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

Epilogue: Our Baker street boys

Hermione sat in an old outside settee at the back of the Holmes' country house. The sun was shining high, warming her skin. She closed the thick knitted cardigan around her and contemplated her surroundings. Apart from the noise coming from inside the house, the place was quiet, serene. So similar, yet so different, to Musgrave Hall. Here the stones and the walls oozed life and happiness. It was Rosie's birthday, after all. They owe it to her to give her as much happiness as they could.

Hermione opened her notebook over her knees and started writing.

My dearest Mary,

I don't know why I'm writing to you, knowing that you'd never read this. Maybe because it feels like when we shared secrets, and we knew they were safe with each other. Maybe, I miss you more every day, and not less. Maybe, I'm feeling guilty Rosie is going to spend her first birthday surrounded by her godmothers, but not you.

But it is what it is.

Today, I've found myself remembering you without wanting to cry my eyes out but wishing with every fibre of my being for you to be here, just for a moment. Margaret and Siger have decided to spoil Rosie rotten, and they have made a huge deal out of it. The house is full of purple because she is her mother's daughter, and she loves anything remotely close to mauve. And unicorns. She likes all the classics.

Life has changed. Massively, dramatically, forever. In a lot of aspects, it has evolved. In some others, like the space you left behind, it has stopped. Sometimes we take three steps forwards; sometimes, we fall down the rabbit hole. I guess it's normal. We've all got trauma to last us several lifetimes. Some days I am just amazed by the fact that we are all alive.

Not all. You're not.

Life is not the same without you. It's worse; it will always be worse. I can't help but feel that nothing of what happened these last months would have happened with you here. You were always the perceptive one.

We'd be living a lie, though. When I was younger, I wanted to know everything. Now I'm having problems deciding whether or not ignorance is a blessing. We've added you and Eurus to the set of scars we collectively share. For better or for worse, that keeps us together.

You'd be surprised to know John is taking fewer cases these days and has some routine. He still follows Sherlock into whatever stupid plan he concocts, but with less adrenaline-seeking intentions and more sense of justice. His whole life revolves around Rosie. He's found a new therapist who is not rubbish and not a psychopath. He says he'll never be whole, and I'm inclined to agree. But he's doing better.

Sherlock is recovering—without drugs this time. He's a bit less the Sherlock everyone knew and a bit more the Sherlock we saw and loved. He's changed, but he hasn't. He was robbed of so much he can't really change who he is, but he's getting to know himself again. It's beautiful. He's still not getting dressed for less than a four, but now he's polite about it.

Eurus is still a sore subject. Sherlock visits, as does Mycroft. No matter what anyone says, their ability to love sometimes takes my breath away. There's nothing we can do to fix their heartbreak. Our job is to support and protect. Sherlock has stopped wondering what-ifs, and Mycroft has started forgiving Rudy and himself. Maybe that's the best we can aim for.

Life is changing, and it will never be like any other. You said it once, we are not civilians. We are who we are. We are those things and experiences and people who have shaped us. Our lives would forever be entangled with the unimaginable, with the weird and dangerous. That's the life we chose, and it's the kind of decision you apparently can't take back. But we can mitigate its effects. And I think we've finally understood; we're not alone. We are an unconventional family, but a family, after all—a family with missing pieces but new pieces every day.

Our Baker Street boys will never be safe, Mary. You and I, we never were. But maybe now we have a chance to be happy, whatever form happiness takes. And for people like ourselves, it should be enough.

Until we see each other again.

Love,

Hermione

Hermione closed the notebook as she heard a door opening. Sherlock leaned against the frame, two mugs of his mother's ginger tea in his hands, and smiled.

All was well.

THE END

Thank you very much to everyone who stayed until the very end. I hope you've enjoyed reading this as much as I've enjoyed writing it.