Harry Potter, Sherlock 1. Chapter 1

The post arrived on Saturday morning, as it always did, like clockwork. Hermione heard the telltale clank of the metal slot from the kitchen, where she was frying bacon and humming along to Queen. "Mama... Ooh..." She crooned. "Didn't mean to make you cry. If I'm not back again this time tomorrow, carry on, carry on..." Then she caught sight of the family picture on the mantelpiece and the words died in her throat.

She wasn't in that picture anymore.

Idly, she wondered how her parents were doing in Australia. Did they have jobs? Were they indulging in their flair for photography? Diving along the Great Barrier Reef? She didn't know, and she intended to keep it that way. Letting them go would be easier than trying to get them back and having to explain what she had done.

Still humming softly, she waltzed down the hall, swooped down, and attempted to retrieve the mail from underneath a sleeping Crookshanks who stubbornly refused to budge. After several minutes of fruitless tugging, she pointed her wand at his squashed face. "Move," she said in a tone fraught with danger. Crookshanks raised an eyebrow imperiously in an absurd imitation of Professor Snape, but he knew when he was beaten. Huffing as much as a cat could huff, he flounced off to the living room where he proceeded to sulk on the arm of the sofa. Hermione rolled her eyes. Never had she met a cat with such a penchant for melodrama as Crookshanks.

The letter was at the bottom of the stack, tucked between a Marks & Spencer catalog and an electric bill. It waited innocuously for her, fate-holding and life-deciding.

"Dear Ms. Granger," it read beneath the swirling UCL letterhead. "We are pleased to inform you of your acceptance to the University College of London."

The corner of Hermione's mouth quirked up in the ghost of a smile. She was going to London.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock Holmes flopped down on his couch and reloaded his pistol, pointing it viciously at the wall. He. _BANG. _Was. _BANG. _Bored. _BANG._

The last deafening bang earned him a satisfying shriek - "_Sherlock!" _- and the sound of a teacup shattering from downstairs. The consulting detective grinned at his landlady's oh-so-predictable reaction and leaned back to admire his handiwork - the spray-painted yellow smiley face that adorned his wallpaper now had three more holes blown rather vindictively into its surface.

It was really John's fault, after all. He had gone out shopping for "baby things" with Mary (Sherlock could only marginally imagine the horrifying sentimentality that must accompany such an activity) and had left his Sherlock to entertain himself. How else was he supposed to pass two hours with _no case? _His mind was itching for stimulation, but unfortunately Molly had confiscated all his cigarettes and nicotine patches on her last visit, and he really wasn't in the mood to go buy more. Mycroft had every corner convenience store within a ten-mile radius under his thumb.

Sherlock's head swiveled as he heard the telltale click of the door opening on the first floor. Soft, feminine-sounding murmurs made their way up the stairs to his keen ears. This latest development at Baker Street occupied his attention for all of two seconds before he drew his inevitable conclusion. _Ah, _he thought, _potential tenant._

Sure enough, Mrs. Hudson appeared in his doorway not ten seconds later with another female in tow. "Sherlock," she began uncertainly, as he still cradled the gun lovingly in his hand, "This is Hermione - she's looking at renting here, you see…"

Sherlock vaulted off the sofa and tossed the gun aside in a rather cavalier manner, eliciting a little scream from Mrs. Hudson as it hit the carpet. He towered over the newcomer, taking in her bushy brown hair and eager face, but remaining steadfastly silent. He found this was inevitably the best way to unnerve them.

"Hello," the girl said with a brilliant smile, brown eyes sweeping analytically around the room and then up and down his person. "Hermione Granger. I'm looking at renting apartment 221C. I take it you live here?"

Sherlock had at least six sarcastic retorts poised on the tip of his tongue, all of them along the lines of "Obviously," but a venomous glare from Mrs. Hudson caused him to change tact in the space of a heartbeat. Putting on his best revolting grin, he pumped her outstretched hand vigorously. "Sherlock Holmes," he said in his best imitation of John's general pick-up demeanor. "A pleasure." With any luck, she'd be gone before it was time for Mrs. Hudson to take her midmorning herbal soothers, and he could go back to shooting the wall in relative peace.

Her smile only got wider. Sherlock's eyes narrowed imperceptibly. Well. That was unexpected.

_Bookish intelligent only child cat-lover PTSD college student two best friends one bad relationship _went through his head in the second it took them to disengage their hands. And then:

_Something. _

An intangible quality that nonetheless permeated every fiber of her being, and, for the life of him, he could not put his finger on it.

_What? _

The girl's face was beginning to resemble the Cheshire cat as she noticed his evident confusion. "The pleasure is mine," she said a little breathlessly, and suddenly Sherlock realized the reason for the startling grin. "After all, I am meeting London's greatest consulting detective. I've read Dr. Watson's blog, you know," she said as a quick afterthought, as if to prove her legitimacy as his fan.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Everyone's read John's blog," he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Really, I doubt you can find a soul in the better part of Western Europe who hasn't." _Keep her talking_, he thought. _Keep looking - what _is _it? _His eyes flicked up and down, up and down, accumulating data, analyzing, calculating - and still nothing. She was beginning to _infuriate_ him.

"Oh - yes, of course," she said, the tiniest bit crestfallen. "But the case with the Ferriers - the Mormons - absolutely brilliant. One of my favorites."

Sherlock smirked in spite of himself. "Well, yes - that was one of my better cases, I'll admit." _Come on, Sherlock, come on! What _is _it about her that's different?_

Hermione seemed to take the sudden pause in their conversation as her cue to exit. "Well," she said, once again extending her hand. "It was a pleasure. I look forward to meeting you again soon. If I decide on this place, that is."

Sherlock hummed vague parting phrases and shook her hand, eyes still unfocused as he strained to take in every detail of her appearance, in search of that one tiny clue that could lead him to the answer. "Yes, yes, of course, absolutely a pleasure, very well, yes, goodbye…" She gave him an odd, searching look, and then she turned to head back down the stairs.

"You know, Mrs. Hudson," he purred softly to the landlady as she turned to follow her guest. "I do believe she would make an excellent tenant."

Mrs. Hudson looked at him as if he had just announced he would be quitting his job as a consulting detective and cultivating bees in his retirement. "You think?"

"Oh, yes," he said sibilantly, settling himself on the couch and steepling his fingers beneath his chin, preparing to enter his mind palace. "In fact, I _know_." The landlady gave him an incredulous look and headed back downstairs for a good cuppa. It was only ten o'clock and already her hip was starting to ache.

Sherlock leaned back into the throw pillows and smirked. Perhaps he had found himself a worthy case after all.


End file.

Harry Potter, Sherlock, Humor, Romance