Archive of Our Own

It was the first summer since moving into Baker Street, and there was no case, which meant a bored Sherlock. John Watson was coming to learn that this was a dangerous thing; and unfortunately, when he had a day off from the clinic, it meant he was in charge of keeping Sherlock occupied and, worse yet, out of trouble.

Salvation came in the form of a young woman. Mrs Hudson didn't show her in; she let herself in, looked around the flat, glanced over Sherlock, then looked at John.

“Hello,” she said.

“Hello,” he said. “If you're looking for the detective, that's my flatmate, not me. If you need a doctor, however...”

“Well, I suppose I was looking for both of you,” she said. “I've met the detective in question. It's you I haven't met. Hermione Granger.” She held out her hand. John shook it, remembering at the last moment to stand, and he offered her a chair. He glared pointedly at Sherlock, who was lying across the couch. Hermione went straight to him, heaved Sherlock's legs off, sat down, and put his legs on hers. What? “Please sit down, doctor, there's no need to stand on ceremony. Don't have anything better to do, Sherlock? You might melt if you don't change into something lighter. I'm not your mother, I shouldn't have to tell you this.”

“Are you his...?” John didn't think girlfriends – or boyfriends – were Sherlock's thing. Did he have a secret wife? He tried to see if there was a wedding ring, or a chain to indicate a hidden ring, anything like that.

“Am I his what?” she asked.

“He's asking if you're my girlfriend or some kind of...” Sherlock finally opened his eyes and tipped his head around. “Secret wife? Really, John, you must stop reading so many novels. Try non-fiction for a bit. I'm sure Hermione could lend you something.”

“I don't lend anything from my library willy-nilly,” she said. She patted one of his knees. “Go and get into something to wear out. If adventure won't come to you, we'll have to find it instead, won't we? There's bound to be a crime in progress I'm sure you can stop. It may be below your skill level, but it's better than moping around here.”

“I'm not moping.” She arched an eyebrow, giving him an imperious look which wouldn't be out of place on Mycroft's face. John realised.

“You're related to him,” he said. “Are you his sister or something?”

“I don't have a sister,” Sherlock said. Hermione winced, pushing his legs off her lap.

“Get changed, and have a wash as well,” she said. “You clearly haven't showered in at least three days. Practise some good hygiene if you don't want to risk contaminating crime scenes. I'll get to know Dr Watson in the meantime. I won't chase him off. I'm not Mycroft.”

“I know you scared some of the idiots you went to school with,” he said, standing obediently. John stared, wondering if you had to be related to Sherlock to get him to do anything. Well, no, Mrs Hudson could get him to do things sometimes, and Mycroft rarely.

“If they weren't bigots, I wouldn't have to terrify them in the first place,” Hermione said. Sherlock grunted, probably agreeing with her, as he trudged into his room and hopefully the en suite. Then she turned back to John with a smile. “I'm one of Sherlock's cousins. There are two of us, first cousins. Quiston is an orphan, I'm sorry to say, but he became something like a brother to me, after he came to live with us when his father died. He's only a year younger than me. I'm about three years younger than Sherlock, and quite a bit younger than Mycroft. I'm... not sure if you'll meet Quiston. Have you?”

“No. It was a few days before I found out that Sherlock had a brother. I thought Mycroft was his enemy at first!”

“Sherlock thinks that he is. Mycroft is... well, he's a bit of a control freak. That may be putting it lightly. Not sure how recently Sherlock swept this place for bugs.” She glanced around. “Whether I'll get a message later from Mycroft claiming that he isn't a control freak, he's just 'concerned'. I think that, as the oldest in our generation, he takes our safety as his responsibility, even though only Quiston doesn't have parents. My parents are dentists, if you're ever in need of dental work. Here, have one of their cards.” She searched her handbag and produced a business card for him. “I'm sure they'd be delighted to know that Sherlock has a friend. It's hard for him to find anyone who can relate to him.”

“I don't think I can really relate to him,” John admitted. “I find him interesting, he's clearly smart, the way he can solve cases, even work out what people are thinking by looking at them, it's amazing! And he's less obnoxious than Mycroft.”

Hermione laughed, a gentle sound.

“Yes, I'm afraid arrogance is a bit of a Holmes trait,” she said. “I didn't make any friends until I went to boarding school, and I had to learn to tone things down. I also had my father as a good influence, and Quiston had his father, too. Mycroft and Sherlock taught me a lot growing up. We're all bright, too intelligent for our own good. But we try to help people with our intelligence; it's always been the family way. I think... yes, I was the first among us to make real friends. They've become friends to Quiston, and he's made friends at work. If Mycroft ever seems... odd about you, it's because he must be the only one of us without a friend. It... it makes me sad, but he claims he doesn't need anyone. I think he expected Sherlock to rely solely on him, being possibly the only other one who knows what it's like. But Sherlock wants to be normal, or at least wants friends. So I think... as long as you remain a good friend to him, perhaps one day Mycroft will see that he can have friends, too. I just hope it won't be too late, at his age.”

“This is... a lot,” John said. Hermione shrugged.

“You move in together after a meeting which lasted, what, five minutes?” she said. “Then shot someone before Sherlock could swallow a pill which had a fifty percent chance of killing him, like the reckless...” She broke off, looking towards the bedroom door. “He'll be within earshot in less than fifteen seconds. Best talk about normal things. So, are you recovering well from the army?”

“Uh... yeah,” John said, as Hermione sat back, looking quite ordinary, as though she hadn't been discussing his flat-mate's psychology. “I see a therapist.”

“Good, good. Are they helpful?”

“Well, I started a blog.”

“I've wondered about those. Is it difficult to find things to write about? Do you have to stick to one topic to maintain readership?”

This wasn't normal small-talk. He suspected that, like Sherlock and Mycroft, Hermione – what was her last name again? - wasn't particularly good at normal social interactions.

“Well, I've started writing about Sherlock's cases,” John said. “Sherlock has a blog too, about his detection stuff. Cigarette ash types, different soils found throughout London.”

“Hmm. What site do you use to host your blog? I have friends who may be interested in starting their own blogs. I prefer books myself, but instantaneous information sharing would be so useful, especially with different time zones... yes, this could be quite useful in some of my work... and Quiston would be able to help, he's terribly tech savvy. If ever you have an issue with technical things, let him know and he'll be happy to help, as long as he isn't trying to solve some kind of crisis at work. And don't let Sherlock bully him into dropping his work load at a moment's notice, or Mycroft will be unhappy about it, since he may get into trouble.”

“Why would Mycroft get into trouble?” John asked, flabbergasted.

“She's exaggerating,” Sherlock said, entering the room in casual clothes, though still expensive ones, of course. “And I'd never bully Quiston, I resent that.”

“If you thought your wants were more important than the needs of the people he works for, you might irritate him until he does what you want, and that's the same thing,” Hermione said, standing up and fixing his collar. “You don't need this up, it's warm enough outside. There won't be any vampires out in this sunshine for your to protect your neck from.” John snickered, while Sherlock frowned at her.

“Vampires don't exist, Mina,” he said.

“Hermia and Mina are both nicknames for me,” she explained to John. “And I'm just reassuring you, Sherlock, that it's too sunny for vampires.”

“If they existed, which they don't.”

“You never know, there's so much mythology, it had to come from somewhere,” she said, in a sing-song voice. “Ready, John?”

“Yes, Hermione.”

“Good, let's go. Do you think Mrs Hudson would like to join us? She seemed nice.”

“Mrs Hudson!” Sherlock bellowed down the stairs, and Hermione hit the back of his head, despite being nearly two heads shorter than him, which made him feel a bit better. “We're going out to find a case. My cousin Hermione wants to know if you want to join us.”

“Oh, that's nice of you, dear,” Mrs Hudson said, as they walked down the stairs, coming out of her flat. “But I think I'll stay inside today. It's a bit too warm for me, and my program's coming on shortly. Might fix myself a drink instead.”

“Shall we bring you anything?” Hermione asked politely.

