Hello all! Here is the third chapter of His Last Vow. This is the second chapter being betaed by nightgigjo and I absolutely love each and every one of her suggestions. Just by how she sees something I am learning so much, I am excited to see how the next chapters turn out.

As always, thank you to those of you that read, favourited, followed or reviewed the last chapter.

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).

Note: Edited 24/02/2021

Chapter 16: His Last Vow Act III, Action.

'That woman is spitting.'

Hermione took her eyes off of the page and looked up at Sirius. He was nibbling on a toast while shuffling through the five different newspapers on the table, a mischievous grin on his face. Earlier that day, Hermione had spotted Janine wearing a deerstalker on The Sun cover on her way back from the hospital. She had taken a look around the newsagent and realised it was not the only one. Sherlock related quotes were in every printed tabloid. So that was what Mycroft had been referring to. Not knowing what came over her, she had bought one of each and brought them home with her. The one Sirius had picked up featured Sherlock on the cover, under a colourful, baiting title.

'Shag-a-lot-Holmes. It's funny.'

She snorted and closed the page where Janine gave a detailed description of Sherlock's endowment—a very accurate one, much to Hermione's chagrin. 'You might think having a concussion would've messed up her memory.'

Sirius put on the blandest expression possible and took another paper. 'Well, according to the Daily Mail, it was "unforgettable".'

"Hmm." Hermione narrowed her eyes at Sirius, and he, in exchange, flashed her a dashing smile. He extended his hand, motioning for her to take it. She rolled her eyes but smiled and did so, feeling the warmth of his hands around hers. 'How are you holding up?' he inquired gently.

'For the hundredth time, Sirius, I am fine.'

'I'm not an idiot, Hermione. I know this,' he pointed to the table. 'It has something to do with you no longer living in Baker Street and renting that ridiculous studio in Islington. I don't know what happened exactly. As you know, my knowledge of what you do for Mycroft has long since become anecdotal. But I know that whatever it was, it's big. And Mycroft... He's transferring you to my unit temporarily.' Hermione tried to justify herself, but Sirius held up his hand, silencing her. 'I'm worried. Before John Watson and Sherlock Holmes came into your life, there were no secrets, not between us.'

'I haven't lied to you about anything ever, Sirius.'

'Lying is not the same as omitting the truth, Hermione.' Sirius pressed a kiss to the hand he was holding, and Hermione remembered everything Sirius had done for her. However, precisely because of that, she couldn't bring him to all the ruckus with Magnussen. Sirius didn't deserve it. 'We are in this together. I'm your father, in everything but blood. I'm here, you know that, don't you pup?'

Hermione felt her eyes water, and all she could do was falling into his arms and kiss him on the cheek. Hermione could hardly remember her own father's cologne, but every time Sirius was near her, she felt the same warmth as when Halden Granger hugged her. On the table, Hermione's mobile rang. She pulled away from Sirius and looked at it. The screen had lit up with an incoming message, short and imperative.

Baker Street, now.

SH

Sirius peered at her curiously. 'Is something the matter?'

'It's Sherlock,' Hermione replied. Her stomach twisted in a tight knot, and her heart doubled its rhythm against her ribs. 'He's sent me a text.'

'But that's impossible,' Sirius frowned. 'He's in hospital, isn't he?'

When Hermione stormed into Baker Street, the house was quiet. She took the stairs two at a time, shouting Sherlock's name. On the upper floor, she found only Mrs Hudson, sitting in John's armchair, nervously tinkering with a handkerchief.

Relief washed over the older woman's features as she recognised who had just arrived, and she stood up and enveloped Hermione in a desperate hug. 'Oh! Thank God you're here!'

'What's happening? Where's Sherlock?' Hermione demanded.

'Oh, you don't know.' Mrs Hudson covered her mouth with her hands before briefly gesturing around. 'Sherlock ran away! No one knows where he is, but he called John an hour ago, and he dashed off!'

