Thank you all so much for your kind reviews and follows! It always brightens my day to see your reactions and your thoughts. I'm also so glad to see you like Sherry enough to warrant a sequel! So, without further ado, here's the next chapter :)

The airplane had really taken a lot out of me. It was nighttime when my mom and I returned from the airport, and I was glad—I didn't want to stay up any later than I had to, what with all the jetlag and being squeezed into the economy cabin like a sardine. My mom ended up flying back a week earlier than I had, and then I'd flown back. Alone. Which was mildly unfortunate, since I needed her assistance with getting back home from the airport anyways. James had to finish things up in England, whereas my time was done. I went over to Sherlock and John's one last time to celebrate our getting to know each other, and John promising to stay in touch, and Sherlock reluctantly agreeing that he, too, would stay in touch. I hoped so. It had rained again that night, which meant it was completely normal that I'd wear a long sleeve shirt. I was beginning to get rather accustomed to them now, and I wondered what I'd do when the weather began to heat up.

But now it was morning, and I sat with a cup of coffee, wondering what I'd do with myself. I was here permanently now, in the states, but the world was supposedly my oyster. Either way, it wasn't as though I could stay much longer in England—my student visa expired a week after my flight back. I tried to think over my priorities. The sooner I could find a job, the sooner I could begin paying back my debts. The sooner I could save up for when James flew over and we moved in together and eventually got married and would have to deal with insurance and other adult-like things, such as taxes. I decided to put off the job search for the next few days. It was time to rest. To be at home, with my family. It would likely be the last few days of peace I'd get for a very long time. Besides, I'd had plenty of fitful nights ever since James came and saved me. Now that I was back in the states, my sleeping had calmed down. Probably due to the distance between me and the warehouse.

My mom was at work and I was left to my own devices, sipping coffee, and ignoring my suitcases that rested against the wall. Fully unpacking meant that my time in England was over for good. It wasn't a vacation or a holiday. It was the rest of my life. And that was terrifying. I rather liked being in student-limbo. Old enough to know how to budget and cook, but young enough to make a few mistakes. To break a few rules. How little I thought of consequences back then. Now they were all I had.

I opened the newspaper and began to read it, like the adult I was supposed to be. But that didn't quite grasp my attention. Neither did the television. Or books. So I sat, drumming my fingers against the table. I checked my phone to see if James had messaged me. No texts, no calls. The next few days passed slowly like this, only picking up when I made dinner for when my mom came home. My days seemed to revolve around James now.

A few days later, a small package came for me. There was no return address, and the label was printed. My mom was at work, which I was thankful for, for once—that meant less questions, less wondering who it was from. After searching for scissors, I opened it, and found a note and a key. The note held only an address, but was written in the methodical handwriting that was James'. The house, as far as I could tell by the address, was in a Seattle suburb, which meant that it was nearly one-hundred miles away. I threw my clothes on in a jiffy and was already in my car before I texted my mother, lying, saying that I'd be out with some old friends so if I wasn't back by nighttime, don't wait up.

Just as I was getting onto the freeway, I realized my mom had texted me back, letting me know she'd received my message, and have a good time, okay? I thanked whatever forces were out there for giving me such an understanding mother, but also wondered why it was so easy for her to just believe me like that. I'd always known I was a good liar, but I didn't think that I was an exceptional one. And why would James put so much stock in me in case I had to testify on his behalf if he was certain that he'd never get caught? Common sense and a knowledge of general human nature would lead me to believe that he'd just set all this up so that I'd feel obliged to marry him, manipulated, ensnared, trapped. But he wasn't your average Joe—so why all this? Why all the dramatics?

I decided that I didn't know, I didn't care to know, and I'd turn up the radio to drown my thoughts.

When I pulled up to the house, I was pleased to find that there was a driveway. Then again, I didn't know why I needed to be surprised. Of course James would think about street parking and parallel parking. If this house was what I thought it was…well, then I mostly just wondered how much thought and care went into finding this place, or if he had simply ordered one of his goons around. Walking closer and looking at the shrubbery, I decided that this must have been hand-picked by the consulting criminal himself.

The door didn't creak when I opened it. Hardwood covered the floors as far as I could see, and I could tell from the outside that there was more than one story to this place. The house was lightly furnished, what with a couple shelves and a table and some chairs. It was bare, but not incomplete. It looked like the bare bones of James' house in England. In the kitchen, the bottle of sherry he'd opened when we'd gotten engaged rested next to a note and file. The note was written by him, too, and I wondered whether he was actually here, or if he threatened somebody else to put this together. 'Sherry, welcome to our new home. Once you've finally moved in, pour yourself a glass of sherry—from the same bottle we had before. It's symbolic. As a Shakespearean scholar, I'm sure you can derive pleasure from that. Don't wait for me. -JM'

I sat the note down and picked up the file, wondering what gruesome bits lay inside. Instead of an assassination report or a string of emails related to some horrendous crime, there was a deed, a signed contract, and a contract stating the name and password for the Wi-Fi. Everything was ready to go, and all I needed to do was move in.

