The summer of 1995 seemed unusually hot.
Even a passing breeze carried waves of heat along with it.
The insects along King's Road tore through the stillness of the afternoon, and the leaves outside the window hung limp and curling in the glare. Sunlight filtered through the lace curtains, burning pale white patches across the floorboards of the Holmes household.
For Sherlock, this summer was not merely hot—it was also remarkably busy.
Only a week after returning home from Hogwarts, the Farley family came to call on the Holmeses. It was, strictly speaking, a kept appointment—the two families had arranged it back at Easter.
The Holmeses were naturally delighted by the visit. Mrs. Holmes most of all. Her face glowed with a warmth that came from somewhere deep, and even the way she moved between pouring tea and passing cups carried a kind of lightness.
The visit went wonderfully. Mr. Holmes and Mr. Farley, Mrs. Holmes and Mrs. Farley—two families from entirely different worlds, and yet they talked with an ease that surprised even themselves. Each side found the other's world genuinely fascinating.
As for Sherlock and Gemma, nothing more needed to be said.
Two years out of school, Gemma carried herself with a new maturity. In her interactions with Sherlock, every smile, every glance, had begun to reveal something that belonged distinctly to a woman who had grown into herself.
Sherlock didn't think about such things—but even he could feel that being around Gemma was simply comfortable.
The week after the Farleys left, the Grangers arrived.
Compared to the Farleys' visit, this was hardly a novelty. The two families had known each other for nearly five years. With a friendship that close, dropping in on one another was the most natural thing in the world.
The time with the Granger family was equally cheerful.
Being with Hermione was a different feeling altogether. She was nothing like the poised, self-possessed Gemma. Around Sherlock she chattered constantly simply couldn't help itself—and yet, strangely, he never found it grating.
Her outward expressions and her hidden thoughts were almost always at odds. For most people, that would make her difficult to read. For Sherlock, it was effortless.
Mrs. Holmes was, as ever, thoroughly pleased. Especially seeing how much Hermione had grown—the corners of her eyes crinkled with a fond, maternal warmth.
There had been a time when Mrs. Holmes had fretted over which of the two girls she ought to prefer. Both Hermione and Gemma seemed perfectly wonderful to her.
But after her visit to Hogwarts, she had arrived at a quiet understanding: her younger son, Sherlock Holmes, was already something of a celebrity in the wizarding world. And that world, at this moment, was facing a crisis of enormous proportions.
Given all that, wasn't it reasonable for Sherlock to have no such thoughts now?
Still, once the Grangers had gone, Mrs. Holmes found herself vaguely dissatisfied—because she had thought of the girl named Luna.
In her mind, Luna suited Sherlock just as well. There was something ethereal about the girl, a quality that always made Mrs. Holmes think of a spirit drifting through a woodland glade.
Mr. Holmes supported his wife's assessment wholeheartedly, as he always did. Emboldened by his agreement, she went a step further: she suggested that Sherlock take the initiative and invite Luna to visit.
"Is that really necessary?"
Sherlock looked faintly baffled.
He was sitting in the wicker armchair by the window, his fingers moving absently along the smooth surface of the armrest. The blazing afternoon light traced the lines of his mildly puzzled profile.
Sherlock had been perfectly happy to welcome Gemma and Hermione when they came. But it had never occurred to him to seek them out himself. And now his parents were asking him to go out of his way to invite a girl a year below him?
He genuinely couldn't see the point.
To build closer ties? In his view, that was an entirely hollow exercise. A true friendship didn't wither from a gap in contact. The moment old friends were reunited, the feeling came back of its own accord.
Sherlock wasn't a cold person—he simply had no interest in spending his energy managing the social calendar of his relationships.
"I think that girl is rather special," Mrs. Holmes said, fixing her eyes on him. When she noticed his gaze drifting back toward the window, she decided to be direct.
"If you think so, Mother, you're welcome to invite her yourself."
His tone was as even as still water. His eyes returned from the window and met hers without flinching.
Mrs. Holmes felt that particular frustration of a parent watching a perfectly good opportunity go to waste. Her elder son had long since slipped beyond her influence in these matters—she absolutely could not let history repeat itself with the younger.
With that thought quietly resolved, she steeled herself.
Just then, a powerful beat of wings approached from outside—growing rapidly louder. Watson, swift and sturdy, came swooping in through the open window in a rush of warm air. He glided into the center of the sitting room, hovered for a moment with wings spread wide, and dropped a letter squarely onto the open pages of Sherlock's book with precision.
Mission accomplished, he settled himself neatly on the windowsill. A satisfied rumble rose in his throat as he began working his beak through his dust-ruffled feathers.
Sherlock picked up the letter. The handwriting on the envelope made him pause—just for a moment—before he smoothed his expression and broke the seal.
"Who is it? Is it Luna? Is she coming to visit?"
Mrs. Holmes had already rushed over, her voice bright with anticipation.
The guess wasn't entirely without logic. It was still far too early for Hogwarts acceptance letters.
Among Sherlock's friends, Harry, Hermione, and Ron all preferred to telephone—Harry and Hermione, both from Muggle families, found it infinitely more convenient than owls, except for sending parcels.
