{Interoffice Memo: Dr. Granger, Do you have plans for luncheon today? -MH}

{Mr. Holmes, No. Why? -HG}

{Dr. Granger, Would you care to join myself and Mr. Watson for lunch at Fratelli's? –MH}

{Mr. Holmes, I would be delighted. Has Mr. Watson already agreed to join us as well? –HG}

{Dr. Granger, I thought we might surprise him. –MH}

{Mr. Holmes, Will the younger Mr. Holmes be invited to join us? Or is this more of a social visit? –HG}

{Dr. Granger, The latter. Anthea will pull the car around at 11:30. –MH}

Hermione met the car promptly at the kerb. Anthea never liked to be kept waiting. She needn't have bothered, however, as Mycroft took a full five minutes longer to make his way out of the building. As soon as he settled his large form into his seat, Hermione inquired, "Why are we kidnapping John Watson for lunch?"

"Who said anything about kidnapping, Hermione?"

"Semantics," Hermione said drily. Anthea smirked.

"I simply thought it was time to meet my brother's new friend in a more… social atmosphere."

"And you wanted me to come along because…?"

"Because he's already kidnapped John twice, and the man wouldn't trust the elder Mr. Holmes as far as he could throw him," Anthea explained.

"Indeed." Mycroft shot a look at his PA. She raised an eyebrow at him in the mirror.

"Hmmm... Are you staying for lunch, at all, then?"

"No, but feel free to put it on the company card." And with that, the car pulled up outside the Diogenes club and Mycroft heaved himself free of it.

"Bastard," Hermione said as they pulled back into traffic.

"You do know the car is bugged, Dr. Granger?" Anthea asked.

"Of course. He knows I think he's a manipulative swot, and Sherlock's a narcissistic twat. And yet I put up with them anyway," she said with a long-suffering sigh.

"Poor you." This particular girl called Anthea (a code name which had now been assigned to at least three assistants in a row) had been working for Mycroft for nearly four years. She was well aware of Hermione's relationship with the Holmeses. "This is him. Do me a favor and open the door, eh?"

Hermione scooted over and opened the door, right in front of a blond man walking too-near the kerb. He only just avoided walking into it.

"Oh, so sorry, wasn't looking where I was –"

Hermione cut him off. "John Watson, I presume?" John stared at her for a moment until she added, "Anthea's driving today. Come on, get in, or we'll miss the reservation."

The baffled-looking man did as directed. "Erm… what's going on this time? You didn't try to call me, did you?" he asked, fumbling for his phone.

Hermione took pity on the man. "No. We're going to lunch. This is Mycroft's way of trying to be friendly."

"Oh," a look of intense irritation crossed the man's face. "Is he going to be there? And, sorry, who are you?"

"No, he's paying for us, though, which is the friendly part. And I'm Hermione Granger, Sherlock's friend and ex-flatmate."

"This is it," Anthea called, pulling up next to the restaurant. "Reservation's under Granger for twelve sharp. Call me when you want a pick-up. I'm free all afternoon."

"Lovely, thanks, Thea!"

Hermione dragged her cousin's flat-mate into the restaurant. They were seated quickly and Hermione removed three listening devices from the table before the waiter returned for their order. John looked astonished that Mycroft would do such a thing, and then somewhat rueful as he realized, of course, it's Mycroft Holmes.

"Right. I'm fairly certain that I'm just supposed to be making friends with you, so do feel free to ask me anything," Hermione said with a mischievous grin. She liked getting to know people based on the questions they asked, and it was unlikely she would have to hide many things from John (aside from the obvious), seeing as he did live with Sherlock. And, of course, she could indulge in her favorite hobby of leveling the playing field a bit between Sherlock and their mutual acquaintances. It always tweaked him when they showed up knowing things about him that he hadn't told him.

"Have you known the Holmeses long, then?" John asked, as she drowned a fourth tiny microphone in her water-glass.

