"So you're back in Magical Britain, then?" George asked, throwing himself onto Hermione's sofa with his twin.

"Well, I'm not sure I ever really left. I've been in touch, you know, and I never really stopped using magic. But this place has proper wards to stop the little tempest from burning it down around our ears, and I expect I'll be paying a bit more attention to the politics and so on now."

"Yes, and now," Fred added, "Little Miri will be growing up with the little Potters and all her glorious adopted uncles," "Instead of living some awful, boring, mundane life out in muggle London," George finished.

"Honestly, you make it sound like I was planning to deprive you of her company."

"Well, we know you prefer to keep your lives separate." "If it turned out Miri was a squib," "You'd probably never have told her about magic at all."

That was true enough. "No reason to raise a child to magic, only to find they haven't the talent for it," she pointed out.

"Hermione, love," "Don't be daft." "As if any child of yours," "Could ever not be magical."

"Oh, shut up."

"You know," "You love us!"

…

Three people in dark coats stood in a hallway outside the St. Bart's morgue. The eldest watched the younger man uneasily, and after a moment, offered a cigarette. The youngest, a woman, held his hand, and wrapped his arm around her shoulders. The younger man, the middle child of their trio, stared out the window, apparently trying to pretend that the sight of that woman, lying on a slab, meant no more to him than any other.

"How did you know she was dead?" Mycroft asked.

"She had an item in her possession," Sherlock explained, still looking out the window, "An item which she said her life depended on. She chose to give it up."

"And where is this item now?"

Sherlock refused to answer. He caught sight of a grieving family through the window in the door at the end of the hallway. "Look at them. They all care, so much. Do you ever wonder if there's something wrong with us?"

"All lives end," Mycroft pointed out. "All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock."

Hermione looked from her younger cousin to the elder, trying and failing miserably to hold her tongue. "It's not," she said in an acid-laced tone, mostly directed at the elder brother. "But that doesn't mean that either of you have entirely managed to avoid it, does it, Mycroft?"

The men exchanged an uncomfortable look. Hermione smirked. "This is low tar," Sherlock complained.

"Well, you barely knew her," Mycroft replied blithely. The moment passed as all three of the cousins hid inappropriate grins.

"There's nothing wrong with you," Hermione said in an undertone as Sherlock pulled her away, throwing a 'Merry Christmas' over his shoulder at his brother. "The jury is still out on Mycroft."

Sherlock grinned at his cousin. "That's why you're my favorite family member. So. Five pounds says she's not dead, really."

"No bet. But you'd better be prepared to pretend that she is."

They flagged down a cab, and Hermione silently cast an anti-eavesdropping charm around them.

After a nod from Hermione, Sherlock continued their conversation.

"You know more than you're telling me, Hermione."

"But not more than you know, I'm sure. I know that rigor had set in for that body, so it's been at least two hours since death, and it's only been an hour since you got that text and found the phone. If Miss Adler had anyone she trusted to send you a text after she died, she would have just given them the phone. I know that if she was actually in danger of dying, she would have hidden or destroyed the phone, not had it sent over to you as a Christmas gift. Putting her 'life' in your hands? If that's not symbolic, I don't know what is, and even Irene Adler wouldn't bother flirting with you after she was supposedly dead. And I know you're not likely to figure out the game she's playing unless you play along. I think that Mycroft knows more than he's saying, but, well…"

"Yes, it is Mycroft. There's no guarantee it's relevant."

"Pretty much. And of course, on a completely unrelated note, I have my suspicions that Jim from IT is plotting again, something to do with Mycroft this time."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at his cousin. "Jim Moriarty is always plotting, and Mycroft is involved in everything."

"Don't give me that look. I'm not playing. I told you and Jim both that I'm a spectator, and I plan to remain a spectator, even if it involves Mycroft and not you. Unless you're planning to hijack the game and mess with Moriarty's actual business, you'd probably do better to pretend I didn't mention that, either."

"You think Adler's one of his agents?"

"Don't you?" Sherlock nodded reluctantly. "Doesn't mean she doesn't actually like you, though. I mean, she does want to take you to dinner, after all."

"Shut up. So, we're playing along?"

"Well, I generally do. And if nothing else, it will piss off Mycroft if he loses and you appear to have been instrumental to his loss."

"True. I just hate people fussing over me."

"Well, channel that into vague irritation that they've been searching your flat for drugs."

"They better not have messed up my sock index again."

"They almost certainly have."

"Of course they will have. That settles it, then."

"You're going to deliberately play into Jim's trap because your brother had your flat mate and your landlady mess up your socks?"

"Well, I'll pretend to be in mourning and play along with Irene, at least."

"Ooh, Irene, is it?"

"Shut up. Try to look appropriately sad or something."

"She was your girlfriend."

"She was not my girlfriend. We never even had dinner."

"Whatever."

"That's my line!"

"Look sad or something." Sherlock made a face. "That's terrible. You really suck at this whole acting thing."

"I am an excellent actor." Sherlock rearranged his face to look more stunned, as though he was in shock.

"Jackass."

"Psychopath."

"Get out of the cab."