A/N Question for you, dear readers. Am only on this website but considering duplicating this story on AO3 or Wattpad. Thoughts?
The rooms of 221b Baker Street were mostly quiet for the rest of the afternoon. Hermione concentrated on her Revelation potion, which she'd use on the lace. Though it could help in identifying from where the love potion ingredients had been procured, it was a fiddly thing, prone to curdling without properly calibrated additives. After her third bout of frustrated swearing, Sherlock had entered the kitchen and wordlessly opened the drawers and cupboards that housed his flasks, scales, pipettes.
It was like watching a baby discover his fingers. Her face lighting up, Hermione immediately began rattling ways of conversion from the metric system to wizard measurements with great enthusiasm. Sherlock would not admit that he became completely lost about three sentences in (bobotuber pus? what the hell…?). He would, however, handily swear to never seeing anyone ever get so excited about scientific equipment.
It made his insides rather warm and tingly.
As for him, he had taken up residence in his chair and was poring through Rita's notebook. Shortly after Hermione's visit to give him her book, he emerged from his bedroom with a please-less demand for tea, at which Hermione laughed, at which point he repeated his request in the direction of the stairs and with greater volume. When Mrs. Hudson arrived with a tea tray a short while later (and her usual counterfactual "not your housekeeper" remarks), Sherlock berated her for having made English Breakfast instead of Earl Grey.
Everyone knew Sherlock prefered English Breakfast. But this, and the fact that Earl Grey was Hermione's favorite, went unsaid.
Hermione swallowed a smile but still glanced at Sherlock, knowing she was forgiven. Sherlock remained aloof, yet knew she knew she was forgiven. And Mrs. Hudson tittered and hummed "Strangers in the Night" as she went down the stairs, which Sherlock just found odd. But sometimes his landlady just did odd things.
Now, ensconced in his chair by the fire with the objectionable cup of tea, he was just identifying where within the mess of her notes lay the name of the bewitched witch.
"Mafalda Hopkirk," Sherlock said suddenly.
Hermione stuck her head out of the kitchen. "What about her?"
"She was the witch under the love potion that hired Goyle." He stabbed a finger on the page in front of him. "Trace amount of scent on this page indicate it was written this afternoon. She is clearly in Mycroft's empoy, because the name is in code. She also clearly is one of the many idiots in Mycroft's employ, because the alphabetic substitution code is based on her own name."
"You don't need to convince me she's an idiot," Hermione said vaguely. Her thoughts were more focused on the name Sherlock had procured. "Mafalda Hopkirk?"
"Mm. You know her?"
"Sort of."
Sherlock raised an eyebrow, but Hermione did not elucidate, so he dropped the eyebrow, scowled, and huffed for good meaure. "Explain."
Her gaze was glued to the floor, where one toe twisted back and forth in hesitation. "I may have struck her unconscious and disguised myself as her so we could get into the Ministry of Magic," she said in a fast voice.
The notion of stealing someone's identity for the purpose of infiltrating a secret place one would rightfully appall almost anyone. "Almost anyone" almost never included Sherlock. Certainly not in this case. He drummed his fingers rapidly on the armrests of his chair. "Interesting! So you must share similar features in appearance?"
"Oh, no, we used Polyjuice Potion. I put in one of her hairs and it made me look exactly like her."
His fingers stilled.
A drink that instantly made you look like someone completely different. Entire new lines of detective work had suddenly become possible. He could disguise himself as Lestrade. He could desguise himself as Irene Adler. He could disguise himself as… Mycroft.
Sherlock scooted close to the edge of his chair, his breathing shallow. "I need this potion. Where can I buy it."
"You can't buy it, Sherlock! You have to make it yourself."
"Fine. How do I do that."
A few facts became quite clear to Hermione. 1. Not being a wizard, Sherlock couldn't even effectively stir the contents of a cauldron, much less make a potion. 2. Also not being a wizard, the potion would likely kill him before it changed him. And, 3. Bluntly explaining this would drive the man into a massive sulk.
So Hermione hedged. "It's very tricky to make."
"You can obviously make it. I presume it was you who made this potion when taking on the personage of Mafalda Hopkirk. Certainly it was not that man Ralph."
Hermione blinked. "Who?"
