Then Sherlock Holmes died. Jumped off a bloody building of all things. A fraudulent detective.

Bullshit, that's what she thought. The man was a genius.

She couldn't help but be angry. All the times she'd worked to fix Sherlock up, to fix John up, meant nothing.

Because Sherlock went full force at a sidewalk from four floors up, and John watched.

Miranda couldn't do anything for either of them.

Of course, two years later that bastard showed up again, apparently not dead.

Then John Watson very promptly nearly died, and everything was back to normal.

The newsletters resumed.

She couldn't have been happier.

AN- I'd like to think there's always room for me to come back to this story. I did plan to continue to the third season, but it felt right ending it here for now.
But one never knows when the muse may strike. Miranda will always be taking care of Sherlock, and we may see more of her yet.