I'm back! This is a sequel to my previous story, "The Private Journal of Violet Hunter" and takes place shortly before "The Empty House" in the Holmes canon. Also, I apologize- this story's beginning is a bit more depressing than I had intended! But don't worry; it gets better :)

Again, all recognizable characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

Chapter One

"My friend Holmes, rather to my disappointment, manifested no further interest in her when once she had ceased to be the centre of his problems..."

Dr. Watson wrote this line about The Great Detective in reference to myself; while I am flattered at the good doctor's disappointment, no woman likes to be so utterly forgotten. Not that it surprised me: Sherlock Holmes is not, and has never been, one to let a woman in his life. But it is a little deflating to one's ego to see it stately so plainly in print, especially when one has never had a "conquest" to think of. (The vicar's son who proposed me when we were five most certainly does not count)

But despite my friendship with the Doctor's wife, I did not hear word from the detective himself. Not, I realize, that he had much time to. He was far too busy untangling the web of crime spun by none other than the infamous Professor Moriarty, and I was thrust into all the responsibilities and duties of a private school headmistress and part-time government agent. The closest I ever came to contacting the man was through his brother, Mycroft, when I came across certain little hints helpful to his investigation of the "Napoleon of Crime."

Still, it was a shock to learn of Mr. Holmes's death. When I first heard the news, I felt the air leave my lungs and I had to sit down. Memories of the year before swept over me, and I grieved for this man I barely knew. I mourned the loss of his genius and his mind, and I knew that England had lost one of her finest.

But nearly three years had passed since then, and my mind was filled with sorrow for another death, one that struck much closer to my heart.

"How was the funeral, Miss Hunter?" My secretary, Adeline Bower, asked as I slipped my coat off in the front entry hall of the school. I swallowed. "It was nice."

Nice. Such an innocuous word used to describe everything, fitting or not. Here it was an especial misnomer. The time spent gathered around the grave of Mary Morstan Watson and her stillborn child was the worst morning I had spent since the death of my parents fifteen years before.

"I think I'll turn in early for the night."

Adeline understood, and I quickly climbed the stairs, hoping I wouldn't pass any of the students in the hall. Safely escaping to my room, I shut the door and leaned against it, tears finally falling from my eyes. The bite of Mary's death stung even more due to the joy that had preceded it. I knew how Mary and her husband had longed for a child, and the expectation of a new life had been a balm for Dr. Watson in the wake of his closest friend's death. My tears came again, this time for the doctor. To lose his best friend and his wife—and child—within so short a time was unbearable.

Taking a steadying breath (though still shaky) I tried not to look at the drawer of my dressing table, which contained all of Mary's sprightly letters of ecstatic anticipation. He's to be christened Sherlock if he's boy…it's such an odd name, but it seems fitting. We haven't decided on a girl's name yet. What do you think of Charlotte? I've wanted a daughter named Charlotte ever since I was a girl, but John favors the name Elizabeth…

I silenced the echo of Mary's voice in my head and threw my coat on the bed. Unwinding my scarf, I sat down at my dressing table and stared at myself in the mirror. My multitude of freckles stood out in sharp contrast to the pallor of my skin, and my nose was red from the early November cold. I pulled out the pins in my bun and let my chestnut-hued hair unwind and fall. In the four years since I'd chopped it off in the case Dr. Watson had titled "The Copper Beeches" it had grown back to its former length, for which I was thankful. It was the only thing about me that could be considered truly beautiful, and I allowed myself the one vanity of my striking hair.

I abruptly stood and, almost angrily, tore off my clothing to dress for bed. In my haste, I tangled the tie of my dressing gown and it unreasonably frustrated me to the point that I felt my eyes water. I stopped my movement and took a few deep breaths to steady myself. But irritation had replaced sadness in my emotional state of being. I was angry that Mary had to die, I was angry that Mr. Holmes had to die and leave poor Dr. Watson all alone. I was angry I had allowed myself to become attached to Mrs. Watson, and, at the moment, I was mostly angry that I was so terribly inept at making friends that I didn't have anyone else to cling to and confide in now that she was gone.

The next morning I awoke early. I'd finally fallen asleep sometime around midnight, comforted by the hot tea one of the maids brought me and the pages of my Bible. Others might have found the words of Ecclesiastes baffling or cynical; I, personally, had always found solace there.

But my day had to begin, which included meeting all of the students downstairs for breakfast and then giving them their morning address.

I looked in on Miss Bower before going to teach my mathematics class; aside from my other duties, I still tried to teach a class or two each term, and mathematics was usually my first choice. She was in her small office, scheduling appointments and tallying up the pay for the Academy's employees. With the yuletide holidays approaching, I made sure that each of the teachers received a generous bonus for Christmas. Despite her often naiveté, I knew my secretary was trustworthy and capable enough to see her work through.

Adeline Bower was a nice girl, a former charity student of the academy who'd graduated the year after I'd become headmistress. Despite the fact that there was only a nine-year age gap between us, she was still very much the student to my teacher, and if our relationship did not mirror that of a mother and daughter, I was at the very least like her very-much-older sister. My own age (I was still under thirty, at least for a few more months) had caused many raised brows when I'd been given the position. For that reason, I'd had to put away any girlish foolishness I might have still had for the sake of my livelihood, and after a year or so as the head of the school, no one seemed to entertain any thought that I was unqualified for the position. Granted, my other occupation for Mycroft Holmes also matured me, given the grave yet often tedious work I was assigned to do. Every once in a while I'd be granted an opportunity to do something a bit more cloak-and-dagger, but most of my assignments saw me in my room, decrypting codes from various networks.

I didn't have much time for socializing, even if I'd wished to. I kept myself abreast of the news via newspapers and magazines, but I rarely left the Academy. It had, in essence, become my entire world.

"Good morning, class," I greeted the half-dozen third-year students.

"Good morning, Miss Hunter," the chorused, and I smiled. Despite my complaining of the work and monotony, I loved teaching. And for now, it would help heal me and distract me from the pain of the previous day.