Sherlock waved a hand exasperatedly. "Ralph, the red-head, the man who was here the other day."
It still took her an extra second. "Ron?"
"Whatever. Yes. Him. Does not strike me as the type to manage anything that could remotely be labeled 'tricky.'"
Unclear how to respond to this last bit (because she still loved Ron as a friend but omigod was Sherlock right), she jumped to what she knew. "Yes, I made it."
"Perfect! I'll need you to make it for me immediately."
Again, it was flat impossible. Again, Hermione couldn't actually say this. "It takes a month to make!"
"Hm." Sherlock sat back in his chair. He steepled his hands under his chin. "What happens when this case is solved. Do they ship you off to another assignment?"
"What? Oh, no. I'm London-based, but Sherlock—"
"Wonderful! So after this case is completed, there need not be any reason why we cannot continue our… our…"
Sherlock was in the extraordinary position of suddenly being at a loss for words. "Acquaintanceship" had been on the tip of his tongue. But that word wasn't right, it didn't take into account how deliciously she provided a diversion for him this afternoon or how she'd made him laugh last night or how just a few days ago she'd saved his life during the attack by Goyle—
"Friendship?" It was Hermione who suggested the word, though her raised eyebrows belied more than a bit of hesitation.
Sherlock frowned. "Until recently I would not have used that word in regard to any person I knew."
Hermione nodded a little. "But now you do. In regard more than one person. I bet if you counted up your friends, you'd even need two hands!"
The ideas Hermione were suggesting were so foreign Sherlock didn't know what to consider first: the practice of actually counting the number of one's friends, or of needing two hands to do so.
"It's a joke, Sherlock," Hermione said kindly.
Her reassurance did nothing to ease his general bewilderment. Friends. Friends? Friends.
"We kissed," he blurted. Why did his mouth keep saying things that his brain had not yet approved? He was going to have to do something about this, but not now. Now he was focused on two and only two things: the memory of the kiss, and how to appear calm in light of the memory of the kiss.
Hermione stiffened slightly. Her expression, however, was neutral. "I'd have said you kissed me."
Sherlock ignored this minor detail. "Do friends… kiss… each other?"
It took her a half-second too long to reply. "It's been known to happen. Usually under extenuating circumstances. Such a severe blood loss."
"Hm." Sherlock leaned back in his chair, hands steepling under chin. He reviewed the evidence. "The logical deduction here would be then that we are… friends.
Hermione nodded solemnly. "I believe so."
"Good, good…" Sherlock drifted into silence as Hermione, biting back a smile, resumed her work.
A moment passed before Sherlock suddenly spoke again. "You never intended to make me Polyjuice Potion, did you."
"Nope."
"Because I'm not a wizard."
"Yup." Hermione, pressed her lips together, waiting for it.
Sherlock, despite having just increased his number of friends by a dramatic percentage, remained consistent to all expectations. He crossed his arms, jutted up his chin, and huffed into a sulk.
It had been three hours, and so far, friendship with Hermione had been rather calm. Once she said she was making coffee and should she make enough for two. Another time she'd waved her wand and shouted, "Accio cameras!" and all of Mycrofts secret recorders burst out of their hiding spots and zoomed toward her, which she then be disposed. True, the spell didn't particularly have much to do with their status as friends, but it was pretty cool anyway.
Other than that, they ignored each other. Hermione worked over the cauldron on the kitchen table. Sherlock laid on the couch, reading the book she'd given him the night before. It was rather perfect.
Until the sudden visit of that red-headed man again. As John had told him (countless times), friends did not deduce other people's friends or insult other people's friends or generally do anything that might cause an emotional breakdown in other people's friends. Tedious.
Friendship with Hermione was one thing, but if that meant he'd be expected to be friendly to her other friends, there was going to need to be some renegotiation.
He settled on a compromise by nodding once in acknowledgement, then immediately pulling Hermione's book back up so he could eavesdrop.
Ron, it seemed, had dropped by in a tizzy out of nerves due to an impending event the following evening: his first date with Molly Hooper.
"I don't know how to date a Muggle!" Ron said, pouting in a way that's real cute at age eight and real old at age thirty-four.
Hermione looked patient. She also looked like it was taking effort. "It's rather like dating a witch, except without wands or the threat of love potions."
