The usual disclaimer.
There were trinkets here and there. Small things from places throughout space and time just appearing on his doorstep seemingly from nowhere.
They ranged from rock and soil samples from another planet in another galaxy to a watch from the 19th century. Then a 17th century French wig for the skull on his mantel piece, followed by an alien relic. Anything she knew would fascinate him. He had accumulated a collection of artefacts over the last couple of years. A small group he was proud of, secretly of course because he really didn't have time for the sentiment of whatever it was or so he tried to convince himself.
They would always be left without his knowledge. A surprise almost. No matter how often he tried to stay in and wait, attempting to calculate the probability of her arrival, he would always miss her. Never able to see her drop them off on his step with a card signed 'A.P'. He would have to just wait or hear from Mrs Hudson about the "lovely young lady" that came by occasionally with "a rather odd gentleman".
He had to grit his teeth at the impossibility of her, of them, as he poured over the new gift.
Then the slow trickle of mementos stopped.
Suddenly there were no signs of life, no communication or notes from her. He tried not to worry, worrying was for those who cared and he so wanted not to. Not care about the silence that had settled over them or the unexplainable emptiness in him when his eyes fell on the objects on the mantle. Months turned into years and he almost forgot, almost let the memory of her be completely locked up in the back of his mind. But as far as he tried, he couldn't quite let go of the image she had left on him. Only in those dark, dull times of no cases or murders he let himself, quite selfishly, think of her wherever (whenever) she was.
Then John would pipe up and he shut those thoughts down, filed them back away in a room in his mind for another dreaded day.
How often this pattern continued he pretended not to count.
2 years, 3 months and 11 days
He had almost given up. Not that he would ever admit to even anticipating.
With his hopes almost torn, there was a knock at the door of 221B one Thursday. He would have missed the slip of card posted under the door if it had been a minute later,
'Open and look up. You Know, it's from the home of Charles Dickins - A.P'.
He wrenched open the door to find a small branch of mistletoe hanging from the door frame from, what he in any other circumstance would have thought was a cliché gesture, a red ribbon. He froze, his eyes closed and head tilted towards the newest trinket. The movement to face the presence he felt on the step in front of him seemed to last a decade.
And true to her precedent of surprise, there she was in front of him. In all her red-haired, Scottish glory.
There was his Amelia Pond.
He took her in, committing her to his memory again just in case she was to fly off again with that mad friend of hers. For now, however, she was his.