HP: I AM SHERLOCK HOLMES

Hearing the portly, ruddy-faced man lavish praise on his driving skills, Sherlock merely swept a calm gaze over him, offering no response.

However, when Gemma puffed out her rather ample chest with visible pride, declaring in a faintly boastful tone, ”He practiced by moving cars for the neighbors—impressive, right?” Sherlock’s lips curled up in a smile he couldn’t quite suppress.

In that moment of pleasure, he even took the initiative to walk to the back of the car, pop the trunk, and retrieve his swimming trunks along with Gemma’s canvas bag.

Sherlock’s gaze swept habitually over the interior of the trunk, where he noticed a portable car vacuum cleaner neatly stored in the corner, with a small roll of spare garbage bags tucked beside it.

Clearly, Gemma had prepared thoroughly for this outing, attending to every last detail.

Finally, he turned back to check the Austin’s windows, confirming each one was securely shut before saying to Gemma, whose blush had yet to fade, ”Let’s go. It’s only a quarter hour to the beach.”

Gemma nodded vigorously and quickened her pace to stay close by his side.

She couldn’t help glancing back one more time at the Austin tucked away in that corner spot.

The pale blue body gleamed pleasingly fresh in the dazzling sunlight.

In that instant, the image of Sherlock reversing the car replayed unbidden in her mind: eyes sparkling with focus, movements steady as a rock, and that casual remark—”Just calculate the angles.”

A thought took root quietly: Perhaps—the Muggle world was where he truly excelled?

Sunlight fell on the two of them, and on the Austin Mini not far behind.

The old car, older than they were, stood like a silent witness, recording the tension and unspoken understanding of that parking maneuver.

At the same time, it quietly added a warm note to this midsummer seaside journey.

Watching Sherlock and Gemma’s retreating figures, the middle-aged man who had praised Sherlock’s driving leaned against his car door, raising a hand to rub his shiny bald head. He let out a sigh heavy with nostalgia: ”Ah, to be young again!”

Twenty years ago, he too had been a handsome youth known for miles around. But now—

He’d become a portly man with a greasy sheen to his face and a slight paunch.

That thick head of glossy black hair he’d once been so proud of had long since abandoned him, leaving only a bald crown that gleamed in the sunlight.

Time, like a merciless carving knife, changes our appearance.

He hoped this young couple would stay happy like this forever.

After catching up to Sherlock, Gemma couldn’t resist asking, ”Sherlock, you’re definitely going to get your driver’s license eventually, right? If you were the one driving, I bet it would be fast and smooth.”

Sherlock glanced at her. ”When I’m of legal age.”

The two walked side by side like this, chatting casually as they headed toward the increasingly close seaside town.

Just as Sherlock had deduced, the remaining journey indeed took less than a quarter hour.

Gemma felt more and more certain that their decision to park the car early had been a wise one.

Despite their leisurely stroll, they still overtook one car after another that had been ahead of the Austin earlier.

As they continued forward, the air seemed saturated with moisture.

The briny scent on the wind grew stronger and stronger until they could almost taste the sea.

The distant clamor of cheerful voices gradually became clearer, indicating that the bustle of the Oyster Festival was washing over houses and streets toward them.

There was the booming, penetrating cry of vendors hawking their wares.

There was the wild laughter of tourists.

And somewhere, the upbeat rhythm of a live band drifted through the air.

Even before they truly entered the town’s core area—Whitstable Harbour—the hot, crowded, smoke-and-fire atmosphere of the Oyster Festival already engulfed them.

Vendors held high up freshly shucked oysters glistening with moisture, loudly calling out to attract customers.

White steam rose from sizzling griddles, carrying the tempting aroma of grilled shrimp and garlic butter that permeated the air.

Girls in brightly colored sundresses carried bulging mesh bags filled with just-purchased oysters, walking and laughing with their companions, enthusiastically debating what cooking method to use later.

Children crowded around a white-bearded, kindly-smiling old man selling sugar paintings, their eyes bright as they stared at the spinning wheel. Whenever the pointer landed on a favorite animal design, they erupted in excited shrieks.

This scene brimming with the flavor of everyday life tugged at Gemma’s heartstrings.

