Disclaimer: All the characters displayed in this fic are property of their respective creators, JK Rowling (Harry Potter), Moffat and Gatiss (BBC Sherlock), and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (Sherlock Holmes).
By the way, my deepest thanks to all of you that reviewed, favourited or followed the story. It really warms my heart to see how many of you seem to like what I write. I promise I will continue working on this amazing story.
Please see the Notes at the end of the Chapter.
NOTE 29/10/2020: Edited.
Chapter 8: "A Christmas Carol"
"John, you need to bend your knees."
"Mrs Hudson, what do you think I'm bloody doing?" Hermione, panting, reached the first landing and turned her head over her shoulder to look at John, a few steps further down. His face was red - because of the effort or the anger, Hermione couldn't tell - and his forehead was glistening with sweat. Between his hands, wrapped in white plastic, were the roots of the Christmas tree they both were trying to take upstairs. At the bottom of the stairs, Mrs Hudson was giving directions and cleaning the small traces of soil they were leaving behind.
"Hermione, if you go up a bit, then John, you can push the tree over the railing. That's it," said Mrs Hudson as John shifted left, and Hermione pulled from the top of the tree towards the second flight of stairs. John huffed and puffed and used the wall as leverage. "John! Mind the wall, you'll scratch the paper right off!"
John grumbled something unintelligible but moved a few inches to the right, causing the tree to curve, and a bunch of green leaves to rain over John.
"John!" Exclaimed Hermione. "If you keep that up, we will not have any needles left!"
"God forbid we throw this stupid tree to the garbage," said John.
Ten minutes and countless swear words later, Hermione finally entered the room, followed by John, both panting and with sore arms. They stopped for a moment, catching their breath.
"I need a cup of tea," said John, and he dropped the weight of the tree on the floor, and Hermione had to stop the branches before they hit her in the face. Hermione watched perplexed as John walked to the kitchen, washed his hands, refilled the kettle and took two cups out of the cupboard. She looked back to the tree. Determined, Hermione started dragging it over the carpet towards the window. John left the two cups of tea on the table and went over to help her put the tree into the pot she had left ready that morning. "Christmas is not for another 10 days. I don't understand why we bought the tree so soon, Hermione."
"It's my first Christmas at Baker Street. I want the Christmas spirit to be in this house for more than just a couple of days." Hermione bent down and moved the pot closer to the window. The lights would be seen from the street and at the same time, they would illuminate her when she was reading at night. John held her one cup and then sat down in his chair, opening the newspaper. Hermione drank and opened the box of decorations that Mrs Hudson had brought up from the basement. Inside were balls of all sizes and colours, clearly from different sets and owners. Hermione took out all the balls and placed them on the table in separate piles until finally, she found what she was looking for. At the bottom, tangled up themselves and tinsel, were the fairy lights. With great care, she unfolded them, until she had the 16 feet of lights ready to hang around the tree. So she did, from the branch closest to the ground to the top. Then she plugged them in and flipped the switch. The lights flickered and illuminated the already darkening room. Hermione turned around to John, who had left the newspaper and was now watching her.
"Well," she asked. "Was it worth it?"
John laughed and went back to his newspaper. Hermione continued decorating the tree, changing balls here and there, sticking to yellow and golden, and pretended not to hear when John took a picture of the tree.
Hermione hummed as she finished putting the silverware on the table. The smell of turkey came up from Mrs Hudson's kitchen and joined that of the roasted potatoes Hermione had just put in the oven. In less than four hours, all of Baker street, plus Mary, will share a traditionally British Christmas dinner and copious amount of alcohol. Hermione had a knot in her stomach and had not stopped moving around the house all day. It had been a long time since she had shared Christmas dinner with anyone. For years, Hermione had locked herself in her parents' house, repeating the same traditions that her parents used to do, alone. This year the house would have a new family in it, and Hermione finally had found people she wanted to share it with.
The doorbell rang, and Hermione heard Mrs Hudson hurrying to open it and greeting someone. She turned when she heard a knocking on the door.
