Note: The case in this chapter was inspired by S1E4 of BBC's Jonathan Creek.
(PSA: If you love Sherlock, you'll love JC!)
III
In the six weeks Sherlock had shared his flat with Margaux and Vaughan, the living room had become a graveyard of toys; a sea of plastic and primary colours. With every step Sherlock took, he triggered a flashing light or sound effect as he kicked his way through the mess.
He felt a crunch under his foot, stopping suddenly and closing his eyes with a sigh, before lifting his foot to see a broken toy car beneath it. He kicked it aside and made his way to his armchair, throwing himself down and gesturing to the client's chair.
"Have a seat."
The man sat down tentatively as he looked around the room.
Sherlock glanced at the mess. "My son has an acute aversion to tidying up after himself."
"Wonder who he got that from?" John chimed from the kitchen.
The man laughed nervously. "Oh, I- I don't mind. Y'know, I read online that you had a kid. But you didn't strike me as the hands-on type."
"Why's that?"
"Oh… God, no, I didn't- I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend you, Mr Holmes. I think I just–"
"Stop talking. It's exhausting."
John walked in carrying a mug of tea. He handed it to the man and sat down, shifting in his seat as he felt something under his leg. He reached down and pulled out a toy magnifying glass.
Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned to the man. "Mr Rathbone, I understand you're here with the hope that I'll take your case…"
"Yes, Mr Holmes. Very much so."
"Okay then. Go on. Sell it to me."
The man's eyes widened. "I'm sorry?"
"He gets off on it. It's nothing personal," said John.
"Tell me about your case and I'll see if I want to take it," Sherlock continued.
"R-right." The man cleared his throat. "So, I own a white goods shop, and er, just a few days ago me and my employee Craig-"
"It's 'my employee Craig and I.' But go on…"
John glared at Sherlock before turning his attention back to the man.
"Right. Well, the two of us delivered a fridge to this woman who lives in one of those new apartment buildings in the city. Posh place, gorgeous views-"
"Yes, yes, get on with it."
"Anyway, she lived on one of the top floors and it didn't fit in the lift, so me and-" He stopped himself, straightening his posture slightly. "Craig and I… had to carry this fridge all the way up the stairs. We get to her flat, shimmy it down her little hall into the kitchen where she opens the fridge door to have a look. And there, inside, is a dead body, Mr Holmes – a woman."
John's eyebrows raised in horror, but Sherlock didn't flinch. Instead he sighed.
"Mr Rathbone," he began. "This is an enquiry for–"
"No, no, please, Mr Holmes. The police have named me a suspect, they'll be coming to arrest me for murder any day now, I just know it. Which is why I came to you for help." His eyes were wide, desperate. "Mr Holmes, we looked in the fridge when we got it out the van outside the building. It was empty."
Sherlock's ears pricked.
"So somehow, in the time it took us to carry it up those stairs and put it in her flat, someone managed to put a dead body inside of it."
The afternoon came quickly and the blue spring sky shone across the dust on the windowpanes. Sherlock was almost leaping with excitement; bouncing around the living room like a pinball as Margaux and John sat calmly at the table.
"It's intriguing. It's challenging. It's peculiar. It's impossible," he muttered to himself, stopping suddenly in the middle of the room. "Ooh this really is a good one." An almost sinister smile crept across his face.
"You know it's not too late to change your mind," John said to Margaux. "It's only been a couple of months. Back out and run."
She laughed as she typed on the laptop, collecting information to help with their case.
Sherlock's phone beeped. He whipped it out and read it breathlessly.
"Excellent!" He shouted, startling them. "Molly's doing the autopsy as we speak. Let's go, John."
"Wait, has Greg approved you getting involved?" asked Margaux.
"Hm? Greg?"
"Lestrade!"
"Oh, Greg." He shrugged. "Eh, I'll deal with him later. It's easier to ask for forgiveness than it is to ask permission."
John slipped on his jacket as Sherlock pulled on his coat. There was a pang of jealousy in Margaux's chest as she watched them getting ready to leave. She frowned as she sat in her comfy clothes with her hair pulled into a ponytail, her arm still wrapped in its sling.
"When you go to the apartment, make sure you check the–"
"Windows," Sherlock finished.
"Yep. And the–"
"Bins."
She slouched back in her chair. "And keep me updated on the autopsy results. I might be able to help."
