Sherlock Holmes really shouldn't have been able to access Hermione and Miranda's new flat, especially without magical assistance – the only entrance was through Diagon Alley, or the floo or other means of magical transport, but Hermione had long since given up any expectations she might ever have held for her cousin to conform to such petty inconveniences as muggle-repelling charms. If she knew Sherlock (and she did, unfortunately well), he had most likely followed her to the Leakey one day, noticed that there was a gap in his perceptions, and single-mindedly attacked the blind-spot until he managed to overcome the avoidance charms and actually enter the pub. After that, it would have been easy enough to wait for someone to open the archway to the Alley and lurk until he spotted her, trail her to her flat, and break in while she was at work. His blood would get him through the wards, and his lockpicks through the door.

Either that, or someone was impersonating him, and had thus far simply half-destroyed her kitchen (apparently in order to make tea,) and was lounging in her favorite armchair reading her latest acquisition on magical theory.

Hermione had dropped her bag of groceries on realizing the state of the kitchen, and set her daughter to floating in a bubble of shield charms which would stop anything short of an Unforgivable before proceeding into the flat, wand at the ready.

Sherlock, on seeing his baby cousin wearing her warrior face, as he privately thought of it, tried to diffuse the situation. "Tisk, tisk," he teased the guarded witch, "Security so poor a muggle could break in? Granger, I'm ashamed of you."

"Prove you're Sherlock," Hermione demanded, not rising to the bait.

Sherlock sighed. "The first time I met you I told you to prove you weren't one of Mycroft's minions, and you said you didn't know that you really could because we didn't share any secrets. You proceeded to relate your experience of the only previous occasion on which we had encountered one another, and I thought you were lying because of the discrepancy between your age were your story true and your apparent age at that time. Said discrepancy was not explained for nearly seven years. I still cannot believe you managed to lie to me that long. Stop pointing your bloody wand at me. I've got news."

Hermione did, in fact, drop her wand, releasing her young daughter from her protections and collapsing onto the sofa. The babbling infant crawled to her favorite uncle, who magnanimously allowed her to join him in his armchair.

"And you couldn't have texted me first? I've been outside, so it's not like I wouldn't have gotten it," the witch groused.

"Where's the fun in that?"

Hermione gave Sherlock her least-amused look. "You're lucky I didn't hex first and ask questions later. What's your news, and why did you feel the need to break into my flat?"

"Mycroft bought it, and aside from it being safer for all parties to tell you that in person, where my least favorite sibling can't overhear, I was bored."

Hermione rolled her eyes at that. Of course he was. "So we're in the clear, then?"

"Yes. Most ironically, brother dearest has decided to try to spare my poor feelings over my lost love, and has built a cover story which involves Miss Adler entering the Witness Protection Program in the States and going off the grid."

Sherlock was barely containing his sniggers, but Hermione looked concerned. "And you're sure that he has no idea? I mean, it is a bit too ironic, isn't it, that he would fake exactly what we actually did?"

"Oh, no, I'm certain he didn't. He wouldn't even outright tell John, though he passed over her old phone to John to give to me. Symbolic, and all that. John thinks I'm wandering the streets in mourning, now. I could barely keep a straight face all morning."

Hermione finally joined Sherlock in his enjoyment of the situation, grinning broadly. "Well, then, congratulations to us!"

"What've you done?" a Weasley twin asked, letting himself into the apartment. "Wotcher, Holmes. Freddy's going to be late for dinner, firecracker. Bit of an accident at the shop, and he drew the short straw to clean up."

"Hello, Weasley," Sherlock greeted the intruder. "I thought you were Fred." The differences between the two men were subtle, but he was almost certain that this was the one who more often introduced himself as Fred.

"Only on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and every-other Saturday," was the nonsensical answer.

"Hi, George!" Hermione called from the sofa, not bothering to stand. "Illegal and dangerous things, of course."

The red-headed man pouted at his sometime-girlfriend. "So you'll do illegal and dangerous things with Sherly, here, but not with us? I'm hurt." He flopped down on the sofa as well, and Hermione put her feet in his lap. Miranda waved sleepily at the man from Sherlock's arms. "Wotcher, Miri."

"Don't be jealous," Hermione said, just as Sherlock responded, "Only on Monday, Wednesday, and Sunday afternoons."

'George' laughed aloud. "Good to see you, mate. You should come over more often. Staying for dinner?"