We'd never even lived together before. What if we drove each other nuts? Or worse, I bored him? I sunk my head into my hands. When I was younger, I'd imagined getting married and moving into a house with my husband as a fun, sunny, momentous stepping stone in my life, placing a giant SOLD sticker over the real estate picket advertisement. Now…now. I needed to stop focusing on the negatives. Doing that would only make my perception of things worse. I'd gotten everything I'd wanted, didn't I? James had made sure of that.

Wondering and waiting. That's what my new life had come to. I reached over to the side of the bed—king-sized, since James was never one for subtlety in the bedroom—which was rumpled and cold. I'd been back in the states for a full month now, and I'd settled in quite well. I'd moved into a house that had already been paid off, and I was just starting my weekend, though those always felt too short. I'd found a job as the assistant artistic director at a Shakespeare company, which fell into my hands a little too easily. There was certainly a sense of James-pre-orchestration to it, but I wasn't about to complain since it paid the bills and loans. I'd take what I could get. Besides, don't bite the hand that feeds you, right?

It was a Saturday, and since we'd gone through our latest performance without problems for the past few days, I was safe to stay home all day, instead of standing behind the scenes of a production, watching, waiting, holding my breath. I checked my phone again. Well, at least I was paid to wait behind the scenes. If I was paid for all the gracious waiting I'd done for James, I'd have been able to purchase my own house.

I thought about what he was doing. Probably some high-end meetings, probably something illegal. I'd sent him a few texts here and there—I even tried to call once, disregarding the kind of phone bill I'd be sent later—but I never received a response. I wanted something, anything, to let me know that he was still out there. I mean, he wouldn't just up and abandon me after going through all the trouble to find a house and land me a job. That wasn't like him. But what if it was, and I just never knew? What if it was his way of getting rid of me, keeping me out of his hair? He was still a bit of a mystery to me, and I hated that.

Really, I should be grateful for all the time alone, I told myself. I was suckered into this engagement, and for the time being, I could pretend that it had never even happened in the first place.

But I needed to be completely honest with myself. After everything we'd been through, despite everything that had been said and done, I found myself missing him. He was a huge presence in my life, and now he was gone without a trace. I was alone now, for the time being, and I was tired of it. I wanted him back. I wanted him with me, in this bed.

Sighing, I scratched my forehead and forced myself to get up and face the cold air of the day, to stop ruminating over when he'd reappear. I started the coffee pot, made some toast, and waited for my laptop to boot up. Once my breakfast and entertainment were ready, I logged onto Facebook, annoyed at myself for checking it first thing in the morning. I expected that most of my English friends were posting about their dinners and nights out, whereas my American ones were just beginning to post about breakfast, and how happy they were that it was a weekend.

And there, in the right column—Sherlock Holmes was trending. What case did he solve now? It had been a while since he'd been trending on various social networking sites, so I knew it must have been a big one, especially since I was thousands of miles away. Whatever he did caught the attention of Americans, too. Immediately, I opened my email and typed John's email into the address area. It'd been too long since I'd spoken with him last. But, I hadn't had my coffee yet, so the email would have to sit there, open with nothing written in it, idling by. Returning to Facebook, I scrolled and scrolled and—

Oh. That wasn't possible. That was utterly and unconditionally untrue. It was written by The Guardian, and Le Monde, and The New York Times. But it couldn't be true. I blanched, and felt my stomach cave in on itself. I stood up, almost unsure of what to do, then decided upon throwing away my breakfast. I wasn't hungry anymore. I rubbed my eyes as I tried to construct a plan, one that didn't involve me crying as much as I wanted to.

I called the airlines for a round-trip ticket, ran to my room, and threw open a suitcase. I was going back to England, at least for a few days. I knew John must have had a support system over there, but I couldn't just sit by not doing anything. Not after something like this. I threw in clothes, underwear, pajamas—whatever I could think to pack between now and the plane that would be taking off in five hours. I tried to make a mental note to call my work about this. They'd understand. They'd have to. As I frantically packed in the other room, I left my laptop open on the kitchen table on the article entitled The Fake Detective's Suicide: A Case Study.

And there we have it! As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts. I think I'll be starting the sequel in a week or two (though it'll be a few weeks before I begin posting), so I'm beginning to look for inspiration. If there's anything you'd like to see in it, or hope to see in it, let me know! I hope you all have the best week, and I'll catch you on the flipside :)