A/N: Hello! Thank you to all of my lovely readers for your reviews, follows, favourites, and for sticking with the story. I am back after a long, long wait on your part (the muse quit on me with this one for awhile, but she's humouring me now once again) - and I have endeavoured to make up for it with a fun chapter. :) I hope you enjoy it!
Hermione's newly renovated sitting room was cast in the red-golden glow of the fire, framed by a mantel of white marble. She, John, and Sherlock sat comfortably in the dim light, drinking their way to the bottom of a bottle of Blishen's. They'd been at it for over an hour, exchanging tales of their adventures, and while they'd initially talked about the more tumultuous events they'd had the misfortune to experience, the Firewhisky soon directed their conversation into a rather lighthearted territory. Hermione had just finished telling John and Sherlock about the chaos that was the reception at Harry and Ginny's wedding, during which one of the tamest things to happen was Ron getting so utterly plastered that he'd passed out face-first into a bowl of punch. That story had earned her a good deal of laughter from her companions; but once they'd quietened, the doctor's expression had turned somewhat nostalgic.
"The last time that Sherlock and I got plastered was my stag night," John told Hermione, reminiscent. He paused to sip at the amber liquid in his tumbler and grimaced as it burnt its way down his throat before settling warmly in his chest. "We went pub crawling," he added, his nose scrunched.
"Pub crawling?" laughed Hermione incredulously. "The two of you?"
"What do you mean, 'the two of us?'" the doctor grumbled, mock-affronted.
Hermione quirked an eyebrow. "I mean that you don't exactly seem the type."
"Well, we did, I mean, we are!" John protested, and Sherlock nodded with the kind of earnestness that can only be achieved through inebriation. "Sherlock even made a plan—tell her, Sherlock!"
"I did." Sherlock nodded solemnly. "The pub crawl was based on the cases that we'd solved together. A stop on every street we'd found a corpse—I believe that's how Molly put it, actually."
"Delightful," Hermione snorted, wry humour dancing with flicker of the firelight in her eyes. "That does sound a bit more like the pair of you, though, I'll give you that."
John scowled. "That's not what I was talking about," he told Sherlock. "I meant the alcohol."
"Ah yes! The alcohol." Sherlock nodded emphatically once more. "I had Molly help me calculate our ideal alcohol intake, which turned out to be 443.7ml per stop, taken at specific intervals—"
"He had these massive graduated cylinders that he made the barmen fill—"
"And it was going so well before John—"
"I snuck an extra shot into Sherlock's drink!" John whispered loudly to Hermione. "And I had one, too!"
"Oh no," cried Hermione, biting back a giggle. "And then?"
"And then Sherlock almost got into a fight over ash," John chuckled. "I had to drag him out of the bar; he just kept flailing and shouting, 'I know ash! I know ash!'"
Hermione laughed delightedly, her eyes sparkling as she pictured the general ridiculousness of the situation. John smiled in triumph while Sherlock frowned.
"But I do!" the detective insisted. "243 types! It's on my website."
"I'm sure it is," Hermione assured him, her expression dead serious even as the firelight twinkled in her eyes, and she reached over to pat his hand gently. "I would actually rather like to see it, but that's probably not wise. Magic and electronics don't tend to mix well."
"How intriguing," said Sherlock, a speculative glint in his eyes as he considered Hermione with sudden enthusiasm. "I wonder, would you—"
"No, Sherlock," John interrupted with a glare that approximated sternness. "Whatever it is, I think it can wait until we're all significantly less pissed. Sorry, Hermione," the doctor apologized sheepishly.
"For the profanity or for Sherlock? Because I don't have a problem with either," replied Hermione with a smile. "Quite the contrary, in fact. But never mind that, you weren't done your story," she reminded them.
"Oh!" John exclaimed. "No, we got sidetracked there, didn't we? Where were we...the ash?"
"The ash," Sherlock confirmed before taking a swig of Firewhisky, staring intently at the contents of his glass once he'd brought it back to his armrest, admiring the way the light of the fire set the amber liquid aglow like molten lava.
"So," John continued, snickering, "once I'd gotten him out of there, we came back here and sat on the stairs until Mrs. Hudson made us go up to the flat. And she was surprised to see us, because it turned out we'd only been out for two hours!"
