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

Please see the Notes at the end of the Chapter.

Note 17/08/20: Updated, unbetaed.

Chapter 6: An eventful anniversary

The warehouse was hot, humid, and quiet. The only noise came from the whirring of the air system, and the distinctive sound of rats weaselling in between the shipping containers and crates.

Behind one of them, holding her gun close to her chest, Hermione waited. The hairs that had escaped from her ponytail stuck to her damp forehead and neck, and thick drops of sweat trickled down her face and under her tactical black T-shirt. Her chest strained against the bulletproof vest with each heartbeat.

It was suffocating.

The mission had been supposed to be an easy one. Just a weapon exchange, the provider and the buyer with their minimal security detail, Hermione - had said Mycroft - something to keep you in shape. But both the buyer and the dealer had breached the terms of the meeting. That had set off a rain of bullets that had only subdued when the bosses had left the building. They had left their lackeys behind hoping for a Battle Royale kind of ending, with two uninvited guests: Hermione and her partner.

That had been probably around two hours ago, and the two agents had got separated shortly after. Hermione had been waiting for the best moment to communicate with him. Now, seemingly alone, she shifted in her spot to look over the edge of the parapet. No one.

"Silver, this is Salem. Position. Over." Hermione muttered. The white noise coming from the other side of her earpiece kept still. She repeated the order. This time, a nonsense gibberish crept into her ear, followed by a loud beep, and then nothing. Hermione swore under her breath and reached into her breast pocket, counting how many recharges she had left.

Suddenly, the sound of trainers at her back made her turn around, pointing at the far end of the container. A white-haired head appeared around the corner, with a communication device hanging loosely over his shoulder, and sporting a bloodied wound on the left cheek. Silver lowered his gun and joined her.

Without having to worry about finding him anymore, Hermione focused on remembering the fastest way out of the warehouse.

As if it was the Marauders' Map, she could see the blueprints in her head, two tiny red dots standing where they stood, mimicking their actions, moving towards the exit, with steady steps and careful movements. Right, then the second to the left, and then straight forward until reaching the door to the power room. From there right to the narrow alley and out.

They had barely seen the sunlight when they heard angry voices screaming in Japanese, not far away from their position. Hermione looked at Silver and did not have enough time to run when gunshots fired behind them. Silver was faster than Hermione and had reached a dumpster to hide, shooting at the same people who were aiming at her. When she was almost there, Hermione felt a sharp pain in her shoulder, making her lose her balance, and everything went black.

"Dr Watson, please, she needs rest." Hushed a first voice, steady and calm.

"Since when do you care about anyone but yourself?" The second voice was deeper, louder, and much angrier.

"I don't care who you are or who you talked to," the angriest of all voices spoke. "If you both don't stop fighting, I'll kick you out. Understood?"

While the surrounding voices argued, Hermione's body was trying to wake up from its drug-induced sleep. The light over her head filtered through her eyelids, hitting her corneas like a hammer. Instinctively, she tried to raise her right hand to shield her eyes from the blinding whiteness. Her hand found the bed rail. Hermione made a sound of discontent and closed her eyes again. From her right, the authoritarian voice spoke again.

"How are you feeling, Hermione?"

Hermione tried to answer. Her mouth felt disconnected from her brain and barely muttered a faint okay. As her body became more aware of its surroundings, Hermione noticed the strain of freshly sewed stitches near her scapula and the tug of the venous catheterisation. She finally opened her eyes, still trying to adjust to the clarity. The nurse who had asked her was taking some notes of the readings on the monitor. Right by the end of her bed was Mycroft, eying her with a frown. With his left hand in his pocket, he kept toying with the ring on his right hand, his thumb running over the smooth surface. Lulling her head over the pillow, Hermione saw John, who instead was watching the nurse finishing her work, with his hands clenched around the bedrail.

"Okay, the morphine will kick in again in ten minutes. After that, visiting hours are over. And no arguing." Said the nurse before leaving them alone. Hermione was starting to comprehend the implications of Mycroft Holmes and John Watson in the same room. In the monitor, her heart rate picked up its pace. Hermione lifted her hand and brushed it over John's knuckles. "John, why are you here?"

John looked down at her. "Molly overheard your name in the A&E. Not many Hermione's in London. She called me thinking it might be you, and I found him," he said, tilting his head to Mycroft, "speaking to the director of the hospital."

