Author's Note: Spent most of the day baking and preparing for tomorrow. Thanks for following along!
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Many thanks to GaeilgeRua for not only inspiring this story, but encouraging me to expand and allowing me to use her subscription to Grammarly to beta! This one is for you! Much love, xxDustNight
*NOTE* If while reading this you feel you've read it before, there is a very good chance of that. This story is the expanded version of a two-shot I wrote last year for the Holmes for the Holidays series. You can still find that piece on my profile; although it has been renamed Underneath the Christmas Lights. Please do not send me messages or leave comments telling me that this story is copied. It's not. It's mine. I just made it longer for your reading enjoyment! Thanks!
Disclaimer: All non-original characters, plot points, and information belongs to J.K. Rowling, BBC, or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. The story plot and dialogue belongs to me. I do not write for profit.
. . . .
23 December 2018
Sherlock didn't sleep after allowing Hermione to use his bedroom. In fact, he spent the entirety of the night pacing in the front room. He played the violin for a while too but became nervous that it might wake his houseguest and so he returned to the pacing. By the time dawn rolled around, he'd worked himself into a near frenzy and decided he needed to get lost in the city. There were a surprising amount of people out and about considering the holiday was only a couple days away. Sherlock ignored them all.
He stopped and bought a cup of coffee at a street vendor and watched the traffic go by as he sipped it on a bridge. Afterwards, he ventured to a few of the crime scenes Lestrade had allowed him to investigate regarding the case he had yet to solve. Still, Sherlock discovered nothing new that would help him in his search for the answer. At each location he only found himself wondering how Hermione could be involved and why she ended up in his flat of all places.
At some point, Sherlock realised he was standing in front of the Diogenes Club, and he groaned. Of course, his subconscious would bring him to see his brother. For as annoying and irksome as Mycroft often was, he knew more about the government and any underlying issues that were occurring than anyone else Sherlock knew. Striding up the steps and into the building without so much as stopping at the front desk, Sherlock sought out his brother in one of his favourite rooms.
Mycroft Holmes was sitting having tea while reading the paper. He didn't so much as flinch when Sherlock moved to stand in front of him, blocking the sunlight that was streaming through one of the high windows. Instead, he merely sighed and set aside his paper before picking up his steaming cup of tea. It was still another quiet moment before he acknowledged Sherlock's presence. He first took a sip of the scalding liquid, probably to brace himself for whatever annoyance his brother was about to thrust upon him.
"To what do I owe the pleasure of your presence this morning, dear brother," Mycroft finally said as he settled back in his chair and gave Sherlock a sly grin.
"I am assuming you have intel on the attacks here in London," Sherlock drawled, tucking his gloved hands into the pocket of his jacket. Despite the fire in the grate, the room was rather chilly. He suspected that had more to do with Mycroft's presence than the lack of insulation in the old building.
Setting aside his tea, Mycroft crossed one leg over the other and steepled his fingers. "I believe you are giving me too much credit, Sherlock. I know nothing about these attacks. That is more your area than mine."
"Don't toy with me, Mycroft. We both know you are well versed in all things that involve Scotland Yard and the government," Sherlock snapped. "This happens to fall into both those categories."
"Have you figured out who the girl is yet?" Mycroft asked instead of replying to Sherlock's statement.
Blinking, Sherlock refrained from showing that he was surprised Mycroft knew about Hermione. "I have not," he said honestly, turning his back on his brother to walk toward the fireplace. "She is a mystery just as large as this case."
"Have you entertained the idea that they are one and the same?" Mycroft resumed drinking his tea as Sherlock contemplated this statement.
"I have but have come up empty so far." He hated this admit this, but there was no lying to Mycroft Holmes. At least not today.
"You are losing your touch, dear brother," Mycroft teased over the brim of the cup. This earned him a sour look from his brother, but he did not mind. He was used to Sherlock's unpleasantries. "Maybe there is more to this girl than meets to eye?"
"How very astute of you," Sherlock replied, turning away from the fireplace and heading for the door. If Mycroft was going to be difficult, he had no time to linger. There was a case to solve and that included the mystery of Hermione Granger as well. "Have a good day. Enjoy your biscuits."
