Hey all, old and new! I'm back in action!

To returning readers, thanks so much for coming back, and I hope that this is all you wanted it to be! If you're a new reader, I highly suggest reading through The Rules of Exceptions, which is the prequel to this :) Both stories are/will be published on ao3, if that's your preferred site of choice!

It's my hope that I have enough chapters written to last me through till Thanksgiving break or winter break, and then I can write even more without worrying about homework, so there should hopefully be no hiatuses in the near future.

Anyways, I'm excited to share this with you, so let's just dive right on it!

My life seemed to be in a constant tempest of work. A presentation here, afterparty there, and be sure to get your budget in before the next quarter begins. And to think that only a year and a half ago I was stressed out about an essay, which now seemed entirely easy and manageable But that essay had ended up being a milestone in my student career, so I couldn't quite complain. It ended up being the catalyst for so many other milestones, too. Those milestones were nice, but a certain milestone that was something to complain about. He had ended up giving me a nice house, a nice car, and a nice job—I gave him that much—but the quality of the cons far outweighed the quantity of the pros. He also gave me a ring, a wedding, a husband. One who was secretive and left before the sunrise and came back after sundown. One who spent hours cooped up in his office and one who constantly expected me to be there emotionally for him when his plans went awry due to others' shortcomings.

One who was alive even though he pretended to be dead. I never quite forgave him for that one, but if I were him, I would have done the same thing.

Here's how it happened: An article, a memorial, and then a metaphorical slap in the face with the new knowledge that my fiancée was dead. And not just dead, but dead at the cause of his own hand, with a gun. I'd always thought that he'd go out with a bang once I learned and accepted who he truly was, maybe from a client gone mad or even thanks to the British equivalent of a SWAT team. MI6, maybe. Just not with his own gun.

Then: Gifts at my doorstep, doubts, and then him on one knee, re-proposing when he should have been dead. He was wearing a dark three-piece as he always did, and the ring was the one that I'd left on Sherlock's tombstone in England. At the time, I didn't find this strange. I was too shocked, too nauseous, too faint. Which is what I nearly did, and into his arms. To my luck, he stood and caught me before I swayed too far in any direction.

"You sure do fall in love quickly, don't you Sherry?" Were the next words out of his mouth after the dreaded "Did you miss me?" I'd never taken him for a pun person, but that one was probably too good to pass up. Maybe he thought my bubbling anger was propelled by his pun, and not by his being alive after all this time. He helped me walk into my house—our house—and sat me down on a couch as though I was some bourgeois Victorian-era woman who needed a fainting chaise.

As the prickling feeling in my face calmed down and my vision became clearer, I saw that he was hovering just beside me, crouching to get at my level. I reached over and felt his face, hand gripping his chin. He had the beginnings of a light stubble that pricked at my fingers, but besides that he looked just as he did before I left England. I opened my mouth to say something, but quickly shut it when I realized I was about to say something stupid. I was going to say something like 'You're not dead?' or 'But you're supposed to be dead!,' which he clearly was not dead, nor was he supposed to be (well, not to himself, at least). So, I settled on, "How are you still alive?" I sat up to face him.

James remained crouching, below me, clearly trying to appear as though he was giving me some sort of symbolic power. "That's a long story."

Tears began to fall and my heart pounded with anger. "Of course it's long, you fucking shot yourself!"

He emitted a low whistle. "Language, Sherry. I thought that distance was supposed to make the heart grow fonder."

"Well?"

"Well what?"

"Is your heart fonder, or is it just as black and shriveled as before?"

James let out a laugh. "My, you've become quite feisty in the two months I've missed you. So I'd say yes, quite fonder." He leaned in to kiss me.

I leaned back. "Don't you dare."

He raised his eyebrows in response, and I caught a glimpse of that oh-so-familiar malevolent glint in his eye. Then, darkly, "Well, this isn't quite the welcome I was expecting."

