HP: I AM SHERLOCK HOLMES

As July settled in, London’s summer heat grew fiercer by the day.

The asphalt along King’s Road shimmered beneath the glaring sun, heat rising in wavering columns that bent the air into a liquid mirage.

The shop windows along the street had gone pale and milky in the brightness, stripped of their usual clarity. Cars parked at the kerb wore a thin film of dust, slumped listlessly in the lane, throwing back sharp white reflections from the sun above.

People felt as though they were trapped inside a vast steamer. They retreated into the cool of their homes, threw the windows wide open, and hoped for a breeze that never came.

In weather like this, a drive to the seaside seemed like the only sensible idea.

As it happened, today was the very day Sherlock and Gemma had agreed to set off together.

At Mrs. Holmes’s insistence, Sherlock had already written back to Gemma. Thanks to Mr. Weasley’s connections and characteristic resourcefulness, the fireplaces in the Holmes home, Harry’s house, and Hermione’s had all been successfully connected to the Floo Network.

And so, Sherlock sat in the armchair in the sitting room, newspaper in hand, waiting for Gemma to come tumbling out of the fireplace.

Mr. and Mrs. Holmes were seated in the sitting room as well. Both wore the same expression of blend of curiosity and quiet anticipation—their eyes drifting to the fireplace every so often as they imagined what manner of entrance Gemma might make.

Chug-chug-chug—

Just then, the sound of an engine, low and slightly out of place, grew steadily from a distance and came to a stop just outside the house, shattering the stillness.

Mrs. Holmes tilted her head and listened, then turned to her husband with a puzzled frown. ”Who is that? Someone’s parked right at our door.”

Before he could answer, the doorbell rang—a bright, clean chime.

Mrs. Holmes rose and walked briskly to the door. When she saw the graceful figure standing outside, her puzzlement dissolved instantly into a radiant smile.

”Gemma!”

Hearing the delight in his mother’s voice, Sherlock set down his newspaper. He already knew.

A car, of all things.

For a witch from a pureblood wizarding family, that was rather an unexpected choice of transport.

He stood and followed his father to the door.

Mrs. Holmes invited Gemma in to sit for a moment, but Gemma gently declined. The drive to their destination would take nearly two hours; it made more sense to leave soon.

The three Holmeses followed Gemma out to where her car was waiting—a pale blue little thing parked along the street.

The car had a simple, pleasingly retro design: a short, compact body topped by a flat roof, the whole thing resembling two tidy little boxes stacked one atop the other. Most charming were the headlamps—round and wide-eyed, giving the car an almost childlike expression of wonder. Its body was so trim and petite it looked as though it could squeeze into any narrow London alley.

The silver hubcaps were small and neat, and the rubber of the tires had already picked up the coal dust of London’s streets in their grooves.

The engine hadn’t been cut. The car trembled gently, exhaling a low, steady rhythm—like a small animal blowing hard against the heat of summer.

”You have a license?” Sherlock asked, pulling his gaze away from the Austin Mini.

Mr. and Mrs. Holmes both winced slightly at the question.

’What sort of thing is that to say?’

A girl had driven all this way to pick him up, and that was his opening line?

Did he have no sense of romance at all?

To their considerable surprise, however, Gemma received the question on exactly the frequency it was sent. She gave a coy little smile and drew a card from her pocket, holding it out to Sherlock—it was clearly prepared in advance.

The card had a dark green background. Her photograph was printed on it clearly, alongside the royal crest of the United Kingdom.

Sherlock took the licence and scanned the date. He glanced up. ”You passed last year?”

”That’s right!” Gemma stood a little straighter, smile bright. ”Before that I had a provisional. I passed my practical exam the day I turned seventeen and got my full licence straight away.”

There was a glint of mischief in her expression, as if she’d been saving up to watch him be surprised. ”You didn’t expect me to drive you to the seaside, did you?”