Snorting quietly, Mycroft shook his head as Sherlock retreated. "You as well, brother." Before Sherlock could disappear through the door, he added, "Will you be joining us for Christmas this year?"
This caused Sherlock to pause in the doorway. Taking a deep breath, he turned and gave his brother a pointed glare. "No, I will not. Mrs Hudson is hosting a get together so Ms Granger will not feel the loss of her family and friends this holiday season. Be sure to send mother and father my apologies."
And yet before Sherlock could escape, Mycroft managed another statement. "I see the girl holds your attention more than you yet know." Instead of replying to him, Sherlock just disappeared, leaving Mycroft alone once more. Smirking, Mycroft settled in to enjoy the rest of his tea and the paper. Perhaps he did know more than he was letting on, but that was for Sherlock to figure out on his own. If he told his brother every secret that existed in the world, what fun would be left to be had?
. . . .
Harry looked up as a knock sounded on the door of his office. Before he could invite whoever knocked inside, the door swung open to reveal Kingsley Shacklebolt, Minister for Magic. Immediately, he stood and extended his hand in greeting. "Minister," he said, as Kingsley accepted the greeting. He then gestured to the open chair. "Welcome. Please, have a seat."
"Thank you, Potter. I wish I had time to stay and chat, but I'm just stopping by to see where we were at on the case." Kingsley cleared his throat and crossed his arms. "I worry we're not making much progress and the press and public are getting restless."
Running his fingers through his already tousled hair, Harry sighed. "I think it's more the press causing the public to become restless, but I understand what you're saying."
"You're probably right, but we need results or some sort of evidence to share lest we find ourselves losing support," Kingsley said, his face hard with frustration.
"I already have everyone working overtime," Harry explained, sounding worn. "It's the Sunday before Christmas. Normally, everyone is home celebrating with their families at this point, sir. I'm not sure what else we can do."
"I think we need to start interviewing Ministry officials, Potter," Kingsley suggested. "It's not ideal, but finding out everyone's alibis for the night of the attacks will aid us in pinpointing a possible source."
"You think it was an inside job?" Harry questioned, slowly easing back down into his chair. He hadn't thought of that, but it would make sense. How else would the attackers have to know where the Ministry officials who were ambushed lived or frequented?
"I don't think we should rule out the possibility. I already have Nott checking out if there was a security breach in the personal archives." Kingsley began to back toward the door. "Look, Potter, I know Granger is still amongst the missing, and you want to focus on her, but we have to solve this for everyone involved." Without another word, the Minister left the office.
Harry sat there in silence for a while, contemplating what Kingsley had revealed. Was it possible that one of their own was behind the attacks? If so, what was their purpose? No one had come forward with demands as of yet, but it was still early days and Christmas Eve was tomorrow. A security breach would mean that no one was safe. Not the Ministry officials or the public. Everyone's records were kept in the archives, including those who were housed at Azkaban. If whoever was behind this infiltrated the Ministry, they could certainly find a way to break the Death Eaters out of prison and wreak more havoc on their community than anyone was wholly prepared for after twenty years of peace.
As of now, it looked like the Wizarding community would be having a rather sombre Christmas and possibly even New Year. Harry only hoped that Hermione was doing well and staying safe. He could have to remember to message her soon, so she didn't feel as if they'd forgotten about her. Gathering some files from his cabinet, Harry decided he needed to get with Theo and go over this new idea that Kingsley planted in his head. After that, they could hit the ground running and try and find the culprit.
. . . .
Waking slowly, Hermione relished the comfort that was Sherlock's bed. She still couldn't contemplate why he'd had a sudden change of heart when it came to her, but after having slept so soundly, she wasn't going to complain. This bed was more comfortable than her own in her little flat, and for that she was grateful. Without the aid of magic, the healing process was rather slow going, and she'd suffered an ordeal. Her broken ribs and bruised throat were agonising if she moved too much or too quickly. All she wanted was for Harry to come to her rescue so she could be treated at St. Mungo's.
Stretching as best she could without hurting herself, Hermione finished waking and tried to decide what she wanted to do today. A quick glance at the clock on the bedside table revealed she'd slept in late. It was nearly noon, and soon Mrs Hudson would be coming upstairs with lunch. She decided she might as well move back into the living room where she could be social. Hermione was used to spending Sundays with the Potters and the Weasleys, especially the one right before Christmas. It was going to be a very different holiday this year.