"Will do." John smiled as he followed Sherlock out of the door, the pair of them tripping on Vaughan's toys on their way.
Margaux let out a long, frustrated exhale as she sat alone at the table. She closed the laptop and looked out of the window as the men's footsteps echoed down the stairs.
After a few moments, a set of footsteps ran back up. She turned to see Sherlock hurrying back into the room. He approached and swept her into a quick, deep kiss.
"Sorry," he said. "This whole 'goodbye' thing. I'm still adjusting."
He smiled and gave her another hasty kiss before disappearing out of the door again.
III
Hospitals. There was something uncomfortable about them; something cold and unnerving. Even in their quiet corners, there was always an inkling that somewhere close by, there was chaos – someone was dying while someone else was being born, someone was mourning while another celebrated going home. It was jarring. Margaux had never liked hospitals.
As she sat in the consultation room waiting for the doctor to return, she checked her phone. Nothing. She huffed. She wanted to help them on their case; it was like an itch in a place she couldn't reach, niggling away at her and making her snappy and irritable. She loved Baker Street, and she loved Sherlock. But the feeling of uselessness had outstayed its welcome, and it had never truly been welcome in the first place.
"Right," said the doctor as he stepped into the room. He was holding a folder and reading the notes as he spoke. "Everything's fine here. Let's have a look."
She sat on the edge of the examination bed and watched as he removed her sling.
"Healed very nicely," he mumbled as he poked and prodded her scar with his gloved fingers. He began to move her arm around, raising it high and rolling her shoulder. "That feel okay?"
"Mhm," she nodded. "Honestly it's been fine for a while. I've been dying to take that thing off." She gestured to sling with a sneer. It had become her enemy; a heavy chain holding her prisoner.
"Well I'm confident you don't need it anymore. Just keep doing those exercises the physio gave you."
He moved his attention to the scar on her neck, furrowing his brow as she held her breath.
He stepped back and folded his arms. "Have you had any psychological help? Y'know, to help you deal with what happened to you?"
"I'm fine," she smiled. "Just restless – ready to get back to work."
"Are you sure? Because… being shot, that's quite a lot to cope with."
"Most of the people I know have been shot; for my friendship group, it's really just a rite of passage at this point." She shrugged.
Margaux wondered if she should mention her recurring nightmare. Or the fear she felt when she thought about moving back to her own flat. But when she looked down at her shoulder, dressing and sling free, she decided to keep her mouth shut.
III
"Asphyxiation," said Molly, her tone jarringly cheerful.
"Really?" asked John as he leaned over the body, looking more closely at her bruise-less neck.
"Not strangulation. It looks like she died from lack of oxygen."
"So, she died inside the fridge," said Sherlock.
Molly nodded.
"She was alive in there?" John furrowed his brow. "But how? They'd have heard her in there, surely. She'd have called for help."
"You'd think," Sherlock pondered.
"Also," said Molly sweetly. "I- Well, I don't know if it means anything to you. But… When they brought her in, she wasn't wearing any underwear."
"What?"
She shrugged.
"Well what could that mean?" asked John.
Sherlock walked out of the morgue without another word. John and Molly stood there quietly, looking at each other with blank expressions.
Sherlock popped his head back around the door. "Come on then."
John rolled his eyes and followed him.
…
Mr Rathbone wasn't lying when he said the apartments were posh. As the two men stepped out of the stairwell, they were met by a floor-to-ceiling window. It was like a picture frame holding the perfect scene of the London skyline inside of it. While John gazed at the view, Sherlock observed the hallway; the floor, the ceiling, the width from wall to wall. He counted his steps from the stairs to the apartment door, searched for security cameras, opportunities for someone to have slipped by unnoticed.
A short blonde woman opened the door. She welcomed them inside nervously, her eyes dropping to the floor as Sherlock began observing her.
Mid-twenties, rich parents, only child. Business graduate, no, Hospitality graduate. Natural blonde, real tan – recently holidayed in Ibiza. He narrowed his eyes. No engagement ring, but she wore a necklace with a heart-shaped pendant – boyfriend.
"Where's Joshua?" he asked.
She blinked rapidly. "Oh… You've- you've already met my–"
"No. Didn't know he existed until three seconds ago."
"Th- then, how did you know his name?"
