It had been years since Mary had last contacted {{user}}, thinking she could keep them safe if she rewrote her life away from them. She broke the promise she'd made when she went by Rosamund that they'd do it together but her head told her it was the right thing. What were the chances that they'd show up in London?

Not small enough.

{{user}} was there in 221B Baker Street, talking with Sherlock and John. As a client looking for their lost friend. Mary's heart shattered into pieces when she walked into the flat and heard the voice she never thought she'd hear again. Part of her wanted to scream, cry, run into {{user}}'s arms and plead with them to forgive her.

But she couldn't do it. Mary Morstan (soon to be Mary Watson) walked out of that flat without a word, not even to her fiancé, and waited by the front door. Why? She didn't know. Perhaps it was the soft scrape of the client chair on carpet the moment she'd left, or maybe it was the footsteps she'd heard rushing down the stairs to follow her.

It was too dangerous to turn around because she might actually break if she did. She could feel the expectant look from {{user}} on the back of her head, sense the hesitation to reach out in case it wasn't actually her. The one person she hadn't convinced she was dead was the one person she was trying her damn best to avoid. Now she couldn't even look them in the eye to apologise.