Getting out of bed carefully, Hermione realised a visit to the loo was in order and headed there. She used her finger as a toothbrush and borrowed whoever's hairbrush was sitting on the sink. By the time she emerged and entered the kitchen ten minutes later, she was feeling almost normal. She smiled seeing Mrs Hudson at the stove, setting a pot of water to boil for tea. Easing into a chair at the table, she waited for the landlady to finish before interrupting.
"Good afternoon, Mrs Hudson," she said sweetly as the landlady turned around.
"Oh, good afternoon, dear. It's so nice to see you up and about," Mrs Hudson said with a smile. She reached over and patted Hermione on the hand before returning to what she was doing. "You have much more colour this afternoon. Did you sleep well?"
"I did," she answered. "Sherlock's bed was much more comfortable than the sofa." Mrs Hudson gave her a knowing look and Hermione blushed. "He allowed me to use his bed. I think he slept on the sofa. It's not like that, I promise."
"No worries, dear," Mrs Hudson said as she poured them both a cup of tea. "Whatever is brewing between you and Sherlock is your business and yours alone. Now, let's have some lunch and then you can help me string up some popcorn for the tree."
Still blushing, Hermione decided to just let the topic of conversation drop. It wasn't like there was anything for Mrs Hudson to pick at anyway. There was absolutely nothing going on between her and Sherlock. He'd just decided to have a sudden change of heart, and that was it. Surely, when he returned to the flat, he would go back to being distant and silent in regards to her presence. He'd apologized, but that didn't mean he still didn't want her getting in the way of whatever case he was working.
And speaking of cases, Hermione was rather curious about what was happening within the Wizarding community. Harry had said things were hectic and she should stay where she was safe. Did that mean there were other attacks? Was Harry safe? Was someone out looking for her? Question after question ran through her mind, but she did not have the answers. Instead, Hermione tried to refocus on what Mrs Hudson was talking about. It wouldn't be wise to get herself all worked up over something she couldn't even help with right now.
She was stuck here at 221B until Harry either sent someone for her or came himself. There really was no keeping her from just walking out the front door but considering it hurt to get up and down from a chair, she didn't see that happening anytime soon. Besides, everyone had been so lovely so far, even Mary who popped in a couple times with little Rosie. It was then that Hermione found herself with an idea. She wanted to repay these kind people this holiday. She smiled and glanced up at Mrs Hudson who was sipping quietly on her tea.
"Mrs Hudson?" she asked, causing the woman to look her way.
"What is it?" she replied, setting down her teacup.
"I was wondering if you would help me acquire some yarn and knitting needles," Hermione explained. "As much as I love to read, I think knitting might help to ease my mind while I'm forced to sit still and recover all day long."
Mrs Hudson's eyes lit up, and a smile curled on her lips. "Of course, dear. I have some downstairs, but we can get whatever else you may need." She stood from her chair and patted Hermione on the shoulder. "Give me a few moments, and I'll be right back."
"Thank you," Hermione said with relief. Now she had something to work toward while she tried to keep her thoughts of the Wizarding community at bay. Mrs Hudson threw her another smile and headed downstairs to her own flat. Hermione sat there and finished her tea, hopeful that she could make the best of this dreary holiday.
. . . .
"What is she doing?" Sherlock whispered to John. They were standing in the doorway watching Hermione as she clicked away.
"Knitting, by the looks of it," John stated as if that were obvious. It was, in fact, obvious. Hermione was currently sitting on the sofa, wrapped in a blanket, and surrounded by heaps of different coloured yarn. She was absorbed in her task, not even pausing to look up at the two men.
"She's taking over the flat," Sherlock muttered in annoyance. "When are you going to allow her to leave?"
"I can hear you," Hermione pointed out, setting aside her knitting needles and smiling brightly. Ignoring Sherlock's rudeness, she decided to be kind. "How was your day?"
Sherlock frowned at her remarks which caused John to laugh. He removed his jacket and hung it by the door. "Have some tact, Sherlock. Hermione can leave when she feels well enough, and I know she won't injure herself further."
"Where am I to work?" Sherlock inquired, gesturing at how Hermione's knitting had taken over the sofa and coffee table.
