The next few days were, in retrospect, bliss. Though neither Sherlock nor Hermione much realized it at the time. Brushing up against death is one thing, but allowing the vulnerability of in-the-moment happiness requires an entirely different type of courage.

Though they did verbally spar more than usual, so maybe they knew they were happy after all.

Hermione, who had been noting Sherlock's progress through Ginny's book, was there before him, arms crossed, feet planted, when he read the last lines and closed the book with a thump.

"Well?" she demanded.

Sherlock pursed his lips, eyeing the book critically. "All the hallmarks of a first attempt at a novel: descriptions rambly, sentences vague. Plot at times frankly unbelievable. That scene with the troll? Ridiculous."

Hermione's eyes blinked a few times before snapping into a glower. "That actually happened!"

"Mm, more likely injected it so that it would make plausible sense for these three children be friends."

"That is how we became friends!"

One eyebrow ticked up slightly. "Rather melodramatic of you, don't you think?" Sherlock asked slyly.

"Look who's talking! You became friends with John only because he shot a serial killer a second before you were about to be poisoned!"

Sherlock's cool facade slipped. "I was not going to be poisoned!"

"Yeah you were."

"I picked the right bottle!"

"You picked a bottle, and thus were going to be poisoned. They both had the same poison in it, only your killer had built up immunity. C'mon, haven't you seen Princess Bride?"

Sherlock actually was familiar with the movie. It had been one of the most frequently-opened DVD cases on Molly's shelf, judging by the wearing of the clasp and the smudges on the spine. He had even noted the black-clad pirate pictured on the case. Not that he planned to tell this to Hermione. "You cannot possibly imagine I would ever entertain the viewing of a movie which had the word 'princess' in the title."

"True. I suppose another princess would make you jealous."

There were no words. The shock seemed to have caused them to evaporate from his mind. Sherlock could only gape.

Hermione smirked. "Oh please. You know you are a princess."

This was worse than when John had called him a Drama Queen. Far, far worse. "I did not know you could stoop to such levels of idiocy, Hermione," he said through a tight jaw.

Calmly, she ticked off reasons on her fingers. "You're fastidious about your appearance, you avoiding eating, you believe you are more important than virtually everyone else in the country—"

"Well I can't help it if that's true!"

"—And you have chosen, as your mental architecture, not a Mind Library, not a Mind Castle, not even a Mind Skyscraper, but a Mind Palace."

Hermione lowered her chin and looked at him pointedly.

He blinked. She smirked.

And after that, there was really only one possible response he could chose, which was to scoop her up and carry her off to his room.

Squealing, Hermione twisted in his arms, but Sherlock soon had her on the mattress, stripped from the waist-down. Before she could prepare herself, his tongue was sliding up her clit.

She sucked in a gasp.

Sensation thrust completely over her, sending her mind into disarray. There was only wave after wave of nerves zinging, bodies shifting, mouths pressing, hands coaxing. Only after he had come on her belly, her hand wrapped around his cock as his fingers splayed within her, did she let herself resurface from the depths of orderless pleasure.

She opened her eyes. She rolled her head toward Sherlock, face down on the bed next to her, cheek smooshed into the soft cotton of the bedcover.

For the briefest second, she saw him but couldn't recognize him. Post-orgasm, his face was relaxed, without guile, and what an odd face it was. Over-long, that too-angled lip, and the inner corners of his eyebrows strangely sparse. The normal quirks in appearance that make a person curiously seem to appear more human.

Then a satisfied smile creased his features, and he looked just like his outward self again.

Hermione matched his smirk with one of her own. "Is this usually what happens when you lose an argument?"

The corner of his mouth that was visible stretched lazily. "What makes you think I lost?"

Huffing a laugh, Hermione rolled up and off the bed, pulling on her jeans.

"Second book in your room?" he asked. Speaking the words into the mattress muffled almost all of the eagerness in his voice. Almost.

She shot him a grin, then pulled her jumper over her head. "I'll get it for you."

As anticipated, the Repealing Charm that had been put on the leather lace prevented Hermione from discovering any particularities of the ingredients used to make the Love Potion. No trail there. The best she could do was determine the wand used to cast the spell was made from a different wand maker than hers.

She twisted her own wand between her forefinger, frowning. Sparks flew idly from the tip. It was the same wand she'd had since she was eleven, made by the clever, if slightly creepy, Mr. Ollivander. His business had closed soon after Voldemort had been vanquished, and others had replaced him over the years. That the potion-maker's wand was made by a different hand from hers did not give much to go on.

Sherlock, who hadn't moved from the bed since Hermione dropped Book 2 beside him, suddenly walked into the kitchen, book open in hand. "Hermione," he said, eyes never leaving the page. "How do I get a house elf."

She blinked at him in surprise. Then she laughed. "You can't get a house elf, Sherlock."

He looked up, frowning in exasperation. "Why ever not? Obviously they can perform their duties in the homes of nonmagical people."

"Sherlock. It's immoral to own a house elf! They're slaves!"