"And to make things worse, we had a client come in when we were both still very much intoxicated," Sherlock told Hermione. "In retrospect, perhaps not one of my finest moments."
"Oh, you think, Sherlock?!" scoffed John as Hermione held the impulse to laugh at bay once again. "She wanted us to investigate a man that she'd been dating who'd just disappeared into thin air," John went on, leaning towards Hermione confidentially. "We called him the Mayfly Man. Anyway—we went over to the flat he'd been renting and the landlord let us in to have a look-see—but we were so pissed that we completely bungled it, and Sherlock ended up hurling all over the carpet!"
Hermione couldn't suppress her amusement a moment longer, and, arms wrapped tightly around her ribs, she burst into boisterous trills of mirth. John was right there with her, guffawing away as Sherlock tried his best to scowl at the two of them. Before long though, he joined in, and the three laughed until their sides hurt and their eyes watered, egged on by the sympathetic roar of the Firewhisky in their veins.
Eventually, they settled back down, plagued by only the occasional, belated chuckle or giggle, and Hermione asked, "So what happened after Sherlock managed to literally spill his guts in front of your client and the mystery man's landlord?"
"Dunno, really," John admitted sheepishly, "except that we woke up in a holding cell the next morning. And it was Greg Lestrade who came to get us out."
Hermione let a few more giggles out before she suddenly clutched at her abs in pain and gave an energetic hiccough. John and Sherlock chuckled at the noise and Hermione grinned, her pink cheeks flushing a darker hue. "Firewhisky is strong stuff," she said defensively by way of explanation. Sherlock quirked an eyebrow as if to ask, "Really?" and John just snorted. Hermione responded very maturely by sticking her tongue out at them and then smiling impishly.
"But in any case," said Hermione, "—wow, you two. Just...wow. I bet Lestrade had a field day, given everything the pair of you put him through on a routine basis."
Sherlock, having just emptied what little had been left in his tumbler, shook his head vigorously, his eyes squinting as the alcohol seared its way down his esophagus. "Graham enjoyed it far too much, if you ask me," mumbled the detective, his words slurring slightly.
"Didn't John just say that his—Lestrade's—name is Greg?" asked Hermione, bemused.
"Sherlock never gets it right," John explained, his eyes glazing over as he stared into the flames above the hearth. "Does it on purpose, if you ask me."
"No, no, no! It's just not important," Sherlock groaned blearily. "He's Lestrade, 'sss good enough. What's it matter if he's Graham or Gavin or Greg?" His mouth pursed around the name as though it were a sour grape.
Hermione tsked, trying to look stern and failing miserably as a grin parted her lips. "You should call your friend by his proper name, Sherlock," she chastised him, though the grin took any of the bite from her tone. "I'm sure you have it stored in that impressive brain of yours somewhere."
"Wouldn't be so sure of that," John muttered. "He deleted primary school stuff 'bout the solar system to make room for things like ash and pollen in his stupid, brilliant mind palace. Didn't even know the Earth goes 'round the sun!"
Hermione's eyes widened in disbelief and Sherlock groaned a second time. "Are you ever going to let that go, John?" he grumbled sullenly, raising his glass to his lips only to remember that he'd already finished it, and that the bottle of Blishen's was empty, too. The detective rolled his eyes in annoyance.
Hermione laughed a little too exuberantly at their antics and she seemed aware of it because once she'd stopped, she stumbled to her feet and held up a finger.
"I'm going to get us some water," she announced, "because I need some. And if I need some, then you two definitely do."
She chuckled as they shouted garbled protests at her, already halfway to the kitchen by the time her jibe had registered with the soldier and the sleuth.
Hermione went to the kitchen, summoning her wand to her palm and using it to cast several nonverbal charms in rapid succession. Out from a cupboard shot a large wooden tray, and onto it flew three glasses and a pitcher, the latter of which began to fill with water thanks to a silent Aguamenti on Hermione's part. Not entirely happy with the meagre offerings on the tray, Hermione conjured a ceramic bowl and summoned a bag of crisps from her pantry. With a flick of her wand, the bag sharply split itself open and tipped over into the bowl, pouring out a generous helping of crisps, rolling up its own top, and returning to its shelf in the pantry when it'd finished.