"The kitchen or you can sit idle in your chair by the fire like you normally do," John quipped, crossing his arms and giving Sherlock a glare.
"It's not sitting idle. I'm in my Mind Palace," Sherlock said with a pout.
"So you always say." John sighed and then added, "Why don't we order some take-out and then I can help you talk through this case." John turned to see if Sherlock wanted to join them, but he had already disappeared, his footsteps fading down the stairs. Sighing again, John decided if the detective didn't want to be social, he didn't have to. He would make Hermione feel welcome enough for both of them. Striding toward the sofa, he sat on the open end and laughed.
"It seems you've had a productive day. How are you feeling?" He gestured toward the scarves and other miscellaneous items that Hermione had clearly put together that day.
"I'm feeling alright," Hermione began. "I'm a little tired, but now that I have something to do, I find ignoring the pain easier."
"Are you still having a lot of pain?" John asked, preparing to examine Hermione for the evening.
"Not so much, but my ribs still ache when I move too much," she told John. She allowed him to feel where they were broken, wincing only slightly as the pain hit.
"They seem to be holding up well," John told her when he was finished. "I'd offer you some pain medicine, but it's still early in the evening. If you're ready for bed…"
"Oh no!" Hermione exclaimed. "I still have so much knitting to do and take-out sounds rather good. I haven't eaten since lunch." Mrs Hudson had gone out for the afternoon and hadn't returned, so there'd been no tea and biscuits. She wasn't complaining though. Knitting had her so engrossed she hadn't even realised what time it was until John and Sherlock were standing there.
"Alright then," John said, slapping his knee. "I'll go and order us something and then you can show me what you've been up to. I was supposed to help Sherlock tonight, but it seems he's decided to do his own thing."
Hermione wanted to say something positive about Sherlock's behaviour but found herself at a loss. It wasn't really her place considering how very little she knew about the man. He was a mystery wrapped up in a mystery, and that drove her mad. Granted, she was a mystery too. Her secret was more significant than anything Sherlock could throw her way. So far she'd been able to keep from slipping up, but there was no telling how long that would keep up, especially as she grew more and more comfortable here.
While she waited for John to return, Hermione resumed her knitting. She had no idea what was going on elsewhere, but inside 221B, things were starting to get interesting. Sherlock had warmed to her, if ever so slightly and the others were caring for her too. When it came time to leave, she was going to have a hard time saying goodbye. Maybe someday she would be able to share her secret or at the very least, return and continue being friends with these Muggles. Only time would tell.
. . . .
Walking through the dark, nearly empty streets of London, Sherlock wondered why he always felt compelled to disappear when it came to Hermione. He knew very little about her aside from her name, that her friend was called Harry, and that she worked for a part of the government. Mycroft knew something about her but refused to let on what it was. How utterly frustrating. When he finally figured this out, he was going to gloat and send his brother a cake. Hah.
Then there was that wooden stick. What the bloody hell was that thing? Why would she keep it in her jacket? He'd brought it out of the hiding place again to examine it further and discovered nothing. For all intents and purposes, it appeared to be a simple stick and nothing more. It was maddening, but he knew he would get no further unless he actually took the time to talk to Hermione. He was sure she would not admit to anything if he came outright and asked. She was the type of person who needed friendship and companionship before opening their heart or soul.
John had saved her, and that was why she was open with him, as well as Mary and Rosie. But who didn't love that little girl… Pausing in front of the Tower of London, Sherlock sighed heavily and thought then of Mrs Hudson. She and Hermione were getting on well. Hermione had helped decorate and was now knitting as the landlady often did in her own free time. It appeared he was the only one who had yet to make a lasting connection with the strange woman. He thought helping her with the bath and then allowing her to sleep in his bedroom would do the trick but so far no luck.
There was a nagging voice in the back of his mind that insisted he would have to spend more time in her presence if he wanted to get closer to her. However, Sherlock was never very good at getting to know people or letting them into his own heart. Not that he wanted to let her into his heart of course. He just wanted to figure out who she really was and where she came from. Frustrated with this realisation, Sherlock whirled around and nearly took out a passerby.
"Terribly sorry, mate," the man muttered, backing away after he'd narrowly avoided being run unto by Sherlock.
"I apologise," Sherlock insisted. "It was my fault for not looking."
