Sherlock was a difficult person to live with, or so John had told her one day shortly after the terrorist attack. Hermione, who had been sharing the place with Sherlock for less than a week and had seen glimpses of that alleged difficulty, remained optimistic. Barring the violin at three in the morning and the microscope on the kitchen table, Sherlock had been behaving like the perfect flatmate. Sherlock had consulted with her on a couple of cases, brewed the odd cup of tea for her, and bought Italian takeaway some evenings. Sherlock is not Sherlock yet; John had warned her with a frown after witnessing one of the detective's rare 'thank you'. He'll be back to normal soon.
Sherlock had only needed a Christmas with his brother and parents in an isolated cabin somewhere in Lake District to revert to the Sherlock everyone knew and hated to love. Since then, on top of having to withstand John's smug I-told-you-so smirk, Hermione also had to deal with Sherlock, who had somehow decided that Baker Street belonged only to him. Severed body parts had found their way into Hermione's shelf in the fridge, and the fuses kept blowing because of random experiments with kitchen equipment. Hermione had tried to argue but lost interest immediately once it was apparent Sherlock would not stop doing what he was doing.
However, Hermione still had his old bedroom, and she was not planning on giving it back to him. She might have if Sherlock would have thought about asking for it rather than demanding. But Sherlock wasn't wired like that.
It was early February when the relationship between the inhabitants of 221b would take a dramatic change. Sherlock had been on the phone with Lestrade when Hermione had arrived from a training session, barely acknowledging her arrival as he barked questions to the detective. Hermione had not even given it a second thought. She went straight into her room and started drawing a bath. She lit some candles, put a jazz playlist on her phone, and then lowered herself into the hot water mixed with Epsom salts. Her head was resting against a folded towel, her eyes closed, and her fingers were tracing the scars on her forearm. The warmth, the scent, and the music were luring her into a drowsy state when a metal rattling sound filtered above the piano beats. Hermione reached for her phone and lowered the volume. The noise stopped, followed by the turning of a knob and a whispered swearing. Hermione sighed and wrapped herself in a towel. When she opened the door, her bath ruined, she found Sherlock crunched in front of her bedroom door, his white shirt tightening around his back and shoulders. He had discarded his blue dressing gown on the floor beside his tools and moved a large stencil inside the lock.
"Sherlock, what are you doing?"
Sherlock stood up and turned to her, hiding whatever he had in his hands behind him. Pretending she had not caught him trying to force a door. "Nothing."
"You can't open it; it's charmed."
Sherlock buffed and bent to get the rest of his kit and gown. "I thought it was forbidden for you to do magic when I'm around."
"I haven't, have I? I did it when you weren't here," Hermione said, gripping the towel tightly around her chest. "Besides, your brother cleared you to know about magic, so that technically isn't correct."
"I need my room," said Sherlock.
"Not a good enough reason for me," Hermione pointed at the bedroom. "May I go into my room now, please?"
Sherlock's eyes moved from her face to the arm holding the towel to the other one. He took a step to the side and left for the kitchen. Hermione padded to her room and only emerged late at night when she needed her usual chamomile to help her sleep. Sherlock had changed into his more comfortable sleeping trousers and T-shirt and was hunched over the microscope. The kettle went off, and Hermione started to fix her tea.
"What's 'mudblood'?" asked Sherlock.
Hermione spilt the boiling water all over the counter and herself. She swore out loud and took a cleaning rag, and put the hand under the cold water. Sherlock was still looking through the lens as if he had just asked about the weather. "I don't know what you are talking about."
"Don't insult my intelligence, Hermione." Sherlock raised his head. "What's the word carved into your left forearm?"
Hermione tried to turn around, but Sherlock was faster. Petri dishes and beakers clung against each other as Sherlock snatched Hermione's arm over the table. His entire hand covered her wrist, and he brought the forearms to his eye level. The other hand traces the skin, and Hermione wondered if he knew what he was doing as a chill went down her spine and made her shiver, equal parts aroused, fascinated, and frightened.
"I can't explain it..." said Sherlock, moving the arm in different angles. He traced letters down her forearm, exactly mirroring the scars covered by the glamour. "But I feel there's something here."
