And we're back! Ladies, and most likely no Gentleman (if there are any gentleman, can you make yourself known?) we now begin the final installment of the Renadale series! I haven't actually thought of a name for the series as a whole, so I'm just rolling with that one.

At any rate, I have no idea if they're going to make another film. I'm not sure how long it will be in the movie until John sees Sherlock again. So, when the third film comes out, you should probably not relate it to my story. Or maybe you can make up what Renadale partakes in during the film? :)

Thank you all for your amazing words. So many people have asked if I've ever written a book or would like to. To that, I answer you… Yes! I'm working on something right now, and although I won't be able to post it on Fanfiction, I might be able to find somewhere else to upload it. Or maybe if I feel really confident about it, I'll send it to a company. Who knows?

The future is what you make it.

Yours ever truly,

Mistro

~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Six months later.

England is a country of mysteries, beauty and history. The North provides the darkness of rain and the smog of industry, while its people burrow themselves in a more hostile lifestyle. Their lives never stop. Their sleep is little. But their minds are always racing.

The center of England is full of rolling hills that inspire poets, actors, and writers from every corner of the world. Though the farmers themselves have little care for the art of words, they also bask in the glory of their fields and gardens. A carrot or beetroot the size of their arm is the true glory in life. And though it seems small, perhaps it has always been the smallest of pleasures that matter most.

The south is where the true magic is said to happen. It is where history comes to life, where rulers dominate, where foreigners find the pumping heart of England.

I was fortunate enough to grow up in that 'magical' part of the country, but the magic kept itself well hidden from my eyes. There had been a yearning in me since my youth to begin a gentle chapter of my life's tale. London was no longer the place for me as I inched towards my third decade of life. The disappearance of carriages, beggars and street fights made for a much quieter way of living, and therefore I had more time to think my own thoughts and feel my own emotions.

For six months I had been in Titchfield. I had packed my bags and left shortly after John Watson took his leave, and surprisingly my mother made no note of complaint. She struggled to not follow in my path, but her words remained as such:

"I have wilted over you for far too long. I must find my own sunshine, and learn once again to grow on my own."

And so, I left with an uneasy heart, but skillfull determination.

The houses of Titchfield were mostly made from brick, which were similar to those in London. Titchfield houses had much more space for privacy, however, and I think I can safely say that they housed a much more respectable kind of person. Everyone knew the details of their neighbors' personal lives, and if they didn't, it would be an easy sort of thing to figure out.

The community was pleasant enough. There was a sale of fresh groceries in the market hall each Saturday morning. I made sure to never miss such a simple pleasure upon moving into my new home. Roman ruins lined the edge of the town, reminding me of that historical feel in the Southern part of the country.

Nothing new happened. Nothing ever changed. Though Titchfield had everything to live by, there was one mystery in the town. People would whisper about it when they thought other ears had turned. Curious citizens would flick back their curtains to see if they could get a better glimpse at it, albeit without being noticed themselves.

Me.

I was the mystery of Titchfield.

Where had she come from? Why did she travel alone? They guessed at London upon first meeting, but my shy demeanor and lack of cosmopolitan interest caused them to review their examination. Others guessed Manchester, as my pale skin would be fitting for the rainy city, but again something was off by my good complexion and comprehensible accent.

I did not mind being an enigma. In fact, I rather enjoyed it. If I could no longer solve mysteries, why should I not become one? They were a part of me and I a part of them.

I made sure to keep my house on the outskirts of town where only good friends could make their appearance known without secrecy. My garden was lush and many admired it on their walks into the forests bordering the town. However, no one stopped for tea. No one rang the door or delivered the post. My life was solitary, and that was something I could live with.

John had come by once since the move, and I could tell by his stature that he had been getting along splendidly with Mary. Better yet, I could see that the images of our late companion were starting to haunt him lesser by the hour. We exchanged letters every week at the start, updating one another about our books, gardens, secret desires to travel, and health. My mother and I wrote letters that were hardly different. These were the only people I truly needed in my life and I had them.

I considered myself a rather fortunate woman.

My body had regained flesh. My lips grew pink again, perhaps in the shadow of my rosy cheeks. My eyes had managed to accumulate their familiar twinkle, though there would never be a full spark of life in them again.