"Something smells great," Greg Lestrade entered, taking off his gloves. "I just came by to give my season's good wishes to all of you."
"Greg! Please come in. It's just me at the moment, but I'll pass them along."
Hermione watched him look around and settle in the big tree that had been lit up since Hermione finished decorating it. "I can see you are all out."
"If you ask John, he'll complain about it, but I know he loves it. Can I get you a tea?" Greg hesitated. "Come on, it's Christmas Eve day. How much could you possibly have to do?"
"Too much," he sighed. "I'll take that tea."
Hermione went to the kitchen and started the kettle, while the man-made himself comfortable in John's armchair, discarding his scarf and coat. Pouring the water over two fresh tea bags, she went back to the sitting room.
"There you go," she sat down and sipped, observing him. Greg gulped half of his scalding tea, closing his eyes and resting on the seat. "You seem kind of miffed. Not a Christmas person?"
"You wouldn't be if you had to have dinner with your bloody ex-wife and her toy boy," he said. "But my mood had nothing to do with it, well, not completely."
"Something at work is giving you a hard time?"
Lestrade nodded. "We had to hand in the performance reviews today. I've been trying to delay it… but I can't lie in those, they'll know."
"I'm afraid I don't follow."
"Based on my review, I think HR will terminate Anderson from the forensic team. I've entertained him long enough, but it can't go on. Such a shame, he was a pain in the ass, but he was good in what he did." Hermione arched an eyebrow and decided not to comment on it. But Greg seemed in need of an outlet and continued. "I mean, he's completely off his rocker! Going on and on about Sherlock being alive and galloping the world for the past months."
"Sherlock, as in Sherlock Holmes?"
"Bloody mental," said Greg, and finished his tea. "Everything he has are these weird cases happening in Russia. I don't even want to know how he got access to those. Most likely using police resources, which is a different offence altogether."
Greg continued complaining, but Hermione had already started thinking about what he just said. Anderson's name was familiar to her, Mycroft had briefly mentioned someone with that name being behind the police persecution that had lead to Sherlock's suicide, which only made the situation more interesting.
"Hermione, listen," Hermione turned back to Greg. "Do you think you could keep this between us? I don't think this is something John needs to know."
"Don't even mention it. My lips are sealed."
Greg left after wishing a last good Christmas and Hermione stayed seated on the leather armchair, lost in thoughts. She was thinking about Mycroft and the argument they had. Her hand drew imaginary patterns on the fabric as if she could absorb something of its previous owner through touch. It all seemed to begin and end with Sherlock. Was it possible that all it was was a guilt-ridden man trying to atone? Or was there something else, something bigger, that Hermione hadn't seen yet?
"Hermione! The potatoes!" Hermione had not heard Mary arriving and only caught her running towards the oven, opening it and taking out a tray of overcooked potatoes. "Where did you go off to?"
"Is John with you?" Asked Hermione.
"What? No, he's gone to the corner shop, we forgot the mince pies. Why?"
"There's something I need you to look into."
Bundled up inside her coat, Hermione sat outside a quaint old coffee shop in Belgravia. She had covered her eyes with a pair of oversized sunglasses and let the unusually sunny December day warm her skin. The waiter brought her a hot flat white, and she put her hands around it while perusing the brunch menu.
"Oh my, sunglasses," said a chirpy voice. It went straight into Hermione's head and made her groan. "Busy night with dad last night?"
Hermione looked at Mary while she took the chair opposite her. "That man keeps insisting on making up for not spending Christmas day together, and I don't think my liver can take many more years of this." Hermione pushed the menu towards Mary and received Mary's phone. On the screen, there was the image of an unsettling skull. "What am I looking at?"
"'The empty hearse'. Sounds like one of John' titles." Mary ordered a coffee and continued. "After you told me to look into these cases, Greg was telling you about, I went online, and I found this. The unofficial Sherlock Holmes' fan club."
Hermione snickered at that. "How so?"
"They discuss theories about how Sherlock could be alive after throwing himself off a roof. They wear deerstalkers. They also write very disturbing and somehow hot fanfictions about John and Sherlock. Some of them are actually really good."
