A/N Thank you everyone for all the follows, favourites and especially the reviews! It really means a lot.

Chapter One - The Reappearance

18 Months Later

Hermione nervously knocked on the front door of the flat on Baker Street. She didn't understand why she was nervous. She'd faced many terrifying things in her life but looking around a place that she could potentially move in to shouldn't be up there with her many life risking adventures.

Unconsciously, she rubbed her left forearm. Despite it being nearly a year since Hermione had been subjected to the torture of Bellatrix Lestrange, the word 'mudblood' had faded very little. It was rare that Hermione would wear anything with short sleeves but she still covered the scars with a glamour spell every morning anyway.

There was the sound of approaching feet and Hermione forced a smile onto her face. The door opened to reveal a small woman of advanced years, who mercifully looked somewhat kindly.

"Mrs Hudson?" Hermione enquired and the woman nodded. "I'm Hermione Granger. We spoke earlier on the phone."

"Oh, yes of course, dear." Mrs Hudson opened the door further and beckoned for Hermione to come in. "Goodness. I didn't realise how young you were but that's the thing about telephones – you can never tell what the person on the other end is like." Hermione followed the landlady through another door into a rather dimly lit corridor. "The room's just this way, dear."

"Thank you."

Mrs Hudson walked towards the end of the corridor and took out a key to undo the padlock of a door which read 221C. Hermione cast a curious look up the staircase, wondering what lay up there.

"Mind your step," Mrs Hudson warned as she led the way down to the basement flat. Hermione registered a noticeable drop in temperature as she descended but she was sure it was nothing that a simple heating charm couldn't fix.

"I'm afraid it hasn't been lived in for a while," Mrs Hudson said, almost apologetically, as they surveyed the bare walls.

"The damp isn't too bad," Hermione commented, taking in a deep breath.

Mrs Hudson fiddled nervously with her necklace.

"My uncle works in damp removal," Hermione continued, placing her hand against one of the walls. "I'm sure he could come over and get rid of it in no time."

"You – you're interested in the flat then, Miss Granger?" Mrs Hudson asked in surprise.

"Please call me Hermione," she said with a smile. "Once the damp is gone and a bit of cleaning and paint is applied it will do perfectly." Hermione had plenty of recent experience in repair and decorating thanks to her help in restoring Hogwarts. Compared to a 1000 year old magical castle, this place would be an absolute doddle – not that she'd be telling Mrs Hudson that.

"Oh, wonderful," the landlady said breathlessly.

"Can I enquire about the cooking and bathroom facilities?" Hermione asked, inspecting a mirror that stood in the corner of the room.

"I'm afraid there are none in this particular flat," Mrs Hudson said wringing her hands slightly. "You would have to share with my tenants upstairs. I'm sure they wouldn't mind. One of them's a doctor, you know. He was in the army too before he got shot."

Hermione raised her eyebrows. "Is he all right?"

Mrs Hudson smiled. "Oh, yes. He had a walking stick to begin with but Sherlock proved that it was a psycho-or-other limp within a few hours and Dr Watson hasn't used it since."

"Sherlock?" Hermione questioned, moving the curtain aside to look up at the pavement of Baker Street.

"Oh, he's my other tenant," Mrs Hudson explained. "He's…well, he's Sherlock. Would you like to see the kitchen and bathroom now?"

Hermione agreed and followed Mrs Hudson up a couple of flights of stairs until they were on the first floor. Mrs Hudson put her hand on the doorknob, then paused and turned back to Hermione.

"Let me just see if they're in, dear." Mrs Hudson suggested. Before Hermione could make a comment she slipped inside with a breezy, "Ooh-ooh!" and closed the door again.

Hermione looked around at the bamboo-print wallpaper. Through a door to her left she could hear things hurriedly being put away.

Mrs Hudson appeared a minute later. "Come in, Hermione dear, come in. This is Dr John Watson."

Hermione walked into a relatively large lounge area that was nicely decorated and furnished, if somewhat cluttered. A man, on the cusp of being middle-aged offered his hand in welcome.

"Hello, I'm Hermione Granger," she said, shaking his hand.

"God, you're young," John said, then laughed. "Sorry, I mean, nice to meet you."