"But I can't talk about Quidditch or people I know or work I do! I can't even talk about music, all the bands I know are wizard bands!"
"So you ask her about what she likes. And then when you don't know who the band is you say so and then ask her to tell you about them. And if she seems surprised you don't know them you admit you don't know much about the topic but you've been wanting to learn and hope she could teach you."
It appeared to be vital to some corner of Sherlock's brain that he remember Hermione's advice word for word, because it was appearing in big black letters on the wall of the central hallway in his Mind Palace.
"It'd wouldn't be so hard if I could just say I was a wizard."
"And you can when you're engaged to be married."
There was a silence in which Sherlock presumed, correctly, that Ron was gaping like a fish for the mere mention of Life Commitment before there had even been a First Date.
Hermione sighed. "Exactly. And so that's why you not think anything magical at all and just ask her about herself."
The whine that escaped from Ron could have been bottled and used to scare away vermin. "Can't we just pass on the dinner and get straight to the sex?"
Hermione knew Ron was joking, mostly, and so she her look of exasperation was suitably sardonic. (Though she should still say what a terrible idea it was. When it came to Ron, it never hurt to very be explicit.) She took a breath to explain—
"No." Sherlock had spoken first. The book was still in front of his face.
He flipped a page.
Ron swiveled his head toward the detective, the set of his jaw becoming rigid. Though Sherlock's nod of greeting had been met with a chin lift, only now did Ron take a proper moment to look at the smugly reclining detective. When he realized what he was seeing, his mouth dropped open.
"Are you reading Ginny's book?" he demanded.
For the first time, Sherlock lowered the book, propping it on his bent-kneed legs. He directed a look at Ron. The expression on his face roughly interpretable as And why would I deign to answer a question that has been asked by you?
Hermione jumped in. "Yes. Ginny sent them to me yesterday."
Ron whirled his disbelieving eyes toward her. "Why?"
Her eyebrows v-ed. "Not sure, actually."
"And you decided to let him read it?"
"Obviously." Sherlock's voice sounded deeper than ever, coming on the heels of Ron's grown-man-screech.
"But-but that's about our time at school! The three of us! Me, Harry, and Hermione!"
Before Hermione could voice that, actually, that had been precisely the point, Sherlock's eyes had widened. "You are in this?"
"Of course I am, I'm Harry's best mate!"
Once again, Hermione intervened before Sherlock could deliver one of his blistering retorts. "You must not be at the school stuff yet. Where are you?"
Sherlock eyed the open pages of the book with a distrust usually reserved for trigonometry, or clowns. "Harry and this giant Hagrid are about to enter an establishment known as 'The Leaky Cauldron.'"
"Hagrid's not a giant!" Ron said, leaping at the chance to feel outraged against this irritatingly handsome man.
Sherlock waved a dismissive hand. "Half-giant, then. Obviously raised by his human parent, he would have been crushed growing up among full giants. Was it his mother? Missing the characteristics of expectation, arrogance found in men raised by single mothers. His father, then. His mother was the giant."
There was a brief silence in which Ron's eyes surpassed the highest levels of bugging out and began approaching alien territory. He opened and closed his mouth, tongue smacking on his hard palate as he finally recovered his grasp of language. "We didn' know that about Hagrid for another three years!"
Sherlock sniffed. "I cannot help it if you do not observe, Rob."
"'Ron'," Hermione overemphasized. "And now you are totally doing it on purpose."
Sherlock hmmed absently, turning the page and continuing to read. It was as good an admission as Hermione would ever get.
Hermione slid her eyes back and forth between Sherlock and Ron, briefly wondering which of them was more exasperating. Closing her eyes, she sighed heavily. She had turned back toward Ron before she opened them again. "Ignore him," she instructed. Then she exhaled and plastered on a smile, determined to prevent any further provoking between the two men. "Where are you taking Molly?"
Ron was shooting a final glare full of ire toward Sherlock. "Hm?"
"Ron!" He jumped, then guiltily turned back to Hermione. "Where are you taking her?" she repeated.
There was a bit of silence that loudly indicated Ron had not yet thought about this. "Er…"
"Who is this Quirrel character?" Sherlock suddenly said from behind the book. "A stutter? Please. Nothing is easier to fake than a stutter. Whatever happens, he did it."