There was a picture of some members wearing a hat that was now linked to Sherlock. Hermione squinted and recognised one girl in the picture as a regular at Speedy's. She felt like she was living in a museum. "You're joking. A Sherlock fan club?"
"Sherlock Holmes has reached the same pop-culture status as Dr Who, Luke Skywalker or Elvis."
Hermione went back to the phone and kept scrolling down, reading the headers of the different entries. "They do have a lot of information... This PA221b. Whoever they are, they seem pretty thorough. Look at this: sightings, impossible cases that have been solved… There's even a report from a Russian newspaper that talks about an 'invisible hand that does what the police can't do.'"
"There are a lot of tabloid reports in there, though. I'd take some of those with a pinch of salt." Hermione was still reading when Mary snatched the phone away. "Hi, Molly!"
"Hello, sorry I'm late." Molly sat in the remaining empty chair. "I had an appointment with Mr Vanderbilt. Car crash, very messy."
"No worries, we were just chatting anyway," said Hermione.
"Yeah, I got wind of a bit of gossip," said Mary and Hermione kicked her under the table. "Did you know that there is a Sherlock fan club?"
Molly shifted in her seat, but she did not seem surprised. "Yeah, Anderson created it, I think. I wouldn't trust anything on there, to be honest."
"Anderson, isn't he the guy Greg has fired?" Asked Hermione, and Molly said he was. "He seems to have spent quite some time researching this."
"They wear deerstalkers, Hermione," said Molly.
"And we all know, owning merchandising is the trait of a true psycho. Like this girl here," Mary pointed towards Hermione. "She used to have a TARDIS tea holder, several geek tees and a disturbing fetish with guys that look like the bad guy from Thor, who she never stops commenting about every single time he appears somewhere."
Hermione threw Mary a scrunched napkin that Mary deflected with her hand. "At least he doesn't play an undersized creature with hairy feet as that hobbit you like so much."
Mary playfully hushed Hermione, giving her a rude hand expression. "Anyway, geek, I believe Molly wanted to tell us something."
"Why do you say so?" Asked Molly.
"You invited us for brunch, Molls. And you normally don't eat after a gruesome client."
Pointed Hermione, and Molly mumbled under her breath. Something that sounded like 'I hate deductions,' but she smiled at them all the same.
"Well, I was wondering, do you mind if I bring someone along to the New Year's Eve party?"
"Oh! Is this the mysterious, tall, dark-haired man you have talked to us about?" Mary asked.
"His name is Tom. We are kind of serious, so I thought I might introduce him to you."
"Anyone is welcome at Baker Street, Molly, you know that."
"So, about this man Molly's bringing... Do you know him?"
Hermione looked at John in the mirror above the fireplace while putting on her earrings.
"For the last time, John. No, I haven't met him. Neither have Mary nor Greg. I only know he's tall, dark-haired, that his name is Tom, and he's an accountant for a company in the City. "
"And how did they meet?"
"Through friends, like normal people," Hermione looked at herself one last time and then turned to John. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you're jealous."
"I'm not, but you know, Molly has a very dubious taste in men. She dated a psychopath and was in love with a sociopath," John struggled with his tie and then decided to forgo of it. "I mean, you are a super MI-6 agent, haven't you done a background check on him?"
"John, I'm not in the habit of invading the privacy of every single person my friends meet."
Not even ten minutes after the conversation, Mary and Greg arrived, being welcomed with a glass of wine. Mrs Hudson was already comfortably seated on the couch, drinking her possibly second glass. They settled around the front room, waiting for the last guests to arrive before taking the food to the table. The doorbell rang, and Hermione made her way to the staircase, yelling to Molly to come in and close the door, while Mary advised everyone to be kind to the new guest. Molly came into the room, followed by a man in a dark, long coat, with messy dark hair, and a blue scarf securely fastened around his neck in a pull-through knot.
"Hello, everyone, this is Tom."
Hermione saw how John's eyebrows shot to his hairline, as astonished as everyone else. Greg came out of his surprise first and quickly came to shake Tom's hand. John did the same and excused himself to go to the kitchen, being followed by Hermione, who left the doors ajar.
