Sherlock was surrounded, in a subtle sort of way, by three girls—each strikingly different, each equally remarkable.
Gemma sat with elegant poise on the armchair across from Sherlock, occasionally exchanging a few words with him about current events in the wizarding world, her gaze was focused and calm.
Hermione sat pressed close beside Sherlock on the long sofa, several books of homework spread open in front of her.
But her attention was clearly on the young man beside her more than on her books, and every so often the two of them murmured back and forth over some point or other.
Compared to Gemma and Hermione, Luna drifted furthest from the centre of things.
She sat barefoot with her legs crossed on the rug before the fireplace, holding a globe, turning it slowly toward the firelight, murmuring something dreamy under her breath. But her spot happened to block the most convenient path off the long sofa—the one Sherlock would have to take to get up.
Harry and Cho leaned together, sharing a Chocolate Frog, both of them apparently rather curious about the Wizard Cards.
Ron and Lavender, meanwhile, were off to one side, poring curiously over the television.
"My foolish little brother…"
Mycroft Holmes sipped his tea, his sharp gaze sweeping over the whole scene, taking in every detail.
All three girls had plainly given their hearts to Sherlock—so why hadn't he given even the smallest response back?
Just look at his two good friends, by comparison. Sherlock was leagues behind them in this department!
If he'd just respond to even one of them, Mother would stop pressuring me to get married!
No— not for my own sake. For my brother's happiness. I really ought to give him a push.
The moment the thought crossed his mind, Mycroft's head was already flaming with a bold idea.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Holmes came out of the kitchen carrying a tray of gingerbread men, fresh from the oven, and caught sight of the warm, faintly charged little scene in the living room. Especially the three lovely young women clustered around her younger son, each lovely in her own way—it left her both gratified and anxious all at once.
She set down the tray and called out: "Children, come try the gingerbread, fresh out of the oven! And—
"Would one of you help me pour everyone a cup of hot apple juice?"
"I'll help, Auntie!"
"Let me, ma'am!"
Luna was still lost somewhere in her own glowing little world, while Hermione and Gemma rose to their feet at exactly the same moment.
The two of them exchanged a glance.
"I'll go," Gemma said, beating Hermione to it. "You help Auntie hand out the gingerbread."
Since Gemma had already said so, Hermione didn't press the point.
Mrs. Holmes watched the whole exchange with a satisfied smile.
As far as she was concerned, it made no difference which of the three girls came to help.
She and Gemma went into the kitchen for glasses, pulling the door half-shut behind them to make a bit of privacy.
As she tidied the tray, she asked, gently: "You've been busy lately, haven't you? Feels like it's been a while since you've come by."
Gemma had already picked up the glass pitcher, pouring the juice with fluid grace but at those words, her wrist paused, just barely.
Ever since Voldemort's return had been confirmed, Gemma had made up her mind not to go back to Romania.
Dragons truly were her passion. But with the wizarding world now facing such a dire, precarious moment, she knew she had to set her personal interests aside for the time being.
She had officially joined the Order of the Phoenix by now, and was often assigned missions to carry out.
During this stretch of time, she still made a point of coming by the Holmes house.
It was only that her visits had grown less frequent of late which was exactly why Mrs. Holmes was asking.
Gemma, naturally, wasn't about to tell Mrs. Holmes about the crisis facing the wizarding world.
In truth, of all of Sherlock's friends, she was the one who understood the Holmes family most deeply.
Among his circle, she alone knew one particular thing:
that Sherlock, Mycroft, and Mr. Holmes had all been working, all this time, to keep Mrs. Holmes from finding out just how dangerous an environment the two brothers actually lived in.
Of course, Mrs. Holmes had picked up on something, regardless.
It was, in fact, the very reason the two brothers so often clashed with each other.
Each believed the other was the one making their mother worry.
Even so, what Mrs. Holmes saw was only the tip of the iceberg breaking the surface.
Thinking of all this, Gemma broke into a smile.
"Yes, Auntie.
"There's been a lot going on in the wizarding world lately—I've had to be away often. But whenever I have the time, I'll come see you and Uncle."
Mrs. Holmes gave a mock huff of complaint. "Now, didn't I tell you already? Put your own affairs first."