Hermione considered for a moment to continue lying. She had hidden the scars from John - if she was fair, Hermione had hidden plenty of things from John. He wasn't the most observant person. Even Mycroft and Mary had seen it, and only because Hermione had chosen to tell them. But Sherlock knew there was something, and if Sherlock was something, it was stubborn to a fault. That he appeared to be sensitive to magic did not change the fact. Hermione tugged her arm, and Sherlock diverted his gaze from her skin to her, letting the arm go.
"Wait here," said Hermione and went to get her wand from her drawers. When she returned to the kitchen, Sherlock was where she had left him. She pointed her wand to her forearm and glanced at Sherlock. His eyes were focused on the tip of the wand.
"Finite incatatem." The childlike scrawls that Bellatrix Lestrange had branded on her skin appeared, the deep 'M' and the barely there 'D' at the end. They looked as if blood was about to ooze from them, as it had done so many years ago. Sherlock grasped her arm again, gentler than last time.
"The slope and the trace seem inconsistent with a self-inflicted wound. You have it covered most of the time, even at home, either with clothes or a spell, meaning you are ashamed of it. Your entire demeanour tells me you have fought, I thought it was because of MI training, but I'm starting to think it's something deeper than that. You were a soldier before working for my brother. Those two things together mean that this is probably a field wound, torture." Sherlock deduced, and Hermione tried to remain stoic. "But it's too specific to be a random act of torture. The choice of words means something to you and most likely, to the person who did this. I can't be sure, but 'mudblood' is probably a derogatory term. It looks fresh, so it can't be more than a couple of weeks old." Sherlock looked at her, puzzled. "But you haven't been to a mission yet. Does Mycroft know about this?"
Hermione withdrew her arm. "Brilliant deduction, Sherlock. Are you happy now?"
"You haven't answered me."
"Sherlock-"
"It's just a question."
"You have no idea-"
"- it will heal eventually, but if someone has hurt you-"
"It was done eleven years ago, Sherlock," interrupted Hermione. That seemed to stop Sherlock. "It will never heal."
"How?"
"It was carved with a cursed blade. It will always look like this. I'm not ashamed," liar. "But I prefer people not to ask questions about it."Hermione turned around and busied herself refilling the kettle.
"Eleven years ago you were... Seventeen?"
"Eighteen," answered Hermione. "Do you remember the random terrorist attacks, the families killed?"
"The bridge collapsing, the coffee shops in Piccadilly bombarded. Uncle Rudy was never home those days and took Mycroft with him."
"There was a war. In the magical community," Hermione looked at Sherlock. "An ethnic cleanse if you want to call it like that. People with generations of magical ancestors thought that people like me, without magical parents, were unworthy of magic. Mudblood is the word they used for us. This," she pointed to her covered arm. "Was an adult woman branding me because she thought I was an abomination, and I needed to be put in my place before she killed me."
"Were you a prisoner?"
"For a short while. I was mostly on the run; a lot of us were. They sent... hunters, after us."
Sherlock watched her in silence. "I'm assuming your side won."
Hermione nodded. "We won the war, yes. "
"What happened to her? The woman."
"She died. She was killed."
"Was it you?"
Hermione shook her head. "Sometimes, I wish it had been me."
Sherlock went around the table and stood in front of her. Under the dim light, his eyes were soft. "Every time I think about the two years I spent away, I force myself to think about one thing: James Moriarty is dead. And no matter what he tries, he can't touch me; he can't touch anyone. It doesn't matter what he thought his grand plan was. I'm alive, and he's not. It should be enough."
Hermione was stunned into silence as Sherlock left the kitchen and then made her way to her room. She rested her forehead against the wooden door, her breath shaking. Two lonely tears travelled down her cheeks as she muttered:
"Bellatrix Lestrange is dead."
When Hermione left for Chile at the beginning of March, the wedding arrangements had not yet begun. The nature of the assignment left her incommunicado until the mission had finished successfully a month later. When the black Government car finally pulled in front of Baker Street, Hermione saw Mrs Hudson waiting for her with the door open.
"Oh dear," Mrs Hudson hugged her and rushed her in. "You look like you could use something to eat, I'll fix you up in a jiffy."
"I think I need rest more than I need food, Mrs Hudson," said Hermione. "Is Sherlock home?"