"Did you, er ...?"
"Not saying a word, John."
"Yes, better not." He peeked through the small opening between the sliding doors, seeing how Mary interacted with Tom under the gaze of a very confused Lestrade. "But seriously?"
Hermione put a small cheese snack in her mouth and shrugged her shoulders, wiping her hands clean.
"Maybe I was right, maybe he's a psychopath," John said. "Look at how he smiles, it's almost unnatural. He wears the same blue scarf!"
"Well, they were very trendy a few years ago, if my mind serves me right. Primark did a Holmes-inspired section with hats, scarfs, and shirts when you boys were all over the news. Come on, they must be starving."
The night progressed as it should. Mary and John exchanged playful banter filled with sex innuendos almost too much for her very sex-deprived self. Molly and Tom were sickly sweet to the point where John had to look somewhere else when they kissed because it felt 'out of character'. Greg and Mrs Hudson had apparently started their own competition about who could drink more bourbon in less time, and by the looks of it, Greg was losing. Her brain, idled from the alcohol and the mirth, had started to think about Mycroft. Without noticing, her hand had reached for her phone and was playing with it, slowly twirling it. Approximately ten minutes before midnight, she had sent Mycroft a text, wishing him a happy new year, waiting for her answer, just like every year. But the Big Ben welcomed 2013 without so much of a blip from him. After, when Greg and Mrs Hudson were already long gone and left her with two horny forty years old teenagers and two lovers sharing small kisses in front of the fireplace, Hermione felt her anger rising. For being such a posh, refined, always taking the highroad person, Mycroft could be such a brat sometimes. It was downright childish not answering a Happy New Year text. She stood up, almost losing her balance, and went downstairs. She took her coat from the entrance, with the firm intention of getting an answer.
Mycroft Holmes indulged in very few things in his life. His body reminded him he was no longer as young as he would have liked to, with some health scares and premature grey hairs, so he had been putting himself on a rigorous regimen: diet, exercise, little smoking, no drinking. But today marked the beginning of a new year of political disturbances, intrigues and general mayhem seemed worth an aged bourbon and a cigarette while listening to the vibrant violins of Bach's sonatas. Close to one in the morning, the sound of the doorbell disturbed the opening movement of Sonata No. 3. Mycroft closed his eyes, trying to relax. New Year's Eve was always filled with drunken teenagers and classless people around Mayfair. Then the doorbell rang again, and again, finally turning into a horrid tune similar to a carol. He went to open the door, ready to face whatever stupid boy unlucky enough to have chosen his house instead of any other. But on the other side was not a teen, but a young woman, clad in a tailored Belstaff he recognised as his own gift, keeping balance on sky-high black stilettos, red cheeks from the cold and alcohol and a stupid diadem with sparkly antlers.
"What are you doing here?"
"So harsh, Mike," said Hermione, leaning on the doorframe. "Just dropping by to wish you a Happy New Year."
"You are drunk," Hermione shrugged. "Who brought you here?"
"This super nice Uber driver. No cab would take me. Can you believe it? I had to give him a very generous tip, but he dropped me right in front of your house." Hermione pushed him enough as to slip inside, removing her coat and trying to hang it on the coat rack, failing. Not bothering with the quiet thud the coat made when touching to the floor, she continued to the living room. She heard, however, the exasperated sigh that came from Mycroft.
"I'll call John so he can come to pick you up."
"Don't bother!" She shouted from the sitting room. "The last thing I saw of him was his hand scurrying under Mary's skirt, so I guess they are busy making babies now." She fell on the couch with a plof. Mycroft sat in the armchair opposite, his arms resting on his sides in his typical commanding posture. She knew it very well. Her mind could be a drunken mess, but this was textbook, the position of someone demanding respect and showing power. Not this time, Hermione thought.
"So, Mikey," the moniker escaped her lips, relishing how mad it made him. "We haven't talked in ages. And tonight, you deliberately decided not to answer my kind wishes."
"I apologise. That was very impolite. Happy New Year, agent Black."