"Auntie, every time I come by, it's because I've just finished my own business nearby anyway!"
Gemma gave a playful wink.
Mrs. Holmes laughed, charmed. She took the glass Gemma handed her, but her eyes stayed fixed, earnest, on the composed, self-possessed young witch before her. "Gemma, you really are a rare kind of girl.
"Clever, independent, responsible—and you know how to look after people, too."
She let out a soft sigh, lowering her voice a little:
"Not like our Sherlock. Brilliant—brilliant beyond words—but in certain matters, honestly, thick as a stone.
His father was a bit like that when he was young, too, though not nearly so single-minded about it as this."
Her gaze drifted through the gap in the kitchen door, landing on her son in the living room, saying something to Hermione, then came back to Gemma, her eyes full of hint and hope:
"Sometimes I really do worry—will a boy like him end up missing the most precious thing right in front of him?
I wonder, too, whether a girl as wonderful as you would be willing… or rather, whether you'd have the patience, to stand by him until he finally sees clearly."
Gemma's heart gave a sudden lurch.
Mrs. Holmes's words were about as plain as they could be—more direct than any hint she'd dropped before.
A faint blush rose across Gemma's fair cheeks, but her eyes didn't waver, not even slightly.
She set down the pitcher and drew herself up straight, meeting Mrs. Holmes's gaze directly, her voice not loud, but carrying that particular Slytherin blend of ambition and resolve: "Ma'am, no one understands better than I do what the path Sherlock has chosen actually means.
Danger. Responsibility. And that maddening single-mindedness of his."
At this, a clear smile broke across her face.
"But just as he's chosen to protect what he believes matters, my choice has never once changed, either.
However long it takes him to see clearly, whatever support he needs along the way—the moment he turns around, I'll be there, right where he can see me.
I'm willing. I've always been willing."
Mrs. Holmes hadn't said the word love, so neither did she.
And yet a single word—willing—carried as much weight as a mountain, holding every promise within it.
At Gemma's answer, delight lit up in Mrs. Holmes's eyes at once.
She gripped Gemma's hand tightly, so moved she was nearly in tears:
"Oh, my dear Gemma! What a good girl you are!
This is—this really is one of the best pieces of news this Christmas!
I knew it. I just knew it…"
She didn't say anything more, but the joy and approval on her face said it all.
By the time the two of them carried the drinks and snacks back out to the living room, the mood there had shifted, subtly.
Hermione's sharp eyes caught the lingering flush on Gemma's cheeks, and the particularly bright gleam in Mrs. Holmes's eyes and something clicked into place in her mind. Luna, meanwhile, seemed utterly absorbed in her own world, still turning the globe over with great interest.
Mrs. Holmes and Gemma passed the drinks around together.
"Cheers!"
"Happy Christmas!"
The whole living room warmed into good cheer at once.
As dinnertime drew near, Harry and Cho Chang were the first to leave.
Harry had been invited by both Mrs. Holmes and Cho's parents, but since he'd already promised Sherlock, he'd spent the entire morning at the Holmes house regardless.
Ron and Lavender left soon after, by Floo powder.
That left only three girls behind for dinner at the Holmes house: Hermione, Gemma, and Luna.
Mrs. Holmes found her moment and turned to Hermione.
"Dear, would you help me sort through the new books that just arrived in the study? Sherlock always mixes them all up."
Hermione had no idea what this was about, but got up at once and followed her all the same.
The study smelled of ink and old leather.
Mrs. Holmes didn't actually sort any books. Instead, she pulled Hermione down into a chair by the window, snow drifting past outside in soft flurries.
"Hermione," Mrs. Holmes said, coming straight to the point, her tone carrying more warmth and familiarity than it had with Gemma, "you'll be staying here tonight."
Hermione startled at the words. "Staying—tonight?"
"That's right. I've already spoken to Jean about it."
"But—but…"
"What, do you think Auntie would lie to you?"
"Of course not," Hermione said quickly, shaking her head, "but I'm supposed to go skiing with my mum and dad tomorrow!"
"Silly girl, of course I know that—I already spoke to Jean, didn't I? They'll come straight here to pick you up tomorrow. It's on the way to the ski trip anyway."