Hermione nodded and closed her eyes again. The pressure behind her eyes was coming back. She felt John extricating his hand from hers. "I'm in Barts, then?"

"Yes," Mycroft said. "You'll be here for at least another couple of days. It could have been worse."

"What about Silver?"

"He's fine. Some scratches, nothing serious. We were more worried about you."

"Not my first time." Hermione said and heard John sniggering. A pleasant feeling of numbness had started to take over her, to the point she did not hear the door opening but saw a strident orange jumper and a black and pink scarf.

"Hello, everyone." Molly. The blob of colour was Molly, and she was approaching the bed. "I've finished my shift, and I thought I'd check on you before I left. And maybe stop the third world war. Rebeca told me you might be asleep already. How are you?"

Molly's nervous chatter made Hermione dizzy. The speed of her words made no sense. What war was she talking about? Was it the goblins and centaurs war? Well, Mycroft had a lot of fingers in a lot of pies. He probably was conspiring with the goblins. It looked like his kind of thing. She felt her eyes growing heavy, and she had to blink hard to refocus herself.

"Sleepy." Hermione gulped, eyelids fluttering. "My Barbie had a scarf like that. Did you steal it from her?"

"Morphine is kicking in. She's just speaking gibberish." Said John.

"I know John, I'm also a doctor."

"You work with dead people, Molly."

"Dr Hooper has proven herself capable of dealing with worse things than a bullet wound." Interjected Mycroft.

While they argued, Hermione heard their voices distancing, and by the time a furious Rebeca entered the room, Hermione had already fallen asleep.

It was late at night when Hermione woke up again. Her temples pounded, and her skull felt full of concrete. It was hard to think, like if the ideas were rusty and did not fit with each other. The room was under a dim glow coming from a small floor lamp next to the armchair where John was reading a book.

"John?" Hermione tried to push herself up, groaning. Her shoulder felt tender, and her right arm had no strength. John closed his book and stood up, stretching, and came to help her, resting her back against the padded headboard. "What time is it?"

"You've been out for almost a day. You've been waking up now and then, but not for more than a few minutes. You father and Mary have been here, now it's my turn. Molly will come by now and stay two hours before Mycroft's designated stand-in comes."

"Thank you." Hermione smiled at him, but John's mouth was set in a thin line that did not even twitch. She sighed and scratched the skin next to the plaster on her hand that was itchy and raw. "I guess I owe you an explanation."

"We can talk when you are better." John took a step back, fully intending to go back to reading.

"John, please. We need to talk."

"Not now."

Hermione gritted her teeth after a painful bout of headache. "John, you are being unreasonable."

"The hell I am!" John exclaimed. He reached for his hair and buried his hand in it. He looked at her again. "I thought that I was going to get back a bit of normality and to my surprise," he said, punctuating every word with his index. "I come to find Mycroft-fucking-Holmes waiting on the other side of the door. "

"I know John." Hermione took a deep breath as a sharp pain crossed her back. "Please, John. Sit, and I'll tell you."

John's nostrils flared, but he took the chair behind him.

"I've got secrets, John. Big ones. This is just one of them. But it did concern you, and I'm sorry for not having told you before. I'm part of the secret service. I work for Mycroft, and I was given the task to monitor you. That's the truth."

"I don't need Mycroft Holmes' help." Rebutted John.

"It's not his help I'm offering." Hermione pressed on. "This has long stopped being a job. If I decided to continue in Baker Street was not out of duty but because I was myself concerned. As a friend."

"What else have you hidden from me?"

"A lot," replied Hermione. There was no value in lying to John about not being completely honest. "But none of it related to you, or Sherlock, or Mycroft."

"I find that hard to believe."

"John, I won't lie to you. I've got a lot of skeletons in my closet. Many more, and way bigger than what you can even fathom. But you're going to have to believe me; none of them is about you."

From the corridor, Hermione heard Molly's voice. John got up and grabbed his coat. "We'll talk when you are healed." With those last words John left the room, leaving Hermione wondering if she will ever be welcomed again in Baker Street.

15 of July 2012 was probably one of the quietest days in Hermione Granger's life. In some other situation, in some other time, the silence to which she woke up would have been soothing, welcoming even. But ever since moving in, there had always been some sort of noise in the background. Either John, or Mrs Hudson, or the shuttling down the street. That day, however, London had agreed on mourning Sherlock Holmes.