'What? How?' Hermione exclaimed in panic. 'Sherlock is drugged! He's been on morphine for a whole week! Wasn't John supposed to be at the hospital with him?' She took her phone out and dialled Sherlock's number. 'Have you called Mycroft? What about his boltholes?'

'Greg is on that.'

As Sherlock's phone went straight to voicemail, Hermione's fears morphed into something darker. In her mind, he had succumbed to pain—or worse, internal bleeding—and was unconscious in Merlin knew what back-alley of London. All while neither Mycroft nor John nor Mary had even bothered to make her aware of it. Tapping on her professional features, she looked for John's number and started getting ready to leave when she heard loud steps resounding against wooden stairs. She looked at Mrs Hudson as the door to the flat slammed open, and John entered, enraged. Ignoring Hermione and Mrs Hudson, he went straight to the window. His breathing was shallow and superficial, as if he were about to breathe fire any moment now.

'John, did you find Sherlock?'

He glared at Hermione after her question. Bared teeth, red face and fists balled so tight he would draw blood: he was beyond furious. John shifted his eyes from her to a point behind her. At the same time, Mary came into the room. She looked sick and shook her head as she passed Hermione, stopping next to the fireplace.

So, that was it: the proverbial cat was out of the bag.

But Hermione had no time to think further as the sound of another pair of steps, slower and heavier, reached her ears. She rushed to the small landing, where Sherlock appeared, staggering. He was pale, winded, and although he was trying his best not to show it, clearly in pain. His breathing was laborious, and he made no objection when she put her arm around his waist, helping him to stand upright. John paced towards Mary, looking murderous.

'Is everyone I've ever met a psychopath?'

'Yes,' interjected Sherlock without losing a beat. Mary gave a tiny nod of agreement, pursing her lips. 'Good. Now we've settled that…' Sherlock continued.

John turned with the speed of a whip towards him. 'SHUT UP!'

Mrs Hudson jumped and left the room, babbling about the neighbours, leaving the four of them alone.

'You!' John barked at Hermione, and she felt Sherlock's arms tighten around her shoulders. 'You knew everything, and still, you introduced me to her. Hermione bloody Black, secret service agent with fucking magic, Mycroft Holmes' trusted minion. I should have known better when you came into my life. And you!' He spun around to confront Mary. When he spoke, his voice and his face were a mask of barely controlled anger. 'What have I ever done ... hmm? ... my whole life ... to deserve you?'

Sherlock leaned on Hermione, flinching with the pain of supporting his weight. His hold on her was becoming weaker by the second, and his skin looked almost translucent in the light of the kitchen fluorescents. She was not sure how much longer he would last without collapsing. When he spoke, his voice was low and nothing like the detective's commanding, authoritarian tone they were used to. 'Everything.'

John walked advanced on Sherlock with two quick strides. The incredible speed of the movement and his tight jaw and tense neck made Hermione's instincts flare-up. She inched her fingers towards her wrist, ready to unclasp her wand, while John addressed Sherlock. 'Sherlock, I've told you. Shut up.'

'But he's right, John,' Hermione said, diverting John's attention. 'Everything you've ever done has led you to this.'

Sherlock nodded and spoke again, quieter than before. 'You were a doctor who went to war. You're a man who couldn't stay in the suburbs for more than a month without storming a crack den and beating up a junkie. Your best friend is a sociopath who solves crimes as an alternative to getting high. You chose,' he emphasised, 'as flatmate a witch with PTSS and part of the best trained paramilitary groups the world has to offer. Even the landlady used to run a drug cartel…' He stopped and closed his eyes for a second as if reaching for more air. 'John, you are addicted to a certain lifestyle. You're abnormally attracted to dangerous situations and people, so is it truly such a surprise that the woman you've fallen in love with conforms to that pattern?'

John grimaced briefly and then, his stare still fixed on Sherlock, pointed at his wife on the other side of the room. His eyes were shining, and his voice was full of suppressed tears. 'But she wasn't supposed to be like that,' he spat, and Mary lowered her head. 'Why is she like that?'

