The first thing Harry heard as he attempted to quell his dizziness was Ron growling, "Where the hell are we?"

"I don't know," Hermione said helplessly from Harry's left. "London, I think."

Relieved as the nauseating effects of hasty apparation dissipated, Harry felt for his wand and glanced at Hermione, puzzled. "Why are we here, Hermione? We needed a quick escape, yeah, but not one so…far away."

Hermione stood—she had previously been leaning against a sturdy blue police box—and lifted her wand. "Lumos," she whispered, illuminating a quiet street and a few overflowing rubbish bins.

Harry tucked his wand in his jeans pocket, feeling mixed regret and amusement. The trio had just escaped a rather frightening predicament that involved four angry trolls and a bottle of firewhisky (don't ask), thanks to Hermione's ever potent skills of apparation. Unfortunately, she all too often apparated them to the first place she thought of, and really, Harry couldn't imagine why this little street had popped into her head. Or why she'd ever had a cause to be there. Or how she could possibly have remembered such an unmemorable place.

This was intended to be a much-needed summer holiday for the three of them, for they had just fought and won the premiere battle in wizarding history, they were eighteen, and they were truly exhausted, body and mind. However, the words "summer holiday" had not evoked an image in Harry's mind of apparating from an irate bunch of river trolls, nor wasting a perfectly good bottle of Ogden's Old.

Not at all.

"We can go back," Hermione offered, still holding her wand aloft.

Ron pulled a face. "Hermione, with all due respect, there's nothing I'd rather do less than have a second go with those goddamned trolls. My nostrils are burning!"

"That aside," interrupted Harry, "we can't exactly show up back at the Burrow, either. No one's expecting us."

"Well, I'm not going to stay here." Ron put a hand on Hermione's arm. "Do you have any other ideas?"

Hermione glanced about, smiling a little at the glowing silhouette of Big Ben and the London Eye. "Merlin, I forgot how much I love it here," she murmured. "Can we stay? Just a bit?"

Harry smirked as Ron's iron-will mysteriously deserted him. "Oh, fine. Harry?"

Harry shrugged. "It's not a bad idea."

Hermione beamed, and hastened to shove her wand out of sight as a cab went past.

It was strange, being immersed so fully in the Muggle world. Harry saw cabs where brooms would do, light-timered street lamps replacing handy deluminators, police horses in place of threstrals. It made him feel a funny twist in his stomach, not fitting in where nearly everyone in the world did.

"Perhaps we should go somewhere better lit," remarked Hermione, gazing at the street lamps that glittered at one end of the street.

Ron took a step forward and howled as his wand poked him in a very unfortunate place.

"You're going need to book an appointment at St. Mungo's soon, Ron," Harry chuckled, smirking. Hermione shot them a scorching look, and they hurriedly shut up and followed her.

They emerged onto a street that was decidedly Muggley. There were rows of grey stone apartments, two telephone booths; a bus stop sheltering a few menacing looking individuals, and a dodgy little sandwich shop called "Speedy's." Harry wondered if this was the alacrity with which customers raced to the loo after ingesting a "Speedy's" sandwich. He certainly hoped not. He, Ron and Hermione wondered over to the sandwich shop and stood on the sidewalk, unsure.

"This is…" Harry trailed away, unable to formulate a proper description. Boring? Mundane? Lackluster?

"…nothing to write home about," Ron concluded, flashing Hermione an apologetic look. "You wouldn't happen to have your cloak on you, would you, Harry?"

"Er, sorry, no—it's in my bag back in France."

"No, it isn't," said Hermione, with a mischievous smile. "I have it. After defeating Voldemort, one would think you'd be more prepared, Harry."

"Brilliant!" crowed Ron and Harry grinned. "God, that's fantastic, Hermione! Now all we have to do is duck in an alley, get under the cloak—and hope there aren't any nargles in it." He laughed.

"Nargles," hissed Hermione, "are figments of Luna Lovegood's imagination. I've done extensive research, and they do not exist!"

"Then explain what was infesting that mistletoe," Ron interjected.

"What mistletoe?" asked Harry, frowning.

Ron reddened. "Er, back in sixth year when me and—well. We were, erm, sort of—"

"Snogging," said Hermione. "When he and Lavender were snogging."

"Ah," Harry said succinctly. "What, were you kissing under nargle infested mistletoe? That's unbearably romantic."

"I think so," said Ron. "But aren't nargles invisible? God, I'm going mad."

"Was it lack of oxygen, do you think?" offered Harry, low enough for only Ron's ears.

"No!"

Hermione sighed. Harry noticed that she had gone a rather bright shade of pink, and suddenly he knew she was responsible for the gag. Well played, Hermione. He decided it was best not to ask what had been infesting the mistletoe; because there was a great chance the answer would be repulsive and generally nasty.

Any further thoughts ended abruptly; there came a frightening bang from within the building beside them. Hermione gasped and Harry looked up, nerves jangling. In the windows several floors above Speedy's café, he saw a string of blue smoke explosions and a moment after that, a man shouted, "Oh my god, Sherlock, you've set the flat on fire!"

"Oh!" cried Hermione and Ron swore.

Without pausing for consent of any sort, Harry sprang into action and jabbed his wand furtively at the door marked 221B, muttering, "Alohamora." The lock released in acquiescence, and Harry looked over his shoulder at Ron and Hermione as he turned the nob.

"Harry, what are you doing?"

"There's a fire, Hermione. We have to help."

"That's assuming they're Muggles," Hermione retorted snappishly.

"Well," said Harry, stepping into the narrow corridor beyond the door, "if they were Muggles, they'd have put the fire out already."

"Fair point," said Ron. "Alright, Hermione?"

Without answering, she followed Harry into the hall and they ascended the stairs with speed, growing ever closer to a truly deafening racket of irate yelling, furniture scraping across floors, and splashing water.

They climbed the last few stairs and tumbled over the threshold of a chaotic mess of a sitting room.

"Mum would have a fit," Ron murmured, and Harry knew exactly what he meant.

"Sherlock—oh god, Sherlock—the kitchen table's on fire! Where the hell is the extinguisher?"

Harry watched as a sandy haired man just slightly shorter than himself rushed into the sitting room, looking frantically around. He saw Harry, Ron and Hermione staring at him and sighed, resigned.

"I'm sorry, but if you need Sherlock to solve a crime for you, you'll have to wait until we put this bloody inferno out." He spotted the red extinguisher beside a pile of criminology books.

"No!" said Harry. "We're going to help you, just—stand well back."

He approached the kitchen, from which copious amounts of smoke were streaming, directed his wand and bawled, "Aguamenti!"

A satisfying jet of water erupted from the tip of his wand and into the flames licking the table, chairs, and wall. In seconds, the fire was no more. However, amidst all the smoke had apparently been a second man, a pale man who was now properly soaked from scalp to toes.

Oh. Oh dear.

A/N: This is my first crossover, so please let me know what you think. I may/may not continue, given my schedule, but I hope I am improving. :D

Riding crops and wands,

-Spark Writer-

XO