When she returns, she finds the taller man holding his friend at arm's length by the forehead. He giggles and takes a triumphant swig as a flustered Watson flails in a vain attempt to snatch the booze from his grasp. Hermione glares at them and clears her throat, arms folded neatly across the front of her floral robe.

They both freeze in their ridiculous game of keep-away and look over at her sheepishly. Watson quickly slaps the drunk's hand away, embarrassed.

"Miss, please, please forgive us," he clasps his hands together in desperation.

"This has all been a terrible confusion. Sherlock's been going through a bit of a rough patch as of late, and he hasn't been handling it well," he tilts his head knowingly towards the bottle from which his friend has been drinking.

"There was truly no ill-intent, I assure you. He merely confused your door for his and, unfortunately for us, can be quite stubborn in his pursuits. The bastard is near impossible to reason with at times like these, I'm afraid…"

Hermione holds up a hand, silencing him.

"Just stop. I'm only concerned about two things. Firstly, can we please ensure this maniac does not get hold of another gun any time soon?"

Watson nods and shoots a stern glance at Sherlock, who is by now once again in his own little world, humming and swaying gently to imaginary music.

"Secondly," Hermione continues, "I'll expect financial reimbursement for the door. I'm sorry to hear the two of you are having troubles, but a strange couple's problems are not reflective of my own."

The look on Watson's face indicates her error.

"Oh my goodness, you're not… you're not a couple, are you?" Stupidstupidstupid, "Please forgive me, I just assumed…"

"Don't worry; it happens all the time," Watson dismisses her remark with a smile and a wave of his hand, "Really. You'd be surprised how often people talk about the two of us being together."

"Now, Doctor," Sherlock is forced to close one eye and squint to focus on his friend, "You know the tale of our love would be one for the ages! Don't be so quick to dismiss your feelings for me!"

Hermione and Watson stand awkwardly as Sherlock hiccups out a laugh. Comedic timing is certainly not a skill he has mastered.

"Right then, Mr. Funny Man, I'll take that," Hermione, fed up with his antics, plucks the bottle from his grasp. Sherlock raises his eyebrows and twists his face in a look of mock despondence, before sneering and reaching into a hidden pocket of his blazer.

"No worries, madam! I've brought spares!" He deftly pulls out another, this time smaller, bottle and begins to hop around excitedly.

"Another one!" Watson sighs and massages his temples, "How many pockets do you have in that bloody jacket, Holmes?"

Hermione senses 'Holmes' has no intentions of leaving her humble abode any time soon, and she studies the bottle in her hand. Defeated in more ways than one, she extends it Watson.

"Drink, then?"

His shoulders sag as he struggles to ignore Sherlock gleefully prancing circles around him.

"Would love one," he concedes.

Deeper into the night, Hermione finds herself in compelling conversation with Doctor John Watson. Perhaps it was the bottle of Scotch, which now lay empty between them on the sagging couch, but she quite enjoys his company.

"So, you mentioned earlier he was going through a bit of a rough patch," Hermione questioned, letting her gaze fall on Sherlock, who has happily been keeping to himself.

"Ah, yes, well, we're facing a particularly frustrating case at work, and, well, let's just say, with his reputation, he's not used to not being able to figure things out," Watson chuckles as he takes a sip of his drink, as if he's made the understatement of the year.

Watson had lightly explained their line of work, and Hermione knew the pair had been investigating the murders Aries Kane had committed. Of course, she couldn't tell them the reason they couldn't link together any clues was because the case stemmed from the World of Wizardry. A pair of Muggle's trying to decipher such a case… Well. No wonder Sherlock had flown off his rocker. To top it all off, the criminal in this particular case was no ordinary wizard.

Aries Kane had been renowned for his genius and unnatural abilities to harness his powers. An exceptionally talented young wizard, he had advanced through two crucial years of education at Hogwarts- only to disappear one semester before graduating seventh year. Imagine, just throwing away so many amazing scholarly opportunities! It wasn't until years later that he reappeared, at the scene of the first of what would be many brutal killings.