'Because you chose her,' Hermione said. 'Just as much as we chose each other.'

John stared at her, and Sherlock, for a moment, lost for words. He then paced around the room and viciously kicked the small table beside Sherlock's chair across the floor.

Sherlock straightened and slowly disentangled himself from Hermione. She let him go but remained standing behind him. 'John,' he said. 'Listen. You can be mad later, we've got work to do.'

John had a small fixed humourless smile on his face as his eyes remained locked on his wife. After a long moment, he sniffed deeply and harshly and turned briefly towards Sherlock. 'Okay, your way. Always your way.'

John cleared his throat and took a chair from the table. He carried it toward the centre of the room, facing the fireplace between Sherlock's chair and his own, and he addressed Mary for the first time.

'Sit.'

'Why?'

'Because that's where they sit. The people who come in here with their stories. Th-the clients. You're a client. This is where you sit and talk—' he answered in a tight, angry whisper, leaning towards her while pointing down to the dining chair. '—and this is where we sit and listen, then we decide if we want you or not.' Sniffing, he walked over to his chair and sits down, adjusting the cushion behind his back.

Sherlock lowered his head. Taking Hermione's hand in his own, he hobbled to his chair and let himself down while Hermione sat on the armrest. She briefly looked at Mary and gave her an almost imperceptible nod of encouragement. Mary was not stupid. Even if Hermione did not know everything about Mary's past, she knew her. And Mary would have realised by now that lying would be useless.

Mary slowly walked in between the chairs and sat down. She nervously adjusted her coat around her, dusting off the tops of her legs. Then, she turned her head to John as he looked back at her. Mary reached inside of her pocket and took out a pen drive, tossing it on the table. Sherlock glanced at it.

'"AGRA" What's that?'

Mary looked briefly at Sherlock, but mainly she focused on Hermione. It had been an unspoken agreement between the two of them when the person she now knew as Mary arrived at her doorstep all those years ago. Mary wanted an ordinary life. She never told her what happened, and Hermione never asked. Mary withdrew her eyes and cleared her throat. 'Er ...my initials. Everything about who I was is on there.'

John snatched the drive from the table with a loud sigh and shoved it into his left trouser pocket. He pulled himself into a higher sitting position on his chair. Mary addressed Sherlock. 'How much d'you know already?'

Sherlock moved briefly in his chair, taking a sharp inhale of air, wheezing as he breathed.

'By your skillset, you are—or were—an intelligence agent. Your accent is currently English, but I suspect you are not. You're on the run from something; you've used your skills to disappear; probably you had some help with that.' He looked over to Hermione. 'I presume that because of your friendship with her, part of the settlement was Mycroft's doing. You trust Hermione enough as to believe that whatever Magnussen has, it has not come from her.'

Mary shook her head. 'It hasn't been her.'

'Am I right on presuming she knows a big part of whatever is in that pen drive?'

Both Hermione and Mary answered Sherlock at the same time.

'I don't.'

'She doesn't.'

John shook his head as if he could not believe what he's hearing. He looked at Hermione. 'You accepted her explanations and gave her protection without knowing what she was. Why?'

Hermione clenched her jaw. 'For the same reason, you chose to follow a drug-addict with a flair for dramatics and danger around London.' She could see the brief smirk from Sherlock and Mary while John looked at her perplexed. 'Because I knew enough, and I knew her.' Hermione continued and glanced at Mary. 'That was everything I needed to know.'

John dragged his hand over his face, and Hermione almost took pity on him. Despite being Sherlock's sidekick, the situation was overwhelming for any average person. Sherlock, Mary, her. They were used to intrigues and secrets. But it was over the pay grade of a soldier.

'So, Mary… any documents that Magnussen has concerning yourself, you want—'Sherlock grimaced again, his voice tight with pain. '—extracted and returned.'

Mary raised her head, shocked. 'Why would you help me?'

'Because,' Sherlock replied simply. 'You saved my life.'

