Author's Note: I'm utterly thrilled that I was able to get this done today. Now, I do have the next two chapters I have to write from scratch so please be patient if I don't get the next one our tomorrow. I'm shooting for about 3k per chapter but I'm not sure I can do that with what content needs to occur. I'm so excited with the feedback on the last chapter! It's fun to read what you have to say! Keep it coming, please! Enjoy!

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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.

. . . .

28 December 2018

It was early. Hermione was resting, and Sherlock was staring idly out one of the front windows as he pondered on the conversations he and his houseguest had the night before. Whoever she worked for had informed her that her attack was related to the ongoing case they were working on and that Sherlock was investigating as well. Oddly enough, she knew the murder victim. They'd attended school together.

As much as he wanted to believe everything that Hermione said, too many pieces were not lining up in the greater scheme of things. Who was she really and why did she refuse to tell him the full truth. At least now he knew why Detective Nott reached out to him the day before, inquiring what he thought about the body. Evidently, it wasn't only Scotland Yard wanting his help with the case now. Even the private sector needed his aid. Apparently.

His conversation with Nott had been brief but informative. There was something strange about the man, almost as if he didn't quite belong in the world around him. Sherlock didn't quite know what to make of that. His quick deduction was that the man was married, addicted to whiskey but not an alcoholic, and that he grew up rather rich. There was something else there that he couldn't quite see and it made him think of Hermione and the wooden stick he still had hidden on the mantle.

Eventually, he'd get to the bottom of that, but first, there was the case to solve. However, something made him turn away from the window and look toward the back bedroom. He's walked in on Hermione's phone conversation with her friend last night. She'd promised to stay here with him in return for information on the case. She truly was a woman after his own heart. He would have done the same. Laughing softly, Sherlock only wished her friend had given them more to go on in regards to the case.

Unconsciously, Sherlock headed for the back bedroom where Hermione slept. The door was cracked open, and he quietly nudged it open just a tad more with the toe of his shoe. Because of the early hour, it was still dark, the room lit only by the few odd strands of fairy lights Mrs Hudson had hung before Christmas. He never understood the absurd tradition to keep decorations up until the New Year, but he wasn't about to argue with his landlady.

Rolling his eyes, he turned his attention to Hermione. She was peaceful in sleep, the stress of her injuries and the ever-growing case not causing worry lines on her face. If he had to admit it, Sherlock would say that Hermione was a simple beauty and her intelligence only intensified that. However, no one had asked, and he was not one to share aloud his feelings regarding anything let alone the bushy-haired woman who'd taken refuge here in 221B.

They were still meshing out the logistics of this case they both found themselves intertwined in, but they would figure it out together. She said as much a few hours ago before he'd ushered her off to bed. Never had he worried about someone other than himself the way he worried about her. There was something to this mystery woman, and he wasn't yet ready to see her go despite his initial feelings regarding her presence at the flat.

As she stirred, Sherlock hurried to slip from the room unnoticed. It would not do well for her to find him watching her while she slept. She was probably already having nightmares from the attack, he did not need to add to her worries. Not now that she'd put her trust in him for some absurd reason. He was not an easy man to get along with, and he had no idea why she would even want to remain with him.

Returning to the window, Sherlock did silently vow to take care of her Hermione. If she were putting her trust him, then he would do his best to honour that. At some point, the woman had wheedled her way into his heart, and he had no idea how or why. Hell, he didn't even know if it meant anything at all. It wasn't like he knew how to love someone anyway. The work always came first. Could he find a way for her to take its place?

. . . .

"I don't think we should have been the ones to interview our family and friends," Nott said miserably. He was sitting behind his desk, elbows resting on the surface and his face hidden in his hands.

"Probably not," Harry muttered in reply. He was slouched in the chair across from his partner and friend while staring into his cold cup of coffee. "Kingsley didn't have anyone else to do it though. It had to be us. Kingsley wouldn't have figured out our suspect. It took knowing them to do that."

"If I'm right and he's the killer, what then?" Theo asked, lifting his face so he could stare at Harry. "What would you do if it was Ron or Ginny?"

"I want to say that I would do my job and just arrest them so I could do interrogations, but that's not the truth," Harry admitted. Leaning forward, he set the cup on the desk. "Honestly, I'd probably rush to them and demand an answer as to why they did what they did."

"That's what I want to do." Sitting up, Theo ran a hand through his hair and then chuckled darkly. "This is so fucked up. Never in my life would I think we'd be in this position."

"Well, we were all under the impression that Death Eaters and Blood Supremacy were a thing of the past." Standing, Harry wandered to the door and glanced out into the hallway. When he saw that the hall was empty, he tugged the door closed and put a silencing charm on it. "When I talked to Hermione last night I didn't tell her who we think the killer was simply because I'm certain he is the one who went after her."

