HP: I AM SHERLOCK HOLMES

Three days after Easter, the air still carried the faint chill of early spring.

Sherlock arrived at Gemma’s home, just as he had promised.

A fire burned warmly in the hearth both to welcome guests arriving by Floo Network and to ward off the cool of an April evening in England.

His mode of travel was Floo Powder.

With the help of kind souls, the fireplaces of Muggle-born wizarding families Sherlock’s, Hermione’s, and others had eventually been connected to the Floo Network. This made visiting one another considerably more convenient than before.

At his parents’ insistence, Sherlock had brought gifts. In addition to Easter eggs, he carried a tin of Mrs. Holmes’s homemade sweets, her crowning achievement, as she would have it. In her own words, they were made with love.

Sherlock found the sentiment rather imprecise, but from a purely practical standpoint, they were a marked improvement over Hagrid’s treacle toffees. That was speaking strictly in culinary terms, of course. Hagrid’s handmade confections did have their own particular uses just not in the kitchen.

Mrs. Holmes had originally intended to accompany Sherlock to the Farley household herself. In her view, having both parents present when a child visited the family of someone he cared for carried several clear advantages.

First, it would signal commitment and support. Parents making a personal appearance would communicate to the Farleys that their family took the relationship seriously and stood behind Sherlock a gesture that, in a family-oriented household, could only help.

Second, there was the matter of direct family interaction. Mr. and Mrs. Holmes would have the opportunity to observe Gemma’s home environment, learn more about her background, and begin laying the groundwork for a relationship between the two families.

Third, it might ease Sherlock’s nerves. Mrs. Holmes believed that her son, introverted and unaccustomed to such occasions, would benefit from having his parents there to steady him.

Mr. Holmes, however, disagreed and he, too, had three points.

First, it risked overreach.

In British culture, individual independence was highly valued. Sherlock and Gemma were still in the early stages of things; parental involvement at this point might suggest to Gemma and her family that Sherlock had not yet grown up, that he lacked independence. That was no foundation on which to build a relationship.

And from what Mr. Holmes knew of Gemma, she likely preferred more personal, unmediated interactions.

Second, it would raise the stakes unnecessarily. A parental visit would transform the occasion from a casual social call into something closer to a formal family summit. The natural development of Sherlock and Gemma’s connection would be stifled.

Third, there was the risk of awkwardness or worse, of sending the wrong message entirely. If either Sherlock or Gemma felt uncomfortable with the parental presence, the atmosphere could sour quickly. Mr. Holmes suspected Sherlock, more than Gemma, would resist. And the Farleys might read it as pressure.

As the debate continued, their eldest son Mycroft stepped in with composure.

He proposed that Sherlock going alone offered three clear wins, precisely corresponding to the three losses their father had outlined: Sherlock would be seen as independent and mature rather than as an extension of his parents; the visit would remain relaxed and private, allowing both Sherlock and Gemma to interact naturally; and there would be no risk of the Farleys misreading the gesture as family interference.

”And as for your third point, Mother—” Mycroft glanced at Sherlock, a slight smile on his lips, ”I rather doubt my dear brother will feel nervous visiting Miss Farley’s home. If anyone ought to be nervous, it’s her parents.”

The vote stood at two to one. Mrs. Holmes, reluctant to concede, turned to Sherlock himself for a final word.

The result was inevitable.

And so, three days later, Sherlock stepped through the Floo alone into the Farley sitting room.

Gemma, Mr. Farley, and Mrs. Farley were already there to receive him.

When Sherlock’s figure emerged from the hearth amid curling green flames, Gemma’s face broke into a radiant smile. She was wearing a soft, warm-yellow jumper, and she looked bright as a sunlit morning.

”Welcome, Sherlock! Did you have a smooth journey?”

Her voice carried its familiar warmth.

”Very smooth, thank you.” Sherlock gave a slight, composed bow.

He offered his gifts with both hands. ”These are belated Easter eggs, and a few sweets my mother made herself. She insisted I bring them. She called them her finest work full of, well...” He paused subtly before repeating the word. ”Love.”

There was a nearly undetectable weariness in his tone as he relayed it, though his eyes were sincere.

”Oh, Mrs. Holmes is far too kind!” Eleanor Rose Farley stepped forward at once, brushing a fleck of soot from Sherlock’s shoulder with a brisk, practiced hand. She accepted the gifts with a warmly surprised expression.

This was not the first time she and Mr. Farley had met Sherlock. They had visited the Holmes household once before, and had come away with a strong impression of this calm, sharp-minded young man. Two years on, Mrs. Farley looked at him with something even more appreciative in her eyes.

”Come, come, don’t just stand there.” Sebastian Augustus Farley stood a step behind his wife, more restrained than she was.

His gaze was keener than hers, carrying a scrutiny that called to mind Hermione’s father, Mr. Granger though where Mr. Granger’s eyes held suspicion, Mr. Farley’s held a faint, barely legible note of approval.

He extended his hand. ”Welcome, Mr. Holmes. Come and sit.”

”It’s very good to meet you, Mr. Farley.” As Sherlock shook his hand, he registered the pressure of the grip and the weight of a parent’s careful attention.

The sitting room was comfortable and warm, the fire crackling steadily in the grate, the air fragrant with the smell of fresh-baked pastry. Mrs. Farley arranged the gifts and guided Sherlock to the sofa nearest the hearth.

”Gemma mentions you often,” she said, giving her wand a gentle wave so that the teapot began to pour on its own. ”She says you’re a truly remarkable wizard that you performed especially brilliantly in certain... extraordinary situations at Hogwarts.”