"It's nice to meet you too," Hermione replied.

"I understand you're interested in the flat downstairs."

Hermione nodded.

"I'd like to apologise in advance for the state of the kitchen – Sherlock and I aren't very domesticated," John warned as he walked her through to the adjoining room.

"Oh, so you two are a – " Hermione began but John cut her off.

"We're not a couple," he insisted, shaking his head with exasperation before muttering, "Every time."

"Sorry," Hermione muttered, feeling embarrassed. She turned her attention to the kitchen. The table and work surfaces were very difficult to make out due to the myriad of different objects that covered them. She wondered what John and Mrs Hudson had been clearing away when she'd been waiting outside. "You seem to have a lot of possessions," she commented, picking up a rack of empty test tubes.

"It's Sherlock's stuff, not mine," John explained.

Hermione put the test tubes back down on the table but then something caught her eye. Underneath a two-week-old copy of the Financial Times she fished out a small glass vial. "Are those toe nails?" she asked, looking at the contents in surprise. Her years of handling various animal body parts for her potions lessons meant that she was squeamish about very little, but she still found it rather distasteful to have vials of human toenails on a kitchen table.

John frowned in irritation and took the vial from her, shoving it in a drawer. Various clinking noises told her that there were probably more unsavoury items hidden within. "Like I said, it's all Sherlock's."

"I see. What does he do, exactly?" Hermione asked, trying not to sound too curious as Mrs Hudson pottered around making cups of tea.

"He calls himself a consulting detective," John replied. "Here, the bathroom's this way."

"So people hire him to investigate things?" Hermione said.

"Yes. And he's bloody brilliant at it too. I've never met anyone like him," John said, opening the bathroom door. "The hot tap of the bath can be a bit stiff but everything else is in perfect working order."

"Thank you," Hermione replied as she looked around, taking stock of the dimensions and toiletries. "What makes him so brilliant?"

"He uses this thing called, 'The Science of Deduction'. He's incredibly observant and logical. He can look at someone for a couple of seconds and tell you almost their entire life story," John explained, accepting a cup of tea from Mrs Hudson.

"That's amazing," Hermione said, impressed.

"Yep," John agreed. "But it does make you frequently want to punch him. Hard."

"How do you take your tea, dear?" Mrs Hudson asked.

"White, one sugar, please," Hermione replied, feeling slightly disconcerted. If this Sherlock man was so intelligent then was it likely that he would discover her secret? Perhaps she should find somewhere else to live. No, there was no need to be hasty. This flat was in a prime location, not too expensive and there was something about Mrs Hudson and John that she liked straight away. If her secret was discovered then she could always perform a memory charm – they were her speciality after all. "Thank you," she said, accepting the cup of tea.

"So what do you do?" John asked, as the three of them settled into chairs in the lounge.

"I suppose I'm a civil servant," Hermione answered. "I work in an animal department; ensuring that they're properly cared for, dangerous breeds are restricted, animal rights and things like that."

"That's impressive," John commented after a sip of tea. "How long have you been in the job?"

"Actually, I haven't started yet. My first day is next week. I only finished my schooling a few days ago," she explained but elaborated seeing the confused look on John's face. "I know the end of February is a funny time of year to complete my exams but last year was a bit disrupted for a variety of reasons. I worked all summer and my headmistress pulled a few strings so I could take my exams early."

"Was it your O-Levels, dear?" Mrs Hudson asked. "I never did very well on any tests."

"I think you mean, A-levels," John corrected. Mrs Hudson waved her hand dismissively.

"My school offers a different qualification, in truth." Hermione said. "Luckily my results were good enough for me to be accepted into the department straight away. My headmistress also wrote me a very nice reference, which helped, I'm sure. Speaking of…" She picked up her handbag and retrieved an envelope from inside. "This is a reference for you, Mrs Hudson. I don't know if it's strictly necessary but I understand that teenagers don't have the greatest reputation for reliability and maturity. I hope that this will ease any qualms you might have that I would be an unsuitable tenant."

"Goodness, Hermione dear. I never, yes, thank you," Mrs Hudson said. "Well, if you're quite sure that you want to move in then we'd better discuss the details. We'll leave you to it, Dr Watson."