"Truly, though," Watson whispers, motioning towards his friend, "The man is a royal pain in the arse!"

He and Hermione erupt into a fit of giggles as Sherlock turns to them.

"I'll have you both know;" he yawns from the far side of the room, "Some would consider me playfully vexing. And my actions have nothing to do with ego, Watson. We are the sum of our thoughts. If I can't un-muddle the mess in my brain enough to solve a crime then that must mean I am a useless puddle of a man, in which case: cheers!"

He pops the cork from (yes- yet another) bottle and brings it to his lips, but in his eagerness leans back too far. The motion sends him tumbling backwards, hitting his head against the wall and crumpling to the floor. The bottle rolls out of his hand, spilling its amber contents into the hardwood.

Hermione and John are quiet in their surprise, but almost immediately Sherlock begins to snore- loudly- and they are both sent spiraling once again into laughter.

"Well then," Watson is the first to regain his composure, "I suppose I had better get him home…"

"Don't be ridiculous," Hermione jumps, perhaps too eagerly, and heads to a nearby closet, "You'll just wake him if you try to move him, and what a state he'd be in if you did. He can sleep right where he's settled himself. There are extra blankets in here." She reaches for the closet door, knowing fully well it was empty. A twist of her ring sees it full of fresh linens as she swings the doors open. They smell like lilac, as if they had been hung to dry in a summer breeze. She smiles at her own talent and pulls out a blanket. She turns around to see John skeptically eyeing his friend, who hasn't budged.

"That's really very kind of you, Hermione, but I'm not sure how Sherlock will feel about it come the morning… Things are quite out of sorts, you see…"

Hermione senses his hesitancy as that of someone who has trusted the wrong people before. She looks over at Sherlock passed out on her floor, and surprises herself for being grateful to them both for distracting her from another lonely evening.

She retrieves another blanker from the closet and smiles knowingly.

" , you are certainly welcome to spend the night as well. After all, what kind of man would abandon his friend on the floor of a stranger's den?"

Watson laughs, and Hermione delights in the sound. Such a genuine laugh, gilded with relief.

"It's settled then," she smiles brightly and claps her hands, turning to Sherlock, "What do you say- I'll get his shoes, you place a pillow under his head-"

But John stands and places his hand lightly on her arm, stopping her short.

"Hermione, I just want you to know your hospitality is truly appreciated."

She can't tell if his it was his intention to get this close to her or if the Scotch had muddled his perspective of personal space, but either way she didn't mind. She enjoyed the warmth of his touch.

Think of something else.

Anything Else.

She forces herself to take in the blend of colors in his eyes. Blue on the outer rim. Mixes of green and grey towards the pupils. Flecks of gold throughout.

John smiles down at her, and her cheeks flush as their bodies slowly gravitate together. He whispers her name again as his hand slides ever so gently up to her shoulder.

"Heterochromia…" she whispers back, not realizing at some point she had closed her eyes and tilted her head in anticipation of meeting his.

John pulls away, dropping his hand.

"Um, come again?" Now he's the one blushing, and Hermione wishes she could crawl into the closet with the linens.

"Ah, your eyes," she looks down- idiot!-"central heterochromia. I thought there was something odd about the two of you," she takes a step back and motions to Sherlock who is now drooling onto his lapel.

"You both have it; the mixing of the eye colors. It's not that common. His are a much lighter hue, therefore much more noticeable, but yours are quite love- um-"

She squeezes her eyes shut: why can't you just shut up?!

"Mine are quite what, exactly?" John is grinning, amused by the knowledge of what she was about to say. As she opens her mouth to respond, however-

"Lovely. She was going to say lovely. Christ, Watson. I'm absolutely buggered and only half conscious, but I still knew that,"

With that, Sherlock leans over and vomits- effectively killing any thoughts of romance for the remainder of the evening.