I've been asked to do a second chapter by some of the lovely reviewers (special thanks to: Matsoine, chupeechan, Kairenayui, PhoenixflIight, Something generic, pianomouse, , SereniteRose, Lili-So and nikyta here) not to forget all the other encouraging reviews I've received (Hillmorr and of course renaid).
I hope you enjoy this chapter I haven't exactly figured out where to go with this story yet - but I believe Sherlock shall meet her sooner or later, it is almost a necessity.
He didn't know how to reach her.
Despite the fact that she'd told him they used owls for messaging (or hawks, depending on whatever was less suspicious for the region) but for the life of him he couldn't figure out how to find a bird that would be able to find Hermione (his Hermione). For weeks he'd been writing letter after letter and while he'd thought (at first) that he wouldn't send them, he felt like lying to her.
He missed the young witch.
He'd been playing with his token lock now and then, had tied it together so he wouldn't lose even the shortest strand.
It was during one of those moments – playing with the lock – that a young woman stepped towards him, covered in a blue hijab, a man at her side that looked like he could need medical attention. When he offered to inspect him though, the man waved it off, wheezing when the woman helped him to assume a seated position.
"He wants to talk to you about the witch." The woman said in stilted English and he was surprised to find that she was rather proficient at it still.
The man started to talk when John sat down – as it was tradition for these people when in dialogue – with many gestures, while the woman, sitting behind the village eldest, as it turned out, calmly echoed the phrases in John's mother tongue.
It would seem that 'The Golden Woman' as the women of the nearby village had called the witch, had aided a lot of people through the last half of a year: children had been born healthy, mothers had survived their first birth, wounds had been treated and ailments cured because of the witch. The village elder had at first not been happy about the news that a woman would give other women potions and tinctures, for such things could come at a large price, but The Golden Woman earned her name by denying the offerings they made her – as well as describing herself to be the woman to the 'Healing Man' (a name that was apparently designed to describe him of all people).
From that moment on the village elder had had less problems defining The Golden Woman when talking to Allah, and apparently the omnipresent Deity had given the man a dream to find something that belonged to him.
It was then that he waved a young girl closer, by the looks of the young woman her sister or even her daughter, but in her hands sat, peacefully, a brown Hawk.
"He has been very unruly in the hands of our men." The woman said softly, taking the animal from the young girl, allowing the animal to hop her lower arm, before the man motioned for her to move. She neared John, presenting him the animal. "But he is convinced that in your hands he will find his right place."
Majestic as the animal was John was almost shy to accept him but found when he only halfway extended his arm, the animal was already hopping the proffered latch, wings spreading shortly before a weight he hadn't known (wouldn't have thought) missing from his arm returned in aching familiarity.
A piece of him returned – a piece he hadn't known he'd been searching, but had been ever so desperately calling out for. He smiled a big grin at the man and the woman, tears pooling in his eyes that both of them understood. (He didn't know what to give in return, but they were in want of nothing.)
The troops didn't know whether to mock him or to ask him for one for themselves it would seem – the vet at the camp had ascertained the good (exemplary) health of the animal and asssured him that it was, indeed, as the woman had said a male specimen.
Sitting with the hawk in his tent, he wondered what to call him. Surely such a majestic creature deserved a fitting name of royal sound. The obvious, of course, would be Hermes – messenger of the gods and of boundaries, whose holy animals included a hawk. Not to forget that Hermione was the direct female version of Hermes.
But then that was… plebeian.
No this one deserved to have a name of his own, a name that would catch his personality in a way that only a given name could.
John decided that the animal would have to pick its own name.
"What is it this week?" Mike smiled through his cigarette.
"This day, you mean." John grouched, battering the beak away from his ear. "He doesn't like to be called P- Ouch!"
Again the animal had nicked at his ear. He tried battering it away, but the hawk stayed – stubborn and unmoving. "Alright – I'm changing it now. Say…" but the animal nicked him before he could try another Greek absurdity that Mike had been hedging him for the last few weeks.
