The first thirteen minutes of the cab ride to St. Bartholomew's went by in silence. Sherlock had barked at the cabbie to silence his radio immediately upon entering the car and then took to glaring out the window. Hermione caught the cabbie looking at them twice in his rearview mirror, the second time mouthing "Lovers' tiff" to himself.

It made Hermione suddenly wonder what it would be like to take Sherlock as a lover. On the face of it, he appeared to have the interpersonal capabilities of a brick. But still, the possibility demanded examination. She couldn't imagine him being the oafish type to fuck until he ejaculated before flopping over and passing out, leaving the woman high and dry. Maybe it would be merely a sense of duty, but she bet Sherlock would insist that his women orgasm. He'd ensure it. After all, he did have all that knowledge of… anatomy.

"Why are you flushed?" Sherlock said.

Hermione whipped her head toward him. For a moment, the neurological connection between the language center of her brain and her tongue short-circuited, leaving her open-mouthed but wordless. Then she pushed out the first words she could think of. "I was thinking of you naked."

She tried to pass it off as facetious, and succeeded. It was now Sherlock who was blushing. Hermione grinned at him. He scowled.

"I need to know everything there is to know about this case," he demanded, changing the subject.

Hermione frowned. "Why would I know anything about it? Won't you learn what you need to know when we get to the morgue?"

Sherlock huffed in exasperation. "Not that case, this case, the case of my stalker."

Hermione cut her eyes to the back of the cabbie's head. Sherlock saw her surreptitiously pull her wand out. There was again that briefest shift in the air. She put her wand away.

She turned to him, the set of her mouth firm. "I can't."

Sherlock was looking toward the cabbie. "He can't hear us."

"No."

"You did the same spell you did last night."

"Yes."

"Muffliato."

Hermione was not surprised Sherlock remembered the spell. After all, he was Sherlock. She was surprised by how pleased his memory of her spell made her feel. "Yes."

"Why didn't you say it aloud?"

"I did it nonverbally. It takes a bit of practice, but almost every spell can be performed nonverbally."

"You said it aloud to me." His eyes narrowed as he looked her up and down, deducing. "You wanted me to know you were performing a spell. You wanted me to know you could no longer hear the violin. Showing off? No, you've been so careful to do the minimum amount of magic needed while around me. Then why else would you–oh." Self-consciousness flooded through him. He remembered the last thought he had had while putting the violin away: he certainly didn't want to listen to that racket.

Hermione smiled. "Though a ruptured eardrum will heal within four weeks, I thought it best for your protection if you avoided deafness."

Sherlock felt strangely bolstered by this. Hermione wasn't being nice. She had merely deduced the best circumstances in which she could do her job and acted accordingly. She had acted out of intelligence, not sentiment. It rather heightened Sherlock's opinion of her.

Not that he would ever indicate this to Hermione. His tone clipped, he said, "Who is Mundungus Fletcher?"

Hermione raised her eyebrows but gave away nothing. Sherlock huffed and said, "Please, don't pretend that he really was the one behind the Moriarty stunt. He may be a thief but that old man in no way is a hacker."

Hermione pressed her lips together. She shrugged.

Anger shot up Sherlock's spine. "It is absolutely preposterous that I am not given access to the most basic information about a case regarding a threat to me."

In many ways, Hermione agreed with him. She would be equally enraged to be told she wasn't allowed to certain information that others had. Even as a kid, she'd snuck into the forbidden sections of the library to get books of the sort that no adult wizard or witch would ever approve for young student. But the risk to Sherlock if he learned… "It has to be this way," she said, her tone betraying more empathy than she would have liked.

Sherlock immediately picked up on it. He narrowed his eyes. Color creeping up her neck, Hermione began to twiddle her fingers in her lap.

"I am at least owed an explanation of how those pictures of me were taken in my flat without my knowledge," Sherlock said in a low voice.

For a long moment, Hermione did not answer. Then, eyes still in her lap, she said, "Invisibility cloak or Disillusionment Charm. The charm makes you blend perfectly into the background so no one can see you."

