Hi all, welcome back! My muses decided to visit me this week and I've written not one but two chapters! Here is the first one, the next one will be up in exactly 1 week from now. And that one comes with 2 very unexpected guests. Any bets? Let me know in the comments!

As always, thank you so so much all of you who are still reading this story, and those of you who are new to it. Especial shutout to my wonderful beta nightgigjo who has been magnificent, as always.

Now, enjoy! And let me know your thoughts in the comments.

Disclaimer: All the characters displayed in this fic belong to their respective creators, JK Rowling (Harry Potter), Moffat and Gatiss (BBC Sherlock), and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (Sherlock Holmes).

Note: Edited, April 2021

The Lying Detective - Part 1

Death had been part of Hermione's life for as long as she could remember. One of her first memories was of her Nana's funeral when she was six years old, holding her mother's hand as the priest prayed over the casket. Her mother had not let her see Nana then. When Grandpa Louis had had a fatal stroke the year after, Hermione had seen a dead person for the first time, and she thought he looked rather peaceful. Then she had gone off to Hogwarts and had learnt the many forms death can take. Now, every day she had the nagging feeling she was living on borrowed time.

Hermione descended the last flight of stairs at St Bart's morgue, her trainers squeaking against the clean linoleum. The corridors were dimly lit, and for not the first time, she praised Molly's bright disposition and fierce character in her head. Hermione could not imagine a worse job than being surrounded by death. But today, Molly had been sent away. Someone else had taken over examining the body that had arrived from an incident in the London aquarium, had established the cause of death, done the autopsy, harvested the organs that the woman on the slab had consented for donation. And now the body awaited, the last hours on the surface of the earth, inside Molly's immaculate morgue.

In the distance, Hermione saw a stout figure in a dark suit. When Hermione had asked Mycroft to let her stand vigil for Mary, he had not fought back. He had merely looked at her with a mix between pity and worry and had called Mike Stamford. The pathologist had agreed, after a while, and had promised her he'd made sure she was not disturbed.

Mike turned around when he heard the soft noise of steps. His eyes were rimmed in red, and he was scrunching a paper tissue in his hand. Hermione walked straight to him and let him hug her. They parted, both sniffling, and Mike glanced at the double doors to his right.

'Are you sure you want to do this?'

Hermione nodded, and Mike led her into the morgue. The pungent smell of formaldehyde reached her first, and the cold nipped at her skin. A single body covered with a white hospital sheet on top of a slab occupied the room. Mike pushed his glasses over his forehead and dabbed his eyes again.

'I couldn't put her in a bag,' Mike muttered, and Hermione looked at him, surprised.

'Did you-?'

'She deserved it, and I couldn't possibly ask Molly to do it.' Mike cleared his throat. 'The guys for the home should be here in three hours, but no one is to come in here until then.'

Hermione nodded again. Her eyes were fixed on the feet at the end of the table, the tag hanging from the big toe, and the almost imperceptible swinging off it. A hand landed on her shoulder and disappeared almost as fast.

'Mike,' spoke Hermione without turning. 'Go to John. He needs a friend now.'

Mike muttered something under his breath, and then the door closed behind him with a soft thud, leaving Hermione alone. She quickly realised the radio Molly always kept on was missing, and now there was nothing to quench the oppressive, deafening silence. Silence was everything death left behind, and that and the stench of putrefaction barely disguised by the chemicals.

Hermione stood by the door for some time. Her legs seemed to be unable to carry her towards Mary. She approached the feet first and took the tag in her hands. Her fingers brushed against the metal table. It was cold, and a bubble of anger raised in her. Mary hated the cold. She could not feel it now, but for Hermione, it was an insult. She rubbed her hands to warm them, followed the body's outline beneath the sheet, and grasped the edge where the hip was. Hermione lifted it enough to find what she was looking for. The small black and grey daisy with blurred lines that Mary had gotten when she was 16 and a runaway. It was a miracle she had walked out of the tattoo parlour with just the tattoo and not hepatitis; Mary always had laughed it off. She had meant to cover it up for ages, but she never did, and Hermione joked she just liked her misshaped flower.

Hermione let out a shaky breath and felt the tears welling up in her eyes. She had held the tiniest of hopes that this was another of Mary's stunts. That she, like Sherlock, had managed to cheat death. Two tears splashed against the table and the sheet, and Hermione covered the tattoo again and wiped her cheeks. She walked next to the slab until she reached the top of it. An unsteady hand lowered the sheet, and then Mary's face was out in the open. They would dress her at the funeral home; they would clean and style her blonde hair, put makeup to cover the unnatural pallor. Mike had done his best to keep the damage to a minimum, but she knew the surgery plastic cap covered the line where the saw had cut the bone.

Hermione took one of Mary's cold and rigid hands in hers under the sheet.