With a satisfied nod, Hermione levitated the tray and charmed it to follow in her wake before turning—a little wobbily—and heading back into the sitting room.
"I come bearing gifts," she joked, focused on setting her tray down on the coffee table and pouring water for the three of them; but when she looked up to grin at her companions, she discovered that the illustrious Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson were passed out cold in their armchairs.
The witch smiled fondly, rolling her eyes. She conjured a pair of patchwork quilts reminiscent of Molly Weasley's work, draped one over each of the drunken, exhausted men, and then proceeded to throw herself down onto the sofa and stretch out like a cat, wordlessly Accioing one of the water glasses over and taking a long drink. The liquid was cool and refreshing, and it sobered her slightly.
"Oh, Merlin," she sighed under her breath as she contemplated Sherlock and John's sleeping forms with resignation in her eyes. "You two are going to be just as much trouble as Harry and Ron, aren't you?"
When John and Sherlock awoke, it was to the painful pounding of the pulse in their temples and an insidious kind of nausea that worsened as they became more and more alert.
As soon as he got over the sheer dryness of his mouth, John started cursing a blue streak. Sherlock groaned in agony as his eyes began to flutter open, wincing against even the soft, natural light of his surroundings.
"Shhh," hushed a quiet, soothing voice; Hermione's, Sherlock registered. He felt a small, glass vial being pressed into his palm, as did John, and Hermione's voice murmured with a hint of amusement, "Drink up, boys. I would suggest downing it in one go. It works wonders, but its taste is rather foul."
In too much pain to protest, both men tipped the vials back and gulped their contents. John had to clap a hand to his mouth to stop himself from vomiting the liquid back up as, despite his best efforts, his tastebuds picked up on its flavour. Sherlock didn't have quite such a violent reaction; he simply grimaced as the rank mixture slid down his throat.
They both looked up to see Hermione's brown eyes watching and sparkling with a combination of mirth and sympathy. "Disgusting, I know," she mused, "but you'll thank me in a minute or so. That's an improved version of the Remedy for Veisalgia, more commonly known as the Hangover Cure or simply, Hangover Potion."
"Bloody, buggering..." John trailed off as Hermione pressed a tall glass of water into his hand, taking the vial away from him and doing the same for Sherlock. They watched her through squinted eyes as she flicked her free hand and the vials drifted through the air and back into her potions lab, before a soft clink and the rush of running water could be heard.
John decided not to comment on that, opting instead to shake his head and take a gulp of the water to rinse away the horrid aftertaste of the potion. Sherlock did the same, staring with a hungry curiosity in the direction of the lab.
"Can all magic users do that?" he asked as soon as he downed the water, his voice nonetheless rasping with sleep.
Hermione didn't bother asking for clarification. "No," was her simple response. "They can't. Some can master nonverbal spells. Most can't cast without their wands, but I...well." She smiled. "Let's just say that I had some innate ability to begin with, and then went through some intensive training on top of that."
Sherlock nodded, and there was a smug kind of quality about his expression as he did so. Clearly, the witch noted with affection, what she'd revealed wasn't very far off of what he'd hypothesized. "And this training was part of your becoming an Unspeakable?" he pushed, knowing full well that he was prying into a topic that was off-limits and curious to see how the witch would handle his nosiness.
Hermione met his question with stony silence, though her eyes retained their warmth. The rest of her features, however, closed off entirely, and the abruptness of the reaction made Sherlock smirk knowingly. He nodded once more, settling back into his armchair. His mind was mercifully clear and thus, he was free to plunge deep into speculation over the specifics of Hermione's work in this so-called Ministry of Magic and its Department of Mysteries, and what they did that was so important as to warrant magically enforced secrecy from its employees.
As Sherlock ruminated over those thoughts, Hermione slyly summoned the empty glass from his relaxed grip and sent it off in the direction of the kitchen; John's, however, she collected by hand, reciprocating the grateful grin with which the doctor graced her.
"Thanks for that, Hermione," he said, "I'm feeling much better now." A disturbing thought suddenly prodded its way to the forefront of John's mind and his complexion paled drastically. "Er, incidentally," asked the doctor, looking really quite perturbed, "what was actually in that potion?"
