in the middle of the night."

"Steady jobs are dull," she scoffed, waving a hand at that concern. "And I have enough money without one. Next."

"I often find human eyes in the microwave," probably for an experiment, "and a head in the ice box." Where else would you keep it? "He calls me from across town because he needs a pen that is on the other side of the room. And he has days where he plays the violin nonstop."

"Oh, do stop complaining. I did warn you about that five minutes and seven seconds after we met." A man, looking every bit like his picture on John's blog, walked through the entryway in blue underwear- seeming quite comfortable and normal. He was looking at her. "Who is this?"

John stood up from his seat and stepped towards her to make introductions. "Sherlock, this is my cousin, Hermione. Hermione, this is my friend, Sherlock Holmes."

"I don't have friends," the man corrected immediately, absently as though it were reflex.

"Really?" Hermione said without a flux in tone. "I have several."

Sherlock looked at her with more scrutiny in his gaze, his eyes narrowed as though she'd just challenged him in some way. She had. "You went to a boarding school," he told her, eyes roaming over her for clues. "Perhaps in Scotland, you have the hint of an accent still in your voice which means you either very young or still visit frequently. Why? Why would you visit a school that caused you trouble? Because it's home, and someone you care about is still there. Teaching? Yes. You're used to being an outcast because of your intellect, but there were friends who didn't care and thus earned your eternal loyalty. Two, male. Your parents were upper class, old money. They started a career early and had you late, dentists it would seem. They're gone now and whatever happened you blame yourself for, probably because it was your fault."

John sighed and slumped, giving up and sitting back down. "Sherlock, do you have to-"

"Pirate," Hermione interrupted.

"What?" Sherlock and John chorused, the latter in confusion and the former in manically pleased surprise.

Hermione frowned. "I was trying to decide what it was you wanted to be when you grew up, and I suppose I've settled on pirate. It's in the way you stand."

Sherlock entered the room more and over to the sofa where he sat on the back of it. "You wanted to be a princess," he countered.

"Your, brother," she said. "Yes, you and your brother never got along did you? Probably because no matter how good you were, no matter how many mysteries you could solve or how quick, he always had to be better. Perhaps at first it was just because he was, but then saw how much it irritated you and tried harder to punctuate it. You've never known war with anyone but yourself. Addiction. You tell people you're addicted to something mundane- tobacco, perhaps- but it only serves to distract you from what you're really addicted to."

"You'd know all about addiction, wouldn't you?"

Hermione only smiled at that. "Indeed. Though, if I were to ask anyone about loss it would be you. You've lost people close to you. Mother? Yes. No matter how much she favored your brother, you adored her. That's probably why you stay so close to 221B Baker St, isn't it? Mrs. Hudson reminds you of her. But you've built new defenses around that. 'I have no friends', you said. It's something you always say, particularly when you consider someone to be one. Having no friends means you can ignore it when they abandon you and your difficulties. Not even to scratch your defenses against romance."

"Defenses against romance," Sherlock asked. "Yes. War cost you yours, likely one of the two male friends mentioned previously. You were romantic, yet platonic. You'd have admitted feelings for each other that you never mentioned in public as the third, likely the one you were expected to be with, fancied you and the two of you didn't want to hurt him. He's dead now, and you and the other friend will have split ways since he was the only reason you were close."

"Ah, yes. Having feelings that you don't talk about. Is that how your previous relationship went? I apologize, you don't have relationships, do you?"

John's gaze passed back and forth between them, but Hermione didn't look away from Sherlock. Somewhere, a clock ticked.

"I play the violin," Sherlock reminded, "sometimes for days without stopping."

"I prefer the cello."

He tilted his head curiously at her. "I'll find one."

Hermione smiled. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Holmes."

"Sherlock," he said just as absently as denying friends, "please. And likewise. Alright, John. She can stay."

"What?" John asked, startled out of his awed observing. "How did you know-"

"Because you've never mentioned a cousin before," Hermione said. "Certainly not one that would pop out of nowhere like this. And, you mentioned it to Mrs. Hudson and she was in the cafe when he got here."

Sherlock gave her an appreciating look. "Do you know how to shoot a gun?" He asked, likely thinking of the possibility he'd take her with him on mysteries.

Hermione leaned forward with an enigmatic smile. "I don't need one."