HP: I AM SHERLOCK HOLMES

At Mrs. Holmes’s insistent urging, with Mrs. Granger’s wholehearted support, Hermione had finally agreed to stay at the Holmes household for a little while.

Harry, on his birthday, had gone off to visit Cho Chang.

After Hermione asked Watson to deliver her and Sherlock’s birthday gift to Harry on their behalf, the rest of them left the house as well.

Their destination: a seaside town.

Mrs. Holmes wasted no time making good on her promise.

Hermione had barely spent one night under their roof before Mrs. Holmes was already whisking her and Sherlock away to the coast.

This time, however, they had not chosen Whitstable—they were headed to Camber Sands instead.

Much like Whitstable, Camber Sands was a well-known stretch of beach near London, situated in East Sussex, and in fact slightly closer to the city. The reason for the change of venue was, naturally, a thoughtful decision on Mrs. Holmes’s part, made out of consideration for Hermione’s feelings.

Though she had certainly used the news of Gemma and Sherlock’s seaside trip as a means to provoke Hermione, she had no wish to make the girl feel like she was merely following in Gemma’s footsteps.

After all, she was playing for everything.

In circumstances like these, fairness was the only sensible policy.

Of course, she would never say so aloud.

The reason she gave was far more practical: the Whitstable Oyster Festival had already ended, and going back would feel somewhat lacking. Camber Sands, by contrast, had scenery far more worth seeing.

Mrs. Holmes’s nudge had its intended effect.

Ever since learning that Luna had also visited the Holmes house and that Sherlock and Gemma had gone to Whitstable alone together—Hermione had been quietly unsettled.

Those two pieces of news had played no small part in her decision to accept the invitation to stay. She had not even noticed it herself: that vague, hazy feeling she’d carried for so long had quietly shifted into a reluctance to be left out, and a faint, stinging sense of being excluded.

Even so, being Hermione, she didn’t agree right away when Mrs. Holmes first proposed the outing.

”Camber Sands?” she said, her fingers unconsciously twisting the hem of her clothing as she gazed out the window. ”It does sound nice. Though I should probably check the weather fore—”

Before she could finish, Mrs. Holmes cut her off with warm enthusiasm. ”The weather is perfect! It’s settled, then! We leave immediately!”

At the crucial moment, Mrs. Holmes once again demonstrated her remarkable ability to simply decide things for everyone.

Hermione pressed her lips together, and in the end gave only a quiet ”mm”—as though she were reluctantly going along with the arrangement.

The flash of delight in her eyes, however, did not escape Mrs. Holmes’s sharp gaze.

Mrs. Holmes smiled to herself. ’Thank goodness I’m here.’

With that girl’s personality, who knows how long it would take before she and Sherlock ever got anywhere.

With Mr. Holmes at the wheel, all four of them arrived at Camber Sands without incident.

The beach was everything people said it would be: broad and yielding, a sweep of golden sand gleaming in the afternoon sun, utterly unlike the pebbly shore at Whitstable. A salt-laden breeze rolled in off the sea, tousling Hermione’s arranged mass of brown hair and stirring something restless inside her.

When Hermione emerged from the changing room, the sunlight fell across her and drew more than a few glances.

Compared to a few years ago, the nearly-sixteen-year-old Hermione had grown into herself considerably.

The slight roundness of childhood had melted from her cheeks, leaving behind the clean, soft lines of a young woman’s face. Her brown eyes, always bright with intelligence, looked deeper in the light, framed by thick, long lashes.

Her bearing, too, had shed its girlish awkwardness; she held herself with easy, youthful grace.

She was wearing the swimsuit a deep red one-piece which was conservative yet refined. The halter-neck design traced the line of her shoulders and neck beautifully, its straps were tied at the back of her neck into a neat bow.

The cut was tailored close to the body, gathering at the waist in a way that subtly emphasized her slender figure and the soft curves that had begun to emerge. A skirt-style hem fell to mid-thigh, allowing easy movement while lending her a girlish, graceful air.

Over it, she wore a thin off-white sun-protection cardigan.

