Summary: Once a decision is made there is no need to wait. Of course it does cause some consternation in the people around them.
Warnings: graphic sexual intimacy, BDSM elements

~ooO Meeting of Minds 04 Ooo~

Blue-green eyes snapped open. His cock was engorged and pressing against the front of his tailored pants. He was breathing hard, as though he had just chased down a criminal. He was still fully dressed though he wanted to strip off every inch of material and fuck the woman-witch sitting across him.

Her nipples were hard and prominent even through the layers of material, bra and blouse. She was breathing unevenly, her hands trembling though she tried to hide it by gripping her knees. She inhaled deeply before opening her eyes. The pupils were dilated, her lips were red and engorged, her cheeks flushed. She shifted minutely, trying to stifle soft gasps, biting her lower lip to silence herself, to not give away her sexual arousal. He strongly suspected he was giving off similar tells as well.

They stared at each other across the two feet of open space, both stimulated and needy.

He was hard as a rock and desperately wanting to feel her wrapped around his cock, to mark her as his, to fill her with his cum, to force her to submit.

She was drenched and quivering, her muscles clenching around air and desperately needing something hard, thick, solid, penetrating and stretching her.

He spoke first, his voice composed and almost icy.

"You have two choices. You can submit to me completely or you can walk away."

He waited a full two minutes, watching her remain seated, her hands shifting to her lap, fingers lacing and unlacing, but showing no other sign of nerves.

"Do you want to be mine?"

Her answer was a soft sigh. "Oh yes." And he knew she was being honest. She longed to belong somewhere as much as he fought to remain free and unconstrained.

"Unbutton your blouse and remove it," he instructed.

He watched as she stood up and tugged the blouse out of the skirt waistband before unbuttoning the pearl buttons at the cuffs, then down the front, and shrugging the garment off. It fell onto the seat she had just vacated. Her black cotton-and-lace bra had a front-closure. When she went to open it he stopped her with a sharp "No. Keep it on."

Her hands went to the side, to unhook and unzip the skirt. She bit her lip and allowed the material to fall in a pool around her ankles. She stepped out of the pool and used one foot to push it off to the side.

The only things she had on were her bra, black cotton bikini knickers, and black knee-high socks. He stood up and moved, gripping her shoulder and turning her around to face the sofa she had been sitting on. She made a soft sound as he guided her to kneel on the padded seat and place her hands on the top of the sofa backrest.

"Do not remove them," he ordered and knew she would obey from her sharp inhale and slow exhale. Her hands shifted on the leather but she did not lift them away.


It took an effort to not turn around and reach out, to obey his instructions. It was hard and fulfilling because it took conscious effort to obey. She had been wet before but now she was certain she was drenched. She could smell her own fluids and knew he could too. How would it take for her juices to start leaking through her knickers?

She started slightly when he reached around to her front. Large hands caressed her face down to her knee, skimming over her temples, cheeks, dipping between her lips, over her chin and throat, down her torso, lingering over her breasts and stomach, down her thighs before returning up to cup her groin over her knickers.

"You are mine."

His voice was calm, matter of fact, almost bored; in complete contrast with his actions. The fingers of one hand were sliding under the elastic straps and combing through the thatch of hair covering her groin. Was it okay? Or did he prefer women who shaved or waxed down there? The question slipped her mind as his fingers dipped into her slit and glided over and around her clit in an almost lazy fashion.

Her knees buckled slightly but he was pressing against her back, keeping her from sitting back on her heels. One hand moved to press against her softly curved belly, to anchor her against him. His fingers were curling and pressing inwards and up, slipping inside. She bit her lip and shifted her knees out to press down against his hand. He pressed a kiss against her shoulder and thrust his fingers deeper. She closed her eyes to savour the sensation, moaning softly. It was a shock when he removed his hand from her.

She opened her eyes, ready to turn around and protest when she saw it — his hand in front of her face, fingers and palm wet and shiny, coated with her fluids.

"Clean it," he ordered. "Do not move your hands."

Obediently she leaned forward and thrust her tongue out to separate his fingers, enough to wrap her lips around the digits and lick the fluids off. Now his fingers were shiny with her saliva rather than her vaginal secretions.

He slipped his hands into her bra, cupping her breasts, massaging them as he tweaked and teased her nipples, stimulating her already aroused body. She would have complained about his clinical actions if she didn't feel his engorged cock against her arse. It would be so easy to have sex if he didn't have his bloody trousers on! Why didn't the bastard just remove his clothes?!

