I know. It's been three months since the last update. But it has been incredibly difficult to plan and write how I want this to happen. First because Hermione it's not part of the original story, therefore I need to create a niche for her. And S4 it's so focused in Sherlock that the rest of characters are even more supporters. I hope I can make them justice.

Second, because S4 it's very complex, the characters, their interlinks, everything. Writing characters that are already created might sound easy (that's what I thought at the beginning) but if you want to make them "real", you need to put the work and try to understand them. What makes them tick. I've lost count of how many times I've seen the episodes, how many blogs I've visited, how many metas I've read. I think they make more sense now, but your opinions are deeply appreciated (especially because there are around 8 chapters left and I want to make sure to get them right).

That being said, thank you very very much if you are still reading this story. You have no idea what it means to me knowing someone is sparing some of their time reading my ramblings. As always, thank you to those of you that read, favourited, followed the last chapter.

A big big big thank you to my amazing beta nightgigjo. We have both been very busy (and as you've read a few lines up, I've been slacking), but she has tried to go through my incoherent thoughts about different parts of the next chapters, and that it already, a feat.

Disclaimer: All the characters displayed in this fic belong to their respective creators, JK Rowling (Harry Potter), Moffat and Gatiss (BBC Sherlock), and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (Sherlock Holmes).

Chapter 21: The Six Thatchers, Part I

"John is right, you know. You are going on in spinning plates."

"Mhm."

Hermione lowered her book to look at Sherlock, sitting across her. His eyes remained downcast on the phone in his hands while he texted, seemingly too preoccupied to answer her. She took a deep breath and lifted her book again, trying to drown the sound of the keys.

Tap, tap, tap. They - John, Mary, herself - had been trying to be sympathetic. The situation was delicate, and as Mycroft had said in so many words, Sherlock's sanity was of utmost interest for national security. He had let him play Miss Marple with Lestrade and Dimmock and Hopkins, running around London for the most ridiculous cases the criminal classes had to offer. But the carefree facade he had tried to portray was flaking, and everyone around Sherlock had started to notice the tells of his spiralling. His shoulders, always tense under the suit jackets. His sleeping patterns, non-existent. His eating habits, disastrous, reduced to coffee and chips. His almost crazed working hours, as he took every case that came his way. The phone had become an extension of Sherlock's arm. Only John had finally breached it to him, but he had ignored him.

Tap, tap, tap. Hermione felt her patience thinning with each keystroke. She could stand a lot of things. Merlin knew she had experience: you don't go through seven years of friendship with Harry-short-fuse-Potter without developing a thick skin. Indifference, however, from him in particular, cut deeper than what she was willing to admit. Would the situation had been different, Hermione would have had more endurance. How could she, when the feeling of Sherlock's body on her own was branded upon her? He had been riding the last remnants of his drug-induced high when he had pressed her against him. His kisses had tasted like ginger, the fumbling of his fingers trying to get rid of her clothes had been clumsy but efficient. She remembered having uttered a few words before she found herself straddling him on his armchair. There had been no time for conversations: death and threat were the only things they had not been able to take off. From sitting room to bathroom to bedroom, everything had been a blur of hands and skin and sweat, and when she had finally fallen asleep next to him, she wondered if he would be there come morning.

He had not.

She had found him completely dressed on his armchair, phone in hand and laptop on his knees. She had stood in the kitchen for some minutes, but he had been set in avoiding her. Hermione had turned around then, shallowing her feelings because Hermione Granger was first and foremost, a soldier. Feelings were nothing in comparison to the threat Moriarty supposed, and for now, it had to be enough. It did not mean she was not utterly pissed at him, and outraged and frustrated, making her blood boil in her veins and her magic thrum. She was tethering on the edge, and that bloody mechanical sound was just getting her closer to it...

Tap, tap. Ping. Ping.

