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).

This is a WIP, all comments and opinions are welcome. It will be updated as regularly as possible and will cover as canon as possible from after Sherlock's death, covering the months we did not see, until HLV.

Note 20/03/2020: Edited, unbeta'd

Chapter 1: The Fake Flatmate

The stench of old pipes was still in her nostrils when Hermione emerged from the underground. She had always hated apparating and the sensation it left in her stomach for a good ten minutes after, but avoiding the cold and the crowds in the public transport almost made up for the downsides. The wind made January even colder, and she adjusted her scarf tighter around her neck, trying to stop her teeth from chattering. As she turned left along Baker Street, her mind drifted to her prospective flatmate, Dr John Watson.

John had become part of London's pop culture a couple of years ago because of his blog, where he told everyone who wanted to hear the adventures, quirks and shortcomings of Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. The blog had been an unexpected success and had raised John and Sherlock to the status of celebrities in England. More Sherlock than John, if she was honest, but their particular relationship - or lack thereof - had filled one or two morning shows. When Sherlock committed suicide after being accused of being a charlatan and a criminal, the tabloids had painted John as an innocent man in love at best, a willing accomplice at worse. They quickly moved into the most unsavoury aspects of Sherlock's life and forgot about John. All in all, Hermione thought, John had been lucky no unscrupulous journalist had sunk their claws on him in times of need.

It had been six months since Sherlock's death, and not a day had gone by in which she did not check every newspaper, app and renting website. Finally, the advertisement for an empty room in 221 Baker Street had appeared in last Sunday's paper, short and with a poor description. Whoever had written, they had no real intention of renting the room. Hermione had confirmed it when she had called the number. John's voice had stuttered when she mentioned the flat: he was not expecting someone to contact him, much less so soon. He had been pleasant, however, and had agreed to meet her.

Before reaching the block of Georgian style houses where 221 was, she stopped and looked at her reflection on the tainted glass of a real estate agency. She undid the messy bun she had put her hair in and retouched her lipstick. All the work she had done in the last months depended on her leaving the flat with a lease contract. And having John liking her was the only way Martha Hudson would sign the said contract.

When she arrived at the door with the gilded 221 on it, she pressed on the doorbell and waited. Seconds later, the door opened, revealing a petite woman with a kind smile on her face.

"Oh dear, you are Hermione right? John told me you'd come today."

"Yes, Madam. That's me."

"Oh, but get inside darling, this wind will get to your bones if you stand up there any longer."

The woman gripped Hermione by the arm and gently but firmly guided her to the back of the house, complaining about the weather and how it made her hips worse. Hermione took off her coat while the old lady got the purple teapot from the stove and put it next to a sugar bowl and two cups on the table.

"… Luckily for me, John is a doctor. Tea?"

"Yes, thank you, Mrs…"

"Oh, how rude of me. I'm Mrs Hudson, the landlady. I was so relieved when John told me he had put the ad on the paper. I was against renting it again, but we all need to move on. There you go, darling."

Hermione accepted the cup Mrs Hudson was offering with a smile and took a sip, letting the beverage warm her body.

"I was a bit hesitant myself," lied Hermione. "I mean, you hear so many things…"

"Oh, rubbish, all of it. Sherlock was a decent man."

"No, I mean…" Hermione felt her panic rising. "I mean, given their relationship. It mustn't be easy to allow someone in a space you used to share with… Someone special."

"Oh, you mean that!" Mrs Hudson smiled again and drank from her cup. Hermione let out an imperceptible sigh. "They never admitted it. I told them thousands of times I didn't care."

Hermione chuckled and took another sip. She had read John's blog so many times she could probably quote it verbatim, and despite his problems to keep a woman for longer than three dates, he was a healthy, convinced heterosexual. He had a weird fascination with Sherlock, but there were no signs it went further than just admiration. She could not say the same about Sherlock, but again, her knowledge of Sherlock was very limited. The noise of footsteps coming from the staircase interrupted her thoughts. Then a man entered the kitchen and stood next to the doorway, with his clenched hands hanging by his sides and imperceptibly shifting on his feet.

Dr John H. Watson.

He had made an effort, that was clear. He was clean-shaven; he had combed his hair and brushed his shoes. But months of voluntary confinement were obvious. His shirt, although of good quality, was full of creases, meaning he either had not done laundry recently or he had dug it out of the back of the wardrobe. Compared to the man she had seen in pictures, not typically handsome but attractive, this John was nothing but a shadow. He was far too thin, his eyes too sad, the mark under them of a deep purple contrasting with the pale of his skin. His military posture remained, and that was pretty much what she could recognise from the old John Watson.