"Merlin's balls Sherlock! Just fuck me!"

"It's not so simple Hermione," he murmured in her ear.

"What do you want?"

"This is not going to be a one-off fling."

"I'm not the sort for flings," she whispered. "I'm yours."

"Exactly. You are mine. You will sleep in my bed. You will live where I live. You will obey me."

"I'm not your slave!"

"No. I do not want a slave. But I want a lover who submits to my dominance."

She shuddered softly, her arousal growing. Could she…? Did she…? Yes.

She did not know she had verbalized her response.

"Good girl," he murmured as he tugged her panties down to her knee and encouraged her to lift one knee at a time to roll them off her legs.

When he came back to her he had opened and pushed down his trousers. She could feel the material against the backs of her thighs, his bared groin and engorged cock against her arse, his balls.

"I have condoms in my room but I have no intention of using them."

She went very still.

"I can confirm that I am clean. I had a check-up six weeks ago. I have been celibate for more than two years now."

She nodded slowly, indicating her understanding. Did he want…?

"I have not given proper consideration to parenthood so I do not have any preferences either way. But I don't want to use a condom. I want to mark you from the inside out." There was a heavy pause. "But given our affinity I am almost certain this is going to be a long-term, perhaps even permanent, relationship."

He was being honest about his desires and thoughts. And she could not entirely disagree with them. She did want him to mark her, to be his and only his.

"I'm on a contraceptive potion. One dose every full moon. It only fails if I take any other potions with certain ingredients. I'm not."

He shifted behind her. She could feel his cock glide under and along her slit.

"Good enough," he murmured as he adjusted her hips.

She hissed as the broader head breached her opening and pushing high and deep and the thick shaft spreading from within. It felt odd, but not wrong, being penetrated so deeply.

As though he was reading her mind, he spoke. "Gravity and a different position. You can't pull away; you have to lift yourself up."

She relaxed her knees and hissed as she settled lower on him, as he penetrated deeper. "Don't want to," she murmured.

He chuckled, a low and throaty sound.

"Good," he said as he began tugging her towards him.

At some point he had moved to kneel on the chair behind her. She relaxed and allowed him to manipulate her body so she was sitting astride his lap, her knees on the outside of his. When he began moving the friction set off sparks deep in her belly and groin.

Hermione did not know why she was reacting so explosively and passionately to Sherlock Holmes but she did not care. The man was very intelligent, skilled in stimulating her mind and body, and he made her feel like a goddess. She only hoped it was not a fluke, a one-off fantasy that their linked minds had conjured up.


He ended up proving himself many times in the next twenty hours. That he could deliver in the real world as well as in their minds.


John Watson was not surprised by Sherlock Holmes ignoring his texts — the brat was probably caught up in some experiment. He was surprised when Greg Lestrade called and asked John to check up on Sherlock, because the genius hadn't bothered responding to a potential eight. Thankfully John still had his old set of keys to let himself into 221B Baker Street.

It was quiet, no sounds of day-time dramas on the telly — Mrs Hudson had to be out. But there were creaks from upstairs — 221 was old and the soundproofing was non-existent. Curious John made his way up the stairs and stopped.

There were clothes scattered from the door, through the living room and down the corridor leading to Sherlock's bedroom. Sherlock's discarded clothing was not something new but clothing that clearly belonged to a petite female? Low-heeled ankle-high gray suede boots on the boot tray next to the door, a long heather-and-gray tweed skirt on the floor near his usual chair, a pale pink elegant looking blouse tossed onto the seat, a scrap of black lace almost hidden underneath a side table. He recognized Sherlock's black trousers with the matching jacket and purple shirt scattered on the floor, like a guideline to Sherlock's bedroom. Then he heard it, soft feminine giggles that turned into a low throaty moan, a low rumbling baritone voice murmuring something indecipherable.

John Watson did not want to find out what black lace garment had been so carelessly discarded under the side table — camisole, bra or knickers? He did the smart, discreet thing, and retreated down the stairs and out the front door, locking it behind him. He would give Sherlock a few days before asking him about his new lady friend. John really did not want to be a cock block and interrupt what was clearly an intimate rendezvous. Once out on the entrance steps he pulled out his mobile and texted Lestrade.

