Here it is, my first smut ever. I hope it makes sense, and it somehow stays in character. This is the chapter I am more anxious about, so any comment is welcomed to help me develop these characters further.

It is also my most descriptive chapter yet. I am not sure how it would have turned out.

NOTE1: if you don't feel comfortable with smut, the safe parts of the story are marked with *** at the beginning and at the end.

Note2 03/02/2021: Edited, unbetaed

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).

Chapter 14: The Sign of Three, Act II: Climax

From the bench she was sitting on, Hermione watched the door to the banquet hall. Hermione took a puff on her cigarette. She was not far from the building and had been able to make out the notes of Sherlock's composition. Now, more festive music had replaced the violin, and Sherlock would soon tire of it and escape. She did not have to wait long. The detective's tall figure drew against the door's glass panels, coat in hand, before slipping outside. Without looking back, Sherlock put on his Belstaff and strode down the gravel path.

'Are you leaving, Sherlock?'

Sherlock halted and turned to her. Hermione smiled at him, even though the darkness and the distance between them made it difficult to make out their faces, and holding out her arm, she offered him the cigarette. The tip glowed like embers, and Sherlock stepped closer to her. His fingers brushed hers, his mouth closing over the lipstick mark Hermione had left on the butt. Sherlock leaned her head back and exhaled a cloud of smoke.

'Weddings are not really my thing,' he said.

'They aren't Mycroft's either,' observed Hermione. 'Have you spoken with your brother today?'

'Before the banquet. I had to make sure he wouldn't show up to upstage the bride.' Sherlock flicked the ash off the cigarette and passed it to her. 'He seems under the impression he would be seeing more of me from now on.'

Hermione could have told Sherlock his brother was not coming and had saved him from whatever snarky comment Mycroft had made. Hermione doubted Mycroft had ever gone to any wedding without an ulterior motive, such as acquiring a political ally or conspiring against a political enemy. That extended to funerals, birthdays, and other social occasions. In this case, Mycroft had commented several times on Sherlock's position in the wedding in the ever mocking tone he adopted when talking about everyday actions by ordinary people — none of which applied to him. Whatever remark Mycroft had made earlier had hijacked Sherlock's brain's control centre, and Hermione would eat her hat if it hadn't influenced his decision of leaving.

Hermione finished her smoke and stubbed out the butt on the stone bench.

'We should go inside, Sherlock. They are probably wondering where we are,' Hermione said, standing up. Sherlock looked towards the window. Far from the crowd, Mary and John were having a quiet moment talking behind the stage. John's thumbs were circling over Mary's belly.

'I think they have more pressing things to think about.'

'How do you mean?' asked Hermione.

'I'm almost sure Mary's pregnant.'

'Oh!' Hermione took a few seconds to answer. 'That makes sense.' Sherlock looked at her quizzically. 'Mary chose the wine which she now hates. Last week we changed the flowers last minute because the smell was too much, and the dress she had fitted is now too tight. And her breasts are sore, but that's probably information she'd rather not tell you.' Sherlock muttered something under his breath, and Hermione grabbed his hand, pulling him towards the door. Despite his scowl and general reluctance, Sherlock complied. 'Smile Sherlock. If it makes you happy, we can guess how many couples will divorce by the end of the year.'

'That's hardly amusing if I cannot tell them.'

Hermione pushed the door open. 'How about we finish this wedding with no one punching that beautiful face of yours?'

Hermione was, as per usual, right. As soon as Sherlock and Hermione re-entered the room, Mary launched herself at Hermione and carried her away, while John, more restrained, gave Sherlock a glass of whiskey.

'Has he told you?' asked Mary as Hermione discarded her coat in a chair and smiled at her friend.

'Congratulations, love.' Hermione hugged Mary.

'We still don't know if it's true.'

'Sherlock rarely fails.'

'What were you doing out, anyway?' asked Mary, with a mischievous grin on her face.