I hardened my gaze on him, doing my best to stare him down. "I know you like to give surprises. I thought you might have liked to receive one for once." A pause. "I have half a mind to call John right now, have him let Scotland Yard know that you're back on the prowl." I stood, suddenly wanting to go to the backyard and do some weeding, to uproot a few knowing that they never had a chance to survive in my garden. Weeds, at the very least, were legal to strangle.

A soft hand caught my wrist. The kind of soft hand that never had to do any dirty work of its own. "And I have a full mind to remind you that you're my contingency plan, and that if I go down, you go down with me. That would be awfully shocking to your family, wouldn't it?"

My options floated around in my mind. I could call John. I had done nothing worthy of jailtime in my life—even dating the James Moriarty, something I didn't even know I was doing until the very end—but if he could create an entirely false persona for himself in order to incriminate Sherlock was a way of having fun? Well, then, I didn't want to see what he could do in order to incriminate somebody for revenge. It was decided: I wouldn't call John, and I wouldn't have him pass along the message to Scotland Yard that James was back. At least this time, it wasn't a lie. It was simply omitting the truth.

I turned to face him, noticing that he had stood up during the time I was thinking. I smiled, but we both knew that it was fake. "Where are your bags? I can help you bring them in."

He tapped my nose with his finger and allowed the corners of his mouth to turn upward, deepening his crow's feet. "That's the Sherry I know."

Nowadays, his suitcases and mine were tucked away in the guest room closet. Mine were gathering dust. His weren't—he frequently left to go to New York, Boston, or some other city on the east coast. For a long time, I wondered why he simply didn't just buy a house over there, but then I realized that buying a house on the west coast must have been done to appease me. Besides, it wasn't as though there weren't a lot of big cities over here. Anyways, he offhandedly mentioned once that the area reminded him of London, and that it was better for him to distance himself from many of his clients now that he was in a sort of temporary hiding. Despite the fact that he flew across the country twice a month, of course. But that would have been silly of me to even mention.

James had just gotten back from New York, and was now spending time locked up in his office sending emails, Skyping, making phone calls, and who knew what else. It was as per our spoken agreement from all those months ago. I wanted to know nothing of his criminal career, and if he was at home while making some sort of arms deal or orchestrating some horrific act, it all had to be done within the four walls of his office. It was as per our agreement, yes, but I resented him for it.

I wanted him to spend more time outside of that room, and with me. Maybe in the living room, or the kitchen. Hell, even the bedroom would have been appreciated. But I also wanted him to stay cooped up in there. Work and the house was my domain. His office and wherever it pleased him to take me was all his. I wanted my living quarters to be untouched by his criminal hands, but at the same time would it kill him to make even the tiniest bit of small talk for once?

Even back then, I thought that he would have wanted to spend time catching up, discussing where he'd been, what he'd been doing in the time spent away. But the next thing he did after he had brought in his suitcases and unpacked them that first day was stand in his office, hands in his pocket. The prodigal husband had returned. He was gauging the room. It already had the bare bones of what he needed: a desk, a chair, a computer. But clearly, some things were still missing. The ambiance of the office was not what he wanted. Well, it wasn't my problem, so I just continued doing my own thing downstairs, slowly making my way outdoors to get to those pesky weeds.

When I was out there, I heard him rattling about indoors, opening and shutting cabinets and cupboards, surely getting a feel for the place. The noises floated out the windows. I hated that. I wanted him to ask me where things were, to walk on eggshells around me. But of course, that wasn't his style. His style was to waltz into my life again as though he had never left, as though I had suffered the repercussions of his actions. Like we were both the same when I'd left England.

In the following months, our relationship had teetered the fine line between tumultuous and passionate. Occasionally, he'd do something for me that somehow made me forget all of what he'd done to me, but most of the time, I'd remember. I was tired of going between the two, of creating such a vicious cycle, and thought myself foolish for ever imagining that it'd be any different than what it was. Months ago, I'd been naïve—and the worst part was that I knew I'd been naïve—and let my mind wander with nights together, weekend trips, and hugs around the waist while the other was cooking. I'd known that James wasn't exactly the most tender person, but did he have to be so demanding?