The text alert made her drop her book with a loud thud on the floor next to her. Sherlock did not even flicker, and that made her angrier. How dared him, to disregard her in such a manner? She strode towards him. Before he could react, she tore the phone away and threw it to the leather couch. Sherlock looked at her, but his face was impassive, his hands still frozen as if about to type on the air in between them.

"I was in the middle of a very important investigation." His voice was calm as he stood up to retrieve the phone.

"If it were that important, you'd be out there and not here."

He checked the screen again and tried to make it to the kitchen but she stood at the entrance. Sherlock tried to dodge her and she moved, blocking him again.

"What is the matter with you?"

"I could be asking the same, Sherlock."

He blinked twice, speechless for a moment. "Sherlock, there's a psychopath out there, you -we- cannot afford the path of self-destruction you are set on."

He took a step towards her until they were barely inches away. She had to tilt her head back in order to keep looking at him and not his chest, and Sherlock, in turn, crooked his neck to keep their eye contact. Her body betrayed her: her breath hitched ever so slightly having him this close, and her eyes diverted to his lips briefly. He looked at her, and his voice had the sharpness of a newly sharpened knife.

"I've always been like this, Hermione."

Hermione tried to reply when his phone rang. He did not wait for her to answer and was already talking to the person on the other side, trotting down the stairs, when she let go of the air she was holding. And like that, she was alone.

The dimmed lights were giving her a headache as Hermione tried to concentrate on the last mission report balancing on her knees. Mycroft's office had never been cosy or inviting, but the lack of illumination made it almost sinister. From her seat on the only not-functional piece of furniture, the old brown armchair, she eyed Mycroft. He had lost his jacket a few hours back when they started working, and his tie was askew from when he had tugged at it. With his head bent over a file, she could see more clearly the wrinkles starting to creep around his eyes and forehead. The evenings were when the marks under his eyes were more prominent, as was his necessity to reach for a smoke. Magnussen and Moriarty and his brother had aged his years. A sharp pain on her temple made her close the lid of her folder and threw it on the table. Mycroft gave her a disapprobatory glance but was already digging in his drawer. Taking a foil pack, he gave it to Hermione and then piled the folders together, finishing their job for the day. Hermione smiled, which he tried to return, but his grin was barely that. His smiles never reached his eyes lately.

Anthea came in with a tray with tea and biscuits, and Hermione swallowed one of the pills before taking a large gulp of Earl Grey. The taste of bergamot was always comforting, reminding her of home. They shared their teas in silence. Mycroft attempted to start a conversation several times, however, he later decided against and had a sip on his tea instead. His question came with her last bite on a piece of pie.

"So… How's the situation back at Baker Street?" Hermione gave him an incredulous look. "My cameras only go that far, and Sherlock had become quite proficient in discovering them."

The woman thought carefully about what she was going to say, her mind going back to their last conversation - if you can even call the two sentences they exchanged, a conversation. "Sherlock hasn't properly talked to me yet."

"I had thought-"

"You might be luckier if you asked John." Hermione cut. She did not need Mycroft's petulance of reminding her how unfit Sherlock was in relationships. "But you know your brother, you know how he can be."

"Manic, tiresome, rude…" Mycroft sighed. "I know."

He stirred his already cold tea, absentmindedly. His eyes lost in the depths of his cup. "Have I ever told you the tale appointment in Samarra, Hermione?" Strange change of subject thought Hermione, but she did not answer. Mycroft continued. "Sherlock did not like the ending when he was little, so he invented a new one. The merchant avoided dead and then became a pirate." A smile, a real, sad smile flashed across his face, then vanished. Hermione saw then: Mycroft had been young, and he had been the older brother of his baby brother before he had become the big brother of a whole country. "Everything was easier when all he wanted to do was play pirates and run around with Redbeard."

Mycroft stood up and walked to the floor-length mirror, her eyes following his movements. There was something at odds about his behaviour. About the fact, he had mentioned Redbeard, now of all times.

"Of all the enemies truth is by far the worst." His voice was slow, lacking the strength it normally carried.