Sherlock cleared his throat, he enjoyed this part. "The pendant you're wearing is in the shape of a heart – a gift. Perhaps from parents or a friend, but no, there's a 'J' engraved on it. So, clearly it was a romantic gift; a reminder of someone's love for you, or your love for them. You're in your mid-twenties, twenty-five to be exact, which places your birth year between 1991 and 1992. Judging by the style of the men's shoes by the door, I'd assume your boyfriend is the same age. So, it's a name beginning with 'J', popular in the early nineties. If my knowledge is correct – which it is – The top name beginning with 'J' during that time period was… Joshua."
"Wow." She breathed. "That was..."
"Yeah," said John. "Quite the party trick, isn't it."
"Is he here?" asked Sherlock.
She nodded and lead them through to the living room. It was filled with boxes and items they hadn't yet unpacked. Josh was sitting on a couch, watching a television that sat atop a dining chair, its wires exposed and trailing across the floor.
Josh stood up, he was jittery as he extended his arm for a handshake. "Sherlock Holmes, I've heard about you."
Sherlock looked down at his hand, his arms remaining firmly behind his back. "Where were you when all of this happened?"
"Oh, I was in bed. Had a terrible migraine so I took the day off work. Didn't realise anything was wrong until I heard Katie scream."
He turned to the woman. "What about you?"
"Well I left for work at 6am so I didn't know Josh had stayed home. So, when the men called me to say they were on their way with the fridge, I left work and met them outside the building so I could let them in."
"So, you were with the fridge the entire time?"
"We all were."
Sherlock groaned deep in his throat. He swivelled around and made his way to the bedroom, directing John to check the kitchen.
He looked around the bedroom, taking mental photographs of each square foot. He opened the window which looked out on a narrow side street and peered out at the long drop to the pavement. Below sat a row of bins which were overflowing with rubbish – the bin men hadn't been yet, he thought, there could be something down there.
…
"Tell me again why I agree to come on these cases with you?" John shouted as he waded through rubbish.
Sherlock stood up, shaking his hair out of his eyes. "Because you're an addict. Just like me. I get my high from a needle, you get yours from putting yourself in danger."
"Mm. The only danger I see here is the risk of hepatitis."
"Aha!" Sherlock shouted.
John jumped, turning to him in panic to see him staring up at the sky. He followed Sherlock's line of vision halfway up the building, noticing a pair of lace knickers hanging from an air vent.
"Look at the window they're directly beneath. The bedroom window, John, where Joshy-boy was supposedly sleeping."
"So I crawled around in people's garbage for nothing… Brilliant."
III
They walked into 221B to the sound of spoons scraping the bottoms of teacups. Margaux and Mrs Hudson sat talking in the armchairs while Rosie bounced in her walker. Vaughan kept placing building blocks on her tray, the two of them giggling as Rosie continued to pick them up and throw them back on the ground.
John walked over to his daughter and lifted her into his arms. Talking in a high pitched voice and smiling as she babbled back. "Yes that's right, daddy smells like a wheelie bin. Yes he does, yes he does."
"Oh she's been wonderful, John," said Mrs Hudson. "She's a credit to you and Mary, she really is."
John smiled as he packed her into her pram.
"You not staying for dinner?" Asked Margaux.
"Nah," he replied. "I need a shower. Desperately."
They said their goodbyes and Sherlock helped him downstairs with the pram before heading back up and straight for the bathroom.
...
He emerged from the bedroom in a fresh set of clothes, approaching Margaux who was still sat in his armchair. They looked at each other in a silent standoff, Margaux eventually winning when he gave up and sat in the chair opposite.
"Notice anything?" She asked, twisting from side to side.
He smiled. "How does it feel?"
"Amazing," she sighed happily, rolling her shoulders and raising both arms above her head.
"I suppose this means I'm out of a job. Since you don't need my help anymore."
"Yeah I suppose it does."
Their eyes locked. Margaux felt a pit forming in her stomach.
"I guess…" she began reluctantly. "This means we should look at moving my things back to my flat."
His back straightened and he cleared his throat. "Mm. Y-yes. I guess it does."
He felt a pang of sadness, and she did too. Neither saying what they really wanted to say.
She forced a smile. "I promised you we wouldn't outstay our welcome."
"You don't need to be welcomed here."
She smiled again, more genuinely this time, and leaned forward resting her arms on her thighs.
She looked around the flat. "You'll get to take the child locks off everything."