'Performing my duties as an undercover bridesmaid.' Hermione answered. Mary nodded, understanding what had happened, and led Hermione to the dance floor. Soon Hermione found herself squeezed between Mary and a tipsy Lottie. Every chance she got, she would glance in Sherlock's direction. She told herself it was to make sure he hadn't vanished while she was distracted. But there he was, talking to John and whatever person had approached them, somewhere between terrified and fascinated, hoping to get a closer glimpse of the man who had prevented a murder.

John seemed to carry the weight of the conversation, and Sherlock tapped his index finger on his glass in time to an invisible beat. When the music changed to a slower song, John apologised to one of Mary and Sherlock's friends and appeared to dance with his wife. Meanwhile, Hermione accepted Greg's invitation. Over the detective's shoulder, she watched as Janine made her way over to Sherlock and somehow convinced him to join the rest of the couples. Hermione answered whatever Greg had asked her with a noise. Her attention was on Janine's hands, which were absently playing with the lapels of Sherlock's jacket. Sherlock's lips moved, and Janine giggled. Sherlock raised his head, and for a moment, their eyes met, before Janine caught Sherlock's attention again. One song moved on to the next, and Hermione exchanged partners with Molly. Tom's chatter seemed to need no companion, and Hermione returned to Sherlock-and-Janine-watching. They had stopped dancing, and Janine, on her tiptoes, gave him a peck on the cheek as she slipped a business card into Sherlock's pocket, and walked away. Sherlock took the card out of his pocket and, after glancing at it, put it back in his pocket. Hermione turned her attention back to Tom and his anecdote at last year's company dinner, trying to ignore the bitter taste that had settled on her mouth.

Much later, when her feet couldn't take one more dance and John and Mary had left the banquet to take the private jet to their honeymoon — Mycroft did not go to these social outings, but his gifts were always excellent—, Hermione returned to her table. Sherlock and Greg were in the middle of a discussion about a cold case Sherlock had encountered months ago. When Sherlock caught sight of her approaching, he pulled back the chair beside him for her. Hermione continued to sip her gin in silence, occasionally agreeing with one statement or the other. She also exchanged surprised glances with Sherlock. God-knows-how-many-whiskeys Greg was a decent detective. Hermione stifled a yawn and searched for Mrs Hudson, who, at that moment, seemed to be in a shot drinking competition with one of John's aunts.

'It seems to me that Mrs Hudson is going to make use of one of those rooms that Mary has reserved to spare,' said Hermione as Greg left for the toilet.

Sherlock chuckled. 'I'm going to have to prepare my own tea tomorrow.'

'I think I'm going to get back to Baker Street. Maybe we can share a ride?' said Hermione getting up. 'Unless you have somewhere to be.' Her eyes drifted to his breast pocket as he got up.

'Why would I have to be somewhere?'

Hermione shrugged and let Sherlock help her with her coat.

'Where do you think I was going to go?' asked Sherlock. Hermione tore her attention away from the scenery outside the car window and turned her head towards Sherlock. He was still staring idly at the lights on the road, his elbow resting on the door handle.

'There was someone who was very interested in you. She even gave you her card.'

'I didn't need a visiting card to know she was interested. She was painfully obvious.'

'Yet, you've kept it.'

'Took a page out of Mycroft's book. You never know when someone is going to be useful, Hermione.' Sherlock shifted in his seat and finally faced her. 'Should I have disposed of it?'

Hermione swallowed hard. She couldn't tell him she was almost offended that everything people said about him might be false and that he was thinking of Janine to break his supposed celibacy. 'Not at all. I'm merely surprised. You hear things.'

Sherlock hummed. 'I thought Mycroft was above baseless tattles.' His fingers loosened his tie and slipped underneath, undoing the first button of the stiff shirt. 'What about you, Hermione?'

'What do you mean?'

'Anyone gave you a visiting card? Although I can't imagine anyone in that wedding you might have liked. Everyone seemed rather… plain.'