“No thank you, love, I've got plenty in the fridge and freezer, and I can order more groceries, but thank you for the thought,” Mrs Hudson said, beaming. “What a lovely girl you are. Why can't you be more like your cousin, Sherlock? I hope you visit again, dear.”

“Thank you, Mrs Hudson. It was such a pleasure to meet you, after hearing so much about you.”

Mrs Hudson tittered in delight, then returned to her flat. Sherlock muttered something about Hermione being 'a crawler', then directed her outside, while John found himself amused by the whole spectacle. He locked the door behind them, then offered Hermione his arm. She took his, forcing Sherlock to trudge after them.

“If I were a criminal on a summer's day, where would I commit a crime?” Hermione asked. “There does seem to be an uptick in crime during summer, like they somehow know it's your birthday next month, Sherlock.”

“It's your birthday next month?” John asked, looking back at Sherlock. “Are you going to have a party? Were you going to tell me?”

“Yes, no, and no,” Sherlock said. “I don't celebrate my birthday. I haven't since I moved out of home. Birthdays are for children.”

“Yet they happen every year,” John said. “If you have anything on your wish list...”

“I don't have wish lists.”

“I'll try to give you some ideas,” Hermione whispered.

“Thanks,” he whispered back.

“I can hear you,” Sherlock said clearly. “As to your earlier question, Hermia, somewhere with air-conditioning would be a good place to commit a crime.”

“Shopping centres, art galleries or museums, hotels,” she listed off. “Private houses while people are away on holiday... though they wouldn't have the air-con on, but they might have a pool with an automatic cleaner, which could potentially clean away any skin cells shed while they were taking a dip after committing their crime. Could still be camera footage.”

“Would still be best committed at night, while a shopping centre would be rife with shop-lifters,” Sherlock said. “Shop-lifting is so petty, though.”

“But they'd hide stuff more easily under warm clothes, and they wouldn't be wearing those... well, during summer months, or during winter months, not with central heating,” she mused. It was intriguing to hear them almost plotting a crime, while really simply trying to work out where one might be committed.

“What about a non-burglary?” John suggested. “If you want to prevent a crime from happening, how would you do that? Like a more serious crime?”

“Murder, rape, abduction,” Sherlock said.

“Many of those can be predicted through previous set behaviours,” Hermione said. “I studied psychology when I was twelve, thirteen years old. I think you still have the book of mine, actually, Sherlock. Not that I needed it anymore, but it's still a bit off not to return it.”

“The new edition was nearly due out by then,” he argued.

“That doesn't excuse book theft!”

“You were saying, about set behaviours?” John asked.

She cleared her throat.

“Yes,” she said. “Domestic abusers, for example. They're more likely to escalate their behaviour. Not always, but too often the first hit won't be the last. What's that statistic, Sherlock, about how when a man strangles his partner, he's more likely to end up killing her? There's a seven in it.”

“It's believed to be seven hundred and fifty percent more likely that he'll kill her,” Sherlock said.

“So if you want to prevent such a crime, you find either a hospital or a police station, find a report of someone having survived strangulation, then find out if they've also previously reported other injuries, broken bones, bruises. If one person was responsible for them all, you've got a likely future murderer on your hands. You should be able to put them away for the attempted murder, with the strangulation. You shouldn't have to wait until the actual murder to put them behind bars.”

“Crikey, I didn't realise it was that bad,” John said, the blood draining from his face. They walked into Regent's Park at the end of Baker Street. Children were playing in the sunshine, people were having picnics in the shade of trees. Cyclists were on the old carriage path, so they turned to walk on the grass, now able to walk fully side by side, with Sherlock offering his arm to Hermione, so she was flanked by both men.

“Then there's the fact that many abusers become friendly with the police, or are in the police force, so nothing can be done there,” Sherlock said. “And there are those who don't physically abuse; they commit financial abuse, or psychological or emotional abuse.”

“It still counts as domestic violence, technically, but unless the financial abuse involves actual fraud, they can't be put away,” Hermione said. “It's a tough world out there for--”

There were screams in the distance, a yell, and all three stopped in their tracks. It seemed they had found adventure. Then there was a thunderous feeling beneath their feet, and from the treeline burst a carriage, two horses pulling it, no driver, and a family of four in the back, the children screaming, the parents yelling at them to calm down. Others in the park shrieked as they ran to get out of the way of the horses.

And Hermione wasn't there. She was running towards the carriage.

“Hermione!” Sherlock cried out, genuine fear in his voice, as he started running.

John would've run as well, but he realised that the driver had fallen. As a doctor, he had to help where he could, and ran for where the horses had come from, hoping he could at least help the carriage driver, and find out what happened. As he hurried across the lawn, he saw Hermione running as though the hounds of hell were after her. Then she jumped – he had no idea how she jumped that high – into the carriage, got between the parents, climbed into the driver's seat, and got hold of the reins. Soon the horses slowed down.

John found the driver on the track, others surrounding him. A nurse was checking his eyes with the light from her phone, and he helped by checking for bumps on the man's head, and reassuring him that someone had the horses under control. He checked the man's legs as well. Once he and the nurse – Stephanie something – had made sure nothing was broken, they helped the man stand. He limped as they got him to the main grassed area of Regent's Park.

“It was one of those flaming cyclists, ringing their damn bell to let us know they were there and were coming past,” he said. “The horses are usually good as gold, but it was too damn close. They got startled, reared up, and that was it.”

“Well, looks like Hermione's got the horses steady now,” John said. “I'll check the family. If you're injured, make sure to check your workers' compensation. I'll give you the name of the clinic where I work so you can call on me if you need me to fill out any forms, alright?”

Hermione locked the reins in place, then hopped down from the carriage. She introduced herself to the driver and Stephanie, then checked over the horses, talking softly to them, stroking their necks and noses. John left Stephanie and the driver with Sherlock while he talked to the passengers to get their version of events, and advised them to write it down or record it some other way while their memory was still fresh. He also gave them the name of the clinic in case they suffered any kind of aftereffects, like whiplash, and needed a check-up or a referral for travellers' insurance.

The family ended up getting an Uber back to their hotel, and the driver sent for a trailer to pick up the horses, and for another driver to pick up the carriage as well as himself. Stephanie, and her boyfriend who'd been jogging with her, stayed with him. Sherlock began to fuss over Hermione.

“It's alright, Sherlock, I learnt how to drive a carriage from the groundskeeper at boarding school,” she said. “I knew what I was doing.”

“That was extremely reckless, and Mycroft will be displeased with you!” he scolded.

“Yes, yes, and I'll bear it all when he...” Her phone began to ring, and she sighed. “Calls me.”

John gave her a sympathetic look as she walked several paces away to answer her phone.

Moriarty was a problem, but John didn't realise how much until they were in the courtroom on day two of the madman's trial. Hermione had joined them, claiming that her 'projects' could be put on hold, and Sherlock needed her support.

“Look at them, they're terrified,” she whispered. She was looking at the jury. Sherlock only had eyes for Moriarty, but John looked at the jury and saw what she meant; they were downright scared, also looking at Moriarty, and amongst themselves.

“He takes the stand today,” Sherlock murmured. “He'll just keep lying.”

“If he talks at all,” she said.

“Why wouldn't he talk?”

“He's fixed the jury,” she said. “He must have. Sherlock, look!” She punched his arm, and John winced; he could almost feel the bruise forming from here. Sherlock glared down at his cousin while he massaged his arm, then looked at the jury. He glare faded as he took them in at a glance, and nodded.

“You're right,” he said. “But how can we...” His mind began ticking over obviously. Hermione stood up and hurried out of the room. John hoped she was calling Mycroft. He pulled out his phone, which was on silent, and texted Mycroft himself, to let him know that it looked like the jury had been tampered with, and Hermione was probably about to call him. He didn't receive a reply, but Mycroft read the text, and Hermione returned in a few minutes' time, looking calmer now. She glanced around the room. Sherlock was still muttering “No, they might not believe... what if the judge is also...? But he can't fix the whole system, surely!”