And ever since Gemma had helped her with her teeth the previous year, her whole appearance had been elevated by several degrees.

”You just keep getting lovelier!” Mrs. Holmes took Hermione’s hands in hers and said, with pointed meaning: ”Whoever gets to marry a girl like you someday—he’ll be a very lucky man indeed.”

As she finished, she cast a meaningful glance in Sherlock’s direction.

Sherlock: ”…”

Hermione: ”…”

Mr. Holmes looked somewhat uncomfortable as well.

When it came to Hermione, his wife was far more openly encouraging than she’d ever been with Gemma. But then, he understood why—the two girls had very different personalities. All told, this mother was doing everything she possibly could for them and her son.

The itinerary had been arranged entirely by Mrs. Holmes, and naturally the Holmes couple proved themselves admirably considerate. Shortly after they arrived at the beach, Mr. Holmes declared with great enthusiasm that he was rather keen to visit an ancient castle in the nearby town of Rye.

”That sort of historical landmark is really something to be savoured slowly—best left to the two of us. You young people should enjoy the sun and the waves. We’ll find you again in the evening for a picnic!”

Mrs. Holmes, ever in step with her husband, smiled and pressed a large bottle of sunscreen and a picnic basket into Hermione’s arms, then gave the girl a conspiratorial wink. ”Dear Hermione, I’m leaving Sherlock in your care. That boy never remembers to put on sunscreen.”

Hermione shot a quick glance at Sherlock, who stood beside her in silence, watching the sea. Then she accepted the things from Mrs. Holmes, her face growing warm. ”Oh—all right. Yes, of course, Auntie.”

Mr. and Mrs. Holmes smiled, and turned to go.

And just like that, only Sherlock and Hermione remained on the beach. The atmosphere between them shifted into something faintly precarious.

Listening to the steady rhythm of the waves and the distant cry of seagulls, Hermione could feel the heat rising in her own cheeks.

Especially when she noticed that several other beachgoers were already looking at the two of them.

”Um—Sherlock.”

Hermione cleared her throat and attempted to break the silence in what she hoped was a natural tone.

Sherlock looked over at her, a flicker of puzzlement crossing his grey eyes. ”What is it?”

”Ah—well, you see, the geological formations here are really quite interesting. And the sand—it’s much finer than what you’d find along the banks of the Black Lake.”

When Sherlock turned to look at her, Hermione worked very hard to keep her voice steady. But the words that actually came out sounded more like a lecture. ”In any case, the scenery here is quite different from around Hogwarts—well, yes.”

”One is an ocean. One is a lake. Naturally they’d have different ecosystems.”

Sherlock seemed entirely unaware of the awkwardness—he merely said this and then began, out of habit, to sweep his gaze across the surroundings.

The hardy, unusual vegetation on the distant dunes. The strange varieties of shells the tide had deposited on the sand. The flight patterns of the seagulls wheeling overhead—

Nothing of particular interest.

And then there was Hermione.

The skin left bare by the wine-red swimsuit, pale and luminous. Her breathing, noticeably quicker than usual. The faint colour in her cheeks. And those brown eyes, shifting with some complex, unreadable light in the sun—

Also, nothing of particular interest.

He said nothing more about it, all the same.

His answer left Hermione at a loss. After a moment’s consideration, she squared her shoulders and reached for the bottle of sunscreen.

”Let’s put this on, then!”

Sherlock glanced up at the sky—the sun was not especially fierce and then looked at Hermione.

He said nothing, but she could read his meaning perfectly well: ’Is that necessary?’

”Your mother just said. You always forget.”

Sherlock frowned faintly, thinking back to Gemma’s insistence at Whitstable. Then, recalling his mother’s parting words a moment ago, he gave a small nod. ”Fine.”

Hearing him agree, Hermione’s heart beat faster though she quickly said, ”I’m not doing this to look after you, I just don’t want you getting sunburnt and making us both look ridiculous. That’s all. Yes. Exactly.”

Sherlock: ”…”

Faced with his silent expression, Hermione fell quiet as well. She squeezed out a small amount of the cool, white cream and began working it carefully into the exposed skin of Sherlock’s forearm.