"Any luck?" John called to his flatmate without looking up from his laptop. He frowned at the opening sentence of his blog before shaking his head and pressing down on the backspace key.

A frozen severed thumb landed on the keyboard in front of him, making him jump slightly. "You know, most people use words to communicate," he chided, carefully removing the offending appendage from his laptop.

"Most people are idiots," Sherlock retorted, sinking dramatically into a chair.

"So what's the next step?" John asked. He turned around to face Sherlock, knowing there was no point in trying to focus on his blog now.

"There is no next step. The case isn't worth my time," Sherlock announced, picking up his violin and plucking a couple of strings.

John groaned quietly. When Sherlock wasn't preoccupied with a case he was a complete pain in the arse – even more so than usual.

"Who's sat in this chair?" Sherlock asked suddenly, piercing John with an annoyed glance. "No. Don't tell me." His eyes lost focus for a split second before the annoyance returned. "What was a young woman doing here?"

"How did you…?" John sighed. "Never mind. Mrs Hudson has got a tenant for the basement. Hermione Granger she's called, only just left school."

Sherlock's look of annoyance evolved into one of great distaste. "A teenaged girl. Get me my revolver, John."

"You don't even know her, Sherlock!" John admonished. "She actually seems remarkably mature for her age – employed in the civil service already, something to do with animals. She gave a reference letter from her old headmistress to Mrs Hudson; apparently she achieved the highest exam results at that school for fifty years."

"Swot," Sherlock muttered.

"She'll be here in a couple of days to move in so make sure you give her a chance," John warned. Sherlock continued to pluck strings. "Sherlock."

"Why should I change my behaviour for some girly know-it-all when I never bother for anyone else?" Sherlock pointed out.

John looked at the defrosting thumb and sighed.

Sherlock could sense John's displeasure from across the room. It was very irritating. "What?" he asked.

John looked up, startled. "I didn't say anything."

"You were thinking something," Sherlock said. "And that's worse."

"How is that worse?" John asked in bewilderment, coming to stand by his friend as Sherlock peered down into his petri dish.

"Once something is voiced, the other person can respond and the matter can move on. However, if the first person decides to sulkily keep the thought locked in their mind whatever issue they have will not be resolved and the air of disappointment you have created will not disappear any time soon," Sherlock explained without raising his gaze.

"I'm not sulki-" John cleared his throat. "Look, I just think you're being a little rude."

"Really?" Sherlock asked, not fazed in the slightest. "How?"

"Well, Hermione's been down there decorating for the last three days and you haven't gone to introduce yourself," John pointed out.

"She hasn't made the effort to introduce herself to me," Sherlock argued. "Perhaps she's the one being rude."

"She's a bit busy damp proofing, wall papering and painting."

"Yes, well I'm busy too."

"No you're not," John said, taking a seat at the kitchen table opposite Sherlock. "Besides, she has tried to introduce herself but every time you hear her coming up the stairs you find a ridiculous excuse to go to your room."

"There's nothing ridiculous about making sure ones bed sheets are changed frequently; it's good hygiene," Sherlock said.

"Of course," John sighed. "Anyway, she's going to bring all her possessions round later. I said we'd help her carry things in."

Sherlock finally looked up with an expression of great irritation. "Why would you do that? I haven't volunteered for any heavy lifting."

"Because it's polite," John stressed. "We're being good neighbours."

"Why can't her friends help?" Sherlock asked.

"What friends?"

"The reference letter she gave to Mrs Hudson mentioned that she proved to be the most loyal of friends to her fellow students. Well, where are these friends of hers?"

"They're probably busy at school or something like that. It is the middle of the week after all," John pointed out. "Hang on, when did you read that letter? I thought you weren't interested in anything to do with Hermione."

"I'm not," Sherlock insisted. "Mrs Hudson read some of it at me when she brought me a cup of tea.

"Oh. Well, her friends aren't here and we are so you're going to be helping whether you like it or not," John said, hoping the matter was settled.

It was not.

"Are you attracted to her?" Sherlock asked in an accusatory tone. "Are you insisting on being helpful so that it'll impress her?"

"What?! She makes me feel about eighty!" John protested.

