Prologue.

Events have been manipulated to suit the plot line. Post Reichenbach Fall and Final Battle. Sherlock can be considered OOC.

Disclaimer: Anything recognisable belongs to the appropriate creator(s). The plot line is my own.

Song: Alice- Avril Lavigne

The doorbell was ringing. And Sherlock wasn't going to answer it.

What would be the point? It would only be another nobody, asking him to solve another case that offered no challenge whatsoever. And if they were anything like the last one, he'd get punched in the face. Again. Despite John's explanation, he still couldn't understand why the woman had slapped him when he told her that he had discovered the truth. She should have been slapping her husband, he was the one cheating on her!

Sherlock Holmes was sat in his chair in 221B Baker Street, with his violin and bow hanging loosely from his pale, long fingers and his eyes closed. It was a cold November morning, therefore he had no need to move unless Lestrade rang with an interesting case for him. Unlikely. He heard John sigh from the kitchen and stomp downstairs in defeat when he realised Sherlock wasn't going to move. He probably believed that the consulting detective had drifted off. Sherlock listened to the front door opening and three voices drifted upstairs. The first and most obvious was John, the second was Mrs. Hudson. The third, however, was unknown to him. A women's voice, young. And from the hushed tones, it did not sound like she was here with a case for him to solve.

Within the next few minutes, two sets of feet were making their way up the stairs. Again, Sherlock could easily discern John's heavy tread, but it was obvious that the second set belonged to the mystery woman and not his landlady. He could hear them discussing his and John's living arrangements. An odd topic of conversation, Sherlock was unsure as to why this woman needed to know about his living habits and how John coped with them. He heard the footsteps come to a stop not that far away. It was probably time for him to open his eyes.

"We have a visitor," Sherlock opened his eyes slowly and John was revealed to him, leaning against the doorframe. The visitor was nowhere Sherlock could see.

John shook his head at his friend's blatant statement, "Yes, Sherlock, and you're going to play nice. She's your new flatmate."

"What, why? Where are you going?" Confusion was written all over Sherlock's face. Yes, John was in a relationship with Mary, and yes, he highly doubted that it would take more than a year for their inevitable engagement. Yet, he could not see why this woman would be taking John's place at this moment in time.

"Well," began John, scratching the back of his head whilst he looked for the right words, "You know that Mary and I are in a relationship… and we decided that we should move in together. Now."

Sherlock looked at John. He supposed that this was the most logical step in John and Mary's relationship. If he was honest with himself, he knew he would miss John but was pleased that his only friend had found someone he could be happy with. Not that he would tell John that.

Sometimes Sherlock found himself wondering if he should ever consider finding a companion. When John would talk of his relationship with Mary, even when he thought Sherlock wasn't paying attention, he wished for a relationship in which he had an equal.

And then he remembered that he had yet to meet a woman who was even close to matching his intellectual prowess.

"Well I suppose that's the next logical step in your relationship. I would say that your room will always be here for you, should you need it, but you seem to be giving it up," Sherlock shrugged and let his violin and bow slip gently from his hands to rest against the side of his chair. The corner of John's lips curled into a smile at his sociopathic friend's attempt to joke. Sherlock stood up slowly, stretching his muscles as he went, "Well then, am I allowed to meet my new flatmate, or are you going to stand in front of the young lady for the rest of the day?"

"How did you – oh never mind, I don't really care right now," John sighed in exasperation, failing to understand how Sherlock knew that his soon-to-be flatmate was a young woman. "Sherlock Holmes, meet…Hermione Granger," John stepped to the side and allowed Sherlock to look through the doorway. What he saw baffled him. Sherlock Holmes was baffled.

The girl who stood before him was nothing out the ordinary. Tall and lean with lightly tanned skin, her light brown hair surrounded her like an out of control halo. If it wasn't for the straight features of her face he would have thought her insane. Or recently electrocuted. What confused Sherlock, was that he simply couldn't read her. Her physique told him nothing, the way she held herself told him nothing. Her crazy hair told him nothing! However, her eyes…her eyes told him what he would soon come to wish he'd never learned. There was a wisdom in those brown orbs that spoke of pain, fear and a horror long past. Yet that terror had left its mark, a mark that she would forever bear. Forced to grow up before her time, there was mistrust and unnatural age in the eyes of the woman before him.

"Hello," her voice rang clear through the room, a slight lilt to it that was pleasing to the ear.

"And to you. So, how did John find you, Miss. Granger? Friend of Mary's?" Sherlock questioned, trying to pin her down. His inability to work her out was starting to unnerve him.

"Did Uncle John not tell you?" A look of confusion crossed Hermione's face.

Uncle John? Sherlock turned to face the doctor, "Your sister's a lesbian," he stated in an accusatory manner, as though the doctor had purposefully lied to him.

"She is, Sherlock," John chuckled to himself, he was constantly amused by his friend's complete lack of social skills, "I have a half-brother and Hermione is his daughter. Ergo, Uncle John," the ex-army doctor motioned to himself.

Sherlock nodded in understanding, looking back to Hermione. She was currently browsing the bookcase by the fire, her eyes narrowing as she sorted through which she had read. There was still one question in particular that Sherlock needed answering before he would agree to John's proposal, "Why do you want to move in here, Miss. Granger?"