Sherlock shook his head. "I'm emotionally compromised at the moment," he deadpanned. "If I don't go back to Baker Street, John will doubtless run tattling to Mycroft, and then all this sneaking about will be for nothing."

"Does this have something to do with that Adler bird?"

"Yes, apparently she's dead. The Queen's men confirmed it just this morning. I'm terribly heartbroken over the whole thing."

"Hmmm… why do I suspect that appearances may be deceiving in this case?" 'George' asked, eyes twinkling with suppressed laughter.

"Probably because you've known me for years, and Hermione longer," Sherlock offered, maintaining his former solemnity. "Though I assure you, they are not."

"Oh, yes, you look absolutely crushed."

"Our Sherlock keeps his emotions close to the chest, he does," Hermione said, suppressing a smirk.

'George' rolled his eyes. "Fine, stick to your story. We'll get it out of you eventually."

"No, you won't," Hermione protested.

"You're a terrible liar, love." The man patted her condescendingly on the knee.

Sherlock grinned openly at him. "That's just what she wants you to think."

"And we want her to think she's succeeding," 'George' stage-whispered.

"Prat," the woman in question accused, attempting to kick the man sharing her sofa, but she was smiling.

"And with that, I do believe I'll be off," Sherlock said jauntily. "If one of you would care to remove the sleeping child...? Thank you," he added, as 'George' levitated the girl to her mother's lap. "Ta for now, Granger, Fred."

"Try to look sad!" Hermione called after him, nearly obscuring the Weasley's quiet, "How does he do that?"

"It's Tuesday!" he called back. It wasn't, but Fred's laughter followed him out of the flat. Sherlock grinned. He did so love messing with the prankster twins. They could almost keep up, which made it more fun.

…

John: Hermione, Sherlock is driving me mad.

Hermione: What do you want me to do about it?

John: Sympathize with me? Kill him for me? Invite me to dinner so I can get away from him?

Hermione: Poor you. No, I couldn't. I don't murder people I like.

Hermione: And sorry, dear, I'm seeing someone now.

John: Use your mystical psychologist powers to make him act sane for once in his life?

Hermione: He often /acts/ sane…

John: He came home covered in blood with a harpoon begging for a fag and is driving me up a wall. Help.

Hermione: You were the one who told him you'd support his going cold turkey. Stick a bloody nicotine patch on his face if he bothers you so much.

John: Now he is insisting we go to Dartmoor this afternoon. To investigate a 20 year old cold case and a giant dog.

Hermione: Have fun, and don't do anything I wouldn't do.

John: Too late. I'm already living with your crazy cousin. Who are you seeing?

Hermione: Someone I've been off and on with since school. You haven't met him.

…

Sherlock: Hermione

Sherlock: This is important, answer your phone

Sherlock: /Code M/ important, Granger.

"Sorry, Sherlock," Hermione finally responded to Sherlock's texts, hours later. It was probably a sign of how urgent his problem was that he had actually answered her call. "I was at home – no service. I've just popped out to the store. What's up?"

"Take the next day, no two days and come out to Dartmoor. I've a client who might be more your sort of problem than mine."

"Sherlock…"

"Code M, Hermione. Mycroft will let you off. You never take personal days. Get the Weasley boys to watch Miranda. I need you to look into this, at the very least."

Hermione sighed. Sherlock had only ever had two cases where he suspected the use of magic. He had been wrong both times, but insisted in both cases that magic was a more reasonable explanation than the actual series of events, which had, admittedly, involved extremely unlikely series of chance occurrences. She couldn't exactly refuse, though. "Fine. Text me your coordinates and I'll be there first thing tomorrow morning."

Sherlock rang off without another word, but several minutes later, proper apparition coordinates appeared in her inbox. He had to have worked them out ahead of time, which meant that he was more concerned than he sounded over the whole situation, whatever it was.

Hermione delivered Miranda with Ginny and Harry that same night, and extricated herself from their home only after promising Ginny (who seemed to be taking after her mother with her love of children) that she could arrange the little girl's first birthday party at the end of the month.

In the morning, she simply informed Mycroft that she had gone to investigate a potential Department M Incident. He was more than willing to let her go if it meant he wouldn't have to deal with the Ministry of Magic at the end of the week. Apparently his week was off to a tremendous start. Sherlock had already broken into a secure military compound using his name, and he wanted to avoid any more complications with this particular adventure. He must have been even more irritated than he let on, because he generally wasn't so forthcoming.