She meant, of course, Sherlock’s various adventures there. Admiration was unmistakable in every syllable.

”Mum!” Gemma shot her mother a reproachful look, her cheeks were coloring. She stole a quick glance at Sherlock, and only relaxed when she saw that his expression remained entirely unchanged.

Mr. Farley cleared his throat and steered the topic toward more concrete ground. ”Indeed. I heard you were the first to get past the dragon in the first task? Gemma filled us in properly when she came back from Romania, far more dramatic than anything The Daily Prophet reported.”

”Yes, sir.” Sherlock gave a calm nod. ”Though we had prepared thoroughly in advance. In the moment, it wasn’t quite as harrowing as it might sound.”

”Not quite as harrowing!” Mrs. Farley clasped her hands. ”A full-grown adult would struggle to face a dragon, let alone a Hungarian Horntail, the most dangerous of all! We had our hearts in our mouths reading about it.

And at the time, you had no idea what was coming! When Gemma told us how you kept your head through all of it, we were simply—” She shook her head as if pushing the memory aside, then looked at him with a softer expression. ”But seeing you sitting here, safe and sound—it really is wonderful.”

”The risk was real,” Sherlock acknowledged straightforwardly. ”But Hogwarts and the Ministry had taken every reasonable precaution. The key, ultimately, is preparation and clear analysis. When those are in place, confidence follows.” He said nothing, naturally, about the fact that Hagrid had let slip the nature of the first task in advance.

Mr. Farley studied him, genuinely surprised by a composure and clarity that seemed to exceed his years. His estimation of the young man rose another notch.

”That’s quite an unusual way of looking at things,” he said, lifting his teacup. ”You held your nerve against the dragon, and again in the second task. Is that just how you are, always this composed?”

”Fear accomplishes nothing, sir.” Sherlock replied evenly. ”The best way to overcome it is to meet it directly. Assess the situation, form a strategy, execute. That is the most direct and effective approach.”

His answer was founded entirely in logic, stripped of any emotional flourish. For a moment, the Farleys both blinked at the sheer clinical matter-of-factness of it then they exchanged a quiet, knowing smile.

Gemma, meanwhile, wore an expression of fond and long-suffering familiarity. This was exactly how Sherlock thought, and she had long since made her peace with it. It was part of what made him him.

Mrs. Farley, charmed and amused in equal measure, felt the last of her hostess’s tension dissolve entirely. The more she looked at him, the more she liked him.

”Try one of these, Sherlock—please, help yourself,” she said warmly, passing the pastry tray. ”Gemma says you’re always terribly busy. You could use a chance to relax.”

Sherlock thanked her politely and accepted a piece.

The conversation settled into a comfortable rhythm—tea, pastries, talk of daily life at Hogwarts, and Gemma’s work in Romania. Mrs. Farley refilled Sherlock’s cup whenever it ran low, her gaze gentle and maternal. She worked in stories of Gemma as a little girl, and laced her compliments about Sherlock with an intent that was really not subtle at all.

”Gemma has been independent and strong-willed since she was small, just like you, always such a reassuring child to have around...” Mrs. Farley said, her fond gaze drifting between the two of them with unmistakable significance.

Gemma felt the heat rise to her cheeks and quietly tugged at the hem of her mother’s sleeve beneath the table. ”Mum!”

Sherlock, however, was fully absorbed in the story Mrs. Farley had been telling about how a young Gemma had been studying a dragon egg in the garden and nearly set the flowerbeds alight and offered his assessment with perfect seriousness: ”The curiosity to explore the unknown is commendable. Though laboratory safety practices do need to be instilled from an early age.”

Mr. Farley watched this exchange and allowed himself a quiet smile. He understood his wife’s intentions entirely, and was more than happy to see where things might lead. Sherlock might be remarkably obtuse when it came to matters of sentiment, but there was something in that very purity and single-mindedness that made him seem all the more trustworthy.

He set down his cup and let his distant, private worries rest for now, choosing to simply enjoy the warmth of the afternoon.

”Lunch should be nearly ready,” Mrs. Farley said, glancing at the clock and rising with a reluctant air of one interrupted mid-flow. She gave Sherlock a warm smile. ”You two have a chat while we check on things in the kitchen.”

With that, she and Mr. Farley disappeared through the arched doorway, their footsteps muffled by the deep wool carpet.

The moment her parents’ figures vanished behind the arch, Gemma turned to look at Sherlock. A mischievous curve touched her lips, followed quickly by an expression of fond exasperation, the last traces of amusement still bright at the corners of her eyes.

”So, how are you finding it? Was my mum a little too enthusiastic?”

Sherlock glanced around the welcoming sitting room, absorbing the comfort of the firelight, then turned to look at her. In the warm glow, his grey eyes reflected the dancing flames and looked softer than usual, though still clear and precise.

”As expected. Mrs. Farley struck me as genuinely warm from the very first time we met. Based on her conduct today, she’d clearly given the visit some thought beforehand and was well prepared.” He paused. ”And for what it’s worth, it doesn’t feel unpleasant.”

Gemma watched him deliver this analysis with complete sincerity, and a slow laugh escaped her before she could stop it, clear and bright, like water on glass. She raised a hand to cover her smile. The slight shyness she’d felt at his arrival had given way to something else entirely: a fond, helpless warmth.

This was Sherlock Holmes. The one she cared for. Always governed by logic above all things and yet, when it came to matters of the heart, he moved like an explorer who needed a map just to find his own feelings.

Clumsy and, for that very reason, impossible not to adore.

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