She instinctively turned to look at Sherlock beside her, her body naturally moving a step closer so her arm nearly brushed his.

In that moment, she unconsciously set down the heavy burdens in her heart.

The weighty responsibilities of being a reserve member of the Order of the Phoenix.

The looming crisis threatening the wizarding world.

And the terrifying shadow of Voldemort’s return—

All of it was temporarily dispelled by the vibrant human life before her.

A pure emotion surged through her in an instant.

Gemma took a deep breath, forcibly pushing down the slight embarrassment rising in her chest.

In the next moment, she resolutely reached out and gently took hold of Sherlock’s hand hanging at his side.

Compared to Gemma’s small hand, Sherlock’s fingers were long and slender, his palm carrying the warmth particular to young men along with a few light calluses.

Sherlock clearly hadn’t anticipated this gesture.

He turned to look at Gemma with some surprise, a flicker of genuine astonishment passed through his gray eyes.

Under Sherlock’s gaze, Gemma’s face flushed first, the blush spreading rapidly from her cheeks to the tips of her ears.

But she immediately met Sherlock’s eyes with courage, her gaze was clear and candid.

Times had changed.

With Voldemort’s shadow once again darkening the land, the rules and constraints of the wizarding world had quietly shifted.

The old reservations and distances seemed far less important in this peaceful, precious moment.

Right now, Gemma simply wanted to hold his hand with her and keep walking, keep walking through this Muggle world that was strange to them both.

Though surprised by Gemma’s soft, slightly cool hand grasping his, Sherlock didn’t immediately shake her off as she’d half-expected.

This made Gemma secretly breathe a sigh of relief, her lips unconsciously curving into a deeper smile.

Whatever Sherlock was actually thinking—perhaps he assumed she was doing this because the Oyster Festival crowd was too thick and she feared getting separated—

Gemma took it as his tacit acceptance of her response.

So she grew bolder and more proactive, her fingers tightening slightly as she pulled Sherlock’s wrist, nimbly weaving through the shoulder-to-shoulder throng.

Sherlock allowed himself to be led along compliantly, though his gaze still habitually swept over the bobbing heads around them.

The oyster vendor’s knuckles were thick and rough, his skin weathered into deep creases by sea wind and salt, with dark sea mud embedded beneath his fingernails—clearly he’d just disembarked from a rocking fishing boat not long ago.

The woman in the floral dress carried a mesh bag that, besides stacked oysters, concealed a small bundle of fragrant purple lavender tied with ribbon.

In the distance, a curly-haired little boy stood on tiptoe, trying hard to crack open a stubborn oyster shell with a small hammer.

Fortunately, his sharp-eyed mother tapped him on the head, and he could only pout in disappointment and reluctantly put the oyster away.

After driving for over two hours and now finding herself in this environment, Gemma felt her mouth begin to water.

She stopped and turned to ask Sherlock, ”Should we try some oysters first?”

Sunlight happened to fall on her upturned face, her sea-blue eyes clearly reflecting the colorful ”Freshly Caught” sign above the stall, her gaze full of anticipation.

Sherlock nodded, and Gemma happily pulled him through the aromatic gaps between stalls, making a beeline for the booth with the wooden sign reading ”Shell House.”

An elderly grandfather whose face bore the etchings of sea wind skillfully pried open two large oysters with a shucking knife, handing them the shells filled with plump oyster meat: ”Try these, children—just hauled up!”

The service was excellent; the delicate oyster-opening tools Mrs. Holmes had specially prepared for them wouldn’t be needed for now.

Gemma accepted a shell and carefully squeezed some honey-lemon juice onto the glistening meat before offering it to Sherlock: ”Want to try?”

Sherlock had intended to simply take it from her.

However, Gemma extended her hand forward, bringing it right up to Sherlock’s lips.

Sherlock froze for a moment, then understood her meaning.

He didn’t make a fuss about it—he simply lowered his head slightly and took a bite from her hand.

The cool, silky oyster meat instantly dissolved on his tongue, releasing the ocean’s most primal flavor in a rush.

Then came the perfectly attuned tartness of lemon juice, followed by honey’s gentle sweetness.

