When John returns from his therapist, he finds a package sitting outside his door, drenched in the rain. It's got his name on it in huge block letters. The ink is bleeding into the paper. There isn't any return address.

He brings it inside and unwraps it in front of the window. The moon shines through, the only light, a cold silver.

It's a guidebook. London A-Z.

At first, he thinks it's a cruel joke. When he opens to the cover, though, he finds written in familiar spindly handwriting:

Welcome to London.

His throat sticks.

He looks through the window again, thinking of that night, their first laugh, and fights a reckless hope.

For the first time in months, he wonders if Sherlock is watching the same stars.