HP: I AM SHERLOCK HOLMES

As Gemma drove out of London and onto the winding country lanes of Kent, the world beyond her windows transformed.

The landscape opened up. Vast wheat fields blazed with a pure gold beneath the July sun, stretching from the roadside all the way to the distant horizon. The wind moved through them in long, rolling waves, rustling softly in a shimmering sea of molten light.

Now and then a shepherd drifted past, broad-brimmed hat tipped lazily, switching a thin rod to coax a flock of white sheep along the verge.

Then a brown-and-white sheepdog suddenly lunged toward the car and let out a sharp, resonant bark—startlingly loud against the open fields.

”Oh!”

Gemma’s small hands flinched on the wheel, and the car gave a brief, reflex swerve.

Almost in the same instant, Sherlock’s right hand reached across and settled over her left, covering it where it gripped the steering wheel.

”Steady.”

He helped her bring the car back into line, glanced at the rear-view mirror, and said with perfect calm: ”It was only saying hello. No malice intended.”

The warmth of his voice, the warmth of his fingertips—it passed through her like a current, dissolving the panic in her chest in an instant.

The tense line of her shoulders eased. The tight press of her lips relaxed.

She gave a small nod, drew a long breath of air laced with grass and earth, felt her chest rise and fall, then gently lifted her foot from the accelerator and let the car slow again.

The wheels crunched across the uneven gravel of the country lane, producing a light, cheerful crunch-crunch-crunch, like the rhythm of a quick little dance.

It would mean arriving later. Gemma didn’t mind in the least.

As she had just told Sherlock: the destination—a place called Whitstable—wasn’t the point.

Sunlight poured warm and golden through the windows, playing through the loose chestnut curls at her temples. Outside, rolling fields of oil-painting gold rippled and whispered in the wind. In her ears: the rush of air past the bodywork, the low, steady purr of the Austin’s engine.

And beside her—the person beside her.

Sherlock Holmes.

For Gemma, his presence alone was a kind of gravity. Something that steadied the world.

If she could, she thought she might wish this sunlit lane had no end. She would simply drive on, carrying him with her forever through this field of gold, through this quiet where time seemed to have forgotten to move.

But as the sweeping farmland of Kent gave way to denser rows of houses and shopfronts, and the outline of Whitstable began to surface in the distance, those soft, wandering thoughts had to be put aside.

Traffic had thickened noticeably on both sides of the road. Saloons with out-of-county plates and dusty bonnets hurried past. Estate cars inched forward with brightly coloured tents and long surfboards strapped to their roofs.

There was even a powder-blue ice cream van, its flanks painted with an enormous ice cream cone, trundling along with a jingle chiming cheerfully into the open air—all of them, without question, bound for the seaside town buzzing with the oyster festival.

Through the crack of the window, the salt-and-brine smell of the sea was growing stronger, carrying with it a clean, cool edge, announcing their destination without a word.

Beads of sweat had appeared at Gemma’s hairline, glinting in the light. She swiped at her temple absently with one knuckle.

The fingers gripping the wheel had gone faintly white at the tips from sustained pressure, pale pink showing beneath the neatly trimmed nails.

She stopped talking to Sherlock. Her gaze sharpened, darting rapidly between the moving traffic, the signs flashing past, and both wing mirrors, her long lashes flickering with each shift of focus.

Every one of these small changes registered immediately with Sherlock.

She was working very hard to keep control of the car.

That was the thing about driving—talent aside, it was a skill built from repetition, from hours logged until muscle memory did the thinking. Out on the open road, with sparse traffic and wide sight lines, Gemma had managed beautifully; she had even seemed to enjoy herself.

Now, merged into a press of traffic, complications were arriving one after another: the hesitant lurch of the car ahead when the light turned green; a vehicle from the next lane cutting sharply across without warning; the lorry in the mirror that nosed up close the moment she wanted to change lanes.

And the cruelest irony—the instant she signaled, the car beside her would accelerate as though letting her in were some unthinkable concession.

Each situation wound the tension in her a little tighter.