"Oh, ages. I lived with Sherlock while I was doing my PsyD. 2002 to just last October."

"You're a psychiatrist?" John suddenly seemed guarded.

"Psychologist. Theoretically, anyway. No luck finding a job that uses the degree, unfortunately."

"So what do you do, then?"

"Bit of this and that… in the same way that Mycroft's a minor government official." She winked at him.

"Oh, right!" John winked back. Sherlock had obviously clued him in on that little "secret." "Gotcha. Why did you move out, if you don't mind my asking? I mean, I can see how it'd be a bit ironic, Sherlock living with a licensed psychologist, but…"

"Oh, no, it's fine. And it was nothing to do with that, though I have to say, he thought it was terribly ironic, too. Well, after he finally gave up on talking me into forensic pathology instead. No, I had a baby in March, and we decided last September, well, really, I decided, that Sherlock's lifestyle isn't really conducive to having a child 'round the house."

John laughed at her matter of fact tone. "Yeah, I can see that. Mrs. Hudson's never mentioned you."

"Well, I only met her twice, that dreadful business with her husband's cartel, you know. I don't even think she knows my name. We lived a bit north of Baker Street," she explained. "The Holmeses owned a flat there, but Mycroft sold it out from under Sherlock in November because he was acting like a spoilt brat after I left. Sherlock's only been living at your place since December."

"I see… He'd said he was looking to split the rent. I thought it was a new lease."

"Well, his allowance is more than enough to afford it alone, but he doesn't really do well in isolation, prefers an audience, you know? And if you split, he has more money for chemicals and such… I'm glad you two are getting along so well."

"Well I'm glad to finally meet my flatmate's girlfriend," the older man declared.

Hermione snorted into her napkin. "Good try, but no, I'm his cousin. Miranda's father left when I decided to keep her."

"Damn it," John didn't look too terribly embarrassed for his false assumption. "Sorry, it's just you said you were a friend, and you lived with him for years, and then had a baby…"

"It's fine, really. Happens all the time. With all my male friends, not just Sherlock."

"Of course. Girls and boys can't be friends, obviously. But then again, apparently two blokes can't anymore either. I was just thinking maybe you'd start coming round and people would stop taking the two of us for lovers. Me and Holmes, I mean."

"There are worse people to be taken for lovers with. And he's certainly possessive enough to make it look like he's dating anyone he spends any degree of time with," Hermione nudged.

"Yeah, well, bet he never crashed your date to drag you off to be his crime-fighting sidekick," John said, a touch of resentment hiding under his joking tone.

"Well, never to go solve a crime. Sherlock doesn't like to share his toys with me." She quickly changed the subject as a suspicious look crossed John's face. "But yeah, he did used to pull that with me. Ruined about four dates before I finally got him to back off. Still miffed about Sarah?"

"You could say that. Wait, how?"

She deliberately misinterpreted the question. "I read your blog. Not even Sherlock could tell you your ex-girlfriend's name from three months ago just looking at you."

"I'm not certain Sherlock knew her name when I was dating her. He kept calling her Sandra around the flat."

"He knew. He does that with people he doesn't like or doesn't think are important. He also knows Greg Lestrade's first name, but he pretends he doesn't so he can insist that they're not friends."

"So he does have friends, then?"

"Oh, a fair few. Most of them he's met through his work, of course, and I'm not sure I count, as family. But there's you, obviously; me; Lestrade and Molly Hooper, though she doesn't think he thinks they're friends; a few people I've introduced him to from my previous life; Candi, who's a stripper at the Pussycat; Pierce and Kelly, who run a bunch of different 'businesses' down by the river; a bunch of guys I'd know by sight but not by name from his Homeless Network; and of course, can't forget Jim from IT."

"Jim from IT is not a friend," John hissed.

Hermione grinned. "But people don't really have arch-nemeses, do they? In normal people terminology, he's more a friend than anything else. Not the kind of friend you trust, granted, but the kind of friend who gets you," she explained. "The one who you're always competing with, when you're miles away from everyone else. Well, for Sherlock, at least."

