The Grey Reunion

A BBC Sherlock/Harry Potter crossover fanfiction

Story R. R. Stranger

It had been two years.

Luna Lovegood was among the many people that Sherlock Holmes had decided to keep in the dark about his death (or lack thereof). Over the past months all he had had were glimpses of her. A flash of silvery blonde hair as she ambled down the street toward her favorite delicatessen; Peering through a pane of stained glass to watch her sing at the church on Sunday mornings. He never risked more than a glance – he knew how perceptive she was.

It had been a difficult decision, not telling her the truth. Though she was not among the three key people that Moriarty had been targeting, Sherlock could not bring himself to tell her. Privately, he considered Luna to be his second closest friend. How their odd relationship had come to that he was still deducing, but it was nonetheless the case. Their friendship was not public; she preferred to visit 221B and help him with research that did not require traipsing around London so Sherlock knew that no one probably realized her importance. But he still worried that someone had knowledge of her relationship with him, even though all his deductions pointed against it. Another factor in his decision rested on the problem that she still spent time with John Watson, who could definitely not know the truth, and Sherlock had no desire to place the burden of his secret upon Luna's shoulders.

It was best to keep it from her.

But this proved to be far more difficult than the detective could have guessed as he watched the reactions of his companions. John had been devastated by his death. That response had come as a bit of a shock to Sherlock and he had felt the guilt, sometimes overpowering to the point where nearly jumped out and revealed himself. But John was strong, resilient – a soldier. Sherlock knew that with time, he would manage and continue on with his life. And he had.

Luna was different. She was the embodiment of both love and good, Sherlock had decided one day as she sat across from him in his old apartment, laughing as she beat him in a game of chess (a stroke of luck, but she was surprisingly good at it). It was clear to even him that she cared about him a great deal, one of the many surprising things about her. Sherlock had not wanted her, of all people, to believe that he had committed suicide.

But Moriarty's network was destroyed, Sherlock was in the clear; his friends were safe now. He had visited John the day before and now he was standing outside the grey door to Luna's apartment. Though he knew that she would have questions for him, and he was bracing himself for a reaction similar to John's, Sherlock had many questions of his own for Luna.

The first time he saw her was on the two-week anniversary of his death. He had been haunting his headstone for a bit, but quickly hid himself when he saw her approaching. The first thing he noticed about her was her clothing. Gone were the bright colors and odd patterns. She was dressed in a pale green coat and grey jeans. No strange jewelry adorned her. She paused for a moment, staring at his name carved into the slab of marble that marked his empty grave, and then sat down in front of it, resting her head back against it.

Luna had not visited Sherlock's grave until that day. As she approached the place that she knew it to be, she steadied herself, clenching her hands into fists inside her coat pockets. When she approached, she felt tears pushing forward from behind her eyes. She stared at his name:

SHERLOCK HOLMES

It was as if seeing it written in stone made the whole thing final. His body was underneath six feet of dirt. His name was written on the one place that was a better visible representation of death than just about anything else.

Luna had an unusual view of the afterlife, as she had an unusual view about everything else. But no amount of her beliefs could erase the fact that Sherlock was no longer with her. And he had ended it himself.

"I don't understand you, Sherlock," she said as she settled down in front of the grave, leaning back against the stone. She sniffed, and a sad smile played around her mouth. "Well, I guess I never understood you that much anyway. But why would you do this? Why would you let that monster win?"

Luna paused as if waiting for an answer. She closed her eyes and focused on the chilly breeze that blew strands of her long hair across her face, tickling her nose. With a sigh, she continued talking, her tone conversational.

"I want you to know that I don't believe any of it. They all say you're a fake but I know you're not. John knows it too. Everyone who matters does. The only thing I wish you were faking was this – " her voice caught and her eyes flew open. She had the sudden feeling that she was not alone, but her gaze across the graveyard revealed nothing.

She wiped away her tears with her fingers. "You brought something wonderful back to my life, Sherlock. The belief that good can always win, that the just will triumph..."

Her voice faded out, mid-sentence, as it often did. The silence and death that she was no stranger to had surrounded Luna, pressing in. It opened the floodgate; memories were overcrowding her mind.