John took a step forward. "Hi, sorry, it's ridiculous I'm late in my own house, I lost track of time." He shook Hermione's hand firmly. "John Watson."

"Hermione Black, a pleasure to meet you."

"The flat is upstairs, first landing. Shall we?" Hermione nodded and got up while Mrs Hudson offered to get them some tea. John thanked the woman and gestured for Hermione to follow him across the hall and up the stairs.

"Mrs Hudson seems a lovely person." Commented Hermione.

"She is. A force of nature." He reached the small landing and opened one the door opposite the staircase. "Here, please come in."

The front room was cramped and cluttered. Papers, laptops, and books stacked in precarious balance were strewn around. A thick layer of dust covered every surface but the brown armchair: John had touched nothing but that armchair in a very long time.

Hermione went past John and strolled around the living room, inspecting the wall and the shelves, while her hand roamed every surface she could reach without bending. His fingers soon were covered in soot. At her back, she heard John's nervous babble.

"This is the common area. I swear it's bigger than it looks. I haven't got around cleaning it yet..." John trailed off, but Hermione was only half-listening. A broad, yellow smile on the wall had caught her attention. At first, it looked like some sort of modern art. After a closer look, she saw the small cavities around the paint.

"Are those bullet holes?" Hermione turned her head to John, apparently lost in his own thoughts, startling him.

"Em, yes, they are." John cleared his throat. "I suppose you know who used to live here."

"I do, Doctor. I read your blog." He looked surprised at her, and Hermione realised how tactless she might have sounded. "I promise I'm not a crazy fan-girl and that I'm not stalking you. Really. I just want a place to live."

He stared at her, blankly. She could almost hear how the wheels in his head were working to answer her. Hermione was holding her breath. Her heartbeat echoed in her whole body. For the second time in less than thirty minutes, she was close to getting herself kicked out of there. Idiot.

"You're an improvement then."

John gave her a small grin, and she answered in the same fashion. She could still see the pain in his eyes, but his demeanour was calmer, and that calmed her in return. I might stay after all. John moved towards the kitchen, and Hermione followed. The kitchen was even untidier than the living room. The table looked like something you would find in a basement lab, with a microscope, dishes, and some chemicals she was sure no one should touch without gloves. Most of the surfaces in the kitchen were similarly busy.

"I don't really cook, so the kitchen is pretty much unused. It's equipped with the usual." Continued John. His hand touched an empty Petri dish, longingly. "I should've cleaned all of this before you came. I don't think anyone would consider a microscope a kitchen appliance."

"Look, if you are not sure about this, I can just leave. No hurt feelings."

The man shook his head, with slightly bright eyes she guessed he did not want her to see. He cleared his throat. "It's fine. It's just..."

"It's difficult. Losing someone always is."

"It is…" His voice broke. She saw him inhaling deeply and blinking. He bowed his head even further down while his left hand went to his eyes to bat some treacherous tears away. "I am sorry, Miss Black."

"No, please, Hermione." She went around the table and squeezed his arm lightly, as a comforting gesture. John smiled at her, and she turned away, giving him some space. Someday, she would explain to him how much she understood him. How many losses of her own she had had to recover from. Now it was her turn to open to dry her eyes, from where fresh tears were about to spill. She tried to busy herself opening the fridge. A foul odour had come from inside, and she had to repress her nausea.

"Why does the fridge smell as if there were dead animals inside?"

"Probably there were at some point. I hadn't noticed."

"How can you not? It smells awful!"

"I've been sharing with Mrs Hudson. As I've said, the previous tenant had interesting hobbies."

John extended his hand to two closed doors. "Those are the bathroom and Sher- your bedroom. Feel free to have a look at them."

"Do you have torture machines in any of the other rooms?"

"I haven't checked." John gave the first real smile since she knew him.

"I'll try my luck. I'm in if you'd have me."

Before John could answer, Mrs Hudon appeared with a tray of butter biscuits, tea, and cups.

"Ah, Mrs Hudson," said John. "I think you have a new tenant."

The woman left the tray on the coffee table, and her hands found each other in a gesture that could only be defined as delighted.

"That's lovely, dear. It would be so nice to see a woman's touch around here. But we might need to clean; John wouldn't let me touch a thing."