John's eyebrows shot to his hairline. 'Sorry, what?'

'When I happened on Mary and Magnussen...She had a problem.' He took a couple of noisy, strained breaths, bracing his hands on the arm of his chair and on Hermione's leg while addressing Mary. 'More specifically, you had a witness. However, sentiment got the better of you. You used one precisely calculated shot to incapacitate me in the hope that it would buy you more time to negotiate my silence. Because we were in the building, you couldn't shoot Magnussen. You calculated...that Magnussen...would exploit the fact of your involvement rather than sharing the information with the police, and then you left the way you came. But before you phoned the ambulance.'

John cut him off. 'I phoned the ambulance.'

'She phoned first. You didn't find me for another five minutes. Left to you, I would have died. The average arrival time for a London ambulance is eight minutes.' Sherlock lifted his left hand and looked at his watch as a clatter of feet sounded up the stairs, and two paramedics ran into the room with a stretcher. 'Did somebody call an ambulance?'

John stood up, looking at them in confusion. Mary quickly raised and removed the chair. Sherlock, breathing heavily, raised his left hand. Hermione saw it shaking wildly.

The paramedic looked puzzled. 'We were told there was a shooting.'

'There was, last week ... but I believe I'm bleeding internally, and my pulse is very erratic.' Sherlock was holding his left wrist with his right hand, his fingers on his pulse point. He took a sharp breath, trying to push himself up, Hermione helping him. 'You may need to restart my heart on the way.' His voice jolted, and his knees buckled. Hermione took all Sherlock's weight on her while John and Mary hurried forward, as well as the paramedics. Sherlock groaned and lost his hold around Hermione's waist, who was doing her best to support him. Mary stepped back out of the way of the paramedics. They put their bags down on the floor near him and took him away from Hermione. Despite his pain, he stared intensely at his friend.

'John, Magnussen is all that matters now. You can trust Mary. She saved my life. More importantly, you can trust Hermione.'

The paramedics laid Sherlock down as he whimpered, putting an oxygen mask on him and bringing him down to the ambulance waiting downstairs. Leaving John, Mary and Hermione alone.

Sherlock knew Hermione was in the room before he had even opened his eyes. He had barely woken up, still in the semi-conscious state of coming out of sleeping, but her scent was already in his nostrils. The sandalwood fragrance of her to-go designer perfume impregnated the air around him. Smells were a powerful trigger, and he remembered scenes that looked centuries old. The next thing he noticed was her hands, small and soft, enveloping his right one. When his eyes finally opened, he saw her sleeping face lying on the bed. He tried to caress her hair, but a sharp pain went through his body, making him grunt. Hermione stirred and opened her eyes, yawning slightly.

'Good evening,' she said, sitting up and wiping the sleep from her eyes.

'How long have I been out?' asked in a raspy voice Sherlock, taking the water Hermione was offering.

'Three days. All those theatrics really did a number on you.' Hermione brushed his dirty hair away from his eyes. 'John is coming later.'

'What happened?'

'John left and Mary, and I talked. Things are weird at the moment, but she's still my Mary. And she's pregnant and terrified, and we can't be divided, not now. So I guess I'll be filling in for John until things settle.'

'She should've come to us.'

'Yes… But can't cry over spilt milk now. We have bigger problems now.'

'It was Mycroft, wasn't it?' Hermione gulped. If Sherlock knew Mycroft had been the one to sell Mary, not even the full secret service would be able to protect him. Sherlock would eventually join the dots. Then he clarified. 'What Magnussen wants.'

'The pawns and the rest of the pieces are just a way of getting to the king.' Hermione breathed, relieved and smiled. 'I shouldn't keep you talking, much less thinking.'

'I'll be fine in no time,' said Sherlock, lowering his head onto the pillow, closing his eyes. Hermione looked at the levels of morphine. He was probably going to doze off again soon.

'Oh Sherlock,' said Hermione, and she kissed him on the forehead. 'I am afraid that you won't be working for a while.'