…

Hermione arrived in Sherlock's hotel room with a loud pop bright and early the next morning. Sherlock, sitting cross-legged on his still-made bed, raised an eyebrow at her.

"Shut up, it's early," she defended her louder and slightly-less-graceful-than-usual entrance.

"I didn't say a thing," he grinned.

"Bastard. Why am I here? You've obviously not slept, so I'm to take it it's a difficult one?"

The man sighed and gestured her toward the room's only chair. "Client is Henry Knight. Sunday night out on the moors, Dewer's Hollow, he claims to have encountered the footprints of an enormous hound. Came seeking my services on Monday on the first train, we arrived here Monday afternoon."

"And…?"

"And his father was torn apart in front of him by an enormous black hound with glowing red eyes, or so he claims, twenty years ago. Some bloke giving tours made a cast of the footprint, so at least that's confirmed. Looks like a Great Dane or Mastiff print."

"So what, you think you've got a barghest on the loose?" Hermione would not be impressed if she had gone to the trouble of getting the Potters to babysit if she was here as a glorified animal control officer. "Didn't you even consider the mundane explanation? It's probably just a normal dog's footprints now, even if it was a department M issue back then."

"Don't be daft, Granger. It's more interesting than that. He called it a hound. Odd word choice, that. It was enough to get me out here, anyway."

"Yes, but which part was enough to get me out here?"

"The part where we went out to Dewer's Hollow to investigate last night. John spotted someone flashing Morris across a hill – UMQRA – may not be related. We heard a howl in the distance, all three of us. I turned in that direction with my torch and saw the beast growling at me from the top of the hollow. Impossibly large, glowing eyes. Matched that photo you've got for a Grim, but with the demon-eyes glowing. Knight saw it as well, though John says he didn't, and he was still up on the rim – it would have been closer to him. That's only part of it, though. I was afraid, Hermione. Truly, genuinely, hands-shaking-afterward frightened."

Hermione was not impressed. "You've called me out to Dartmoor because you spotted a Cu Sith and had a normal human reaction?"

"No! I've called you to Dartmoor because I've come across something that's capable of inducing the kind of fear I've only read about in its victims and apparently making them see a – Cu Sith, did you call it? – where no such thing exists! If it was there – really there – John would have seen it too! But he didn't! And it's driving me mad, not being able to trust my senses."

"Wait, what do you mean the kind of fear you've only read about?"

Sherlock shrugged, failing to feign nonchalance. "Hands shaking, cold washing over you, unable to think properly or move, frozen in indecision between fight and flight. Fear. Terror. It was present before the hound appeared, and decidedly external in origin. I've never felt like that before."

"So ignoring your claim of never having felt one of the basic human emotions before last night…"

"High-functioning sociopath."

Hermione ignored her snippy cousin. "It's not a Black Dog, then… Something that spreads an aura of fear before it, and has the same appearance to anyone who encounters it… Not a lethifold – they just look like animated shadows… Doesn't sound like any creature I'm familiar with… But there are potions that can do that. Nightmares of Lethe, the Fall of Pergamum, Asternax's Draught… The last one especially. It's a fear inducing hallucinogen that can be used to taint other substances. All it needs is skin contact, though it's more effective if it's taken internally. Takes longer to wear off. My best guess is that something you've eaten or drunk since you've arrived here was tainted."

Sherlock thought hard for a long moment. "The sugar. I take sugar in my coffee. John doesn't. It's the only thing we've had different. I'll test it today."

Hermione nodded. "And I should probably talk to your client. There are certain signs if someone's been under the influence of any of these potions for an extended period of time."

"Fine, fine." Sherlock waved his hand, dismissive of the client. "I'll need to steal some of his sugar, anyway. You can distract him while I take care of that."

"Where is John, anyway?"

"Off somewhere in a snit, or hungover, or possibly still in bed with the client's therapist. Not important. We'll find him later, I'm sure."

…

"Morning!" Sherlock barged into the client's house, loudly cheerful. Hermione rolled her eyes on the front step.

"Don't mind Holmes," she said reassuringly to the shocked client as Sherlock spun him around to look into his eyes.

"How are you feeling?" the detective questioned.

"I'm … I didn't sleep very well. I'm sorry, have we met?" he directed the last question toward Hermione.