“All rise!” the court attendant called, as the judge entered the room. John hoped they'd caught the problem in time, and that Mycroft would pull off some miracle. Hermione got a message on her phone, looked at it, sent a quick reply, and then put her phone away. Sherlock continued to fidget in place; Hermione took one of his hands in hers, playing with his fingers until he calmed down. They sat, and eventually, after other testimony, Moriarty was called to the stand. He stood there, cool as a bloody cucumber, and it really looked as thought he wasn't going to talk. At all.

Then there was a loud noise from behind the judge's desk, almost like the sound of a gunshot, and even Moriarty jumped. Many stood in their places, trying to get a look, and Sherlock looked like he was about to run over there. Hermione stayed seated, bent forward, her chin resting on her cupped hands as though she was praying, but John only registered this in his peripheral. The court attendant and a couple of police officers checked out the windows, and behind the judge's desk, but there was nothing. Moriarty drank from the glass of water on the witness stand, and everyone was instructed to sit back down.

“Are you sure you have nothing to say, Mr Moriarty?” the judge asked.

“Oh, I have plenty to say, your honour, but I don't intend to,” Moriarty said, in his lilting Irish accent, and many gasped.

“What about the jury?” Hermione called out.

“Silence from the--” the judge began, but Moriarty kept talking.

“I silenced them, obviously, I couldn't have them finding against me, with all the overwhelming evidence, I still have too much to do,” Moriarty said. “I have to make sure Sherlock Holmes dies for interfering with my work.”

Pandemonium began, Hermione's outburst was forgotten, and it took several minutes for order to be restored. Hermione sat back, pleased with whatever part she had played in whatever the hell Mycroft had done, and however he'd managed to do it without being seen, or without his agents being seen. He must have been responsible for the loud noise. Had it been some kind of psychological trick, to unsettle Moriarty? But then why did he look increasingly annoyed as he kept answering the judge's questions? Why, when his lawyer tried to get him to stop talking, did he shout that he was trying, claiming that he must have been given a truth drug?

Sherlock was delighted – and relieved – and wouldn't say a word against his brother for the rest of the day, and Hermione left them after the court to 'visit some friends' before heading home. She was already chatting on her phone, no doubt telling Mycroft about what had happened, even though he likely had the courtroom bugged and didn't need a recount of events. But perhaps she liked to be praised for doing a good job? Sherlock did, John had noticed.

Scotland Yard was holding a fundraiser for a domestic violence charity, especially since Sherlock started looking for potential murder cases to prevent after their conversation (before the carriage incident). Since he 'blamed' Hermione for the idea, he'd volunteered her to help out; after a loud conversation over the phone which had John wincing at some of the more colourful threats from her end, Hermione asked 'what the hell you've signed me up for, Sherlock, if it's the kissing booth, you'll find your scrotum shoved down your--'

“It's the fortune teller's booth,” he said. “Mycroft and I already taught you how to read people. It should be a doddle. Just tell them what they want to hear.”

There was a long silence, uncomfortably long. Then, with remarkable calmness, Hermione replied, “Oh yes. Fortune-telling. I can do that. How much space will I have? Will it be in a tent? Must I dress up for the occasion? Send me the details, I'll come prepared.”

Sherlock seemed happy, but John stared after he hung up and emailed the details to his cousin. He swallowed.

“You don't think she's planning something, do you?” he asked. “When a woman goes quiet like that, it's typically not a good sign. Mrs Hudson would've been happy to pretend to be a fortune-teller. Dress up like one of those machine fortune-tellers, with all the bangles and the head scarf. I probably could've tied the scarf for her, I've had some experience.”

“Oh, Hermione likes helping people, she won't do anything to jeopardise a charity event,” Sherlock said dismissively. “You worry too much, John. She just needs to find a fake crystal ball, perhaps rent a smoke machine. I'll pay her back if she insists. In fact, if she's planning anything, it will be to spend as much money as possible, keep all the receipts, then make me pay her back every penny, as revenge for dragging her into it. I'll just dip into Uncle Rudy's account.”

“Well, you know best,” John said, though he was doubtful about this.

On the day, he had a shift at one of the sideshow stalls, a shooting range. He thoroughly checked to make sure that every bullet was a blank before loading; no need for today to turn into a crime scene, for Sherlock or for any of the cops here. He waved when he saw Molly, who was eating a curved waffle filled with ice cream. It was barely ten in the morning. She came over to him. Her eyes looked a bit puffy, but she dug her teeth into the waffle, pulling off bits of it, and some ice cream was on her nose.

“You okay, Molly?” he asked. “Haven't had bad news, have you? It's such a lovely day for the fundraiser, and I've heard we're doing well so far.” He was managing not to jump at every gun shot, which was real progress, and he was looking forward to telling his therapist.

“Oh no, it's fine, just fine, perfectly... great,” she said. “Just saw the fortune-teller. She said I really need to get over my... crush.” Her eyes darted around, as if looking for Sherlock, and then she ate more of her waffle. She swallowed. “That if I stop holding onto my feelings like... like a long-term infection, I'll finally be healthy again, and I can find my true love. But that this infection is eating away at me, like flesh-eating bacteria, and it's not good for me.”

Well, anyone could've told her that, but it seems she would only listen to a fortune-teller. If it helped, it was better than nothing. Maybe Sherlock paid Hermione to tell her this? John hadn't seen him in a while, but he was supposed to be running one of the rides, where he could have the least human interaction and thus do the least harm.

“That sounds like good advice,” he said. “Toxic relationships are bad for everyone. This whole day is about abusive ones. If you're unhappy in love, you shouldn't hang on. You need to find someone who'll make you happy. Look at Greg; he's happier since his divorce. He says he doesn't feel like he's walking on eggshells all the time.”

“Yeah,” Molly agreed, still tucking into her ice cream-waffle. “I'd better let you get on. The dating scene... it's always sucked, but I have to start somewhere.”

“Good luck, Molly.”

She nodded morosely and wandered off, sucking ice cream and sugar off her fingers, unaware of the men – and a few women – watching her with undisguised attraction. Molly shouldn't need a dating app; she just needed to open her eyes to the world around her. And wear lower cut tops.

When John had finished his shift, in time for Molly to come and have a go – he didn't want to imagine who she was picturing while she was firing her gun, but she did get a medium prize, and was satisfied with her stuffed llama – he went to find Sherlock. With his friend being so tall, and off-putting to most people with his manner, it wasn't hard to find him. That curly hair, shared by Hermione, was noticeable. A slightly shorter, but equally curly-haired young man, was walking beside him as John approached. The young man was munching on hot chips, and John recognised him from winning a larger prize at the shooting booth before. It was a huge stuffed Pokemon, at least he thought it was a Pokemon, John recognised the logo on the tag but only knew Pikachu.

“...cats will love it, they only pay attention when Squirtle comes on the screen, and he should sit neatly in their corner of the bedroom,” the young man was saying. He eyed John. “Ah, yes, this is your flat-mate, isn't it? Sorry I didn't introduce myself before. I'd do it now, but, well, my hands are a bit occupied. I'm... Q. Just call me Q. One of Sherlock's cousins.”

“Oh!” John said. Not a boyfriend then, or one of... well, he couldn't be part of Sherlock's homeless network, not with how he was dressed. Hermione was the only one who seemed to dress as though she didn't shop on Savile Row. What was this one's name again? It seemed he preferred a nickname. John could work with that. “Q. Nice to meet you. I've already met Hermione. She's the fortune-teller today. Were you volunteered for something?”

“Equipment maintenance, a complete waste of my talents, but better than anything going wrong today,” Q said. “You must have met nearly the whole family.”

“He hasn't met any of our parents,” Sherlock said. “Unless you've had your teeth done by the Grangers. Have you?”

Hermione's parents. That's right. He'd have to update her name in his phone.

“No, I haven't, I think I'm on a waiting list.”

“They'll have pushed you ahead to meet you if you were on a waiting list,” Q said. “Out of sheer curiosity. Anyone who can put up with Sherlock this long will be a miracle worker in their eyes, especially Uncle Dan. My parents would have found you... fascinating. Chip?” He offered his hot chips, but John shook his head.

“I'll get lunch soon, just thought I'd see how some of the others are doing,” he said. “How did your shift go, Sherlock? Manning the ferris wheel, weren't you?”