And Ron, very much his father's son, was always eager to try out Muggle contraptions and delighted in using the telephone whenever the chance arose. As for Gemma—she had only just been here last week.
Luna, then, seemed the likeliest candidate.
"No, Mother."
Watching her eagerness, Sherlock exhaled quietly and simply handed her the letter.
Mrs. Holmes all but snatched it from him, her fingers trembling slightly with anticipation. Her eyes flew across the parchment.
In the next instant, her face broke open like a sunflower in full summer bloom.
Dear Sherlock,
A week has passed since we last saw each other—I hope you've been well!
After last week's visit, I confess I came away feeling there was still so much more to say.
Given the dreadful heat, the seaside seems like the perfect escape. I'd like to sincerely invite you to spend a few days in Whitstable next week.
As it happens, next week is the town's annual Oyster Festival—quite the occasion! If you can come, we could sample the freshest seafood, stroll along the beach, and soak in all the festivities.
I look forward to your reply. Please give my regards to your uncle, your aunt, and your brother.
P.S. I've bought a rather lovely new swimsuit.
— Gemma
By the time she finished reading, Mrs. Holmes was practically glowing. That postscript in particular made the whole letter seem to carry the scent of sea air and fresh oysters.
Any other boy his age would sooner have burned such a letter than shown it to his mother.
But Sherlock was different.
This filled Mrs. Holmes with a feeling that was equal parts delight and quiet concern. Delight, because it meant he trusted her completely. Concern, because he appeared to have no idea whatsoever what the girl who wrote to him actually meant by any of it.
On balance, though—she decided this was still a good thing.
She pushed the worry aside, gave the parchment a little shake in the air, and listened to the soft crinkle of the paper with barely suppressed joy.
Turning to her husband, she announced: "It's Gemma! She's invited our Sherlock to the seaside for a holiday! What a wonderful girl—what a thoughtful idea! Next week!"
Her eyes were shining. In her pupils, Mr. Holmes's smiling face was reflected clearly. "Didn't I always say so? Gemma is such a considerate girl."
Mr. Holmes accepted the letter and skimmed it quickly, then gave a nod. "A fine proposal. The coast is an excellent refuge from this heat."
Both parents turned to look at Sherlock.
His brow moved.
He glanced over at Watson, who was perched on the windowsill with his head tilted, regarding the room with amber-colored curiosity. "Whitstable isn't very far," Sherlock said, at his own unhurried pace. "But if the Oyster Festival is on next week, it may be rather crowded."
Watson appeared entirely indifferent to his owner's concerns, switching his weight from one talon to the other and returning his attention to the feathers tucked beneath his wing.
"That is not the point, Sherlock!"
Mrs. Holmes rounded on him at once, advancing a step, her finger nearly level with his nose. "Do you know how your father and I would never have had you if we had your attitude when we were young?"
Mr. Holmes felt a flash of mild embarrassment. That had been somewhat more candid than strictly necessary.
"Your mother is quite right—isn't she, dear?" He set down his teacup with a small cough. "Sherlock, enjoying time with a friend is not a waste. Besides—" He looked at his son with warmth. "Declining a lady's invitation is simply not what a gentleman does."
"Exactly! Even if you're still set on becoming a pirate someday, you could at least be a gentlemanly pirate!"
Faced with his mother's sudden ferocity and his father's seamless solidarity, Sherlock said nothing.
"Watson is waiting for a reply!"
Mrs. Holmes pointed at Watson, who had grown visibly bored on his windowsill and was now making small experimental pecks at the wooden frame. "Tell Gemma you'll go—now. Immediately."
Her tone left no room for negotiation.
Sherlock sighed deeply.
When his mother was like this, there was only one thing any of them—him, his father, his brother—ever did: they went along with her.
So without further hesitation, he crossed the room to the walnut writing desk against the wall.
"All right," he said, pulling open the drawer and taking out a sheet of parchment and a dark green quill. "I'll write back now."
Watson seemed to sense his new assignment instantly. He stopped pecking, stopped preening, and snapped to attention. Cocking his fluffy head to one side, he fixed his bright amber eyes on Sherlock with complete focus, and let out a soft, expectant coo.
Mrs. Holmes gave a satisfied hum and let her face settle back into a smile. The gentle, devoted mother and wife had returned.
She swept toward the stairs at a brisk pace, already planning aloud before she'd rounded the landing: "That light-blue striped shirt— the beach towels— sunscreen and a sun hat— oh, and he'll need a few decent casual shirts— perhaps a small oyster knife as well—"
Her voice trailed away up the staircase, already lost in the pleasant business of packing.
The sitting room fell quiet.
Only the scratch of quill on parchment remained, and beyond the window, the desperate, full-throated chirping of the insects—the sound of the summer of 1995 at its most insistent.
Mr. Holmes picked up his newspaper and settled back into the sofa.
The faintest smile rested at the corner of his mouth. His eyes drifted, unhurried, between the newspaper and the figure of his son bent over the writing desk.
In this moment, he found himself entirely in agreement with his wife.
Not a single one could be spared.
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