"I'll make coffee!" Sherlock announced, helping himself to the kitchen as though he owned the place, leaving the others in the doorway.

Hermione rolled her eyes. She couldn't say her cousin wasn't effective, but his manners did leave something to be desired. "No, we haven't." She extended a hand. "Hermione Granger. How do you do?"

"How do you do? Look, what's going on?"

"Holmes has called me in as… a consultant, of sorts."

"What do you do?" The baffled man asked, ushering the pretty woman to a nearby sofa, and ignoring the difficult detective ransacking his kitchen.

"A bit of this and that, but I'm a psychologist by training," Hermione admitted.

"I'm not imagining it!" the client snapped. "He saw it too, even if he won't admit it!"

"Oh, he's admitted it. That's not in question. One of my hobbies is dog breeding. He's asked me to offer an opinion on the footprints, not your mental health," Hermione lied.

The client seemed mollified. "It's a massive hound," he explained. "At least as high as my shoulder, with red eyes."

Hermione, thankfully, was saved from having to make up anything about dogs by Sherlock's return. He was holding three mugs of what might have been, under certain circumstances, considered coffee. Hermione, uncertain whether Sherlock actually knew how to make even instant coffee, took hers rather reluctantly, and immediately set it on a side-table.

"Hound," the detective said, handing their host a mug. "Why do you call it a hound? Why a hound?"

"Why – what do you mean?"

"It's odd, isn't it? Strange choice of words – archaic. It's why I took the case… the footprints of a gigantic hound. Why say 'hound'?"

"I don't know! I…"

Sherlock finally took a sip of his own coffee, and set it aside. "Actually, we'd better skip the coffee. Come Granger!" He swept off imperiously, Hermione and the client trailing in his wake.

…

After the brief sugar-stealing mission, Hermione removed herself to London to have a closer look at the Ministry archives of Potions developments and her own not-insubstantial library of books on dark potions and creatures. She wished, not for the first time, that Severus Snape had survived the war – he would have been her first choice of a primary resource. Lacking a potions master with a lifetime of experience with dark magic behind him, she retreated into dusty tomes, emerging late in the afternoon confident in her initial assessment: a potion was far more likely to be responsible than any sort of creature, and of those, Asternax's Draught, or a derivative of it, was the most likely cause of Sherlock's reported symptoms.

A text was waiting for Hermione when she emerged from her wards, fully intending to check on her daughter before returning to Sherlock's case. Mycroft urgently requested that she stop his accursed nuisance of a brother running rampant through the halls of the Baskerville research facility. As the message had been sent a mere hour before, the witch decided with a sigh that Ginny was more than capable of contacting her if she was actually needed up in Hogsmeade, and that it was probably more important to stop Sherlock doing whatever he was doing than to apparate all the way up to Hogsmeade for an hour.

…

Much to Hermione's irritation, on arriving at Baskerville, she discovered that Sherlock had been, received a phone call, and gone, not five minutes prior. Mycroft had authorized her to access anything necessary to determine what his brother was up to and why, so she viewed the security tapes of his "experiment" with the sugar and inspected the lab itself and the computer files Sherlock had accessed before taking her own leave.

Her discoveries were alarming: Not only did a group of Grindelwaldean era wizards appear to have been playing at technomancy up until the late 1980s, integrating potions with biological warfare to create an aerosolized version of the fear draught, but they had clearly been skirting the edges of the Statute to do so. It seemed that HOUND was a research group, which suggested that the client had been poorly obliviated, which meant that someone was still working on the HOUND project. Most of the complex, of course, was unaware of the situation, but she would have to alert the ministry, and probably Mycroft, if anything was to be done without mass obliviations.

…

Several minutes later, having apparated back to town to look for her wayward cousin, Hermione was still trying to think of a way to contain the situation which would not involve acting as Mycroft's intermediary with the DMLE. It was always terribly awkward trying to translate the wizards' speech and mannerisms into something muggle friendly, which they were required to do, even though Mycroft obviously knew about Department M. Her cousin had, in fact, been pleased to have a known witch on his staff, because it meant he didn't have to deal with 'those bumbling idiots' anymore. They were always more awkward when trying to actively maintain the statute of secrecy, and most wizards didn't have the security clearance to know they could speak freely to Mycroft.

It was in this distracted state that Hermione quite literally ran into one of her favorite muggle law enforcement officers.