'You stupid, fool woman,' muttered Hermione and squeezed Mary's fingers harder, hoping for one small miracle. For Mary to squeeze back. 'You should have waited for me, dammit! I could have done something, I could...' Hermione's voice broke, and she started crying again. 'I should have been there. If only you all weren't so fucking impatient, running off to catch someone who did not matter! You absolute fucking morons! I shouldn't have left your side, I should...'

They had been so cocky. Living close to Sherlock, the man who came back from the dead gave them all a sense of invincibility. They were the good guys. They had forgotten that karma rarely exists and that justice is a construct that doesn't abide by logical rules.

Hermione would give anything to see Mary's blue eyes again. It dawned on her she was never going to see them again. She was not going to hear Mary's voice. Hermione could bottle up every memory she had of her, put them in a pensive, and still, that person would never be Mary again. It crossed her mind that Rosie would not remember her mother and vowed to show them to her in due time. Mary had never liked magic, but Mary was not here any longer, and they were going to have to learn how to live without her.

'I'm sorry, Mary.' Hermione sobbed. She crouched down and put her forehead on the slab. 'I'm so sorry. Forgive me please, forgive me.'

Hermione did not know how much time she was in the position. At some point, her tears dried up, and her grip on Mary's hand relaxed. Her legs hurt, but she only moved when she heard footsteps along the corridor outside the morgue. She bent down, kissed Mary's cheek and covered her before hurrying into the office at the back. Two men entered with a stretcher. One of them checked the tag while the other confirmed his tablet, and carefully, they moved Mary and wheeled her out.

And then there was only silence.

Baker Street was also quiet when she arrived, and only the dimmed glow of the floor lamp upstairs suggested that there were any people in the house. Mrs Hudson's door was open, but the rooms were empty. Hermione climbed the stairs and found Sherlock sitting on his chair, with his head between his hands. Despite the clean suit and the slightly damp hair, Hermione saw his eyes were red and bloated when he looked at her, whether from crying or lack of sleep, she could not say. Sherlock made no move. He just stared at her, and his nose twitched. It was in Sherlock's nature to deduce without thinking. He had surely caught the smell of morgue clinging to her; a question etched in his features.

'I needed to be sure,' answered Hermione.

Sherlock dragged his hands across his face and then fixed his gaze on her again.

'Where were you? I texted you.'

'I heard the gunshot from outside and I fainted. Mycroft found me, somehow.' I was late, Mary. Forgive me. Sherlock stood up and walked to her. Only then she realised her hands; her entire body was trembling. Hermione shook her head and started crying again as soon as Sherlock reached her. 'I woke up and I didn't know what had happened, and then I came downstairs-' Hermione was sobbing now, and Sherlock hugged her against him. He cradled her head in his chest, and Hermione grabbed handfuls of his shirt, her nails digging into her palms through the fabric. 'I needed to know, Sherlock, I needed to say goodbye.'

Sherlock took them both back to his armchair. He sat and dragged her with him, securing her in his lap. Beneath her hands, his ribcage had started contracting, and she realised he was also crying. Hermione looked up and saw the tears slowly falling from his eyes. Those eyes filled with such guilt it tore her insides as the very same bullet that had killed Mary. Hermione pressed her lips against his. Sherlock moved back for an instant but dove back down for a deeper kiss. His hands tightened around her and scurried under her t-shirt, his mouth insistent and demanding with the desperate need of someone grasping for the last pieces of reality. Hermione opened her mouth and felt in her tongue Sherlock's moan, and with every stroke of his fingers over her skin, she heard less and less the voice telling her she should be somewhere else. Between her and Sherlock, they moved her body to straddle him fully, and the feeling of his arousal made her hate herself. Hermione bit his lip hard and fought against him to rip off his jacket and shirt. Sherlock responded likewise.

They have always excelled at self-destruction.

Their movements were uncoordinated and frantic. There was nothing romantic about any of it, just a way of chasing their ghosts away momentarily before guilt brought them back. Hermione only wanted a split of a second of oblivion, an alternate reality where Mary was still alive for a couple of seconds, and there was a future for all of them. Sherlock managed to take them to the bedroom, discarding clothes as they went. The salt of sweat and the salt of tears smeared their skins, and as soon as it was over, still panting, Hermione was already putting her clothes back on. Sherlock did not stop her; she said nothing. If there had ever been a time for them when all the unspoken promises would have been fulfilled, it wasn't now.

Hermione let herself in with the key Mary had given her the day John and she had bought the house. Mary's yellow coat hanging in the peg by the door felt like a punch in the stomach.

'What are you doing here?'

The voice had come from the living room. John was sitting on the couch, with a tumbler in his hand and a half-empty bottle in front of him. Hermione tugged at her scarf and took a couple of tentative steps towards him. John's eyes zeroed on her neck, and Hermione was tempted to cover it with her hand.