The friend in question guffawed loudly, patting him on the back, shaking his head – face still split in half by his wide smile. "I don't know why you won't just go with something common… like Mason."
It sounded like a dog's name – worse even, because some people called their (admittedly poor) children that; he told Mike as much and his friend's smile widened even more; before he took in the Lieutenant-Colonel and his new pet.
"Then why not go for something that pertains to your roots – your mother was Irish, wasn't she? I thought that's where Hamish came from after all…"
He did have a point.
(It took him two more weeks of ear-biting and frivolous tries to appease the creature before he finally found Donnchadh.)
When he first watched the hawk take off into the night he wondered if perhaps he'd see the animal in the morning again – not knowing where the hell Hermione was, but he knew he had to try.
Donnchadh had glared at the small stack of letters that John had sat down between them and, understanding the glare like he understood pain in the eyes of his patients, he had started to sort the most important ones, rewrite some and add one most important letter to the very top of the stack, hoping that it would explain the appearance of Donnchadh.
He didn't know why he hoped to not see his pet back at the camp the next day, but despite the fact that he tried to put himself down by expecting him around every corner (even going as far as to search the skies for him) the Hawk did not turn up.
Not for weeks.
Life resumed at the camp (pressing onwards, backrush, the chaos, the confusion, patching people up, shooting others down) with the slight difference that despite, or maybe even because, whatever the politicians far away tried to negotiate the situation gradually built up.
Donnchadh came back in a right state.
His feathers were glued to him from the sweat and the sand and even though he was not a vet he could tell that his pet was in dire need of sustenance and so, without further ado he hustled to the vet's and hung him up, much like he would do with his undernourished and parched patients. (It became clear to him that he could not put his devoted pet through such an ordeal more often than this once.)
Hermione's letters were long, to a point where he was certain he'd be able to fill tomes with them and he would put them beside his bed filling his (obligatory) bible with them in order to keep them secret from the rest of the troops (Mike excluded, she expressed her desire for him to greet their common friend more often than once).
Her letters kept him sane for weeks.
He didn't know what it was.
All he could see was half of his squad lying on the ground clutching various wounds, fighting with varying stages of poisoning.
The thing in front of him was the stuff of fairy-tale books… or magic, a voice crooned to him and so, carefully, he put down his gun, lowering himself to his knees.
Donnchadh had been dispatched to Mike (still in the camp) requesting immediate backup, coupled with their coordinates.
They had been sent out in order to investigate enemy activity in an area in which two of their compatriots had gone missing – had been meant to retrieve them if possible, or to simply scout if nothing else was possible. Not for a moment had they imagined that such a beast could haunt these premises – correction: they hadn't imagined such a beast could exist.
"Can you understand me?" he asked, trying his damndest not to feel silly attempting to talk to a beast that had taken out his men that were slowly dying at his feet, one of them had already given up struggling to breathe, his body lying (probably lifeless) closest to the creature.
"I am capable of speech, if that is what you are asking." The creature answered, slowly traipsing towards the dead man, punctuating his lungs with its sharp claws, pulling the carcass closer to itself.
"Can I at least get one of them back?" he asked.
The creature grinned a wicked smile, lowering its' head between its shoulders, its' tail flicking dangerously, very likely still loaded with poison.
"But where's the fun in that?" it crooned, closing in on him, large paws silently padding the ground. John eyed his rifle just in front of his knees – it would be but a movement, but it could mean his life.
"I suppose you need to feed." He started again – stalling, Mike should be here any minute, please – "but then, I also suppose you haven't had a decent fight over your meal in … months?" he ventured a guess.
"Oh, Years." The creature admonished, sinking its' claws into another lifeless chest with a hefty punch – pulling yet another body closer to its cave, before it turned around again – John held his rifle; no reason to sit defenceless opposite of a beast that wanted to kill you. "Do you want to try though?"
