John knocked on Hermione's door, not sure if she would even open it, or if she would open it just to have the pleasure of slamming it back in his face. However, he did hear all four bolts sliding back and her head poking out the side of the door.

"Oh, it's you," she said, and John blushed at her apparent disappointment. "Thank God," she added and he suddenly felt much better. "Come in, come in."

She closed the door again with all sets of bolts when he was in and he finally noticed she was wearing only a towel and that her hair was dripping wet.

"Sorry, I'd just gotten out of the shower," she explained unnecessarily. "I thought it might be the other lunatic again since he threatened to pick my locks to get in if I didn't answer. He seemed pretty serious about it, too."

John told her picking locks was a hobby of his while trying his damndest to look anywhere but at her. He was thankful she preferred long fluffy towels and excused herself to get dressed. But he was surprised to note she was back in no time, given the women he'd known usually needed a half hour at least to get ready.

"Sorry about that, but after spending half the day in the sewers, believe me, a shower was in order. Tea?" she offered but was already in her kitchen rattling what sounded like saucers and plates before he could answer. "I guess you came over because Mister Holmes invited me along today on his case?" she asked once she had returned with tea and...Oh! Strawberry jam sponge cake, his favourite.

"From what I understand, it was more like he blackmailed you into going with him," John said, still angry at the information he had gotten throughout the day while he was at the clinic. Not only from Sherlock, but Greg too, who, for some reason, was convinced she was Sherlock's sister and that her name was Jean, and yes, even one snarky text from Anderson that he just ignored because he never had anything nice to say anyway. He didn't even know how he'd gotten a hold of his number.

"At first, yes," she admitted. "But then, I just sort of…"

"Got pulled in?" John finished knowingly for her, and she nodded.

"It's fascinating, really. Watching him find the most innocuous pieces of the puzzle and putting them all back together. It almost looks easy seeing him in action, but I was just floundering around like some idiot three steps behind, trying to catch up with his logic. And him too. He has insanely long legs."

John chuckled. If he had a hard time following Sherlock around, he couldn't imagine how this tiny slip of a woman did it without literally having to run behind him. Not to mention when they were actually running after the bad guys… John felt anger bubble up again. He was so mad at Sherlock for putting Hermione in danger when she had had enough of that to last her for a lifetime.

"Sherlock… he shouldn't have brought you along. He's a danger-magnet."

"To be fair, it was only a robbery at first, and it wasn't that dangerous," she told him.

"He was shot!" John said, a bit more forcefully than he intended. "So I'm pretty sure guns were involved at some point."

"Yes, he was shot, and not even that since it missed him by a mile. I, on the other hand, was perfectly fine."

And it was true, she did seem fine, physically, but also mentally which conflicted with the violent past he knew her to have. Shouldn't she be skittish around guns, loud noises and violence?

"Are you?" he asked, catching her gaze.

"Well, I am a healer, so I should know," she said with a chuckle.

John looked at her strangely, not sure he had heard her right. Healer? Was that some kind of new age, hobo fake medicine man? He hadn't figured her to be some kind of medical con. He felt almost insulted for his own profession.

"A...What?" he asked.

"Erm, nothing. Don't worry about it. As I said, I'm fine," she rattled off hurriedly and there was an awkward silence while they both sipped their tea.

"He must have missed you today, you know," she said softly. "Holmes. He kept calling me John."

"I hope you didn't feel insulted," he joked feebly.

"On the contrary. I was more annoyed that he kept doing it on purpose once I pointed it out. I think he was trying to make me angry for some reason."

John shrugged.

"He likes testing people, pushing their limits. Don't take it personally," John told her, remembering how Sherlock had done the same to him the first day they'd met and how that ended with him not needing a cane to walk around anymore. "That's just what he does. But I'm almost certain he actually enjoyed your company. He even said you weren't as stupid as everyone else and believe me, that's high praise coming from him. And you did save his life, he won't forget that."

"I just wish-" she said but was interrupted by a ringtone.

John wasn't familiar with it but checked his phone because he had been convinced she didn't own one herself. However, she jumped out of the couch and yanked a drawer open, the annoying ringtone becoming much louder.

"Harry?" she asked with a trembling voice.

A pause while Hermione listened to the person at the other end of the line. Harry, that had been the name of her friend with the green eyes who had come over to 221B to give them a piece of his mind for spying on Hermione.

"Where?" she asked next, her whole body tense while her voice wavered a little.

"It's my fault, I shouldn't have gone out," she answered next. "I'll… I'll leave for a while, make a diversion far away from here."

She hung up and put the phone back in the drawer, shutting it quickly. She held her head in her hands for a minute, but he could see her whole frame shaking and her breathing was quite erratic. John approached her as he would a wounded animal, his movements very slow and deliberate. Even from the little he had heard, and how she'd reacted, he understood well enough that her parents' killer mist have picked up her trail.

"You're leaving," he concluded, his hand hovering on her back but not sure whether she would accept his comfort or not.

