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.

Please read, enjoy, meditate on how to be the fabulous individuals you all are and can be, and review.

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Chapter Twenty-five

"So the killer is this man Kirk Goodall?" John asked as they were in the cab.

"Yes, he is," Sherlock answered. "We need a plan of attack to stop him."

"Don't forget his new minion," Hermione murmured.

"Minion?" John asked, puzzled that she would use such a word.

Hermione rolled her eyes and said, "His cohort? Whatever the case, he's new henchman, if you will, is going to be here too."

"How do you figure that?" John inquired.

"Since when has a solicitor ever done all of his own dirty work?"

That had both of the men thinking and giving a reluctant nod.

When they finally arrived at the venue, there was a small crowd there, but nothing significant.

"Thank goodness it's no one anyone has actually heard of or we would have been in trouble," John said, only to have Hermione punching his shoulder. "Oi! What was that for?"

"If you jinxed us by saying that, I'll hit you harder. Just see if I don't," she told him.

He looked over to Sherlock, who rolled his eyes and said, "There's no such…"

The bus of about fifteen people newly arrived from Fair Isle were all chattering away, as they made their way over to the box office. This was followed by a school bus of fifty secondary school students. And yet another bus this time with twenty-five senior citizens out for a night of music.

Hermione hit John again, as she said she would, harder than before on in the very same spot. Hermione didn't say a thing, but it was very clear that she wasn't happy about what had just occurred.

"We need to find a way into the theatre," John stated, rubbing his arm as he said so.

"That's the easy part," Sherlock said, moving them over to the left side of the building where there was an entrance into backstage area.

Standing there, playing around with a sword was a boy no older than twenty. His stance was all wrong, meaning he left himself completely unprotected while he was making like a grand sword fighting master. John and Sherlock were bickering back and forth as to how to deal with him. Having had enough Hermione, pulled out both of her extendable titanium batons and strolled over to where he was. In three quick movements, she had them both extended, blocking a blow from the sword with one baton and knocking him out cold with the other.

He fell to the ground in a crumpled heap. She retracted both of her batons, put them away before taking up the sword with reverence.

"This is a beauty," she said, admiring the Japanese sword lying prone across her palms. "Pity it was in the hands of such a buffoon." Hermione looked over to see a bug eyed John and Sherlock who was only smiling. "Want to examine the sword?"

Sherlock went over to Hermione and she lay the sword into his hands. "I trust you know how to handle this weapon?"

"But of course," he purred.

"Lovely workmanship, isn't it?" she murmured, her voice husky as they looked at what he was now holding.

John came over and looked at the both of them. Given how they were behaving one would have thought that they were in the middle of foreplay rather than the examination of a bladed weapon.

He cleared his throat, getting their attention. "Shouldn't we be going inside now?"

Sighing heavily she muttered, "We must continue this at a time when we don't have a murder to stop."

"Agreed," he said. "John, help me secure the boy. Hermione…" He looked from the door to her. "Pick the lock."

He went over to deal with the young man with John, tying him up as Hermione just stood there waiting. When they were finished, they came back over and she opened the door.

"It wasn't locked," she said to no one in particular as they had already rushed into the theatre. Absently Hermione wondered if this was what Luna felt like—the only person that strolled in a world that couldn't seem to stop long enough to even take a breath.

"I need to see the stage area," Sherlock said, rushing ahead of both of them. "John, see what you can do to delay the piano player."

Hermione looked at her watch. "The show is due to start in five minutes, Sherlock."

"Damn," he muttered. "John, come with me to the stage area. Hermione, you make certain our piano player is incapacitated in his dressing room."

"What's he look like?" she asked.

"Two meters tall, thinning brown straight hair, blue eyes, and a complexion like oatmeal," Sherlock told her. "Rather a plain looking man."

Hermione narrowed her eyes and looked over to where the detective was, just as John inquired, "Where and when did you get a chance to see a picture of him?"

"John, he's looking at him," she told him. "It must be him, as he's the only one back here wearing a tux."

John looked over and muttered a curse. "What's he already doing out of his dressing room?"

Hermione was the one to look around. "Uh, this is his dressing room." She pointed to about five meters away where a mirror was, surrounded by flowers.

"Well, go get to work, woman. We don't have all day!" And Sherlock charged away with John on his heels.

Rolling her eyes, Hermione went over to the man just in time to hear him in the middle of his panic attack.

"My god, more people?!" he nearly exclaimed.

She looked out front and saw no more than about ninety people there. Looking back over to the piano player, he looked about ready to hyperventilate. Not wanting to waste time, she went with the best plan. She hit him with a wandless fainting charm the twins invented that tended to last about half an hour. Unfortunately, much like a large tree being cut down in the forest, he could take down others in his path. In this case, that was Hermione.

This was unfortunate as it had her petite form pinned under 95 kilos of muscle with little by way of getting him the hell off of her. She couldn't find the leverage to move him. And what was worse, none of the people working there were helping either. If anything, they thought it a great joke. And given the angle she was at (face down to the floorboards, as she was turning to get away when he toppled her much faster than she ever thought possible), she couldn't put a feather light charm on him. As it was, she was using her hands on the flooring to keep him from crushing all the air out of her lungs.

Fed up, she did the only thing left to her to do.

"SHERLOCK!"

TBC…

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Another chapter has been zapped out to you! Yes, I'm evil leaving you at a cliffhanger like that. But that's just the way I roll. Sorry. Well, not really (Giggles). Hope you all have a remarkable day.