Hermione and Ron blinked. The wizard swung his gaze toward the witch. Mouth open, she shook her head: she hadn't said anything to Sherlock.
"I'm right, aren't I," Sherlock said conversationally. His eyes continued to zoom over the pages.
"Yes," Hermione said softly. She cleared her throat. "Quirrel was how Voldemort first came back. He let him take over his body. Harry saw Quirrel without his turban at the end, just before they tried to kill him. Voldemort's face was in the back of" —Hermione swallowed back the quiver in her voice— "Quirrel's head."
For a moment, there was only stillness.
Then, slowly, Sherlock lowered the book two inches. He looked straight into Hermione's eyes, holding her gaze with gentleness that was surprising, and a fierceness that was not.
Hermione was stunned to find her eyes suddenly burning with unshed tears.
Sherlock blinked, raised the book again. "Well thanks for spoiling the ending for me," he said.
A laugh popped out of Hermione's mouth before she could help it. She quickly swiped at her eyes before looking toward Ron, grinning.
He, however, was decidedly less amused.
Right. Time to refocus the conversation. Ron's problem. His first date with Molly. "Restaurant," Hermione said to Ron. "You have to first take Molly to a restaurant."
There was a sudden thump. Sherlock had dropped the book on the floor and was striding toward the mantel, where his phone lay. Without preamble his thumbs began to fly over the small keyboard.
Ron stared blatantly at him. Hermione had to rap her knuckles on the table to get his attention again. "Restaurant?"
"What? Yeah. Um, that sounds good."
Past the point of holding back her impatience, Hermione said sharply, "Yes, but what one?"
"I dunno. 'S why I came here, aren't you supposed to tell me?"
Hermione was just about to wax poetic when it came to Ron's negative capabilities regarding tact when Sherlock said, "She likes Zucca, but Oliver's Fish and Chips is always a favorite standby." His eyes remained on his phone as he spoke. Periodically, it would ching! as his texts were returned.
Ron blinked at Sherlock. Then he blinked at Hermione. The prat had actually garnered useful information.
"See?" Hermione said. "There you go. Two options."
Ron was not willing to so easily accede to the implication that Sherlock had been helpful. "Yeah, great," he said sardonically. "Those are only two massively different sets of expectations for a first date. Which one am I supposed to pick?"
Hermione remembered to breathe. Deeply. "Well, think of what you know about Molly. What would she want for—"
"Zucca," said Sherlock.
Two pairs of eyes swiveled his way. He did not return the favor.
"That's what she'd want." With a flurry of thumbs, he typed the final words into his phone and pocketed it. "Also, no sex on the first date, her favorite flowers are gerbena daisies, and she thinks cemeteries are romantic."
With the air of someone having just checked off all the items on the To Do list, Sherlock strode back toward the couch and his book.
Ron met him halfway there, blocking the way. Angry jealousy was writ large across his face.
Sherlock sighed. Honestly, the wizard had all the intelligence of a goat. "I can only presume that you have launched yourself in my way in order to demand an explanation for my knowledge regarding Molly. It is beyond your capabilities to believe that a man and a woman, having known each other for several years, might have acquired information regarding each other's tastes without intention or desire to employ said knowledge in a romantic liaison."
Ron's face was too squinty to indicate absorption of Sherlock's rapid fire remarks. The detective rolled his eyes. "We're friends."
Ron's chin pushed up. "You didn't know all that cause you'd dated her?"
"I do not 'date.'" Sherlock pronounced the d-word with an excess of diction, as if his overenunciation would ensure never having to say the word again. "And I know all that because I just texted her."
Hermione clapped a hand over her mouth. To hide hysterics or horror, she wasn't sure.
Ron gaped. "You…"
"Texted her, yes."
"Just now." Ron's face was slack with shock.
"Of course just now, when else would I have texted her? You only just began bemoaning your ineptitude at wooing a few moments ago."
Hermione leaped between them just as the color rushed to Ron's face. With her two hands pressing right front of his shoulders, she pushed Ron several feet back. "Ok, let's let the man-child be. He has reading homework to do."
"Hermione! You seriously—?" But what Ron was about to say to her was interrupted by a ching! ching!
