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“Wow.” Freddie raised his eyebrows. “Such an overachiever. Do your workshop mates have a hate-on for you? Making them all look lazy…”

“Hardly.” Alex smacked him on the butt. “Actually, I think they’re relieved. She spends so much time taking me to task—they get away scot-free. Honestly, though, I’d take her tough love over compliments any day. Wait, did I just say that? I never thought those words would come from my mouth. Anyway, her criticism is improving my writing, big time.”

Mark pulled Alex into the chest of his cozy navy sweater, giving her a lingering peck on the top of her head. “It sounds crazy, but your battles with Olivia kinda prepared you for everything Isabella’s throwing at you—you’re not getting bowled over by it, right? That’s a victory in itself.”

“Should I send Ms. Chadwick-Smythe a thank you card?” Alex straightened her red tartan kilt, careful not to bend the signed photo with Steven Moffat in her hand. Her white blouse, black cardigan, tights, and ankle boots completed her Clara Oswald Christmas 2013 cosplay outfit. “It feels good speaking up, standing my ground. I’m definitely not fretting as much as I used to or feeling the need to control every little thing. Not sure if it’s connected, but I’ll take it.”

“And no more panic attacks. I’d say it’s connected.” Lucy stepped forward with the queue.

“I think it has more to do with you guys.” Alex smiled warmly. “I’ve finally found my London family, and I hate to break it to you, but I’m not going anywhere. I’m home at last. You’re stuck with me.”

Freddie adjusted his black tie, channeling Jim Moriarty in his choice of outfit. “America’s loss is Britain’s gain.”

“And ours.” Mark gathered his girlfriend into a kiss.

Lucy elbowed him in the ribs. “God, Keegs. Save some for later.”

A loud roar erupted from the curtained-off area where a special effects panel was taking place. The applause and whoops from the hidden audience continued for a few minutes, blending in with the Sherlock theme.

“Moffat was lovely—discussing writing with me.” Alex smiled at her signed photo. “I just hope the organizers sort out the conflicts. Capaldi’s photo op is at the same time as Andrew Scott. I can’t have th—”

“Alex? Is that your phone?” asked Lucy. “I thought the theme was coming from the panel, but your bag won’t shut up.”

“No one I know would call at a time like this. Don’t they realize that Cumberbatch lurks behind that wall?” Alex frowned, spotting ‘caller unknown’ on the phone’s screen, and answered.

“Hello? …Yes, speaking…”

Freddie, Mark, and Lucy carried on behind her, laughing at Freddie’s photo with Rupert Graves. The Sherlock actor, grinning wildly, was giving him a precarious piggyback.

“I’m fine, thanks…” Alex covered her other ear with her free hand. She glared at her noisy gang, motioning for them to hush.

“Who is it, then?” asked Freddie, not really expecting Alex to answer.

She remained riveted to the mysterious voice, her eyebrows reaching their upper limits with no further space to roam. The absence of blinking and breathing drew Mark’s concern. He stared at his girlfriend, hoping to catch the gist of her conversation, but Alex turned her back, desperate for quiet and privacy amid the noisy line of fans.

“I bet it’s Isabella.” Lucy tugged on the con lanyard around her neck. “That woman’s a robot. She has no social life. It would be just like her to hassle Lex over the weekend.”

Alex turned around, facing her friends. “When?…Sure, I can, yes…and thanks again for the call…Yes, you, too. Bye.”

The line surged forward, but Alex didn’t budge, tears brimming in her dazed eyes. She bobbled her phone trying to stuff it into her bag. “Oh my God. Oh my God…”

“What’s wrong?” Mark moved closer, offering a gentle one-armed embrace. Alex grasped at his hand resting on her shoulder. She squeezed her eyes shut, her chest chasing breaths lost during the phone conversation.

“You’re freaking me out. Who was it?” asked Lucy.

Alex covered her mouth with her hand. “The literary manager at The Royal Court Theatre.”

“Seriously?” Lucy’s voice squeaked.

Freddie yanked his glasses from his face. “No way!”

Alex nodded, a wide smile lifting her cheeks and sending her tears on a happy slide down her face. “My time travel play. They read it, somehow, and want to put it into production this summer.”

“In production? Not workshopping or adding you to a playwriting program? Actually performed on stage with actors …in front of a paying audience?” asked Freddie.

She wiped away her tears. “Yes, in the Jerwood Theatre.”

Mark hugged her tightly. “Holy shit! I love their upstairs space. So intimate—only ninety seats. The actors are so close to the audie—”