A/N: Hello all! I'm back again. However, I don't think I'll be continuing Harry Potter an the Call of the Phoenix. I'm just not really feeling it anymore. I have, though, been wanting to do a HP/Sherlock for a while. It took some brainstorming and panning. But I've got it sorted out. It's spring break for me so I'll be able to write more. Sadly, I'm going on a cruise on the 27th so I prolly won't be able to write then.

Disclaimer: I own none of these characters, nor most of the scenes. Credit goes to JK Rowling for the names, partial personalities, and partial backstories. More Credit goes the Steven Moffat and his crew/BBC for the scenes, partial personalities, and scenes. I am not making money off of this. And credit to Ariane DeVere on LiveJournal because I copied the transcript from them.

"I truly believe that everything that we do and everyone that we meet is put in our path for a purpose. There are no accidents..." - Marla Gibbs

Ginny dreamt about the war often. She wouldn't call them nightmares, necessarily, but they weren't exactly sweet dreams either.

She woke with a start, events of the war playing through her mind. If she were being honest with herself, she would say she missed the war—but who's honest with themselves?

She sat on her bed, looking around her excuse of a flat. Her cane—that blasted thing.

A day later, she sat in front of her therapist, mildly annoyed.

"Writing a blog, about everything in your life will honestly help you."

"Nothing happens to me," she said shortly.

She was walking through the park, think about-

"Ginny? Ginny Weasley?!" That voice seemed oddly familiar. She turned around. He looked familiar too. "Longbottom. Neville Longbottom. We were at Bart's together," he explained. Her eyes sparked with recognition.

"Yes, hello, yeah—sorry," she said.

"Yeah, I know. I got fat," Neville said. "I heard you abroad somewhere getting shot at. What happened?"

"I got shot," she said simply. He raised his eyebrows. "Still at Bart's then?"

"Yeah—teaching. Bright young things like we used to be. God, I hate them." She laughed,"What about you? Just staying in London. Getting yourself sorted?"

"I can't afford London on an army pension."

"Ah, you couldn't bear to be anywhere else. That's not the Ginny Weasley I know."

"Yeah, I'm not the Ginny Weasley..." she trailed off. They sat in uncomfortable silence.

"Couldn't Dennis help?"

"Yeah, like that's gonna happen," she said sarcastically.

Neville shrugged. "I dunno—get a flat-share or something.

She looked at him. "Come on, who'd want me for a flatmate?" Neville chuckled quietly. "What?"

"You're the second person to say that to me today."

"Who's the first?"

"I'll show you." He got up and Ginny followed suit.

They walked into a laboratory where a man with black curly hair, green eyes, and tan skin sat hunched over a Petri dish. Ginny took in all the equipment.

"Well, a bit different from my day." Neville laughed.

"You've no idea!"

"Neville, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine."

"What's wrong with the landline," Neville asked.

"I prefer to text," he said in a monotone voice.

"Sorry, it's in my coat," Neville said, looking suspicious.

"Er, here. Use mine."

"Oh, thanks," he said, looking up for the first time. And then he stood up and walked towards Ginny. He muttered something that strangely looked like "ginger".

"She's an old friend of my, Ginny Weasley." The man took her phone and started typing.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" Ginny looked at him, an eyebrow raised.

"Sorry?"

"Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq," he said in the same monotone voice.

"Afghanistan. Sorry, how'd you know...?"

Just then a woman with dark skin and bushy hair walked in with a coffee cup.

"Ah, Hermione, coffee. Thank you. What happened to the lipstick?"

She smiled awkwardly. "It wasn't working for me."

"Really? I thought it was big improvement. Your mouth's too..." He said waving his hand in the air, "small now."

"...Okay." She walked out. Why was he so mean to her? Or was he just clueless?

"How do you feel about the violin," he asked as he handed back her phone and walked toward his Petri dish.

She realized—this man, who she didn't know the name of—was talking to her.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"I play the violin when I'm thinking," he said, typing quickly. "Sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other." He looked up and gave false smile. She looked at Neville.

"Oh, you... told him about me?"

"Not a word," he smiled faintly.

"Then who said anything about flatmates," Ginny asked.

He started putting a trench coat on. "I did. Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is just after lunch with an old friend, clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn't that difficult a leap," he explained.

"Oi, how did you know about Afghanistan, then?"

He started wrapping a blue scarf around his neck. "Got my eye on a nice little place in central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it," he ignored the question.

"We'll meet there tomorrow evening; seven o'clock. Sorry-gotta dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary."

"Is that it?"

"Is that what," he asked, walking back towards her.

"We've only just met and now we're gonna go look at a flat?"

He cocked an eyebrow. "Problem?"

She looked at Neville in disbelief.

"We don't know a thing about each other; I don't know where we're meeting; I don't even know your name!" She said, gesturing with her free hand.

He looked at John closely, and smirked. "I know you're an Army doctor and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother who's worried about you but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him—possibly because he's an alcoholic; more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic—quite correctly, I'm afraid."

Ginny looked down at her cane.

"That's enough to be going on, don't you think?" He spun, his coat flowing behind him, and walked out the door. He then leaned back in, only his head visible. "The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is two two one B Baker Street." He clicked his teeth and winked at Ginny. He looked at Neville. "Afternoon!" And then he walked away. Just—left, after all of that. She looked at Neville curiously.

"Yes, he's always like that."

How'd you like it? This is really short because I just wanted to get it out there. Should I do a whole episode in one chapter, half an episode, or a third of one? Tell me what you think by reviewing!