"I thought you weren't our housekeeper."

"Nonsense, John. Pour her a nice cuppa while I go to fetch the key of the other flat to store all of this"

The old woman darted out of the room while John served the tea.

"No milk for me, Doctor."

"John. Now we're flatmates, Hermione."

During her journey back home, Hermione revisited her afternoon at Baker street. The conversation over tea had covered politics, the royals, roadworks and the upcoming Olympics. At some point, Mrs Hudson had asked about her job. Hermione had answered she was a writer, and had to specify she wrote for academics because Mrs Hudson was ready to tell everyone she had a famous writer living at her house. It was paramount she kept a low profile.

In the present, the car stopped. Hermione gripped with force the overhead bar. That did not avoid for a man to thrust his armpit on her face when he could maintain his position, or a man's legs bumping into the back of her own. Sweat was forming on her scalp. She hated the underground. The mechanical tube voice announced her stop, and she got out of the car, elbowing her way out and up the escalator. By the time she left the station, she could only think of getting home and have a bath. Fishing her phone out of her pocket, she dialled the number of the Chinese place nearby and recited her usual order. Hermione entered her building as she hung up and climbed the stairs to her flat. On the third floor, she turned right and stopped. Her front door was ajar, but no lights were on. In precise, silent movements, she took a gun out of her bag and left the bag on the floor. Slowly, she advanced to the door and opened it enough to enter with her back against the wall. She waited until her eyes had adjusted to the darkness and turned to the living room.

And then, she lowered her gun, swearing out loud.

"For fuck's sake!" She went to retrieve her bag without waiting for an answer, leaving her gun next to where she kept her wand. Entering back into the flat, she slammed the door shut and turned on the lights. "You have to stop trespassing other people's homes. Your power complex is just ridiculous sometimes, Mycroft."

The man on the armchair was wearing an impeccable three-piece suit and a sardonic smile matching. The chain of his old-fashioned pocket watch glinted under the light when he checked the time. And next to him was his always present umbrella.

"I am glad to see your instincts and reaction time continue being impeccable."

"You would have been dead by now if they weren't." Answered Hermione. Then she went to the pantry, took two glasses and filled them with a red wine she had opened the night before. She handed him one glass and sat on the couch, facing him. Mycroft smiled slightly before raising his glass in a silent toast and took a sip, humming in approval. She did the same and waited, as usual. In the majority of their interactions, he was always the first one to talk. It was a soft way to establish the hierarchy in their relationship.

"How was it?"

"As planned, I will move in this Saturday."

Mycroft seemed to meditate his next words. "And how is John?"

"Not great. I don't think he is eating properly. And you should see the flat, it's like time hasn't passed. Everything is as Sherlock left it."

Mycroft's eyebrows shot up to his hairline. Sighing, he stared at the movements of the wine when he twirled the glass. "Apparently, Sherlock left a much longer-lasting impression than I thought."

"But you did think about it. Otherwise, I wouldn't be 221B new tenant."

Mycroft did not respond and finished his glass of wine. At times, it was difficult to gauge Mycroft's motives. He was a crucial piece in the Government precisely because of how impermeable, ruthless and pragmatic he was. But when Sherlock was concerned, Mycroft had always had problems remaining impartial. No matter how strained their relationship was, Mycroft had always been fiercely protective of his brother, and Hermione knew the lengths Mycroft had gone to look after him. That's why she had problems reconciling Mycroft's apparent detachment from Sherlock's death and this worry about Sherlock's best friend to the point of sending an MI-7 field agent to watch over John. She told herself it did not matter. She owed Mycroft too much as to doubt his grief and coping mechanisms.

"Sherlock was never fond of people, I never imagined he would choose someone so..." His tone, condescending, made her clench her jaw.

"Ordinary?" Mycroft looked at her. "Well, maybe it was time that one of the Holmes brothers did it."

"Touché."

"He could've asked you the same thing if he knew about me."

"Oh please, Hermione, do not compare yourself with John Watson."

"Is that a compliment? Oh, Mycroft, I'm flattered. "

He smirked and poured himself another glass while she eyed at him over the rim of hers, studying him. She had become colder and impassive with the years, but she would never reach Mycroft's general disregard for feelings. He left the glass on the table and massaged his temple with the middle and index finger of both hands, closing his eyes. Hermione went around the table and positioned herself at the back of the armchair. Her small hands found Mycroft's shoulders and massaged the tense notches in the muscles there, feeling the man relax under her pressure.