Hermione snorted. "Agent Black? When was the last time you called me that? Well, in fact, when was the last time you called me?"
"I really think you are not fit for this conversation."
"I'm perfectly fit for anything, Mycroft," if Mycroft understood the sexual connotations, he did not show it. Bastard. "One can't say the same about you. Bourbon and a cigarette. What about your no-indulgence policy?"
"You have very little moral ground right now for that." He was so easy. He could not help it, he always had to retaliate. "You should leave Hermione."
"Why? Are you busy? Do you have someone hiding in your room waiting for a New Year's scolding? Has someone been naughty?" She cocked an eyebrow at him before turning her head to where she knew the stairs were and yelled. "Go away, darling, he's busy now."
"Stop behaving like a child! This behaviour is not among adults."
"Oh yes…" She unfastened her heels, kicking them off, and ripped off her antlers. "Because you are the poster child of adultness, ignoring someone who is supposed to work for you."
"Your attitude was not the one an agent of your rank should have had. You behaved like a spoiled child."
"I behaved like a human being!" She had stood on her bare feet, coming closer to his chair, "I'm sorry my ordinariness offends you, Your Highness."
"I cannot have a subordinate questioning what I do or why I do it."
She had recoiled as if touched with a live wire.
"Is that what I am now? A subordinate?"
"I need an armed hand, not a conscience." Mycroft had also stood up, towering over her and looking her in the eye. "People's life might depend on you following my orders."
"Are you seriously questioning my professionalism because I questioned your feelings?"
"No, I'm questioning it because you cannot have those kinds of doubts on the field."
"I have never challenged an order you have given me. Why is it so important I don't question your feelings?"
"Because we need to keep a reasonable distance; otherwise, the lines might get blurrier than they already are." Mycroft turned around and stepped in front of the fireplace, hands behind his back.
"I shouldn't have questioned your love for Sherlock," said Hermione. "I know how much you cared about your brother. I'm used to your patronising, and I'm definitely used to your disregard for feelings. But I guess I thought you might miss me when or if I'm gone. That you cared about me, more than me being just a good agent. I know I need you in my life. And despite everything, I do trust you, Mycroft. And that's the biggest compliment I'm capable of."
He turned back to watch her.
"I don't do feelings, Hermione. Feelings doom people and what is more important, they doom a country. They doomed my brother. I won't make the same mistake."
She let her head hang low, feeling the impending flow of tears. Expensive Italian shoes were taping on the floor, and a hand found her shoulder, gently caressing her.
"That doesn't mean I don't have your back. I promise you, I will protect you, no matter what, no matter how. You have my word."
She looked up at him, and relief flooded through her. Something like that was the closest Mycroft would ever be to admitting he cared about her. Tomorrow she will probably chastise herself for being weak, for having yielded so soon and not having pressured him on Anderson's information. But for now, she let her head fall into Mycroft's chest, tear staining his white shirt, like a lost kid that had finally found her way home.
Notes:
Hi all, I know it has been a while :) as I said, I am trying to incorporate bit by bit some of the things that have already happened in the TV series, so I hope it makes them justice. This chapter is not as long as the others, and it is because is more of a positioning of the characters. We start seeing Hermione connecting the dots about Sherlock. I also hope to liked the Easter eggs along the chapter!
The relationship between Hermione and Mycroft is very complicated and has been changing my mind quite a bit. As I see it, is a very weird mixture between father-daughter, brother-sister and lover one. Is probably (and not exactly, because I am no psychologist), like Stockholm syndrome. She feels grateful to Mycroft because he gave her a life purpose again, and at the same time he has become such a fixture in her life, and their relationship is so different to any boss-employee relationship that they have developed something else on top of that trust they have for each other. She has very few people in her life she actually cares and trusts on. Before John, she only had Mary, Sirius and Mycroft. Give me your thoughts.
I'll probably edit this, as it is very late and I do not think my brain has processed the typos very well.
Next chapter: Magic comes to Baker Street, Mary let's go of her past and John gets ready for the big question. SPOILER: next chapter will be the last before Sherlock comes back.