The woman froze with her back to him, staring into the fire. She slowly turned to look at Sherlock, an unreadable gleam in her eye, "First I have a question for you, if that's alright, Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock inclined his head as a gesture of consent, "By all means."

Hermione hesitated, her eyes flicking to her uncle. He raised his eyebrows and folded his arms, leaving the decision up to her. She knew better about this sort of thing. She took a deep breath, her gaze flicking back to the young investigator before her, "Do you believe in magic, Holmes?"

*…Of Ravens and Writing Desks…*

John and Hermione were in the kitchen, the latter leaning against the worktop whilst watching her uncle who sat at the table, holding his head in his hands.

"We shouldn't have told him."

"Yes, Uncle, we should have," John turned around to face his niece as she spoke, seeing the righteous determination in her face.

He sighed, feeling defeated, "You're right, as usual. But, Hermione, I know he won't accept it."

"I can make him," the determined expression on Hermione's face seemed to set itself firmly in place as she pushed off the work surface and walked back into the living room. She found her uncle's strange detective friend standing with his back to her, staring out the window. She knew what he was going through, learning there was a whole new world out there was scary enough for an eleven year old. Imagine having your entire outlook on life spun around when you're almost thirty!

"Look, Holmes, I know the idea of magic seems entirely impossible but-" Hermione was suddenly cut off by an unexpected answer from the lithe man before her.

"Magic is entirely possible, however the kind you speak of does not come across as entirely probable," Sherlock kept his back to her, continuing to gaze out the window and to the street below.

"Well, anyway, I've come to the realisation that I haven't actually shown you any proof that magic exists," Sherlock did not acknowledged what she was now saying, but Hermione knew he was listening, "Would you like me to prove it?"

A moment later, her uncle's friend slowly moved to face her, one eyebrow arched in scepticism, "Go ahead, I'm certain I'll already be aware of whichever parlour trick you have chosen to perform."

A small smirk graced Hermione's lips, twisting her features into a wry expression. John had come to stand in the door of the kitchen, eager to see his niece perform magic and curious to see his friend's face when she turned his world on end. All of a sudden, faint music could be heard coming from across the room. Sherlock spun to his left to see his violin floating in mid-air, as though being held up by an invisible musician. The 'Liebestod' from Wagner's Tristan and Isolde flowed with perfect elegance from the instrument. No musician could ever play with that amount of sheer flawlessness, not without the help of something…more. Sherlock stared, dumbfounded, between his violin and this… enigmatic woman. Or witch, he supposed was the proper term.

"I believe you," he breathed softly, and he meant it, "What I don't get is why you are telling me?"

"Well that's the part you didn't let her explain before you freaked out," John huffed in annoyance.

"I did not freak out John," Sherlock's face grew dark in irritation. Hermione sensed her uncle gearing up to retort.

"Alright, look, you both freaked out when you found out magic existed," Hermione's brow furrowed in impatience at their childish ways, "Now will you please shut it, so that I can finish saying what needs to be said?" The look on her face cut both men off out of fear of what she could do to them.

Having finished her rant Hermione turned to face her new flatmate, "Holmes, you may want to sit down for this bit."

"I can assure you, Granger, that from what I've just seen, I'm sure I can handle whatever it is you have to tell me."

"Fine then."

"Hermione," John warned her, "Easy now."

"No Uncle," Hermione fixed the man to her right with fierce glare, "Not only is it the right thing to do, it's his right to know. Can you imagine what it would be like to have a gift that you cannot truly understand? Because I do," the young woman turned to face Sherlock again, "You have magic."

"…Oh," Sherlock stared at her again, perplexed by the woman before him, "How – how do you know that?"

Hermione opened her mouth to explain, but before she could, Sherlock's phone began to ring. He just continued to stare at the young witch, awaiting an explanation.

"Sherlock, I think you should get that," John broke the silence, hoping the man across from him hadn't gone catatonic.

Sherlock blinked rapidly a few times before his brain was able to control himself again, "Yes I probably should John," he grabbed his phone from his pocket and answered it, "Holmes."

The detective spun around to look out the window again as he listened to the voice on the other end of the line. Hermione turned to look at her uncle who simply shrugged his shoulders and mouthed, "Work," at her.

Sherlock muttered, "I'll be there," into the phone before he ended the call and strode across the room to retrieve his coat and scarf.

"Was it Lestrade?" asked John.

"Yes, apparently there's been some bloody tea party in a warehouse on the docks and he's completely out of his depth…as usual."

"Do you want us to come?" John asked, despite the confusion written all over his face. What he really wanted to know was what on earth Lestrade had said to Sherlock. Bloody tea party?!

Sherlock stopped to look at his companions, staring incredulously at his newest one the longest, "No I think I shall go alone this time. I need some space," and with that, Sherlock turned on his heel and set off down the stairs and out the door.

John slowly turned to face his brother's daughter, his eyebrows raised in an almost comical expression, "Well…that went rather well, didn't it? I thought so."

Hermione shot her uncle a scathing look, "Really, Uncle? Really?"