"Who said that?"

"Only lesser men quote others, Hermione."

"What are you trying to tell me, then?"

Mycroft turned around. He came back to his desk, his fingers tapping on the surface as if trying to put an order in his head. He leaned back, his hip resting against the wood in front of her. "There are demons beneath every path we walk, Hermione. You know that better than anyone. Ours… my own…I've been shielding Sherlock from them for as long as I've been able to, but I am afraid…. They might be calling to our doorstep. I am afraid Moriarty's magic trick it's just the beginning."

"Do you know something Sherlock doesn't?"

"I know plenty Sherlock doesn't." He looked down at his hands. "The things I've hidden… Sherlock is always hanging by a thread, I don't want to be the one cutting it."

"Mycroft…"

"I can't help Sherlock, Hermione." His voice raises an octave. "Not now, not with this. I always knew there was a possibility when for all my power I wouldn't be able to hide from the truth. If the reckoning has come… I need you to stay by his side. I know what I am asking, and I know I've already stretched your willingness more than either of us is comfortable with."

Hermione watched how his eyes glistened under the lights. She reached for him, and she took his hand in hers. He was freezing. "If whatever is coming is that dangerous…"

"I need time, Hermione. It's all I ask for. Time so I can clear my head and deal with the problem, and then maybe if I am lucky, start atoning for my sins, without involving Sherlock. That's why I need you to keep this private. Just you and me." He fully took her hands, intently looking at her this time. "The truth is, there is no one else in this world I would trust Sherlock's life but you."

Then, he did something he had never done before. He kneeled by her and looked up to her. Giving himself up, putting himself in a position of weakness, offering her the power he held so tightly. Then it struck her: this was as close as Mycroft will ever get to beg. "I know I've disappointed you plenty of times, but I need you to know, everything I've done in this life, it has been for him."

"I know, Mycroft."

"You must understand it." There was an urgency in his voice that was enough to break the hardest of hearts. "If you ever held any kind of affection or trust for me, please, Hermione, use it know. Let me handle this. I promise I'll tell you everything, if you ever want to share the burden, in due time."

She nodded and deposited a kiss in his forehead. He allowed her, and she had the feeling she was not the only one shedding tears behind closed eyelids.

Thousands of miles from them, in the middle of the North Sea where only a few trawlers wandered in search of fresh sturgeon, a woman sat in front of a computer. Her brown, wavy hair cascaded down the back of the chair, unkept and unbrushed, and flattened where her head laid against the leather. Her otherwise attractive face - high cheekbones, proportioned features - was obscured by the coldness her deep blue eyes. Her fingers fiddled with the keyboard, rewinding the video a couple of minutes, and stared at the footage on the screen, timestamped the day before.

A man entered the room, leaving a roasted dinner on the table. The clank of the plate on the glass surface seemed to not have perturbed the woman, but as soon as he turned around, she threw the stone paperweight to his head. The man fell, his blood trickling from the wound where the paperweight had landed. The other man in the room, back against a corner, made a choked sound but did not go to help him. The woman watched the blood pooling on the floor, bright red against the concrete. It was never like the movies those idiots made. They pictured blood despite had never seen it. How it left the body, not splattering like an explosion, but like a river, slow, calm. If he would have been looking at her, she could have seen the exact moment when the blood loss became too much in how his eyes would die. It was fascinating.

The phone on the desk rang, breaking her observations. She hated being interrupted while observing. "It's him."

The man in the corner was right, it was that time of the week. She stood up and gestured for him to sit down.

"You know what to tell him, Mr Malik. I don't have to explain to you how important it is dear big brother doesn't suspect anything, do I?"

"No, of course not."

She gave a sickeningly sweet smile, only to disappear in the blink of an eye. Why would people feel safer with someone that smiles, when it was so easy to fake? Idiots. She spared the last glance to the face of the woman on the screen, and then walked towards the door, her bare feet crossing over the blood and leaving red footprints behind them.

Beth