Sherlock glared at her for a second more. Then, abruptly, he returned his gaze toward the window.

Before he had met Hermione, data had always been illuminating. More information meant a clearer truth. And as Sherlock had almost no information about the wizarding world, other than fact of its existence, it had been an enormous black muddle in his mind.

Yet when one or two facts did trickle his way, Sherlock found that there was no subsequent clarity. (Invisibility cloak?! Disillusionment Charm?!) Indeed, it left him more discombobulated than before. It was positively infuriating. Plus there was all the extra effort of blocking out those primal signals from his amygdala every time Hermione smiled, or brightened, or smirked, or frowned (no ignore ignore ignore)–

All this to say, it was no surprise that Sherlock leapt out of the cab as soon as it touched the kerb. Hermione was left to pay the fare (this was so going on her expense account). By the time she had her receipt and was on the sidewalk, Sherlock was gone. Hands clenched at her sides, she marched into the hospital, following the signs down to the morgue.

There were three people that Hermione immediately noted when she pushed open the steel door to the morgue: a caucasian man with a lot of silver in his hair and a grumpy expression; a doctor, going from the white coat, with pale skin and ridiculously shiny hair; and Sherlock, crouched so closely to a morgue table he practically had his nose up against it.

Then, there were the five other people in the room. Laid out on slabs, white sheets up to their shoulders. Two women, two men, a boy.

Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead.

Before the silver-haired man and the doctor could look her way, Hermione had torn her eyes away from the bodies and dashed back out into the hall.

And the body of the man on the end had even had red hair.

Hermione pressed her forehead against the cinderblock wall. She forced herself to focus on the sensations her body felt, not the thoughts her mind was battling. The wall felt cool on her forehead. Her jeans felt stiff in the crotch. Her fingernails felt sharp, digging into the palms of her hands.

Hermione's fingers were like ice. She pressed them to her cheeks, behind her neck, willing the flush of horror to recede.

"Are you ok?" It was a woman's voice behind her. The doctor, Hermione realized.

"Of course!" Hermione said. Yet as much as she tried to will herself to do so, she could not move away from her position facing the wall.

She heard a shifting and saw the woman lean up against the wall beside her. With a small smile in her voice, the doctor said, "We get so used to it in our work that I think we forget sometimes what a shock it can be to see dead bodies."

"I've seen dead bodies," Hermione snapped. Then she paused. She willed herself to breathe in, breathe out, breathe away the defensiveness that was not at a reaction to this kind doctor but entirely due to her own history, her own past of terrors.

"The particular placement in there was just… reminiscent," Hermione finally said. With great effort, she rolled her head around, letting her body follow, until she too was leaning back against the wall.

That woman on the slab. That boy. That man with the red hair.

The woman, who had met many familiar with the dead in her work, suddenly realized. Her eyes widened. "You were a soldier?" She let her intonation pretend like this was a question, but it wasn't really. The forced stiffness, inadvertent trembling, the mix of flushed and clammy skin: these were the characteristics of one who had seen death, a great deal of it, perhaps even of their own friends. Someone living in a war zone. Someone fighting in that very war.

Hermione bought herself a moment to think by clearing her throat. This definitely wasn't a conversation she could have. So, she gave a sort of half nod and went with what she'd told John Watson that morning. "I work with Mycroft."

"Oh."

Well how bout that. Worked just as well this time around, too.

They stood there a moment more, the woman cutting her eyes over to Hermione in nervous curiosity. Then, suddenly remembering, she said, "Oh! I didn't tell you who I am. I'm Molly Hooper. Director of Pathology."

Carefully, Hermione moved just away from the wall, all her weight on her own feet. She plastered on a smile and stuck out her hand. "Hermione Granger." She offered no further information.

It did not go unnoted by Molly, though she merely smiled and took Hermione's hand. For a moment, they were only two, petite, frequently underestimated women recognizing a fellow ally in a bigger-is-better world.

Hermione let go of Molly's hand and flopped back against the wall. "Sherlock's going to think I'm an asshole."