"Bloody hell, I'm so sorry. Got lost in my own thoughts and didn't see you there!" she apologized quickly, scrambling to her feet.

"Hermione?" the man asked, peering at the witch under her floppy hat. "Hermione Granger?"

Hermione pushed her ridiculous headgear (only slightly easier to handle than her still-untamable hair) out of her face. "Oh, hello, Detective Inspector Lestrade. What brings you to the middle of nowhere?"

"I've told you, Hermione, call me Greg. Mycroft has arranged for my holiday to be extended. Seems to think you're going to need a legitimate and trustworthy official presence in the area in the next couple of days. You're here with Sherlock?"

"Sorry Greg. Force of habit. More like I'm here trailing after Sherlock and trying to make sure he doesn't get into too much trouble. Seen him lately?"

Lestrade laughed. "Got away from you, did he?"

"I was off doing a spot of research, and he went and broke into Baskerville again, so Big Brother decided it would be a better use of my time to trail him around and if not actually clean up his messes, point out exactly what he's done to those who are supposed to know better than to let him in in the first place." Hermione rolled her eyes expressively.

"The saddest part is that all of that made sense. I've been around you lot too long, I think."

"Tell me about it. But have you seen him?"

"Yeah, ran into him and John 'round lunchtime. They dragged me off to investigate a vegetarian restaurant that'd been ordering a lot of meat. Turns out they had a dog, but it was put down a while ago. I slipped off just after two." The DI checked his watch. "I expect they're at dinner by now."

So in other words, he hadn't seen the boys since before they had run off to Baskerville. "That's a dangerous assumption around Sherlock," Hermione pointed out.

"Yes, well, you must have noticed John has a way of getting him to at least sit down at regular intervals. Is there any truth to that rumor…?"

"About John and Sherlock? No, not a bit of it. John's as straight as they come."

Lestrade smirked. "I notice you don't say anything about your dear cousin."

Hermione sniggered. "That would be telling. So how was your vacation? France?"

"The Riviera," the man nodded, and then sighed. "Things are a bit patchy with the wife. We, or, well, I guess I was hoping this trip would help us get back on track, but, well…"

"Tough luck, mate. You've got my number, right, if you ever want to talk?"

"Yes, Hermione, my secretary's filed you with all the other psychologists."

Hermione pulled a face at his put-upon expression. He must have been getting a lot of offers of 'help' lately. "Don't be like that, Greg. In a completely non-official capacity, as a friend, I'm here if you want a woman's opinion or whatever. Text me, though, and we'll meet somewhere, the phone service at my flat's awful."

"Thanks, dove."

"No problem at all. Anyway, I ought to get moving, before Sherlock drags John out onto the moors. Then I'd never catch them up."

Greg chuckled. "Right then. See you around."

The DI turned away with a wave, but before they had walked more than a few steps in opposite directions, his phone rang.

"Lestrade. Holmes? Hello? What's that, then? The hollow? Dewer's? Why – Sherlock!" He looked around in confusion for a second. Sherlock had obviously hung up on him. "Hey, Granger!" he called to the woman, who had already stopped, eavesdropping as soon as she heard the name 'Holmes.' "Come on, your arsehole cousin wants me out on the moors. Does Dewer's Hollow mean anything to you?"

"It's the scene of the crime. Let's go." Hermione would say she was resigned to participating in yet another of her cousin's mad adventures, but there was a reason she had stuck around, first with Harry, and then with Sherlock. She had missed the thrill of adventure since Miranda was born.

...

Hermione and Greg arrived on the scene just in time to see John take a pistol from the client. Greg scrambled down into the hollow, while Hermione kept watch on the rim.

"But we saw it: the hound, last night. We s… we, we, we did, we saw…" the poor man babbled.

Sherlock tried to calm him. "There was a dog, Henry, leaving footprints, scaring witnesses, but it was nothing more than an ordinary dog. We both saw it – saw it as our drugged minds wanted us to see it. Fear and stimulus, that's how it works." The client did not seem reassured. "There was never any monster," the detective added, just in time to be proven wrong by the howl of a beastly dog.

…

The men in the fog-filled hollow were clearly hallucinating. A fifth figure had joined them, wearing a mask and approaching Sherlock. Suddenly, Sherlock headbutted the new figure, knocking his gas mask free. He slapped a hand to his mouth and nose.