Smirking, Sherlock withdrew the phone from his pocket and swiped the screen. He read the message. Immediately, his face took on a sullen scrunch.
Without giving any explanation, Sherlock held the phone out toward Ron, huffing loudly.
Hermione took it before Ron could, angling it so they both could read the messages. They started from the top.
The red head is here seeking to gain advice on impressing you tomorrow night. -S
He is? That's rather sweet. -M
It is? -S
Trying to make sure I have a nice time? Yes, that's very sweet. -M
There were a few minutes before the next message.
What's your favorite restaurant? -S
Zucca (plus of course Oliver's) -M
Flowers? -S
gerbena daisies -M
Romantic spots? -S
cemeteries -M
If he does not find that morbid there may be a chance for this man. Sex on first date? -S
NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS, SHERLOCK. -M
Hermione chomped hard on her lips to keep from laughing. Sherlock had obviously reinterpreted that answer.
You know I know this is your way of making it more likely for the date to go well, but don't just rattle these things off, you'll sound creepy. -M
The next message came a few minutes after that.
You already did, didn't you. -M
Goddamn it Sherlock, pass this phone over to Ron. -M
Ron had gotten to the bottom just as the phone pinged with another message:
Ron: sorry about my friend. Really looking forward to tomorrow night. Say hi to Hermione for me. -M
Hermione read the final message scoffed. "What, I don't get my own hello?"
Actually, probably Hermione's right there: Hi Hermione. -M
Hermione grinned. Then, one last time, the phone pinged.
Sherlock grew suspicious when Ron looked up from the phone with a wide grin. Hermione passed it back, refusing to meet his eyes, and hurriedly returning to the kitchen. Eyebrows furrowed, Sherlock read the final message Molly had sent.
btw Sherlock, whatever this is with Hermione, don't fuck it up. -M
Even Ron's grin faltered when he saw the look on Sherlock's face. With a white-knuckled grip on the phone, he stormed to his bedroom and slammed the door.
Ron watched him leave. Of course, now that Sherlock's pervasive disdain was absent, so too was Ron's nervous inclination for stumbling idiocy. He narrowed his eyes, pensive. "He's almost like Snape but with excellent grooming. Haughty, arrogant, relationship-challenged."
Looking the same direction as Ron, Hermione pursed her lips. Her head tilted. "Actually, that's about as good as explanation as any other that I've heard of Sherlock Holmes."
"I'm turning in."
Sherlock had emerged from his room soon after Ron left, parking himself with Hermione's book and not moving for hours but to turn pages. When Hermione asked about dinner, he had ignored her.
He considered ignoring her again now. Did her going to bed really merit acknowledgement? He had ignored similar pronouncements from John countless times. Lack of notice toward his friend in this situation would be unremarkable.
And yet. Something did not sit right with behaving toward his friend Hermione the way he did with his friend John.
There still was a twinge of uncertainty in Sherlock when it came to the assignation of the word "friend" to whatever this was that he had with Hermione. The term lacked linguistic perfection.
Questions splintered out within his head. Why did the term lack linguistic perfection? Were they not friends? Was there something different about Hermione that made the word feel flat? Was there something different about him? He needed a thesaurus, a dictionary, a language other than English to find the right word he wanted. Why why why wasn't "friend" the exact word—
Realization slammed into Sherlock.
His eyes flew open. His fingers immediately twitching for something to do, something that would allow that the realization to recede, bury itself back down under confident disdain. But even a case that ranked as a '10' couldn't keep this new knowledge from rushing into every corner of his brain, seeping between neurons and sweeping among cranial lobes. No matter how he tried redirected his thoughts, it always reverted to this New Fundamental Understanding:
"Friendship" was not the correct word when it came to Hermione. Not because it was too strong. But because it wasn't strong enough.
Desperate to regain control of his thoughts, Sherlock latched onto the one clear outlet he had available: responding to Hermione. Abandoning the tactic of ignoring her, Sherlock lowered his book and looked her in the eyes.
"I—" he said.
And then all the words in the world jumbled up in his throat until they formed a massive, impenetrable wall. Frankly, it was impressive Sherlock could still breath. Though, to be fair, it was taking concerted effort.
