Chapter 23: Into the Depths of Memory
The world shifted in a haze, a sense of weightlessness enveloping Sherlock as the binding spell took hold. He felt the world around him blur and dissolve, like ink bleeding across water, until he stood on a street corner, surrounded by the familiar bustle of a London crime scene.
But something was off.
He blinked, his mind racing. Across the street, he saw her—Hermione. Her figure was sharp and defined, yet everything else seemed to waver, ghost-like. She was talking to Lestrade, her features youthful, almost unburdened by the years of stress and strain that now haunted her present-day appearance. She wore a simple coat, her curls wild and untamed in the breeze.
Sherlock's heart pounded in his chest, confusion flooding him as the scene unfolded. It took him a moment to realize where he was: this was the first time they met. A part of him knew it wasn't real, but the sensation was overwhelming, pulling him under. He had no control over his movements and was locked into the memory, forced to re-live it exactly as it had happened.
His body moved mechanically, his expression sharp and calculating, as he observed Hermione from a distance. She was speaking confidently to Lestrade, her eyes bright with intelligence. Sherlock frowned. Who was this woman? He didn't recognize her. Was she a witness? A relative of the victim, perhaps? His mind raced with possibilities, his irritation mounting.
"John," he muttered, eyes narrowing, "who is she?"
John didn't respond at first, his attention fixed on his phone, rapidly texting the woman he had met earlier. Sherlock's frustration simmered. "John!" he repeated, more sharply this time.
John finally looked up, startled. "What? Oh, uh…" His gaze shifted to Hermione, and recognition dawned on his face. "Oh, wow… Hermione?!"
Sherlock blinked as John jogged across the street, ducking under the police tape with a broad grin. "Hermione Granger!" John exclaimed, practically beaming as he reached her. She turned, her face lighting up in surprise. "John Watson," she breathed, her voice filled with warmth. "It's been a lifetime."
Sherlock's eyes narrowed, his mind turning over this new information. John knows her? The irritation in Sherlock's chest deepened as he followed John across the street, stopping just behind him.
"Are you not going to introduce me?" Sherlock asked, his tone clipped.
John hesitated, clearly uncomfortable. His brows furrowed, as if debating the wisdom of throwing Hermione to the proverbial wolves that was Sherlock's relentless observation. "Oh, um, right… Hermione, this is Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock, this is Hermione Granger."
Hermione's eyes flicked toward him, her expression briefly caught between amusement and curiosity. "Sherlock," she echoed, her tone curious, perhaps even impressed. "I've heard of you."
Sherlock's ego swelled, his lips twitching into a smug smile. "Have you?"
"Of course, I work for your brother after all," she replied simply, and just like that, the smug smile dropped. His chest tightened. Mycroft. Of course, Sherlock thought bitterly. He studied her more closely now, but the memory began to fade, like fog lifting from the Thames. The scene dissolved into darkness.
--
A new memory took shape, and this time, Sherlock found himself seated in Mycroft's office, Hermione beside him. Both sat with their heads bowed, like schoolchildren waiting for the headmaster's lecture.
"Do you have any idea how much damage you've caused?" Mycroft's voice was a cutting reprimand. "An international case, months in the making… completely derailed."
Sherlock's response was automatic, as it had been in the moment. "But we solved the case," he said, though his voice lacked the usual sharpness. Hermione, sitting beside him, wisely remained silent.
Mycroft's eyes bored into them both. "You," he said, turning his full attention to Hermione, "are supposed to represent the magical community in this investigation, to manage the intersection between our worlds. But instead, you let your temper get the better of you. This was reckless."
Sherlock remembered this now. They had been on a case, and he had found a peculiar artifact—something magical, though he hadn't known at the time. He had been on Hermione's last nerve all day. Testing her to see what buttons he could press to make her crack. He had touched the artifact, of course, ignoring Hermione's frantic shout, "Don't touch that!"
The artifact had exploded in a cloud of thick black smoke. Sherlock remembered the choking sensation, the heat, and then—nothing. When he awoke, Hermione had been kneeling beside him, her wand drawn, casting spells over his prone form. It had been the first time Sherlock realized the full extent of Hermione's world.
He could still feel the tinge of disbelief from that moment, the shock of understanding that magic—real magic—existed. He had stared up at Hermione, half-dazed, as she muttered healing incantations under her breath, her brow furrowed in concentration. Her panic had been palpable, something Sherlock could feel now, even in the memory.
That day in Mycroft's office, they had exchanged a glance—one of shared rebellion, mischief and understanding. Hermione had smirked, the corner of her mouth lifting in defiance. From that day forward, they had been inseparable, to Mycroft's dismay.
--
Another shift, and Sherlock was standing outside Hermione's apartment, the night warm and quiet. He could feel the pulse of her heartbeat under his lips, one of his hands resting at her waist, the other tangled in her wild curls. Her hands were soft, yet firm, as they gripped the back of his neck. She pulled his lips from her neck to join her own in a deep kiss. His mind swam, lost in the sensation of her—her warmth, her scent, the way her body fit perfectly against his.