“At least it wasn't as many children as the carousel would have been,” Sherlock said.

“Lestrade probably did that on purpose,” Q remarked, as they started walking together. “He didn't want you to scare off children who might already have issues with grown men.”

“I... didn't think of that,” Sherlock said.

“Makes me wonder if a shooting gallery booth was a good idea,” John said.

“As if Scotland Yard would pass on an opportunity for a pissing contest between officers,” Sherlock scoffed, while they neared the fortune-teller's tent. Or tried to. There was a long line, and Q threw out his rubbish, then used the paper serviette to clean his fingers and threw that out as well, while Greg Lestrade walked up to them, grinning.

“Your cousin's proving a hit,” he said. “See how long the line is? Word's got round. She's amazing! I've been to see her myself. She's doing it all, tarot cards, tea leaves, people can choose for themselves. It really seems authentic. Thanks for suggesting her, Sherlock, she's marvellous, she's even got a tip jar we've had to empty twice! She's getting notes in it, not just coins! If ever we do another fundraiser, we'll have to have her back. You should get in line if you want to see her, or you'll miss out.”

He walked off, a spring in his step, and while Sherlock and John stared after him, Q got in line, hugging his Squirtle plush. He glanced back at them.

“Well, are you getting in line or not?” he asked. John jumped to get in line with him, and Sherlock cautiously joined them.

“I didn't think she'd take it so seriously,” he said. “Perhaps I shouldn't have given her so much time to prepare. Are there... officers stationed at the entrance?”

“Bit hard to tell at this distance, but it looks like it,” Q said. “Probably crowd control. I'm a bit surprised she agreed to do this, but as long as it doesn't cause any trouble, I don't see why she shouldn't help people out. It's what our family does.”

“Really, Quiston, this isn't the Victorian era, when mysticism and parapsychology was all the rage, and Houdini was discrediting the fakes,” Sherlock snapped. Quiston, that was it. Another weird Holmes name. Poor Hermione got the most normal one, and that was only by comparison. It made him wonder about the parents.

“Hermione wouldn't lie to people,” Q said, scowling up at him. “You know that. She'll study people and give them good advice. Besides, people are paying to be entertained.”

“She gave Molly some very sound advice,” John said. “Has she ever even met Dr Hooper, or been told anything about her?”

“I doubt it,” Sherlock said. “Unless Mycroft said something. Or you or Lestrade.”

“I didn't, and I doubt Lestrade would give anything away. I'm sure Mycroft wouldn't get involved, either. He wouldn't waste time and equipment on getting personal information on everyone here to feed it to Hermione as she's talking to them. You said you taught her.”

“He and Mycroft taught... both of us,” Q said, with barely a pause.

“So she can read people well,” John continued, as the line inched along. “She won't hurt anyone, not for a charity event. You trusted her with this.”

It took ages for them to reach the front. Every so often someone passed the line talking about what they'd been told. One woman was in tears, saying that she'd known her parents were awful to her, but that she'd still wanted to make them proud, and that the fortune-teller had told her she only needed to make herself proud; but if she wanted to hear the words spoken out loud, she could say them any time she needed to hear them. Another person, a man, hadn't known whether he should propose to his boyfriend, and the fortune-teller helped him see that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with his boyfriend, so he was going to take him on the ferris wheel and propose to him there, before he could waste another minute. All manner of people grateful they'd had their fortunes read, whether they were initially sad or perplexed or frustrated, but ultimately happier and feeling like a weight was gone from their shoulders when they left.

“Reading that psychology book when she was twelve did some good after all,” Sherlock muttered.

“Maybe you should give it back to her, then,” John said.

“Clearly she doesn't need it!”

“You're lucky she hasn't lynched you for keeping it from her, others wouldn't get off so lightly,” Q remarked, checking something on his phone. “One of the dodgems has gone down. Will have to fix it remotely. Just keep prodding me forward while I work on it.”

They finally got to the tent. The dodgem car was fixed, and Q went in first. Sherlock rudely followed him, and John – with a look of shared exasperation with the officers outside the tent – entered as well. At least Hermione knew what to expect, rolling her eyes as she rose to hug her two cousins, and smiled warmly at John. Then she sat down.

“Welcome to my humble tent,” she said. There was one chair on the opposite side of the table from her, and a few more chairs nearby, no doubt for any children or others who couldn't be left on their own; John supposed that included the recalcitrant Sherlock. “Have you come to have your fortunes told, or is this a social visit?”

“You've told my fortune before, so it's social for me,” Q said, surprising John, and also clearly surprising Sherlock.

“You practised on poor Quiz?” Sherlock said indignantly.

“I've practised on many people,” Hermione said, her feathers unruffled. She was dressed quite normally, no bangles or turban or head scarf, an ordinary chain necklace, a plain crocheted tablecloth, though there were symbols crocheted into it which John couldn't identify. She wore a matching shawl, and a blouse and skirt, but nothing particularly 'mystic'. She didn't even wear a plethora of rings like other fake fortune-tellers he'd seen before. Behind her was a small fireplace with a tea kettle and a variety of tea leaves in a chest; on the table was a crystal, and a deck of tarot cards, just as Lestrade had said.

“Will you be willing to read my fortune?” John asked. Hermione raised her eyebrows, but she nodded, and gestured for him to sit down. Q drew to the side and took a seat, tugging Sherlock along with him.

“You two remain quiet,” she said to them. “Don't disturb us. This reading is for John alone. Now, John, would you prefer tea leaves, tarot, or crystal ball?”

“Uh, I'll go and have lunch shortly, so no tea for me. I've always thought crystal balls a bit tacky, so tarot, I guess.”

“Very well.” She picked up the deck and began to shuffle. “What would you like to know about your future in particular?” She was looking at him, rather than the cards. John thought about it.

“My love life,” he said. “And, I guess, if money will always be a problem.”

“They're very common questions,” she said. “That does make it easier; commonly asked questions mean that the universe is always open to answering them. It's the more rarely asked questions which are harder to answer, I find, though that doesn't mean they're not worth asking. It can just be harder to read the answer. I've never considered myself an expert at this.” She smiled more widely, still shuffling. “Would you like to choose the cards yourself, or would you rather I pull them?”

“W-what's the better way?”

“Do you consider yourself to have any spirituality, or spiritual power?”

“No, definitely not.”

“Yet you asked for this reading.” She paused, then nodded her head and stopped shuffling. She cut the deck three ways. “Choose whichever pile speaks to you the most. Whichever one draws your attention, if you like.”

They looked the same, but John felt the most attraction to the one on the left. There was no real explanation; he just felt pulled to the it. He pointed, without touching, uncertain if he should. She picked it up, put the others aside, then began shuffling it.

“I prefer the Celtic Cross, since we're in the UK, but I've chosen speed over accuracy today, with all the customers I'm getting,” she said.

“Does it make a difference?”

“Probably not, for sceptics like Mr Grumpy Face over there.” He chuckled. “I'll pull only three cards, and do my best to read from those. If we feel there isn't sufficient information, we can pull additional cards.”

John knew Sherlock was aching to say something, but somehow Q was keeping him silent. He noticed the cards were slightly bigger than ordinary playing cards, and thicker. Their sides looked smooth from being used a lot, and he wondered how often they'd been used today, how long Hermione had had them.

“Many people worry about what the cards mean, but they're symbolic, and open to many interpretations, whether they've been placed upright or in reverse,” Hermione said, as she placed three cards in front of him. She placed the rest of the deck aside and turned over each card in order from his left to his right. “The first card represents the past, the middle one the present, the third the future, rather like the ghosts in A Christmas Carol. With seventy-eight cards in the tarot deck, and many ways to interpret them whether upright or reverse, this leaves manifold possibilities, especially if you do the Celtic Cross spread, which uses ten cards.”

“Maybe we should've gone with the crystal ball,” John joked.