'Who says I don't like plain?'

Sherlock's eyes bore into hers. You wouldn't be that boring, would you?' he said with a smirk.

For a moment, Hermione thought he had finally caught her. It was impossible Sherlock had not noticed her lingering stares in all the time they had lived together. She had chalked up Sherlock's silence to a lack of interest on his part rather than her acting abilities. Inside that car, where the temperature seemed to have raised a good five degrees, it all pointed to the fact that Sherlock might not be as unaware of her attraction as she thought. But Sherlock, oblivious to her inner turmoil, rested his head against the leather seat, peering outside again. Hermione let out a slow breath. The car was too small, Sherlock was too close, and Hermione was acutely aware of the few inches that separated his thigh from hers. Hermione exhaled slowly and closed her eyes. All she wanted was to get home and forget about today. To go back to normal, to Sherlock being Sherlock, and for the attraction Hermione harboured for him to live only in her fantasies. She didn't realise she had fallen asleep until a hand gently shook her shoulder, jolting her awake. Hermione looked around, confused. The car had stopped, and Sherlock was reaching for his credit card. Through the window and despite the dimly lit streetlights, she could see that the driver had stopped in front of Baker Street. Hermione got out of the car and fumbled for her keys. Behind her, the car started up again and disappeared around the corner.

'I've narrowed it down to two possibilities,' said Sherlock behind her. 'The waiter Janine was busy with when we left, and John's old roommate, who I'm pretty sure is gay.'

Hermione looked over her shoulder as she slid the key into the lock. 'This time your deductions are way off.'

'They are the only two reasonable possibilities.'

Hermione opened the door and removed her coat, hanging it on one of the hooks in the hallway. A shiver ran down her spine as the street air hit her skin. Sherlock had done the same but had stood still, watching her with his head slightly cocked to one side. Hermione leaned back against the pile of coats.

'There's always a third,' said Hermione. Sherlock wet his lips, and Hermione let go a shaky breath. Hermione couldn't help but appreciate how his shirt and ivory waistcoat clung to his body like a second skin under the jacket. The tie was skew, and where Sherlock had opened the buttons, the hollow of his throat was visible.

'Describe him to me,' he said. His baritone voice was laced with the commanding tone Hermione had grown to associate with him, and fire flared deep in Hermione's belly. She closed the space between them until the tips of her peep toes brushed against his oxfords. Her hands focused on the same corsage she had placed on him that morning.

'Tall, taller than everyone else. He was wearing —' Hermione pushed with her thumb on the bar of the safety pin that held the corsage in place and let it fall to the ground.' — a perfectly tailored suit. Gieves & Hawkes, if I had to guess.' Sherlock's musky scent was contaminated with Janine's perfume, and Hermione dragged her palms under the jacket as if trying to brush it away, replacing it with her own. Sherlock let the jacket slide along his arms and pool around his feet. His breath was fanning over her face. Hermione could almost taste the tobacco and expensive whiskey on her tongue.

The warmth irradiating from his body and seeping into her palms made her heady. 'Deep voice. Beautiful blue eyes.' Hermione reached for the platinum handcuffs, and after undoing them, they joined the corsage. 'Adorable curls. And long hands, violinist hands.' Her voice broke, and she finally raised her head. His face was unreadable. She took a step back, and when Sherlock did not stop her, she took another. She had made a mistake. There she was, trembling, full of unrequited desire and shame, and she tried to dignify her exit, thinking about how she was going to blame it all to the alcohol in the morning.