As she did, she noticed that his arm was lean and firm, the lines clean and strong, the kind that looked capable.

And when her fingertips first made contact with his skin, a strange current ran through her—her fingers gave the smallest tremble.

Right. Felt capable too.

She controlled her breathing with great effort, her touch light and careful, and muttered under her breath, ”Honestly, this old already and still needs reminding…”

Sherlock stood still, letting her.

Two girls had now done this same thing for him, but the feeling each time was entirely different.

Gemma had been direct and easy about it, with the natural ease of someone who took intimacy for granted.

Hermione, on the other hand—

Sherlock’s gaze dropped to her slightly trembling lashes; the lips pressed carefully together with tension.

She was extraordinarily attentive. Careful. Tentative, even—as though feeling her way.

Something about it felt stiff. Off-balance.

Soon enough, Hermione withdrew her hands.

She had the air of someone who had just completed a particularly difficult assignment.

She turned her face away, pretending to examine a shell on the sand.

”There. Done.”

”Thank you.”

Sherlock lowered his arm and said simply.

”Don’t thank me, it was just what Auntie asked—”

Even as Hermione said it, her mind drifted, wondering—’had Gemma ever done this for him?’

Then they walked side by side along the waterline.

Soft sand gave way under their toes, and cool water surged up now and then to kiss their ankles.

Hermione worked to keep the conversation going.

She moved from the vegetation on the dunes to the wildlife in the nature reserves, then to what the architecture of Rye might look like. From the Muggle world she shifted to the magical—Lockhart’s recovery, the tragedy of the Longbottoms, Professor Lupin’s salvation—

Her words came faster than usual.

Mostly because she was terrified that if she stopped, an uncomfortable silence would settle between them, and that was the last thing she wanted.

Sherlock answered every question and occasionally corrected her when she was wrong.

He had noticed that Hermione seemed unusually talkative today, her topics jumping in all directions.

He couldn’t work out why.

But if she wanted to talk, he didn’t mind.

Come to think of it, nothing had happened at the last seaside outing with Gemma either. Something ought to happen this time, surely—a case of some kind. That would be far more interesting than all this scenery.

”Oh!”

Just then, Hermione let out a small cry and yanked her foot back sharply.

A small, translucent jellyfish had been carried to her feet by a wave. The slippery, cold brush of it against her skin had given her a fright.

Sherlock’s train of thought snapped.

He crouched down to examine it, and reached his conclusion at once. ”Moon jellyfish. Non-venomous—just a young that washed ashore.”

Hermione watched the focused face as he studied it, and found herself thinking of how composed he’d been at St. Mungo’s, watching the Longbottoms from a distance. That stillness had something in common with the attentiveness he turned on small living things.

The thought settled in her chest, and the corners of her mouth curved upward without her realizing it.

”Sherlock.”

She said his name softly, her voice caught and scattered by the sea wind.

Sherlock straightened and looked at her. ”What is it?”

Under the directness of his gaze, Hermione’s heart lurched, and the words she had been preparing died in her throat.

”Nothing. Never mind.”

She glanced around at the other people nearby, hesitated, then pointed to a smooth rock ahead, polished flat by years of waves. ”Can we go sit over there? My feet—are a bit tired.”

’Because they’re actually tired, that’s all. Not because she wanted a moment alone with him.’

Sherlock had no objection.

After a short time, they were sitting together on the rock, watching the afternoon light slowly stain the sky and sea a rich gold.

The silence returned. But this time it was easier to inhabit.

Hermione hugged her knees to her chest, her chin resting on her arms, gazing out at the glittering water.

The sun stretched their shadows long across the golden sand, the two silhouettes leaning together.

Hermione turned her head slightly, her gaze found Sherlock.

Whatever the moment, he always gave the impression of someone alert, poised, quietly brave.

The sea breeze drifted over them, cool and salt-sharp, lifting Hermione’s damp hair and stirring the restlessness she couldn’t quite name.

A few wayward strands brushed across Sherlock’s shoulder.

He didn’t move.

And Hermione’s heartbeat, beneath the sound of the waves, was perfectly, achingly clear.

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