"Jim Moriarty is a fucking psychopath," John snapped.

"Yes, well, you've said the same about Sherlock, haven't you? And Sherlock's been known to say the same about me."

"That was before I met Jim from IT." The fury in John's voice was nearly palpable. "And got pulled into his stupid game."

"So what, now you don't think my cousin's mad, just because Jim's obviously playing the part of the villain in their little drama?" Hermione asked, and then redirected. "Sherlock still owes me fifty pounds over him."

John was distracted by the change of subject, though still angry. "What? Why?" he asked sharply.

"Because I bet after the third round that it was him."

"You knew? How? And why didn't you tell anyone?"

Hermione shrugged. "It was their game. I wasn't invited to play. I told Sherlock. And it was all in the blogs. Well, mostly Molly's. But he introduced himself on yours as well, and Molly mentioned the Jim-is-gay fiasco. It was obvious, if you consider the degree of showmanship involved. He wouldn't have staged all that without introducing himself. Bit of a showoff, really. Not unlike Sherlock. Besides, he was already missing by the time I had a chance to look through everything. That was the biggest clue, really. This is really good. Want to try some?" She nudged her plate across the table, but John shook his head.

"You talk about it like he does. Like Sherlock. I suppose you agree with him that it's better not to care about the victims?" John sounded ever so slightly betrayed.

Hermione smiled kindly at the older man. "I agree that caring gets in the way of trying to save people sometimes. Like when a surgeon has to amputate, for example. It would do you no good to flinch away from causing more pain. You learn to set those emotions aside, push them away for later, redirect…" Hermione watched that metaphor hit home. Well, it would, for an army doctor.

John shook his head. "Still, you said it yourself: Jim from IT gets him."

"I didn't say that Sherlock gets Jim, though, did I? It's part of the reason Sherlock finds Jim so interesting. Well, that and he presents a much more complex problem than the average criminal. Sherlock's not a psychopath, you know," she added.

"No, he's… what did he say? A high-functioning sociopath?"

Hermione laughed. "He wishes. And that term has no real, agreed-upon definition. I could analyze Sherlock for days, but the important thing is that he cares very much about humanity and people as an abstract, and about a very few people specifically. He acts as though he doesn't and tries his very best to walk all over everyone, just to set the bar low on their expectations of him, so he can do whatever he wants, but he really does care very much what certain people think of him. He was very worried about your reaction to the Glasgow bombing, you know."

"Yeah, I know. I figured it out… eventually."

"Well, it took him twenty-six months of living with me to accept that I wasn't one of Mycroft's minions in deep cover, and it took me four years to cut through his sociopath act, so don't feel too terrible for taking a few weeks to realize he cares about you."

"How'd you figure it out?"

"What, that he's not actually as unfeeling as he pretends?" John nodded. "Hmmm… no, I don't think I can tell you the details. Let's just say I did something a long time ago, and when Sherlock found out, he found it morally abhorrent. He didn't speak to me for three days. It was awful."

"What did you do?" John looked fascinated.

"I'm legally obligated not to explain it, as is Sherlock. Ask a different question."

"Sorry, can't. I'm just hung up on the fact that there's something Sherlock thinks is wrong." He grinned, as though this was the best joke he'd heard all day.

Hermione laughed. "There are several things Sherlock thinks are wrong. People who refuse to see the truth, when it's sitting right in front of them; destroying the potential for rational thought, whether through murder or brainwashing or severe mental trauma; caring about people you can't help, instead of people you can help; gaslighting, which is when you trick someone into disbelieving the their own memories; people taking things that are his; paternalistic older brothers looking out for him... I could go on, you know."

"Ha! Do you know, Mycroft kidnapped me and offered me money to spy on Sherlock, the day after I moved in with him?"