That night after he'd announced himself alive, I'd turned off all the lights downstairs and walked past the office, not bothering to let him know that I'd be going to bed. Clearly, he was busy. The door was shut, and I didn't dare interfere with whatever was happening between those four walls. I'd changed into my pajamas, and sat myself on my side of the bed. Placing my head into my hands, I wondered just what I was going to say to my mom.

At the beginning, I'd lied to her and said that James was away on a business trip, and he'd be gone for quite some time. After two weeks, then three, then four, I failed to update her on his happenings abroad. After I flew out to England and John told me what had happened, I continued to not say anything. It was a very long business trip. I figured that when the time came, I'd call my mom in a fit, lying that somebody had mugged and killed him, and that he defended his own life till his last breath. Now, I was somewhat grateful that I didn't have to rectify that falsified story, but at what cost?

A floorboard creaked, and I was alerted to James' presence in the doorway. "Going to bed too?" He walked in and began taking a sleepshirt out of his dresser.

I nodded. "The guest bedroom is that way," I pointed down the hall.

He looked between me and the door. "Do I look like a guest?"

"You look like a spider to me."

A curt laugh. "I didn't know you were afraid of spiders."

"I'm not. I just don't like them in my sheets."

James changed, and didn't respond for quite some time. Then, he crawled into bed despite my bad temper, and stared at me, propping his head up with his arm. "Humor me. For old time's sake."

I rolled my eyes, crawled into bed myself, then turned off the lamp on the nightstand. It was a king size bed. There was plenty of room between us. If he wanted to sleep here, then fine—but if he thought we were going to do anything else, he was sorely mistaken.

He shifted, and I saw the outline of his body in front of me. He'd scooted closer, and held his arm open as an invitation. "C'mon, c'mon, c'mon," he murmured rapidly.

I scoffed, deciding to look up at the ceiling instead.

"I missed you. Is that what you want me to say? I missed you?"

"I don't care what you say. So we're still engaged. So we live together. So we sleep in the same bed. I don't care. Just don't expect anything from me, because you're not going to get it." I rolled over, facing my side of the room instead of him.

A hand reached out and began rubbing my arm, in a vague attempt to mollify me, I guessed. "I don't expect anything from you. It'll be a surprise. Just like you want." He wrapped his whole arm around me this time, in what I assumed was an effort to spoon me. "But just know that I want to surprise you, too."

No words came out of my mouth in response. I didn't want to say anything to that. Instead, I wanted to remain silent in a torrent of passive-aggressive actions and nonactions, to make him really understand just how angry I was at him. He made me think that he was dead—and not only that, but that he committed suicide—and now he wanted me to accept him back into my life with open arms. Jesus, probably with open legs, too. Disgust should have risen up in my throat, but I was too tired to let my anger continue and disturb my sleep.

His arm fit snugly around my waist, and his chest rested right up against my back. He was warm. It was a feeling I missed in those first night alone, truly alone. I thought I'd never feel him against me like that again. And just like that, a flip was switched somewhere inside of me, and my tears began to freely fall, staining my pillowcase. I was so angry, and so sad, and so, so relieved that he was here next to me and not somewhere in the ground, rotting.

I flipped over and draped my arm around his side, gripping his shoulder as though it'd help ground me. I buried my face into his chest, not wanting him to look at me in a moment of weakness, in a moment where I wasn't raging and wanting to conspire against him. I hated to admit it, but it felt good to be held, good to be comforted. Why couldn't he have just let me know that he was planning to do something so horrible? Why couldn't he have just told me that he was still alive? I asked neither of those questions, so I received no answers. Only a hand rubbing my back.

"There she is," he whispered to no one in particular. "My Sherry, my Sherry."

Ahh! Okay! There it is!

So, a couple things for future reference, this is likely not going to be as long as the prequel-I want this to flow as it does in my head, and that means not stretching it out and therefore making it uncomfortable and/or weirdly paced. Also, lots of emotions! Because this is super different than the first in a way, it's going to come off as pretty different, but hopefully in a good way!

Anyways, please please tell me what you think! I know it's been a while, but I'm glad to be back in action, and as always, I value your thoughts and opinions :)

I hope you all have the best week!