He'd rather die trying, than not try at all – but he didn't tell that to the creature, now nearing him again. "You know," it spoke in a curious British lilt, "out of all the people that have ever stood where you are now, wizard and muggle alike – especially muggle though – I have never met someone whose scent was so curiously void of… fear." It was almost a question out of the creature's mouth, but John waited for it to continue – still stalling. "There is no magic in you though, I could feel it if there were, plus… you'd never clutch to that rifle so dearly if you had a wand to defend yourself. It makes me wonder…"
"I bedded a witch not too long ago." John said, keeping sentiment out of his voice – he needed to channel his Alpha if he wanted to come across as one. "Succulent little thing…"
"Oh they all are." The creature said, its' mane bobbing with its' head as it nodded. "Their flesh is the most delicious, I agree. However… I presume you tasted her in quite a different way. Tell me… how was it?"
A moue of irritation flittered across John's mine before something like understanding dawned on him – no matter how much creature or bestiality the animal in front of him was, it was sentient, could reflect on its' life and actions and… no doubt had desires, carnal ones at that, if the glint in its' eyes was not all just madness and hunger.
"The rut?" he grunted, grinning in what he hoped was a lustful way and praying that Hermione would never get wind of this because deep down he couldn't bear talking (or even thinking) of her that way.
"Yes." The creature breathed, that peculiar spark intensifying in its' eyes and he supposed the longer it sat like that, paws crossed, stinger on the ground it was less harm then when it was charging or hitting him.
"Easy." He soothed in a cobble-stone voice. "She was an inexperienced thing, beautiful, succulent, all soft skin and warm body – and she was so willing to give it up for a few lost words, choice words don't get me wrong, but the females all search for that one particular thing and, too far from home, believe everything they hear."
The Beast seemed to derive pleasure from his words – seemed to enjoyed a base ruse to lure people in despite the crude fashion of it.
It bore down on him, seething, eyes glittering and John knew that this was it – his colleagues hadn't held up longer than ten minutes. A salve of shots was fired and the creature bent at its' knees, glare redirecting – another salve of shots, the stinger in his shoulder wavered and he grunted.
Above him he could see the faint outline of wings against the sun.
Donnchadh came back – alone.
No letters, no John, nothing to indicate that he was alright. Currents flew through her hair for at least a week before Luna came back from New Zealand.
Mycroft Holmes was an easy man to find, but a hard man to reach.
Leave it to Hermione Granger to do the impossible though and you would get improbable results that usually served to make the stuff of heroics.
That said, it was an easy Tuesday morning for aforementioned man, eight o'clock in the morning, sharp, he was having his second cup of tea when his chimney lit up in an eerie green, flames licking the top of the masonry for the barest of moments – a woman materializing amidst them, unharmed by the supposed heat.
She had a formidable appearance and even more so a fierce face – her legs were encased in tight pants that belied her slenderness, her boots speaking of her military experience, her cape though… of a queerness of mind that he'd seen so very often in his brother.
He watched her in silence, an eyebrow cocked, waiting for her to address him or for his guards to spilling through the doors right and left of him. Judging his darting eyes, she smiled, pointing elegant fingers to the doors.
"They will not be coming soon, Mister Holmes." She said, her voice soft, educated, eloquent. "But I am not posing a threat either, for that matter, so there is no reason for them to come."
In several elegant steps, she'd neared him, now standing opposite of the table. "I've been told, by reliable sources that you are the go-to-person when in need of information – no matter what world."
Ah, he should have known it would happen sooner or later.
Putting his china down, he gave her another arch look, bending backwards in his plus chair, folding his hands. "I hope you've been told that information comes at a price."
The woman quirked an eyebrow of her own, elegant, plucked, cared after. "I thought that went without saying."
Experienced negotiator. Challenging. "What can you offer?"
"All of my abilities. Some of which are understandably… rare." Hard bargain.
"I am of the understanding that there would be several subjects of your world that would barter their abilities for information… or rather protection. How can I know you do not pertain to this cluster of rather unsavoury individuals?"