"Oh, well. Who cares what Sherlock thinks," said Molly in a voice that indicated she cared very much about what Sherlock thought, at least of her. She gave a breathy little laugh, intending sound funny and carefree. It only made it worse.

Hermione noted all of this, but said nothing. "Unfortunately, I do. It will make my job much harder if he loathes me."

There was a bang as the morgue door opened, and the silver-haired man stormed out. "Sometimes I loathe that arse!" he muttered, before catching sight of the women and catching himself.

He cleared his throat. "Sorry," he said to Hermione.

Hermione smiled. "Sherlock brings it out in the best of us." The man smirked.

"This is Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade," Molly said. "And Hermione Granger, who works with Mycroft."

Once again, this announcement got Hermione a set of sharply raised eyebrows and meaningful "Ohhh" of understanding. She bit back a smile. She was really going to have to talk to Mycroft about assuming credit for what she was sure was at least some wizard work.

Molly raised her eyebrows hesitantly at Lestrade. "He didn't say anything about your wife again, did he?"

Lestrade set his jaw. "Of course he did."

Molly worried her bottom lip. "Did he at least solve the case?"

"Of course he did! That's the problem, innit?"

"MOLLY!" Sherlock Holmes's voice resonated within the hall, despite originating on the other side of the steel door to the morgue.

Hermione rolled her eyes, all set to shoot a look of commiseration at Molly, but when she turned her way, she found the doctor had already scurried across the hall and through the door.

Hermione blinked. "Is she-?"

"Always jumping to do what he wants? Yeah," said Lestrade.

"She in love with him?"

Lestrade was eyeing the door to the morgue curiously. "You know, I don't think so. Might've once loved the idea of him. But she's a romantic and he is…"

"A prick?"

"I was going to say 'not at all,' but yeah, your term works, too." Lestrade gave Hermione a tight-lipped smile and a nod. "Now if you don't mind excusing me, I have a suspect to apprehend."

Hermine was not fooled. "You're leaving me to be the one to go in and deal with him."

"Absolutely I am." Lestrade grinned back over his shoulder as he headed down the hall and out of sight.

Rolling her eyes, Hermione pushed through the door to the morgue. "Run the confirmation toxicology analysis on the males only," Sherlock was instructing Molly as Hermione walked in. He pulled on his leather gloves as he spoke, not even facing Molly, much less looking at her.

"Yes, um, okay." The calm kindness Hermione had observed in Molly Hooper was gone. Instead, her eyes were darting over his face, as if she were looking for something very specific from Sherlock.

It was easy for Hermione to guess what Molly sought. Molly was the type of woman to wear her desire on her sleeve.

Sherlock was exactly the opposite. There was too much facade about him. And though Molly Hooper might fervently wish to be dominated, when it came to the bedroom, Sherlock would probably suck at it. Hermione was no expert, but fifteen years of dating had at least given her the ability to spot a dom. And Sherlock wasn't it.

Speaking of the man in question, he was currently trying to mow her over in his attempt to exit the morgue.

"Wait!" Hermione said. In a low voice she continued, "Give me your handcuffs."

The look Sherlock gave her was contemptuous.

"Yes, I know, we'll talk about me and the dead bodies in a minute," Hermione said. "But right now, I need the handcuffs."

Never lowering the intensity of his glare, Sherlock reached inside his coat to the back of his waistband, pulled out the cuffs, and wordlessly dropped them into Hermione's waiting hand. Then without waiting a second more, he swept around her and out the door.

Molly had receded into her office. Hermione dashed up to the counter and dropped the handcuffs there. "Nice meeting you Molly!" she shouted.

"You too!" Molly said coming to the doorway. Her prior nervousness was now gone.

Hermione smiled. Molly Hooper had herself a situation. But thankfully, Hermione had a solution.

Not until she was up in the main lobby did Hermione catch up with Sherlock. He stormed through the exterior doors, not bothering to hold them open for his bodyguard behind him. Hermione stayed right next to him. The more he strode ahead, the more she aggravatingly stuck with him. A cab was out of the question, she'd probably do something ridiculous like try to jump in after him. Best to lose her in the city, then. If he got up to a roof, he could outrun her easily. Sherlock began scouring the buildings around him for fire escapes.