"That's not what I asked," Sherlock replied shortly.

"She's nearly young enough to be my daughter, Sherlock."

"Your avoidance of answering the question seems to provide an answer in itself even if you won't admit it." Sherlock stood and returned the petri dish to the fridge. "If you like I'll tell you whether your pupils dilate when you look at her. Then you won't be able to deny it."

"No. I wouldn't like you tell me," John replied angrily. "You know what, forget it. Don't bother helping."

"But I'm interested in seeing what qualities you find attractive in this young woman," Sherlock said, exiting the kitchen and beginning to walk down the stairs. "It's obviously not her decorating knowledge."

John followed quickly. "What do you mean?"

"It would take about six months to effectively remove the damp from these types of walls so wallpapering and painting them so soon is counterproductive, let alone rather idiotic." He'd reached the door to 221C and rapped sharply on it.

"Just a minute!" A voice called in reply.

"Don't be rude, Sherlock," John said in an almost pleading tone. "She's only just moved in."

"She'll have to get used to me then, won't she?"

There were footsteps on the stairs, the clicking of a lock and then the door was opened. A young woman with bushy brown hair, dark eyes and a somewhat nervous expression on her slender face stood before him and he instantly recognised her; the girl from Shaftesbury Avenue, the one who had appeared from nowhere.

It had been a while since he'd reviewed the black and white footage from the CCTV cameras but there was no mistaking that it was her. He was momentarily speechless. What was someone with teleport-like capabilities doing here in 221C Baker Street?

The girl's eyes slid past him to John and recognition dawned in her eyes. "You must be Sherlock." She smiled tentatively and held out her hand. "It's nice to meet you. I'm Hermione."

Sherlock recovered quickly and shook her hand, instantly analysing all he could about her appearance. "Welcome to Baker Street. I'm most interested to meet you."

John flinched next to him, fearing that Sherlock was referring to his supposed attraction but he was unaware that Sherlock found her interesting for a completely different reason.

"We thought we'd come and see if we could help," John said and Hermione's smile grew wider.

"That's very kind of you. Come in, the decorating is mostly done. The next step is moving my possessions and furniture in."

Sherlock followed Hermione down the stairs, noting that the stairway had been re-plastered and painted a pale gold colour. The bulb that used to hang down had been removed and a new light fitting was in place.

"What do you think?" Hermione asked, showing them into the room.

"Wow. You've done all this in two and a half days?!" John asked in amazement while Sherlock walked slowly around the walls. The gold theme was continued in here with touches of red on the new wallpaper. A new carpet had been fitted and despite Sherlock's intense search for it, there wasn't a hint of damp in the place.

"I'm a fast worker," Hermione admitted with a slight shrug. "Once I set my mind to a task there's not a lot that will distract me from completing it."

"Impressive," John nodded. "Very impressive."

"Well, my uncle helped a bit," Hermione said, smoothing down an imaginary bubble in one of the walls. "And I do have some experience in redecorating."

"It's a very professional finish," Sherlock said. "I'm sure your parents will be proud of you when they see it."

"Oh, no," Hermione said, her mood becoming decidedly more sombre. "My parents moved to Australia about eighteen months ago and they've got no immediate plans to come back."

"I see," Sherlock said and there was an uncomfortable pause, not that he noticed.

"What do you want us to do to help?" John asked brightly, trying to lighten the mood.

Hermione cast a look around the room. "Actually, I think I'm alright. There's nothing more to be done until my things arrive. I was just going to have some lunch and go and get everything."

"Okay then, well let us know when you're back so we can help," John offered.

"I will, thank you," Hermione replied. "Is there anywhere good round here to get lunch? I'm not very familiar with this area of London."

"You know, I'm rather peckish myself," Sherlock announced. "We'll come too, keep you company."

"Thank you," Hermione sounded surprised. "That…that would be lovely."

"Excellent," Sherlock said as John sent him a suspicious look. "Let me fetch my coat and then we can be on our way." He exited the room with John hot on his heels.

"What are you doing?" John asked when they were out of Hermione's earshot.

"I'm being welcoming to our new neighbour," Sherlock replied.

"No. You're up to something," John said with certainty.

"Maybe I'm just hungry."

"Sherlock."