"Of course I know. You should have taken the money. It's not like he doesn't have your flat bugged anyway."

"That's what Sherlock said. That we could have split the fee."

"You have to learn to negotiate with Mycroft, or he'll take advantage of you horribly. It's what he does. But he's a softie when it comes to Sherlock. I managed to get him to cover seven years of tuition for just making sure the idiot didn't OD or starve himself to death."

"So he's always been…"

"Sherlock? Yeah. He's not as bad as he was, though. I largely broke him of trying to self-medicate when he's bored, at least, and when he's not high, he eats more regularly." She shrugged.

"Tell me your secrets, o wise one," John joked.

"Well, just don't let him get bored."

"But how? I'm not going to up and become a serial killer just because my flat mate's driving me mad."

Hermione laughed. "No, don't. He'd figure it out in about half a second. But it's not like all the big questions in the world have to deal with crime. We spent nearly three years debating the nature of the universe. He's got a pretty good grasp of quantum mechanics, you know, and he's a surprisingly willing teacher. Moral philosophy's always a good one, if you want to argue just for the sake of it. He likes to play Devil's Advocate. And of course, there are always more languages to learn. You were in Afghanistan, right? Get him to practice your Arabic with you."

"How do you know I speak Arabic?"

Hermione smiled mysteriously. "I'm not Sherlock. I don't enjoy explaining myself quite so much as he does."

"Oh, come on."

"Fine. There are hints of it in the way you pronounce certain guttural consonants, which could admittedly alternatively be from learning Urdu or one several languages spoken in India later in life, but it's fair to say Arabic based on the statistical likelihood of a British citizen, especially an Army medic posted in Afghanistan, learning Arabic over any of the others… or I just stole Mycroft's file on you."

"You…" John started laughing, "You had me going there. So Mycroft's got a file?"

"Of course Mycroft's got a file. He's got files on everyone. And I've got a copy. I'm fairly sure Sherlock has by now as well."

"So all this Science of Deduction stuff…?"

"Oh, besides the fact that it's an incredibly irritating misnomer, it's perfectly reasonable… until he runs into an issue of equifinality – you know, that more than one explanation is equally likely to explain all the facts – or until he misses a detail, or the actual explanation is significantly less likely than another that explains all the facts. I will admit, given their history, for example, that when I showed up in Sherlock's kitchen, it was far more likely I was one of Mycroft's minions than a cousin they hadn't spoken to in twenty years. Which doesn't mean that Sherlock didn't spend two years trying to prove a wrong assumption. I will tell you he'd consider it cheating to just look in the file to get bits to impress you, and anything he deduced before Mycroft kidnapped you was definitely a deduction. Mycroft wouldn't have bothered with the file until he decided you were likely to stick around."

"But can you do it, though? I mean, is it just a Sherlock thing? Or were you making up that bit about the accent and Urdu and Arabic and statistics?"

"No, it's not just a Sherlock thing. It's a game he and Mycroft used to play as children. And that was true. If I were really paying attention, and actually cared to know that kind of thing, I could have told you that you spoke Arabic based only on the balance of probability and the conversation up to that point. It's generally easier to just get information by asking, but Sherlock hates admitting that he doesn't know any given thing, so he relies on the little clues much more than Mycroft. He'd just have you followed for a week and pull your service record."

"Show me?" John asked, presumably thinking that perhaps he would be better able to follow the observations of someone other than Sherlock. Patently absurd idea. Sherlock loved explaining how he knew things. It didn't get any clearer than that.

"You really don't want me reading you."

"No, I do."

"Sherlock reads events. I read people. There's a difference. You thought Sherlock was brilliant. You're just going to think I'm creepy. Possibly scary."

"Please?"