Hermione was literally jogging to keep up with him. "Let's talk about this," she said, grabbing his elbow.

He jerked it away. "There's nothing to talk about. I'm having Mycroft fire you. That was unacceptable."

"I can explain–"

"You expect to protect me and yet you can't even enter a morgue? Have you never seen a dead body before?" Sherlock sneered.

Hermione was starting to pant. "Only the dead bodies-of my friends-and the people-trying to kill my friends."

Sherlock had a sudden rough ache behind his sternum, as if he had swallowed a tennis ball. The pain of it left him only more determined not to look at Hermione. Unconsciously, however, his pace began to slow.

"Remus Lupin. Nymphadora Tonks. Colin Creevy. Lavender Brown. Fred Weasley." Hermione's voice cracked just slightly on the last name. She cleared her throat. "Those were the names of my friends killed in the final battle of our war. They were laid out in our Great Hall, right in a row. It just–it looked just like that." Hermione had to force herself to breathe in before she cut her eyes to Sherlock. "Fred was the red-haired one."

He was looking everywhere but at her, yet all he could see was the grim set of her mouth, the tightness at the corners of her eyes. Refusing to think on the strangeness of this, Sherlock suddenly turned, darting down an alley between two brick rowhouses.

Hermione chased after him. "If John Watson saw something that reminded him of the war in Afghanistan, would you be acting so childish?"

Sherlock whirled around. "You allowed your actions to be clouded by sentiment."

Hermione blinked. "And?"

"Sentiment is a chemical defeat found on the losing side."

Hermione bit her lips together to keep from smiling. "You are so Mycroft's brother."

If Hermione was hoping her words might defuse the situation, she was wrong. Sherlock glowered more fiercely. "I will not settle for incompetence–"

And then many things happened all at once. It was hard for Sherlock to determine which had been first. There was a bang from Hermione's wand as she whipped around to face the alley entrance. There was a flash of light tearing toward them from some unseen foe. There were spells simultaneously shouted.

"Protego!"

"Crucio!"

The jet of light that had been shooting toward Hermione and Sherlock jerked back, as if hitting an invisible shield. Sherlock's heart was hammering, a physiological reaction that irritated him. He was trained in seven types of martial arts, he had been through countless gun and knife fights, he had taken out scores of Moriarty's minions in his two years singlehandedly dismantling the international criminal empire. In moments of stress, his body did not display characteristics of fear.

And yet here he was, forgetting to breathe.

Just inside the mouth of the alley, Sherlock could make out the hulking shape of a wizard. Flashes of light from Hermione's wand illuminated a round, stupid face. The wizard had either very little intelligence, very little imagination, or both, for he only repeated the same curse over and over: "Crucio! Crucio! Crucio!"

Hermione, meanwhile, seemed almost at ease. She deflected each of his curses wordlessly, jabbing jinxes at him in between, casting at least twice as many spells as her counterpart in the same amount of time. There was no question that she was the far more skilled fighter. One corner of her mouth was tugging up. Sherlock got the distinct impression that the only reason the wizard was still on his feet was because Hermione was enjoying herself.

"Lovely running into you, Goyle!" she shouted. "This is such a nice way of thanking me for that time I saved your life!"

The lumbering Goyle had not the mental capacity to cast spells and converse at the same time, but he could thrust an insult in between his curses. "Mudblood!"

And then Sherlock saw how fast Hermione could disable him. Less than a second, it turned out. Her first jinx hit him in the knees, the second in the face. The wizard screamed, clutching his face and dropping down to his knees.

With Goyle incapacitated, Hermione took advantage of lull to turn back and check on Sherlock. She'd spotted the fire escape up to the roof of the building on the left when she had first followed him into the alley. It was undoubtedly the reason he turned this way to begin with. And it would serve nicely as his escape route away from this fight.

Perhaps when she turned around she'd find him already out of sight-

He was standing not even a foot behind her, smack in the middle of the alley, mouth agape.

"What are you doing?" she screeched. "Get out of here!"