More draining than even the most grueling Potions class under that miserable bat.

But Gemma was still Gemma.

Faced with this messy, maddening tangle of road, she forced herself calm, pushed through it, and brought the car safely to the edge of the little seaside town.

The snarl of traffic had reduced her to first gear. Her left foot worked the clutch with delicate precision around the biting point; her right tapped lightly between brake and accelerator, keeping the car half-engaged, inching through the near-standstill like a snail picking its way through glass.

An experienced driver might have found this particular hell infuriating.

For a driver like Gemma, it came as something of a relief.

”I had no idea it would be this busy—”

She didn’t even notice how much lighter her voice had become.

”Turn left up ahead.”

They had ground to a complete stop again, the road ahead solidly blocked, when Sherlock spoke.

Gemma tilted her head slightly. Her sea-blue eyes blinked with earnest incomprehension. ”But our route is straight on from here, isn’t it?”

Sherlock pulled his gaze from a blue-and-white road sign on the verge and gestured toward a small lane branching off to the left. ”There’s a community car park down there. The way things are backed up, if we carry on with the traffic, we’ll never find a space.”

Gemma deferred at once. ”All right, your call.”

As luck had it, they were already in the leftmost lane.

She flicked on the indicator, waited three seconds, judged her moment, touched the accelerator, and turned the Austin smoothly into the side lane in one clean movement.

Sure enough, barely fifty meters in, they spotted a rough wooden sign hanging crookedly on an iron gate, the words daubed in vivid yellow paint:

OYSTER FESTIVAL TEMPORARY PARKING

Behind it lay a yard paved with loose gravel.

”Sherlock, thank goodness I listened to you—Merlin’s beard!”

She had just exhaled in relief when she pulled in a sharp breath.

Even this out-of-the-way makeshift lot was crammed full. Cars of every size sat packed side by side, leaving only the barest sliver of passage between them—like the blast-ended skrewts Hagrid had once squeezed into that crate of his. If it was like this here, the situation in the town centre was beyond imagining.

A flicker of frustration crept over Gemma.

”I should have driven faster on the way here—” she said, reproaching herself. Outside of their joint reconnaissance before the Triwizard Tournament, this was only the second time she and Sherlock had spent a day alone together.

On the open road she had been too busy savoring that rare, quiet closeness to give a thought to oyster festivals and their considerable draw. Being a witch didn’t help either—in the wizarding world, she never had to deal with anything like this.

Sherlock had no interest in dwelling on the problem. He looked over the lot, then pointed. ”There.”

Gemma followed his gesture, and her eyes lit up.

In the tightest corner of the yard, there was indeed one remaining space—narrow, and wedged in the very corner, but a space nonetheless.

When she eased the Austin alongside it, though, her brief hope collapsed.

The neighbouring car was a wide, blunt Ford Mondeo, its body parked almost flush with the line. What remained for the Austin was barely enough to slot into, let alone to open a door properly afterward.

”That space is tiny.”

Gemma studied the gap, hands on the wheel, leaning forward until her chest nearly pressed against it, turning it over in her mind. ”Last time I was practising, I scraped the car next to me in a space that was bigger than this…”

Her cheeks had gone warm with embarrassment. Her voice dropped a little.

Sherlock looked at the space, then at the Austin’s dimensions, and said: ”Let me.”

Gemma blinked. ”You know how to drive?”

”A little. Just a little.”

”That’s not enough—and besides, you’re not of legal age. You don’t even have a provisional license—”

Looking at her earnest face a trace of amusement appeared in Sherlock’s grey eyes.

She was, at this moment, being a complete Muggle.

It was quite plain she had forgotten she was a witch. The rules of the non-magical world had closed completely around her thinking.

”It’s fine,” he said. ”I used to help the neighbours move their car.”

He was already unclipping his seatbelt as he spoke. ”Their car is wider than that Ford.”

He opened his door and walked around to the driver’s side.

Gemma hadn’t quite left Muggle-mode behind. But with Sherlock looking this certain, she opened her door and stepped out, surrendering the seat.