"Oh, yes. He's been brooding. I think he's missed having you around."Hemione chuckled and went upstairs. Sherlock sat on his chair in silence, eyes closed and hands stapled under his chin.
"Hey, have you missed me?" Hermione asked, dropping her suitcase, but Sherlock did not move. "You could at least say hello to me after a month away. Are you asleep? Sherlock?"
Hermione moved and stood in front of him, her knees brushing his. She snapped her fingers right under his nose.
"He's always like this," Mrs Hudson appeared carrying a tray. "He will come back, eventually."
Hermione looked at him again but took the cup Martha was offering. She finished unpacking and then settled in the free armchair, drifting off soon after. When she woke up, Sherlock was looking at her, his long legs crossed before him, and his arms on the armrests.
"I see you are finally back," his voice rumbled.
"I've been back for hours, but you were somewhere inside that head of yours. Hard case?"
"The hardest," said Sherlock with a sigh. He uncrossed his legs and went to the window, his profile a dark shadow contrasting with the street lights below. He then turned to her and locked his hands on his back. "John has asked me to be his best man."
"So?" Hermione prompted after a couple seconds.
"What do you mean, 'so'?"
"Of course John would ask you to be his best man, you are his best friend. Who would he choose if not you?"
Sherlock stood in silence, genuinely analysing her words, dissecting them. That's when Hermione understood the problem Sherlock could not solve: he did not believe he could be John Watson's best friend. "You thought John was going to choose someone else?"
"I lied. I lied to him, and I am not pleasant or... 'friendly'" even Sherlock's usual mockery lacked his signature bite. "People don't like me."
"I see," Hermione said. Sherlock had turned back to the window, and Hermione felt a tug at her heart, very similar to the one she felt with Mycroft. At some point in their lives, something had gone very wrong, if someone like Sherlock Holmes could not cope with being someone's best friend. "Well, I hate to disappoint you, but some people do like you."
"People seem to be extremely gullible and sentimental."
"Maybe don't call them that to their faces," Hermione walked to the shelves and opened the cabinet. She took a paper bag out and handed it to Sherlock.
"What's this?" he asked, opening the bag.
"It's a book with tips for writing speeches. If you are the best man, you are going to have to speak at the wedding."
Sherlock looked at the book. "But I just told you."
"I bought it before I left. Sherlock, everyone but you knew John would ask you to be his best man. He did not tell us," Hermione said before Sherlock could ask. "But you are his best friend. See? Even ordinary people can make deductions."
"He'll have to make a speech in front of people, you know," there was a squishy sound on the other side of the phone, obscuring Molly's voice. "Actual people, actually listening."
"Have a little faith in him, Molly," Hermione opened the door to Baker Street and left the grocery bag on the floor. "Everything will be fine. What's the worst thing that can happen?"
Hermione put the food on Mrs Hudson table and then trotted upstairs. The small landings were full of dying bouquet samples and fabric scraps in boxes. Saying that Sherlock had taken his duties as best man seriously was an understatement. When she reached the living room, she saw Sherlock sitting in front of his computer, massaging his temples and mumbling under his breath. The book Hermione had given him was open next to him, with several colourful notes sticking out the edges. The wall generally occupied with crime photos was now littered with menus, blueprints of the shortlisted venues, several to-do lists. Sherlock had done six months' worth of wedding planning in one, but the speech was simply not happening. It wasn't unusual to see him in this exact position, for hours on end. Hermione continued reading when the doorbell rang manically, followed by hasty steps on the staircase and a breathless Greg storming into the room.
"What's going on?" he looked at Sherlock and then at Hermione, who was also very confused.
"This is the hardest thing I've ever had to do," said Sherlock, and held up the book. "Do you know any funny stories about John?"
"What?" Greg and Hermione said in unison. Police cars were rushing into Baker Street and screeching to a halt; even helicopters passed over the building. Greg stared at him, still panting. Sherlock's eyes shifted sideways, noticing the noise outside.
"Didn't go to any trouble, did you?"
"Sherlock, I'm telling you. You can't show Archie crime photos!" said Hermione as she took the cardboard with the venue where the reception was going to be held drawn in it.
"Bribery has a terrible reputation."