"Yes, I suppose I will."
"Maybe keep the one on the cupboard under the sink. Y'know, chemicals..."
"Yes." He nodded.
"Anyway, I made dinner."
"Oh." He grimaced.
"Mrs Hudson did most of it. I just helped."
"Oh," he said again, his tone brighter, more enthusiastic.
They ate dinner around the table, just the three of them. Sherlock worked on his case between mouthfuls while Margaux encouraged Vaughan to eat more. They had always been a mother, father and son. But in the space of just six weeks, they had become a family.
Later, Sherlock sat with Vaughan on the living room floor while Margaux cleared away the dishes. She listened to them playing; to Sherlock teaching him how to hide things inside his stuffed animals, and Vaughan giggling at his newfound trick.
She walked into the room and couldn't help but smile as two sets of piercing blue eyes looked up at her.
"Right Mr, it's almost bedtime," she said.
"Which one of us are you talking to?" asked Sherlock.
"I'm talking to the two-year-old. But I can order you to bed later, if you'd like."
His eyes widened for a moment. He cleared his throat and his mouth suddenly felt dry.
She lowered her head to hide a smirk and walked over to Vaughan, crouching beside him and stroking his hair. "I think you should tidy up."
"No!"
"Come on. Daddy keeps tripping over your things."
"Tell Daddy to stop tripping then." His voice was clear and surprisingly sarcastic, catching both of his parents off guard.
Sherlock and Margaux exchanged a glance, their faces almost bursting as they tried to hold in their laughter.
She shook it away and straightened her face. "Vaughan. Tidy up please. You can have two stories if you do it quickly."
…
The sun had dropped below the skyline, illuminating London in a deep dusty blue. Margaux came down from Vaughan's room to see Sherlock sitting on the couch examining a pair of pink, lace knickers. He was holding them up by the end of a pencil, squinting as he looked at them closely. She raised an eyebrow and stood in the doorway.
"Well they're not mine..." she said.
"No, I think they belong to the dead woman." He replied plainly, his eyes never leaving the underwear.
"Ah, my boyfriend holding a corpse's thong. What a delightful view."
"She wasn't wearing them when she died. That's the part I'm stuck on." He put them back inside the evidence bag and placed it on the arm of the couch.
"You can throw that pencil in the bin," said Margaux.
He threw it across the room, listening as it landed in the bin with a clink. He smiled, a sarcastic, exaggerated smile that creased the sides of his mouth.
She shook her head and made her way over to him. "So..." she began. "Vaughan's asleep."
"That's good," he replied, distracted by his thoughts of the case.
"And the doctor told me I've healed well."
"Very good."
She sighed. "It is good. He said I can return to work."
"Great."
"I can exercise."
"Mhm."
"I can..." she climbed onto him gently, straddling his lap and wrapping her arms around the back of his neck.
His eyes shot up to meet hers. "Oh..." he said quietly.
"Yep."
He gulped.
"It's been months," she said. "Surely it's killing you like it's killing me?"
"I've trained myself over the years to suppress feelings of lust and romance. Compartmentalising makes for optimum efficiency in–"
She stifled his ramblings with a kiss. Pushing her chest against his and tugging gently on the back of his hair.
He stammered as she pulled away. He had meant to say something, but the words left him in an incoherent mumble. It only took a moment, though, for something to switch; Sherlock had unlocked the compartment that held his desire and his lips were on hers again, his hands roaming her body until they reached the hem of her top. Together, they pulled it over her head and he threw it to the floor. His lips found her neck, travelling hastily down towards her chest when suddenly he stopped, resting his head on her shoulder and breathing heavily.
"What's wrong?" She whispered.
He lifted his head and ran his thumb across the thick, red scar on her collarbone, a glint of sadness in his face.
"It's okay," she said. "I'm fine."
He closed his eyes and sighed, before laying a kiss on the part of her that had once been so delicate, yet was now permanently damaged. Because of him.
She unbuttoned his shirt and ran her hands down his bare chest before taking his face in her hand and bringing back up to hers. He was tentative; his touch too light, his movements too slow.
"I love you," she whispered, her eyes locked on his. "You won't hurt me, Sherlock. I trust you. So please trust me."
The silence between them was thick and intense.
"Come to the bedroom," he finally said.
"Would you feel more comfortable in there?"
"No it's not that. The last time I had you in my bed, I was convincing myself I didn't love you. I would like to change that."