She procured a parchemt-scroll, put it on his table and pushed it over towards him – the seal, familiar despite the fact that he hadn't seen it often, was unbroken. "Credentials, if you will."
He looked up at her again, not bothering to break the seal – portraying knowledge that he did not possess of her, but he was good at playing games. "What do you want?"
Another item was procured out of a small purse that seemed too tiny to hold such thick items – a folder this time, which she pushed towards him as well. The picture of a blonde man was stacked to the very front of it, a military surgeon, Alpha…
"Find him a purpose and I am yours."
Pulling strings had always been Mycroft's forte.
Hermione knew, the moment she'd watched John move in with William Sherlock Scott Holmes – and people said her name was a mouthful – that she'd bargained her life for the right thing.
Donnchadh was left at the doctor's window, on his left talon a small welcome back note – Hermione left in the dark of the night, as per Mycroft's order.
He wanted to, but he couldn't – and despite the fact that it pained her, she understood him, because she understood the inner workings of the government; both governments.
Mycroft was relieved to finally have access to a woman with power, a person with a sensible head on their shoulders, who didn't go crashing through ceilings, bulldozering through walls or assassinating people for the fun of it – he had tons of those nutjobs at his beck and call but rather didn't make use of them, lest he wanted to clean up a ginormous mess that he really didn't deserve to clean up (not in his position anyways).
Hermione Granger was a good soldier, but she was also a good General.
Kingsley Shacklebolt, a man he'd had few, but intensive, meetings with, had vouched for her himself – in letter as well as in person – had told him, time and time again, that he didn't truly understand why she'd decided to leave her well-paying job to look after one man who, by all accounts, had nothing to do with the politics of the wide, wide world; but Mycroft had been very forthcoming with information on that part.
"Read." He said, handing the tall, black man a file that had, originally, been largely blackened out – a report from Afghanistan, written by one Mike Stamford, rescuer of one John Hamish Watson.
The minister seemed to have a lot more understanding for the man the young witch was adamant of protecting – Mycroft finally learned what a Manticore was (and that they really did exist).
"We have… a situation." Anthea's voice cracked in the middle of the sentence and, without failure, his heart skipped a beat, Hermione, next to him, looked up from where she'd been correcting reports with him, her face questioning.
"How bad?" – he meant to say a full sentence, had laid it out in his mind, hell he'd said it a thousand times, but he couldn't help the rising feeling that this time it was something worse; closer to home.
"It might not be scaleable."
His brother. "Where can I find him?"
"St Bart's, the test is going to be positive."
Anthea needn't say more – Mycroft was well aware of the weaknesses of his brother and, despite all his disparaging comments about sentiment, cared deeply for the one individual he considered family more than the biological rest of it.
The witch next to him, beige Trench-coat and all, was already standing when he hung up, holding both his coat and his umbrella at the ready. But Mycroft was not ready to stand up – he needed a moment to collect himself.
"I am prepared for all eventualities, Mycroft." Her soothing voice reached him and he looked up, unthinkingly, unblinkingly, finding the steady eyes of Hermione, a serious mine on her face. "It will not be pleasant, but I am prepared for it."
How could she-? Protectiveness set in – a fierce scowl on his face heralding it; she clucked her tongue impatiently, throwing his coat on his lap. "Don't be lacklustre, Mycroft. Your clan's people are not the only ones capable of deduction."
He hadn't thought what would happen if Watson would see her again, but he had assumed that it would be more… cataclysmic, but the witch swept into the laboratory of one Molly Hooper, right behind him, locked the door with a decisive snap and made a beeline towards his brother that no one could have cut off.
Not that anyone looked like they wanted.
Panic set into Sherlock's eyes for a moment – still hazed, Mycroft noted with a tinge of sadness mixed with disappointment – and they wavered to his older brother. Something of the quiet steadiness there must have gotten through to him, because when she grabbed his jaw and emptied a flask of purple in his slack mouth, he did not fight.