It wasn't like she wasn't expecting it. Mrs H had announced a week ago that she would be expending a fortnight with her sister, under a poorly disguised lie of a doctor appointment. Molly, with whom Hermione had started to build a steady friendship over trash TV and crime series in the hospital room, had secured her place in a congress in Edinburgh for these couple of days. Mycroft hadn't communicated at all and had not answered any of her calls.

And then there was John.

Ever since Hermione had left the hospital and moved back to Baker Street, John had slipped into his doctor persona. He revised her wound, he made sure she was comfortable and was not overexerting herself. And that had been all. He had grown taciturn and silent and had started taking more shifts at the surgery. Despite still buying takeout for two, or leaving enough water in the kettle for an extra cup of tea, John had barely strung more than two sentences together towards her, no matter how much she tried to coax him. And the silent treatment from John and Mycroft's temporary disappearance was making her more morose of what she remembered being barely a year ago.

In the morning of the twelve, she got up early, hoping to catch John before he left. His coat and bag were missing, and there was a mug in the sink, so John had anticipated her moves and left before she awoke. Then she had gone to the graveyard, and she saw a single bouquet of yellow daffodils and chrysanthemums, at least a couple of days old. An austere arrangement, not cheap, but definitely not Mycroft's style. Hermione thought that meant John had also beat her that time around. Sometimes Hermione forgot John had been a soldier.

John was not at home when she came back. It would be hours until Hermione heard the keys jingling at the door, followed by a soft thud of them falling to the floor. The door closed, and the faint noises of a coat trying to be hanged told her that John was drunk. The footsteps were heavy, with more time in between them than those of a sober person would have. Hermione went to the kitchen and filled a glass in the sink. John entered and when he saw her, he buffed.

"I thought I was alone." John rested against the wall, almost losing his feet and falling right onto his bum. "Why aren't you with your friend?"

"Mary?"

"My-hip-croft."

Hermione walked towards him with the glass of water. "I was worried about you."

"Oh! Saint Hermione of the Poor was worried about old John Watson." He clumsily swatted Hermione's hand and some water spilt over the rim. Up close, Hermione saw his eyes rimmed red from both crying and the alcohol. He smelled like tobacco and sweat, mingling with the stench of a crowded pub, fake leather and cheap whiskey. Hermione decided not to answer the question, but could not help the sigh that escaped her.

"No, you don't get to give me that look."

"What look, John?"

"THAT LOOK! The pitiful look that I have been seeing every fucking day for a whole year." John pushed her out of the way and started to fitfully pace around the room like a caged lion. "And when I thought things were falling into place, it turns out, it's because Mycroft bloody Holmes has taken upon himself to continue meddling in it."

"That is not true, John."

"Isn't it? Tell me, did I get the job I have now, or was it Mycroft's bidding? Are there camera's following me around? Are any of the women I've slept with any of his minions?" Hermione shook her head, but it was not enough for John. He grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her. "Tell me!"

Hermione's hand impacted the wall, and she let go of the glass, which shattered against the floor. John blinked and immediately released her, taking a couple of steps back, frightened. "Tell Mycroft I don't want anything from him. I don't need protection, Sherlock did. And he could not protect him."

John let himself fall into his armchair, hand hiding his face away, sobbing into his hands. Hermione came closer and crouched in front of him, putting her hands over his wrists. She removed his hands from his face and looked into John's sad eyes and the stain of tears along his cheeks.

"I couldn't protect him, Hermione. I couldn't. And now he's gone."

As sobs overtook his body, Hermione pressed John against her in a hug. John's arms tightened around her middle, his fingers digging in the fabric of her jersey, and face borrowing into her neck. John's pleas for forgiveness got lost in her hair, and as his tears made their way down her shirt, she realised she had also been crying.

The same moment Mycroft entered his house and heard his favourite Bach piece playing, he had to resist very hard not to roll his eyes. He had hoped she might not remember, given the circumstances. He left his coat and umbrella at the entrance and walked towards the kitchen.

"Should I bother asking you how you enter?" Asked Mycroft. When he reached the door he saw Hermione leaving a pot of tea on the table. Next to it, a Victoria sponge cake with a candle was waiting to be lit, which Hermione did as soon as her hands were unoccupied.

"You really need better security."

"Did you pick the lock?"

"Nope, second-floor window. By the way, I've called a gardener to prune the ivy. You're welcome." Hermione started humming a birthday song and came towards him holding the cake right in front of his face, almost touching his nose with the flame.

"Could you stop, Hermione?"