"Oh." Hermione let out a long breath. "That's all right, then."
"There's one more thing. As a mother, I know it might be a bit forward of me, but I really can't help wanting to ask what you think."
Hermione's heart leapt into her throat. Thinking back on how Mrs. Holmes and Gemma had acted that morning, she had a rough idea where this was heading.
Her cheeks warmed slightly. "Auntie, just say whatever's on your mind."
"You know how it is—Sherlock's a good boy through and through, but when it comes to matters of the heart, he hasn't got a clue. His father and I are about ready to tear our hair out over it."
Hermione flushed red instantly. "Auntie, I'm sure in a few more years he'll come to understand…"
But Mrs. Holmes shook her head.
"That's exactly what we thought about Mycroft, too. We told ourselves the same thing—give it two or three more years, and he'll come around.
And what happened?
Hmph. Three years turned into three more years, and those three years turned into three more.
It's been nearly ten years now!
He's not young anymore, and there still isn't a single girl by his side!
You have no idea how worried your uncle and I have been…"
Hermione said, "But Auntie, Mycroft's so accomplished, there's really nothing to worry about—"
"Never mind him. I've given up on that one, if I'm honest. Better to look to Sherlock instead."
"Sherlock?"
"Yes!"
Mrs. Holmes looked at Hermione, her eyes bright and intent:
"You were the first friend he made in the wizarding world. The two of you have been learning and living together since you were eleven. You understand him—probably better than his own parents do, when it comes to who he is at Hogwarts.
You're clever, you're brave, you're kind—such a wonderful girl.
And I can see it: around you, Sherlock is at his most relaxed, most like a boy his own age.
He trusts you. He relies on you. The two of you never seem to run out of things to talk about."
Mrs. Holmes took Hermione's hand, her gaze burning with emotions.
"Hermione, I'll just say it simply—Tarquin and I both adore you. We think of you as a daughter, truly.
But in the end, what matters most is Sherlock's own heart.
He may be muddled about it now, but I can feel it—to him, you're someone special. Someone irreplaceable. So—
Would you be willing to be the one who stands beside him always? Who accompanies him, guides him—wakes him up, even, when he needs it?"
By this point Hermione's face had gone thoroughly, completely red, like an apple.
Mrs. Holmes's words were so direct that her heart was hammering in her chest.
And Mrs. Holmes wasn't wrong. She truly had been Sherlock's first friend in the wizarding world.
She thought back to their first meeting outside the Leaky Cauldron, thought of all the times Sherlock had saved her, thought of him as the hero who'd always come the moment her heart cried out for help…
Since Mrs. Holmes had already spoken this plainly, Hermione drew a deep breath, met her expectant gaze, and answered—her voice was quiet, but perfectly clear, carrying all the courage of Gryffindor:
"Auntie, you're absolutely right. In some ways, Sherlock really is thick enough that you want to hit him over the head with a book."
She couldn't help a small laugh at that, but then her eyes turned utterly earnest and gentle.
"But however long it takes him to understand, whatever difficult path he chooses to walk—as long as he needs me, I'll be there.
From the very day we became friends, my feelings for him have never changed.
I'm willing to be the one he can turn around and find, always."
Whether by coincidence or not, she'd chosen the very same word—willing—and the promise in it was every bit as steady.
Mrs. Holmes's eyes went red again.
This time it was pure joy, pure emotion, and she pulled Hermione into a tight embrace:
"Good girl! Wonderful! I knew I hadn't misjudged you!"
After a pleasant dinner, Gemma and Luna were getting ready to leave. (Hermione had already called Mrs. Granger to confirm she'd be staying the night.) But just then, Mrs. Holmes called Luna back,
"Luna, dear, would you come with me for a moment? Tarquin's got a Christmas gift ready for your father."
"Sure!"
Luna bounced off after Mrs. Holmes at once, following her into the bedroom.
Gemma had been in the middle of talking with Mycroft about something.
Hermione was telling Sherlock about the next instalment of some detective story.
At that moment, the two of them looked up at exactly the same time, and their eyes met.
Each understood perfectly what the other's look was saying:
Sherlock's mother really is something else.
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