”I genuinely didn’t,” Sherlock admitted, and handed the license back.

They exchanged a few pleasantries, and then Mrs. Holmes opened her arms wide and drew both Sherlock and Gemma into firm, warm hugs, her eyes full of reluctance and blessing. ”All right, children—enjoy yourselves, and please, be careful.”

”Don’t worry, Mrs. Holmes!” Gemma hugged her back, her smile like sunlight. ”I’ll take good care of Sherlock!”

”You’ll take care of him?” Mrs. Holmes turned on her son at once, exasperated. ”Sherlock! Did you hear that? You’re the boy—you look after Gemma on the road!”

”…”

Sherlock did not argue. A particular expression crossed his face—the one reserved exclusively for his mother—a look of patient, fond resignation.

A moment later, he stepped around to the passenger door and pulled it open.

A wave of scent came with it—lemon air freshener mingled with aged leather.

He settled into the passenger seat and, within a few seconds, had taken in every detail of the car.

The knitted seat covers in pale grey had started to pill at the edges, but had been neatened with care. The black retro plastic of the steering wheel was worn smooth and bright along its rim from use. A small wooden flying broomstick charm hung from the rear-view mirror, swaying gently with the engine’s vibration.

The glove box sat half-open, revealing a few handwritten notes inside.

The handwriting was cramped and unsteady—nothing like Gemma’s usual elegant, flowing script.

Sherlock read them:

SIGNAL BEFORE TURNING!!!

Clutch: release slow, press fast.

Brake: press slow, release fast.

Slow down at intersections! SLOW DOWN!

Front-wheel drive: find the clutch’s bite point and control left-foot pressure at the start for better grip.

Self-reminders, clearly—notes she’d written while learning to drive.

Sherlock smiled to himself. Even someone as sharp and capable as Gemma could be caught off-guard by the machinery of the Muggle world.

But then, that was true for Muggles, too. Getting a license and actually being able to drive were two entirely different things. Plenty of people breezed through their test and never dared take the wheel on a real road.

By comparison, the fact that Gemma had driven the car here from the Farley house without incident said enough about her fundamentals. The seaside was well within her reach.

And if anything happened, he was right here.

Look after Gemma, as his mother had said.

All things considered; it would be fine.

By this point, Gemma had bid her farewells to Mr. and Mrs. Holmes and was making her way back around to the driver’s side, her white cotton dress swishing lightly with each step, the hem grazing the metal runner of the door.

She settled into the driver’s seat, buckled her seatbelt, and gave a vigorous wave out the window. ”Uncle, Auntie—we’re off!”

The engine rose in pitch. Gemma’s expression became focused, her movements clean and unhesitating:

She pressed the clutch, slotted into first gear, released the handbrake, and pressed the accelerator.

The Austin Mini gave a cheerful growl and pulled smoothly away from the Holmes house.

Mrs. Holmes watched the little car until it disappeared around the corner, and only then let a warm, contented smile settle over her face.

She turned and went back inside, her voice light. ”Now we can have Watson write to Luna.”

Mr. Holmes had been gazing thoughtfully after the car. At those words, he spun around, his expression thoroughly startled.

”I beg your pardon?”

”Wasn’t it our dear Sherlock who said it himself?” Mrs. Holmes wore a sly, satisfied smile and mimicked her son’s voice: ”If you think she’s suitable, Mum, you might as well invite her yourself.”

”Violet, you—”

Mr. Holmes stared at his wife, momentarily speechless.

Sherlock had barely left with Gemma, and she was already arranging another girl?

Wasn’t this moving a little fast?

”You know perfectly well what that boy is like!” Mrs. Holmes planted her hands on her hips, energy surging. ”You saw Gemma—what a wonderful girl—and Sherlock still just sits there being passive! What’s wrong with creating a few more opportunities for him?”

”That’s all well and good, but—”

Mr. Holmes started to object.