“No, it's fine, I enjoy tarot, and we've only done a three-card spread,” she said. “Since you're Sherlock's friend, it's easier than working with a stranger. You have Death for your past card, not unusual. Contrary to what many believe, it doesn't actually mean death, though it could refer to your past as a soldier. But it means change, a new beginning, which could mean returning from war, starting work at the clinic, perhaps meeting a new person. More common to see it in the future space, but I made sure to draw these in order facing you, so it's definitely in the past. You have wands in the future space, which is promising.”

“It is?”

“It means growth, expansion. It could be financial. You work for a clinic, so it could mean the clinic is expanding, which may mean financial benefits. Or it could mean more staff, which may mean a potential partner. Or perhaps it means growth in an existing relationship. Perhaps your career will grow instead. You could look for work elsewhere, somewhere with more possibilities for advancement. You don't have to wait for the future to happen, John. You can make it happen yourself. Having been a doctor in a war zone, you could be well suited to emergency medicine.”

“What about the present card?” John asked.

“Nine of wands, reversed,” she said. “You're tired, questioning whether this is really what you want to do.” She was looking into his eyes. “After what you've been through, no one would blame you if you wanted to try something different. Trauma can have an extraordinary impact on people. I know someone who used to be the motorcycle riding type, a womaniser, law enforcement. After losing his best friend, who was like a brother, and a period of false imprisonment, he settled down to a much quieter life, looking after his dead friend's son and mostly spending his time making lace and crocheting. He made this tablecloth and shawl for me, and he doesn't even go on dates. Maybe you still enjoy medicine, but if you need an adrenaline rush, there are extreme sports, there's the emergency room... you don't have to rely on Sherlock's cases.”

John nodded silently, and looked at the tablecloth and the cards.

“As I said, this is one interpretation,” she continued. “I can only divine so much from what the cards are telling me and from what I know of you, which is more than most of the people I've had through today. If you like, you can look up what the cards mean yourself online – Death in the past, Wands in the future, Nine of wands reversed in the present – and try to find a better interpretation to suit yourself. But sometimes an outsider can see more clearly. Think over what I've said. I hope I've been of some help. Sherlock can give you my number if you have further questions.”

“Thanks, Hermione,” he said.

“I can best advise that you keep an eye out for work that know you would do well and enjoy, whether it's in addition to or instead of your current job,” Hermione said. “Also, if there are any kinds of extreme sports you might be able to do, it would be a way of meeting more people, including a potential partner. Don't let Sherlock force you into going along on every case; he's been doing this before you came along, and he can continue without you. He may even find that recounting the case later may help him realise something he missed before. Make sure you don't let him drive you to the edge, because, as this fundraiser should have made clear, no woman wants a man who has a short fuse and a bad temper. If that's all, I have other people waiting for their fortunes to be told.”

“Oh yes,” John said, standing up. Hermione indicated her tip jar. She hadn't asked for payment. Q put some money in – 'for charity', he claimed – and Sherlock muttered something about 'what a performance' and added some coins, while John dropped a tenner in, since he'd taken up so much time. The three of them ducked out, and he blinked in the sudden sunshine. The next customer entered, and John could faintly hear Hermione greeting them.

“What a load of... she really went to the trouble of learning all that?” Sherlock spluttered.

“Well, it was certainly believable,” John said, feeling unsettled. It was damn good advice, he'd give her that. He might even look into some of it. There wasn't much he could do in the way of extreme sports, not with his leg the way it was. Sky-diving, though, he could probably do that, or bungee-jumping. Something which shouldn't involve his legs at all.

“I'm surprised she wasn't doing palmistry as well,” Q said. “But I think she doesn't trust strangers to have clean hands.”

“That's fair,” John said. He knew a lot of men in the army who didn't bother with washing their hands after using the loo. As a doctor, he found that disgusting.

“Don't tell me she tried to learn how to read palms for this event?” Sherlock said, alarmed.

“Fine, I won't tell you,” Q said, looking innocent. “Off to have lunch are you? I must pop in and double check the dodgems, make sure nothing's gone wrong with the circuits. Ta-ta.”

He disappeared quickly into the crowd.

“Yeah, I'm starving, let's find something to eat, Sherlock,” John said, leading his friend towards the food trucks.

“Never should've asked her to do this, now she'll have to delete all that unnecessary waffle about tarot and tea leaves from her mind,” Sherlock muttered to himself. “Wonder if she rigged up anything interesting for the crystal ball, though. Should've asked her to read it for me, see what kind of holographic effects she managed...”

John rolled his eyes. He could go for a burger after all that. Then he had a shift at the darts stall, and Sherlock had to man the dodgems before they could leave. Hermione would be there until the end of the day, poor thing, and maybe run over-time if she continued to be so successful.

It was damned hard to find anyone willing to put up with Sherlock enough to date John, especially when Sherlock liked to crash his dates to drag him off for a case. Sure, John would like to help him, but he also wanted a girlfriend! Who could maybe become a wife one day! He also liked the idea of becoming a father, if he was lucky. But he didn't know if that could happen without some practise, and damn it, he wasn't going to get any practise if Sherlock kept interrupting his dates.

Mary seemed nice, she was drop dead gorgeous, and she seemed more amused by his stories of Sherlock than disturbed by them. She'd started at the clinic after they got more community funding, and she had a good head on her shoulders in emergency situations, which was necessary in a medical practise. It also suggested that she might not mind patching them up after a case went wrong, especially if John needed the stitching up and couldn't reach it. He preferred her gentler nurse's touch to Sherlock's no-nonsense, speed-over-gentleness approach. Perfectly fine for emergencies, but not once the adrenaline was wearing off in the safety of Baker Street.

“This is a lovely cafe, I can't believe how good the tea cake is,” Mary said. “How did you find out about it?”

“Mike Stamford recommended it, he usually knows the best food places,” John said. Mike knew the best places to eat on a budget, was what John didn't say. Of course, if he wanted to move out of Baker Street, he'd also be giving up a very good deal on rent, and there was no way Mary would want to move in with him and live with Sherlock. No way anyone would want to. John had been barking mad to do it in the first place; well, 'desperate' was perhaps the best way to describe it.

“What do you think about Man United's chances at... are you alright, John?”

“Just saw someone I know come in,” he said grimly, as he saw Hermione go up to the counter with a couple of other people. They were chatting as they ordered. “Someone Sherlock knows. I hope she's not here to spy. Maybe I'm just paranoid. Sorry, Mary, go on.”

They resumed talking, and Hermione went to sit in a far corner with her friends, a couple of women about her age who looked like they might be twins, and possibly from the Middle East. He focused on the conversation again, relieved that it all seemed perfectly normal. When he and Mary were done with their lunch, he felt the need to apologise to Hermione for his suspicions; she and her friends had clearly ordered their own meal and were waiting on it. He took Mary over to Hermione to introduce her. Hermione didn't look surprised to see John, but she'd probably noticed every person in the cafe when she first entered, just like Sherlock and Mycroft.

“Hi, Hermione,” he said.

“Afternoon, John,” she said. “This is Padma and Parvati, they were at school with me. They'll be in India for their birthday, and I'm going to Paris soon with Mum and Dad, so we're catching up now before I leave and miss their official party here with everyone else.”

“Oh, Paris, that'll be nice,” John said, nodding. “This is Mary. She works at the clinic. We were here on a, uh, a date.”

“Ah, and you're worried about Sherlock,” she said, catching on quickly. “Just look at a camera and ask Mycroft or Quiston for help. Quiston might be a bit more sympathetic. He should be at work; he'll help out.”

“How... you know what? Never mind. I don't need to know.”

“No, you don't,” she said firmly. She looked over Mary and made eye contact with her. “Have you met Sherlock?”

“Not yet. But he sounds interesting.”

“Hmm.” Hermione's eyes narrowed briefly. “You were both headed somewhere, I expect. We shouldn't keep you. Our food will be here soon enough. John spends enough time with one of the Holmes family. Have a nice day.”

As they left, Mary looked uneasy.

“Is that what Sherlock does, look like he's trying to read your entire life's history?” she asked.

“Pretty much, though he does it to solve crimes, so you'll be fine,” John said. “Mycroft does it to make people uncomfortable, and he works for the government. Runs it, really. Not sure how. And Hermione... I'm not sure what she does, but I think she invents things? They all help people.”