To say the least, I was pleased with my new life. Perhaps there had been moments where I was even happy. But time had taught me that happiness was not what you always needed. It was what we desired, but living a comfortable life with shelter and food was better than most had. A new century was dawning on us, and times grew harder as the years trekked on.

Though Moriarty had died, the hostilities he had created lingered. France and Germany continued to tear at the other's throat. England seemed to hate everyone and without a very good excuse at all. America kept her mouth quiet as foreign affairs were not her concern. The late years of the nineteenth century were filled with fury and hatred, and therefore I found comfort in the peaceful quiet of my cabin near the trees.

As the sun fell back into her slumber each day, and the moon came out to play with that familiar smile, I tried not to remind myself just how displeased I really was.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~

"Renadale?"

No. Wake up.

"I know you can hear me. You must know that I'm still living."

My body tossed violently as the sound rang through my head. I knew I was half asleep and nothing was halting me from arising from my bed. Two steps and I could be walking towards the kitchen and away from this nightmare.

"Sherlock, you cannot be living. You died. I saw you."

"Renadale, I know you can hear me."

The voice startled me, but somehow I wanted linger in its presence for just a moment longer. My eyes remained shut with a squeeze. One more minute.

"Yes, I can hear you. Can you hear me?"

"Renadale, are you listening?"

"Sherlock? Hello? Why can you not hear me?"

"I have to go, Renadale. I have to leave."

"Sherlock, wait-"

"Good-bye."

"Wait!"

"Please, don't go!" My body flung forward from my bed with a desperate plea. It was not the first time this dream had tormented me. My fingers ran into my eyelids, not surprised to feel the wetness of tears making their new home upon my fingertips. Every night I had this dream. Each time grew more violent; more desperate.

Though it was a dream, I couldn't help but feel uncomfortable with it. I had never had a 'conversation' dream before and couldn't understand what exactly it meant. I was completely aware that it was happening, but my body wouldn't wake up. John Watson might have given me an explanation, but his presence was elsewhere. I was alone.

Sherlock Holmes. The man that I loved. The man that loved me. He was taken from me over six months ago in the cruelest of ways. Whatever God was out there hated me- surely he must- for I had never suffered so long and so deeply.

My exterior was calm when I walked throughout the town. It was calm when I wrote my letters. My hands were even steady as they planted carnations in the lawn. There had always been something missing from my soul. There just was not anyone in Titchfield to take note of it. Sanity, perhaps. Comfort. Happiness. It had all left me and made a solemn vow to never return in full.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

I pulled the covers up to my chin in surprise. Was that the door? My weary thoughts turned into ones filled with shock. My tired eyes flickered towards the clock lying on my bed stand. 2:00 AM. News coming this late could never be good. Was it a burglar? Was it Moriarty back from the dead? Was I still dreaming? Or worse…

My mother.

I flew from the bed at the first thought of her. My nightgown and tangled hair meant nothing to me. Please, please, let everything be all right. Let my mother be safe and well. I had expected a doctor, a priest, or anyone that had death following at their heels to appear on my doorstep. My fingers struggled to take hold of the doorknob, but once done, part of me wished that I hadn't bothered to open it.

It was him.

"You," I breathed incredulously. There was a supreme lack of words for the bewilderment that found me.

The man tilted his hat towards the crown of his head. This offered me a more personal view of his face, and I knew that my suspicions had been confirmed. The shape of his lips. The cut of his cheekbones. The flash of darkness in those eyes. I would have known Thomas Smith from twenty miles off.

"Renadale Adkins. It is so good to see you."

~.~.~.~.~

Fun fact, for all of you who don't already know. I live in Manchester, England and therefore I have the right to claim that it is a bit rainy and that the people are difficult to understand. :P But if you ever go to England, please visit it! It's an absolutely amazing city filled with so many things to do.

And much of the BBC show "Sherlock" was filmed there, so maybe you can catch up on your sleuthing while you're in town.

And who knows. Maybe you'll pass MistroStrings on the street and never even know. ;)

Review please! *In Les Mis voice* ANOTHER STORY MUST BEGIIIIIIIN!

Right-o. Review please. xxx