Annie may have known what Mary once was, but it takes only a quick Costa conversation for John to realise there are substantial gaps in her understanding. She's managed to guess parts of the whole from hints Mary had dropped, but they don't prepare her for the knowledge that the bullet John's placed on the table between them very nearly changed the course of her life.

"It was a long time," he says, eyes trained on the coffee cup before him. "A very long time, before I was able to speak to her again. After." John picks the bullet up and examines it, turning it in his fingers before enclosing it his fist. "She'd -"

John inhales; exhales and inhales again. "But she was my wife, I loved her and we were having a baby."

He spares a fond glance for Annie, then turns his gaze to the window.

"And he lived," John says softly, trusting her to hear the almosts and ifs, to know things would have gone very differently had he not.

They sit in silence. John knows he's making little sense; he can see confusion seeping into Annie's understanding eyes between the fits and starts of his story. But even these few words are enough to set his hands shaking, his heart beating twice as fast as before. This is the first he's spoken of those days in years. His and Sherlock's friendship had endured, a bit worse for wear, but they had closed the door on a tumultuous past John's never allowed himself to open.

Afternoon slowly gives way to evening. Eventually, John smiles, bleary-eyed, at Annie; swallows and says, "Without your mother, I wouldn't have survived. The day we met -" a dry snort "- the day I met Sherlock -"

And, without warning, John's eyes, his sinuses, everything suddenly stings. He remembers - too late - why he doesn't (can't) speak of this. He pinches the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut; stands and mumbles something about the toilet as he hastens to the lavatory in the back of the shop. Only when he's behind a locked door does John bend, hands on his knees, and gasp for breath. Alone, he thinks vaguely - then as now. She wasn't supposed to leave him like this; the problems of your future, he'd said; only, what future now?

Emotions loosened by their cryptic conversation, John heaves noisily, his hoarse voice cracking as he fights the sobs that come for the first time since Mary's death. He wrestles with himself to bring them under control, breathing in fetid air with great, gasping gulps, but in the end, it takes a soft knock on the door and Annie's gentle, "Dad?" to bring John around. He clears his throat, and when he trusts his voice not to break, he calls out, "Yeah - coming. I'll be out in a minute."

John straightens and braces himself against the lavatory door with one hand, only then recalling the object he still holds in the other. He lifts his palm to stare at the small bit of brass and focuses on those two words - for you, for you - a mantra that pulls him back to the present. It's strange, he thinks; Sherlock had always got on with Mary, thick as thieves before things went pear-shaped, and John can't imagine anything sinister behind the message. But, if not that - some unfathomable darkness between them Mary's taken to the grave - then what?

He returns the bullet to his pocket, patting it through the fabric of his trousers, then splashes some water on his face and dries it off, staring at himself in the mirror. Only his reddened eyes give him away, and there's nothing he can do about that. With military precision, John takes a moment to center himself, straightening his back and squaring his shoulders as he's always done in times of crisis. When he rejoins Annie, it's with a smile he hopes is reassuring.

"You okay?" she asks, reaching out across the table to rest her hand on his arm. He covers it with his own and nods.

"Fine. It's just - I don't find it easy, talking about all this. And Mum… " John tilts his head a bit to the side, a watery smile on his face. "I miss her every single day."

Annie's lips quiver, and her blue eyes fill with tears that seem always to be too quick to come.

"Me, too."

A light rain is falling when Annie pulls up to the kerb. She puts on the emergency brake and turns to her father, who's busy wrestling with his fussy folding umbrella.

"What are you going to do?" she asks. John looks up with a frown.

"About what?" he says, distracted, and Annie gapes exaggeratedly, waving a hand in the direction of his trouser pockets.

"About the - the thing. The bullet."

"Oh," John replies, reaching down to feel for it again. "I dunno. Might text Sherlock, or… yeah. No idea."

Annie glances out the window behind John, her eyes tracing the steps up to the terraced house she's always called home. When she looks back at him, there's a glint in her expression that's been missing for months.

"What if," she says slowly. "You went to see Sherlock? Out in Sussex? Hasn't it been awhile since you were there?"

If John notices the way his breathing picks up, he gives no sign of it. Instead, he runs his thumb over the indentation the bullet makes in his trousers, the words - for you - flitting through his mind again.

"He's probably busy," John equivocates, hating, always, to be the one who breaks their long silences. Annie rolls her eyes.

"You know he isn't," she replies. "Or, not with anything that won't keep for a visit from you."

John imagines Sherlock in Sussex, a dark, dramatic reed of a man standing windblown against a backdrop of grey clouds and steel-blue sea.

He shrugs.

"Maybe," John says. "I might."