"Your pupils did dilate by the way," Sherlock told him, putting his arms through his coat. "You owe me twenty pounds."

"But we didn't even make a bet!"

"John told me you're a consulting detective, Sherlock. It sounds very interesting," Hermione said, before taking a sip of her tea. "I didn't realise such a profession existed."

"I invented it," Sherlock replied simply.

"Oh, and the police don't mind you carrying out your own investigations?" She asked.

"Of course not," Sherlock said, causing John to choke on his sandwich. Hermione laughed at the annoyed look on Sherlock's face. "Well, I'm not everyone's favourite person in the world but they're too stupid to recognise my genius."

Hermione gave John a look that seemed to question Sherlock's sanity but John just smiled and nodded.

"Your genius?" she asked.

"Yes, my genius. I'm quite brilliant."

"But not modest," John put in.

"What would be the point of that?" Sherlock asked puzzled. "People come to me because of my mind. If I pretend that it's not all that impressive then they wouldn't seek me out and their problems would never be solved."

"And now you understand why everyone at Scotland Yard hates him," John said conclusively.

Sherlock glared at him. "They don't all hate me."

"No, you're right," John agreed. "Lestrade, at least, finds you tolerable when you're not withholding police evidence and disappearing to confront serial killers."

Hermione's eyebrows rose. "What?!"

"Yep. Did you hear about those serial suicides a few weeks ago?" John asked.

"No," Hermione replied, shaking her head.

"Oh, really?" John frowned. "They were all over the news."

"My school's quite isolated," Hermione explained apologetically. "We never had much contact with the outside world and I was revising very hard for my exams too."

"I see. Well, there were these deaths in London that all looked like unrelated suicides," John started to explain and Hermione listened in fascination. "I met Sherlock just before the last one happened and before I know it we're racing all over the city and Sherlock proves that they were all murders."

"John, that is the worst possible recount of the events," Sherlock said scathingly. "Where is the detail? Why didn't you mention how I deduced something was missing at the crime scene and where it would be?"

"How did you know something was missing?" Hermione asked.

"She was wearing pink, of course." Sherlock replied. Hermione blinked a couple of times, frowning.

"There's a much better explanation on my blog," John said sheepishly.

"What's a blog?" Hermione asked and then drained her tea.

"You know, where people write about things online. It's a bit like an e-journal," John said but Hermione still didn't seem to understand.

"Pass me your phone and I'll show it to you." Sherlock held out his hand. "I've not read his blog either; I'm intrigued to see whether his account of the case is better on there."

"I don't have a mobile phone," Hermione said, much to John's surprise. "My school was so isolated that there really wasn't much point. Technology doesn't work very well out there."

"How do you keep in touch with your friends and boyfriend?" Sherlock enquired.

"Letters, mostly," she answered. "It's not as instant as using a mobile phone, I know, but I find it much more personal. I'll probably get one now that I've moved to London, for emergencies and such."

"And work," John suggested.

"Yes, I suppose," Hermione agreed though she didn't sound very convincing to Sherlock's ears. "Hang on, how did you know I have a boyfriend?"

"Your perfume," Sherlock said simply.

"Here we go," John groaned.

"What about it?" Hermione asked with a frown.

"The scent isn't at all in keeping with the rest of your image. Your clothes are all at least two years old and well worn, your hair is reasonably well looked after but you're not vain enough to spend hours every morning straightening or curling it, you wear minimal make up but you insist on wearing that frankly disturbing aroma of perfume."

"Maybe I just like the brand of perfume," Hermione reasoned and John was surprised that she didn't sound the least bit annoyed by Sherlock's comments.

"It's the type of perfume that men think that women like – all sickly sweet and no subtlety. You haven't seen your father in eighteen months so it's unlikely to be from him. You mentioned an uncle but if it was from an extended family member you just wouldn't wear it and they'd probably never notice. No, this is a young man's mistake. A boyfriend. You wear it because you don't want to hurt his feelings, you want to prove that you still think of him while you're apart. You put it on every morning because you hope that one day you might accustom yourself to its scent and actually like it."

"That's… very impressive," Hermione said wryly. "And most perceptive." She sighed. "I really don't like that perfume but don't ever tell Ron, his ears would go as red as his hair."