Sherlock will be occupied all of today and tomorrow.
Don't bother texting. DO NOT VISIT 221B. -JW


Mycroft Holmes cursed as he read the flagged surveillance report in his e-mail inbox: Hermione Granger had been spotted entering 221B Baker Street. And she had not left, not even more than twenty-four hours later.

None of the surveillance team had been too concerned when an unknown young woman had shown up with Sherlock. He often had many unknown visitors; most of them clients. Even when it became clear that she was going to stay for the night the team simply made a notation for the next shift; there had been no destructive mayhem, shouts for help, or anyone leaving in a hurry. And if she was staying for the night… it was unusual but the target had changed his habits and social preferences in the past.

When the research team finally identified her as a witch — and a particularly famous one — the report had been kicked upstairs in a hurry. The cameras in 221B confirmed that whatever they were doing was definitely not platonic or chaste. It looked like they had stripped off all their clothes in the living room before secluding themselves in Sherlock's bedroom. And from the long-distance microphones they were thoroughly enjoying themselves in a very intimate fashion. There had been quite a few unofficial notations from the surveillance team regarding Sherlock's sexual skills and endurance.

Mycroft cursed his little brother for getting involved with a magical. He could not think of any reason why Miss Granger would have broken the Statute of Secrecy. Or if she had a case why had she approached Sherlock instead of a magical contact? Or did Sherlock even know she was a witch?

There were too many possibilities and not enough data to eliminate anything!


Padma Patil was not too concerned when she saw no sign of Hermione Granger when she arrived at work. Hermione was always in before her. Padma made a mental note to tease the older witch when she arrived. But she didn't. Arrive that is. Feeling a little concerned she approached their supervisor.

"Excuse me, Ibis, I have a question about Lynx."

"What is it Tiger?"

"Lynx hasn't come into work."

"She won't. She called in sick."

Padma nodded and retreated, returning to her usual duties. But the moment her shift ended she made a detour to stop by Hermione's flat; to see if she needed anything, potions or stasis-charmed hot food. To her surprise Hermione was not in. Feeling a little worried, Padma went back to her own flat and Floo-called Ginny Potter.

"Ginny, did you speak with Hermione today?"

"No. Why?"

"She called in sick."

That set the red-head back for a few seconds. "Hermione doesn't skive off so she must be sick." Then her tone turned fretful. "Why didn't she call? I could have made some soup and dropped it off for her. But I don't have time now. I'm supposed to meet Angelina and Fleur for a wedding planning session."

"I had the same idea and stopped by Hermione's flat to see if I could pick up something for her but no one was home." Padma explained. "I was hoping she had talked to you."

"Let me try a few others before telling Harry and making him panic. I'll Floo-call if I find out anything new."


Harry was a bit surprised when Kingsley called him in. It was almost the end of his shift and he wasn't aware of any delicate open cases requiring his personal attention.

"Thank you for being so prompt Harry."

"Your memo caught me just as I was leaving Kingsley. What's the rush?"

The older dark-skinned wizard looked straight at Harry.

"Hermione Granger sent in her resignation by owl today."


Kingsley frowned. "She didn't tell you?"

"No," Harry responded with a saddened expression. "I knew she was unhappy and bored with the restrictions. I knew she was planning on resigning as soon as she was financially set to open a private research consulting practice. I didn't know it would happen so soon! There's no way she could have saved enough money. And she didn't ask me for a loan. And there's no way Gringotts is going lend her anything after we broke into the Lestrange vault."


Ginny had just finished her fifth Floo-call, discreetly inquiring after Hermione, if she had spoken to anyone in the past couple of days. No one had heard from her.

The soft hoots of a post-owl attracted her attention. She stood up and removed an owl treat from the bowl on top of the mantle. The post owl snagged the treat and gnawed on it while Ginny removed the letter from its leg and quickly cracked the wax seal. It was from Hermione.


Hi Ginny, Harry,

I'm sorry for the short notice but I'm taking a few days off. It's not a matter of life-or-death, or anything like that. Something's changed in my personal life and I need some quiet and space to evaluate my new situation. I'll let you know as soon as I'm ready. It should not be more than 3-5 days.

I'm sorry but I won't be able to make it this Saturday for dinner. Take care of yourself and the children.




Ginny bit her lip and glanced at the clock, a wedding gift from her parents. Harry's arm indicated he was travelling. He would be home soon enough.


None of them knew that Sherlock Holmes and Hermione Granger had taken the first steps on a brand new path, a shared future that would set them apart from their old friends, but happier and more settled than they had ever been in years.


The End.