This had been the night. The night they had crossed a line, and the night that had set everything in motion.
The memory swept him up, playing out as it had before. He remembered the urgency in his movements, the fire in his veins. He remembered the way Hermione had pulled him inside, the door of her apartment clicking shut behind them. Every detail felt so vivid, so real. But then, as the night played out, as they collapsed into bed together, something shifted.
Once again the memory blurred and a new one took its place.
--
Sherlock was leaving Hermione's apartment, desperate to get away from the embarrassment that would come once Hermione told him the truth. That she didn't feel the same. That is was a mistake.
Sherlock's present-day mind intruded on the memory. The knowledge of what had come after clawed its way to the surface, and guilt wrapped itself around his chest like a vice. I abandoned her, he thought, the realization searing his heart. I left her.
Sherlock fought to regain control, to stop himself from leaving the apartment as he had that morning. He could feel the pull, the compulsion to repeat the motions exactly as they had happened, but something nagged at him, a voice in the back of his mind.
"Stay with her. No matter what."
Sherlock reached the door of her apartment, his hand trembling as it grasped the handle. He wanted to leave, to escape the unbearable weight of his actions, but the pain in his chest intensified, a sharp, relentless ache. He squeezed his eyes shut, gripping the handle until his knuckles turned white.
"You must stay with her every step of the way."
The voice was louder now, insistent, refusing to let him leave. Sherlock groaned, pressing his hands to his temples, struggling to make sense of it.
"Sherlock?" Hermione's voice, soft and tentative, cut through the haze. He felt her hand on his arm, a gentle anchor pulling him back. "Are you okay?"
He turned, meeting her gaze, and the spell shattered. The present crashed into the memory. Sherlock's chest heaved, and he pulled her into his arms, holding her close. "I won't leave you, Hermione," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "Never again."
--
Sherlock blinked, disoriented, as the world around him twisted and re-formed into something dark and sinister. They were no longer in London. No longer at her apartment. No longer was she safe in his arms.
They were at Malfoy Manor.
Hermione lay on the ground, writhing in agony, her screams piercing the air. Bellatrix Lestrange stood over her, wand raised, casting the Cruciatus Curse on Hermione for what felt like the hundreth time.
But something was wrong with this memory. This wasn't Hermione's teenage self. She was older—her face etched with pain and fear, her body shaking violently under the force of the curse. And this time, the pain wasn't just hers. It radiated through Sherlock, too, as if it was tearing him apart alongside her.
He threw himself to his knees at her side, grabbing her hand, but the memory was relentless. This isn't real, he thought desperately. "Hermione, please! It's not real!"
But she couldn't hear him. She was trapped, consumed by the torment. Her body convulsed, her screams filled with terror and heartbreak. "You survived this!" Sherlock shouted, shaking her gently. "You're stronger than this, Hermione! You survived!"
Her suffering tore at him, the agony palpable, the helplessness crushing. "Please, Hermione," he sobbed, his voice breaking. "Don't let this take you away from me. Please fight. Fight for me Hermione. If not for me, then for our baby."
But Hermione was still tossing and turning, her face contorted in pain, her voice hoarse from screaming. "Please... stop...," she begged, her words barely audible over the sound of her own anguish. The torture was relentless, and Sherlock felt utterly helpless.
He gripped her hand tighter, his knuckles white with desperation. It's not working, he thought. I can't save her. The realization broke something inside him, a deep crack in the armor he had carefully constructed over the years.
Sherlock's hands trembled as he lowered his forehead to rest gently against Hermione's shoulder. His chest tightened as tears began to fall freely, his sobs almost silent, barely audible over her agony. He had failed.
"Please, Hermione," he whispered, his voice raw with emotion. "I love you. I can't lose you now."
Bellatrix's maniacal laughter echoed in the background, the walls of Malfoy Manor looming over them like an inescapable shadow. But then, in the stillness of that moment—those words hanging in the air—something shifted.
The world around them began to fade.
Bellatrix's twisted figure dissolved into nothingness, the cold stone floor of the manor vanished, and the echo of Hermione's screams quieted until all that remained was silence, the oppressive darkness receding like a nightmare at dawn.
Hermione had stopped crying, stopped writhing in pain. She opened her eyes, disoriented but calm, her breathing shallow but steady. She blinked up at Sherlock, who knelt over her, still holding her hand, his face streaked with tears.
"Sherlock... what's happened?" she asked softly, her voice shaky but clear. "Are you okay?"
Hermione pulled herself into a sitting position and, seeing the broken man before her, wrapped her arms around him, offering him the comfort he had tried so desperately to give her. Sherlock buried his face in her shoulder, holding on to her with every ounce of strength he possessed.
As they held each other, bound as one. The world of memory went black.