She turned towards him and buried her head under his chin. His arms wound around her of their own accord and he hugged her tightly. Sometimes, even he wished someone would do that much for him, so maybe she needed it right now. Her grip tightened, so it was probably alright, however she wasn't crying like he had expected, she wasn't scared out of her wits that a killer was coming after her, she was just… defeated, shoulders slumped, head bowed, resigned. Then, she breathed in deeply and tried to smile bravely up at him.

"I am. I have to go away for a while and I have a feeling you know why," she told him, that fake smile still plastered across her face.

John nodded.

"Sherlock… he has his ways."

Their impromptu hug broke when she inclined her head in acknowledgement and wiggled out of his arms. He could only witness her frantic run around her flat after that, watching as she gathered stuff in a tiny beaded bag that he was sure shouldn't be able to contain half the objects he had seen her stuff in it. Finally, her packing frenzy came to a stop and she walked over to him.

"Can I ask you a favour?" she asked, her voice wrought with uncertainty.

How could he not? Hell, he was even tempted to go with her.

"Crookshanks. He's not all that young anymore and we just settled down here. I really thought I would be safe for longer than this... Would you mind taking him in for a while? He goes about his own business really, just needs to be fed now that he's too old to catch his own prey."

"Yeah, sure, anything," he heard himself answer, all the while knowing Sherlock was going to go spare when he returned to their shared flat with a sort-of-cat in tow.

But that knowledge was worth it when his arms were full of Hermione again, hugging him in thanks. Who would have guessed she was secretly a hugger? Sherlock would be disappointed to learn that.

"Will I be able to contact you? I saw you had a phone. You know, just in case…"

"I'm not taking my phone," she answered and that was a strange enough decision for someone on the run, but she must have her reasons. She was far from being stupid. "But I'll write, if you want. Just so you know I'm still out there."

John nodded and before he knew it, he was out on the street with a squirming ginger beast in his arms while Hermione was petting the life out of him, her small bag clutched in her hand. To say she travelled light was an understatement but maybe that meant she wouldn't be gone for long.

"Thank you, John. It means a lot to me to know Crooks at least will be safe," she said.

"Don't worry about it. I'm sure we'll get along fine," he replied, just as the damned thing bit into his forearm and he yelped in pain.

Her answering chuckle was followed by the sweetest kiss he had ever had the pleasure to receive, Hermione leaning on her tip toes to brush his lips lightly with her own. Then, without another word, she was gone, walking at a brisk pace down the street and out of view. He stood there for a minute before a car backfiring startled him out of his dazed contemplation.

She was gone. Maybe he should have stopped her. Maybe he and Sherlock could have kept her safe. But he had an uneasy feeling about this, like he was an outsider and shouldn't try to get in the middle of it even if he really wanted to. His instinct had never failed him before, it's what had kept him alive in Afghanistan. Sometimes the best thing to do was just to wait and see. And cat-sit.

°\_(°~°)_/°

The first postcard John received was from Scotland, a mere week after her departure and he couldn't help but think that was a very strange place indeed to hide. She was schooled there, she'd told them, but maybe she had decided to hide in plain sight.

Dear John,

I'm well. I lured him away from London and stopped at some friend's place to assess the situation. I might be running for a while. Give my love to Crooks and tell him not to eat any of Holmes' experiments. I've seen the inside of that fridge.

Take care, H.

Of course, John had barely finished reading the short note when Sherlock snatched it out of his hands and read it for himself, analyzing not only the message but the postcard itself, the stamp and the timestamps with the origin of the postal office. Once his analysis was over, he let out a long-suffering sigh and flipped the postcard back towards the table with one elegant twist of his wrist where it landed with unnerving precision right in John's plate. He had to wonder if Sherlock had practiced throwing cards, knives or even bloody shurikens around before in one of his bouts of boredom.

"I showed her how clever I was," Sherlock groused, stealing the buttered piece of toast John was about to bite into before settling onto the sofa with Crookshanks. "She really should have trusted me to keep her safe and arrest whoever is after her."

"So that's why you brought her along on a case?" John asked, finally putting the pieces together, seeing the bigger picture.

"Amongst other reasons, yes."

°\_(°~°)_/°

The second postcard was brought to him by Mrs Hudson at their breakfast table three weeks later. The worry John had been accumulating after the first week without any news, and doing his best to hide ever since, suddenly evaporated. This one was from Bulgaria, of all places.

Why Bulgaria?

Hermione had the strangest places in mind when she was on the run. John flipped the postcard over:

Dear John,

I know he's close, but he can't reach me here. As long as he doesn't think I'm hiding in London, you and Crooks should be safe enough. I'll stay here for a while longer, it's a beautiful but harsh country, especially at this time of the year. It must be driving him nuts. Serves the bastard right.

I miss home though.

H.

John did smile at that. At least she wasn't cowering somewhere in the dark. Before Sherlock could try snatching it out of his hands again, John handed it to him, ruining half the fun for his flatmate.

"What did she say she did as a living?" Sherlock asked, frowning at the postcard.

"Healer. Whatever that is," John answered, still a bit perplexed about that tidbit of information she had let slip.

"She cares about you," came Sherlock's offhand comment, flipping the postcard once more so it landed lazily in the middle of his scones.

John looked over the message again.