"No worries. Have a good night." The man ran a hand through his dark hair and flashed him a perfect toothed smile.
Sherlock merely nodded and continued on his way. The man seemed to be going to same way he was so it was not odd that he followed behind him, keeping his distance. Every now and then Sherlock would peer back and notice him texting or scrolling around on his mobile. In essence, he appeared to be a completely ordinary bloke on his way to the pub or home for the night. Sherlock decided to pay him no more mind and instead continued to come up with a plan to get Hermione to talk to him more freely.
It wasn't until he was many blocks away from the initial encounter when Sherlock realised the man was wearing attire similar to that which Hermione had worn the night she arrived at 221B. Brow furrowed, Sherlock turned back in the direction he'd come from but found no one there. It was oddly silent, almost as if there had never been someone following him at all. It wouldn't be the first time Sherlock imagined such a thing but he was reasonably sure there had been a man.
It was months since he'd last partaken of recreational drugs in an attempt to solve a case. This was per Mycroft and John's orders, along with a very heated warning from Mary. If he wanted to remain in Rosie's life, he was not allowed to be near drugs. Molly tested him biweekly to determine whether or not he was clean and so far he was doing well. But what if someone planted drugs in his food or drink? Deciding he needed to be sure, Sherlock waved down a cab and was on his way to St. Barts. If there was something wrong with him, then he was going to get to the bottom of it. He was reasonably sure that Hermione would definitely not approve of his past with drugs and the like.
Sometime later, the cabbie pulled in front of the hospital and Sherlock exited without much thought. He paid and then entered the hospital. He would covertly ask Molly for advice on Hermione while not giving anything away. There were a few days before his typical drug test, but he suspected she wouldn't mind being disturbed tonight. No one paid him any mind as he made his way to Molly's lab. It was getting late, and most of the workers had probably already gone home for the evening. Tomorrow was Christmas Eve, after all.
Entering the lab, he was entirely unsurprised to find Molly sitting there scouring over medical files. She was still single as far as he knew and had nowhere else to be tonight. She lifted her head and smiled warmly at him as he wandered inside and removed his gloves and scarf. He kept his jacket on for the time being for it was a bit chilly inside the lab. Striding over to where she was standing, Sherlock crossed his arms and quirked an eyebrow.
"I believe I may have been drugged and require my testing early," he said without preamble.
Molly's mouth popped open and then she struggled to find something to say. "Sherlock- What are you talking about?" she questioned, easing down onto the lab chair and fixing Sherlock with her curious stare. It was unlike him to come bursting into the lab, demanding to be drug tested. Usually, she and John had to bribe him with corpses to analyse to even get him to consider it.
"Earlier, I swear there was a man following me, and then suddenly, there wasn't." Sherlock ran a hand shakily through his hair. "It's like Baskerville all over again."
Seeing how clearly distraught Sherlock was over the situation, Molly hopped up from where she was perched and guided her friend to sit. "I'm sure it's not like that at all, Sherlock. He probably just turned down an alley. Have a seat and take off your coat; I'll run some bloodwork." She helped him discard his jacket and then gathered her supplies while he rolled up his sleeve.
Sherlock continued to mutter while he watches Molly work. This case was wearing him thin, and he needed proper sleep. Only, there was too much to figure out, and Hermione was a distraction. Not to mention the vanishing man. He probably should never have left the flat that night, but it was too late. He may have been drugged while with John for all he knew. Maybe John had been the one to do it. Perhaps he was getting him back for all the times he'd suck something into his tea…
"Sherlock?" It took a second, but he realised that Molly was trying to get his attention. He lifted his gaze and waited for her to say something. "I said, you can roll your sleeve back down now. I'm going to start the tests."
"Yes, thank you," he muttered and did as he was told. He also shrugged back into his jacket, feeling oddly cold. Molly was still rambling on as she always did, but he was utterly distracted. "Molly?" he asked finally, interrupting her constant banter.
"Hmmm?" she asked, squinting slightly as she let a few drops of his blood fall onto a microscope slide.
"Has John told you about the woman staying at 221B?" he inquired, rising from the chair to lean on the lab station where Molly was working.
"Mary did, actually," Molly said, continuing to examine the slide and only briefly glancing his way. "She called to see if I had any extra clothes we could let her wear."