Hermione sighed. "Fine." She focused on her victim, calling to mind everything she knew about him, and dismissing Mycroft's file, because that was cheating. "Normal, Sherlock-style inference first: Just from the physical clues, I can say that you had a limp for about a year until about five and a half, six months ago, that was either psychosomatic, or post-surgical, since the limp itself is gone, now, but your stride and the way you hold yourself hasn't fully recovered from the irregular muscle-development during that time. Going further, now I've said that, I could tell you it was diagnosed as psychosomatic and by Sherlock because you made that little 'fucking-Sherlock' grimace that you also made when we were talking about his possessiveness and his game with Jim when I said 'psychosomatic' and because it disappeared right around the time you met him. You weren't going to the gym or physical therapy to correct it or compensate when you had the limp, which I know because of that flash of guilt when I said you'd developed some irregular muscle patterning. You know you ought to have compensated because you're a doctor, hence the guilt. Based on that I'd revise my estimate to having the limp for maybe only two or three months, which makes it likely to have been related to the reason you left the army, as that would be about the same time frame, yes? The tensing of your shoulders says yes.

"Next level: Why would you have avoided something you obviously knew you ought to do, and which the army would have covered the bills for? Well, depression's a popular diagnosis, but PTSD would be more likely since you're a vet. That look says you hate me a little bit, which means PTSD is what your therapist said, too? Yes. Thought so. Would that be Ella, the one who made you start your blog? Yes. You don't think much of her, which means you don't think you've got PTSD. Dreams? Flashbacks? Yeah, thought so. She was totally right. You know it stands for Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder? It's not just World War II style shell-shock, you know. PTSD can manifest as having become used to a high-stress environment and the associated difficulties in transitioning back to civilian life. Following Sherlock around playing vigilante isn't actually a board-approved therapy, but I suppose it's a much more interesting coping mechanism than getting drunk and trying to forget.

"Fine, fine, stop glaring at me, I'll change the subject. I could tell you that, like me, you had a rough childhood. It's most likely that you went into the army because your marks weren't good enough to get you into a normal medical program, but you're obviously intelligent, so that was probably because you were working or bullied or both. I say you went into the army for medicine and not the other way round because it's clear that no matter how much you appreciate adventure, you're in it, whether war, or medicine, or Sherlock's mad chases, to save people. That look said you got addicted to the adrenaline rush while you were out in the field, and you're not sure if you're okay with it, but I stand by my assessment of the original reason you joined up. If you weren't in it for the people, you'd not be so upset about Sherlock's not caring about the dead… And of course your pension's not enough to keep you in new clothes, but your jumper's been well-mended at least three times, and that's the sort of skill you learn as a kid, from an overworked mum who hasn't the time to do the mending herself or money buy to her kids new clothes, not as a bachelor. And your accent says lower middle class.

"Let's see… what else… Smaller things, maybe? You're straight, but the look you gave the couple at your nine o'clock when they walked in says you've got good friends or family who aren't. It bothers you that people think you're with Sherlock, but more because you resent the fact that Sherlock has taken a central role in your life so quickly, making it nearly impossible for you to find a romantic partner, than because you don't approve of the lifestyle. Ah, and because you think it's none of their damn business. Despite the fact that you think Sherlock is insane, possibly dangerous, and hopelessly clingy, you admire him. That's evident by the fact that you are trying to learn his methods, which is why you deduced that I was his girlfriend, and asked if it was real, and if I could give you a demonstration and explanation, and, of course, the fact that I've largely let you direct the conversation, and it's mostly been about him. Which is fine, honestly, I don't mind. I like telling people things he won't tell them about himself.