Before she could escape, a hand closed over her wrist, and Sherlock's towering presence crowded her. As always, things had to be at Sherlock's pace and under Sherlock's rules. But when his fingers started travelling up her arm, with his rough fingertips caressing her skin and leaving goosebumps in their wake, Hermione realised she did not care. All she cared about was for Sherlock to continue with his particular brand of foreplay because she thought she could combust any second. He reached her shoulders and then dived into her hair. With concise movements, Hermione wondered how he had learned, Sherlock removed one by one the hairpins holding Hermione's curls in place, carelessly dropping them as she had done before. With each pin tangled in her mane came the inevitable tug, albeit gentle, in her scalp, which kept feeding the fire burning inside her. By the time the last one fell, her eyes had closed, her hands had clenched tightly into fists, and little quivering sighs were leaving her mouth like a litany. Sherlock took a step back. So this is how it was, Hermione thought. A chess game. His turn had finished, and it was time for her next move. She wanted to break his apparently calm demeanour, unleash the storm brewing in his eyes. Hermione set about undoing the knot of his tie and the buttons of his waistcoat, observing how his pupils swallowed the blue of his irises and his Adam's apple bobbed up and down. Hermione counted as a victory when his hand raised to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear. When Hermione finished her task, she started exploring the strong plains of his abdomen, feeling his muscles contracting.

Sherlock seized his turn. He buried his hand in her hair, covering her neck and the back of her head, and when he tilted it back, Hermione surrendered to Sherlock. His lips brushed against hers once, twice. A barely-there kiss that in any other circumstance, Hermione would have classified as chaste. Here and now, there was nothing chaste about the position they were in. It was a chase, a battle, like everything else they had done since they met. All arguments and shared moments had led to this. It was only a matter of time before one of them cracked.

In the end, it was Sherlock, with a groan that seemed to tore free from deep inside him, who finally gave in first. Sherlock's mouth trapped hers in a persistent, demanding, relentless kiss, and Hermione did her best to keep up with his pace. They were devouring each other like ravenous animals. Their gasps for air and their moans echoed in the small hall. Sherlock pressed against her, and the full evidence of his arousal making Hermione writhe against him. Her magic sang inside her veins, and she could feel it rippled along her body. Sherlock turned his attention to her neck and nipped a spot beneath Hermione's ear that drew from her a moan that did not sound human.

Sherlock stopped then, panting, and extricated himself from her. She knew he was giving them both the choice to stop the madness that was sleeping together. Hermione had decided long ago. Hermione couldn't remember ever wanting Sherlock as much as she did. But the detective's brain had kicked in again, and he was weighing his options.

'What do you want, Sherlock?' Hermione asked.

'What I want has rarely been good for anyone.' His voice was low and husky, and Hermione had to fight against the fog of lust clouding her brain. Maybe he was right. Maybe this time around, Sherlock was being the responsible one. But her lips acted on their own, pressing a small kiss onto his neck, and Sherlock trembled beneath her touch.

'I don't like when people chose for me,' she whispered.

'It's been too long,' he said, his lips brushing her ear.

'Not a problem for me if it's not a problem for you. Sherlock, I'm not going to force you into anything,' said Hermione, separating from him. 'If you don't want to continue -'

'It's not a problem of wanting,' he bit out, staring down at her and pressing her to him. He was still hard and hot against her. 'It's how much, what it's a problem.'

Whatever answer Hermione could have given him was drowned in his mouth. He swiped his tongue against hers. Hermione had fantasised an uncountable number of times with how kissing Sherlock would be like, how he would look consumed by passion and how he would feel inside her.

It turns out Sherlock was in this aspect as he was in daily life: demanding, pushy, and took no prisoners. And he looked like a god while doing it. And he felt like one would.

She persistently tried to tug his shirt out of his trousers. He had dragged the fabric of her skirt just enough so that he could slip under it. Sherlock lifted her and guided her legs around his hips. His palms travelled up her smooth thighs, and when he reached her butt, he broke the kiss.

'Where are you knickers?'

