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Let's just say this: no woman in her right mind burns bridges with a Q without thinking twice about the consequences.
Intergalactic war between the Continuum and all humanoids, though among his threats, was not really a concern. Nor that any harm would come to her once they were apart; Q had promised her protection as repayment of a grave debt to Jean-Luc, and even if his word weren't to be trusted, his childish relationship with Picard assured her everlasting safety. Come to think of it, Vash doubted Q could even truly be broken up with any means she knew — seventy years from now she could probably turn around, say the letter, and have him by her side in a moment. The thought was oddly comforting.
What gave her pause about ending their partnership, of course, was decreased access.
Vash was six when she decided to be an archaeologist. She was twenty-six when she realized she would never be that archaeologist until she got to do it her way. The infant feeling of standing on the wrong side of a museum forcefield, fingers itching to touch the resplendent vestiges of an heretofore unimagined past never really went away — it just mutated into her adult frustration with academic hoops and custodial restrictions. She understood the need, wanted to preserve the past's treasures as much as the next scholar, but she couldn't personally abide a life behind glass and locked doors. And Q, with his promises, was nothing if not the universe's best key.
But Vash was no amateur; Vash has been doing this for years; Vash would never stop. Without her friend the key, she'd find another way through the lock. Where no human had been before, she gathered secrets of the Gamma Quadrant to her; she hitched a chance Starfleet ride back home, knowing she'd return. And when that glorious wormhole erupted in the sky, she felt the freeing click of a strong latch, unhooked — another forcefield dissolving before her; one more obstacle melting, the universe's envy and unending history trailing in her wake.