"The options you didn't take in our conversation say almost as much as your words themselves: I brought up my daughter twice, and you didn't ask about her either time, which suggests that you haven't spent much time around women since you entered the army, and also that you don't want kids… though you clearly aren't opposed to them. My guess you've not really given the issue much thought, which in turn suggests that you haven't had a long-term relationship since your late teens, early twenties. The fact that you didn't ask me what I thought about Sherlock's mental health after I told you he's not a psychopath suggests that you don't really want to know. You find him fascinating, and would rather not ruin it with an actual psychologist telling you he's actually crazy and unsafe to hang around. Well, sorry to burst your bubble, but he is, on both counts. On the other hand, I'm a big believer in letting people make their own choices, so just mind you watch your back when you're in the field. Oh, and speaking of psychopaths, I know who shot the cabbie! Because you just flinched, and your second expression after surprise wasn't confusion, it was fear. And because that's your problem with psychopathic behavior. We hate that which we fear in ourselves. Don't worry. I'm not going to tell. It's not like there's any evidence, anyway. And of course, it's patently obvious that you're not a psychopath. Nobody fakes microexpressions that well, even me.

"So. I think that's about five minutes. How did I do?"

John was staring. He blinked twice and then said, "Well, you were right half right: that was absolutely terrifying. And brilliant, though, not or. You've got to be hell to play poker with."

Hermione laughed. "I like you. I can see why Sherlock likes you. And I wouldn't know. Never played."

…

John returned home after an extended luncheon to find his flat-mate lying on their sofa, tossing a ball into the air and catching it repeatedly.

"I met your cousin today," he said by way of greeting.

"Which cousin?" Sherlock asked, as though he didn't know.

"Hermione Granger."

Sherlock caught the ball and sat up, fiddling with his phone instead. "Mycroft has decided that it's time for you two to become friends, then. I suppose it was only a matter of time." John gave Sherlock a questioning look. "He meddles in my life far more than she does. If the two of you were introduced, it was Mycroft's doing not Hermione's."

"I actually knew that. He sent his car. What is it with your family and weird names?"

"Hermione's from Shakespeare. Aunt Emma was a fan," Sherlock explained. "No one knows how father came up with Mycroft or Sherlock. He's never said. Mummy, and Uncle Dan, too, actually, insisted on at least one normal name – Hermione's middle name is Jean – but none of us use them."

John goggled. His question was meant to be rhetorical. He had hardly expected Sherlock to explain anything about his family. He never mentioned them if he could help it.

"Oh, do shut your mouth, John. I happen to like Hermione."

"So is she always…?"

"An excellent conversationalist? Slightly terrifying? Vaguely mysterious?"

"Yes."

"Yes."

"Do you have her number?"

"Of course."

"Could you give it to me?"

"What on earth for?"

"I want to ask her out."

Sherlock sighed and John's phone beeped to signal the arrival of a text. "If you must."

"What is that supposed to mean? I thought you liked her."

"I do. But it's not going to work out, I guarantee it."

"What, are you going to sabotage her like Sarah and Marcie?"

"Of course not. I would never do such a thing," Sherlock faked looking offended before he continued: "She and I have an arrangement. I don't interrupt her dates, and she lets me continue to breathe. You're just not her type."

John was almost distracted by the idea that Sherlock could actually be threatened into respecting anyone's privacy, but not quite. "What do you mean I'm not her type? What is her type? What do you even know about people having types?"

Sherlock answered the second question. "She goes for men like herself. Devious and brilliant. And while you are certainly more tolerable than the vast majority of the population, I regret to inform you that you simply are not in her league, in either brilliance or deviousness."

"I'm still going to ask her."

Sherlock waved a dismissive hand at him and went back to tossing his ball at the ceiling. "Whatever."

…

Hermione: Stop playing matchmaker

Mycroft: Matchmaker? You must be mistaken.

Hermione: Knock it off or I'll tell your mother

Mycroft: It was her idea

Hermione: Watson's not even my type

Mycroft: Men who fit into the family at all are hard to come by.

Hermione: So you thought you'd try to set me up with Sherlock's sidekick? No. Drop it.

Mycroft: Mummy worries about you, Jeanie.

Hermione: Fuck off.

Mycroft: She said something last time about poor Miri growing up without a father-figure.

Hermione: I am finally beginning to see why Sherlock finds you so irritating.

Mycroft: I'm just the messenger

Hermione: Sure, like you're just a minor official. Meddling arse.