After all—supporting a man’s dignity at the right moment was a particular form of feminine grace.

And driving without a license was one thing; parking the car in a private lot was quite another.

The moment she moved clear, Sherlock folded himself into the driver’s seat.

He was taller than she remembered—at some point he had quietly caught up to her in height. The seat and mirrors needed no adjustment at all.

He gripped the wheel at the quarter-to-three position, his left hand resting naturally on the cool, smooth curve of the gear knob. In one clean motion he pressed the clutch, slotted the car into reverse.

His right foot held at the clutch’s biting point with almost surgical precision, left foot resting lightly.

”On a front-wheel-drive car, getting the power down cleanly from a standstill means finding the bite point with your left foot and managing it—that way you get proper traction.”

He said it almost to himself, as if reciting something from memory.

Gemma stared at him.

The engine gave a low, steady hum, and the little Austin began to move backward, smooth and slow.

”Left! A little more to the left! Watch it—watch it!”

Gemma swayed on her feet as the car moved, her voice was climbing with worry. ”Careful! Almost there! Nearly! Just there!”

She was turning into a proper Muggle.

Sherlock glanced at her, smiled faintly, and ignored her.

A light, precise flick of his wrists, and the nose of the car swung out in a clean arc. The wheels crunched softly over the gravel. His gaze moved between the two wing mirrors and the gap ahead with quick, unhurried clarity—measuring, calculating.

Reverse. Nose out. Forward half a meter. Reverse again, wheel turning the other way.

The little Austin moved like a fish—a quick, slippery fish threading its way through a forest of steel.

Gemma had stopped making sounds. She simply stared.

Since when are you this good at it?

He had said just a little. Just a little!

She had been practicing in the Muggle world for two and a half years.

And yet right now it was Sherlock who looked like the seasoned driver with no license to his name.

One final, precise adjustment: reverse, forward, done. The Austin’s rear tires settled exactly against the painted line of the space. Between the little car and the enormous Mondeo: two fingers’ width. No more, no less. It slotted into the corner as though it had always belonged there.

Sherlock put it in neutral, pulled the handbrake, switched off the engine.

He turned and looked at Gemma through the window, a quiet smile on his face. ”Done.”

She was already walking over and still couldn’t stop herself from circling the car front and back, those blue eyes wide with disbelief. ”Merlin’s beard, Sherlock, that was extraordinary!”

In her estimation, parking cleanly in conditions like these, first try, was roughly equivalent to a third-year student successfully casting a Patronus.

She looked up at him as he climbed out, gaze bright and intent: ”I couldn’t have done that—no, I definitely couldn’t have done that. How on earth did you manage it?”

”Measure the car’s length, calculate the turning angle.” He unclipped his seatbelt and retrieved the beach towel from the passenger seat as he stepped out.

”My guess is you weren’t accounting for the rear wheels when you practiced. That’s why you kept catching the car next to you.” He nodded at the Austin’s back wheels. ”And the classic Mini’s steering is actually more responsive than modern cars—so you have to start turning slightly earlier to bring the rear wheels into position.”

By this point, a stout man in a Hawaiian shirt, his face ruddy and cheerful, had wandered over from nearby. He had been watching since they arrived—had seen the Austin pull up to that extreme corner, watched them climb out and look at the space, and simply hadn’t left.

He had stayed. And he had seen everything.

He broke into a slow, delighted clap, his accent was of pure Londoner: ”Oi, son, that was some driving!”

He pointed at the corner. ”I’ve been behind the wheel half my life—that space? I’d need three goes at it minimum, and I’d still be sweating. You walked it first time. Brilliant.”

Two bright spots of colour rose in Gemma’s cheeks.

She had lost count of how many tries it would have taken her. Any number. Infinite, perhaps.

But when she heard the man’s praise, she couldn’t help it—the corners of her mouth lifted, her chest drew back, and she stood just a little taller with pride.

”He practiced moving the neighbours’ car,” she told the man, her voice warm. ”Good, isn’t he?”

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