The wind cuts through my coat as I stand across the street from John's house, watching him walk with a small boy - his son, Samson. Ten years. Three weeks. Six days. That's how long it's been since I last saw him. Not that I've been counting. The London sky is heavy with gray clouds, matching my mood as I observe the life he built without me. The John Watson I knew wouldn't have chosen this quiet coastal existence, this domesticity. But then, the John Watson I knew also wouldn't have shouted 'You machine!' at me in our last real conversation.

I adjust my scarf, pulling it higher against the chill. My coat is thicker than anything I would have worn before, a deliberate choice to protect against both the English autumn and potential recognition. Not that recognition seems likely - John would have to be thinking of me to see me, and that clearly isn't the case.

The boy - Samson - looks up at John, gesturing animatedly about something. John laughs, a sound I haven't heard in a decade, and my chest tightens. I've tracked him here with a sinking heart. Every mile from Baker Street was a step away from a life where I belonged.

They disappear inside the small house. I take a deep breath, the sea air sharp in my lungs. It's now or never. I cross the street, my boots crunching on the gravel driveway. Before I can second-guess myself, my gloved knuckles meet the wooden door with three sharp raps.

I wait. My heart pounds against my ribs, a biological function I'd forgotten could be so noticeable. The door opens, and there he is. Older, lined, different - and yet unmistakably John Watson. His eyes widen, his mouth falls open. He looks like he's seen a ghost.

Which, in a way, he has.