"She cares about her cat," he replied, just as said cat jumped on the table to rub its flat nose against the postcard.

"You're an idiot," Sherlock concluded and John hoped he was right.

°\_(°~°)_/°

Dear John,

On my way back but keeping a low profile. It shouldn't take long now.

I hope you'll let me make you dinner to thank you for all you've done for me. I'm a terrible cook, even Crooks won't eat what I fry up, but it's the thought that counts, right?

See you soon, H.

John turned the postcard over in a hurry. He had been so desperate for news that he had read the short message first, needing to know she was safe. It was from France this time. Marseilles, to be precise, which was somewhere in the south if he remembered correctly. It showed a summer beach although December had sneaked up on them, but maybe she had thought a bit of sun, even just in picture, would cheer him up. It did, although he had an inkling that was more due to the news that she was safe and on her way back. And she wanted to make him dinner, which counted as a date, right? Maybe his budding feelings were not as one sided as he had first thought.

With that thought in mind and the memory of the quick kiss she had given him before disappearing, he was in a merry mood for the rest of the day, which thoroughly annoyed Sherlock, especially because he didn't even get to read the postcard this time, having secreted it away once he'd let Hermione's strange pet sniff it.

°\_(°~°)_/°

The next postcard arrived on the fifteenth of December, when frost had started decorating the glass panes of the windows, and it almost had him packing.

John,

He's close. I don't know how he found me this time. I was so careful. I'm scared. I wish I could come home, but not now, it's too risky. I have to backtrack.

H.

He flipped it over. Paris this time. She had been on her way back to London, getting closer with every card she sent him. But this one had been written hurriedly, her writing almost illegible with panic and fear. John paced, not knowing what to do, the postcard turning to mush in his fist. Sherlock snatched it out of his grasps just as John was about to turn around for the hundredth time so he smashed right into the taller man's chest.

"Stupid girl," Sherlock said, dropping the postcard on their coffee table. "She can't run forever."

"She's scared," John replied angrily.

"She'll always be scared if she doesn't stop him."

"God, Sherlock. She's not a soldier," John sniped, knowing that he himself would not run but wait for the bastard to show up on his doorstep, shoot him right between the eyes and be done with the whole sorry affair.

"Uhm," Sherlock hummed and let himself drop in his armchair, his fingers interlocking under his chin. "I think she may have been, which is why I don't understand why she's running."

John snorted. Her? A soldier? Preposterous. She was too small and delicate for it.

"Well, I am a healer," she had laughed. She could have been an army surgeon like himself. That didn't require the same standard body-strength otherwise required. After all, John himself was quite short and lean compared to his other buddies in the army.

°\_(°~°)_/°

For some unfathomable reason, Sherlock had decided they were throwing a small Christmas party this year and so, Mrs Hudson, Greg and Molly had come over to drink and celebrate. Truth be told, it was a small gathering of people who had nowhere else to be, but it was already a crowd by Sherlock's standards. However, well after everyone was accounted for, and quite cheery from the sherry, except for him who'd been called a grinch more than once by the others, the door opened once more, and Sherlock threw his arms up in the air.

"Hermione!" the detective greeted loudly, sounding genuinely pleased, but one could never be sure with Sherlock.

Before John even had the time to process the fact Hermione was really standing there in his doorway, her arms filled with wrapped packages and snowflakes still clinging to her long curls, Sherlock, to everyone's astonishment, threw his arms around her. John hadn't even known the man knew how to hug.

"Holmes!" she protested loudly, pushing him away by smacking him repeatedly with one of the packages which seemed to be too squishy to do any real damage. "You can't just give me a body-search without a warrant!"

Sherlock took a couple of steps back with his hands raised up in surrender.

"Can't blame me for trying," he said without apologizing.

"Blimey, Sherlock," Lestrade exclaimed. "Are you still on about that supposed concealed weapon of hers? Can't you just admit you were wrong for once?"

The Scotland Yard inspector laughed, already well into his cups apparently, then abruptly stopped.

"Wait… What did you call her?"

Realizing he was just standing there, stupidly gawking at the woman he had hoped to see again for so many weeks, John shook himself out of his stupor and took a hesitant step forward, his eyes locking with Hermione's. Then, in three long strides, he had her in his arms, hugging the living daylights out of her, because she was safe, finally safe after all this time. He held her tightly in his arms for a minute, burying his nose in her curls and enjoying her warmth, her smell, her softness and her icy nose and cheeks nuzzling against his warm neck. He tilted her head up, looking into her bright eyes, his thumb tracing her pouty lower lip, the one she always bit when she was hiding something. Her pupils dilated and her pulse beat a frantic pace under his fingers. John had learned a thing or two from Sherlock to know what that meant. With perfect synchronicity, he leaned down just as she pushed herself up on her toes and their lips met for a soft kiss that gradually deepened when his hands tangled in her wild curls, letting himself enjoy the feel and taste of her, wanting more when he heard the small pleased moan in the back of her throat.

But he came back to his senses, eventually, upon hearing the cheers around them and Hermione's face burning bright red against his own. Maybe they should wait for a bit more privacy. They'd waited this long already, after all.