Hermione whimpered and rocked against him, directly over his now throbbing erection. Sherlock pushed her closer and took her lower lip in between his teeth. Sherlock carried them both to the upper floor, and dropped Hermione on the kitchen table, next to his microscope. He helped Hermione get rid of his shirt and waistcoat. Then her wine nails were scraping over his nipples and down his abs to the band of his trousers. She marvelled at the lean body beneath the clothes, all hard planes and taut muscles. Sherlock was letting small puffs of air and had slowed down the pace of their kisses, but he kept pushing the skirt of her dress up, mapping her inner thighs. His eyes drifted to her left arm, where at a glance there was nothing on display. Hermione's breath hitched. She did not have her wand, and she had always been shit at wandless magic. But there was something in Sherlock's presence, like if her magic was part of a positive feedback loop. She muttered the words, and when she looked down, Sherlock was tracing the letters with the pad of his fingers. Sherlock fell to his knees, his lips travelling down her arm and his hands playing with the hem of her dress. She couldn't care less about her wandless magic now. Her focus zeroed on the man whose fingers were inches away from when she had wanted him for months.

She had to strain herself from moving her hips forward, but he seemed to have caught her intentions because he started drawing the skirt further up, slowly. Without tearing his eyes away from hers, his teeth grazed one inner thigh, drawing a long moan from the Hermione. He traced a path from the knee upwards until reaching the thin mat in the apex of her thighs. She closed her eyes, the soft noises hitching an octave higher while she could not suppress a thrust this time. Hermione stared at him as his lips parted from her. His jaw clenched. His breathing shallow and fast.

'Sherlock…'

All his resolve seemed to disappear when his name came out of her lips. His hands gripped the skirt and pushed it up to her waist. He grabbed the back of her knees and scooped her over the edge of the table, opening her for him. Hermione tried desperately to cling to whatever part of him she could reach. Sherlock played with the pressure, the speed, the technique. It was only fitting she was splayed next to his experiments, as that was what he was doing with her. Taking notes of her and her reactions. And when he added his fingers and curled them just so, Hermione arched over the table, begging for something, anything.

'More…' Sherlock added a finger, and the moan that left her throat would have made her blush if she would have been able to focus on something else rather than Sherlock's hands and mouth on her. Sherlock continued his tests, but he moved his lips to her neck, himself panting and groaning as he felt her wetness spreading over his fingers and her thighs, her walls contracting around him. His hips were rocking against nothing, and Sherlock gripped her hip as her crest bones dug against the table, both probably leaving bruises behind. But the slight pain did nothing to avoid her from moving against him. Sherlock changed the angle of his fingers, and his teeth scraped her collarbone, and the coil in her belly snapped. Her mouth opened in a silent cry. The contractions around him increased in pace only to explode in one of the most powerful orgasms she had experienced. Hermione thought she might have blacked out and was brought back by Sherlock's lips on her temple. Sherlock scooped her in his arms and carried her to his old room. He left her on the floor, and for the second time that night, he kneeled in front of her, removing first one of her heels, then the other. He took his time travelling down her neck, while his hand unzipped her dress, letting it puddle on the floor. The orgasm she had just had was a promise of everything the man observing her body could do, and she decided she had let Sherlock in charge for too long. She pushed him to the bed, and then it was her turn. Hermione smiled at his moan when she opened his legs and sunk between them, taking off his shoes, his socks and then his trousers. Hermione had to stop when she removed the last item of clothing, her own arousal returning tenfold at the sight of him. With her index finger, she traced the length of him, and Sherlock shivered. Hermione took him in her hand, and he let out a strangled cry. She climbed on top of him, and Sherlock's hands cupped her backside. A few inches, a movement, and he would be inside of her. Hermione saw him closing his eyes as she slid down onto him, and how the being on his neck pulsated at the same rhythm that he did inside of her. Sherlock surged up and turned them around in one swift motion. His hips pushed forward, completely sheathed in her. He let a pained moan and Hermione tried to move, but he stopped her with one of his hands on her hips, his stare a mixture of pain and pleasure, his voice low and warning.

'Don't move.'