Sherlock's mind cast back to the night on Shaftesbury Avenue where one of Hermione's companions had been a male with red hair…

John rushed down the stairs tying his dressing gown as he went. "Sherlock!" he called. "What the hell is that noise?"

Sherlock was standing in the middle of the lounge reading a book. "Hermione is screaming," he said. "Can you tell her to stop it, it's interfering with my concentration."

"But why is she screaming?" John asked. He figured that the girl must be yelling at the top of her voice for them to be able to hear her two floors up.

"How should I know?" Sherlock snapped.

"Come on," John ordered as he continued his journey down the stairs but he doubted that Sherlock would follow. There was no sign of Mrs Hudson, which John put down to her use of sleeping pills. He banged on the door, "Hermione!" The screaming continued so he carried on his assault on the door. "HERMIONE!"

"I wish you would both stop this infernal racket," Sherlock said, suddenly appearing behind him. "Break down her door and be done with it."

John barged his shoulder against the door but it didn't budge. He didn't think it moved at all though his shoulder hurt more than enough. Hermione's screaming stopped abruptly.

"Hermione?" he called tentatively. Her stairway light came on and her footsteps were heard soon afterwards. "Are you alright?" John asked as soon as her face appeared.

"I'm sorry if I woke you," she said, her voice hoarse from all the screaming. "I'm afraid I can get a bit vocal when I'm having a nightmare."

John could see that she was trembling and the little of her skin that wasn't covered by her pyjamas was shiny with sweat. There were dark circles under her eyes that he hadn't noticed before and they were also rather red, as though she'd been crying.

"I have a recurring nightmare where I'm too stupid to solve a murder mystery play before the end of the second scene," Sherlock said, most unhelpfully in John's opinion. "Is yours like that?"

Hermione rubbed at her left forearm. "No. I've seen… never mind. Thank you both for your concern but I'm fine."

"You don't look fine," John said. "And I'm a doctor so I should know. Come upstairs and I'll make you some hot chocolate."

Before Hermione could make a reply, a ginger blur shot from behind her door and streaked up the stairs, making John jump.

"Oh, sorry, that's Crookshanks, my cat." Hermione groaned. "But I guess you already spotted ginger animal hairs on my clothes," she added, looking at Sherlock as she walked after her pet.

"Of course," he replied, following her. "Even John would've noticed those."

"Hey!" John called, though he was more annoyed that he hadn't spotted the cat hairs at all.

Crookshanks had made himself comfortable in one of the armchairs and the harder Hermione tried to pull him off, the further he sunk his claws into the upholstery. Hermione admitted defeat and sank into the chair with him. She accepted the mug of hot chocolate gratefully.

The three of them sat in silence for a couple of minutes. Sherlock began to read his book again and Hermione got the feeling that he'd instantly forgotten that she and John were there.

"So, you've been through some things," John said. Hermione glanced at him fearfully. "It's okay, I know what it's like."

"Y-you do?" She asked.

"I'm not just a normal doctor; I was an army doctor, Captain in the fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. I served in Afghanistan until I was shot here." He pointed to his shoulder. "But I was so scarred by what had happened that I developed a psychosomatic limp that was severe enough for me to be discharged. Every night I re-lived what I went through and I would wake looking much like you do."

Hermione stared at him. "Do you still dream of it?"

"Yes," John admitted. "It's become better since I've been here but most nights I will dream about something related to Afghanistan. Not all of it is bad but sometimes…" He took a sip of hot chocolate.

Crookshanks crawled onto Hermione's lap and she stroked him gently. "Thank you for telling me this, John."

He smiled and nodded. "I don't expect you to tell me what has happened to you but you are talking to someone, aren't you?" John asked.

Hermione continued to stroke Crookshanks and didn't meet John's eyes. "No," she admitted softly.

John nodded in understanding. "I was very sceptical at first but it helps to talk about the past with someone. Just to share it with another person, it's like you've given some of the burden away. It could really help you."

Hermione sighed. "Nobody would be interested in what I've got to say. Not really."