She climbed off his lap and reached out her hand to help him up. He rose to his feet and ran his fingers through her hair, pulling her head back and kissing her more fervently. He brushed his hands down her goosebumped arms, gripping her wrists and leading her to the bedroom.
Maybe John was right, maybe he was going soft.
III
Eddie Rathbone had been arrested for murder. Lestrade had tried his best to hold off, to wait for Sherlock to solve it. But they couldn't avoid it anymore; a woman was dead, and he had to do his job. As he sat across the interrogation table from the short, stocky man, he couldn't help but feel sorry for him.
"Listen," said Greg, folding his arms across his chest. "I'm gonna ask you again; why did you do it?"
"I didn't!" he almost cried. "I'm telling you. She wasn't there when we got the fridge out the van. I swear!"
"Right." Greg checked his phone – nothing. He sighed. "I'm sorry mate, if you're not going to cooperate, I have to charge you."
The door swung open and in walked Sherlock like a cloaked villain from a classic novel.
"He didn't kill her," said Sherlock. "No one did."
"Ey?" Greg's face twisted in confusion.
"Two men carry an empty fridge up six flights of stairs, and once at the top, a body appears inside. Sounds like a magic trick, doesn't it? Well just like a magic trick, there's a 'how'." He began pacing the room, adrenaline fuelling his movements like he was giving a performance. "Where does a magician hide the rabbit before he pulls it from a hat? How does he convince you a coin has disappeared from his palm? Compartments, distractions, and slight-of-hand."
"What are you on about, you numpty?"
"An unfaithful boyfriend fakes a migraine so he can spend the day at home with his mistress. What he doesn't expect, is for his girlfriend to return home at lunch to help two men make a delivery. The mistress dresses quickly, forgetting to put on her underwear. They open the bedroom door in an attempt to sneak her out when they realise the hallway is blocked by the new fridge. In a panic, she climbs inside before someone sees her, remaining quiet as they move it into the kitchen. It's only once it's too late that the woman realises she can't open the door from the inside; she's too weak from lack of oxygen to call out for help and within minutes she passes out and dies. The boyfriend hears a scream, assumes his girlfriend has discovered his dirty secret. But no, she discovers a body. He panics, doesn't know what to do and decides the best course of action is to pretend he slept through the whole thing."
The two men stared up at him, their mouths gaping open.
"Are you… Serious?" asked Greg.
"Absolutely," Sherlock replied quickly. "The woman's knickers had been thrown out of the bedroom window. Not to mention I could smell the infidelity on the boyfriend the second I met him."
"Well, I suppose logistically it makes sense," said Mr Rathbone in his raspy, cockney accent. "There was a moment when the fridge felt heavier. We just assumed it was because we'd taken a break and were tired."
"Right… Well I suppose you're free to go," said Greg. "Let's go talk to this boyfriend."
III
Solving a case provided a high that not even the purest drugs could compare with. Sherlock walked out of the police station to a barrage of flashing cameras and news reporters, all trying to get a good look at the 'hat detective' who had solved another fascinating mystery.
He flicked up the collar of his coat and pushed through the crowd, hailing a cab and jumping inside.
"You some kind of celebrity?" asked the driver.
"Wouldn't you know who I am if I was?"
The driver chuckled. "I suppose." He looked at Sherlock in the rear-view mirror. "Wait hang on, I do know who you are. You're that detective."
"Well there you have it, I'm a celebrity."
…
He ran up the stairs taking two steps at a time.
"Margaux!? Margaux, are you here!?"
"In here," her voice chimed from the bedroom.
He marched down the hall and stopped in the doorway, blowing away a curl that had fallen into his eyes.
She was folding clothes and putting them into a bag when she turned to him, smiling immediately.
"You solved the case." She could tell. He was glowing with excitement, his eyes sparkling with pride.
"I did." He grinned before scooping her into a hug and spinning her around.
She squealed as her feet left the ground. He was like a different person; if she didn't know better, she'd be convinced he was using again.
"Don't go," he said, still holding her in his arms. "Stay… forever."
Margaux laughed. "Ask me that again once you've come down from your case-high."
He placed her back down. "I'm serious. Why should you go? Just because this is working again?" He lifted her arm and wiggled it around.
"Because we've only been together for six weeks, Sherlock. I know you've never done this before but surely you know that moving in together is a huge step?"
