Montpellier. 1893.

He's sitting miserably in the dark, and thinking of the man he used to be. It shocks him to find that there are still fragments of the old Sherlock Holmes inside of the man he's become.

The moon brings on the memory.

"Lovely moon tonight."

"Hmm."

"You're jaded."

"Yes."

He hadn't thought much of the dialogue then. It had been during their last weeks together. Some night in Switzerland. At the time he'd been preoccupied with wondering if it was the last moon he'd ever see.

In retrospect, it had been lovely. He wishes he'd told Watson so.