Disclaimer—I do not own Harry Potter, the television show Sherlock or any of the characters therein from either realm. Nor do I make any moneys from the posting of this fanfiction.
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Chapter Nine
Mrs. Aria Michaels, widow of the victim Horus Michaels, was a petite woman with a bird like face, tiny body, little hands, and feet that should only be on a professional basketball player. She thanked them for coming over and offered them tea on the way into the sitting room. The sitting room was clearly the woman's domain. It was filled to the brim with prissy overstuffed furniture and god awful pink tea roses everywhere ones' eyes could look. Hermione doubted Horus even stepped into this room for anything more than to ask if dinner was ready. And perhaps, not even then. Hermione declined the offered tea for both of them politely much to Sherlock's irritation.
She managed to send him a very quick message with her foot on the side of his own foot via Morris Code, "Doubtful anything hidden in here."
His head turned ever so slightly towards her as Hermione said to the widow, "I know we don't know each other, but I'm a frequent visitor to your neighbor Mrs. Figg. As a result your husband and I had a nodding acquaintance. I thought it just right for us to come in and give you our condolences. Isn't that right, luv?"
Sherlock looked into her amber eyes for a moment before saying, "Absolutely right, honey buns."
Her foot came down on his, but he kept the pain from the impact from showing on his face. "Darling, you promised not to say that in public no matter the truth of it." Hermione smiled with a nearly undetectable false sweetness to a slack faced Mrs. Michaels. "Newlyweds with our silly little names for one and other!"
"Eh…" Aria stammered, clearly not knowing what to say.
"Drowning in the Thames," Hermione said, changing the topic. And in doing so, she was hoping that she didn't sound as ghoulish as she had thought she did. "Drowning in the Thames. How awful!"
"Oh, he would never," Aria said, shaking her head violently. "He had a fear of water, he did."
"Really?" Sherlock breathed, sounding uninterested. "And what did he think of beer?"
"He loved it," she answered, looking towards Hermione. "He was a member of a home brewing club. In fact, the last meeting was two days before he was found on the banks of the Thames." She sniffed into her hankie then. "Many of the neighbors are members of the club. They've all been by with their cards and condolences." She brushed an absent tear away. "I still can't believe he's gone."
Sherlock made an excuse to run off to the loo, leaving Hermione there alone with the widow.
"So are you a relation to Mrs. Figg?" Aria asked her.
"No, my granny and she were school mates with her back in the day," she answered quietly, nearly wincing when Sherlock managed to make a sound when he was fast searching either the kitchen or a desk in the other part of the house.
"So Mrs. Figg is really old?" she asked.
"I haven't a clue," Hermione responded, trying to come up with something somewhat believable. "But I know my granny was a late bloomer, if that means anything."
"My God, woman! Where did you come up with that one?" Sherlock demanded, now glaring at her from the doorway to the room. "Never mind. We're done here."
Mrs. Michaels saw them to the door.
"Thank you for coming by," Mrs. Michaels said. "But I suppose it's like the Good Book always says."
"Yes, the Good Book," Sherlock echoed.
Hermione hadn't a clue what either of them were speaking about and it showed.
"You know, darling," Sherlock said, almost prodding her into an answer. "Thee Good Book."
"Oh, that one." She still hadn't an inkling of which they spoke.
"Tell her your favorite passage for a time of grief," Sherlock told her, hugging her shoulders as he was clearly about to get her the heck away from there no matter what she uttered.
Not knowing what to say, as she hadn't a clue about anything to do with whatever book they were speaking of. With only one thing coming to mind, Merlin help them all, she said it.
"Here today, gone tomorrow." And just like that, Sherlock rushed her away.
It wasn't until they were a good fifty feet away that Sherlock let her go and burst out laughing.
"That was the best you could come up with?" he asked her, still laughing. "Brilliant!"
"I don't know whether to thank you for the compliment or stomp on your foot again for that last bit," she said. "What now?"
He took a breath, his whole demeanor changing as he said, "The neighbors." His eyes narrowed on her. "How did you know that the neighbor's name is Mrs. Figg?"
"Really, Sherlock?" He blinked at her and she answered, "That's because I know her." Hermione walked towards the house and knocked on the old woman's door.
The squib opened the door, blinked at her twice, and beamed a happy smile. "Miss Granger! What a pleasant surprise! I wasn't expecting you until next Wednesday. Come in, girl, come in!"
"I hope you don't mind, but I brought a guest," she said, looking over to Holmes who was now standing next to her. "Sherlock, this is Mrs. Arabella Figg." She looked to the older woman. "Mrs. Figg, this is my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes."
"Any friend of yours is always welcome, dearie," she told her. "Come in! Hope cats don't bother you, Mr. Holmes."
"Not at all," he muttered, even as he got an eyeful of all the cats. Deducing that these weren't the only cats she may have had, he asked, "Just how many do you currently own?"
"Oh, about twenty at the moment," she answered. "They find their way over here. They always do. I see them fixed so that there won't be any more homeless cats out there without a good home and tend to them here until I can get them into a forever home of their very own." She smiled kindly. "It's the least I can do." Her old eyes focused on Hermione. "Now what are you really here for?"
Hermione chuckled. "I never can pull the rug over your eyes, can I?" Smiling she went over and sat across from Mrs. Figg. "I'm here for two reasons. What can you tell us about your neighbors Mr. and Mrs. Michaels?"
Frowning she leaned back in her chair, closing her eyes as she thought over what she knew. Sherlock was about to say something when Mrs. Figg started to speak.
"They're a quiet couple. Keep to themselves for the most part." She worried her lower lip a moment before going on with, "At least she does, but him, Horus, he's something of a social drinker. And every day was a social occasion, if you get me."
"Alcoholic?" Sherlock inquired.
"He was a good old fashioned drunk, Mr. Holmes," she sighed. "He didn't go to meetings, he went to parties." She grinned mischievously, saying, "I read that on a card once."
"What do you know about the neighborhood beer brewing club?" Sherlock asked.
Mrs. Figg snorted. "They don't brew anything but trouble! Mark my words on that one. None of them have the sense God gave a flea never mind the brains to brew a bottle of beer. They pulled together that make believe 'club' to give them more time out drinking." She looked over to Sherlock, her old eyes watching him intensely. "You looking into that young man's death, I take it? Makes sense. Nothing about what I heard about Mr. Michael's demise makes a lick of sense."
Sherlock frowned as he pressed, "How do you know that?"
Mrs. Figg smiled kindly and said, "No one volunteers to swim in the Thames, dear."
TBC…
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That's another chapter out to the fanfiction realm. Thank you for joining me in the fun. Have a glorious day everyone!