"It's in the fog!" Hermione shouted. She doubted the hallucinating men heard her. She didn't dare use magic on any of the maddened men directly, lest they see her unknown power as a threat and attack her. She could, of course, subdue them all, but she hesitated to do so, as she didn't really want to cause any of them long-term damage or distract them from the real threat: The dog was slinking down into the hollow from the other side, probably driven insane by the potion, just as the men were.

She could, on the other hand, do something about the potion-infused fog they were currently breathing in. A quick ventus charm began to clear the air, sending a fresh breeze into the hollow. Even Sherlock, in his potion-addled state, wouldn't think to wonder where the so-convenient wind had come from.

Greg and John, still armed, turned their pistols on the animal, and the fog dissipated as Sherlock forced the client to recognize that it was just a dog. Hermione joined them as her cousin explained gleefully that the hollow itself was the scene of the crime and the murder weapon all in one.

And then the dog whined, trying to drag itself to its feet.

The man Sherlock had headbutted – Frankland, Hermione thought his name was – took the opportunity of the distraction to escape. Sherlock, Lestrade, and John took chase, following Frankland toward a minefield.

Hermione, meanwhile, brought the client back to Lestrade's car, taking advantage of their momentary privacy to examine his memory and the state of the charms he had been subjected to many years before.

Sherlock's (and Henry's therapist's) conclusion that the man had been recalling repressed memories of an attack by a man (not a hound) on his father was essentially correct, though the memories had not been suppressed due to trauma, but due to Frankland's desire to hide his illegal activities. The memory charms had begun to deteriorate under the pressure of repeated exposure to the weaponized potion and its similarity to the conditions under which the initial memory had been altered.

After a short internal debate, Hermione stabilized the man's mind, using the explanation Sherlock had invented in the hollow. It was, after all, more or less correct, lacking only the details that the drug was actually a potion; Frankland was actually a wizard; and that the memory was initially lost due to a spell. The Ministry obliviators could hardly be expected to come up with anything better.

By the time the men returned to the cars, reporting in various tones of resignation and irritation that Frankland had blown himself up, Henry was convinced that Sherlock had been right about everything. Hermione pulled Sherlock aside for a moment to explain the three details left out, and, after promising to fill him in more thoroughly at a later date, apparated from his hotel room to her flat.

…

Hermione looked longingly at her bedroom door for a moment before turning to the kitchen – Sherlock's case was just wrapping up, but Mycroft would want a full report, and then she would have to deal with the Ministry and the issue of decommissioning the HOUND project – for she had no doubt it was a holdover from the Ministry war programs developed in the 1940s – and removing all traces of magical presence from the Baskerville compound. Coffee would be necessary.

…

A text woke Hermione, who had fallen asleep on the sofa in her office sometime around eleven on Wednesday morning, governmental officials (finally) more or less appeased by her (judiciously edited) reports.

John: Are you sure you want me to keep your name out of the story?

Hermione: Write it so I wasn't even there. It's easy enough.

John: Well, if you're sure.

Hermione: I hardly did anything, anyway, John, and it's better if no one knows anyone from Mycroft's office was involved, even if I wasn't there officially.

John: All right, I'll let you know when it's up.

Hermione: Thanks, John.

Hermione rolled over and went back to sleep – it had been a very long two days, and she still needed to go fetch Miranda in the afternoon.

...

Hermione: Thought you should know, they caught Frankland today. Real name: Pierce Selwyn. He's been sentenced to a life term for his various crimes, and if they were willing to acknowledge you at all, Harry's department would extend their thanks to you for alerting them to the situation.

Sherlock: I told you it was a code M.

Hermione: I never said it wasn't!

Sherlock: We all know you were thinking it. Did you have fun?

Hermione: A bit. I'm still not coming back to the front lines. But if you need me, I'll be there. You always knew I would be.

Sherlock: Yes, and that's why you're my favorite.

Hermione: Because I'm dependable like that?

Sherlock: Unlike some family members I could name.

Hermione: He warned you after Baskerville that if you ever used his name to break into secure governmental facilities again, he wouldn't be helping you out. Last weekend was fully on your own head.

Sherlock: Fine. Take his side.

Hermione: I'm on my own side, thanksverymuch. Don't forget, Miri's party is at the Potters' this Saturday. Come by around 10 and we'll head up together.

Sherlock: Fine, fine. I'll let you know when I come up with the cover for John.

Hermione: Just tell him it's a family thing.

Sherlock: Where's the fun in that?