Loss. Loneliness. Friendship. Joy. Fear. War. Loss.

"I never got to tell you about everything I've done, Sherlock. I was lying when I said I went to Uni and graduated with an English degree. I'm not sure I fully understand what an English degree even means," she laughed lightly. "I guess I could tell you now, but what's the point, really…?"

She became lost in her thoughts.

"I just want you to know that a while ago I had forgotten what hope was, and that good could always win, even though I never thought I would. Before I met you I was miserable and alone, but you restored that part of me, so thank you. You made it easier to live with the memories of war and violence, and you helped me miss all the friends that I lost a little bit less."

Though he had been listening intently the whole time, Sherlock leaned a fraction of an inch closer at these words.

War? Violence? She had lost what sounded like a large number of her friends? What was she talking about?

Sherlock went over it in his head:

Luna Lovegood; thirty years old; no family; Oxford graduate; author; currently employed part-time in a shop; wrote for an online magazine every so often; had friends in the countryside that she visited a couple times a year; delightfully normal.

Though he wished he could stay, though he wanted nothing more than to go over to her and to speak with her; ask her the questions that were plaguing him, Sherlock knew he had to leave.

Leaving with more questions and less closure than he had hoped for, he turned his back and walked away.

As he stood outside Luna's door, raising his fist to knock, Sherlock hoped that she would be pleased to see him. After the absolute failure that had followed his attempt to break the news to John, he decided that simply showing up to her door was the best way to reveal himself to Luna. He knocked and then brushed his fingers over his bruised face and heaved a sigh as he waited.

Inside the apartment, Luna was sitting cross-legged in an armchair in front of the fireplace, sipping tea from a large blue mug. She took her wand out from behind her ear and gave it a flick to open up the curtains over the window across the room, flooding the apartment with grey morning light. She smiled and was about whisper a spell to start a fire in the grate when she heard a knock at her door.

Hiding her wand quickly underneath the chair cushion, Luna rose and, still holding her cup of tea, headed toward the door.

The door opened and for a split-second, all Sherlock saw were a pair of silvery-grey eyes. It had been two years since he last looked into them; he had forgotten how large they were.

It was Luna, the same old Luna, dressed in her favorite grey sweater and a pair of lilac pants, her left hand holding a large mug of tea. Her feet were bare, despite the chill, her toenails were painted orange, contrasting with the chipped maroon of her fingernails, and her long hair was loose and slightly frizzy. He noticed, with something akin to relief, that she wore no ring on her left hand. Just as he was taking this all in, she gave a slight gasp and dropped her mug.

He caught it deftly before it hit the ground, a bit of the warm contents splashing over the edge onto his hand.

"Good thing you take so much milk in it," Sherlock said, wiping the tea on his trousers. "Otherwise that might have been a bit painful."

He waited for her reply, but she remained silent.

"Luna," he began, clearing his throat. "I realize that this is – "

"Sherlock?" She breathed, looking more confused than anything else. "Out of all the people to stay behind after death, I would have never thought that it would be you!"

Now it was Sherlock's turn to be confused.

"Sorry?" He asked. "'Stay behind' – "

"Well you must be a ghost, of course," Luna continued. Her eyes moved toward her now half-empty mug of tea in his hand and she appeared to be slowly piecing things together. "But no…you're not, are you? You're holding the mug. You knocked on the door. You're…" She reached out her hand rested it against his chest. "Solid."

She took a step back from him.

"Luna, please allow me to explain – " Sherlock began again, stepping inside the apartment and closing the door.

"How are you here?" She ran her fingers through her hair and turned around, taking it all in.

"I faked it."

"You what?" She was still facing away from him.

"I faked my death," Sherlock said, stepping close to her and gingerly placing a hand on her shoulder. He wondered what she had meant about the ghosts, but decided that now was not the time to ask.

"So…" Luna began, still turned away from him. "You never died. You've been alive all this time?"

Her voice was measured, her tone unreadable. Sherlock braced himself for another assault.

"Yes."