He waved a dismissive hand. "I can pay it."

"It's not an 'it!'"

His smirk was wry. "'It's' not?"

Flustered, she pressed her lips together. "Sherlock. You don't need someone else doing your bidding. You already have Mrs. Hudson."

"She can't hear me yell if she's in the bathroom."

Hermione looked at him sardonically, only to realize he was perfectly serious. Snorting, she said, "Well gee, you should just call John then."

Sherlock huffed. "Last time I summoned him here to get me milk he said he'd shoot me."

Hermione didn't know what was more unfathomable, the things that kept coming out of Sherlock's mouth, or that she still was surprised by them. Slowly, she shook her head. "Hard to find a jury to convict him."

"See? It would be much simpler all around if you got me a house elf."

Sherlock looked expectantly her way, but Hermione had apparently decided the best way to deal with him was to not do so at all. She'd taken out her wand and was zapping away the dribs and drabs of potion ingredients in the cauldron and beakers around her.

Sherlock regarded her strategy with his usual disdain. "I see. Well, then I thank you for volunteering to meet my needs as they arise. You may start by getting me coffee, black two sugars—"

The liquid blast hit the kitchen wall just ten centimeters to his right. Not enough for the beam to splash him, but certainly close enough that he could identify what she'd just sprayed at him from her wand: coffee. Black. Two sugars.

Sherlock decided that, when it came to the Venn Diagram of negotiation, witches occupied the same circle as terrorists. Without another word, he spun on his heel and retreated.

He did, however, glance back to see wispy beams from Hermione's wand following the path of the coffee from just moments prior, disappearing the spills and stains. Sherlock congratulated himself on refraining from pointing out that Hermione's vindictive mess could have been cleaned up just as well by a house elf.

Still, after a few moments passed, and a steaming mug of perfectly prepared coffee drifted into his bedroom before gently coming to rest on the nighttable near his elbow, he couldn't help but smile.

Lestrade texted the next day about a headless corpse which, considering its cranial absence seemed promising, but upon arrival at the crime site only led Sherlock to huff in irritation.

"Do you not see his uniform? Fingernails? Scum on the sleeves, scuffing on the heels? This clearly was an employee of the London Underground, conducting a transaction in a drug den off one of the tunnels of the Tube. Got his head caught in front of a carriage, maybe on purpose, maybe a joke, but either way he lost his head and his drug dealer lost his, too. Dragged him up a steam vent, out and under this bush, could it be any more obvious?"

If this was the first time Sherlock had insulted Lestrade, the Detective Inspector might've been miffed. The tenth time, at least taken aback. The hundredth time, definitely rolling his eyes. But Lestrade had been on this end of the conversation with Sherlock too many times to respond.

"You know, for someone who complains how boring everything is, your antics are getting a bit dull," he said conversationally after nodding to the forensic team to begin collecting evidence.

Hermione, who'd been silently observing since Sherlock walked on the scene and immediately launched into deductions, grinned. "This must be another one of your friends, then?" she asked Sherlock.

"Some things even Sherlock Holmes can't explain," Greg said dryly. He rolled his eyes in feigned resignation at Hermione, even as the corner of his mouth twitched. Hermione's grin widened.

"Greg Lestrade," he said, holding out his hand.

"Hermione Granger," she replied, taking it.

"Yes yes, introductions, greetings, tedious," Sherlock all but grumped, purposefully walking between the two of them so that their handshake was forced apart. To his dismay, his two friends appeared only more entertained.

Before either of them could remark upon it, however, there was the thumping of footsteps. The threesome turned to see John, running up to join them.

"Ah, John, impeccable timing," Sherlock said.

John heaved for a second, trying to catch his breath. "Really?" he said. "You need me to take a look?" He hitched up his pant legs, ready to crouch down next to the unheaded body.

"Impeccable timing in that you arrived at the precise moment when your presence was superfluous. The case is solved."

Still with knees half-bent, John paused, sighing the sigh of the deeply patient. "Right," he said, standing. "So not quite, how did you put it?" He pulled out his phone and read from the screen. "'Urgent. At least a 9.'"

"Well you wouldn't've come if I'd said it was dull and barely a four, would you?" Imperiously, Sherlock glanced at the body. "Mm, more like a three. Do be less obtuse next time, Lestrade, I am far too busy for these trifling concerns."

"Sherlock!" John said, his annoyance ticking one notch closer to anger.

Bemused, Sherlock frowned. "What?"

"You ever think that maybe I'm too busy, too?"

His expression grew more quizzical. "What? No, of course not."

Huffing, John planted himself in front of his friend. "Well I was!"

"How can that be? You did not have a shift at surgery today, Mary is not yet in labor, you could not possibly be—" Sherlock stopped, his eyes commencing their slow perusal of John, deductions ordering themselves in his brain like shuffling cards.

John saw the gleam in Sherlock's eye, and his face squinched. "Shit."

"Well well well, John."

Hands on hips, John sighed. "Have at it, then."

"You were commencing sexual relations with your wife."