"Bribery is a criminal offence. Besides, I don't think his mother would appreciate her son talking about maggots and decomposing flesh."
"Children's curiosity needs to be fed!" Sherlock took his violin and placed it under his chin.
"Not with dead people!"
"Do you suggest that they see those..." he made a flourishing gesture with the bow. "Pear-shaped coloured monstrosities dancing around the sound and eating pancakes instead?"
"That's not the point," Hermione put a box with names and another with push pins on the table. The wedding could not come soon enough. Sherlock left the violin and paced around the room, randomly checking facts they had gone over a thousand times. When Mary and John finally arrived to finish the last details, Hermione was on her third coffee, Sherlock was on his third nicotine patch and both were ready to kill the other. Sherlock soon vanished John to his armchair, claiming he displayed a 'bad understanding of colour theory' after mistaking the maids' dresses' colour. John was more than happy to leave the table, and Hermione wished she would have thought about doing something like that sooner.
"Schedule the organ music to begin at precisely 11.48."
"Sherlock, the rehearsal is not for another two weeks. Just calm down."
"Calm? I'm extremely calm, Hermione. Maybe it's you who needs to calm down. Your level of caffeine consumption is alarming."
"Children, please, let's go back to the reception," Mary stopped Hermione from starting an argument and tapped the chair beside her so Sherlock would sit. "John's cousin, top table?"
"Hates you, can't even think about you," Sherlock took the Rsvp card and sniffed it, grimacing. "Second class post, cheap card bought at a petrol station."
"I say we stick her by the bogs," said Hermione, taking the pin from Mary's hand and put it on the last table. "Table four is done. Table five, Major James Sholto hasn't answered."
"Who he?" asked Sherlock.
"Oh, John's old commanding officer. I don't think he's coming."
"He'll be there, Mary."
"Well, he needs to Rsvp then."John stared at her. "He'll be there. Listen to this one, Sherlock. 'My husband is three people.' It's uninteresting. Says he has three distinct patterns of moles on his skin."
Sherlock squatted down the coffee table. "Identical triplets - one in half a million births. Solved it without leaving the flat. Now, serviettes," he reached under the table and pulled out a tray with two folded serviettes into different shapes. "Swan or Sydney Opera House?"
"Where d'you learn to do that?!"
Sherlock tried to explain, but Hermione caught Mary's eyes. Sherlock was terrified. Mary, always quick, faked a call and lured John away. Sherlock went back to the table and oversaw the tables' disposition until his finger reached the same that will be sitting next to him.
"Janine Hawkins? Who's her? And why is she the main of honour?"
"Well, I look hideous in mauve."
"Lilac," corrected Sherlock.
"Lilac," Hermione looked at Sherlock. "You know how this is, Sherlock. Mycroft could call me to a mission like he did back in March. I'll be devastated if Mary goes through this without a maid of honour. I'll be with," Hermione took her name and pinned it next to Lestrade. "Greg, shielding him from happy couples."
"Mycroft could have fixed it."
"I don't need Mycroft to fix anything. It's my job."
Sherlock hummed and then sat back on the floor. Hermione started revising the list of outstanding tasks, without paying too much attention to him.
"Sherlock, is the wine delivery sorted out?"
Hermione turned to Sherlock as Mary and John entered the living room. He was surrounded by dozens of small Opera House scattered over the rug, the coffee table and himself, and took little effort from John's part to convince him to leave for a case. Mary sorted the serviettes and sat next to Hermione.
"So, Janine has been asking about Sherlock." Hermione continued pushing names on different tables. "You know, bridesmaid, groomsman..."
"Your point, Mary?"
"Well, if you believe there is a cosmic order, she was never my first option, which makes you the cosmic bridesmaid..." Hermione buffed. "Come on! With all the time you've spent alone, hasn't there been even a tiny little spark?"
Hermione thought about the night when she told him about her scar, but she stopped that thought. "To have sex, the attraction has to go both ways. And Sherlock doesn't swing to any of them."
Mary flashed her saucy smile. "I'll just tell Janine she has the green light, then."
Hermione took Mrs H's name and pinned it next to hers. The underside of the pushpin ripped the cardboard, and she missed the satisfied smile dancing on Mary's lips.