"You know what you have to do for me to stop."

Reluctantly, Mycroft blew the candle and took the cake. Hermione smiled at him and went to look for cutlery and plates.

"How's your shoulder? I've been told you are healing much quicker than expected."

"I could have told you that if you would have picked up the phone when I called you." Hermione gave him a fork.

"I've been busy. And with you out of the rota, for now, I have to go and look for people who are not annoying, and that can yield results similar to yours. It's not been easy.'

"Thank you." Replied Hermione. They gave a good account of the cake while Mycroft updated her in the latest cases she had been working on before being shot, but Hermione was not paying much attention. They moved the sitting room with their tea, and Mycroft had changed from Bach to Beethoven, her favourite. She closed her eyes and rested her head against the tall back of the armchair. Mycroft had taken the chair opposite and cleared his throat.

"My parents thank you for the flowers. Mother said they were lovely."

Hermione looked at Mycroft. "It was nothing. I thought about calling them, but it did not feel correct. Are they well?"

"Why wouldn't they be?"

Hermione frowned at this, and left the cup she was about to drink from on the saucer. "It was your brother's first death anniversary, Mycroft."

"My brother's dissolute life prepared my parents for his loss long ago. We mourned him, we grieved, and now we move on. It's the way of life, Hermione."

Hermione gaped at him, incredulous. "I don't know how you can be so pragmatic about it."

"Sherlock is dead. His body is now just flesh rotting five feet under. Crying about him won't bring him back. I thought you were above all this nonsense."

"It's not nonsense, it's human!"

"Well, being human has never brought anything good to anyone I know. Definitely did not help Sherlock." Mycroft's stare was hard and unwavering on her. "Sentiment is a defect found on the losing side. And as long as I live, and as long as I have an entire country depending on me, I won't make that mistake."

"Won't you?" Hadn't he done just that? All the times, he had helped her. All the times she thought he had put her life before anything else.

Mycroft stood next to the windows, with his hand in his pockets, a cynical smile plastered on his features. "Well, dear, you have had years of knowing me. You know where my beliefs stand and where my loyalties lie. Whatever I do, whatever rules I bend, whoever I bend them for, they obey to a higher purpose. This should not come as news to you." He came to her, almost touching, and looked down to her, his posture making clear his upper hand. "Sentiment is making you weak. The Hermione that came asking for a warrior position wouldn't have even blinked before a crying John Watson. Now you admonish me for my nonexistent grieving, for the pragmatism that until very recently, you praised. Maybe you should rethink if this line of work is suitable for you anymore."

Mycroft turned around and left her in the room alone. Hermione let out a shaky breath, and with her thumbs, she dubbed the tear that was gathering in the corner of her eyes. Hermione left the house and started walking down the sidewalk, the light summer wind drying her cheeks and calming her. Thoughts came and went, but a persistent feeling stayed, a nagging sensation of having watched something out of place. Instead of going to Baker Street, she instructed the cab driver to drop her at the iron gates of the cemetery. Meandering along the east side, she arrived at the secluded area where Sherlock's grave was. Next to John's flowers now were a bouquet of daisies with a band with the NSY letters printed, and a beautiful arrangement of lilies, Mrs H favourite flower. Hermione had not expected Mycroft to do something as sentimental as leave flowers to his brother. But Molly's touch was missing, as was Holmes'.

Hermione stared at the golden letters.

Was Mycroft, the master of secrets, hiding something about Sherlock?

Notes

Here it is. First of all, a million thanks to those who liked, followed or reviewed the last chapter. As I said, it was really important for me. I hope this chapter is also to your liking. Second, I am sorry for the lengthy wait, this chapter was probably the one that I had to do from scratch, as the ideas I had did not fit with the story line.

Also, I know John and Mycroft might come across as a bit OoC. But my point is, we know John had a very difficult time (in canon, he didn't even call Mrs H). So, and according to psychological assessment of him that I found online, I think he is prone to outburst of anger, that I guessed would be worse around Sherlock's death anniversary. As for Mycroft, my opinion is that he tried so hard to be more Mycroft then before to not raise suspicion than Hermione picked that up.

Again, I am sorry for any grammatical mistakes. I wanted to give you this as soon as I could, so I revised less than normal. Word says it is fine, but I do not believe it.

Next chapter: Hermione has an important confrontation. John gets a gift, and Mary gets a chance of happiness. And we get to see Sirius again!

I hope you've liked this,

Beth