"Good," Theo replied, drumming his fingers on the desk. "She has enough to be worrying about with all her injuries. By the way, I went and talked to Holmes yesterday." He hesitated before looking at Harry. He knew this was going to be an argument of sorts.

"Why the hell did you do that?" Harry snapped, striding back toward Theo. "What did you tell him?"

"I wanted to know what he thought about the body." Smirking, Theo suspected Harry may be about to have an aneurysm based on the colour of his face. It was rather amusing.

"What if you were followed?" Harry asked, dropping back into the chair and fixing Theo with a glare. He tried to breathe slowly to ease the anger he felt. "I told Hermione she would be safer there. In fact, I made her promise not to come rushing back but if you compromised that-"

"Don't worry, Potter," Theo said, holding up his hand to stop other wizard's rant. "I met with him at the morgue. That place is ridiculously secure, and no one saw me arrive."

"You can't be certain. You said so yourself, our suspect is good at what he does." Harry couldn't stop the irrational fear from bubbling up inside of him after learning what Theo did. It almost made him want to run off to Baker Street and find a new place to stash Hermione away.

"He is. Very good," Theo said slowly. "But he's waiting for her to return, in my opinion. She's his true target." He'd thought long and hard about this last night as he lied wide awake next to his husband in the dark. Sleep hadn't even been in the cards for him last night after learning what he had.

"Why would her return be important?" Harry asked, confusion clouding his face. "As far as he knows, she's in the hospital or at her flat recovering."

"No," Theo said and winced. "I'm pretty sure he knows she's hiding away somewhere."

Realisation dawned on Harry's face then, and he let out the breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding. "Damn it, Theo. That's why he hasn't done anything else."

"I think Creevey's death was his way of trying to draw her back out," Theo explained. "If we move her or bring her back to our world, so to speak, we could very well lose her to him."

"I just don't understand why she's the intended target," Harry mumbled, removing his glasses to rub at his face. He was utterly exhausted. Seven days of this nonsense with no real answers yet was really starting to drain him. "What has she done to provoke him? It makes no sense."

"Sure it does," Theo said, smiling despite the situation. He waited for Harry to return his glasses to his face before adding, "Kingsley is about to retire. Who is the only logical person, aside from you, to take his place."

All feeling drained from Harry's body at that reveal. "He doesn't want her to become Minister." There were rumours that Hermione would be the next Minister, but Harry never took it too seriously. For some reason, he just assumed Kingsley would stay Minister forever. Silly notions.

"Exactly. He doesn't want a Muggle-born witch in charge," Theo said, feeling slightly sick at the prospect of someone wanting to kill Hermione because she could be their future Minister. Then again, they dealt with this twenty years ago too.

They were both silent for quite a while. There was far too much to think about in regards to the case. Now that they had a suspect in mind, they needed to come up with a plan. Because of the closeness of the situation, they hadn't yet gone to the Minister with their suspicions. Eventually, they would have to though. Sighing, it was Harry who broke the silence.

"I guess we need to come up with a plan," Harry said solemnly as he met his friend's sad stare.

Instead of replying, Theo merely sighed.

. . . .

Getting into the bath was more comfortable now, and so Hermione didn't bother disrupting Sherlock from his playing. He'd picked up his violin sometime after dinner and hadn't stopped playing since. The tune was unfamiliar to her, leaving her to assume he'd composed it himself. Mary said he did that often, composing music during emotionally sensitive parts of his life. She wondered what he was focussing on now as she relaxed in bathtub listening to the music flow in from the half-opened door.

Having taken care of her hair and body, she relished the warmth of the bath and closed her eyes as the beautiful music calmed her frazzled nerves. As she lay there, she thought not of the case, but of Sherlock and his persistence toward solving it. Was he doing it just because it was another case or was there something more there? Sighing, she hated that she hoped it was the latter. While Sherlock was still very much a mystery to her, she couldn't help but be compelled toward him.

It was maddening in a sense, being so enthralled in someone only to have them care less than nothing about you in return. At least, that's the way it appeared. Maybe solving the mystery of her attacker and the other similar instances would bring them closer together. The only issue was that she was still unable to comfortably walk the stairs (she'd tried) and Harry wanted her to remain here. That was the other thing…

Harry had confirmed her suspicions, her attack being one of many that occurred throughout three days in London. Someone had it out for Muggleborns, an issue that caused the Wizarding community to go on high alert. Hermione knew in her heart that she was incapable of helping her team of MLE agents and Aurors solve anything in this state, which was the only reason she remained in 221B with Sherlock. If she couldn't be out there in the fray, then she was going to keep aiding Sherlock in his deductions at the very least. Only, she had to do it without magic seeing as that drained her completely.