'I came to see you. And Rosie. Where is she?'

'With Molly. She has fully embraced her duties as godmother, you know. She was an excellent decision, reliable.' Hermione did not answer, and John approached her, pointing at the place right under his ear. 'I didn't know Sherlock's cock was so addictive you couldn't even go without it for a couple of hours. Here I was, choosing an urn for my wife's ashes, and you were fucking him. I think you need to sort out your priorities, Hermione.'

Hermione's hand slapped against John's cheek, leaving an angry red mark. John only smirked, his eyes dark and brutal.

'How does it feel, hmm? To sleep with a murderer?'

'Sherlock didn't kill Mary.'

'The hell he didn't.' John hissed. 'Mary's dead because Sherlock couldn't keep his mouth shut.'

'Mary jumped in front of the bullet,' replied Hermione. 'Sherlock couldn't know what was going to happen.'

'Why does he always have to be forgiven of everything?' He forcefully grabbed her arm. His face was inches away from hers, and his mouth smelled like whisky. Hermione tried to pry away, but John's iron grip kept her firmly in place. 'Mary's blood is on Sherlock Holmes' hands. And not only you go to him first. You also reward him.'

'Let go, John,' warned Hermione. He did not move, and Hermione slipped her wand in her hand and rested it under his chin.

'Come on, Granger. Do it.' He pressed his jaw further onto the tip. 'Your boyfriend has already killed my wife. Finish the job.'

Hermione's anger was still sizzling in her skin when John released her and turned to retrieve his glass. Hermione breathed out shakily but kept her wand in her hand.

'Sherlock has killed for you, for Mary and you so you could have a future. He was willing to give his life for yours. You told me years ago, John. Sherlock might be an arsehole, but he is not a bad person.'

John took a swing of his glass and looked at the frame on the mantle. 'You know what? That doesn't matter. The past doesn't matter. My wife, the mother of my child, is dead. And unless that freak show of your magic has a trick you haven't shared, she is going to stay that way.'

'I would have done something if there was a tiny chance to save her.'

John let go a disbelieving snort, and this time Hermione forced him to face her. 'Listen to me, John Watson. Before she was anything to you, she was everything to me. She was part of my life before she was part of yours. So don't think for a second my pain is anything less than yours.'

Hermione saw John's phone on the table light up with an incoming message out of the corner of her eye, and then another. Hermione clenched her jaw. 'Look at you, all high and mighty, when you made Mary's last days as miserable as they could be. Playing the sad widow might work with Mrs Hudson and Molly, but John, we are all at guilt, you included.'

John shook his head and threw the glass on his hand across the room. It went flying past Hermione's head and smashed against the wall, but she did not flinch. 'Get out! Go back to lick Mycroft's feet or Sherlock's or whatever you do for earning a salary. But I don't want you near Rosie or me ever again.'

Hermione threw a last look at John, disgusted, and left the house.

On the day of the funeral, Hermione entered Baker Street dressed in her best black suit and oversized round sunglasses covering her puffy eyes. The absence of Mrs Hudson was evident in the dust over the handrail and the letters piling on the doorway. It also meant that Sherlock had not left the house since she had visited.

'Sherlock?' Hermione called from the stairs. She left the letters on the first step and entered the living room. Sherlock, in his pyjamas and dressing gown, unshaven and dishevelled, was staring outside the window. There was a slight swaying in his lean form and the room stank of the cigarettes piling up on the ashtray.

'What are you doing here?' asked Sherlock.

'Today's the funeral,' said Hermione. He regarded her from head to toes, taking in her appearance.

'How do you know? Did John tell you?'

Hermione shook her head. 'Mycroft found out for me, as a favour.'

'Of course!' Sherlock bit out with a burst of sarcastic laughter. 'Mycroft, the saviour. Always there to pick up the pieces. Are you keeping tabs? Statistics? Who performs best?' Hermione ignored his jabs, and Sherlock padded to her. 'Tell dear brother I don't need a nanny.'

'He did not send me.'

Sherlock took a step forward as Hermione took a step back, and soon, she was cornered against the wood and glass door to the kitchen. Sherlock reeked, his unwashed smell so different from the one Hermione was used to, and scrunched her nose.

'So why are you here, Granger?'

'I thought you deserved to know.'

'Deserve?' Sherlock bracketed her head between his forearms, and Hermione pushed against his chest without being able to move it an inch. Sherlock's pupils were blown wide, his pulse fast as the flapping of a hummingbird. 'I don't deserve anything, Hermione. I killed Mary.'

Hermione pushed harder, and this time Sherlock moved. She looked at him in the eye. 'You did not kill Mary.'

'Tell that to John. You and I are no longer welcome in his life, as Molly so kindly told me.' Sherlock stepped away and took the cigarette burning in the ashtray. 'Go away, Hermione.'