Hermione's eyes widened slightly, and then she let out a little, nervous laugh. "Well, Dr. Watson," she began, her tone playful, "as much as I admire what I'm assuming is your professional curiosity in regards to what ingredients are involved in curing a hangover—" she raised a brow, seeking confirmation, and John nodded vigorously in reassurance, "—I would put forward this question for consideration before divulging said information: given your reaction to the taste of the potion, are you absolutely, positively, 100-percent-sure that you would like to know?"
What little blood had been left in John's face drained from it, and slowly he shook his head. "Right," he uttered faintly, "never mind that, then."
Hermione turned away to send the doctor's glass after Sherlock's, using the fact that her face was hidden from John's view to bite her lip in a desperate attempt to stifle her bubbling mirth. Using her Occlumency skills, she had her expression smoothed out in no time and when she faced the doctor again, Hermione was serene.
"So, John, Sherlock," she said, snapping the latter out of his trance, "what's the plan for today?"
John looked at Sherlock in askance; thanks to some strings that Mycroft had pulled, he was on paid leave from his job at the clinic and was thus at the detective's disposal for the indefinite future. He and Mary were going to be living in John's old room in 221B, which Hermione had offered to, as she put it, "renovate." Although initially uncertain of the idea, the couple had agreed to the inconvenience when their newfound friend stressed to them that said arrangement would be safer for Mary and hence, the baby, and that she would be glad to cast some spells around their temporary living space so as to ensure their privacy.
"We'll stop by Scotland Yard and St. Bart's to introduce you to Lestrade and Molly," Sherlock told her after a moment of contemplation. He grimaced as an unpleasant thought occurred to him. "Lestrade's been pestering me about a case that is clearly no more than a five," the detective sighed. "He'll probably try to force it on me at the station."
Hermione snorted. "That's all right, Mr. Holmes, I'll tell him that you have bigger fish to fry," she said, her tone chiding. Sherlock didn't seem to notice it and instead took her words at face value.
"Would you?" he asked, though it was clear he didn't expect an answer. "He never seems to listen to me."
John's eyebrows flew upwards, encroaching on his forehead's territory. "Never—never seems to listen to you?! Sherlock, you have a job because all Lestrade does is listen to you!"
Sherlock waved the doctor off, unconcerned. "I'm not talking about the cases," he said impatiently, "I'm talking about everything else, John."
John started to protest that comment as well but Hermione cut him off, glaring at the pair of them. "All right, you two, enough!" she scolded, and suddenly the air seemed to crackle with energy. Hermione's irises took on that amber glow that the Holmes brothers had noticed the night before when she'd gotten angry about the horcruxes. The general effect was intimidating enough to make John and Sherlock forget about their brewing argument and instead direct their attention to the words being spoken by the woman standing in front of them.
Hermione, arms akimbo, glowered down at the duo. "I didn't give the pair of you a potion to clear your heads so that you could spend all day bickering," she said, exasperated. "Now: march yourselves up to 221B, clean up, put on some fresh clothes, and meet me at the door in twenty minutes. We can grab something at that cafe across the street before we head to Scotland Yard."
The detective and the doctor stared at the witch, flabbergasted.
Hermione sighed. "Well, come on, then," she insisted, her eyes flashing bright amber. "Step to!"
The two men watched her warily as they rose from their chairs, stifling groans as they felt all of the kinks in their muscles make themselves known. Never taking their eyes off of Hermione until they were at the stairs, Dr. Watson and Mr. Holmes quickly made their way out of her flat, unwilling to provoke the witch's wrath.
As soon as she heard the door at the top of the staircase swing shut, Hermione let her eyes return to their normal colour and stopped projecting her aura. As she walked over to her bedroom to begin to follow her own directives, she allowed herself to picture the looks on the men's faces as they'd practically scampered from the room, and she had herself a good chuckle.
Next chapter will see Hermione and the boys at Scotland Yard and St. Bart's as mentioned, and the plot will start to pick up from there.
Thanks for reading! Please leave a review if you can spare a second and you'd like to tell me your thoughts on the chapter!