Pieces of a chess game [Sherlock x Harry Potter Crossover] [COMPLETE]

Chapter 19: A new New Year (Interlude II)

Outside the car driving Hermione to Baker Street, London was preparing to celebrate the New Year, unaware that soon they would have to mourn Sherlock Holmes for a second time.

Inside her pocket, her phone vibrated. Hermione ignored it and clasped the keys to the flat in her hand. She didn't know why she had chosen to go back to Baker Street, today of all days. Maybe it was because, as much as Hermione loved Sirius, she could not go back to his house and tell him what was about to happen. She was sure Mycroft had already called him, but Hermione did not feel strong enough to face reality just yet.

The driver pulled in front of Speedy's, and Hermione muttered her thanks before leaving the car. Hermione took a deep breath and opened the door to a house in silence. Mrs Hudson was still with her sister. The older woman was one of the lucky ones, just like Molly and Greg. For them, Sherlock would have gone on a mission, which would eventually go very wrong. It was just a matter of time, Mycroft would explain. Sherlock had always been tethering on the edge of death. They would grieve again, but they still had some months of blissful ignorance. The rest did not have that luxury and would have to cover their own pain until the inevitable news came. Hermione's insides twisted uncomfortably, thinking about Mrs Hudson never seeing Sherlock again. Hermione had had her more than fair share of losing people, and yet, she had never felt this lost, this empty.

Hermione made her way upstairs. As she went, flashes of her time in Baker Street came unbridled. Her hand caressed the painted paper as she went up. Her nail caught on the scratches from the Christmas tree, her fingers traced the spots of coffee from an overflowing cup. She planted her palm on the middle of the landing wall, remembering how Sherlock had pushed her against the wall, cradled between her legs, in his frenzy to get them both to a bed. She realised it would be impossible for her to stay there. Sherlock's presence was etched in every surface, every corner of the townhouse.

Hermione had promised herself once that she would never get entangled with someone with a hero complex again. That she had already loved someone with the fierceness of a lioness only to lose him to time and disappointment, after a lifetime of suffering for both their sakes. Then the pompous, junkie, self-righteous brat Sherlock Holmes had stormed into her life, and she had done the same thing she had sworn not to do. Maybe it was just her type.

She got to the kitchen and threw her keys on the table. They slid across the table and clinked against the side of Sherlock's microscope, where a single Petri dish was growing mould. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. Baker Street had always had a particular smell—a mix between old building, a hint of dampness, tea and smoke. Hermione noticed it had clung to Sherlock and intertwined with his cologne to create a scent that was uniquely his. The same smell lingered here. Hermione took off her coat, turned the heating on and busied herself lighting the fireplace. The soft glow of flames filled the room, and Hermione took her time to warm herself. Firework erupted somewhere outside. It was about to be midnight. That meant that in less than 24 hours, Sherlock would be taking a plane to his death.

Hermione was exhausted. She eyed the black armchair and then walked to Sherlock's bedroom. She turned the lights on without entering. The big suitcase she had bullied him into not using was open on the floor; the black slacks he had finally left behind were still over the undone bed. And the pillow would have his smell, just like the entire room had. A quivering sigh escaped her lips, and then a strangled cry and soon wrecked sobs rippled through her chest, tears rolling down her cheeks. It felt like something had gripped her heart between its claws and was ripping it apart. Tomorrow she would soldier up, hide her tears and piece herself together. Now she needed the rest.

She retrieved the phone from her coat and left it on the bedside table. She methodically removed her trainers and then her socks and jeans. She took off her jersey and clad in just her underwear and an undershirt; she got in bed. Her feet brushed against Sherlock's pyjama bottoms, tangled in between the sheets. She pulled the duvet closer to around her, and as the distant chime of the church bells gave way to the new year, Hermione fell asleep.

Hermione woke up drenched in sweat and as tired as she had been when she had laid down. The sun was streaming through the window, meaning Sherlock was probably flying over Europe. Hermione ran her hands through her hair and put it up in a messy bun. Despite the tiredness, her brain was more clear now. Hermione Granger did not go down without a fight, she thought. She would get Mary to help, she would find where Sherlock had been deployed, and she would make sure he lived long enough for Mycroft to work something out, and Her Majesty and all the MI6 lackeys be damned. Sherlock had saved them from falling into the clutches of a demon; they would see reason eventually, and she would make sure there was something of him to bring back to England. She took her phone and saw the dozens of missed calls. She removed them from her phone but then saw a notification from The Guardian: 'evil mastermind is back in terrifying video.'

Hermione opened the app.

The face of James Moriarty took up the whole screen, and Hermione had the feeling Sherlock would be going nowhere.