As Sherlock continued to play and Hermione's bathwater grew cold, she decided it was time to get out. Biting her lip, she really didn't want to call for him and interrupt his playing since she knew he was most likely thinking about the case. With a sigh, she let the water out of the tub and then waited for it to drain thoroughly before attempting to stand. Surely, she was well enough by now to complete such a simple task as pushing herself upright in the tub? She did it all the time on chairs and the bed.

Holding her breath, Hermione gripped the edges of the tub and heaved herself upright. All appeared well; she didn't even feel too much of an ache in her chest. Carefully, she finished pulling herself into a standing position and then exhaled harshly. Breathing again, she smiled, thankful she'd successfully got herself up in the tub. In her excitement, Hermione made to step out of the tub; only, she didn't entirely account for the fact that she probably used most of her energy.

Exhausted, her feet slipped on the still damp tub, and she went flailing. Closing her eyes, she knew that if she hit the side with her ribs, she'd be in dire trouble, so in a last ditch effort, she wrenched her body around mid-fall. The side of the tub hit her back so hard the breath was immediately knocked from her body. She grunted from the impact, her body folding in on itself as she toppled over the ledge and landed on the tile floor in quite an undignified manner. Idly, she noticed that the violin had abruptly cut off at some point during all this.

With a gasp, Hermione found herself able to breathe once more. She took great heaving breaths as she tried to work through the pain in her body. She needed to move, to get up off this floor and wrap a towel around her naked form, but there was no way she was moving right this moment. Even the thought of sitting up made her want to cry. As the door to the bathroom was thrown open, she stared wide-eyed into Sherlock's shocked face.

"What the devil were you thinking!?" he asked, standing above her and taking in the entire situation. "Why didn't you call for my assistance?"

"I thought I could handle it on my own," she said and then winced as she tried to move. "I didn't want to disturb you."

"For the love of…" Sherlock trailed off and then bent down to help her sit up. "John is going to be furious with you if you caused any of your ribs to refracture." Pausing, he frowned as he was able to get Hermione to sit against the side of the tub. "Or rather, he's going to be furious with me for not taking proper care of you."

"It wasn't your fault," she said simply, pulling her legs up to her chest and covering herself. It hadn't really occurred to her, but she was, in fact, entirely nude. "I'm sure I'm fine. Other than being winded and achy, I don't think anything worse has occurred."

Sherlock began to pace, shaking his head at her attempt to placate him. "This will certainly set your healing back days, at any rate."

He continued rambling on, gesturing wildly in his apparent anger. Hermione wanted to smile, to laugh even, but she was cold sitting naked on the floor, and she desperately wished to be in bed with some of the pain medicine John had prescribed for her. Deciding she'd better stop him before he worked himself up into a tizzy, Hermione cleared her throat so that he would finish.

"Uh, Sherlock?" she queried, lifting her gaze to his when he paused. "Do you think you could hand me a towel?" She gestured down her body with one hand, careful to keep herself covered as best she could.

Sherlock blanched, finally realising the state she was in. "Oh! Yes, of course." He grabbed her towel from the rack and handed it to her before stepping back and averting his gaze.

"Thank you," she mumbled, a blush gracing her cheeks as she wrapped it around herself. "Could you help me up now, do you think?" She bit her lip, again embarrassed at even having to ask.

He stooped without comment and wrapped his arm around her waist to carefully hoist her upward. The pain was minimal, but even so, she stumbled as she was placed on her feet, the towel slipping to the floor. It was too late to do much about it, though. Sherlock took hold of her shoulders and held her flush against his body.

"Oh!" Hermione exclaimed quietly, her hands clutching at his white Oxford shirt. Her breasts were pressed against him, and they were both breathing heavily. It took everything she had, but somehow, Hermione peered up at Sherlock through her lashes. "I'm so sorry. I'm not normally this clumsy."

"It's quite alright," Sherlock murmured, his grip softening as he slid his palms down her arms, thumbs brushing over her soft skin. "Are you hurt?" He looked down into her eyes, apparently not worried about her lack of dress.

In fact, Hermione could have sworn that was concern reflected in his beautiful eyes. She swallowed, feeling slightly warm all of a sudden. "I'm feeling okay, all things considered," she replied softly, dropping her gaze to his chest. She knew she should back away and try to get her towel, but something held her there, in his arms. "Sherlock… I-"

As if breaking from a spell, Sherlock inhaled sharply and released the hold he had on Hermione. "I presume you'll be well enough to walk to the bedroom unassisted," he said breezily and then nodded once before ducking around her and exiting the loo.

Hermione was left standing there, naked and entirely exposed like never before. What had she been about to say and why did Sherlock want to get away so quickly? Had he felt it too, that indescribable connection they shared? She'd certainly felt it and had since that first night when he'd allowed her to use his bedroom. Turning slowly, Hermione wrapped her arms around herself and stared at the open door, her heart racing and a feeling she'd not experienced in quite some time flowing through her veins.