The three elements perfectly balanced any potential fishiness, creating a rich yet entirely ungreasy mouthfeel.

It seemed Gemma’s luck was good—this randomly chosen stall sold oysters of such quality.

Sherlock savored it carefully. Before he could voice an evaluation, he noticed Gemma staring unblinkingly at his face, smiling slightly as she said, ”I knew you’d like it. The corners of your mouth turned up just now—only a little bit!”

She held up her pinky finger, gesturing playfully at Sherlock.

Sherlock paused.

Usually, he was the one observing others’ expressions. He hadn’t expected Gemma to observe him this time.

The two stood by the stall as Gemma sampled several more oysters prepared different ways before finally feeling satisfied.

Then Gemma continued holding Sherlock’s hand as they proceeded along the long pebble beach smoothed by ocean waves.

The old grandfather watched their retreating figures, his eyes full of kindness.

How wonderful.

Fifty years ago, he too had been like these young people.

When Sherlock and Gemma reached the open expanse of Whitstable Beach, the afternoon sun was at its peak, like an enormous golden gauze veil spread across the shimmering sea in the distance, fragments of light dancing and leaping with the waves.

”The public changing rooms are over there!”

Gemma stood on tiptoe, pointing toward a row of simple blue-and-white cabins ahead, the sea breeze tossing her hair.

”Let’s change into our swimsuits first, then go wade in the water? It should be nice and cool.”

As a male, Sherlock naturally changed with swift efficiency.

Soon, he emerged wearing dark swim trunks and a light gray pure cotton T-shirt, the soft fabric draping his lean yet well-defined frame.

He stood waiting in the shade of a tree not far from the changing room, his gaze calmly surveying the bustling beach.

Before long, the changing room door creaked open.

Gemma stepped out.

Sunlight filtered through the leaves, dappling Gemma’s chestnut hair with dancing spots that tinged her natural color with a shifting halo of pale gold, a few unruly strands clinging to her damp temples.

The pale pink one-piece swimsuit had an extremely simple design, its neckline tastefully adorned with a few small, smooth white shell buttons that gleamed softly in the sunlight.

The swimsuit hugged her youthful figure perfectly highlighting her waist and legs.

Spotting Sherlock in the shade, she clasped her hands somewhat shyly behind her back, leaning her upper body forward slightly as she looked up at him, her clear eyes holding inquiry and a trace of nervousness: ”How does this look?”

”It suits you very well.”

Sherlock’s gaze settled on Gemma, offering a straightforward and definitive assessment.

To receive this degree of praise from Sherlock already made Gemma very happy, the smile in her eyes spreading like ripples from a stone dropped in a lake.

She raised a hand to tuck a few wind-tousled strands of hair gently behind her delicate ear.

This movement fully revealed the graceful line of her neck, which appeared especially soft and flowing in the sunlight.

”Let’s go!”

Her voice was light and cheerful as she once again reached out naturally to take Sherlock’s hand, leading him toward the pebble-strewn beach.

Sherlock’s light gray T-shirt had its sleeves casually rolled up to his firm forearms.

The exposed arm muscles, though not particularly bulky, showed smooth, taut lines, the skin beneath concealing the particular sense of strength that belonged to Sherlock.

His stride was steady, each step firmly planted.

Walking across the uneven pebble beach, their feet rolled over countless smooth, round stones, producing a continuous, fine ”crunch-crunch” sound.

Their appearance was already exceptionally striking, their temperaments distinct yet strangely harmonious.

Sherlock’s cool detachment and Gemma’s bright vitality formed a vivid contrast.

Therefore, as they walked side by side, many eyes along their path were involuntarily drawn to them, filled with appreciation, curiosity, or pure admiration.

Not far away, a couple picnicking on a red-and-white checkered blanket noticed them.

The wife gently nudged her husband’s arm with her elbow, lowering her voice with envy: ”Look at that girl—such good body, and so beautiful. Like someone from a magazine.”

Her husband followed her gaze, his eyes resting on Gemma for a moment.

Though his wife had prompted him, he didn’t linger long, glancing for just a couple seconds before shifting his attention to the calm handsome Sherlock beside her.

The envy in his eyes was unmistakable.

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