She clasped his lips shut and glared at him. "Swallow, or I will make you.
His brother had the decency to listen to her.
Five minutes later Sherlock Holmes was emptying his stomach in one of the toilets of the men's bathroom, a vile regurgitation that John and Mycroft bore witness to in relative silence – until the retching died down somewhat and silence settled.
Hoping that Sherlock's ears were still ringing somewhat, he turned towards the good doctor, mustering him. "Are you well?"
It took the blonde a little while to realize what he meant and when he caught his drift, his eyes darted towards the doors outside which the young witch stood, waiting with a purse full of an assortment of potions that needed to be ingested by one Sherlock Holmes.
"Yes." John answered, before looking at him. "She working for you?"
Mycroft shook his head, because truly, Hermione was not working for him – she had her own agenda and had deemed it important enough to assign herself to his cause, that was all there was to it and he was not fooled by her complacency. "To my understanding she secures the position of her employer rather well, though."
Hard eyes met his when she fished a cigarette out of his packet, putting it between her lips but never lighting it – she didn't smoke, he knew, but rather seemed to need something to suckle on, and these cancer sticks were designed for that purpose. After all that was their psychological temptation and addiction.
She started worryingly chewing on her cigarette, eyes darting from right to left, down, up again – she was fidgety and if he himself weren't in dire need of his first stress-cigarette since ages, he would have admonished her of her behaviour in public, but he couldn't find it in himself.
"He's going to be fine." She said finally, eyes darting to the exit in his back. "John's-"
Her voice lost its' capacity and for the first moment since he'd seen the two of them in a room everything seemed to make sense. Anger rose in her, to her face, closely followed by despair and then sadness – finally anger again, much more maneagable after all than all of the feelings before, anger she could deal with, anger she could let out.
"'m takin' the rest of the day off." She muttered finally, spit her mangled cigarette out, squashing it to the concrete with a decisive twist of her shoe, before she – without sparing him a glance – turned and took off into the crowds of rainy London, her Trench-coat billowing behind her.
He meant to tell her to take care, to button up that Coat because it was no use if she got sick wearing a coat, but he couldn't; not when he himself could use some much needed relaxing breathing.
(He'd thought the doctor would need comforting after the meeting – but there was always something he overlooked.)
"Who is she?"
He was in his bed, judging by the cameras, John in the kitchen puttering away – making tea, and from the sound of his voice Mycroft's tired ears could tell that his mind had finally caught up with the visual input of a whirlwind woman appearing out of nowhere and curing him of his addictions like an avenging angel.
"The Golden Woman." He said a little snappish. "From what I know she's in the employ of one John Hamish Watson – maybe you should thank him. Now, kindly leave the grown-ups to do the talking."
He hung up on his brother, pinching and massaging the bridge of his nose in the quest of easing the tension in his eyes – he knew it to be futile but it was a habit that was proving hard to get rid of.
Hermione was… a friend (as reluctant as he was to admit that, it was what she'd become in the last time) and she was in a bad place… because he'd put her there; and there was no way he could talk himself into believing otherwise.
He wanted to order her to stay on vacation, but couldn't help but feel like that would be ordering to keep her away… which would probably pour salt over the open wound. Hermione Granger would, no doubt, take it as a challenge to prove to him that she was capable of dealing with her own problems one step at a time.
But Mycroft Holmes' forte was pulling strings and some strings had to be plucked, very delicately at that, instead of being pulled – and Hermione Granger was one such a string.
He left a folder at their shared desk, amidst several other (insignificant) papers – he knew she'd take the bait (and he knew she'd understand his apology).
Just so you know, I'm still wondering what's in that folder so please be a little patient with me - most of my regular readers know that I'm sooooo bad at keeping time so I'll try to do my best to think of something good enough, but I can't promise :( Just remember we all have a live outside of ff too ;)
Love to y'all!