Sherlock managed to look even more incredulous. "I'm not running away!"

"You're not a wizard! You can't fight this battle!"

"I am not about to-!"

"SECTUMSEMPRA!"

Goyle had apparently not only revived but remembered one of the few other spells in his repertoire. At the first sound of his voice, Hermione had thrown herself against Sherlock, pushing them off to the side while simultaneously throwing a spell of her own over her shoulder. Her spell did its job: Goyle crumpled without a word.

Her tackle, however, was less effective. Sherlock had thrown up his arm as if to protect Hermione (what the hell did he think he was doing?!). The bleeding spell had sliced straight up his arm.

Almost instantly, Sherlock was slumped against the brick wall. Hermione grabbed at his shirt front to keep him upright, simultaneously pointing her wand over her shoulder. Thin silver ropes flew out from the tip, soaring to Goyle and coiling themselves around him. Her disbelief about Sherlock's stubbornness had left them both vulnerable once. She wasn't going to make that same mistake again.

"You idiot, idiot man," Hermione said as she stripped Sherlock of his Belstaff and suit jacket. Even with him half collapsing, Hermione still was several inches shorter than him. She had to get on her tiptoes to pull the articles of clothing off of his shoulders. They flumped to the ground, ignored.

The entire left sleeve of Sherlock's jewel blue shirt was wet with blood.

Tracing the tip of her wand up the sleeve, Hermione sliced the fabric open. The sleeve fell away.

Goyle's spell had sliced open the flesh of just the forearm, but judging from the copious amount of blood, the ulnar artery had been hit. Already, Sherlock was ashen-faced.

Without pausing for thought, Hermione cradled his arm in hers and began muttering spells over the wound. She drew her wand along its length, his flesh knitting itself together in its wake.

Through his confused dizziness, Sherlock watched. Despite his new knowledge of the wizarding world, for a moment Sherlock almost believed Hermione's ministrations were hallucinations. They were definitely miraculous. His own tissues, muscle, skin, blood vessel, nerves, all quietly healed, the cellular structures reformed, the organs revived.

It was the most fascinating thing he had ever seen in his life, even better than that corpse found in the sewage factory that contained hundreds of an entirely new species of maggot. It was beyond impressive. It was goddamned sexy.

Hermione repeated the spells three times before she was satisfied. Pointing her wand aside, she screwed her eyes closed and said, "Expecto Patronum!" A silvery something burst from her wand, took the shape of an otter, and turned to look at her.

"To Ron's," Hermione said, and the otter dissipated almost instantly.

Then, for the first time since his injury, Hermione looked at Sherlock's face.

He was clammy and breathing shallowly, his blue-green eyes unwaveringly bright. Adrenaline coursing through her, Hermione raced through her options. She had to get him back to 221b Baker Street, he'd be best fixed up there. How to get him there, though: obviously not brooms or via Portkey. It would have to be Side-Along Apparition. But he could barely stand on his feet. He'd be dead weight, and those situations were more likely to result in splinching.

Reaching back in her mind to when she was seventeen and studying for her Apparition Test, Hermione sought out the theory of Side-Along Apparition. Its success depended on concentration of the person Apparating and the touch points with the companion, both their number and strength. She couldn't count on Sherlock to grip her hand, he was too weak.

Multiple touch points it was.

Hermione yanked Sherlock's shirt so he took a half-step away from the wall. She pressed herself up against his torso, wrapping her arm around his waist. Her cheek was against his chest, his knees were knocking her thighs. Fiercely ignoring the fact that his crotch was up against her lower belly, she concentrated on Apparating them both home in one piece-

"Hermione." Sherlock's voice was soft.

She looked up.

Blackness was beginning to crowd the outer edges of his vision, but Sherlock saw her eyes, clear and beautiful and determined. All the clever mental partitions he had had to separate emotion from action in his mind had collapsed. Sentiment washed over logic. His mind was too a-swirl to dictate his movements; Sherlock could only act from his gut.

With his last scrap of bodily control, Sherlock leaned down and gently pressed his lips to Hermione's.

Then he passed out.