Lips pressed together, John had the look of one who grimly knew it was coming. "Sherlock," Lestrade said, clapping a hand over his eyes.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows questioningly, then seemed to reach a conclusion on source of Lestrade's discomfort. "Ah right, you didn't know. Mary was refusing to have sex with him," he explained.

Lestrade cringed even as John rolled his eyes to the heavens, as if seeking the answer to his questionable choice in friends. Sherlock, noticing none of this, plowed on.

"Of course she has chosen to do so now because the prostaglandins in semen will stimulate the cervix to soften. Considering her due date was yesterday, she is clearly eager for labor to begin. Her method of choice in prompting it provides mutual benefit to John and so I believe congratulations are in order, yes?" He clapped John on the shoulder.

John squinted up at him. "Did you just congratulate me on having sex?"

Sherlock seemed to have realized that he had done just that. Which, of course, could imply sex was desired, which could imply that he, Sherlock, desired sex, which could imply—

Very pointedly not looking anywhere near Hermione, Sherlock hastily said, "Of course not. Merely relieved your relationship with Mary has resumed normalcy."

Unconvinced, the line between John's eyes creased further. "Even though you think I'm just a pawn to her, a way to start labor."

Sherlock cut his eyes toward his friend. "Oh you don't mind."

John grinned. "Indeed I don't." And he rocked up on his toes with all the satisfaction of, well, a man getting laid.

Thankfully, the only person who noticed Sherlock held the same gleam of satisfaction in his eyes as did John was Hermione. She kicked him in the ankle. He scowled.

And simultaneously, the men's phones pinged.

As if it were choreographed, they retrieved their phones in unison. Lestrade's eyebrows shot up. John's jaw dropped down. And Sherlock merely held the phone toward Hermione so she could see the message on the screen:

JOHN GET HOME NOW IN LABOR

Sherlock's lips quirked. "Mary's method of choice was effective then."

Another arrived:

FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK

Sherlock's thumbs flew over the tiny keyboard, but Hermione, reading his screen upside down, snatched the phone out of his hand before he could press send. "Don't you dare tell her that's what got her into this in the first place!" she said, mustering up as much rage as one can when the recipient of said anger is actually being rather humorous.

It became quickly apparent to Lestrade that John's best friend was, in this scenario, going to be as helpful as a lump. Allowing himself a quick second to direct yet another eyeroll in Sherlock's direction, Lestrade jumped into action, whistling at one of his colleagues.

"Oi! Johnson!" he shouted to a thin bobby leaning against a police cruiser. He started pushing John toward the car. "He needs a lift! Take him to his house, pick up his wife, take them both to St. Barts!"

Johnson immediately stood at attention, if in a wide-eyed sort of way, and ushered John into the passenger seat. Lights on and sirens blaring, the car shot off around the corner and out of sight.

Sherlock, meanwhile, took advantage of the distraction to grab back his phone. He half-turned, giving Hermione the shoulder to block her back.

She pulled on his coat sleeve. He pulled back. "What are you writing now?"

He twisted further. "I am sending a message to someone who can help!"

Hermione yanked him fully back by the elbow. "You are not texting Mycroft!"

Sherlock scoffed. "Of course not! If there is one topic I never wish to discuss with Mycroft, it is Mary's gynecological condition."

"Oh. Good. Who're you messaging, then?"

"Her OB/GYN."

Hermione dropped her grip on his arm in surprise. Sherlock resumed his speedy typing. "How in the world did you get the mobile number of her doctor?"

Without bothering to look up from the screen, Sherlock muttered, "Mycroft. Obviously."

As Hermione rubbed her temples with the thumb and forefinger of one hand, Sherlock hit send. "There. Now, by the time Mary is taken to her room, the anesthesiologist will be there, along with her preferred soda and popsicles."

He stuffed the phone into his coat pocket and strode off toward the kerb to hail a cab.

Enjoying her minor fit of annoyance as she was, it took Hermione a second to comprehend his last few words. They clunked into place as she ran to the kerb, too, catching up just as he slipped into the car. She climbed in after him, just as Sherlock was giving the cabbie John's address.

Still dwelling in the thoughtful thoughtlessness that was Sherlock Holmes, Hermione said, "You know they probably will have already left by the time we get there."

"Wrong. Johnson is the second-fastest driver at New Scotland Yard. They definitely will have left by the time we get there."

"Then, why're we going to John's?"

"I have calculated the odds of John remembering Mary's overnight bag as 1:3. If he does manage to defy the balance of probability, he definitely will not have remembered her favorite pillow."

Hermione gazed wide-eyed at him, but Sherlock was looking resolutely out the window, his posture stiff and uncomfortable, almost as if he knew how sweet the words sounded coming out of his mouth.

Having no wish to make him more self-conscious, Hermione looked out the window on her side. Though she couldn't help the one corner of her mouth tipping up. And when Sherlock, without looking toward her or saying a word, reached along the seat between them for her hand, she couldn't help it stretching into a smile.