“Right,” Mary said.

John took her hand and squeezed it reassuringly. He wasn't going to let them scare her off.

He received a text from Hermione that evening saying that she thought Mary would be good for him, and would do her best to keep Sherlock from interrupting their dates. After she got back from Paris, that is. John forwarded the message to Mary as proof that at least one member of the Holmes family approved of her, and assured her that Sherlock was likely to follow her lead.

There was someone in the government leaking secrets, and Sherlock had been asked to find out who it was. Mycroft seemed quite desperate. With Molly happy to babysit her goddaughter Rosie, John and Mary, his wife and the mother of their baby girl, joined Sherlock for the journey to Whitehall to question suspects. Hermione was there, wearing a beret and a mild tan.

“Bonjour!” she chirped when she saw them. “I heard from Mycroft that you'd be coming here, so I thought I'd drop off souvenirs on the way home. Did you get my postcards?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said, as she reached up to kiss him on the cheek. He obligingly bent down so she could reach, and he made a show of rolling his eyes as he straightened up again.

“Don't worry, they're only small, nothing heavy to cart back. Here you are.” She handed a small gift bag to Sherlock, then bounced over to hug Mary and kiss her on the cheek, and then hugged John. She handed a parcel to Mary and a small box to John. “Hope they won't be any trouble. I'll pop round and give Rosie her present later, if you like. Any excuse to see my niece.”

“We're here to work, Mina,” Sherlock grumbled.

“Oh, fascinating, mind if I tag along? I don't have anything to get back to straight away. We only flew in this morning. Mum and Dad have to recover from the plane journey before they can open up the practise again. I'll bet neither of you are looking forward to Rosie's teeth coming in, though it's so exciting when it happens.” She grinned at John and Mary. “Mum's got plenty of tips on how to soothe the gums, all practised on me. Dentist – and baby Hermione – approved.”

“Shall we get on?” Sherlock said, leading the way. Mary and Hermione tagged behind John and Sherlock, while Mary opened her parcel. She exclaimed over whatever item of clothing Hermione had bought, possibly a shawl or scarf by the sounds of it, and Hermione was talking about a tour they took around one of the castles. Sherlock cleared his throat when they reached Lady Smallwood's office and met her receptionist. “We're here to talk to Lady, uh, Smallwood?”

“Yes, she's been expecting you, Mr Holmes told us you would arrive soon,” the woman said. “I'm Vivian Norbury, Lady Smallwood's secretary.”

“What a pretty name, Vivian,” Hermione said.

“Thank you,” she said, blinking in obvious surprise.

“Sorry, I've been in France recently, I'm readjusting to English, and there are so many beautiful names in France, but Vivian... it is pretty. We have such peculiar names on my mother's side of the family, as I'm sure you've noticed. Sherlock, Mycroft... I got off lightly with 'Hermione', but only by the skin of my teeth.”

“Hermione is still a nice name,” Norbury said. “Shakespeare, isn't it?”

“It is!” Hermione said brightly, moving closer to the desk. “Not everyone knows that. Or that Shakespeare invented at least twenty percent of the words in the English language, or so many of our popular phrases, like 'the green-eyed monster' or 'assassination'.”

“Yes,” Norbury said. “I'll let Lady Smallwood know you're here.” She pressed a buzzer on her desk to speak.

“I find the word 'secretary' to be interesting, and it must be a fascinating job, especially here,” Hermione said, hitching her hip up on the desk. “I mean, the very word itself, the etymology... it begins with the word 'secret', after all. You know everything which goes on. You know where Lady Smallwood goes, whom she sees, who she talks to. And working for her, you must have been in the service such a long time. Long enough to be the one selling out the government, if you feel that you've been overlooked.”

Norbury let go of the buzzer. Sherlock had frozen in place as Hermione spoke, and now began inching closer towards John. Without being asked, John began to reach for his gun, while also moving in front of Mary. The room was quiet. Hermione tilted her head.

“You'd know when everyone else is busy, you'd know all the right numbers to call, the people to speak to, who'd want the information you have access to,” she continued. “It must be difficult, having lost a loved one. But do you really think your husband would have wanted you to turn traitor?” She and Norbury were locked in a staring contest. “He loved this country. I suppose I'm more curious about what you had against the Tbilisi ambassador, to want him dead, and why those hostages had to die as well.”

Mary gasped loudly. Norbury looked towards her. Hermione picked up the desk lamp and swung it to hit her head, causing her to fall to the floor. Sherlock rushed forward, circling the desk, as Lady Smallwood and Mycroft ran out of the office. Hermione hopped down from the desk, while John comforted Mary, who was pale and shaking.

“She... she...” she whispered.

“Hermia, you can't accuse someone without proof!” Mycroft said.

“You'll find the proof easily enough, and if you can't, Quiston can,” Hermione said. “Honestly, an ounce of logic would have served you well in this case. You must stop overlooking 'minor' workers like secretaries and receptionists; Mary realised that herself, I must credit her with realising who was behind selling out the government. Miss Marple never underestimated people like Norbury, nor did Poirot. They knew that the servants of fancy households always knew the master and mistress's secrets, and were the best people to talk to. Do I need to lend you my Christie books for you and Sherlock to brush up on your skills? She may not have made them murderers, but she ought to have done. I'm jet-lagged and even I see more clearly than you.”

She patted Mary on the shoulder and flounced out, no doubt heading home for a nap. John felt she more than deserved it, as Sherlock and Mycroft exchanged embarrassed looks.

Something had changed. John wasn't sure what it was, though he knew when it all began, just not why. Sherlock's parents were downsizing, and needed help packing. Since they still had some of their sons' belongings, they'd asked Mycroft and Sherlock to pack up their rooms. Mary and John mostly joined to keep everyone full of tea and biscuits – and water, at John's insistence – and Rosie came along to keep spirits up with her sunny smiles and attempts at words.

Mycroft was swift and methodical, and finished his packing faster than anyone else. He left as soon as possible, managing a somewhat-friendly grimace at Rosie, who laughed at his expression and clapped her hands. He ordered a meal online for everyone, so no one had to cook, and then left, promising to hire professional packers for his parents, especially for their more valuable (and breakable) items. But he had to get back to London, to his Very Important Job.

John highly suspected that he ran MI5, or was deeply involved with it, so it made sense that he couldn't be away for long. Also, he still didn't get on that well with Mycroft, and felt his absence wouldn't be missed.

It was sometime after dinner, while Mary was helping Mrs Holmes pack clothes and John was helping Mr Holmes sort through things in the attic, that something must have occurred. Because when John checked on Sherlock's progress in his bedroom, he found that while everything was now packed, there was one rubbish bag separate from the rest. One which Sherlock wouldn't throw out, but wasn't part of the boxes to be taken back. He put it in the car to return to Baker Street; it was double-bagged, but it wasn't important enough to be in a box. It wasn't like there weren't more boxes; yet it wasn't being tossed out, either.

Sherlock kept giving it strange looks. He took it upstairs first when they got back to Baker Street, not letting anyone else touch it. He distractedly kissed both Mary and John on the cheeks, and hugged Rosie tightly, an unnerved expression on his face, before saying goodnight to them all, then retreating inside.

“What was that about?” Mary asked.

“I have no clue,” John said. “Long day? Look, let's go home. He'll tell us when he's ready.”

“If he's ever ready,” she said.

It took nearly a week for him to crack; but then Molly had to tell them no, she wasn't skipping a date, so Greg Lestrade had to take Rosie to work instead, because Sherlock needed to do a road trip, then a boat trip, right now, and Mary had work, and Rosie didn't have all her vaccines so she couldn't go to the clinic, and Sherlock needed John. So they had to drive to a location Sherlock claimed his Uncle Rudy had owned, an island off the north coast. At least the roads were good, and they set off after the worst of the traffic. John still wasn't happy about this, especially since it didn't seem like it was related to a case.