In one swift motion, Luna turned around and stepped into him, her arms winding tightly around his torso. She pressed her face into his chest. Sherlock, momentarily caught off-guard, started before tentatively patting her on the back.

"You're here. You're alive," Luna whispered, barely able to comprehend what was happening. Tears filled her eyes. She had cried beside his grave, fallen into depression, spent countless nights awake missing him and now he was here. He had never really been gone.

Suddenly, she pulled away and slapped him hard across the face. "Why didn't you tell me?" Anger pulsed through her, more than she had ever felt before. "Two years, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock looked about as stunned as she had ever seen him at her outburst. Luna fell silent.

"I probably deserved that," Sherlock said, grimacing as he touched his right cheek.

"Probably?" Luna raised her light eyebrows.

"Definitely, I definitely deserved that," Sherlock conceded. "John showed me as much yesterday."

"John didn't know either?" She asked, angry tears still in her eyes. Her voice had returned to its normal register, though her tone was still harsh.

Sherlock shook his head. "I couldn't. It was Moriarty's plan. I had to die. They were targeting John, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade."

She looked confused again and as she wiped off her tears. "Not me?"

"No, but I couldn't risk it," Sherlock replied. "I knew it was possible that we could have been seen together, that you could be assumed to be a close friend of mine. I would never put your life in danger, even if it were just the slightest chance. You mean far too much to me."

Luna blinked and paused a moment before answering. "I never thought I would see you again."

"I know. I am sorry." Apologies appeared to be the correct way to go in this situation, because Luna suddenly rushed over to him and threw her arms around his neck, embracing him for the second time in the span of five minutes. Wanting to make sure he did not make the same mistake with John, Sherlock returned this hug forcefully, and for a split-second, found himself enjoying the feeling of her holding him this close.

A few moments later, she finally pulled away.

"I'm sorry," said Luna, wiping her eyes again and smiling at the floor in a sheepish manner.

"You're sorry?" Sherlock was a bit incredulous.

"I just – I know you don't like it when people hug you or kiss you but I thought I'd never get the chance again."

She finally looked up into his face and gave a shrug. Sherlock felt something tugging at the corners of his mouth. Luna laughed.

"Was that a smile, Sherlock darling?" Her grin turned into a grimace as she noticed his red cheek. "I'm also sorry for slapping you."

She rose to her tiptoes and kissed the spot where her hand and bruised his cheekbone, letting her lips linger for just a moment longer than she ever had before.

Instead of stepping away, she brought her face in very close to his.

"Sherlock."

"Mm?"

"Can I?"

"Can you what?"

She leaned in. Sherlock tensed and began to pull away.

"Now Sherlock, I believe you owe me this. After everything that's happened."

His gaze flickered from her eyes to her mouth. He hesitated.

"Fine," he sighed resignedly. "Yes, do get on with – "

Luna pressed her lips – so comfortingly soft and warm – against his, cutting him off mid-sentence. In the brief moment of contact that followed, Sherlock tasted Earl Grey tea, her favorite. Grey, just like her sweater, her eyes. Grey, such a dull, pale color that suited her so well and yet did nothing to display the wonderful color that was inside of her, the joy and the kindness that she brought unwittingly to everyone she met.

"There, that wasn't so bad now, was it?"

It was over as soon as it had started. There had been no movement, no tongues, and no caresses. It had not been his first kiss and he was certain it had not been hers. From afar, it would seem to be nothing special, yet he almost wished it could go on.

Maybe he had changed a little bit in the past two years. Maybe he had missed her more than he believed.

He cleared his throat. "Not at all."

She smiled one of her warm, Luna Lovegood smiles at him and took the mug he was still holding from his hand and set it down on the coffee table.

Sherlock suddenly remembered what he had overheard her talking about when she had visited his grave. He had been waiting two years to inquire what on earth she meant by a war, what losses she had endured. But he did not quite know how to begin.

Luna sat down on one of the chairs and Sherlock took a seat on the couch. She just sat there; watching him with those big, grey eyes. Her smile was just as bright as it had always been and Sherlock decided, as he reached across the arm of the couch for Luna's hand, that his questions could wait.