Chapter 24: The Waiting Game
The living room of the Granger household was far fuller than it had ever been, though no one spoke much. Tension hummed through the air as everyone watched Hermione and Sherlock, their bodies still, eyes closed, but their hands tightly clasped. The only sign of life was Hermione's cold sweat and her trembling—though unconscious, the agony she endured was visible. Sherlock, equally disheveled, was trapped in her memories, and the room's occupants could do nothing but watch.
It had been about 15 minutes since the spell had been cast.
Poppy, her face lined with concern, stood closest to Hermione, though she too could do nothing more. "I think it's time we put the kettle on," she said quietly, trying to offer some semblance of normalcy in a situation that felt anything but. Harry, Ginny, John, and Mary exchanged nervous glances, but no one moved.
Mary had already filled John in on the events that transpired while he and Sherlock had been gone. The details were grim, leaving John to feel a tightening unease in his stomach. Harry, for his part, had surprised John with just how much he knew. Thanks to Mycroft's recent confession, Harry had pieced together more about what Sherlock had faced on that island with his sister.
The clock on the wall ticked softly, its rhythm the only sound in the room. Fifteen minutes passed—closer to twenty, now—and the tension had only grown thicker. Everyone's attention flickered between Hermione's still form and Sherlock's.
It was Ginny who first noticed the change.
Trained as a healer, her senses were attuned to the subtle signs of a changing condition. She moved cautiously, her eyes narrowing as she saw the change in Hermione's pallor. "Wait," she whispered, stepping closer but careful not to disturb the delicate connection between Hermione and Sherlock.
Hermione's face, once pale and sickly, now showed signs of color. The green tinge that had clung to her skin was gone, replaced by a soft pink. Her shaking had stopped.
And then, as if synchronized, both Hermione and Sherlock stirred.
Their eyes fluttered open simultaneously, Sherlock still kneeling beside the sofa, his hand clasping Hermione's as though letting go would mean losing her forever. Hermione's gaze fell on him first. "Sherlock, what happened?" she asked, her voice soft and mirroring the words she'd spoken to him in the memory world. "Are you okay?"
Sherlock's head jerked up, her voice a lifeline pulling him from the haze of what they had just experienced. "Hermione," he breathed, relief washing over him. "You're okay!"
Without thinking, he pulled her into a tight embrace, holding her as if her life depended on it, as if he couldn't bear the thought of letting her go. For a moment, it was just the two of them, wrapped in each other's presence, the rest of the room fading into the background.
"Sherlock," Hermione's voice came out in a breathless giggle, "you're crushing me!" She nudged him slightly. "Anyone would think I was dying."
Sherlock laughed—almost—if the fear hadn't been so fresh, the reality of how close he had come to losing her still raw. He pulled back just enough to meet her eyes, his hand still resting against her cheek. "God, Hermione," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion, "I love you."
Her eyes went wide with surprise, and before she could respond, Sherlock leaned in and kissed her—deeply, soundly, as though it were the only way he could make her understand how much he meant it. For a split second, Hermione hesitated, the abruptness catching her off guard, but then she kissed him back, her hand resting lightly on the back of his neck.
When they finally parted, Hermione's eyes sparkled with amusement. "Okay, then," she said, drawing out the words. "That was... different."
Sherlock managed a small smile, though the weight of what they had just experienced lingered in his eyes. "Are you sure you're okay?" Hermione asked, her brow furrowing in concern.
"I'm fine," Sherlock assured her, his voice softer now. "I'm good, even. And I'm so, so sorry for not being there for you." His gaze dropped briefly to her abdomen, a mix of wonder and fear flashing in his eyes. "I have no idea how to be a father to our baby, but I will learn. I won't leave you again, ever."
Hermione's heart swelled at the sincerity in his voice. She didn't yet know what had brought about this sudden change in him—what had made him finally stop avoiding her or indeed who had told him about the baby—but none of that mattered now. All that mattered was that Sherlock was here.
She smiled softly, brushing a strand of hair out of his face. "Mycroft is going to kill us," she whispered with a conspiratorial smirk.
Sherlock's expression shifted, the humor draining from his face as realization dawned. "Mycroft," he muttered, his eyes widening. He shot to his feet. "We have to go back for him!"
The others in the room, who had been watching the intimate moment between Sherlock and Hermione in silence, now looked to each other with growing concern.
The momentary joy was gone, crashing under the weight of reality. Mycroft—his brother—was still out there, still in danger.
"Sherlock, wait!" Hermione called out as she stood from the sofa she had spent the last few hours lying on. She looked down at herself, alarmed by the blood smeared over her. "Tell me everything," Hermione begged.
They would save Mycroft together.