"What next, boss?"

"Monitor him. Make sure he moves on."

"You care about John Watson now?"

He sighed. "Even if I've tried to get rid of banalities such as sentiment, human nature is still my nature, and Sherlock was still my brother. He would never forgive me if something were to happen to John."

She gave him a friendly last squeeze and steadied her hands. Hermione could distinguish the lines on Mycroft's forehead and around the eyes. He looked much older than he was. Something was bothering him, something that was eating at him. She could not help feeling bad for him. Even if he had chosen this power-driven life, he looked more and more drained with each passing day. The part of her that looked up to this man ached for him. Especially now he had lost the person he had cared about the most in the world.

"Do you want to stay the night? My spare bedroom is available."

He smiled and touched one of Hermione's hands in his shoulders, before rising from his seat.

"Although tantalising, I am afraid I have to decline. Important business tomorrow, outside in the mainland. I'll stay there for a week or two. Can I count on you to give me a full report when I am back?"

"Sure. Shall I record John's bowel movements?" She mocked, but she let him know with an arched brow that she was serious. "I won't disappoint you."

"I know. You are the best agent I have."

He picked his umbrella and gathered his coat from the arm of the couch.

"I got a message from Kingsley Shacklebolt this morning. An invitation."

Hermione tensed. "Like every year."

"And they have asked for confirmation." Mycroft put on his coat and started walking to the door.

"And you've said no, like every year, right?"

"I am utterly irritated with that Minister of yours, pestering about your absence, but yes, I did." He stopped in front of her. "This year Sirius is attending."

Hermione had never gone to the second of May celebrations, and neither had Sirius. They usually spent the day somewhere abroad, trying to deal with their own demons. But now Sirius had been forced to attend, something about him being the liaison between the MI-7, MI-6 and the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. And despite living in the muggle world, he was still a very much active wizard in the community. Hermione, on the other hand, had lived a perfectly comfortable existence in the most muggle-like way, only used magic during missions - if at all. And had not put a foot in a magical building in close to ten years.

"That's his choice. And as far as the Ministry knows, Sirius and I are not in contact." Argued Hermione.

"But you are," said Mycroft, taking a look at his pocket watch. "We'll talk about it once I am back." Mycroft bid her goodbye, and Hermione was left alone with many thoughts and an almost empty bottle of wine. Hermione dropped herself on the couch. She hated these first months of the year, only because they led to May, and the memories May brought with it. Hermione sipped on her wine, thinking about her nineteen-year-old self. What would she think about the present Hermione? Would she be surprised, ashamed, worried, disappointed? Hermione knew she was all of that about the naïve schoolgirl that thought she knew everything. Memories of resentment, hate, love and pain came flooding, as every time she remembered the post-war days. How her perfectly crafted world had crumbled around her when the world had given her a taste of reality. How her ideal future had dissolved as a bath bomb in water.

Little was left of Hermione Granger, the brightest witch of her age. Resentment had taken everything away.

Hermione shut her eyes, her hands trembling. In a whim, she reached for her phone and scrolled down her contact list, and dialled.

'Hi, there! This is the personal number of the best thing that could happen to London's nightlife, Sirius Black. I probably won't hear this message, so keep calling. Cheers.'

Of course, he would not answer. Hermione let a sigh before speaking.

"Hi, it's me. Um..." Her voice faltered for a second. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she continued. "I was wondering if you were free to have dinner one of these days? I haven't seen you in a while, and… Well, give me a ring. Okay. Bye"

Hanging the call, Hermione dropped the phone to the couch, and let her head slide to the back of her seat, closing her eyes again, drifting off. The doorbell startled her, and her stomach grumbled, and her head complained. She had eaten nothing since tea time, and wine on an empty stomach was not agreeing with her.

Moments later, while she chewed happily on her perfectly cooked chicken, she was more in control than when she had called Sirius. She could not let the situation dominate her. She had a mission now, a full-time one, she could not afford distractions. Besides, May was still a few months away.

Hermione felt a pang of guilt when she thought about Sirius. He had shielded her from everyone since she left, at the expense of lying to Harry. He had taken care of her and helped her as a father would do, had hired her for the MI-7 and given her a whole new life.

Her life had been an unconventional one, but it has suited her fine. She was starting to think the time she had borrowed had an expiration date.