"We have a son," he replied plainly.
"He…" She held her index finger up at him. "Was a surprise."
"Margaux, tell me honestly that you want to go. If you can stand here and say that to me then I won't push you again."
She pressed her mouth into a hard line. That bastard, she thought, he knew she could never say that.
"Sherlock, I just, I don't… I can't rush you into anything."
"You're not. It took me years to tell you I loved you. I'm simply making up for lost time."
She breathed out a laugh and stared up at him. "This is 221B Baker Street. It's the place you lived with John, the place you take clients, the place where you stab the mantle and shoot the walls when you're frustrated…"
"And if you'd stop beating around the bush, it could be the place I share with my girlfriend and child."
She paced back and forth for a moment. "This is huge."
"I'm going to need you to explicitly confirm your answer."
"How will all of our stuff fit together?"
"It's really just a 'yes' or 'no' question…"
"What if you regret it?"
"Margaux."
She stopped, allowing herself to breathe. This was home. Sherlock was home. It had been that way for a long time.
"Okay," she said quietly.
A smile crept across his face. Her favourite kind of smile, the one that creased around his eyes.
III
The weekend came around quickly, greeting them with a bright, warm Saturday. Mrs Hudson handed out drinks with a toothy smile. She hadn't stopped smiling for days, her cheeks permanently rouged and her stomach fluttering with excitement.
Greg and John stood in the archway between the kitchen and the living room. They took a simultaneous sip of their drinks, both of them grimacing at the taste.
"Beer?" asked John.
"Beer." Greg nodded.
They disappeared into the kitchen.
Molly sat on the couch with Rosie on her lap. She looked across the room to Sherlock who stood alone by the fireplace tuning his violin. Her heart still hurt when she looked at him, but the hurt had become overshadowed by another feeling entirely – she was proud of him. She smiled to herself before turning her attention back to Rosie.
Margaux walked in from the landing with Mr and Mrs Holmes in tow.
"Look who I found downstairs," she said.
Everyone greeted them kindly and welcomed them inside. They each took a drink from Mrs Hudson and sat down next to Molly.
"Where's Mycroft?" asked Margaux as she perched on the arm of the couch.
"Oh, I asked Mikey to come," said Mrs Holmes. "But you know what he's like."
Vaughan walked up to his father and tugged on his trouser leg. Sherlock crouched down to his level.
"Can I play too?" the boy asked softly.
"Of course. Go and get your violin," he replied kindly.
Sherlock played a song for everyone. It was a gentle, happy melody that no one quite recognised. Vaughan played at his feet, the scratching sound of his bow against the plastic strings drowned out by his father's skilful playing.
When they were done, everyone applauded. The flat bubbling with cheers and laughter. Margaux sat back and smiled with the sudden realisation that Mary had been right. She told her not to give up on Sherlock – to wait and it would all be worth it.
III
221B was quiet again, but the evidence of their impromptu party lay scattered across the flat in empty cups and half-eaten plates of food. Sherlock sat at the kitchen table, leaning back in his chair and looking up at the ceiling.
Margaux walked in from the hall, stopping in the doorway and following his eye line up to the bullet hole. She smiled, before walking around the table and sitting on his lap.
"We should probably get that repaired," she said, laying a kiss on his cheek.
"Mm, never," he replied, turning his head to catch her lips with his own.
They remained like that for a while; kissing, talking, completely content in each other's company.
"You know," Sherlock began. "You never told me how you solved that imposter case."
Margaux giggled. "It's been years and you still haven't worked it out?"
He twirled a piece of her hair between his fingers. "I'm not above admitting that I have tried… and failed. But now that we're a couple, you can tell me."
"Hm, nope." She cupped his face. "Why would I give away such a valuable piece of information? I need something to use as leverage against you."
Sherlock laughed in his throat and shook his head. "You're an evil genius."
"Of course I am. That's exactly why we're made for each other."
The End.
Author's Note:
Well that's it. I can't believe I'm saying that.
Although this story is now complete, I'll be posting here one more time to let you all know when the first chapter of the sequel 'Glass: After the Storm' is live. So if you want to read the next part of the Glass series, make sure to favourite/follow this story so you get the update!
Not to sound like a broken record but I just wanted to reiterate how thankful I am to all of you for reading Glass. Thank you for coming on this journey with me. Truly.