Hermione's face softened. She smiled. "I just said I was headed up to bed," she repeated, as if she understood that Sherlock's absence of speech was due to his previous focus elsewhere, not his ineptitude at that moment.
Sherlock was absurdly grateful for it. "Mm. Good night."
Her eyes crinkled more than her lips widened, in the way that Hermione did when she was content. "Good night."
With her bare foot squeaking just a bit on the hardwood floor, Hermione turned toward the doorway to the landing and her room above.
Sherlock suddenly jumped up off of the couch. The silk of his dressing gown fluttered in agitation before settling back into stasis. "Will you be alright?" he demanded.
Hermione paused, bewildered. She turned back, looking all around the room as if seeking the answer to a question that had never first been asked. "Why would I not be alright?"
Hermione's surprise surprised Sherlock. Did she not remember the previous night? "Nightmare," he said, as if it were obvious.
"Oh!" Hermione frowned in thought. Did that mean she really didn't recall? Sherlock thought. No, impossible. Her mind was engaged not in retrieval of past moments but in determining how to approach the one happening right now—
"What would you offer to do if I said 'no?'" Hermione suddenly asked.
She wasn't meaning to be coy, Though once the words were out of her mouth, she could see how it might be interpreted that way. According to the television, women in her position were meant to flirt, toy, engage, slowly rein in the man at hand until he was captured within her claws. Hermione, however, really was just wondering. What did Sherlock Holmes do to give comfort?
From the way he was shifting uncomfortably in his chair, Sherlock was as unenlightened as to that answer as she was.
Lips pulling down in self-admonishment, Hermione scolded herself. This was Sherlock. Of course he wasn't going to answer that question. She shook her head as if to clear away the thought. "I'm putting you on the spot. I shouldn't expect you to divine what I might like, I should just tell you what I would like."
Sherlock, who had been frowning at the floor, raised his eyes to hers. His gaze was soft, a little apprehensive, significantly curious. It said, Then tell me. What you would like?
The air about them must have somehow thickened, for Hermione felt she had to suck in deeply to get a proper breath. Hoping the heaving was not apparent, she forced her voice to stay light. "I liked it last night when you slept with me."
"Slept next to you."
For a moment, Hermione stopped breathing all together.
"Merely acknowledging that the phrase 'slept with me' applies here in the literal sense and not in any euphemistic capacity," Sherlock said stiffly.
Color rose in Hermione's cheeks, and Sherlock wanted to hit himself in the forehead with his fist. In his knee-jerk attempt to make clear that their conversation wasn't about sex, he had quite efficiently made their conversation about sex.
Hermione, on the other hand, felt oddly serene. Apparently, there was a limited amount of nervousness that could exist in the flat, for as Sherlock's rose, hers dissipated. She had only a clear mind, a canyoning desire, and a man in front of her that might engage both.
"Sherlock."
He couldn't manage words. He could barely manage eye contact.
"Do you remember on the day I first met you, I said I would not seduce you and you said you would not seduce me?" Hermione asked.
What sort of nonsense question was that? "Did he remember?"—of course he bloody remembered! Sherlock cleared his throat. "I believe what actually transpired was that you asked me if I wanted you to seduce me and I said no, and then if you thought I expected you to want me to seduce you, and I said no."
Hermione blinked. "Right. Yes. Accuracy is important in these things."
One corner of his mouth rose, mirroring hers.
The he swallowed. "Do you wish my answer had been… different?"
Were she The Woman, Hermione might have responded to the question with another question, ticking up the tension just a notch. She might have slowly dropped to the floor, slowly slithered toward him, slowly brushed a hand up his thigh. No words would further be said, but her eyes would speak volumes.
Hermione was not The Woman. She stood straight, hands folded in front of her. She looked calmly at him.
"Yes."
His heart was banging so hard he briefly wondered whether it was possible to get bruised ribs from within.
Other than taking an enormously deep breath, Hermione appeared perfectly composed. "Would you like to sleep with me tonight? And by that I mean not just next to me."
Sherlock swallowed audibly. His skin was aflame, as if every head in the world had suddenly swiveled toward him. Yet he looked just as steadily at her, (though perhaps not quite with such calm).
"Yes."
She stood and reached for his hand. He stood and took it. Fingers interlaced, he followed her up the stairs.