Sherlock ran his hands up from her hip to her stomach to her chest. He grazed his thumbs against her nipple, and Hermione dug her nails on his shoulders. When his lips closed around her other breast, her head thrashed back and buckled her hips. Sherlock moaned around her nipple and started moving. Slow at first, withdrawing completely before entering again. Each thrust hit a deeper spot. Sherlock dragged his lips from the hollow of her throat to the shell of her ear.

'Do you have any idea-' His voice bit each word against the side of her neck. His hips punctuated every word he muttered. '-of how many times I've imagined this?'

His voice had always had this effect on her, but hearing it, just for her, with the darker edge of someone tethering on the edge of losing control, was the most erotic things she could imagine. She moaned loudly when the first cues of her orgasm started, and Sherlock replied with one of his own. Hermione tumbled over the edge with his name on her lips. Over her, Sherlock kept a steady pace, with sweat gathering on his hairline. Under her hands, his muscles were stiff with the effort of staving off his orgasm for as long as he could. Hermione bit his neck, and in the moment of weakness it provoked, she was again on top. He peered at her, and she stopped for a second, just admiring him from this position. With him now under her mercy, the Sherlock Holmes about to become a mess under her, she had never felt so powerful. She held his gaze as she waved her hips tentatively, and Sherlock moaned, closing his eyes. His hands returned to her hips, urging her to move quicker. She ran her hands over his abs and used them to support her. Her movements were now sharp and precise, purposeful. She lowered her head until her lips brushed his, and her breasts were pushed against his chest.

'Come for me, Sherlock.'

His body tensed, and his eyes went to the back of his head as his orgasm hit. She kissed along his neck, letting him come undone, while still lazily rocking her hips. His hands made their way up from her spine, milking the aftershocks. They looked at each other, and she let herself fall beside him. Hermione stared at him but said nothing as she tried to catch her breath. Giving him space to decide whether he wanted to stay or not.

Sherlock had stayed, and after the short bliss that sexual release brought with it, his brain had kicked into overdrive.

Around him, the entire room smelled like sex, like two people mixed in a scent that, in other circumstances, he had found foul. He looked at Hermione. Her naked form was tucked to his left side, legs intertwined with his right arm thrown over his torso. Her skin shone under the moonlight, how her curly hair cascaded around her shoulders. She was sound asleep.

Unaware of what she had unleashed in him.

Sherlock had been surprised by the dimension of his own desire, his own longing. He did not pursue sexual encounters often, but when the need was too great, and he could not service himself, he had gone out and picked someone easy to go home with and easy to forget. Someone he did not have to talk to, probably would never see again — perks of living in London. People who expected nothing of him more than what they had both agreed to have. And never, ever, he had stayed.

But Mycroft had been right from the beginning. He had been interested, if only because she seemed to hold his brother's attention. Sharing close living quarters with her meant he had been exposed to the full extent of Hermione Granger, and he had not been prepared for it. For the enigma she was, for the danger that came with her, for her brain, dazzling him. And magic. Magic was exhilarating. It oozed from her like perfume and covered him like a blanket. It was electrifying; it was powerful, and it was her. Even if he were to be exposed to any other magical being, he was sure he could recognise her magic anywhere.

She was someone that shouldn't be possible. And yet here she was, with him, after sex. After he had told her, in a moment of weakness, he had imagined her under him, over him, in any way his imagination could devise. Now her scent was ingrained in his brain, her moans had been catalogued as they happened. Sherlock suspected they occupied the same space as cocaine and heroin. He did like to get addicted to dangerous things.

Hermione was only that, he tried to convince himself. A drug. An itch, an unsolved case. There were no 'sentiments' involved, there was no future in this. They could be adults about this. It was no different to a one-night-stand. They could go back to their normal lives tomorrow as if nothing had happened. What happens at weddings stays at weddings, as they said.

Sherlock lifted the arm resting on him, and despite the pang of loss tugging in his chest, he got his clothes from the floor and left.

Fled would be a more accurate description.