”But nothing!” Mrs. Holmes cut him off, leaning forward just slightly: ”My dear, you don’t want our son to grow old alone, do you?”

Mr. Holmes: ”…”

Well. His wife seemed rather single-minded about this.

There was nothing for it but to quietly wish Sherlock and Gemma a pleasant and uneventful journey.

Inside the Austin Mini, Gemma turned toward Sherlock with just the expectation Mrs. Holmes would have hoped for. ”Sherlock?”

”Mm?”

”Why don’t you ask me why I wanted to get my license?”

”Why did you want to get your license?”

”You’re impossible.”

Gemma laughed softly and shook her head.

”Do you remember something you said to me once?” The warmth in her voice softened it entirely. ”You said that when you’re driving, you can see golden wheat fields rolling in the wind like waves—and that the feeling of it is far more interesting than stepping out of a fireplace and simply arriving somewhere.”

She smiled, eyes still on the road, though her gaze seemed to reach past the windscreen into another time entirely.

”So the moment I turned sixteen, I started learning to drive. I applied for a provisional license. I wanted—one day—to share that view with you.”

Sherlock was quiet. He turned it over, and after a few seconds retrieved the memory from its place in his mental attic: an afternoon, some time ago, when he had offhandedly mentioned to Gemma what it had been like to ride through the countryside to Godric’s Hollow.

He had never imagined she had kept those words so clearly—or that she had turned them into something real.

His gaze moved to the center console, where a neatly folded piece of paper rested. He picked it up and opened it.

It was a hand-drawn route map: London to the coastal village of Whitstable in Kent, rendered with care. Different coloured pens marked the main roads and key turning points, with a handful of possible rest stops annotated in the margins.

It was evident that Gemma had put considerable thought into the trip, quietly, on her own.

Whitstable was a seaside town on the north Kent coast, lying at the meeting of the River Swale and the outer Thames Estuary—Canterbury to the south, Herne Bay to the east. Its history stretched back to the Old Stone Age, and through the Bronze and Iron Ages as well. Oysters had been farmed here since Roman times, and traces of Roman construction could still be found in the town center.

In 1086, William the Conqueror ordered a comprehensive survey of English land, compiled into what would become the Domesday Book—named for the finality of its record, as irrefutable as the Last Judgment. Whitstable was among the settlements recorded within it.

By 1830, the Canterbury and Whitstable Railway had opened. Two years later, the harbor was built. Over the following century and more, the town had quietly grown into one of the most beloved seaside resorts on the English coast.

Each July, Whitstable held its Oyster Festival—a week of cultural events and open-air performances that drew visitors from across the country. It was this, above all, that had drawn Gemma to choose this particular town from among all the coastal options within reach of London.

By now, the little car had left King’s Road behind and joined the main road heading southeast.

At first, Gemma drove carefully, her speed measured, occasionally glancing toward Sherlock. ”Is this the right turning, Sherlock? The one up ahead?”

”Do we turn at the next junction?”

His answers were as precise and efficient as ever. ”Right, past that small bridge.”

”Ease up—there’s a pothole.”

Guided by his quiet directions, Gemma’s grip on the wheel gradually relaxed. The car found its rhythm, smooth and steady.

London’s ordered streets and packed buildings slowly fell away behind them.

Gemma looked ahead, a quiet smile on her lips.

She noticed he’d been silent for a stretch, and broke the stillness with a gentle voice. ”Do you know, Sherlock—”

”What?”

He turned from the window.

”Someone once said that life is like a journey.” Her voice carried a light lilt, easy as the air moving past the glass. ”What matters isn’t the destination—it’s the scenery along the way, and…” She let her voice soften just a little. ”…the person who sees it with you.”

Sherlock was quiet for a moment. His grey eyes seemed to pass through the landscape before him and settle somewhere further off.

A few seconds passed.

He gave a brief laugh. ”That’s an interesting way to put it.”

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