But... it was unusual for Sherlock to talk about personal things, or to show emotions. Not that he talked while they were going there. However, he had the rubbish bag with him, the one he'd brought from his parents' house. John couldn't call or text anyone, as he was the one driving (of course, God forbid Sherlock should own a car; at least he paid for petrol top-ups on the way, and snacks and drinks, or John would leave him on the side of the road and return to London). He just hoped Mycroft had seen what was going on and was following him. This was one of those times he wouldn't actually mind the elder brother's intrusive surveillance.

They rented a boat when they arrived at the destination Sherlock directed him to, and then had to learn how to operate the bloody boat to reach Uncle Rudy's island. Why the Holmes family had to be extravagant enough for one of them to own an island, John didn't know, but he currently hated it; he also wished he owned an island himself so he could escape the whole family and just hide there with Mary and Rosie. Mrs Hudson could visit if she wanted.

Mrs Hudson. Damn, they should've asked her to babysit. He'd have to text Greg, ask him if he could drop Rosie off at Baker Street when he had the chance, so she wouldn't be stuck at Scotland Yard all day. Of course, Molly wouldn't be on a date all day, either, and could probably take over, maybe even had by now, they've been driving for hours.

“Where exactly is this damn island, Sherlock?” he asked, nearly having to shout to be heard over the sound of the waves. Good thing he didn't get seasick.

“What?” Sherlock asked, and then he had to answer his phone. “What was...? Hermia, why are you calling me? No, I'm... yes, I'm on a boat! Look, I can't hear you, you'll have to call back later.” He hung up and stuffed his phone back into his coat pocket. “I've set the GPS coordinates, we'll be there soon. I'll explain when we get there.”

“And what's in this bag? You'll explain that too?”

Sherlock pursed his lips, looking lost.

“If I can,” he replied.

It took almost an hour to reach the island, with only the two of them struggling to operate the boat and get it there. The building on the island looked imposing, possibly the brutalist architecture John had heard about. Something modern, not comfortable at all, not what he'd expected after hearing about the flamboyant Uncle Rudy. They walked from the dock to a door, and there was an armoured – and armed – guard there, who didn't look ready to move.

“I'm Sherlock Holmes,” Sherlock said. “I'm here for answers.”

John shrugged helplessly, not that he could see whether the guard was looking at him or not. He had his own gun, but felt outmatched here.

“Your brother knew you were coming,” the guard said. “You'll be better off inside. There's an escort waiting for you. Don't try anything or the whole building will be put on shutdown.” He stepped aside, and the door was opened from inside by someone else. Sherlock marched through, and John smiled apologetically as he followed.

Inside was a stranger, who introduced himself as Arthur, the governor of Sherrinford Prison. He led them through the grey corridors, while Sherlock glanced around with a wild look in his eyes, and John listened to the governor talk about their security.

“Who actually lives here?” John asked. “You said it's a prison, but who's dangerous enough to be kept on an isolated island owned by Sherlock's uncle?”

“Well, it used to only house one particular prisoner,” Arthur said.

“A girl,” Sherlock said. “She must be a woman by now. Where is she? Still here? Why was it necessary to keep her imprisoned? What did she do? I must know!”

“Sherlock, calm down,” John said, alarmed. Arthur sighed.

“She isn't here any longer,” he said. “Over time, since she her late child, early teen years, she became less coherent, less able to function as a human being. She couldn't feed herself, couldn't change herself or... use the facilities. At first it was assumed to be an act, a ruse to get someone into the room unguarded so she could attack them and escape. She also seemed to be suffering memory loss. She was tranquillised and scanned, both MRI and CT. Nothing showed up. Bloods were drawn, the most extensive tests were done at your uncle's expense. Still nothing showed.”

“If she'd been isolated from her peers, from anyone her own age, from anyone who cared for her, of course she'd go mad, of course she'd give up and lose function!” Sherlock said.

“Your sister had no real peers, Mr Holmes!” Arthur snapped.

There was a ringing silence in the corridor as they stopped. As Sherlock stopped and stared, an odd look on his face. John looked from him to Arthur.

“What?” he said.

“So I did have a sister,” Sherlock said. “She was blood related to me, not adopted?”

“She was a Holmes through and through,” Arthur said. “Your brother claimed you had forgotten her entirely, but I didn't want to believe someone could forget a sibling, especially one as memorable as Eurus Holmes. She... she was a complete psychopath. She had no ability to relate to others, no capacity for empathy. If there was one thing the MRI proved, it was that the part of the brain which can feel for others, understand them, recognise pain... it didn't work at all. She was clever, by God, cleverer than anyone else in your family, including your brother. What a waste. She could have cured cancer, solved any problem, perhaps even world peace, if she wanted to. But she never cared enough about other people to do that. Even posed as hypothetical problems, she never saw the point in doing anything to help others unless she got something out of it. As a child, she usually wanted something which could be fulfilled, like a new book, clothes, access to a movie she wanted to see. She still had some childish impulses. As an adult, had she still been used to solve the world's problems... good God, what could she have asked for? Where would your uncle, or your brother when he took over... where would they have stopped? What would they have granted her for valuable information? Your friend's head on a platter, like John the Baptist?”

John shivered. Sherlock opened the rubbish bag.

“When I was clearing my room, I found a loose floorboard under my bed, far under there, I must have wanted to hide these very badly,” he said. “Old photos I'd taken from my family album, pictures from past birthdays and Christmases.” John saw a young girl in them. Eurus. Hermione was in them, just a little older, and Quiston in some as well, around the same age as Eurus. “I didn't remember her at all. And I found pictures of a boy I didn't know, not related to the family, but dressed up as a pirate like me. The name Victor Trevor was written on the back. He had red hair. I thought we'd had a family dog named Redbeard, but... but I think Victor Trevor was Redbeard. And I think that I thought we'd had the dog put down, but instead...”

“Uncle Rudy had the bitch locked up after she burnt down your family home.”

They turned to see Hermione there, her hair a bit of a mess.

“How the hell did you get here?” Sherlock asked.

“I flew on a magic broomstick, obviously,” she snarked.

“Ah, this building must have a helipad, Mycroft hates boats,” he deduced.

“I had to land somewhere,” she said. “I'm sure he thought you'd burnt any pictures you had left of Eurus, and got rid of the pictures of Victor. He was only eleven when Eurus pushed him into the old well. He was considered missing, not dead; his parents didn't want to give up hope. Then Eurus set the fire.”

“She's the reason Musgrave was burnt to the ground,” Sherlock murmured. “All my equipment, my old experiments...”

“You must have distanced yourself from her when you realised she was responsible for Victor's disappearance, though whether you knew where he was or not...” Hermione shrugged. “Mycroft hadn't figured it out. None of us had. When you didn't love her the way she wanted, or at least give her the attention she craved, she decided to try to kill everyone in the house and hid outside. You all got out anyway. Uncle Rudy found her and took her away, kept her hidden until Sherrinford was built, then stuck her here. I didn't know until a few years later, when I was twelve. She'd always hated me, hated any time you paid me attention. She saw me as more of a rival than Quiston was; take that how you like.” She wrinkled her nose. “I had a bit of a breakdown. When I was fourteen, I visited her. She didn't remember me by then; her memory was already fading. She was still hostile, but at least I realised what she'd done to Victor. I told Mycroft and Uncle Rudy, and we went straight to Musgrave and found his body in the well. It gave his parents closure, allowed them to move on.”

“Dear God,” John said. “But... if he was eleven...”

“She was seven when she killed him.”

“Seven!”

“She was evil,” Hermione said. “I believe she's still alive, but essentially useless and stuck in an asylum somewhere. I'm curious why this place is still in operation. Not that it would make an ideal holiday spot, more of a villainous lair, or the location for a production of And Then There Were None. Do you actually have anyone imprisoned here, governor?”

“It was used to keep James Moriarty prisoner for a time, until it was decided that he was of no use and he was... transferred back to a maximum security facility on the mainland,” Arthur said.

“Moriarty was here?” John said, getting the shivers again at the thought.

“I hope Magnussen wasn't,” Sherlock said.

“Only briefly, but it was determined his memory is totally gone,” Arthur said.