John held up his hands, aware that he shouldn't push her to do something she wasn't ready for, though he was worried that she felt so isolated. "Okay, well if you're not comfortable with talking to anyone then maybe you should do a blog, like me." John could tell by the expression on her face that she wasn't keen on the idea so he reached over and grabbed his laptop from the table. He logged it on and brought it over to her. "Here, this is mine. I haven't got much on it yet though."

Hermione positioned the laptop on the arm of the chair so she wouldn't disturb Crookshanks and clicked on the different entries. "I see what you mean about this being like a diary. What are these comments at the bottom?"

"They're from people who've read what I've written. They can write a message to me," John explained.

"But who are these people?" Hermione asked.

"They're mostly people I know. Ella is my therapist, Bill is one of my friends and Harry is my sister." John felt Hermione shy away from the idea again. "You don't have to put your posts online. You could just type them into the computer and keep them to yourself."

"I'd probably be better off with an actual diary or a journal; I'm a really slow typist," Hermione admitted. "Besides, I don't actually have a computer."

"You are the strangest teenager I have ever met," John said shaking his head. "So you don't have Facebook, Twitter or anything like that?"

"I don't even have a clue what you're talking about," Hermione confessed.

"Where exactly was this school you went to? The Dark Ages?" John joked.

"In a forest in the middle of Scotland," Hermione corrected. "Now be quiet, I want to read some more of your blog. You said there's a more detailed explanation of that suicide case."

John pointed to where she needed to click and watched as her eyes tracked quickly across the screen as she read. Sherlock was wrong about his attraction to Hermione. Mostly, anyway. John couldn't deny that he thought she was an eye-catching girl and if he'd been a decade younger he would have been very taken with her. But he was so much older than her and she already had a boyfriend. He was determined to prove to Sherlock (and himself) that it was entirely possible to find a girl attractive and not want to have a relationship with her.

"How do I write my own comment?" Hermione asked, interrupting his thoughts.

"Like this…"

He watched in amusement as she typed her message using a single finger, like a child. She was right; it would take her too long to write a blog on a computer. He went to one of the bookshelves and pulled down a spare notebook of his.

"Done," she said with a hint of triumph as she handed the laptop back to him.

A very interesting read, John. It sounds like an incredible adventure and rather dangerous too. I fear that Sherlock is not going to be impressed with only the small references to his genius-like deduction skills. Thank you for sharing this with me.

Hermione 02 March 01:27

"Hmmmm, perhaps it would be best if I never let Sherlock read these," John whispered.

"Never let me read what?" Sherlock asked loudly, making both of them start.

"My blog," John replied.

Sherlock went back to his book, apparently bored.

"Well, I'd better get back to bed," Hermione said but she didn't look pleased at the prospect.

"Here," John handed her the notebook and a pen from the table. "You can stay and write your first entry if you like. I'm not particularly tired any more. I might write a post of my own."

"Thank you. That's very thoughtful of you." She tucked her feet underneath herself, careful not to disturb Crookshanks, and opened the first page of the notebook.

Over the next forty-five minutes Sherlock silently observed John and Hermione fall asleep in their chairs. It had been a most thought provoking day but there was one thing he'd like to know straight away; why Hermione keep rubbing her left forearm. He'd seen her do it on a handful of occasions though she was probably unconsciously doing so. He waited another ten minutes to be sure they were both asleep before he rose and walked softly over to her. The ginger cat's ears twitched and he held his breath but the feline didn't wake. Sherlock would've dearly loved to have read what she'd written in the notebook but fortunately for her it was partly hidden under the cat's stomach and there was no way for him to retrieve it without someone waking up.

The sleeves of Hermione's pyjamas however, were rather loose on her petite frame and it was quite easy to move it upwards without disturbing her.

For a moment it seemed that there would be nothing there after all but as more of her forearm was revealed some letters came in to view. At first he thought they were tattooed onto her arm but then he realised that they were actually scars – not the pale, faded type you normally associate with scars. No, these were still red, almost raw. The lettering was childish and must have been done with a small but very sharp object. Finally the last letter was revealed near the crook of her elbow and Sherlock could read the whole word: mudblood.

A/N Thanks for reading! If you haven't actually read John's blog I would recommend it. You'll also understand the next chapter a bit better.

Until next time!

Lil Drop of Magic