"Hermione is far curvier than you are. Your clothes would never do her justice," Sherlock said without thought. When Molly straightened up and sent him a glare, he held up both hands. "Bit not good?"
"Definitely not," Molly said sternly, shaking a single finger his way. "I don't even know which one of us you meant to insult."
"Neither. I was simply stating a fact." He shrugged and added, "I take it this is not something once typically discusses."
"No…" She paused, thought for a moment but then shook her head. "Just, never mind." She sighed again and then sat back on her stool. "And you haven't been drugged, Sherlock. You're clean." She gestured at the microscope.
"Are you certain?"
"Absolutely. All the tests come back clean. You must have been imagining things. People just don't disappear." Sighing, Molly folded her arms across her chest and set Sherlock with a penetrating stare. "So you've taken notice of the mystery woman's body type, have you?"
Narrowing his eyes, Sherlock tried not to react to her blatant attempt at gossiping. "She's been in my flat three days now. It would be rather difficult not to take notice of her appearance."
Shrugging, Molly smiled. "From what Mary told me, she'd rather pretty. And smart."
"Smart?" Sherlock questioned, having not realised this himself. Although, Hermione did read a lot. He noticed she preferred his books to the ones John and Mrs Hudson left for her.
"Yes," Molly continued to explain. "Mary said she has a job with the government and that she went to a private school. I can't recall if she told me a name. Anyways, I was hoping to meet her on Christmas."
"Christmas?" Sherlock frowned.
"Yeah. Mrs Hudson invited me over for dinner." Molly smiled then, her eyes lighting up. "It'll be a nice change from spending the day alone."
"I suppose so…" Sherlock trailed off thoughtfully, having no idea that Mrs Hudson was planning such an ordeal. He rather hated to get-togethers. However, now that he thought about it, the obsessive decorating made sense. Clearing his throat, Sherlock retrieved his scarf and gloves and began to back toward the door. "Thank you, Molly. I must be on my way. I have a case to solve."
As Sherlock opened the door, Molly shouted after him. "Let me know if you need any help!" he didn't reply, but then again, he never did. Shaking her head, Molly figured she might as well pack it in for the night. There was no reason to stay any longer and a bath some tea sounded much more pleasant than reviewing the corpse catalogue once more.
. . . .
It was late when Sherlock finally returned to the flat. John had left long ago, Hary having called and asked if he could come home and help with holiday preparations. Hermione was just getting ready for bed when she heard him come upstairs. She wasn't really sure what made her do it, but something told her she should venture out into the living room and say something to the strange man. He'd left so abruptly earlier, she had no real idea why he didn't stay.
She crept down the hallway, listening in as Sherlock rifled through some papers on the desk. She hoped that he wasn't too upset with her for practically taking over the sofa earlier with her knitting. She'd needed a break from lying in bed, and Mrs Hudson had been so helpful with the yarn and giving her some ideas as to everyone's favourite colours. The closer she moved toward the quieter Sherlock became. He knew she was awake and was apparently preparing for her to interrupt him.
"Sherlock?" she said quietly, pausing in the doorway. He was standing, staring out the window as if he had much on his mind. For a moment he didn't respond, instead of reaching for his violin, which he lifted as if in preparation to play. Clearing her throat from her sudden nerves, she asked, "Are you alright?"
"I'm fine," he replied, briefly glancing over his shoulder. When she nodded, he lifted the bow and began to play the violin. It was a sad tune, one she'd not heard him play before. In fact, she wasn't sure it was something anyone had heard before.
Silently, Hermione retreated from the living room and returned to the back bedroom. She wasn't sure why, but something about the exchange left her uneasy. Sherlock may have said he was alright, but he wasn't telling her the full truth. Now she felt sorry for keeping her secret from him as well. There was no way she could reveal her true nature, but a part of her yearned to do so.
Sliding into the bed, she pulled the covers over her still bruised and aching form. Tomorrow was Christmas Eve, and she knew Mrs Hudson had plans for them all. It was in an effort to cheer her up, no doubt, but all she really wanted was to be back with her friends in the wizarding world. She felt more alone tonight than she had before the attack. As sleep took her, she couldn't help but think that maybe Sherlock felt as lonely as she often did.
. . . .