“It certainly is,” Hermione agreed. They looked at her. “My parents are in medicine. I can read reports. You think Mycroft didn't show it to me when I asked, for assurance? I don't like corrupt media magnates, and he was clearly one of the worst, if not the worst. Certainly in a country which isn't currently run by a dictator. Those other countries could do with more people like Sophie Scholl and fewer Rupert Murdochs, or general purpose cowards.”

“Culverton Smith?” Sherlock asked. “Has this jail just been used for people who've crossed me?”

“No, your brother uses it for other people,” Arthur said. “But Culverton Smith is our latest guest, and he is the most annoying. I've asked your brother to move him, but he worries about how he may influence the population of another prison.”

“Wuss,” Hermione said. John thought that was rather a cavalier attitude. “With all the people at Mycroft's disposal, he could just have him nobbled.” That... wasn't what he was expecting. But it was a bit more to his tastes, after reading some of Smith's confessions in the paper, and being an ear for Greg Lestrade's drunken rant after sitting through all of them being put on tape in the first bloody place.

At least Hermione had talked Sherlock out of doing drugs to get put in one of Smith's hospitals to catch him. She'd found some kind of joke product which induced real symptoms of fever and vomiting, enough for Sherlock to be admitted, and even had some kind antidote as well after the criminal was caught. Probably something she invented just for the occasion.

He'd never get used to this family.

“I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that,” Arthur said drily.

“Wuss,” Sherlock added, clearly agreeing with Hermione. He'd nearly been Smith's last victim, so John understood his feelings.

He rather hoped they could fly back to London with Hermione, but she wanted to find a letter she'd sent Eurus and hoped it might be among the files at Sherrinford, so she told them to head back without her. In the boat. After all, they'd rented it, so they were probably expected to return it. And John couldn't really leave his car on the north coast; Mary would be extremely unhappy if he did that, when there'd been no real emergency. Just a Holmes family crisis which could have been dealt with over the phone to Mycroft or Sherlock's parents, or even Hermione. Hell, Quiston would probably know at least something; he'd be old enough to have memories of Eurus, assuming he didn't 'delete' them as Sherlock did, due to the trauma.

No wonder his best friend was as emotionally messed up as he was. A younger sister who'd killed his only friend because she was jealous of him giving anyone else attention. That was the kind of thing Jerry Springer would've loved. Or a soap opera. Both.

Christ, he hoped life would settle down after this. Having a daughter was exciting enough, he decided. He didn't need more than that now.

“So, are you throwing all that stuff out or keeping it?” he asked.

“Might keep the stuff with Victor,” Sherlock said. “See if it can help me to remember him. I can digitise the things with Eurus and remove her from the pictures, then reprint them. As if she never existed. Because she still doesn't, not really. Not where it counts, up here.” He pointed to his head, John guessed; he was focused on the road, and only saw the upwards movement. “Better check our phones, see if there have been any messages. The reception on the island was non-existent. Bloody hell, a sister. I wonder if... if the women in my life, if I've tried to replace Eurus with them. If...”

“If I'm a replacement for Victor?” John asked.

“You don't have red hair.”

“That's not what I mean and you know it. But we've never pretended to be pirates.”

“No, we haven't. I don't know. Maybe I should see a... a therapist. Mina's bugged me to do it for years, said it would help. Said I'm 'neurodivergent', that we all likely are in our family, and that maybe I could get tips to help me 'navigate daily life'. Work better with other people.”

“You know there are still those of us who like you as you are already?”

“Yes, but... being able to understand how I'm different from others, how they work, may make things a bit easier, less frustrating for me,” he said. “Hermione understands others better than I do, and I see how happy she is, how many friends she has. I always wanted friends, and I think that's partly because I'd lost Victor. But I've always been different from Mycroft. He doesn't need people, and I... I do. You've got Mary and Rosie, and I can't rely on you always being there.”

“Greg... you know, Lestrade?”

“Yes, I know.”

“Well, that's a first! You, remembering his name? He'd be happy to fill in for me. He's not an idiot, he's just not as fast as you. No one is, except Mycroft, and probably Hermione.”

“Yes, yes, I come from an intelligent family.”

“You heard what the governor said,” John continued. “Eurus didn't want to help people. She wasn't a proper Holmes. She may have your blood, but she didn't want to use her powers for good. She could have chosen to become a stockbroker, make billions and use it to end poverty. She could have studied science and cured cancer, diabetes, any of the diseases out there. But she chose to kill your friend, burn down your home, and probably would have continued to do bad things because she wanted to. That's the difference. And while Mycroft serves the government, he's helping politicians and running around with wealthy and influential people, pretending to be a humble civil servant while drinking wine and eating pheasant on the tax payers' pound. You? You live in a small flat solving crimes, often for free, listening to the people Scotland Yard often doesn't – or can't – help. So you're better than Mycroft.”

“Well.” Sherlock shifted in his seat, the plastic bag rustling between his feet.

“Hermione does... whatever she does, she dresses pretty ordinary, comes at your beck and call night and day, but she still scares me a bit. I never know what she's thinking, and she's definitely got some secret with Mary, but as long as they're getting along I don't care. Probably some women's thing I don't want to know about. Mary and Rosie will probably have some kind of female secrets they'll keep from me as she grows up, and I'm fine with that. I don't need to know when she has her first time, as long as it's consensual, or when her first kiss is, or her first period. As long as she's healthy and happy, I'm happy. I don't know what Quiston does—”

“Works for the government, different division than Mycroft,” Sherlock said.

“...Right. Well, I'm sure he's helping people.”

“He taught me everything I know about computers, which I've used on cases, so yes.”

“Good. He helped me understand the chip and pin readers at supermarkets, which makes him alright in my books. As long as he's not hacking international governments and planting super viruses or anything, or at least not doing that to me or my family, good. Though if he could do something to Harry's bank card to stop her using it to buy alcohol, I'd be forever in his debt.”

“I'll ask him about it,” Sherlock said, fiddling with his phone.

“I didn't mean... if he could, that would be great, but I was just joking... C-can he actually do that?”

“Block her access to off-licences, yes. Do the same with her wife's card as well. And access to ATMs inside them or within walking distance of them. How far would she be willing to walk to withdraw cash from an ATM to buy alcohol?”

“Uh, no idea. She's not much of a walker, so probably not more than half a mile.”

“Very good. Quiz could make it so that if she looks up nearby ATMs, a notification is sent to Clara's phone so she knows what's happening. As for other places, the best he might be able to do is have a notification come up on a register, but it may depend on the register.”

“I... okay. That's... wow. He can really do that?”

“Child's play.”

“Wow.”

Sherlock snorted.

“He was creating web pages and learning coding on the earliest iterations of the internet, in the early nineties,” he said. “Quiston can handle this.”

It was nearing sunset by the time they returned to Baker Street, and John dropped Sherlock off. He returned home, dreading the clinic the next day. Perhaps he should consider seeking work in a hospital, specialising in emergency medicine. At least the adrenaline might wake him up. The hours would be shocking, so he'd have to wait until Rosie could be in daycare. But if the hospital had a daycare, that might be a solution. He'd start searching online during his break tomorrow, or maybe on his phone tonight before sleep. No, no phone before sleep. He knew better than to risk the blue light keeping him awake.

“John,” Mary said, looking tired as he walked in the door. “Rosie needs her bath. Would you like to help, or should I do it myself?”

“I'll help,” he said. “I've mostly been driving today; I could do with a change of position. I might even stand up for dinner.”

“It shouldn't be too hard,” she said. “Hermione brought pizza. She'd said you and Sherlock had a long day, and it might have been an emotional drive back.”

“She... oh yes, I suppose if she was flying back--”

“Flying?”

“Helicopter, arranged by Mycroft I suspect,” he said, kissing her cheek. He picked up Rosie from her mat on the floor and nuzzled her cheek. “Oh, you smell so good after a day in the car with Sherlock and his nicotine patches.”

“Ah, that explains why she said it was a 'flying visit' when she stopped in,” Mary said. “She knew I'd get the pun eventually.”

“Yes, silly Aunt Hermione,” John said to Rosie, who giggled as he carried her to the bathroom.