The park was alive, full of families, dogs, and couples. It was a warm, breezy, spring day, and the sun-deprived people of London were taking advantage of it. Everyone was optimistically wearing t-shirts and tank tops, grimacing when the wind blew a little too harshly. Everywhere you looked, there was smiles and laughter.
This is why Sherlock Holmes stood out more than usual.
He was sat on a bench, legs crossed, eyes closed, hands folded. His face was anything but calm though, he kept twitching and muttering slight things to himself.
No less than two hours ago he had been sitting in that same position, except he was sat in his favourite armchair in 221B.
John had forced him out into the sunshine, probably so Mrs Hudson could get in to do her cleaning without Sherlock's running commentary of where things could or couldn't go.
So there he was, sitting on an old, mossy park bench, getting odd looks from people. He was deep in his mind palace, safe in the knowledge that no one would sit near him because he looked so odd.
But he was wrong.
Boy was he wrong.
You see, that afternoon, Hermione Granger was on her lunch break, and seeing that it was a lovely day, she decided to spend it outside. She'd been working hard that morning, and was ravenous. After buying a cheese and ham sandwich, a bottle of orange juice, and a blueberry muffin for later, she was ready to faint.
She scanned the park for any available seats, and noticed that all the nice looking picnic benches were taken by families. She contemplated sitting on the floor, then remembered that she was wearing a pale blue skirt.
After much deliberation, Hermione decided that it was either sitting next to a slightly strange man on a bench, or having to walk back to a stuffy office and possibly fainting on the way.
Needless to say she decided on the former.
Ms Granger perched on the end of the stony bench, nibbling her sandwich, when the man's eyes snapped open. He slowly turned to Hermione, and said in a voice that made her shiver in the warm sun:
"You're a witch."
Hermione was flabbergasted.
"W-what did you say? How did you know that?"
"Oh it was simple really," he said, "you have a small dent on your index finger and thumb, suggesting you spend most of your day holding a medium sized, fairly skinny twig; or a wand."
Hermione stared, opened mouth.
The man continued: "I suppose you could say that it is from holding a pen, from a job in writing perhaps, however the indentations are on the second joints of your thumb and finger so I don't think so. And what's more, when you opened your bag to get out your phone, I noticed that you don't just have ordinary coins in your purse. They're not from any country in the world so I deduced that they were galleons, sickles and knuts; and the only place that I have ever seen them be used, is the wizarding world. So you are a witch, correct?"
Hermione didn't know what to say; she couldn't take her eyes off of the curly haired man. After a small time, she finally got her wits about her.
"Okay, so you know what I am. And I know who you are." Said Hermione, trying to regain some control, "you're Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective."
"And you're Hermione Granger, Auror, friend of Harry Potter, wife of Ronald Weasley. Are we done with the introductions now?" Smirked Mr Holmes, one eyebrow raised.
Hermione became indignant.
"No we are not done! I think you'll find that I am a lot more than someone's friend or wife, and can I kindly ask you not to define me by the men in my life!"
And with that she stormed off.
Sherlock Holmes sat back in the bench and was just about to retreat back into the darkness of his mind palace, when he saw something out of the corner of his eye.
Hermione had left her small handbag on the bench; it was open and exposed the extension charm she had used on it.
Sherlock picked it up and examined it. He knew that he couldn't just leave it in the park- anyone could take it- but yet if he took it back to 221b, then how would Miss Granger find it?
He sat for a moment, conflicted, and then got up swiftly, and walked out of the iron gates of the park in a businesslike manner.
He was off to the Ministry of Magic.
